hunted beast. Before she could take a breath to shout, it spun once more on its own length, ducked under the hound’s neck and fled back towards her, straight as a spear, diving between her legs for sanctuary.
She would have called Stone off if she could. She did her best, screaming at him until her throat was raw, but everyone knew that when any hound of Hail’s line was hunting, or at war, the only thing that would stop it was a thrown spear. Graine was only six and she had no spear to throw, and even if she had she would never have dared to harm the hound who carried the heart and soul of the legendary Hail and was all her mother had left of her life before Rome’s invasion. She stood stone still in the heather and the hound coursed past her, impersonal as lightning, as deaf, and as lethal.
The hare was an arm’s reach away. Time stretched as it turned and turned again, a third time and a fourth, harepin on harepin, dodging the crunching jaws for a few breaths more of a life so precious that Graine could taste its need to survive as an iron wetness on her tongue. She reached for the beast, desperate to help, and her movement was its undoing. Faltering, it missed the last turn and Stone, excelling himself, stretched that hand’s length longer to reach it. The hare died, squealing, with its chest cracked shut on its heart. To the last, the shining black eyes remained locked with Graine’s, pleading silently for sanctuary and release.
In that moment, at six years old, standing knee deep in wet grass
with the half-ghost of Nemain’s moon hazy in the western sky, Graine nic Breaca mac Caradoc, heir to the royal line of the Eceni, understood with crushing certainty the true helplessness of the gods when the forces they unleash with good intent destroy those who have called on them for help. The enormity of it, the illusion of hope when there was only certain death, overwhelmed her. She sat in the grass and cried as only a child can cry, for the hare, who was Nemain’s beast above all others; for her mother and father who would for ever live apart; for herself who was lost in a world of uncertain forces where Cygfa and Cunomar had returned from the dead to lay claim to parts of her mother’s heart that were already too much divided, and last for the brave, big-hearted war hound who had given his all in the hunt and came to her for praise and did not understand why she did not give it but instead clung to his neck and wept.
Airmid, dreamer of Nemain, found her shortly after noon, by the stream in that part of the wood where the sun was least. Graine sat on a fallen birch log with the hound, Stone, lying to one side and the skinned body of a hare on the turf beside her. The skin was stretched out between rocks and had been partly cleaned. The head, messily severed, sat on a rock in midstream, facing west, to the ancestors. A lock of long, oxblood hair streamed in the water around it, pegged down by other stones. A bald patch showed on the side of Graine’s head as she sat hunched and weeping at the stream’s edge.
The dreamer had searched since dawn for the child who was not her daughter, but had come to hold that place in her heart. Seeing her, a morning’s anxiety flared nearly to anger and fell away to a deeper fear. She stood still, believing herself unseen and unheard. The hound showed no sign of having noticed, but still, without looking up, Graine leaned forward and turned the hare to face across the water towards her. ‘I wanted to honour it,’ she said. ‘It showed me what became of mother in the cave of the ancestors.’
Airmid could run as fast as any of the warriors when she chose to. Careless of her tunic, she crossed the river’s wet stones and, coming to kneel by the child, took hold of the small, shaking shoulders. A tumble of uncombed hair fell about her fingers; that part of Graine that belonged only to the child and had no echo in her parents or grandparents on either side. It had been pale
She would have called Stone off if she could. She did her best, screaming at him until her throat was raw, but everyone knew that when any hound of Hail’s line was hunting, or at war, the only thing that would stop it was a thrown spear. Graine was only six and she had no spear to throw, and even if she had she would never have dared to harm the hound who carried the heart and soul of the legendary Hail and was all her mother had left of her life before Rome’s invasion. She stood stone still in the heather and the hound coursed past her, impersonal as lightning, as deaf, and as lethal.
The hare was an arm’s reach away. Time stretched as it turned and turned again, a third time and a fourth, harepin on harepin, dodging the crunching jaws for a few breaths more of a life so precious that Graine could taste its need to survive as an iron wetness on her tongue. She reached for the beast, desperate to help, and her movement was its undoing. Faltering, it missed the last turn and Stone, excelling himself, stretched that hand’s length longer to reach it. The hare died, squealing, with its chest cracked shut on its heart. To the last, the shining black eyes remained locked with Graine’s, pleading silently for sanctuary and release.
In that moment, at six years old, standing knee deep in wet grass
with the half-ghost of Nemain’s moon hazy in the western sky, Graine nic Breaca mac Caradoc, heir to the royal line of the Eceni, understood with crushing certainty the true helplessness of the gods when the forces they unleash with good intent destroy those who have called on them for help. The enormity of it, the illusion of hope when there was only certain death, overwhelmed her. She sat in the grass and cried as only a child can cry, for the hare, who was Nemain’s beast above all others; for her mother and father who would for ever live apart; for herself who was lost in a world of uncertain forces where Cygfa and Cunomar had returned from the dead to lay claim to parts of her mother’s heart that were already too much divided, and last for the brave, big-hearted war hound who had given his all in the hunt and came to her for praise and did not understand why she did not give it but instead clung to his neck and wept.
Airmid, dreamer of Nemain, found her shortly after noon, by the stream in that part of the wood where the sun was least. Graine sat on a fallen birch log with the hound, Stone, lying to one side and the skinned body of a hare on the turf beside her. The skin was stretched out between rocks and had been partly cleaned. The head, messily severed, sat on a rock in midstream, facing west, to the ancestors. A lock of long, oxblood hair streamed in the water around it, pegged down by other stones. A bald patch showed on the side of Graine’s head as she sat hunched and weeping at the stream’s edge.
The dreamer had searched since dawn for the child who was not her daughter, but had come to hold that place in her heart. Seeing her, a morning’s anxiety flared nearly to anger and fell away to a deeper fear. She stood still, believing herself unseen and unheard. The hound showed no sign of having noticed, but still, without looking up, Graine leaned forward and turned the hare to face across the water towards her. ‘I wanted to honour it,’ she said. ‘It showed me what became of mother in the cave of the ancestors.’
Airmid could run as fast as any of the warriors when she chose to. Careless of her tunic, she crossed the river’s wet stones and, coming to kneel by the child, took hold of the small, shaking shoulders. A tumble of uncombed hair fell about her fingers; that part of Graine that belonged only to the child and had no echo in her parents or grandparents on either side. It had been pale
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