She told me how Prydn had grown strong since I left. First was only fhain, then two fhains together as they moved from pasture to pasture among the scattered Prydn, coaxing and convincing them to merge. Morgana led from the start. Cradda and Uredd were too old to argue with her, Dorelei too gentle. They bargained for cattle or stole them. They stole children, and when their numbers were large enough, they attacked openly by day, looting and burning tallfolk villages.

I watched her windburned face as she talked, stamped with that cast that leadership leaves on one who makes decisions for many years. No longer mercurial, surer of strength, the old anger held in check, her merest word to the men around the fire taken as command and answered or obeyed instantly. They followed her without question. And Modred idolized her.

“And should see the braw wealth grown tall as thee now!”

“New blood to make us strong,” said Urgus.

Morgana swelled with pride. “Tens and tens now, to the count of two hundreds. As thee showed me in the picture on the ground.”

As for tallfolk, now they could mourn lost children and taste the bitterness. How often in famine and blight did Prydn leave its own in valley cradles? Wasn’t a sister of Cradda put newborn into a Roman house for lack of food in the crannog? But now there was plenty, meat and milk for everyone every night and tens of children to gobble it down, singing about the fire, and the day was at hand when Belrix would give Prydn a home. No more running then. Nothing but peace.

Cunedag threw up his hands in approval. “Yah!”

“Yah!” cried the others—all but my cool, detached son.

I listened to them, increasingly sad. Morgana talked of the promised land, but she was no Moses with a tablet of laws to bind her people to purpose. A place might be found, that wasn’t the worst problem. The impossibility was in their lives, in the way they lived and the images they lived by. Morgana’s stories were all fluid, all of moving on.

“And then did ran like the wind out of Taixali land with a’s sheep in our flock, looking for better grass … were gone

The Ghost Dancers

245

moving on, running

before Erea’s men could come hiding.”

And so for countless centuries till the drifting became part of them, now suddenly they would stop and change overnight? Put seed in the ground and wait for a harvest while Earth and Lugh urged them onward in their ancient dance? Mingle with tallfolk when distance, fear and superstition were their only real protection? Become familiar where they were once fabled, let the world see they were not magic but only remnants from the morning of Man, unable even to make iron tools or a decent loom for cloth?

“And when Dorelei died,” Drost was saying, “did bare have time to barrow a’s body, running swift south …”

And would keep running until history ran them off the edge of time. Suddenly I pulled Morgana to me, holding her tight because all I could give her was a place to die.

It grew late. Drowsy with rich food and barley beer, Cunedag, Urgus and Drost stretched out on the comfortable pallets along the wall. Morgana drew me to the curtained bower at one end of the house, but I wanted to talk with Modred.

“Be pleased with him, Belrix?”

“As thee said, greatest beauty of all Prydn. Will be in soon.”

Modred hunched moodily by the fire. The house was warm; he’d thrown off his sheepskin. His whole lithe torso was ridged with scar lines.

“Thee’s fought, boy.”

Modred nodded. “All my life. First memory was Morgana lifting me to horse near a burned village.”

“At least you had a mother, Modred. Why so sad now?”

When he spoke it was with something close to gentleness. “Was thinking of my own wealth.”

I grinned rather foolishly. “Thee’s got bairn?”

He was surprised I’d think otherwise. Of course there were children. A boy and girl by a woman of another fhain.

It was a shock being father and grandfather all in one night. “And did not bring them to see me?”

“Did leave them to wait at the Wall. Do not have Gern-y-fhain’s trust.”

“In me, you mean.”

He returned my questioning look with no expression at all. “Mother’s old. A thinks of thee like a god. Be always “when Belrix came, when Belrix was here.’ Did have fine husbands in

246

Firelord

Cunedag and Urgus and could have more. But always Belrix. Belrix will give the land we need. Where, father?”

I countered with another question. “And if I could, would Prydn stay on it who have never stayed two fire-festivals on the

same graze?”

He looked up at the walls and roof as if they hovered to trap him. “Always the same. No place be different for us.”

“Soon we take back land from the Saxons. Perhaps there in

the east.”

“See?” Modred thrust forward suddenly. “In the east. Not here, not with thy folk. Always somewhere else.” He buried his face in brown fingers, and I heard the passionate caring he had masked before.

“Mother be old, but a’s done more than any gern. Made us rich, but not enough. Never enough. But, oh, must still believe in this and that. And Belrix. Belrix will give us land.”

Modred held out his open hand. “She told me how thee once brought seed to the rath to show Cradda its magic. Did hold it in this hand many times, but a would not speak to me. Seed magic be not for us.”

“But still thee rides in search of a land.” The passion faded, the veiled look came back into his eyes. “Mother searches. Do only follow.” “And not believe?” “Only in her.”

“There are few like your mother, son.” “None, father.” He turned a little away. “And do wish for some of that love a wasted mooning for Belrix. What did thee do but leave her?”

“That angers thee? Hast never left a woman out of need?” “Anger?” His girlish mouth twisted in a hard, ugly grin. “Thee’s too small for such an anger, Belrix. Nothing but Morgana’s wish would bring me here, and only for a’s safety; Any harm to my mother in this place, thee answers for it.”

Modred was what life and Morgana made him: a realist, but also a scrap pit for all the hate and anger Morgana laid aside in maturing. When he was young he sensed these things in her and aped them to please her until they were no longer aping but a

part of him.

“Modred, I love your mother.”

‘ ‘Did leave her.”

“And I want to love you. And you threaten me?”

The Ghost Dancers

247

“Prydn be dead already, here or somewhere else. Did know that from the seed when a would not speak to me.”

I don’t know what I expected of Modred. Something more human, a little glad of life, but when all your life has been running and fighting, perhaps glad has no meaning. For this I yearned so many years? This the small hand imagined in mine, toddling beside me as I taught it the music of Earth? Those scarred, powerful arms around my neck as he kissed me goodnight? This cold, purposeful, subtly malignant, girl-pretty serpent of a son who’d cut my throat and walk away whistling?

No, I was a fool trying to warm myself by a fire long dead or never kindled. No use lying to myself. I couldn’t love Modred. The time for love was past and Modred could not be blamed because I rode away.

“Modred, I’ll do what I can for fhain. Your father promises you that. But whatever happened to you, let your own bairn be clean of it.”

The ugiy grin leered up at me. “Clean? My bairn say ‘tallfolk’ and spit.”

No more to say; I needed to be away from him. “Sleep well, my son.”

“Well is lightly, father.”

Morgana considered it outlandish luxury to sleep in a bed so warm and soft.- She yawned and stretched and wrapped herself around me when I slipped under the covers, still gristly hard while my own body had thickened. She patted my stomach and yawned again.

“Thee’s fed we!!, Belrix. Must forgive me now.”

“For what, wife?”

Morgana hesitated as if ashamed. “I would love thee,” she whispered. I had to coax it from her in awkward fragments. She wanted to be all I remembered, but was too tired now to make love.

“The riding, Belrix. The long way.”

I laughed into the tumble of her hair. “Fool woman, don’t think of it now.”

Relieved that I didn’t expect miracles, Morgana relaxed, kissing my shoulders and chest. “Aye, tomorrow. Be so tired and the riding hurts my back now.”

“Oh, where?”

248

Firelord

She placed my hand on the spot. “Like knives sometimes, but must never show it.”

I turned her over gently and massaged the sore area. Morgana lay with her cheek on one hand, a blissful smile curving her lips. “Good … so good. Can sleep now.” But even in sleep, she said, there was no real peace. So many people now, so much to carry. In her dreams she led them up an endless hill while the sky got darker and darker and she felt lost. “You can sleep. I’ll hold you.” “Thee’ll not go away?” “Not a foot.”

She sighed with contentment. “Could get used to such a bed. Thee talked with Modred?”

“I tried. Be no warmth in the boy. Does not trust me.” “Or anything.” “He’s full of hate.”

Morgana knew, but how to cope with it? She’d hoped through it all he’d grow to be like me or Melga or even gentle Cunedag, but it never happened. Too much running, too much killing. They were all a hard lot, these new ones growing up. She didn’t know where the warmth got lost.

And there were gaps in her wisdom. She wished now she’d listened more to Cradda and Uredd. She had so few of the answers her people needed. Maybe Dorelei should have led them, or someone else.

“Ah, foolish, foolish.” She snuggled against me. “Be tired to death, that’s all. Who could turn back and change it now?” “The same with me,” I said into her hair. “Who indeed?” We floated toward sleep in each other’s arms. “Second wife be not plain at all,” Morgana drowsed. “Just a wee bit pale. But why dost hate us so?”

How in a lifetime to tell that? “Did never dance at Bel-tein or jump through the fire. Has never heard Lugh’s music.”

“Would much’ve helped,” she grunted. “But say that first wife be gern too, and has tried hard for a’s people. Do say as much, Belrix, and a will know me sure from that.”