Free Druid Knights 1.5: The Druid Knight Tales by Ruth A. Casie

 
    Mistletoe and Magick
    Expanded Edition
    by Ruth A. Casie
    Dead. Maximilian glared at the wilted mistletoe in disbelief. He poked and prodded the plant. It lay there tired and limp. He had cared for the sacred plant for a year. The Ancestors had trusted him to follow their orders. Find a wife—a soul mate. How difficult could it be? All he needed to do was visit the eligible women and choose one. He slammed his fist onto the rough oak table and bellowed his anger to the empty room. Dishes skidded and crashed to the floor. The lifeless shrub didn’t move. It didn’t change. It sat where he’d put it—robust and healthy—the night before. Now the crumpled brown leaves and withered white berries silently screamed his failure.
    He could think of no reason why it hadn’t survived. He kept staring at the shriveled plant expecting—no, commanding—it to spring to life. It didn’t. He raked his hand through his hair. Everything he’d worked and trained for over the years was lost. He closed his eyes and traveled to that quiet place deep in his mind where he drew his inner strength. One deep breath, then another. His pounding heart took on a more natural rhythm. The reality of his situation hung on his shoulders like an ox’s yoke.
    “What’s happened? I heard a loud crash.” Doward rushed into the cottage and scanned the debris on the floor.
    Max didn’t trust his voice. He shot the druid councilman a look and pointed to the plant on the table. He registered Doward’s unreadable expression and let out a quiet snort. Perhaps that was best. He was grateful his mentor didn’t show his disappointment. Doward, too, had warned him.
    “One year.” Max tipped up his chin and struck a congenial tone. “I’ll wager no other Grand Master was forced to relinquish his position after only one year.” He turned away, not wanting to see his close friend’s disappointment.
    “Well,” Doward said. “There was Elgon in the year sixty.”
    Max’s head popped up. He hadn’t expected Doward to respond. The question had been rhetorical.
    “You appear to have forgotten your elementary history lessons.” Doward stood shaking an old, crooked finger at him.
    Max’s mouth opened and closed like a beached fish gasping for air. Only Doward had the nerve, the audacity, to reprimand him. Doward and the Ancestors. He couldn’t forget the Ancestors. They had the ultimate power over him.
    “Yes, but the Roman invaders killed Elgon at Anglesey.” Max’s distraction was momentary. He leaned on the table and looked Doward in the eye. “They did not depose him because he couldn’t find his soul mate and give her the sacred mistletoe before it died.” He straightened, stepped to the cottage door, and stared out at the day but didn’t appreciate its sunshine or enjoy the invigorating coolness of the December morning. He turned to Doward. “It simply proves the council made the wrong choice.”
    “Nonsense.” Doward picked up the stray crockery from the floor and set it back on the table. “The council did not make an error. You, my boy,” he strode over to Max and clapped him soundly on the back, “were by far the right choice.”
    “It isn’t that I haven’t been searching for the woman.” He saw the compassion in Doward’s eyes. “Surely the Ancestors know I’ve done that.” Even he detected the pleading in his voice and groaned at his weakness.
    “Yes, yes.” Doward waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Every eligible woman in the village has gone under your scrutiny.”
    “Every eligible woman in the village treated me kindly but none were interested in getting close.” He rubbed the nape of his neck. “Even when speaking simple pleasantries they avoided looking at me and stepped away.” He tried to conceal his frustration but his throat tightened and his voice rose the more he spoke of the women’s reactions.
    “Perhaps you should have cast a wider net.” Doward’s tone had turned serious.
    Max