The Divining

     "I am looking for my father. He is Wulf, the son of Arminius."

     The old woman shook her head in sadness. "Wulf is dead. His family all perished. Come now, you must eat and rest."

     "Dead! No, you are mistaken. I am searching for him. He ca

     But the women turned to lead the way, lifting their skirts as they stepped over corpses, allowing Ulrika a glimpse of leather boots lined with fur. She fell wordlessly into step behind them, carrying her travel packs, her burdens, her pain as she walked with one sandaled foot and one bare foot over ground that was soaked with blood.

     At the edge of the meadow they approached an area of blackened earth where the Romans had set fire as they had retreated with captives and weapons looted from the dead. Nearby, Ulrika knew, the legionaries would have given their own slain a decent burial, in mass graves with prayers and offerings to the gods.

     As she followed the two old women over scorched ground where not a blade of grass had survived, she realized that they had entered what was left of a village. All that remained after the Roman fires were the charred foundations of what had once been sturdy log halls. Ulrika's eyes stung with smoke as she passed places where embers still glowed, and straw and wood smoldered. Trees that had once been magnificent pines and oaks were now stunted and black, twisted and grotesque. The stench was overwhelming.

     The old woman with the silver circlet around her head stopped in front of what appeared to be a pile of grass and twigs but which turned out to be a crude shelter. "Inside is food and drink."

     Ulrika bent to enter the hut, finding darkness inside. But when her eyes adjusted, she saw a bare, earthen floor with fur pelts, waterskins, woven baskets holding vegetables and fruit.

     She gratefully accepted what she suspected was the last of their food, and so although she was ravenous, she ate sparingly, and then drank from the proffered waterskin.

     "Who are you?" she asked of the two women who sat watching her.

     "We are the caretakers of a sacred grove. We have been so for countless generations, ever since the Goddess Freya wept her red-gold tears among the ancient oaks. You must sleep now," the old woman said, "while we return to the task of burying our sons and husbands."

     "Yes," Ulrika said wearily, laying back on a blanket made of thick bear skin. "I am so very tired ..."

     She did not know how long she slept, but when she awoke it was dark and the two caretakers of the sacred grove were lighting torches and stirring something in a hot cooking pot. As Ulrika struggled to sit up—every bone and muscle ached—the one with the owl and moonstone circlet came to her side. "Here," she said with a smile. "Mushroom broth. It will give you strength."

     Ulrika rubbed her eyes as, once again, the two elderly women seemed to grow young. In the flickering torchlight, their wrinkled skin became smooth, their milky eyes turned luminous, their white hair was miraculously black.

     "Why did you come here?" the one with the moonstone asked. So far, her companion had yet to speak.

     Ulrika blinked. They were old again. "I came to warn my father's people of the coming invasion. But I was too late."

     Ancient eyes filled with wisdom settled on Ulrika's face and stayed there for a long moment while outside, night birds called and the wind whistled. Finally, the caretaker of the grove said, "That is not why you came here. That was not your purpose. You were brought here for a different destiny, daughter." She pointed to the wooden cross that hung about Ulrika's neck. "You wear the sacred symbol of Odin. You are the servant of the gods, you are doing their bidding."

     "Why would they choose me to be their servant?"

     "Because, daughter, you have inherited a special gift." She paused. "You do have a special gift, do you not?"

     The old woman waited, while her companion sat in watchful silence.

     The bowl of broth stopped at Ulrika's lips. She lowered it to her lap and said, "What special gift?"

     A long bony arm reached out, and for an instant Ulrika glimpsed smooth skin and strong muscles. The old woman touched Ulrika's forehead and whispered, "It is called the Divining."

     The smoke from the sputtering torch seemed to grow stronger. Ulrika's head swam for a moment, and then she said, "Do you mean my visions? But it is an illness."

     The woman shook her head, casting platinum highlights off her white hair. "It is a gift, daughter. You are afraid of the visions. You must not be.You must embrace them because they came from the gods and are therefore sacred."

     "How do you know this?"

     "You say you are the daughter of Wulf. The Divining is in his bloodline."

     "But my visions make no sense. Nor can I command them. They are like random dreams that come and go and are beyond interpretation. What sort of gift is that?"

     "You will learn to control them and read them."

     "To what purpose? I have no wish to know the future."

     "That is not the purpose of your visions."

     "Then what?" Ulrika set the bowl aside. "What good do such nonsensical visions do for me?"

     "They are not for you, daughter. You must use your gift to help others, not yourself."

     Ulrika massaged her temples. "I still do not understand."

     "Your gift has been handed down to you from a long line of women who possessed it. But your gift is young and undisciplined, which is why your visions make no sense. You must learn to tame your gift, control it. Learn to use it to help others."

     "But what is the Divining?"

     "That you will learn when you learn discipline."

     "Who will teach me this discipline?"

     "It must come from within yourself. But there will be teachers. You will not know them. Only when you have left them behind will you know who they were. That is why you must open your mind and heart to all whom you encounter in your life's path. Sleep again, child. Rest. Tomorrow you must return to where you belong. Tomorrow you begin a new and special journey."

     Beneath the soft comfort of wolf pelts, in the coziness of the forest hut, Ulrika closed her eyes and slipped away into deep, welcome sleep.

     When she awoke to find sunlight streaming through the overhead twigs and branches, her memory of the night before came back. As she bathed in a nearby stream and refreshed herself on a humble breakfast of mushrooms and acorns, Ulrika pondered the mysterious words the old woman had spoken.

     When she was ready to leave, the senior caretaker of the grove suppliedUlrika with nuts and berries, a waterskin, and fresh boots for her feet. "Do not go back by way of the battleground," she cautioned. "Directly south of here, you will come to another stream. Follow its current and it will take you to the river your people call the Rhine. You will be safe along the way, daughter, for the spirits of the stream will protect you."

     As an added precaution, the caretaker of the grove reached into a leather pouch on her belt and withdrew a handful of curious stones, flat and variously shaped, each with a symbol drawn on it. She cast these stones onto the ground and studied the symbols for a long moment while birdsong filled the air. She frowned, white brows coming together, then she straightened and said, "The runes say that you have strayed from your destined path. You must go back to the begi