Page 79 of Dragons of the Great Wyves: Fire and Song
The celebration startedas the setting sun touched the low hills. Benches had been dragged from the common longhouse to an open area at the village’s edge, tables added to hold dishes, and peat fires lit. Our braided decorationsrested on the tables, local plants and flowers twined with different tartan strips, a centerpiece for each clan in the village.
The food was country fare: grain gruels seasoned with sea salt and herbs, unusually large savory puddings boiled in sausage casings, and herring served every way imaginable—smoked, fried, pickled, even stewed in raised pies with thick, shining crusts.
There were three loaves of bread, all crusty bannocks with nine sharp, black-crisped rays, what Mistress MacLeod had called the Wyves’ bannock. Instead of being served, they were placed prominently on an oak stump, untouched.
With a minor flourish, Darcy drew his bottle of whiskey from a cushioned chamois bag and presented it to the MacLeods. Enthusiasts crowded, studying the bottle and asking about Oban, a village on the other side of Scotland and apparently as remote as the far side of the moon. Geography was then replaced by questions of copper stills and levels of peat smoke, all beyond my knowledge but fielded authoritatively by Darcy.
The MacLeods sat at a table with us, and when the unopened bottle finished its rounds and was cradled in Mr. MacLeod’s arms, he pursed his lips and said, “We’ll keep it for the Wyves’ tale. That’s the time for a dram.” He stabbed a wooden spoon to open a solidly crusted raised pie. Steam, redolent of herring and sheep’s cheese, swirled free.
Night fell. The smoky fires shone crimson on faces and hands and the men’s bare ankles beneath their kilts. The glowing peat blocks reminded me of a smith’s brick-lined forge, although this heat was pleasant, not the eye-watering inferno of hard coal fanned by a bellows. The food was solid and good, if salty, and I tried the savory pudding, called a haggis. It was tasty but rich.
With the meal done, tables were pushed aside and the benches dragged into two rough rows. The bound wyves’ draca wandered around the periphery, an unusual show of interest from the creatures. A half-bottle of sherry was shared, and tea. Mr. MacLeod asked Darcy to uncork the whiskey, then he doled it out in drams indeed, little more than wetting the bottom of each glass. Two dozen villagers took a taste, and there was much sniffing and tilting of glasses while arguing whether a few drops of water would open the flavor or flatten it. Finally, the whiskey was sipped and declared a bonny batch, indeed.
Mistress MacLeod, in a wool cap decorated with tartan and a shawl to fend off the cooling air, walked into the cleared area in front of the benches.
“Now we tell the tragedy of the wyfe Brynhild,” she cried out, “and of thehero Sigurd, and of the Wyfe’s Wild Hunt.” She moved to the side of the improvised stage.
A woman strode out dressed in a gray riding cloak. She was my mother’s age, with a few wrinkles and streaks of gray.
“The wyfe Brynhild was a noblewoman,” intoned Mistress MacLeod, “strong of arm and mind and terrible to cross.” The woman posed like a warrior, shoulders square, and her years fell away. She looked young and strong. “She was courted by a hundred men, but they may as well have been chasin’ their tails, for one of the hundred was Sigurd, a hairy bull of a man who would melt any lass’s heart.”
A stocky, balding man, his skin tanned by sun and sea, rose from a bench and came forward grinning, surely the woman’s husband as they shared a private smile.
The woman called out, “I, Brynhild, know that a great draca lives in these hills, unbound for two hundred years. I will bind that draca, but I need a grand lover. A hero.” Brynhild and Sigurd approached each other and trailed fingers across each other’s shoulders, the image of youthful, carnal attraction. My cheeks flushed as some men hooted approval.
Now, the red-cheeked woman who invited me to braid decorations joined the performance. Serious as any actress at Covent Garden, she stole forward dripping deceit. “I am Gudrún, and I’m as bonny a lass as Brynhild. I should be the one t’bind the great draca.” She circled Brynhild then whipped Brynhild’s riding cloak free—the crowd hissed—and wrapped it around herself, hood forward to hide her features. “With this disguise, I’ll steal into Sigurd’s bed.”
In pin-drop silence, Gudrún approached and embraced Sigurd. They turned in slow circles, hands on each other’s hips, half a dance, half lewd mimicry. Under the blackening sky, the audience began a slow stamp, one thump each time the lovers circled in the flickering red firelight.
The emotions of the performers and audience spread to the world of draca, and in the shadows, feral draca joined the bound watchers, their eyes reflecting the crimson of the fires. Then, as the turning couple quickened, a firedrake scaled dark as iron strutted into the firelight. Most people lived their lives without seeing an unbound drake, but only one young child exclaimed. Everyone else continued their relentless stamp, quickening with the spins of the actors.
The firedrake’s gleaming black eyes fixed on the writhing couple as if it were a true consummation—a consummation and abetrayal, for Brynhild was watching Sigurd’s seduction, and the wyfe playing Brynhild was watching her husband in life with another woman. Her face, whether in performance or truth, was filled with fury.
Abruptly, the red-cheeked woman’s back arched, and she screamed in ecstasy and triumph. The iron-dark drake opened his wings wider than a tall man’s spread arms, and the thumping stomp ended.
I startled as a hand fell on my shoulder. Mistress MacLeod whispered in my ear, “Come away, lass. I would speak with ye.”
Darcy was engrossed in the performance. I tapped his arm to signal I was leaving, then with a few swift steps, Mistress MacLeod and I threaded between the benches until we stood behind the audience.
“Do ye ken the story of Brynhild?” Mistress MacLeod asked me as the play continued.
I shook my head. “I have heard the names but not the story.”
“Brynhild has been betrayed.” Her eyes glittered. “What d’ye think will happen?”
I had read enough fables to answer. “Revenge. Disaster.”
The crowd reacted to the play by bellowing an animalistic, rolling snarl. Brynhild’s shout reached us. “With the black dagger I summon the Wild Hunt. Rise, river dragon! Freeze the land in bitterest winter!” Steam hissed as people threw water on the peat fires, and the red light dimmed near black.
Mistress MacLeod’s eyes never left mine. “Revenge, aye. ’Tis the story of the north. Honor is valued over life. This village is awash in honor, like oil poured on tinder awaiting a spark. Hae the men come to ye yet?”
“The men who are plotting violence.” Without Fènnù’s presence, my past selves had faded to shadows, but those wyves remembered their own starved villages. Famine always bred war. “Not yet.”
“They will, lass.”
From beyond the audience, a woman’s voice carried, “Through dark and ice, across frozen turf and dying trees, the draca led Brynhild on her hunt. And when the sun rose, feebled by ice, she caught Sigurd and deceiving Gudrún…”
Mistress MacLeod grabbed me, her fingernails digging into my forearm. “Ye carry the black dagger, lass. Did ye burn London?”
