The Greener Shore Read Free Page A

bracelets and ear rings and hair ornaments, her finger rings set with gemstones, and lastly but by no means least the massive gold torc once worn around the neck of Vercingetorix.
    I would grieve for that torc as much as Onuava did. Fortunately my memories were beyond barter, safe in my head. All that we are and know is stored in the sacred head.
    “Very well,” I told Onuava, “keep your jewelry. But that will mean we’ll either have to stay here or return to Gaul. No matter which we do, the Romans will find us sooner or later. They’ll have no respect for your rank. They’ll tear your gold from your body, enslave your children, and rape you to death.”
    So here we are.
    On our way.
    Once the Celts traveled long distances on horseback or in carts drawn by oxen. Now our little band must rely on wind and muscle. Four of our men have joined the Armoricans at the oars. They are Cormiac Ru, otherwise known as the Red Wolf; my brawny and reliable friend Grannus, who can fell the tallest tree in a single morning; Teyrnon the ironsmith, who stretches himself to the utmost to provide the basic tools of existence; and last but not least the Goban Saor, our bronzesmith, the greatest craftsman the Carnutes have ever produced. His amazing hands can turn raw ore into an elaborately ornamented shield, or free the figure of an ancient deity from a lump of common rock.
    In some ways the talents of Teyrnon and the Goban Saor are the equal of mine. But they are not druids. Theirs are gifts of the arm, not of the head.
    Including myself, our clan has four druids; five if one counts Briga. The others are Keryth the seer, Sulis the healer, and Dian Cet the judge. Briga, however, has never been initiated into the Order of the Wise. She has her reasons.
    Keryth and Sulis are elderly women, though both still appear fresh and fair. Dian Cet was already an old man when I was a boy and looks almost the same now as he did then. Druids do not necessarily age at the same rate as other people. We are not exempt from time, but some of us can manipulate it to a limited extent. Time is fluid.
    The Order of the Wise held the balance between the chieftains who ruled and the warriors who served. We were the calm center. Rank within the Order differed from one tribe to another. The chief druid was always paramount, but one tribe might bestow more honors on its bards, and another on its sacrificers. All branches of druidry were indispensable, however. Under normal circumstances members of the Order were never required to do physical labor.
    Since the abhorrent Caesar’s victory in Gaul, circumstances had been far from normal. During the years spent hiding in the forest we druids had done many things we never expected to do. We learned to perform all the menial chores necessary for survival. Everyone did them; even the children.
    The children are the reason we have flung ourselves off the edge of the Earth. The children embody our tomorrows.
    Briga has given me a wiry, clever son called Dara, who has survived nine winters by now. A year younger than he is a sturdy boy we named Eoin, who is followed by a cheerful, curious lad called Ongus, and last but by no means least a little girl we named Gobnat to please the Goban Saor. The great craftsman fashioned a dainty bracelet of gold set with carnelians for her birth gift. Briga had been willing to sacrifice her own treasures to pay the Armoricans, but she did not let them have Gobnat’s bracelet. Instead she hid it in the secret recesses of her own body.
    All four of our children have their mother’s wide blue eyes and my jutting cheekbones and brown hair. Perhaps one of them has inherited a druid gift as well. That would be a great relief to me; to all of us.
    Yet even then I shall never forget my firstborn daughter. My beautiful, stolen Maia, with her dark baby ringlets and her tiny crumpled ears.
    Onuava has three sons. The oldest, whom she calls Labraid, meaning “the Speaker,” was sired by