Shadow of the Woe Tree

"Bear witness child," the crow spoke with a deep but feminine voice. "For your eyes are your burden and salvation."

The crow then launched into the dwindling night sky – sunrise was approaching and so was the end of the feast of Samhain,

Celhern kissed Féainn's forehead a stepped away from her and said: "Don't fear what's coming, Féainn – the gods will be waiting and when it is time, they shall return."

With those last words, the swirling masses of circling crows carried the bodies of Daimhin Mhic Ulder – and the rest of the villagers who had died at the hands of the Oglaigh who served Féainn's scheme – into a place where they would be honored and remembered. Celhern stood, a sad smile on his face and walked towards a blazing bonfire – as he passed through it his body and robes ignited like dry wicker.

Féainn sobbed silently as her burning father quietly walked towards and the Woe tree and hugged it – the flames that engulfed Celhern O Cunnight spread like a liquid blaze to the tree and it lit up in flames of yellow and green. Féainn stood and looked around at the villagers that were left and had witnessed the crows manifestation and her father's death – some sobbed like her while others wandered around the burning tree, staring as it crisped to a smoldering tinder. She looked up and saw the high burning branches of the tree be crowned by the blazing orange ball of the rising sun.

Epilogue

For twenty years, carpenters and masons and journeyman labored to build a grand church in the honor of the good Lord their Sheppard. The clearing was an ideal spot to lay a foundation against the paganism that had festered on the green isle – the remains of an old burnt willow tree, some old pagan symbol, had been cleared for the house of the Lord. The bishop looked up at the steeple that reached skyward and admired the way the sun framed the towering crucifix, a glowing reminder that His Word was the only Word.

"Would you like some more milk, your grace?" a young man asked the bishop. He was tall and lanky with sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. He wore the robes of a priest in training.

"Of course," the bishop said. "Thank you. What's your name, my son?"

"Loic, your grace. Loic Mac Ulder."

The bishop sized the young man up and nodded approvingly. "A local boy, I take it."

"Born and bred, your grace – my ma and da were born and died here. That should be my lot, God willing."

"God's will is ever a mystery for us to discover," the bishop said, inviting Loic to walk with him with a nod. "Do you have family left here, Loic?"

Loic nodded and pointed out two women who were watching the construction with intense regard and said, "The red head is me sister Dubheasa. She is very much like our ma – she stands with Féainn. A distant aunt."

The bishop waived at the two women – Dubheasa waved back while Féainn stared at the bishop and at his church. The bishop was struck by Féainn intensity and her grace as she turned and returned to the village.

"I've heard of the name Féainn – a pagan priestess of some sort," the bishop said.

"A brandui, your grace," Loic corrected. "A druid woman – a nasty piece of work, that one was. She was just a legend, though."

The bishop nodded when a crow suddenly landed at his feet, squawked and then flew away.

"But as an old teacher of mine named Celhern once showed me," Loic added, "legends grow from a seed of truth."