~ Fox In The Mist ~

by

A. Dee Carey

One

The woman’s arms near to broke my ribs, so fast did she hold me. What would they do to this poor addled, pitifully thin old crone? They would be well advised to leave her be in her mania. She’d done nothing save protect what she believed, entrusted, by the Druids to preserve.

The old woman burrowed her face deep in the fur of the fox she clutched in her arms. "McTavish, I fear they will find us this time. We can no longer elude them."

As the footfalls grew closer, McTavish slipped from the woman’s arms, turned and gave a sharp bark. The old crone rose from her crouch and followed the fox.

There within the mist stood the Druid priestess, Morgannia, her arms majestically extended in welcome. As the fox scampered toward her, she bent down and scooped up the animal.

"Well done, Tavi. You’ve brought her to me." The green-eyed ball of red fur emitted a low growl of acceptance as Morgannia set her once again on the ground. The crone, exhausted from her endeavors, fell to the earth as well.

At once Morgannia rushed to the old woman’s side and helped her to stand. As she stood, her rumpled clothing fell loosely about her frail body.

"Dracha, I know this has been a long and terrible night for you, but you are no longer in danger. I will protect you."

"How? You could never spare me the beatings, though you were his advisor. How can you protect me here in this cold misty cave?"

"I’ve served the king as his advisor for reasons I cannot disclose, but my service to you is greater. Now that you have found your way through the Moor Mists and over the Braided Bridge, you are within my protection."

The old woman shook and drew her tattered cloak tightly around her shoulders. Shivering, she recalled her journey. The mists were cold and damp. Helplessly she wandered, clutching the fox to her breast. When she came upon the bridge, her cold body seemed infused with warmth. Those gnarled branches formed the "Braided Bridge", the portal between the two lands. On the one side, lay cruelty and pain, on the other joy and protection. Yes, now she was truly safe within the Realm of the Fey. Here Morgannia would protect her. His cruelties could no longer be inflicted upon her. And, she could carry out her mission to preserve the Moor Mists; the mists of velvet gray that offered sanctuary. This was the higher calling, greater even than being a queen to this tormented land.

"Dracha," the sorceress gently tapped her shoulder, "have some porridge, ‘twill warm you."

"Thank you, Mistress," the old woman responded. Morgannia noted the change in Dracha. The woman was the Queen of Scotland, yet she addressed Morgannia as ‘Mistress’. Could she truly be the chosen one? Had Morgannia misread the directives of the Druids? Reason flooded her mind and she realized Dracha was simply the instrument they used to protect the fox in the Ordination. The woman guarded the animal with as much zeal as one would a child. Fierceness she failed to have when Evan snatched her only child from her breast. Perhaps her lack of sensibilities was due payment for her failure?

Morgannia watched as the old woman gratefully drained the bowl of porridge. Tavi sat near Dracha winding her full tail about the old woman’s chilled feet. Dracha reached down and petted the fox’s head. Fatigue then forced her to lie on the mat near the table where she sat. Slowly she drifted off into an uneasy slumber. Her body twitched in recoil from some unknown demon. She thrashed about until her clothes were drenched with her own sweat.

Tavi looked up in question to the sorceress. "I don’t know, Tavi, I cannot protect her from the horrors of her own mind."

Convulsively the old crone clutched an intricately carved box to her breast. She moaned softly, "Never, do you hear? Never shall you have this box. The Druids entrusted me with its preservation."

Kindly, Morgannia reached out and shook the old woman gently by the shoulder. "Dracha, you must waken. You need dry clothing lest you take a chill." The queen rose and stood obediently as Morgannia undressed her. Until the priestess reached for the box.

"No, you cannot have it."

"Dracha, I shall not take it from you, but you must take its cord from your shoulder, that I might remove your tunic."

Numbly the old woman complied, removing the cord and holding it fast in her hand. The sight of the woman’s emaciated body drew tears to the witch’s eyes. How could I have stood by while he did this to her? She knew it was what she’d been ordered to do, but the sting seared her heart. Dracha had always treated her with the greatest kindness and she’d abandoned her in her hour of need. The ways of the Druids were sometimes harsh.

Tavi circled as Morgannia tenderly dressed the poor battered woman in the warmest of wool dresses. Though the garment had no frills or lace, it was woven of the finest wool in all of Scotland, a deep green, the hue of the fabled moors. The garment was made in preparation for this day. A day, Morgannia knew, was sure to come. Even the most talented seamstress would not be able to hide the gauntness of the queen. The dress hung limply from her shoulders. Soon, Morgannia thought, you will fill out the dress and right will be restored to this stricken land.