Dun Carson’s silver labrys on blood red was planted right in front of the northwest tarp, where the crossroads made a vaguely north–south, east–west cross. Chuck planted the point on the bottom of the Clan’s into the earth with a shove and twist. Brian Carson stood with his brother’s widow and his orphaned niece and nephew, next to the two tables she’d requested at the center. His wife, Rebekah, stood on his other side, looking a little stiff.
Melissa and her helpers took over the job of looking after the littles. The southeast quadrant held representatives from other duns within a fifteen-mile radius; volunteers came forward to take the horses, unsaddling and hobbling and watering them before turning them loose in a pasture.
How the Change has limited us, thought Juniper. Fifteen miles is a long way again! This will be recorded and sent out in the Sun Circle. Some witnessing is a good idea, but turning it into a circus is not.
There were better than fifty adults under the judgment tarp, probably ten or fifteen teenagers—
—eòghann, thought Juniper. We’ll call them eòghann.
That meant youth or helper in her mother’s language.
We need a name for the teenagers who are ready to begin to learn the adult needs and responsibilities, but not yet given a vote. Eóghann will do, since everyone seems determined to play at being Celts.
Juniper shook herself slightly. The profound silence was broken only by the occasional wail from one of the babies, the hoof-clop of a horse shifting its weight or a cough coming through clearly. No trace of the whine and murmur of machine noise in the background anymore, and that still startled her sometimes with a quietness unlike anything she’d ever experienced unless on a hiking trip in wilderness. It made familiar places unfamiliar.
She stood behind the large folding table. There was a tall chair for her …
A bar stool! she thought. That’s funny on more levels than I can cope with today.
Most people were sitting on sturdy boxes and baskets in neat rows, very unlike the Clan’s usual laissez-faire order. Front and center sat the man who was the focus of this day’s process, set apart from them by the white tarp under him and a clear circle of aversion.
On either side of him stood men from the Dun. They had knives in their belts, but that was simply the tool everyone carried now. One also had a pickax handle in his hand, though, and the other a baseball bat.
And they’re needed, Juniper thought as she took him in with a grimace. Yes, with this one.
He was a strong man, of medium height and well muscled, with striking chiseled features and curly black hair he wore fairly short. The sort who quivered with suppressed anger at the world, to whom everything that thwarted his will was an elemental affront.
He’s not afraid, really, she thought; she’d always been good at reading people. Which means he’s not only wicked, he’s very arrogant, very stupid, or both.
As she watched, he shot a sudden glance over his shoulder, a flicker of something triumphant on his face, which he schooled at once as he looked forward again.
“Armsmen, take custody of the prisoner,” she said coolly, and saw a moment’s doubt on his face.
The men of the Dun moved aside for Sam and Chuck and went to sit with the rest. From their expressions, they were thankful to turn the task over to a uniformed authority, and they weren’t the only ones.
Besides their kilts, the two men wore what had been chosen as the Mackenzie war kit, though there hadn’t been time to craft enough for everyone yet: a brigandine of two layers of green leather (salvaged from upholstery) with little steel plates riveted between, quivers and yew longbows slung across their backs, shortswords and long dirks and soup-plate bucklers at their belts, a small wicked sgian dub knife tucked into one boot-top. The plain bowl helmets with the spray of raven feathers at the brow made them somehow seem less human and more like walking symbols.
Chuck Barstow had a spear as well as the war-harness. The prisoner would have been less surly if he knew what it portended, or that Chuck was High Priest of the Singing Moon Coven as well as second-in-command of their militia. The spear’s polished six-foot shaft was rudha-an, the same sacred rowan wood used for wands. The head was a foot-long section cut from a car’s leaf spring, ground down to a murderous double-edged blade and socketed onto the wood white-hot before it was plunged into a bath of brine and blood and certain herbs.
It had also been graven with ogham runes, the ones that had come again and again when she tossed the yew sticks of divination on the symbol-marked cloth of the Bríatharogam. Just two:
úath, terror.
Whose kenning was bánad gnúise, the blanching of faces. For horror and fear and the Hounds of Anwyn.
Gétal, death.
Whose meaning was tosach n-échto, called the beginning of slaying. For the taking of life and for sacrifice.
Juniper took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for an instant to make herself believe she was truly here and not imagining it. The dull heat she had felt before came back, manyfold, as if the soil beneath her feet was throbbing with rage.
“Bring him before me.”
Her own voice startled her, though casting her trained soprano to carry was second nature for a professional singer. Now it was somehow like the metal on the edge of a knife.
“You heard Lady Juniper, gobshite,” Sam said, just barely loud enough for her to catch.
The hand he rested on the man’s shoulder to move him forward might have looked friendly, from any distance. Juniper could see the wrist and scarred, corded forearm flex, and the prisoner’s eyes went wide for an instant as it clamped with crushing precision. Sam had been born and raised on a small English farm; his trade had been a peculiar type of soldiering for half his forty-two years, before chance or the Weavers left him trapped and injured in the woods near her home just after the Change.
His hobby had been making and using the longbow of his ancestors. He was stocky and of middle height, but those thick spade-shaped hands could crack walnuts between thumb and two fingers. And she happened to know that he hated men like this with a pure and deadly passion.
Chuck Barstow looked grimmer; he’d been a Society fighter and a gardener besides a member of the Singing Moon, not a real warrior by trade, though everyone had seen death and battle in the last eighteen months. But he was equally determined as he paced forward to keep the prisoner bracketed. From the way his eyes were fixed and showed white around the blue, he was feeling something too, besides the gravity of the moment, and not enjoying it.
Judy Barstow was at the far right of the table next to a woman who sat tensely upright; her white face frightened and her eyes carefully not focused.
Our prime exhibit, thought Juniper. Even if I just nursed Rudy, my breasts ache. But why is it so hard to breathe?
Eilir had moved to sit at the smaller, shorter table, set in an L to the larger one. She turned and her fingers flew. Shall I find some cold tea for you?
Yes, thanks.
She drank the lukewarm chamomile thirstily as her daughter pulled a fresh book out of her saddlebags. Ice in summer was a memory, and a possibility someday when they had time for icehouses, but you could get a little coolness by using coarse porcelain.
The book was covered in black leather, carefully tooled with the words:
The Legal Proceedings of Clan Mackenzie, Second Year of the Change.
And below that:
Capital Crimes.
Eilir opened it to a fresh page, pulled out an ink bottle and a steel-nibbed pen that had come out of retirement in an antiques store in Sutterdown. Nobody thought it odd that a fourteen-year-old was acting as court clerk. Standards had changed.
The first pages of the book contained the rituals they had come up with last night, after they had hashed out the legal and moral basis for judging the case. The first pages of the book covered all that, written in Eilir’s neat print.
Juniper looked over to the Dun Carson witnesses sitting in the southeast quadrant. Everybody was still, the sensation of their focused attention like and unlike a performance.
“I have been called here to listen to the Dun’s judgment against Billy Peers Mackenzie …”
“Hey!” the man yelled. “I ain’t never said nothing about Mackenzie. That was you-all. I’m William Robert Peers.”
Juniper hesitated and then turned her head.
“I will only say this once, Mr. Peers. You will keep your mouth closed until I give you leave to speak. If you speak out of turn again, your guards will gag you. Gags are very uncomfortable. I advise you to be quiet.”
“But you can’t do that! It isn’t legal!”
Sam’s hand moved once, and the man stopped with his mouth gaping open. He reached into his sporran, pulled out the gag and shoved it into the man’s mouth with matter-of-fact competence, checking carefully to make sure that his tongue lay flat and that it wasn’t so large as to stop him from swallowing. The rags wrapped around the wooden core had been steeped in chamomile and fennel seed tea and dried so that it wouldn’t taste too foul. Straps around the head held it in place without cutting at the corners of his mouth. He struggled, though it was as ineffectual as a puppy in a man’s hands.
“I said I would speak only once. All of you, take heed. If I state a consequence will follow, it will follow. Second chances belong to the times before the Change, when we were rich enough to waste time arguing. You have one minute to stand quiet.”
A glance at her watch.
She gazed dispassionately at the struggling man trying to spit the carefully constructed gag out of his mouth. Then she began to count the measured seconds out loud. After the tenth second passed, it caught Peers’ attention. At the twentieth second, he stopped struggling.
“Better. If you cause any further disruption, you will be knocked unconscious. I have no time to waste now, in the midst of harvest.”
Peers jerked, started to struggle again, saw a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye as Sam raised a hand stiffened into a blade, flinched and subsided. Juniper waited and then turned again to the north leg of the crossroads. She lifted her arms, and Judy placed her staff in her hands; it had the Triple Moon—waxing and full and waning—above two raven heads of silver, and the shaft was also of mountain rowan.
“I have been called here by the óenach of Dun Carson and by the Ollam of Dun Carson; Sharon Carson, Hearthmistress, Cynthia Carson, Priestess and First Armsman of Dun Carson, Ray Carson, Second Armsman and Herd Lord in Training, and Brian Carson, Herd and Harvest Lord, pro-tem, and his wife, Rebekah Carson, the tanner.
“I am Juniper Mackenzie, Chief of the Clan Mackenzie. I am Ollam Brithem, high judge over our people.”
Juniper winced at the power she was claiming. But I am needed as chief, and so I must take this burden on. Threes; everything in threes. Continue, woman, get this over.
“I am called here, by óenach, Ollam, and the Gods to hear, to judge, and to speak. Does any deny my right, my obligation, or my calling? Speak now or hold your tongue thereafter, for this place and time is consecrated by our gathering. All we do here is holy—and legal.”
Distantly, she was aware that Peers tried to struggle again and quickly subsided as Sam gripped the back of his neck.
A long silence and she continued, face raised to the sun, eyes closed against its burning light:
“Let us be blessed!”
“Manawyddan—Restless Sea, wash over me.”
A green branch sprinkled salt water over her. She tasted the salt on her lips like tears. Four Priestesses came with green branches, each trailed by a child holding a bowl of salt water. Each cleansed the people in one of the quarters; the last pair assiduously cleansed the empty northeastern quarter.
“Manawyddan—Restless Sea! Cleanse and purify me! I make myself a vessel; to listen and to hear.”
“Rhiannon—White Mare, stand by me, run with me, carry me! That the land and I can be one, with Earth’s wisdom.”
She bent and took a pinch of the dry dust from the road and sprinkled it in front of her. There was a long ripple as the Dun Carson people did the same, and the witnesses.
“Rhiannon—White Mare, ground me.”
“Arianrhod—Star-tressed Lady; dance through our hearts, our minds, and through our eyes, bring Your light to us.”
She took a torch from Eilir and lit it; the resinous wood flared up. Eilir took it to the four corners of the crossroads and lit each torch.
“Arianrhod—Star-tressed Lady; Bring Your light to me, to us, to the world.
“Sea and Land and Sky, I call on you:
“Hear and hold and witness thus,
“All that we say
“All that we agree
“All that we together do.
“Honor to our Gods! May they hold
“Our oaths
“Our truths.”
Then she spoke formally: “Let all here act with truth, with honor and with duty, that justice, safety and protection all be served for this our Clan, and may Ogma of the Honey Tongue lend us His eloquence in pursuit of Truth.”
“This Dun’s óenach is begun! By what we decide, we are bound, each soul and our people together.”
She turned in place, looking at all the people assembled, and rapped the butt of her staff on the ground.
“I am here, we are here, the Gods are here. So mote it be!”
“So mote it be!” the massed voices replied.
She noticed that Rebekah said the words and was glad. They weren’t actually religious and it meant she was participating in the Clan’s work, rather than standing back, claiming religious exemption. She moved over to the chair and hoisted herself up on it. She could feel Chuck move into place behind her, still holding the spear upright as a symbol of her justice.
The morning sun was pouring down on the tarps and she could feel the heat and sweat that started to trickle down her back and breasts. The kilt had been comfortable while riding down to the crossroads through the forest … now the soft wool was sticking to her legs and her kneesocks made her legs itch.
Well, I’m not the only one uncomfortable on all the levels possible.
Juniper tapped her fingers on the table and took up the gavel that Sam had crafted her yesterday evening as they hashed out procedure. She banged it once on the block of wood and spoke formally:
“We are gathered here to make a decision with regards to the matter of the sexual assault visited upon Debbie Meijer yesterday by William Robert Peers, know to us as Billy Peers Mackenzie, who denies that he has accepted the name or Clan of Mackenzie.”
She frowned and moved her hand to stop another blow to the struggling Billy. “You will be given your time to talk at its proper place.”
He shook his head, his eyes angry and desperate, and she pursed her lips and shook her head in her turn, pointing to the poised hand. He subsided, but his black scowl remained.
“First I am going to address the greater issue. What right have we to judge and sentence and carry out these sentences upon the members of our community and those who dwell upon our land? For more than a year, we have been hurrying from incident to incident, making it up as we go along …”
A crack of laughter interrupted her. That was a charge often leveled at pre-Change wiccans: They just make up the ritual as they go along.
“But all just law is based on need and precedents and the will of the people. Not much of it is from the legal system that covered the needs of a highly urban, complex society that numbered hundreds of millions and was rich enough to spare the time for slow careful perusals of accusations and defenses.
“We no longer live in the old world of cities and bureaucracies. We live in small, closed villages where the question of guilt is frequently easily established and we have no real need of the elaborate forensic apparatus used previously to establish the beyond doubt criteria used before.”
She met Billy’s angry eyes: “This is how we have been operating and how we will continue to operate in future, until we see a need for something different. Our methods and their success or failure were discussed and reviewed by myself and my advisors. We have reviewed the past seventeen months of work and dispute in the duns and codified the results.”
She gestured to the book beneath Eilir’s hand: “Clan Mackenzie is a conglomeration of independent settlements that have asked for and received membership in the Clan, that we may support each other and defend each other in a world where nobody can survive alone and no single family can survive alone. These are the means we have found to live together, and live decently. And it has worked. We are alive, where millions … hundreds of millions … almost certainly billions … have died.”
A low murmur went through the group as she looked around, meeting their eyes. That was why so many had joined the group she’d started with a few friends and coven-members meeting at her country retreat, and taken up all its ways. It was what she’d meant that first day, when she’d told them …
“It’s a Clan we will have to be, as it was in the old days, if we’re to live at all.”
A low approving rumble at that; the words were already folklore. Perhaps the trappings that had come along with that thought weren’t necessary, were just the by-product of that group’s obsessions and pastimes from before the Change … but the whole thing worked, and nobody was going to argue with that. Herself least of all.
Then she went on: “Salus populi suprema lex: The good of the people is the highest law. If a person lives in a Dun of the Clan, they are a member of that Dun and subject to the rules, benefits, and obligations of the group. No one compels them to remain, but if they do, it is on the group’s chosen terms. This includes the reality of work, of mutual defense, and the obligation to respect others. The Ollam and óenach of a Dun have every right to judge wrongdoing in their territories and by their people or towards their people.
“Who chooses the Ollam? The people of the Dun. Dun Carson was led by John and Sharon Carson Mackenzie until his death fighting the Protector’s men when they tried to take Sutterdown last year. Dun Carson is led by an Ollam of five at this time. They have collectively requested that the Chief Ollam of the Clan deliver the doom in this matter, and that it be witnessed by as many sober and credible members of the other Duns as is possible. We are here today for this purpose.”
Two more people were taking down her words in shorthand. Juniper paced her speech to make it easier on her own scribe-daughter to read her lips.
“I will hear first from Debbie Meijer, who also resides in Dun Carson, but has not accepted the name of Mackenzie.”
She watched as the injured woman’s eyes focused on her, as if she’d been jarred out of some inward prison that was protection as well. Everyone looked lean and fit these days, as well as weathered, but there was gentleness to her face, as well as pain; she had blue-green eyes, and brown hair caught beneath a kerchief. She shrank back for a minute and then rose at Judy’s quiet urging and walked forward. Juniper watched her swallow and clench her teeth. She made a slight gesture and Debbie’s face contracted. She shook for an instant and then faced the Dun’s members.
“I am Debbie Meijer. I’ve lived with you at Dun Carson since … since the Protector’s men stole us from Lebanon, and I, uh, escaped. I’ve not taken the Clan or the name; I’ve been waiting for my husband, Mark, to come back. Those of you here all know that the ’tinerants have been seeking news of the people stolen from Lebanon, but not much has been heard.
“I … I’ve done my best to fit in and be useful. It’s been hard. I’ve learned and learned and learned for more than a year. I went from an independent, competent citizen to a dependent, stupid member of a farming community.”
A wave of motion shook the Carson and Rebekah stepped forward, holding out a green branch.
“I recognize Rebekah Carson.” Juniper smiled at Debbie and raised a hand with a gentle gesture to stay her words for a moment:
“Debbie is a good, hard worker who has struggled with the grief she feels for the loss of her husband and her family, who were all on the east coast. We have all liked and supported her.”
Juniper hesitated, suppressing a stab of anger; that support had been sadly lacking in some respects. She’d said they were to be as a Clan, and that meant that each protected the other.
No, that needs to be said; but later. Now Debbie needs to finish.
She looked up. Peers was slouched, managing to look as insolent as a man could while gagged and standing under Sam Aylward’s hand. He turned his head, caught Debbie’s eyes, and moved his hips, slightly but unmistakably.
Juniper’s finger pointed. Sam Aylward carefully did not smile.
Crack.