II – The Owl

His life is defined by how much pain he brings his mother.

Twenty-two years ago, she left her princely father’s house for a different life with a coastal Ancalite named Fintan. Despite his druidic prowess, Fintan never suspected she was already caught. Her pains began on the autumnal, and her unborn babe insisted on coming out ass first. The old druidess cut her belly—a trauma that Ciniod’s mother mentions whenever she must force a fart.

Aedan the Ancalite is bony, with alabaster skin and a corpse’s jawline. Messy black curls, a round nose, and a perpetual frown mark him as his mother’s child, not his father’s. His spindly legs and rangy feet are ready weapons against anyone foolish enough to fight.

After traveling many miles, he and his mother head north to her childhood home by the Tamesa, a sluggish river that divides the lands of Cantiaci and Catuwellauni.

Dragonflies skip over puce waters, their wings hissing among the reedbeds as hungry toads noisily belch their lures behind the gull song. Here, nothing survives without feeding on something else.

Ciniod tends her father’s burial stones, her long fingers gingerly plucking out the most bothersome weeds. Not far away, Aedan’s long fingers keep busy as well, and the line outside his tent grows as word of his arrival spreads.

A novice druid, his midwifery skills match his anatomical knowledge. He has a particular talent for rooting out the unwanted, drawing both high-born women and marsh girls to seek the son of Fintan. They trust him to safely remove mistakes, accidents, and criminal spawn. Some pregnancies now prove too far along, requiring an agile hand and deft ear poke to silence the undercooked before their first cry—a sound no woman should endure after the hardest choice of her life.

Twilight brings a full, bright moon, casting enough light for Aedan to scrub meconium from his nails with lard scented by crushed herbs. Afterward, he smokes to mask the lingering herbal smell.

Aedan returns to the nemeton. Hundreds have gathered for the communal; many are from the Cantiaci lands by the Ancalite coast. He stays mute around those he doesn’t know. This obtuse silence drives away the girls but draws men who want to reach under another man’s robe. Tired of new faces, he leaves the bonfire drums.

In the fading light, a field of dirty mares grazes; their vulvas are sewn closed with cord, a practice to keep late summer pollen from causing infection. Aedan moves among them and climbs onto the thickest mare. She gives a grunt as he braids her mane. Her ears, still damp from rain earlier that day, contrast with her otherwise dry coat against his bare skin.

Hippoi, that’s what the Greeks call them.

Aedan’s father taught him to speak and read Greek, but he’s never met a Greek. He misses his father. He also misses their shoreline home and the fisherman’s burly son, who chokes him until his cock spits. Yes, Aedan’s taste for men is well known, and his violent desires scare the most sadistic warriors.

“You’re taller than I remember.”

Ostin the Ageless, the archdruid, lends a craggy voice. Too old to have a tribe, he moves over the pasture with the help of a twisted staff.

Aedan stays atop the mare, his cock pressed between her back and his stomach, content not to greet Ostin. The old druid, his long pale beard glowing with fireflies, picks up Aedan’s smock, his toothless gums showing in a smirk. Ostin’s teeth, once darker than wet sand, fell out long ago, before the Ancalites had ever seen the sea. Aedan will never lose his biters. He scrapes them daily with a cat bone and whitens them with piss.

“We must divine the future,” says Ostin, his long, oily hair impervious to the wind. His eyes glint with unease as he studies the stars. His craggy, dry lips spread. “Chaos shrouds the present.”

Chaos, indeed.

Fintan the Owl’s trip to help the continent has upset tribal peace. Of all the druid’s roles, his most vital was controlling the northern warlord, Cassibelanus—a man who thinks murder solves most problems. After Fintan left, Cassibelanus lost control and threatened the Trinovantian prince Mandubracius.

The prince’s victory in a sporting contest caused Cassibelanus to fill with rage. The warlord then demanded compensation for what he saw as disrespect. Mandubracius’s father, the King, refused. This choice cost the King his life and forced his heir to seek Fintan on the continent.

“We need another Owl,” Ostin says.

Aedan presents his best disinterest, feigning calm to mask his hope. “All sparks will burn out when Mandubracius returns.”

“You’ve found your voice.” Ostin’s thick brows rise. “I recall when many believed you dumb.”

“Fintan the Owl will return with my uncle,” Aedan says. “And the Gods will show our future through the guts of whatever tipsy fool he chokes out for you.”

Ostin hardens. “Your father is dead, boy.”

Aedan sits up and turns his eyes to the old archdruid.

“Mandubracius didn’t find Fintan.” Ostin lowers himself onto the grass with effort, groaning softly at the strain. “Mandubracius found the Roman wolf.”

Grief knots Aedan’s stomach.

“The legions fled last summer,” he says.

“They left, boy,” Ostin says. “They didn’t flee.”

Aedan blinks. “Who says my father’s dead?”

“Your uncle Taran returns with his head.”

Air leaves Aedan’s chest. He lifts his dark eyes to the starlit sky, where random patterns tell many stories. Father now roams the world unseen, seeking a new body to begin again—reborn as someone’s son, then another boy’s father.

Aedan loathes this truth. A tear falls for the man who loved him unconditionally. The man whose bare feet lifted him high so he could fly like a bird. The man who taught him the name of all things beneath the sun and under the skin.

“Swallow your pain,” Ostin advises softly. “You’ll take his place in ritual and verse.”

Aedan wants to refuse but cannot, bound by grief and duty to take his father’s place, though the role repulses him.

“You’re my Ancalite,” the old man adds, hobbling away. “You strangle the offering, and the Gods will reveal our fates.”

---

Aedan wanders back to his mother’s tent and finds his Father’s head resting on an overturned jug, a vulgar accessory for her attention whoring. The skin isn’t quite green yet, and the gash under his chin is stitched with meadowsweet. Duck eggs are tucked behind his eyelids, and flowering buds fill out his cheeks.

Ciniod kneels before the head, openly wailing. Her brother, Taran, weeps genuine tears beside her. Both mourn the man they loved—Fintan was known for his attraction to both feminine men and masculine women. Rome claimed his strong body and left his lovers with nothing but a head.

Aedan stays longer than he wants, with no more tears to cry. His father’s last day plays in his mind, every word making him angry. Father didn’t want to leave, but his mother’s constant nagging wore him down. Not able to stand her any longer, Aedan goes to the druid camp to find comfort.

At sunrise, he finds an empty blanket, one long enough for his rangy body, but sadly, he finds no man willing to fight him for it.

---

A full moon means the Gods are watching.

Aedan stands naked under his father’s robe, the horned cowl tickling his nose. The salty feathers on his shoulders summon memories of home and sea—Father’s cobalt eyes, smooth scalp, chiseled arms. Aedan shares none of Father’s traits, reflecting instead his gaunt uncle and grandfather, men unworthy of pride. The heavy robe drags past his feet, a reminder he will never be Fintan.

Tonight’s ceremony unfolds at the seasonal gathering yard, an ancient nemeton with two sacred pines and a ceremonial hut for a pack of transient druids. As dusk deepens, strong backs hoist an oak deck over the nemeton’s muddy fence—Ostin’s stage for tonight’s rites. Druids haul it onto birch stilts, lifting it high for the Gods to convene, untouched by soil.

Aedan awaits Eadaoin of the Bibroci, a handsome druidess. She enters the circle, her green-painted spear noisily skimming the stones. She hands him a gourd-mug of redcap tea, its bitterness turning savory the more he swallows. Heat fills his chest, and he brings his lips together and blows a breath that warms his nose. Through the owl mask, he sees the world begin turning at a snail’s pace.

Pulses fade, and the thundering drumbeat softens into a steady, distant echo. A performer since boyhood, Aedan twists to the distant harmonic strings. His cowl slips, exposing black curls tamed with red, perfumed mud. His body white from chalk-laced whale oil, he cartwheels around the bonfire, an apparition whose acrobatics hypnotize the crowd.

Aedan yields to the prickling along his spine. Bones crack and flesh dissolves, an uncanny sensation echoing with knowledge. His skin tightens painfully as feathers erupt, releasing a downy scent. Wings unfold, kicking up dust as his talons lift from the ground.

Above the fire-lit crowd, the Owl sees beyond the bonfire light. Its glow etches shadows everyone sees as long-dead kin. Parents lift their children, who long to soar like the druid owl. The shimmering mud shows paw prints. A monstrous feline stalks the dark—a leo, like the one Hercules slew. With each confident stride, the majestic cat shakes its thick mane. It fears nothing; no one here can slay it.

Then, the songstress’s howl transforms into a chilling scream.

The beastly cat leaps at a young girl, and onlookers recoil as if struck. It shakes her in its jaws, robes turning crimson. A torn leg bounces across the mud. Another limb rolls to her mother’s feet as the woman hardens to stone. The feline drops the limp girl, roars, and shatters the stone mother.

The Owl lands on her rock heap as the lion circles closer. Without warning, the creature pounces, and the Owl takes flight. A bright moon beckons, its pocked face promising freedom. Fear blends with hope—until water slams into the Owl’s body…

Dark, swirling waters envelop Aedan, clouding his vision.

Sunlight glows above him, and a splash shatters the serenity. Through the froth, an animal’s paw appears—broad and wet. Bubbles fade to reveal a strapping man in the water. Dark green eyes lock with his as, in the murk, swollen lips part to reveal pristine teeth.

The powerful, hairless brute strokes closer, his muscular presence almost touching. Aedan holds back—this man is everything he desires but nothing he truly needs.

Each slippery touch dissolves the watery boundary between them. Their bodies press together, sinking steadily from the warm light above until a numbing cold enfolds them in darkness. Aedan surrenders—drowning matters little when it’s this pleasurable.

Fingertips tease his foreskin…

Crisp air lashes Aedan across the face.

Stars punctuate the sky above. Below, Ostin stands within the ring, clutching his sickle blade and staff. At the platform’s edge sits the sacrificial lamb, a bearded innocent crouched on his heels with a belly full of porridge dosed with root magic.

The lamb sways, alert enough to stand yet oblivious to the sinew cord sinking before him. Aedan jerks the cord at both ends, testing its strength. Below, the seer raises his curvy blade, chanting a litany only the Gods understand.

Such tedious ritual.

Aedan is the Owl, and the Owl waits for no seer.

He slips the cord around the offering’s neck, pulls it tight, and crosses his arms to yank the ends. The man topples forward, his portly flesh bouncing, backside striking Aedan’s toes. Thick arms lash, piss-wet legs kicking wildly over the platform as drums cease and strings hush. When Aedan’s mask slips from his face, the crowd quiets instantly.

A rare smile spreads, driving many away. Even the ageless seer, accustomed to violence, stands slack-jawed at the Ancalite’s delight.

Aedan leans forward, pressing his awakened flesh against the choking man’s slippery hair. Ecstasy floods his senses. He will not surrender this kill tonight—never. The lamb’s torment could stretch into eternity at his whim…

Suddenly, a spear whistles past Aedan’s chest and punctures a clean hole in the offering’s crown. The man goes limp. Aedan releases the cord and watches as the corpse falls away, landing with a plop at Ostin’s feet.

The seer wastes no time—his blade flashes at the throat…

Seawater invades his mouth.

An arm surrounds his neck and draws tight.

Tumescent flesh prods his buttocks.

Aedan drives his head back, striking his captor. Pain explodes in his skull as he fights to break free, thrashing until the grip loosens.

As Aedan escapes, the lion man drifts away, blood curling from his nose.

Drawn by both torment and desire, Aedan hesitates only a breath before swimming to the floating man. He takes him in his mouth, finding the taste of apples beneath the man’s foreskin. He urges honey from the slit until thick life fires into his throat. He swallows greedily, clutching the man’s buttocks until he can take the brine no more.

Aedan pushes away, the lifeless beauty drifting to the surface while he sinks, a trail of white unfurling from his lips.

Sunlight blinds him in the warm wind.

No revelers remain, having packed up their tents and left their worship behind in the night. Alone on the platform, Aedan remembers how to breathe. He gazes down at the bloody sand and finds Ostin leaning heavily on his rod.

“You’re not your father’s son,” the old archdruid scolds.

Eadaoin approaches the old seer and carefully steps around the red earth.

“What did you see?” she calls.

“He saw nothing,” Ostin tells her. “The Gods tasted his murderous glee and showed him only his destiny, not ours.”

“I saw my tribe in chains,” her voice breaks. Tears glisten on her cheeks. “What happened to yours?”

Aedan remembers only the lion-man. Abruptly, he presses his hands to the platform, flips into a handstand, then tumbles off, landing on his feet in front of Eadaoin. “My tribe will lure Rome into the water and drown them,” he declares.

Ostin shakes his head. “There is no water, no drowning. You see things, but you cannot truly divine.”

“I am the Owl,” he says. “I will lead the Ancalites.”

“You’ll be the last Ancalite, and you’ll die all the same.” Ostin limps away.

“I’ll be free!” he shouts.

“Free as an owl in a lion’s cage can be,” says Ostin.

---

Ciniod’s boy enters the mourning tent, and her dead husband’s owl, Clota, sidles along her perch to greet him. Last night’s rumors are true: Fintan’s successor stands before her.

Aedan grabs Fintan’s head by the ears and presses his lips to its mouth. Despite flowers jammed inside, it reeks of decay, and her boy’s kiss lingers, fraying her nerves.

“Andrasta gave your father to the Romans.”

“You dare blame the War Bitch,” Aedan seethes, his ugly face made tolerable with anger. “When it was you who nagged and cajoled him and Taran across the water.”

“I loved him.” Her voice is frayed.

“You loved him so much, you sent him to die.” Aedan steps to her, his eyes blacker than a shark’s. “You didn’t think about the void that would be left behind if he left Cassibelanus.”

“You’re going to blame me for Mandubracius making a cunt’s run to the wolves?” Ciniod confronts his closeness. “They attacked our kin across the water—”

“Your kin,” he accuses, finger pointing. “Your fight.”

Taran enters, fists clenched. He takes a step forward, but Ciniod catches his eye and, with a sharp look, halts him.

“If he had stayed,” her son says, “Cassibelanus would’ve behaved himself. Mandubracius would still be here, and Rome would have no reason to return.”

“Fintan loved your mother,” Taran says. “That’s why he went.”

“No,” Aedan shakes his head, his voice steady. “He loved you, Taran. That’s why he went.”

Taran says no more when confronted with such truths.

“Matrimony is a shared life,” says Ciniod. “Best times and bad, two remain one.”

Aedan scowls. “Or in your circumstances, two remain three.”

“That’s enough.” Taran’s voice is firm.

Aedan closes in, no longer the boy of her yesteryears. “My father died because of you. Not Andrasta the War Bitch. Not the Romans. Not even Taran. You.”

Taran moves between Ciniod and Aedan to block their confrontation, but Aedan sidesteps him.

“When he didn’t jump to your suggestions, you goaded Taran into taking up the cause. And when he talked Taran out of it, you gave him no peace until he did what you wanted, when you wanted, and how you wanted it!”

Ciniod stands on unfamiliar ground. Her once-silent son now erupts in words.

“What did you see last night?” she wonders.

Aedan turns his back on her.

“You saw something that gave you a voice.”

“Your father died with honor.” Taran comes between them. “Tell him, Chinny.”

“You took my father from me,” Aedan glares hotly, “and I will never forgive you for it.”

Spite becomes her. “Fintan’s not your father, boy.”

Dark eyes condemn her.

“You’re a product of our stupidity,” she adds.

Taran’s head swivels between them, confusion clear.

“Ravens have nothing on you when it comes to misdirection.” Aedan folds his arms. “Stand up accountable for what you did to him, and stop hiding behind the things you’ve done to me.”

“Done to you? I gave you life, you little shitter,” Ciniod says. “I think that warrants some respect.”

“You think wrong,” he says.

“Carry your anger to your deathbed, then,” Ciniod says, turning away. “My life continues either way.”

“I hate you, Mother,” Aedan whispers. “I always have, and I always will.”

“Yes,” she says as he leaves. “But I’m all you’ve got, my little hoot-hoot!”