I have assembled what tools and ingredients I require. My drum is placed within reach on the deerskin. In a jar to one side is an infusion of mosses and mint, which I will take to revive and soothe me upon my return. The plants and herbs within it, strengthened by a spell given for healing, will go some way to easing my pain after the vision, and to restoring my body and mind as it readjusts to the weight of the common world. In my black cooking pot, suspended over the fire, the concoction simmers. I have used mare’s milk this time, as it is sweeter than cow’s, and gentler. Into this I have crumbled the dried fairy toadstool I collected a few days ago under the glare of the full sun. The bright red of the caps has softened and turned the mixture to pink. It smells of the forest floor, of the earth, of something strange and dangerous. As indeed it is. Too little, and there will not be sufficient to aid my vision. Too much, and it will send me into a dark place of pain and fear from which I will not return. I have judged the measure with great care. I am of no use to my prince dead.
Before beginning, I stand firm and tall in front of the fire and raise my arms to the heavens. I offer up ancient words taught to me in secret, and held in my memory for safekeeping, to be used only with a good heart, for the benefit of those in need, without hope of gain for myself, my assistance freely given. The words have magic in them. Magic of the Celtic elders, who have studied the ways of man for centuries alongside the ways of the underworld. Magic of the shamans, who have traveled this path before me seeking answers and wisdom. Magic of the witches, who are born with the light of spell-casting in their bones. And as I speak I feel my own spirit stir, my own essence shift and change and tremble in anticipation of what is to come.
Next I pull the pot from the fire and place it on the ground. I take my cow’s horn cup and dip it deep, scooping a helping of the precious liquid as full of the bewitching toadstools as can be. Pungent steam rises from the cup as the cold night air cools it. I take my place, cross legged, upon the deerskin. I ask my spirit guides to join me, I offer thanks to the woodland that has given up its bounty for me to use, I form my question, clear and plain, speaking it aloud into the dancing flames of the fire.
‘I seek Wenna’s progeny. Show them to me, or show them not to be, but bring me to the truth of it. If there be a way to coax such offspring into this world, let me know the manner of it.’
So saying, I raise up the cup, close my eyes and then down the foul liquid in three hungry gulps, closing my mouth and throat swiftly afterward, lest my stomach rebel against the poison I am inflicting upon it.
All is good. It is begun.
I sit at my drum and pick up a steady beat while I await the effects of the draught. I let my palms strike the drum skin, flat and slow to start, feeling the sound and its vibration enter my body. As the minutes pass, the fairy toadstool enters further, deeper, wider into me, into my mind, my soul, so that I increase the pace of my drumming. Faster now. Faster! I feel a darkness grip me. The lake and the crannog, the woodlands and the meadows, all have faded to nothing. I am removed from them, and they from me. I exist only inside my head, until the magic will release me on my journey. Pain twists in my belly and scratches at my throat. My breath burns through me. There is a noise, a fearsome roaring of a storm, building, building, building until I must surely burst with it! Burst or die! It is so strong. As if my body cannot withstand what I have forced it to endure. Shall I be smothered, pushed into eternal darkness?
But no! There! I am released. My journey is under way.
Of a sudden, I am leaping through the summer hay meadow, the flowering grasses high above my head as I crouch, tickling my belly as I spring and bound. I am not being chased. I run for joy, for the wonder of the day, for the blessing of the ripening harvest, for the warmth of the sun. As I am, my eyes are not stung by the light. As I am, my skin does not burn nor blister in the golden heat. What freedom! No longer forced to dwell in the shadows, no longer a creature of the darkness, I can run with the singing birds, dart past the grazing cattle, twist through the fragrant flowers and herbs that release their sweetness in the daytime.
I pause, sniffing the air, my keen ears alert, listening, my bold eyes watchful. A movement against the sunlight horizon. A deer, fine-legged and with a gleaming coat. My fellow traveler. It regards me for a moment, and then raises its head, ears twitching. There is something. A sound. A woman crying. I move silently toward it, keeping cover in the tall grasses, taking care not to give myself away. I come upon a figure, bent away from me, kneeling on the ground at the edge of the lake. I cannot see the woman’s face, but she is weeping pitifully, and in front of her is a baby’s crib. It rocks on wooden rockers, but there is no sound or movement from within it, for it is empty. As I creep closer, wanting to see who it is who sobs so for what is not there, another sound stops me. A shuddering of the earth. A galloping. Many horses, and approaching at speed! The deer, too, has felt their thundering through the ground and turns, leaping, running fast away. Now the horses charge into view. Fifty? One hundred? Two hundred? Too many to count. I lay flat on the ground, still as a stone, forced to trust that the charging horses will not set their great iron-clad hooves upon me. The soldiers on their backs shout and roar and wield their heavy swords as they charge, and in front of them, a lone figure. A young man, alone, upon a red horse, its neck wet with sweat, its mouth foaming. The man wears no armor, carries no shield, nor any sword. He is defenseless. I fight for breath as I see it is Prince Brynach! The soldiers close upon him. The woman lifts her head. She sees, but she does not call out to him. She does nothing. Nothing. And the attackers race on, so that the prince must turn his horse into the water. Deeper and deeper into the lake he rides until the horse must swim, and then, when it can swim no more, it sinks beneath him. And he with it. So that the waters close over his head, and the lake swallows him up.