by Alys Clare
My mouth was open in surprise. I said, somewhat dimly, ‘Oh.’ Then, recovering a little wit, I added, ‘What did you mean about this being just the thing?’
‘You are air and fire. We used fire to harness water and the product of the earth.’
‘The flowers?’
‘The flowers. With our materials we made a substance – perfume – that belongs to the air. Do you see?’
I was not sure that I did. ‘I begin to see,’ I said cautiously, ‘but there is very much that is far beyond my understanding.’
He beamed. ‘Then you truly have put your feet on the path of learning, for wisdom is as much recognizing what we do not know as what we do.’
I wasn’t entirely sure I understood that, either.
I was exhausted when at last I went up the little ladder to my bed. I hoped I would sleep so soundly that no dream would penetrate, and for much of the night that must indeed have been the case.
The dream returned soon after dawn; I know that because when it released me from its claws and I woke up, light was just beginning to illumine the sky.
That night’s dream was the worst of all . . .
I am back in the mist again, trying to find my way over waterlogged ground because the dreaded something out there is after me. Then, suddenly, there are other people around me – fleeing, like me, from this nameless terror. An old man helping a weak old woman; a mother trying to hurry along three little children while clinging tightly to the mewling baby in her arms. Big men armed with staves drive us along, urging us on. The water under my feet seems now to be much deeper, so it is a great effort to keep wading on through it. Then the terror truly catches hold of me: the water is rising faster than we are moving, and it is going to overwhelm us.
Panicking, I do not know what to do. Should I remain with the throng of people? Would it be safer to be in a crowd, so that we could all help each other?
I turn away from the hurrying masses, slip beneath the outstretched arm of one of the men herding us along and hurry off over the marsh. I hear a scream and, spinning round, see a huge wave rise up and engulf the ground where I had just been standing. The people have vanished.
I whimper in terror. Then I run.
The light is poor, and swirls of mist float around my feet, but somehow I am able to leap from tussock to tussock, and soon I know I have left the others a long way behind.
Then a great, dark figure looms up directly in front of me, so abruptly that it is as if he has risen up from the deep places of the earth. He is huge, towering above me. His face is deadly pale, his wide, thin mouth a red gash in the white skin. His teeth are long, sharp and pointed, and bared in a snarl.
I try to scream, but I am struck dumb and no sound comes out of me. Then he raises both arms high above his head and I see what he holds: an enormous battleaxe, a thunderstone, worthy of some great god or chieftain out of the old tales. Its single blade curves round in a vicious semicircle, its bright, keen edge dripping blood. He swings it around a couple of times and then brings it down so swiftly that it sings through the air . . .
I woke up crouched in the corner of my bed, soaked in my own sweat, screaming as if I could never stop. I was making so much noise that the summoning words had to be repeated before I heard them: come to me! I need you! And even as they rang inside my head, it was as if I was still dreaming, for I had a sudden vivid vision of a wild and desolate place where the wind howled like a tormented spirit and old, rounded hills seemed to pace along a dim horizon. There were the ruins of some ancient building – pillars, huge stone slabs with strange markings on them – and, hollowed into the side of a low mound, a dark, narrow space like a grave or a crypt. I thought I saw a lifeless body, crouched foetus-like down in the earth . . .
The vision left me almost as quickly as it had come. I fell forward on to my pillows and buried my head under my arms.
Gurdyman must have heard my screams, for quite soon I heard him puffing his way up the ladder. His head appeared through the gap in the floorboards and, with one swift look at me, he levered himself up into the attic and hastened across to me. I had already discovered many things about him: he is highly intelligent and extremely learned; he has a phenomenal memory; and his powers, the depths of which I had only just begun to suspect, leave me nervous with awe. Until that early morning, I had not appreciated that he has a very kind heart.
He did not speak at first, just held me in a warm, close embrace, one hand stroking my hair as if he were soothing a scared animal. Then, when my sobs finally ceased and the racking hiccups that followed were becoming more and more infrequent, he said quietly, ‘The dream again.’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Tell me.’
I hesitated, for I did not feel I could make myself go through it again so soon.
‘Lassair, child, it was a dream,’ he said. ‘In itself it cannot harm you, and to give in to your fear and try to close it away in the back of your mind will only empower it. Get it out into the good light of dawn, and we will watch as it dissipates.’
I knew he was right. My aunt Edild has sometimes had to help people whose dreams make them afraid to sleep, and she says much the same thing. She also says that a dream that recurs means a message that you ignore at your peril, but I tried not to think about that just then.
I took a deep breath, clutched at Gurdyman’s warm hand and told him everything I could remember.
When I had finished – and I was quite relieved to find that the retelling had not reduced me to my previous pitiful state – he got up and crossed back to the top of the ladder. Turning, he gave me a bright smile. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘You have been very brave, and you deserve a good breakfast, which I shall prepare.’ He set off down the ladder. ‘Come down when you are ready,’ his voice floated back up, ‘and we shall decide what you are to do next.’
Do next? I had hoped that, having done as he had bade me and told him, I would be allowed to forget all about this strange business and get on with my studies. Now, as I got out of bed and swiftly drew on my outer garments, I had a nasty feeling that was not to be.
We ate our meal – of bread, honey-butter flavoured with cinnamon and a slice each of last night’s apple bake – and Gurdyman gave me a hot, spicy drink that tasted slightly bitter. I wondered if he had prescribed a mild sedative and thought I would be quite glad if he had. The food was plentiful and tasty, as always in Gurdyman’s house, for, when he remembers to eat, he eats well. When we had finished, he looked at me and said firmly, ‘Lassair, it is clear to me that whoever or whatever is trying to contact you will not give up. You have two choices: either endure these dreams, which will become more and more terrible, or go and find out who is summoning you and what they want of you.’ He studied me gravely. ‘You are not without courage, and you have a degree of resourcefulness,’ he mused.
‘You think I should search for whoever’s calling me?’
He gave a small shrug. ‘It is what I would do. But it is your choice, child.’ He gave a slight smile. ‘If you do not, I fear I shall have to speak to my neighbours and explain why my young pupil wakes them up with her screams.’
I felt my face blush. ‘Do you think they heard?’ I hissed.
‘It’s no use whispering now, child,’ he said with a laugh. ‘The damage was done at dawn.’ Relenting, he added, ‘Don’t worry. My neighbours are used to hearing strange noises from this house. I doubt that anyone will mention it.’
I doubted it, too. From what I had observed, Gurdyman’s neighbours preferred to restrict their dealings with him to a stiff little bow of the head and a polite good morning. It can’t be easy, living cheek by jowl with a wizard.
I knew what I was going to do. I think I’d known since I first heard those urgent words, the dawn before this one. Someone needed me and, although I was still young in the healing arts, already I had learned that when people called out to you with such an appeal, you did not turn away.
I fetched the piece of vellum
on which we’d listed my family and friends and spread it out. ‘Most of the people I know live in or near to my village,’ I said, staring down at the names. ‘I’d better start there.’ I let go of the ends of the vellum, and it rolled itself up again. ‘It’s still early. If you can spare me, Gurdyman, I’ll set out straight away.’
TWO
The spring day was overcast but mild, and I made good time. On the road out of Cambridge, a young ginger-haired lad driving a cart loaded with logs stopped and gave me a lift, offering to take me as far as Wicken. There he would go straight on for Ely and I’d set off to the north-east, to Aelf Fen. He was inclined to be flirtatious, obviously wondering if a quick fumble behind a hedge might be his reward, but I put on my most demure demeanour and told him I was going to visit my sister in her nunnery. When I got down, I felt bit guilty and gave him half the meal I’d packed for myself. He seemed happy enough with that instead and gave me a cheery wave as he clicked to his horse and drove off.
When I reached the village, to my great joy the first person I saw was my father. He is an eel fisher, and he was busy on a channel that was full of water after the spring rains. On seeing me, he leapt right over the slowly sliding, green water and embraced me, breaking off almost instantly to look anxiously into my face.
‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked. ‘You are well? You’re not in any trouble?’
‘I am fine, Father!’ I said, laughing. ‘I’m very well, working hard but enjoying it, and as far as I know not in trouble of any kind.’
He let out his breath in a phew sound. Then, grinning, he said, ‘Don’t know why I should assume the worst, just because you’ve come home on an unexpected visit. I’m right glad to see you, Lassair.’ He hugged me again, this time bestowing the gentle kiss on my forehead which he has been doing ever since I can remember.
I felt bad that I hadn’t told him straight away about the dreams and the summoning voice. In that moment of reunion, I just wanted to enjoy being with my beloved father, without spoiling it with matters of so dark a nature. ‘Is all well with you?’ I asked him.
‘Aye, as you’ll observe, it’s a good season for the likes of me.’ He indicated his lidded wicker basket, and I could see through the gaps in the weave that it was full of writhing eels. ‘After the cold and the endless rain last autumn, and that terrible storm we had at the equinox, it’s a great relief to have good catches again.’ He grinned. ‘The eels kept themselves safely tucked up deep down in the mud, but they’re emerging now that spring’s here and there’s a bit of warmth in the air.’
‘And everyone else? How are they all?’
‘Your mother’s well, praise the good Lord, and the family too.’ For a moment his face clouded. ‘That is to say, Alvela’s been poorly again.’ Alvela is my father’s sister, Edild’s twin, and she lives up in the Breckland with her flint knapper son Morcar. Alvela is one of those women poorly equipped to deal with life’s hardships, and she frequently suffers from bouts of ill health.
Had the summons come from her? Was it she who had put those urgent words into my mind?
‘Is she very sick?’ I asked. Sick enough to send out that desperate plea? I added silently.
But my father smiled. ‘No, child, she’s not. She’s had a congestion of the lungs and was finding it hard to get her breath, but Edild’s gone up to Breckland to care for her and she’ll soon be on the mend.’
Oh. Not Alvela, then.
‘Come on.’ He bent down and slung the leather handles of his basket over his strong shoulder. ‘We’ll get on home, and you shall see for yourself that the rest of them are thriving.’
My mother greeted me with her usual loving smile, apparently unsurprised to see me. I wondered if that could mean it had been she who summoned me, and I was about to ask her when she said, ‘I’m so glad you’re here, Lassair, there’s something I’ve been planning to ask of you when next I saw you.’
So it had been my mother! Feeling the relief flooding through me, I said with a smile, ‘Well, you managed to get your message through to me!’
Her face went blank. ‘My message?’
I knew I was wrong. Just to make quite sure, I said, trying to speak lightly, ‘You haven’t been calling out to me, then? Saying, come here, I need you?’
My mother gave me quite a stern look. ‘Now why,’ she said, ‘would I do that? Silly lass, you’re far too far away in Cambridge to hear me, even if I shouted at the top of my voice!’
I forget, sometimes, how very literal my mother is.
My baby brother Leir came up to me, his arms opening in a silent plea to be lifted up and cuddled, and I readily obliged, burying my face in his silky fair hair. I shouldn’t really refer to him as a baby any more, for he is five years old now and, as my protesting arms were informing me, growing into a well-built and strong boy. ‘Did you summon me, little brother?’ I whispered to him.
He gave me a soggy kiss and said, echoing my mother, ‘Silly lass!’
I put him down.
The long working day was drawing to its close now and presently there came the sound of footsteps outside. The door opened and my other brothers came in, the elder one, Haward, with an arm around his wife’s expanding waist, the younger, Squeak, trotting behind but pushing them out of the way when he saw I was there. He rushed at me and, in a thirteen-year-old’s version of Leir’s greeting, flung his arms round me and swirled me round in a circle. He, too, was growing strong.
They all asked what I was doing home, and I found ways to ask all three if they had any reason for wanting to see me. Squeak looked puzzled as he answered, and merely said, very sweetly, ‘I always want to see you, Lassair. I miss you when you’re away.’
Haward, with a glance at his wife, said that they’d needed advice from Edild a couple of weeks ago because Zarina had fallen and they’d feared for the baby, although all was well. Zarina took my hand and said, ‘I’d have been just as happy to consult you, Lassair, but you weren’t here,’ which I thought was very nice of her.
As we all sat down to the evening meal, I remembered that my mother had said she had something to raise with me. ‘You didn’t tell me what you were planning to ask me,’ I reminded her.
‘Didn’t I?’ Her smooth-skinned, plump-cheeked face creased briefly into a frown. ‘No, I didn’t. It was just that I thought, next time you were here, you might tell us a story. It’s half a year now since Granny Cordeilla died, and we haven’t had a tale since.’ She looked at me worriedly. ‘It’s not too soon?’
Slowly, I shook my head. I had known since Granny died that sooner or later this moment would come, for she had passed on to me the role of the family’s bard, the one whose job it is to memorize the family bloodline and to learn all the tales in its long history, retelling them regularly so that nobody forgets who they are and who their ancestors were. Granny knew perfectly well that, of all her children and grandchildren, I was the one with the God-given facility to remember the stories. She knew, too, that I loved them and that repeating them whenever I was asked would be no hardship.
‘It’s not too soon, Mother,’ I said to her with a smile. ‘I’ll tell you what: if I am excused clearing up the platters and mugs, washing them and tidying them away, I’ll tell you all a story this very night.’
I went to stand outside in the warm spring night. Inside the house, the family were busy arranging seating for us all, and I knew the best place for the storyteller, beside the fire, would be reserved for me. My mother had promised to prepare a cot for me; although I lived with Edild now, and could easily have slipped across the village to sleep there that night, Edild was away and I would be alone. Normally, I would not have minded in the least, but just then I feared my powerful dreams. If I found myself back in that nightmare landscape of mist and blood and I was all by myself, I was not sure how I would endure it. When my mother had said why don’t you sleep here tonight? I had willingly accepted. But now, in the immediate future, there was a very important task ahead of me. I turned my mind to
storytelling.
I don’t know what prompted my choice of tale. Granny Cordeilla once said that the story chooses the teller, and that if you open your mind and simply wait, the spirits of the ancestors will prompt you. I composed myself, closed my eyes, shut off the constant steam of my thoughts and filled my mind with the intention of making my parents, my brothers and my sister-in-law happy with a good story. For a while nothing happened, and then, with a smile, I knew which story I was going to tell.
‘I tell my tale in honour of my grandmother and predecessor,’ I began, looking round at the circle of faces in the firelight, ‘for it concerns her namesake, the first Cordeilla, child of Lir the Magical and his wife Essa.’ I glanced at my mother with a secret smile, for her name too is Essa. ‘Now last born to Essa and Lir were twin girls, and their names were Cordeilla and Feithfailge. They were identical in every way, born of one flesh divided and one soul that was shared between two. Cordeilla was the elder, but only by a matter of moments, and it was said that the babies were born with their little fingers entwined.’
I heard a soft gasp from Zarina, sitting curled up against Haward, one hand on her swelling belly. I calculated swiftly: I had recognized that she was pregnant late last summer, not long after her wedding to my brother, and I reckoned she had a month or so to go until the birth of her son. I knew the child was a boy, although I would not have dreamt of telling her so.
‘Now Cordeilla had a secret strength that her sister did not share,’ I went on, ‘and, although she always lay right beside Feithfailge, her mouth to her sister’s as if she was breathing some of her power into her sibling’s frail body, Feithfailge did not thrive and she died soon after her birth.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Haward hug Zarina, and he whispered something, smiling reassuringly. I caught his eye and he gave me a quick frown, as if to say fine choice of tale this is for a pregnant woman to hear!
I wanted to reassure him, but that was not my role. When I was acting as bard, I was no longer his younger sister. The ancestors were with me, in me, and their demands overrode any niceties. One day, I promised myself, I would explain that to him.
