Priestess of An - Falling Empire, Rising Star: Priestess of An, #2

My Vision

Icrossed over a bridge that spanned a small creek in the middle of a meadow. Before me was a gazebo surrounded by an intense white light. I walked toward it. As I walked up the steps, I saw a woman in a shimmering long white gown within the light. Suddenly my jeans and tee-shirt were changed into a similar gown. She reached out and touched my head as if I were receiving a blessing.  I was aware of a crowd of people in the meadow. As I stepped down from the gazebo, I recognized some of the people around me. Some were characters in the stories I’ve attempted to write, but there were many more. It seemed they all wanted their story told by anyone willing to tell it.

I saw Anaias, who looked older now. Her red hair was flecked with white. Her eyes showed that she had suffered disappointment and acquired wisdom. She threw her arms around me in joy.

She whispered, My story is not done. I’ll help you continue to tell it. She turned and looked at the crowd behind her. You must write about them also. We were called by the Sacred Ones to work together even when we didn’t know each other.

I protested, How can I write about all of them...?

She smiled. You’ll learn their names, and their stories. You’ll learn that no one who walks in the Light walks alone.

I looked out at the crowd and saw men and women watching me. One woman with blonde hair and braids had a glow around her.  Anaias smiled, saying, In your day she will be called Saint Genevieve, Patron Saint of Paris. There are Empresses among us and those who saved many scrolls from the final destruction of the school of Alexandria. And, of course, there are my people, the men and women who followed the druid way. We are waiting for you to tell our story. I began to write down the story told by Anaias and those around her. It took years for me to learn their names and learn their role in the great Light that rose and shone and healed so long ago.

1 - Papallas’ Dreams

The Rock Quarries South of Cambrai in Northern France Summer – 442 c.e.

It was a cruel dream . He was holding his Ani in a tight embrace. He felt the softness of her skin and smelled the sweetness of her hair. She turned toward him and smiled. Then the dream vanished.

Pain shot through his body, as the shackles bit his ankles and wrists. The stench of human excrement in the dark, damp pit reminded him he was a slave. He was sharing the hole at the side of the rock quarry with at least a dozen men. He heard their moans and coughing. Until the hatch to the hole in the ground was opened, he didn’t know if it was day or night. When it did open, it meant another day of torturous forced labor.

This life he lived wasn’t life at all. He had died four summers ago, but his body had kept on moving. The insults and tortures didn’t touch him anymore. He had receded to a place deep within. He had died.

Unless he dreamed.

He felt the pain only after he remembered. He tried to block the memories.

He would remember that sunlit day in early summer, four suns ago, when he set sail from the coast of southern Eire. It was another merchant trip like so many before. His part of the ship was laden with woolens woven by the women of the villages. He brought the southern Irish honey-wine prized by the people of Gaul.

The ship he was on brought tin from Cymru and the peninsula of Dumnonia. In the past, he had hauled his wares into Gaul and maybe even to the great civilizations far south. He had been to Rome. He had been to Athens. He was a man of the world. Now he was a slave.

Papallas was tall and ruddy-skinned, with dark eyes, and dark hair now flecked with gray. His father was Greek, and his mother was from the northern islands. His physique was muscular from his years of being a ship’s crewman.

Torrida, the old druid, had raised him as a son, back when he had simply been Owain. Torrida and Owain’s father had been sailing back from a merchant voyage when a huge wave had nearly sunk the ship. His father had been severely injured by a falling mast. Before he had died, he begged Torrida to find his wife and sons and tell her what had happened. By the time Torrida arrived at the village, an epidemic had taken the life of Owain’s mother and his brothers. Miraculously he had survived.

Torrida had been a merchant-druid, trained on the Isle of Sarnia. When Owain had come of age, Torrida took him to the island community of men to learn the druid ways. At his initiation as a druid priest, Owain had taken the ritual name of Papallas to honor the god Pallas, who was a god of merchants and learning, similar to the Greek god Apollo. Papallas had spent several years in training with the druid priests of Sarnia. That training helped him endure the horrors of his non-life now.

As he remembered, he felt the emptiness in his soul. He’d survived for this? Was this a joke of the gods?

For many years, the gods had blessed him. He and Anaias had met when they were just children. They had known, even then, that they were destined for a life together. They had been joined as druid consorts on the hill above of Caves of An. They had spent a moon cycle with a pot of honey and their passion. They’d had a sweet life together, though not without challenges. They had continually thanked their patron divinities, Pallas and An.

That sweetness had been torn apart briefly when a druid faction killed his teacher, Torrida, at the great stone circle. He and Ani had been forced to flee together.

They had been introduced to another god by the people of the Refuge, who had taken them in as they fled. The leaders, David and Susanna, had sacred words written on scrolls. The words told that there was one Creator God, who was pure love. That god was revealed in the teachings of one called Brother Yesua.

Brother Yesua’s partner, Miriam, had come to the northern islands after Brother Yesua was killed. She taught the people of the Refuge about his teachings on love and soul-light. They were both from the dry, sandy region called Palestine far to the south. The story was that Brother Yesua had endured torture and death, but had triumphed over death and his oppressors through love. Yes, love.

Papallas did love...in his dreams. He tried to quell the hatred that was seeping into his soul. Brother Yesua said to love your enemies. The teachings were further explained by Pelagius, who came to the refuge after years in Rome and Jerusalem. He taught that Brother Yesua, who he called Christos, expected us to live a life of loving service.

When Papallas had first heard that teaching, he had been young. It had been right after his mentor, Torrida, was murdered. He’d struggled to understand love and forgiveness. He’d thought he did understand it then. Now the very thought was a torment.

He and Ani had returned to her ancestral home in southern Eire where, after years of exile, she had helped her cousin Aengus regain the throne of Shreedrum. There, they met a priest of Christos, named Padric, who had been taken as a slave and escaped. The stories Padric told gave Papallas hope that he might also find a way to escape.

His mind went back to that fateful journey four years ago. Usually he had taken a ship that traveled further down the coast of Gaul. He would then move by rivers and land cross-country just north of the Pyrenees. The path had become more and more dangerous. New tribes had taken over the towns along the way. There were bandits that would take a traveler’s goods and leave him for dead.

The ship’s captain had talked him into bringing his goods up the river Seine to the town of Parisii, as the Romans called it...or Lutecia, as the local druids called it. Papallas had been to Parisii a few times and it had sounded good to him. He would trade there and return home to Ani by the time of the harvest festival.

On the crossing to Gaul, a storm had blown them off course. When sunrise came, they’d found themselves shipwrecked on the northern coast, well into Frankish tribal territory.

Wagons had appeared in the distance. Several men, whom he’d recognized as Frankish, arrived to help them. After loading the cargo onto their wagons, the helpers brought out a couple of flasks of ale.

The ale was drugged. He and the others fell into a deep sleep. When he awoke, shackles and chains were on his wrists and ankles.

He and the other crewmen, including the captain, were forced into the wagon and taken to the town square in Cambrai.

When they’d reached the market square, their clothes were ripped and cut off with swords. It hadn’t mattered if the blades cut into their flesh. The purpose hadn’t been to kill them; it had been intended to begin the process of taking away their sense of being men who had a choice about their lives. A crowd gathered around them.

An older man with long, blond hair and multicolored robes rode up in a carriage. He descended and slowly walked up to the new slaves, looking over each body, touching their arms and legs, and looking into their eyes.

He asked each man his name in Frankish and Latin. Then he’d asked, Where are you from?

Most of the new slaves were from Britain and knew neither language.

Papallas knew both. He’d answered all the questions. I am Papallas. I am from Cymru. I am a druid merchant. I was bringing wares from Eire.

The man had looked at Papallas for a long time. You are educated?

I have traveled widely. Yes, I am educated.

Their captor, anxious to make a sale, cried, My lord, here is my quota. They are strong. I expect the payment we agreed upon.

The man they’d called ‘lord’ again walked down the line of chained men. He once again touched their arms and muscles. Occasionally, if a man had looked him in the eye, he slapped him. He’d kicked a few. Then he came back to Papallas and put a hand under his chin, lifting his head. You are a druid priest?

I am dedicated to Pallas, the god of merchants.

The man nodded and smiled. I, and my people, are descended from the gods. You will now worship me.

Papallas stared at him.

The man shouted, I said, you will worship me!

Just then, the guards shoved the whole line of men, including Papallas, to the ground, forcing their faces into the dirt.

Papallas listened in disbelief to his declaration. As your new god, I proclaim that you are all dead to all but my service. Forget your name, your former life. You are my slaves now. You will do as the slave tender tells you, or you will be whipped. If you try to escape, you will be killed in a most slow and painful way. If you do not work hard enough or fast enough, the slave master has my permission to punish you as he chooses.

He turned to the guards saying, Help them know they are slaves now. Break them.

Then, with a flurry of his robes, he walked to a waiting carriage where servants helped him into his seat.

He turned to the man who captured them. You’ve done well. I will pay you as soon as the Roman officials come through next week. They will chose the ones they want as soldiers. The rest will work in the quarry. You will receive your payment then, so they must not be treated so badly that they have no value.

But, my lord...

Go! The man had shouted to the driver. The carriage moved away.

With the shackles, Papallas was forced to go where the guards led. Still, he’d hoped there would be a way to escape. There never was.

Over the next days, they were beaten and fed little. When not chained together, some tried to escape. They were not simply killed. The new slaves were forced to watch them being tortured slowly to death as they screamed for mercy.

That had been the beginning of the process that led to his spirit leaving the body.

Four years ago, he had left the woman he loved. He’d had a beautiful life with her by the Suir River in southern Eire. He had foolishly listened to Pallas, the God of merchants, one more time. The sea had called.

∞

In the early days of his captivity, he had dared to cry out indignantly. He had scars from those days. His captors, he’d discovered, loved nothing more than to torture their captives sadistically. He learned to keep quiet, to be invisible. He would cry out in silence, in his meditations, but eventually that stopped, too. His body simply did what it could to survive.

The gang of slaves that had been captured with him were kept underground near the rock quarry on the Oise River. A long chain was woven through the chains that bound each individual.

Before daylight, the door to the hole where they were kept would open. A guard would pull on the chain, and all would be forced to scramble to their feet. They would then be whipped as they emerged into the cold of the morning. He squinted at the light of the sun as they were marched in a line, naked, up the hill. At the top of the hill, the chain that connected them was removed. The chains on his wrists and ankles and around his neck were permanent. They were given a thin, pasty gruel to give them energy for the morning’s work.

At the limestone quarry, they hauled huge boulders. At the base of the hill, the boulders might be shaped into blocks for buildings in the nearby towns, or made into flat pavement stones for the Roman roads.

At midday, they were given more food and water. The food was only more gruel that quieted his stomach. He didn’t know himself. Who was this person who minded the master and was willing to survive as a slave?

Once in a while, he heard the voice of Anaias in his imagination. Then he was jolted into remembering their life together. He could hear her laughter and feel her touch. He remembered dancing together at the festivals. He remembered the ritual of the cup. He remembered the water that cleansed him, as they worshipped in the name of Brother Yesua and Sister Miriam on the banks of the Suir River.

He remembered lying in her arms as they slept, and the total satisfaction he felt after they had made love.

He tried not to think about her. She had the power of sight. He knew that she might, even over a distance, hear his thoughts and know that he was alive. She might try to search for him and risk her life. He tried to silence his thoughts. It was better that she thought he was dead.

2 – Anaias Returns

The Pembrokeshire Coast – Bridey’s Bay

Late Summer – 442 c.e.

Lights flickered around the tiny boat floating on the Irish Sea. The Tywa, a race of light-workers, including Beechna, her brother Rodnic, and her cousins, were concerned about the Priestess of An who had fallen into a deep sleep during the crossing from Eire. Landing on her, they tried to rouse her. It worked.

Anaias opened her eyes. The sun was bright. She shivered from the cold. The green cape that she had received during her goddess initiation, so long ago in the Caves of An, was soaked. She could feel the boat bobbing in the water through her sleepy disorientation.

Through the mist, she saw high cliffs ahead of her. She was home.

Thank you, Brother Yesua and Sister Miriam, thank you, Mother An, for guiding me safely, she whispered.

It was daylight, and the Tywa people were no longer in the boat with her. She assumed they had already found their way to the tidal island off the coast of the Cymrun Peninsula.

Three nights earlier, she had left the shores of Eire. She had left Aengus the King. She had left her claim to be part of the royal family. She had left the high hill of Shreedrum where the King’s palace, made of white rock, glimmered.

She reached for the green bag that held the harp of Cormon. It was there. She touched the bag and spoke to the harp within, We’re home now.

She would never understand the strange twist of fate that had made this place, now, home. As a child, she had known it as the place of exile for the kings of Shreedrum. All her life, she had thought that returning to Eire with her cousin Aengus was her destiny. But she had gone to that sacred land. Aengus had become King. She had no place in it. Her beloved Papallas was gone. Her destiny was somewhere else.

Before she could do anything else, she needed to find Papallas.

All she knew was that power changes people. Her kind, dreamer cousin, Aengus, had become a shrewd, power-hungry King. Boandas, the cruel druid zealot, was now a Christian bishop and no less of a cruel zealot. Her brother Ciallach had fomented trouble through his desire for a throne that he had no aptitude to ascend.

Someone had murdered her dearest friend Luann and the Bard Cormon, the harpist and storyteller.

Cormon had stolen her heart and imagination when she was a child. He had been the one who turned events of the people into song. Who would sing of this moment? Who would sing of the sorrow in her heart?

The horror of that night was seared into her soul. Deadly swords cut into the joy, destroying it and threatening her sanity.

Her only hope of salvation was finding Papallas.

She picked up the oars and, with all her strength, pulled the small boat, a curragh, onto the sandy shoal of the tidal island.

It slid onto the beach.

As she crawled out of the boat, every muscle ached from being cramped into the small space for so long. She was no longer a young woman.

She remembered that, because of the tides, she needed to pull the boat up from the beach to the rocky ledge. She looked for the path up the cliff. She found it. It took all of her muscles to push and pull the boat up to the ledge and out of danger from the tides.

When she’d been a child, she had nearly drowned off these shores, when she had seen a vision of a magical island and had taken a curragh, like this one, out to sea. A storm had come out of nowhere and dumped her into the water. The boat had slammed her, cutting her head and arm. The young Papallas, then called Owain, had jumped into the water. He swam to her rescue.

Papi! She called out as she remembered. She sat in the place where he had pulled her out of the water and tended her wounds so long ago. It had been before his initiation...and before hers. And so, the young boy, Owain, had met the girl, Seabhac, named for the young hawk that had flown at her birth.

They had been joined together after they had both been initiated as druid priest and priestess on a hill near the Caves of An. She had always loved him. She knew she had loved him through many lifetimes. If she didn’t find him again in this life, they would come together in another. But if there was any chance of him being alive, she needed to find him.

Papallas had disappeared on a merchant voyage. Everyone told her that he had died. She tried to believe that. One night in the middle of a dream, she had heard him calling to her. She knew he was alive somewhere, unable to return to her.

She struggled to climb up the side of the limestone cliff. Finally, she came to the flat expanse. It was late summer. The flowers had bloomed and gone to seed. She saw the small hut that Papallas-Owain and his teacher Torrida had lived in so many years ago.

The hide that covered the doorway had been worn to tatters. She pushed what was left of it aside and stepped in. She found a covered crock of crystalized honey on the shelf and medicinal herbs hanging to dry as though their owner would return soon. There were cooking pots and bowls for eating.

She found an old fishing net. It was full of holes and needed mending. She could fish once she repaired it.

Her stomach growled. She headed out in search of food. There were the familiar berries and nuts. A nearby tree was filled with apples. She dug for roots.

She ate enough to quiet her hunger.

The sun was warming the earth.

She curled up on what had been Papallas-Owain’s bed. She fell into a deep sleep.

She awakened to the sound of a barking dog.

A boy’s voice called out. Come out and show yourself! It was a shaky voice, a little scared, trying hard to sound fierce. The sun was shining into the hut. Looking through the opening, she saw a boy of at least ten years with his black dog. It looked like the dog she had had as a child.

She got up and walked outside.

Smiling, she said, Hello, are you my welcoming party?

The boy looked embarrassed. Who are you?

I’m Anaias. I’ve just returned from Eire.

He stepped back in shock and took off running in the direction of the main peninsula.

∞

By the time the sun was full height in the sky, she saw a wagon coming across the peninsula cliffs. The road to the island existed only at low tide. They needed to be gone by the return of high tide.

As the wagon got closer, she could see it was her old friend David. He rode up to her and called the horses to come to a halt. He stepped down.

Their eyes met.

Ani, is that you? David said softly. We never expected you to return.

But in my dreams, Susanna called to me.

We didn’t think you’d ever leave Eire.

Aengus is now King of Shreedrum. The throne is secure. I have no place there.

She gathered her belongings and got into the wagon pulled by the small horses of Cymru.

David led the horses down the path that had been so familiar to Anaias’ childhood. She was lost in the memories of each tree, each flock of birds, and each rabbit that scampered out of their way. The flickering lights of the Tywa returned.

Then she began to see the familiar red earth that had been the sign that the Goddess blessed this refuge. She saw the smoke of a cook fire. As they went over the rise, she saw stone buildings where there had been tents when she left so many years ago.

She saw a crowd of people standing at the edge of the community. They started cheering as she came closer.

He stopped the horses and helped her out of the cart. She stood on the sacred ground for a moment, feeling the Goddess Mother, An, greeting her. She was home. She was no longer an exile longing for another life. She was no longer a refugee having fled in disillusionment. She was now simply home.

She saw Susanna, with her white and blue robes and long, dark, braided hair and deep brown eyes. Without words, Susanna opened her arms to her. Anaias walked into her embrace.

She turned and saw her old friend Tinai, whom she’d met in the Caves of An.

Tinai was short and slender with wispy, dark brown hair. Her nose was angular and her face long and narrow, with penetrating hazel eyes. She always seemed to have a look of nervous concern, as though she knew something of the future that a lesser spirit could never know. Anaias was overjoyed to see her.

Tinai was carrying a basket of breads and a flask of ale. She set them down by Anaias. They embraced wordlessly. The young man who had met her on the island was beside her. You’ve met my son, Morgan.

Anaias smiled, Yes, you are good at protecting your land. How many suns have you seen?

Morgan blushed. I have seen twelve suns.

Anaias remembered when Morgan had been born. His father was Jeremiah. He was from the Refuge and called himself a man of the Torah. He’d married Tinai and was tolerant of her beliefs. Tinai had been raised in the Caves of An and prayed to the gods and goddesses of the land as well as to Brother Yesua and Sister Miriam.

Morgan looked more like his mother than his father. He was small for a boy of his age. She could see a deep spirit in him.

Her old friends gathered around her.

Anaias began to talk about everything that had happened. She told them about the ascension to the throne of Shreedrum and her cousin King Aengus finding alliances and a wife. She joyfully described the birth of their daughter.

She talked about a priest of Christos named Padric who came to set up what he called the church. He said he was sent by Rome. When they’d first met, she’d felt Christos was similar to Brother Yesua.

Padric had originally come from Britain, but had studied in the south as their teacher Pelagius had. However, as time went on, he’d condemned her beliefs because they had come from Pelagius, who he’d called a heretic.

People expressed their shock and dismay.

She smiled, But he eventually, before he moved to other villages, joined Papallas and me by the river. His God was, after all, the same God of love. He left with my brother Giosai.

She added, It was difficult, though, as he praised our tyrannical druid, Boandas, making him a bishop in his church.

Listeners laughed at how absurd it was to praise Boandas, who had been a boorish, murderous druid leader of the village. He was a part of the faction called the Brothers of Integrity, who’d committed the massacre at the stone circle.

Then Boandas and my brother turned against me, and they also plotted against King Aengus.

She then told them slowly about the massacre and the death of Luann and Cormon. Tinai cried out in shock.

We don’t know who or why.

Tinai said softly, There must be judgment.

I will let the Goddess An sort it out, Anaias replied quietly.

Susanna responded, But you are home, and that is good. It is a gift of Brother Yesua and Sister Miriam.

Tinai poured the ale into the cups. They were silent together as they sipped the amber liquid. They ate the bread and some cheese.

Anaias remembered the Caves of An. Moira had been a cheese-maker, and Tinai had played the flute for the vision journeys. She had left Moira in Eire with a husband.

Anaias was silent for a while. Then she continued, Moira is safe. She is married with five sons.

Tinai clapped her hands together. That’s wonderful to hear!

There is something else that brings me here, Anaias continued. Susanna and Tinai softened their gaze.

Papallas disappeared four suns ago. He went on a merchant trip, as he has done so many times before. He never returned. I believe he is alive, but something has happened to him. I saw a vision of him. I felt a body full of pain.

Susanna asked, Do you think you can find him?

She stopped. That man Padric, whom I mentioned earlier, told of the times he was kidnapped and taken as a slave, but was able to escape. Maybe Papallas has been kidnapped. Maybe he is being held as a slave. I have to find him.

How? Tinai asked.

I need to go across the sea to the south, and ask Brother Yesua and Sister Miriam and Mother An to guide me in my search for him.

Susanna responded, That’s dangerous. The merchants who come through our village have told of bandits and murderous warlords. My brother, Jacob, left for the south a few suns ago and we haven’t heard from him.

Just then, her sister Geanta arrived. Anaias remembered her as a sullen child.

Sister! Geanta shouted gleefully.

Anaias put down her dish and stood. They embraced and held each other for a long time.

Geanta whispered, I wish I had gone with you to Eire.

Anaias responded, You’ve made a life for yourself.

Yes, I’ve married and have two sons. You’ll meet them.

And your husband?

Geanta looked at her feet as she spoke, He was kind and gentle when we married. Things changed. He is sometimes cruel and has a violent temper. We live apart.

I’m so sorry, but you have your sons.

Geanta smiled. Yes, I do, and they will be thrilled to meet their famous aunt and hear the stories of Eire. Geanta hugged her again.

Over her shoulder, Anaias saw her older sister Pabhallia. It had been so long. Her sister’s hair was now gray. Anaias was glad to see her, but was suddenly nervous. Pabhallia had always seemed so strong and sensible. Anaias had always felt like the child in her presence.

Pabhallia smiled. Welcome home. She put out her hand. My family home is open to you until you can find one of your own.

Anaias took her hand. Thank you, sister.

Pabhallia looked around. Where is your partner, Papallas?

He has been missing for four suns now.

I am so sorry.

Anaias nodded.

Behind Pabhallia was a crowd of young men and a young woman. Pabhallia turned and gestured toward them.

These are your nephews, whom you met when they were young children. This is your niece, who was just an infant when you left for Eire.

Anaias’ eyes caught the girl’s.

Pabhallia said to the girl, MiraAn, this is the aunt we have talked so much about.

The girl walked up shyly and took Anaias’ hand. She said softly, Holy One....

Anaias embraced her, saying, How good to meet you. As they pulled away, the girl held her gaze.

Anaias felt MiraAn’s strong spirit. She had the height and red hair that Anaias had as a child. It marked her as one called by the Tuatha de Danaa, the magical, other-dimensional rulers of Eire. She felt a kinship with the girl immediately.

Anaias turned back to Pabhallia. I obviously need to learn about your family. And what about Korca?

He is healthy.

The girl interrupted, finally getting her voice, I’ve heard about you all my life. She talked excitedly, My mother says I am named for the partner of Brother Yesua, Sister Miriam. I am also named for the Mother Goddess An. Susanna and David have told me about Brother Yesua, Sister Miriam, and about you.

The girl continued, I am so glad you’ve returned. I need a teacher who can tell me about An, and how to serve Her. I need a teacher who can tell me about things of the spirit. I need to go to the Caves of An to become a priestess like you.

Anaias laughed. Those are not things you decide. A spirit greater than us decides whether we are initiated in the druid way.

MiraAn was clearly disappointed. She had imagined this day, meeting her iconic aunt Anaias. She’d imagined they would run off together and have spirit adventures. Now she was being laughed at. She blushed and was silent.

MiraAn stepped back into the crowd gathering around Anaias.

Seabhac! Ani! You’re home! Anaias turned around to see her childhood friend, Ehlif, bustling through the crowd. Anaias was enveloped in her hug. Ehlif was now robust, and her embrace felt like mother earth’s hug.

Ehlif pushed her back and looked into her eyes with concern. Why are you here, girly?

Anaias laughed, remembering the way Ehlif had talked to her. Sit down and hear my story. We’ll talk alone later. It’s good to see you.

She looked up and saw her cousins carrying mushrooms and roots they had harvested along with freshly leached seaweed. A good Cymrun stew was cooking.

Anaias saw Morganna coming up the hill in her brightly colored robes. Morganna smiled and held up a flask. I’ve learned to make the sacred honey-wine while you’ve been gone.

Have you taken over the hives? Anaias asked.

Yes, with the help of the MiraAn, we listen to the bees in the silence of their hive, Morganna responded and then laughed. It’s good to have you home again. It will be a reason for us to feast and dance.

Do you still play the pipes? Anaias laughed.

And the drum when needed. The men will join us later.

What colors do you have now? Anaias asked, looking at the multicolored gown Morganna was wearing.

"Well, you know the yellow from the marigold flower, and the pink from the bark of fir. None is