The Greener Shore Read Free

of Hairy Gaul,” the Romans spent summer after summer scarring our homeland with roads and military fortifications. They did not find us, however. We had buried ourselves so deep in the wilderness we never heard a word of Latin. For us, everything beyond the forest ceased to exist. We knew nothing of Rome and Romans, but lived an inward life whose boundaries were the trees. Still, we did not feel safe. We were as quiet as birds pressing themselves against the earth as the hawk flies over. We never laughed aloud.
    Our children lost their childhood while Rome was raping Gaul.
    When the land was sufficiently “cleansed” of rebellious natives, settlers began to arrive. They started cutting down the great forest that sheltered us.
    Then Keryth dreamed a dream in which she spoke with the handful of other druids who still survived. They were able to confirm her prophecy: Vercingetorix had been murdered in Rome. They told her every grisly detail which she then related, with great pain, to me.
    Druids know the truth when they hear it.
    As far as I was concerned it signaled the end of the world.
    Yet now my Briga could laugh. She spread her arms wide as if she would embrace the sea, and laughed aloud with joy. “We will begin a new life, Ainvar!” My Briga crinkles her nose when she laughs.
    The Celtic figure of the Two-Faced One possesses one set of features looking in one direction and another set looking the opposite way. It is open to many interpretations: life and death, summer and winter, nobility and debasement. If men look toward death, women look toward life. How wise was the Source to create such balance.
    It is a pity the Source did not create boats. Boats are not natural, but man-made, so I have misgivings. It is difficult for me to accept that a vessel filled with people can float on top of the water. A stone weighing much less than a boat would sink immediately. Sometimes my head ponders on this.
    We obtained these boats in the land of Armorica, from a trader who belonged to the tribe of the Veneti. They inhabit the westernmost shores and claim to know what lies beyond the sunset. I hope they do. Our future may depend on it.
    Paying for the boats and crew took what little remained of our gold. The owner of the vessels demanded the last valuables we possessed, the jewelry of our women. We had no choice but to comply. Briga gave up her gold bracelets and an amber brooch set in silver, with a rueful smile. Behind her hand, she whispered to me, “I’m thankful he’s not asking for my bowls.”
    Through all our troubles, my senior wife had managed to retain a collection of enameled copper bowls. They were cunningly made: nine altogether, the largest no bigger than a woman’s skull, the smallest the size of an infant’s fist. They nested one inside another so the entire set could be carried in a single pair of hands. Briga deemed them too precious for domestic purposes.
    The household gods of the Romans were their
lares
and
penates.
Briga’s were her enameled bowls.
    When the time came for Lakutu to surrender her jewelry, she merely shrugged her shoulders. She who had once been a slave had never expected to possess fine ornaments anyway. The only hint of emotion was a glimmer of moisture in her eyes as she handed over the girdle I had given her on our wedding day. A wide band of fabric woven in the red-and-blue plaid signifying the tribe of the Carnutes, the belt was fastened by two interlocking Celtic knots finely wrought in silver and embellished with bosses of gold. It was a tradition in our tribe to give a new wife a girdle representing the connubial embrace. Lakutu had worn hers every day since we married.
    Her son, Glas, saw the tears she tried to hide. “I’ll make a new belt for you,” he vowed. “An even better one.”
    Onuava made a show of being grievously injured. She proclaimed in a loud voice that as the widow of the king of the Gauls she was entitled to the perquisites of her former rank: her