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Chapter 8 - The Horned God

Plow followed sword. New folk tilled the soil, raping and impregnating Ma, harvesting as their due. It was fearful rape, so in the spring priests and priestesses went into the plowed fields and futtered there to appease angry Ma, that their coupling might quicken the sown land. The priest, incarnation of the male god, wore the horns of the aurochs, or the antlers of the great stag. The folk knew that plowing was rape, not consent, and each year, to mollify Ma, they slew the priest, and watered the tillage with his blood. In time, the two folk, Celts and Ligures, merged, and when the Romans came, they called them all Gauls.
Otho, Bishop of Nemausus
The Sorceress's Tale 

* * *

She did not know which visions to believe—if any. Visions within visions, for was not the black future where the crone dwelt itself unreal? It had not felt so—that bony wrist she had grasped had been solid, the skin papery dry. That vision was not false; it had not happened yet, but it was no less actual than Citharista, whose roofs she could see from the trail.

The water visions were like the paths over bare mountains to the north, or westward to Massalia. Perhaps only one route could be chosen. Perhaps one, then another, if her life was long enough. . . .

When Pierrette entered the town, folk had donned festive garb. The marketplace was crowded with folk who had brought a sampling of their harvests for the bishop to bless. Marius was with his father, proudly displaying dried and salted fish, arrayed like the wooden shingles of the houses of Kiev, unimaginably far to the north and east, further in years than in miles.

She could not imagine such expanses—years or miles. On the way home from Ma, she counted her paces. One pace was two steps, left, then right. She was not as long-legged as a Roman soldier, so a thousand of her paces was surely less than a mile.

The counting-letters Otho taught her were cumbersome. One, two, three—those made sense. She could count them on her fingers. I, II, III, each stroke a finger. One hand was V, representing five fingers, but four was IV. It should have been IIII.

She got to XXXIII, thirty-three, before she lost count. Between thirty-three and the magical M—one thousand paces, one mile—were several Cs and Ls. Those did not make sensible words, either. The Greeks said "Khee" for the letter "X," and P'er Otho said "Zzz," which sounded like a bee's wings. One thousand and nine was "Meeks," spelled MIX, wasn't it? But one thousand and eleven was "Mksee," MXI. Impossible.

She did not see the knight, Jerome, until she bumped into him. "Ach, boy! Are you blind? The bishop has already blessed your father's oil. You will only be in time to help carry the jars home."

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I was . . . I was . . ."

"Celebrating the day in your own way?" he grinned, displaying a full set of big teeth, which made him look much younger than his jowls and hairy ears. "As did your mother?" Cold eyes gave menace to his smile. "You aren't alone. Many will ask blessing of the long-armed one on this day." He gave her a light push between her shoulder blades. "Hurry now," he said. "You can still make it to mass."

Pierrette hurried away. The long-armed one? Lamphada, in the old Celtic tongue, was a euphemism for the light-bringer, Lugh. Some folk of Gaulish blood still acknowledged Lugh, and Epona of the Horses, and made secret sacrifices to Taranis when they heard the rumble of thunder—Taranis, whom she had commanded, in the vision where she sat beside the handsome island king. But this feast day was Samonios, when ancestors were honored. Lugh's had been months ago.

She reveled in the wondrous sense of power she had felt, when lightning's fire had danced on her fingertips, but that vision was fading, here in busy Citharista. So Jerome thought her mother worshipped Lugh? But that was not so. This was only another day for Ma, the goddess of the pool.

She shrugged the encounter off. Jerome was Burgundian, not Gaul, but gods were much the same—except the Christian deity, who bore little resemblance to the rest. It was not important what the town's protector believed—or so she thought then.

Marie berated her. "You left me to carry everything." To pacify her, Pierrette slung four heavy jars, and made it halfway home before Gilles took pity on her and lifted two from her chafed shoulder.

Pierrette barely had time to rub oil on her raw skin. She scrambled after her father and sister.

The chapel, yellowed limestone in the round-arched Roman style, was a barrel vault wide as three carts and three times that long. It could not hold half the population of Citharista, let alone the country folk who came on special days. The bishop would celebrate mass on the broad top step, in front of the chapel doors.

Arriving late, Pierrette had to stand on tiptoe in the chapel's forecourt. Smaller than anyone else, she saw only the broad buttocks of some shepherd's wife. She wanted to see the miraculous transformation. Would the bishop's loaf gush salty blood when he broke it? Would the thick crust hold not soft, white bread but meat—the flesh of Jesus? Would he eat it raw, as if he were a dog? Perhaps, because bread was baked, so the meat would be. Was there a bone in the middle of the loaf? Would he gnaw on it?

Unbaptized, she was forbidden the sacrament in the chapel. If she did not see it now, she would have to wait a whole year.

She edged past the fat-bottomed woman. Placing one foot on a projecting cornerstone, she lifted herself, leaning against the shoulders of people in front of her.

There was Father Otho, and the bishop, resplendent in a robe so white she squinted. All she could see of him was dark hair beneath his tall, white hat. When he moved from one side of the altar-table to the other, she caught the glimmer of gold. She was too far away. She would not see the bread become flesh.

Beside the bishop, another man moved as the cleric moved, imitating his gestures. His dark clothing absorbed light as if it were coarse, nappy fur. The altar boy? No, he was too tall, and wore a funny hat with candlesticks on it. The harder she squinted, the less clear the scene was—and the more uneasy she became. Something was terribly wrong.

She wriggled between the tangle of knees, the herdlike jostling of fat and skinny hips, the rooty impediments of sandal-clad feet. Working her way forward as an adult could not have done, she at last peered out at the table, and the feet of the white-robed episkopo.

She was too late for the miracle; the part with the bread came before the wine, didn't it? The bishop held a shiny cup in both hands. He drank, with obvious relish. It must be wine, Pierrette decided. Had it been blood, wouldn't he have grimaced the least bit?

She was so close she could have touched the bishop's fine-sewn hem. . . . Where was the dark man? There—in back of the bishop, hands raised as if he too held a shiny cup. When the bishop dropped his hands, so did he. When the churchman nodded, he nodded, at exactly the same moment, as if he were the bishop's shadow.

Was he part of the ritual? She looked over her shoulder at the gathered gens. Their solemn faces betrayed no surprise. They didn't see anything unusual. Was she the only one who saw the dark man?

She slipped to one side, where he was not behind the bishop. Being short, she saw first his dark legs, covered not with trousers, but with coarse, goatlike fur. His joints were all wrong, like a goat's, with "knees" facing backwards, fetlocks analogous to human heels, and . . . and shiny black goat's hooves.

Deer antlers grew from his head. His nose was long and sharp, his bushy eyebrows pointed. His teeth gleamed unnaturally white, and his eyes were a wild animal's, like the orbs of Yan Oors's companions.

Cernunnos, she breathed. The Celt god Teyrnon, the "father of animals." She stared with horror at his midsection, where a huge . . . thing stood out from him, bloodred and gleaming wetly. Pierrette had seen male goats ready to mount, and had not been disgusted. She had seen her father, and had been only mildly interested in an organ that neither she nor Marie possessed. But what she saw now, like a goat's, but on a man . . .

She turned her head—and almost missed seeing the creature's grin, as he looked directly at her. It was a terrible, knowing, evil grin. Yet as she looked into his yellow-brown deer's eyes she saw not evil, but pain, as if behind that leering visage was trapped some gentle, doomed forest spirit. She backed into the crowd. She saw red fire rise up in those eyes, engulfing the suffering spirit with a hot, malevolent glow.

* * *

Long before the crowd dispersed she reached home, and hid in the cellar until she heard Gilles and Marie overhead. She crept out, and peered through the open door to make sure that the third voice she heard belonged . . . to a human being.

She had seen the man before, when his fat vessel put in to Citharista. A Greek from Massalia, he owned a fleet of merchant ships. He was rich because, for some unexplained reason, Saracen corsairs never attacked them.

Why was he in their humble house? She slipped in, and sat next to Marie on the hearth. The men leaned over clay cups and a wine jar at the table.

"I can supply everything," Gilles said, waving his hands expansively. "Ten casks or a hundred. I'll hire coopers, and . . ."

Casks? Coopers? One stored oil in clay jars, not wooden barrels. Knotty scrub oaks were hard to split into staves, and imparted a sour taste. Pine was too light, and swelled when wet. The only wood for barrels was beech, and the nearest beeches were . . . in the moist, sheltered vale of Ma.

The Greek, Theodoros, clapped his cup on the table. "We have a bargain, then." He departed.

Gilles rubbed his hands with glee. "We'll be rich. Who would have thought it? Water casks for his ships . . . and for other ships as well." He was thinking that Theodoros of Massalia was not only safe from Muslim warships, but that he traded with them on the sly, and that barrels of Ma's clean, fresh water would soon be stacked in Muslim holds.

"I'll send Parvinus and Mercio to cut trees and shape them into staves. Old David can fetch and carry, and fill barrels." He turned toward his daughters. "Who has a strong cart and an ox? Not any old dray—I'll be hard pressed to keep Theodoros supplied, without broken axles and barrels smashed alongside the path."

"Father—you can't cut the beech trees. They belong to . . ." She was going to say, " . . . to Ma," but thought better of it, and said only, " . . . to the spring."

"Who owns the spring?" Gilles snapped angrily. "Your mother, and her mother before that. They left no kin, so it reverts to me." He stared defiantly, as if daring them to contradict him. Marie would not, but Pierrette sensed a flaw in Gilles's reasoning: the spring had passed from mother to daughter, not wife to husband or mother to son. It should pass—if such a place could actually be owned—to Elen's daughters, not Gilles. And since Marie had no interest in it, it should be hers.

Something in Gilles's eyes stayed her protest. A yellow glint from the low sunbeam in the doorway made his eyes look evil, like . . . Her gaze strayed upward to the sides of his head—which bore no deer antlers—and then below his waist, where she saw only the coarse fabric of his trousers.

When Gilles poured himself a celebratory cup of wine, she slipped outside, unnoticed except by Marie, who was lost in a dream of fine clothes, a house high on a hillside, a terrace where ships and dolphins shared a blue ceramic sea.

* * *

-

 

The Sorceress's Tale

I was sweeping the small forecourt when I saw the troubled child's face—more like her mother's every day.
"Does Satan have goat's feet?" she asked.
I had never considered the Lord of Evil's feet. "I don't know, child."
"Does he have horns on his head?"
Why would a child concern herself with physical aspects of Satan? His existence was terrifying enough. The Gospel said little of the Tempter's aspect—or did it? I could not remember the text word for word, and written books were the property of bishops or abbots.
Had the Evil One sought her out? Had he some design upon her?
"Pan," I said at last. "The old Roman god—the Greeks' Dionysos—was portrayed as half-goat. Such `gods' are deceivers who lure men from true Faith." Was it much of a stretch to consider deer-horned Gallic priests as the Devil's tools—even as aspects of him? I would not know for several years how wrong I was—or how right.
"Perhaps I saw deer's legs, not goat's," Pierrette responded. "Perhaps I saw nothing at all." She bade me good night, leaving me puzzled and concerned, but without suspicion that she would not go straight home. Darkness had already fallen.
Thinking the child had chanced upon worshippers of the old gods, I set off in the gloom for the castellan Jerome's house. Rufus, the elderly soldier on duty, passed me within. Jerome sat at his long table near the smoldering hearth. He offered wine, which I accepted gladly—though I did not delay getting to the point of my visit. "The horned one has been seen in the town," I stated.
The knight peered from beneath bushy brows. "I don't wear the god's horns, but perhaps some other man . . ."
I didn't believe him. "Are you truly Christian, Jerome? Will you recite the `Credo' with me?" He had been born pagan, and his Christian baptism did not fit comfortably—as his infrequent confessions revealed.
"I believe in the Father and the Son," he said, "but tonight is Long-Arm's."
"You can't serve two princes without betraying one, or being crushed between them. It's the same with gods."
"It's easier to choose between what I believe and what I do not, than between two gods who call me with equal voices."
"There is only one God," I replied.
The Burgundian shrugged his broad shoulders. "Let them decide that. Don't push me into their battle, priest."
"Ah, Jerome," I said sadly, setting my wine-cup on the table, its contents hardly touched. "You misunderstand. You yourself are the battleground."
Otho, Bishop of Nemausus

* * *

-

* * *

Unbeknownst to Otho, Pierrette did not go home. Gilles was going to destroy the beech trees. He would bring about her terrible vision of ashes and stumps. And hideous evil stalked the streets, mocking the Christians' rite. How could she stay? Yet where could she go? The Goddess could not succor her, could not save her trees or herself. There was only one path open to Pierrette. With slow, hesitant steps, she turned westward, toward the Eagle's Beak.

 

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