Druids by Morgan Llywelyn Page A

Ainvar,” he said unexpectedly.
    38 Morgan Llywelyn
    We threw our arms around each other then and hugged hard enough to crack bones.
    His parting words to me were,’ ‘I salute you as a free person!
    “And I, you!” I shouted as he strode away.
    I did not follow him to the gate. I did not want to stand with the others, waving as Gobannitio and his nephew drove away. I knew Vercingetorix would never look back.
    I was alone, and I was a man.
    I would be a druid.

CHAPTER FIVE
    MY INSTRUCTION RESUMED; my classrooms were the glades of the forest. Menua wanted me to absorb the wisdom of the trees. Druid, as he explained to me, meant “having the knowledge of the oak.”
    He said, “When men were as vapor, trees were vapor. The forests are older than memory and time is stored in their roots and branches. It is the nature of trees to be generous, so open yourself and be still. Receive what they impart.”
    I learned to listen to the trees.
    Of my generation, I was the only person within a day’s walk being trained in druidry. Menua spoke wistfully of bygone years when many gifted youngsters had presented themselves for training and the forest had rung with voices reciting in chorus. He could not explain the shortage of hopefuls for the Order, and it weighed heavily on him.
    “But things are as they are,” he told me with a sigh. “Until the pattern presents us with more talented people, I have only you to instruct in the natural sciences.”
    We were sitting in a small glade, he on a fallen tree and I cross-legged at his feet. The current topic for study was the Greek language, and we had been discussing the term “natural sci—
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    ence,” by which the Greeks meant the druidical arts. Menua admired the Greeks; he knew their writing and their customs. Menua knew everything, almost.
    “The Greeks understand us better than the Romans,” he told me. “The Romans call us ‘priests,’ which is a mistake. The Hellenes who used to trade with the Camutes in my youth referred
    to druids as ‘philosophers.’ When I learned to understand their language, I realized the term was appropriate.
    “Once the various Greek tribes traveled more or less freely throughout Gaul, before their subjugation by the Romans. I miss them, Ainvar. They were interesting people with subtle minds. I once had a discussion with a Greek who called himself a ‘geographer.’ and appeared to grasp the concept of the pattern as readily as a Celt.”
    “I’m not certain I understand about the pattern myself,” I admitted. “You speak of it so often. But just what is it?”
    Menua pointed toward the interplay of light and shadow among the branches above us. ‘ ‘There is the pattern. From star to tree to insect, each fragment of creation is part of one design, the pattern of being, that extends unbroken from the Otherworld to this world. The pattern is constantly in motion, connecting us in life and in death to the Source of All Being.”
    “But how do you recognize the pattern?” I asked, staring at the branches that were only limbs and leaves to me.
    Menua nodded slowly. “Now’you give voice to one of the greatest of questions. When you know the answer, you will know yourself to be a druid. You will have learned from experience to feel the pattern in your bones and your blood.”
    Having hoped for a more specific answer, I must have looked dubious, for his expression softened. “I cannot transfer my own experience to you, each must find his own. But I can tell you about the pattern.
    “People who pray for luck are really seeking to grasp the pattern, Ainvar. There is no such thing as luck, that is only a word for being able to control events. The few who intuitively follow the pattern as it applies to themselves appear to have luck, for they are, without knowing it, drawing on the forces of creation. When they deviate from the pattern they lose contact with those forces, and thus with the power that influences events. Then we say