Alerted by the question in Caillean’s voice, Gawen blinked and jerked upright. It was high summer, and the land lay wrapped in a drowsy peace. At this season the folk of Avalon lived mostly outdoors, and the Lady had gathered her students beneath an oak tree near the water’s edge. He wondered why. This was lore they had all learned when they were children. Why was the High Priestess returning to it now?
After a moment’s surprised silence, Dica raised her hand. From a wiry, sharp-tongued child she had grown into a slender young woman, her foxy face crowned by a cloud of ginger hair. Her tongue could still sting, but she was clearly on her best behavior now.
“The first is Inis Witrin, the Isle of Glass on which is the Holy Tor,” she answered demurely.
“And why is it called so?” Caillean responded.
“Because…they say that when you see it in the Otherworld it shines like light through Roman glass.”
Was that true? Gawen’s own studies had progressed to include some inner journeying, like a waking dream, but he had not yet been allowed to travel out of his body and look upon the real world with spirit-sight.
“Very good,” said Caillean. “And the next?” Her gaze fixed on one of the newer girls, a dark-haired child from Dumnonia called Breaca.
“The second is the Isle of Briga, which is great in the spirit though its height is low. Here it is where the Goddess comes to us as Mother, carrying the newborn sun.” The girl was blushing, but her answer came clearly.
Gawen cleared his throat. “The third is the isle of the winged god, near the great village of the fen folk. To him the water birds are sacred, and no man may kill them near his shrine. In gratitude, no bird will foul its roof.”
He had been there several times with the Lady of the Fairy Folk and seen that it was so. At the thought, he looked back at Sianna, sitting behind the others, as she usually did when the High Priestess taught them. Caillean’s gaze had softened as he answered, but when she saw where he was looking, she frowned.
“And the fourth?” she asked sharply.
Tuarim, a stocky, dark-haired boy who had been accepted for training by the Druids the year before and seemed to look on Gawen as his model, spoke up in answer.
“The fourth is the island on the marches which defends the Vale of Avalon from all evil powers.”
“The fifth is the isle by the mere, where another village of the fen people is.” That was Ambios, seventeen winters old and about to take his initiation among the Druids. Most of the time he held aloof from the younger ones, but he clearly had decided it was time to demonstrate his superiority. He went on, “There is a sacred spring on that isle, growing below a mighty oak tree, and every year we hang offerings in its branches.”
Gawen glanced once more at Sianna, wondering why she did not answer, she who had known all this almost from the time she could speak. But perhaps, he thought as he noted her downcast eyes and carefully folded hands, that was why she kept silent. It would not be fair. A light breeze stirred the branches of the oak tree and sunlight flickered through the leaves, kindling in Sianna’s bright hair.
I have not seen light glowing through this isle, he thought suddenly, but I see it shining now in you…. At that moment Sianna’s beauty had no implications. Indeed, he hardly connected it with the human girl he had teased and played with in the years before she made her passage into womanhood and was forbidden to be with a male unchaperoned. It was a fact, sufficient to itself, like the grace of a heron rising from the lake at dawn. He scarcely heard Dica answering the next question.
“The sixth isle is the home of the wild god of the hills whom the Romans call Pan. He brings madness or ecstasy, and so does the fruit of the vines planted in this place, which makes a powerful wine.”
“The seventh is a high hill”—Ambios spoke up again—“the watchtower and gateway to Avalon. Waterwalker’s village is there, and his people have always poled the barges for the priests on the Tor.”
“That was well answered,” said Caillean. “For you who are about to take vows among them should know that the Druids were not the first priests to seek wisdom on this Tor.”
She looked sternly at Ambios and then at Gawen, who returned her gaze limpidly. Two years remained before he would be considered for initiation, and he rather resented the assumption that this was what he would choose. He was making steady progress on the harp, good enough if he wanted to take service with one of the British princely families who gave their allegiance now to Rome but still valued the old ways. Or he could go to his grandfather—the other one—and claim his Roman heritage. He had never even seen a Roman town. They were dirty, noisy places, he had been told. There were rumors that after years of peace the tribes of the north were stirring once more. But on days like this one, when the dreaming peace of Avalon was so intense that it seemed stifling, even the prospect of war attracted him.
“The Isle of Glass, the Isle of Brigantia, the Isle of Wings, the Isle of the Marches, the Isle of the Oak, the Isle of Pan, and the Watch Hill. They have been called by other names by other peoples, but this is their essence, as we were taught by the wise ones who came over the sea from the Drowned Lands. And why is it that these islands and no others are held holy, when, as you can see, they are not all the highest or the most impressive to the eye?”
The young people stared back at her, silent. It had never occurred to them to ask.
Just as Caillean was opening her mouth to speak again, Sianna’s voice came from beneath the tree.
“I know—”
Caillean’s brows lifted, but Sianna, coming forward to the lake’s edge, seemed to have no awareness that she was treading on ancient mysteries. And to her, perhaps, they were not mysteries at all.
“It is easy, really, when you know how to see.” She picked up a triangular stone and set it upright in the soft ground. “Here is Inis Witrin, and here”—she took a smaller, rounded stone and set it below the first—“is the Goddess isle. The Isle of Wings and the Isle of the Oak are over here”—she placed a small stone and a larger one a little farther apart from each other to form a slightly skewed rectangle with the first two—“and then we have Pan’s Isle and the March Isle”—a tiny stone and a pointed one were placed close together a ways to the left and above the Isle of Wings—“and the Gateway”—yet farther to the left, an even larger stone was set down.
Forgetting Caillean, the youths and maidens gathered round. Gawen agreed that from the air this might well be the appearance of the land, but what did it mean?
“You don’t see?” Sianna frowned. “Think of the nights when old Rhys made you look at the stars.” Girls on one side of the hill and boys on the other, Gawen remembered, grinning.
“It’s the Bear!” exclaimed Dica suddenly. “The hills form the same pattern as the stars in the Great Bear!”
The others nodded as the resemblance became clear to them. And then, finally, they turned back to Caillean.
“But what,” asked Ambios, “does it mean?”
“So you want wisdom after all?” asked the High Priestess sarcastically.
Sianna flushed, sensing the rebuke without understanding it, and in her defense Gawen felt a quick spurt of anger.
“The tail of the Great Bear points to its Keeper, the brightest star in the northern sky. The star which is our Tor is at the center of the heavens. This is what the ancient wisemen saw as they looked at the skies, and set shrines upon the earth so that we should not forget to honor the Power who protects this land.”
Gawen could feel her gaze upon him, but he continued to stare out over the marsh. Suddenly he felt cold.
When the High Priestess dismissed them, he hung back and waited in the shadow of the willows, hoping for a word with Sianna.
“Do not presume to take over the teaching again!” Caillean spoke sharply, and Gawen peered through the leaves. Sianna was staring up at the older woman, her face showing her bewilderment.
“But you were asking us questions—”
“
I was using questions to lead them to consider the mysteries of the heavens, not children’s games!”
“You asked. I answered,” Sianna muttered, staring at the ground. “Why take me for training if you don’t value what I have to give?”
“You knew more of the ancient lore than most who make their final vows when you first entered here. You could be so much more than they—” Caillean broke off, as if she had said more than she meant to. “I must teach you the things you do not know!” she added repressively. Then she turned and stalked away.
When the priestess was gone, Gawen slipped from his hiding place and put his arm around the girl, who was weeping soundlessly. He felt anger and pity, but he could not help also being aware of the softness of her body, and the sweet scent of her bright hair.
“Why?” exclaimed Sianna when she could speak again. “Why doesn’t she like me? And if she doesn’t want me here, why won’t she let me go?”
“I want you here!” he muttered fiercely. “Don’t mind Caillean—she has many worries, and is sometimes rougher than she means to be. Try to avoid her.”
“I do try, but it is a small place, and I cannot always be out of her way.” Sianna sighed and patted his hand. “But I thank you. Without your friendship I would run away, no matter what my mother might say!”
“In another year or two you’ll be sworn as a priestess,” he said cheerfully. “She’ll have to respect you as an adult then.”
“And you will pass the first rank of your Druid training….” For a moment longer she held his hand. Hers had been cool when he took it, but now a warmth was growing between them. Suddenly he remembered the other initiation that came with adulthood and saw from her blush that she was thinking of it too. Abruptly she pulled away.
But that night, as he reviewed his day before sleep came, it seemed to him that surely what was between them was more than friendship, and that a promise had been made.
A year passed, and then another winter, so wet that the whole Vale of Avalon became a muddy sea and the waters lapped at the floors of the marsh men’s stilt-houses. Gawen, going down to visit Father Joseph, suppressed an oath as he slipped in the mud and almost fell. Since his voice had broken, he did not sing so often in their ceremonies, but Father Joseph had traveled widely in his youth, and knew not only the Jewish musical tradition but the theories of the Greek philosophers, and both he and the boy found pleasure in comparing them with the Druid lore.
But when Gawen went to the little church, Father Joseph was not there.
“He is praying in his hut,” said Brother Paulus, his long face lengthening with disapproval. “God has sent him a fever to mortify the flesh, but with prayer and fasting he will be purified.”
“Can I see him?” asked Gawen, his throat aching with the beginnings of concern.
“He needs nothing from an unbeliever,” said the monk. “Come to him as a son in Christ and you will be welcome.”
Gawen shook his head. If Father Joseph himself had not insisted he become a Nazarene, he was not likely to be persuaded by Brother Paulus.
“I suppose you would not convey to him the blessing of an ‘unbeliever,’” he said tightly, “but I hope you have enough compassion to tell him I am sorry he is sick, and give him my love.”
After such a hard winter, all the folk of Avalon were thin, but nothing short of sheer starvation would have stopped a boy of Gawen’s age from growing, thought Caillean as she watched him at the ceremonies that marked the Turning of Spring. He was seventeen now, tall, like his mother’s kindred. But his hair, after a winter without the sun, had darkened to Roman brown. His jaw had grown so that his teeth were no longer disproportionate, and there was a suggestion of the eagle as well in the forceful nose and chin.
In body, Gawen was a man, and a handsome one, though he did not yet seem to realize it. He played the harp for the ceremonies, his long fingers flickering with practiced certainty across the strings. But his eyes were watchful, as if he feared to do something wrong.
Is this part of being his age, wondered the priestess, or something I have done to him, expecting too much of the child?
Afterward, she called him to her.
“You have grown,” she said, feeling unexpectedly awkward as she met his clear gaze. “You have gained great skill on the harp. Do you still study music with Father Joseph as well?”
Gawen shook his head. “He fell sick shortly after Midwinter. I have been down there several times, but they will not let me inside to see him. They say he no longer leaves his bed at all.”
“They will not deny me!” she exclaimed. “I will go now, and you will attend me.
“Why did you not tell me Father Joseph was ill?” she asked as they made their way down the hill.
“You are so busy—” He stopped himself when he saw her face. “I thought you must know.”
Caillean sighed. “Forgive me—it is not fair for me to take out my anxieties on you. Or to blame you for speaking the truth to me…” she went on. “Sometimes it seems there is someone wanting my attention every moment of the day, but I hope I will always find time for those who are truly in need. I know it is a long time since I have spoken with you, and now it is almost time for you to take your vows among the Druids. How quickly time goes by!”
They passed the round hut that had been built for the priestesses who watched over the Blood Well and the orchard they had planted there, and continued along the path that followed the high ground. The chapel the Christians had built, thatched like the others but with a second cone-shaped tier above the first, so that it appeared to have two stories, sat like a mother hen among her chicks with the huts of the brothers surrounding it. One of the younger monks was sweeping away the leaves that last night’s wind had brought down across the path. He looked up as they approached and came to meet them.
“I have brought some preserved fruit and sweet cakes for Father Joseph.” Caillean indicated her basket. “Will you take me to him?”
“Brother Paulus might not like—” the man began, frowning, then shook his head. “Never mind. Perhaps your delicacies will tempt Father Joseph as our rough food can no longer do. If you can persuade him to eat you will have our gratitude, for I tell you that since the festival of Christ’s birth he has taken scarcely enough to keep a bird alive.”
He led them to one of the round huts, no larger than the others, though the path was edged with whitewashed stones, and pulled the hide doorcover aside.
“Father, here is the Lady of Avalon come to see you. Will you welcome her?”
Caillean blinked, straining to adjust to the shadows after the brightness of the spring day. Father Joseph lay on a pallet on the floor, a rushlight flickering beside him. The other monk set some cushions behind the old man’s back to raise him, and brought a little three-legged stool for Caillean.
He was like a bird indeed, thought the priestess as she reached out to take the old man’s hand. His thin chest scarcely stirred; all the life left to him glowed in his eyes.
“My old friend!” she said in a low voice. “How is it with you?”
Something that might have been a laugh whispered in the air. “Surely you, Lady, have the training to see!” Father Joseph read in her eyes the words she would not say, and smiled. “Is it not also given to those of your order to know their time? Mine comes soon, and I am content. I will see my Master once more….” For a little while he was silent, gazing inward and smiling at what he saw there.
Then he sighed and his eyes focused on Caillean. “But I shall miss our conversations. Unless an old man on his deathbed can convince you to accept the Christos, only at the end of all things will we meet again.”
“I will miss talking with you as well,” said Caillean, blinking back tears. “And perhaps in another lifetime I may follow your path. But for this one, my oaths are given elsewhere.”
“It is true that no man knows his road until he reaches its ending…” Father Joseph whispered. “When my life changed I was not much younger
than you…. It would give me comfort to tell you the tale, if you are willing to hear.”
Caillean smiled and took his outstretched hand in her own. It was so frail, the light seemed to shine through it. Eiluned and Riannon would be expecting her back to discuss the girls who were applying to join their community, but they could wait. There was always something to be learned when men spoke of how they came to the Light, and Father Joseph had very little time.
“I was a merchant of Judea, from a town called Arimathea, in the eastern part of the Empire. My ships went everywhere, even to Dumnonia to trade for tin, and great wealth came to me.” His voice gathered strength as he went on. “In those days I never thought beyond the next day’s accounting, and if in my dreams I sometimes remembered the land that is now sunk beneath the waves and yearned for its wisdom, I forgot it with the dawn. I brought those who were notable in every craft to my table, and when the new teacher from Galilee whom men called Yeshua began to be widely talked of, I invited him as well.”
“Did you know then that he was one of the Sons of Light?” asked Caillean. The gods were always speaking, in tree and hill and the silence of men’s hearts, but in each age, it was said, they sent an Enlightened One to speak in human words to the world. But in any age, as she had also heard, never more than a few could hear.
Father Joseph shook his head. “I listened to the Master’s words, and found Him pleasant, but I did not know Him well. The old teachings were still hidden from me. But I saw that He brought hope to the people, and I gave money when His followers needed it, and allowed them to celebrate the Paschal feast in a house that I owned. I was away from Jerusalem when He was arrested. By the time I returned, He was already on the cross. I went out to the hill of execution, for I had heard that His mother was there and I wished to offer my assistance.”
He stopped, remembering, and she saw his eyes grow luminous with tears. It was Gawen, sensing the weight of emotion without understanding it, who broke the silence.
“What was she like—His mother?”
Lady of Avalon Page 8
