The Protectors war

Epilogue

The path that led upward from Dun Juniper to the mountainside nemed was steep; it wove back and forth beneath tall trees, turning on itself like a serpent in a bed of reeds or the words of an oracle. She had walked it in daylight under summer leaves, and when moonlight shone on snow white as salt beneath stars uncountable. Today gray skies pressed down like the grief of gods, hiding the mountain peaks eastward and the valley to the west alike, and sending drifts of mist through the tops of the great dark-green firs. A wet wind tossed their limbs with an edge of ice; the air soughed around them with the prickling smell of cold snow heavy in it, and the darkness was coming before the cusp of day and night.

Juniper shivered a little, despite the heavy wool of her black ritual robe; the hood was drawn forward shadowing her face and the crescent moon on her brows. It was her folk's custom to sing as they walked to the sacred Wood, but today:

She stilled her mind and raised her voice:

"As the sun bleeds through the murk

'tis the last day we shall work

For the Veil is thin and the spirit wild

And the Crone is carrying Harvest's child!"

The Initiates and Dedicants were robed as she, though only the High Priests and Priestesses wore the tricolored cord belts. Many were masked on this day; some danced with spears flashing dully in the gray light, enacting the Wild Hunt. A harp played, and a flute, and the eerie sweetness of the Uilleann pipes; the beat of the bodhran was like the pulse of blood in her ears. Threescore voices rose in the chorus:

"Samhain! Turn away

Run ye back to the light of day

Samhain! Hope and pray

All ye meet are the gentle Fae."

Leaves from oak and maple blew past in a cloud of old gold and dark crimson.

"Burn the fields and dry the corn

Feel the breath of winter born

Stow the grain 'gainst season's flood

Spill the last of the livestocks blood!"

They came to the Wood, with its great circle of oaks. The trunks were closely placed on a nearly level knee that thrust out from the mountainside; each tree was forty feet and more to the first branch, candle-straight, thicker through than her body. Her great-uncle had planted many trees on his land, three generations ago. What had prompted him to plant this he had never said, but she could guess.

"Let the feasting now begin

Careful who you welcome in

The tables set with a stranger's place

Don't stare openly at his face!"

Iceplant still grew beside the spring that bubbled outside the circle. Juniper led the weaving passage around it, as the song went through heart and bone:

"Stranger, do you have a name?

Tell us all from whence you came

You seem more like god than man

Has curse or blessing come to this clan?"

Then all together, gathering strength:

"Samhain! Turn away

Run ye back to the light of day

Samhain! Hope and pray

All ye meet are the gentle Fae."

And one last great shout: