Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “I don’t like to say it,” Liala muttered, “but the biggest actual pain around here is her. We’ve all lost our friends and family! Does she have to gloom about it all the time?”

  “Evidently so,” said Chedan calmly. “Perhaps she is moved by the gods, to remind us that not everyone will easily let go of their lost loves and hopes. I am told Malaera is one who has never concealed her emotions. Who are we to require that she do so now?”

  “I think her despair will pass,” Tiriki repeated. “More than most, maybe, she seems to understand that our mission here demands more of us than simple survival . . .” She cast an uneasy glance at Alyssa, but the seeress seemed absorbed in savoring the pleasant scent of her tea.

  “If we are to establish the new Temple, it must be soon,” Tiriki continued, “or in a generation, two at most, our children will be absorbed into the local population, and our purpose lost. I have not become an oracle, but I have read enough history to know that it has happened before.”

  Chedan nodded. “The first generation of shipwreck survivors remember that their ancestors came from beyond the ocean; a century on, their grandchildren often say the ocean is their ancestor, and make offerings to it.”

  “Hah,” snorted Liala. “I’m less concerned about the future than what is going on right now. I am grateful that so many of us were saved, but I could wish male and female priests had arrived in more equal numbers. There’s you and all of us, and Kalaran and all those girls. Don’t you think we are more than a little out of balance here?”

  “What you say is so.” Tiriki sounded faintly surprised. “I really had not felt it as a problem before now. The energy of the Tor itself is so very balanced—”

  “A single rising peak,” Alyssa crooned, her face half turned from them, “an earthly spark, guarding three springs and six caves, and so many more hearts. Shining, shining, shining, shining. Never mind the dark.”

  Wind ruffled the willows; branches lashed for a moment, then settled. No one spoke. The mage stared at his tea bowl, fingering the tiny seashell carvings that banded its sides. Liala is right again, he thought. Tiriki has simply not allowed herself to consider the problem, because then she would have to think about Micail. She and I may work as high priest and priestess, but we cannot generate the kind of energy that she and Micail—Or maybe it is not her preoccupation but my own that is at fault?

  A sharp sound on the edge of hearing caught his attention. Framed by willow leaves, a merlin hung in the silvery air. . . . There had long been a rage for falcons among the noble houses, but Chedan had never particularly noticed them. Now he seemed always to know when a hawk or an owl was nearby. Perhaps it was a promise, a reminder of what was beyond.

  Liala was still speaking. “If our priestesses are to have mates and continue our tradition, we may have to recruit priests from among the others. For instance, there’s Reidel—I think he has potential—”

  “Especially with Damisa!” Alyssa, suddenly quite normal again, loosed an unappealing snort of laughter. “You’ve seen how he looks at her?”

  “And how she does not look at him in response?” Tiriki interjected briskly. “I agree that we will need to do something eventually, but . . .”

  “I’m a priestess of the Mother, not one of you adepts. We Blue Robes seek to celebrate the body, not transcend it!” Liala grinned. “I don’t like the sailors much, but I’m getting a lot less picky. I’ve even started eyeing the marsh folk men.”

  Chedan looked at her, suddenly aware that there was a womanly body inside that blue robe. There was a time when he would not have been this surprised at her comment. Had the struggle to survive distracted him, or was he simply getting old?

  “I understand what you are saying,” Tiriki continued, “and I agree, but mating between cultures or castes can be risky.”

  “They cannot be too different,” said Liala. “Taret is a priestess of the Great Mother, even as we are.”

  “They do not seem to have many ceremonies,” Chedan interjected. “These people live lightly on the land, and they have been at peace for some time. Those the gods have satisfied,” he concluded, “often seem to want little else.”

  “Do not ask the wrong question,” Alyssa interrupted, her strange eyes gone colorless and flat.

  Chedan turned, wondering what byway of the mind she had strayed into now.

  Alyssa continued, “You build channels for raindrops but make no provision for the sea. There are powers here that must be addressed. There are names to learn. And what of the other power, the one you claim to serve and preserve? What of the Omphalos Stone?”

  Into the shocked silence came the cry of a falcon, darting and twisting through the air, bent on unseen prey.

  Chedan grimaced. It had been the worst of errors to think the Grey Robe useless. Her control over her gift might be degenerating, but even in madness, Alyssa could still remind them of truths they ignored at their peril.

  As the nights became colder and longer, the last of the shelters was finished, and though the dwellings were something less than grand, they were no longer damp or drafty. An enthusiastic start was even made on a proper meeting hall, but little work could be done in the cold rain. It was a hard life. Yet if sometimes the freezing mist never seemed to lift, their summer’s foraging had left them with sufficient, if not very interesting, stores of food.

  On the eve of the winter solstice, with a fresh storm front blowing in from the sea, Tiriki was in her hut, putting on another tunic to counter the chill, when she heard a sharp outcry.

  “Damisa? What is it?” she called out. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not wrong,” came the answer. “Wonderful!”

  Tiriki wrapped another shawl around her shoulders, then moved to the doorway, unwinding the thongs that held its hide curtain tightly closed.

  “Oh, just look!” Damisa whispered, and Tiriki caught her breath.

  A brisk wind was blowing, and the dark trees tossed a ragged net of branches toward charcoal and pearl-grey clouds layered with every astonishing combination of lavender and pink and rose. She had seen such a riot of colors in her mother’s garden, but only in this strange new land were the heavens filled with such heart-stopping magnificence . . . “Wings of storm,” she murmured, half aloud, “wings of marvel.”

  Moment by moment the sky-blaze deepened, until every cloud was a scarlet shimmering of phantom fire . . . and for a moment, Tiriki thought she saw the final flames of Ahtarrath rising again from the sea. She drew closer to Damisa, whose fair skin seemed to have borrowed some new radiance from the dying of the sun.

  The Sun only lends stewardship to Lord Nar-Inabi, Shaper of the Sea and the Stars of the Night, Tiriki told herself, reprising the catechism she had learned as a child, and though in winter Banur the Destroyer briefly takes the throne, the Four-Faced One is also the Preserver, and his wintry reign prepares the path for the miracle of Ni-Terat, Dark Mother of All, who brings forth Caratra the Nurturer, ever and ever again.

  Still shivering, but curiously heartened, Tiriki tucked in the ends of her shawl and watched the sunset colors darken until the merest traces of purple remained. The last banner of the light diminished to a swordpoint of incandescent orange, then faded to crimson, dimmed, and disappeared.

  “The Lord of the Day has turned His face from the earth,” Tiriki announced to the group that had gathered alongside her. “Have ye put out every hearth fire?” At home, on the eve of the winter solstice all fires would have been extinguished at noon, but here common sense had prevailed, and Chedan determined that tradition actually forbade flames upon the hearths only during the ceremony itself.

  The Atlanteans shuffled and stamped their feet uneasily. Tonight would be cold and dark beyond anything they had known; not even Chedan Arados had ever wintered in these northerly isles. Worse, the storm clouds cut them off from the stars. Even Manoah’s messenger, the moon, would not appear. Only the star of Caratra, glowing on the horizon, gave hope that life and light might remain
in the world.

  The winter solstice ritual they were about to celebrate had never before seemed so necessary. In this bleak environment, it was hard to trust the ancient certainties; and while reason and tradition both told Tiriki that even when she could not see them, the constellations never ceased shining, in her heart, some atavistic spirit trembled, whispering that if her prayers failed, this night would never end.

  At the center of the stone circle atop the Tor, Chedan was making his own preparations for the solstice ritual. Since their arrival, every member of the priests’ caste had, of course, maintained the daily disciplines of salutation and meditation. But in all that time, this was the first true Working that they had attempted.

  Since midmorning he and Kalaran had labored to build a small square altar and consecrate it with water and with oil and, after that, to gather kindling for the sacred fire. Throughout this time of preparation, Chedan had been troubled by memories that disturbed his concentration.

  With his aching back turned toward the east, the mage donned the glittering wide-eyed mask of Nar-Inabi and intoned the Opening, unheard by any but his acolyte and the gods. In the same moment there arose from the Tor’s lower slopes the holy music of flutes and drums, as the priests and priestesses began to climb the path newly cut through the woods. Many voices rang out, mingling in the dark—

  “The sky is cold, the year is old,

  As the Wheel turns.

  The Earth is bare which once bloomed fair,

  And the Wheel turns.”

  Tiriki was first to enter the sacred space, the golden cap of her guardianship gleaming above her brow; even more remarkable was the bulge of her belly as her pregnancy neared its term. Her pregnancy, Chedan knew, had actually increased her power, but in her condition it would have been dangerous to allow her to take the role of the priestess in this ceremony.

  He fixed his eyes upon the next entrant, Liala, in the grizzled mask of Ni-Terat. Chedan smiled beneath his own mask. She was an experienced priestess, solid, dependable. Chedan trusted that she would be able to handle an erratic influx of power.

  “By frozen streams we harbor dreams,

  While the Wheel turns.

  One tiny spark defies the dark . . .

  And the Wheel turns.”

  For this ceremony, as tradition required, everyone was wearing the simple robe of the Temple of Light; but, truth to tell, hardly any scrap of that gleaming white cloth could be seen beneath the coarse wrappings that the climate required.

  Chedan smiled wryly behind his mask. We shall have to fashion warmer vestments if we are to maintain our ritual splendor, he thought.

  With a wrench, he brought himself back into focus, and added his voice to the song:

  “Darkness falls, yet moonlight calls,

  And the Wheel turns.

  The starry night may grant delight . . .

  Till the Wheel turns.”

  With the last word, the singers, flutes, and drums stilled. A moment passed.

  “Who comes here at the halted year?” Chedan sang. “Where Banur, four-faced king, holds sway? Why do you tarry, as the world sinks into darkness?”

  “We are the children of Light,” the chorus answered. “We do not fear the shadows. We rise to build beacons that will grant light to all!”

  “Yet in this kingdom of the frozen moons,” Liala’s warm voice soared, “beyond wisdom and faith, what power can sustain you?”

  “The power of Life! The circle of Love . . .”

  “Come then,” Chedan and Liala sang together, “let this warmth into our hearts.”

  All the voices united. “Father Light, return unto the world!”

  Garments rustled and all too many joints creaked as the celebrants settled into the form of meditation. The ground was surely very cold, but not too damp, or not at first.

  “Now does the longest night fall,” Chedan intoned. “Now Banur holds all earth in thrall. . . .” He paused, trying to calculate just how much time remained before the celestial nodes intersected the northern point of the ecliptic. He had labored long to identify the precise instant when the hidden sun would pass from the realm of the Sea Goat into that of the Water Bearer.

  “From the earliest days of the Temple,” he continued, “we have celebrated this moment before the sun begins to wax once more. We gather, therefore, not only to re-consecrate ourselves to the great work, but to affirm that our powers are worthy to be allied to those that rule all that there is.

  “Fire is an earthly manifestation of that Light. Thus we honor it, knowing as ever that the Symbol is nothing, but the Reality, of which the Symbol is born, is everything. Tonight, we ally our energies with those of earth to invoke heaven. Are you prepared to join your powers now, that the Light may be reborn?”

  From the circle came a murmur of assent.

  “Lead us from the unreal,” Chedan sang, “unto the Real—”

  “Lead us out of darkness,” Liala sang, “into the Light—”

  “Lead us from the fear of death,” the acolytes sang in reedy chorus, “to the knowledge of Eternity—

  “Champions of Light, arise!

  Awake, alive in the mortal sphere,

  And as the moon, reflect Manoah,

  In His refulgence ever near—”

  Chedan did not see the celebrants join hands, but he felt the shift in pressure as the circle closed. Liala stood on the other side of the altar, her hands extended, palms out. He mirrored the movement, and the first tendrils of power sparked between them.

  Together they sounded the first of the sacred syllables, bringing up the power from the earth on which they stood to the base of the spine. Chedan sustained the note as Liala drew breath, then breathed in himself as she recommenced, and so all around the circle so that the sound was almost seamless. The Word of Power began to surge through the circle and build in force, until the Tor beneath their feet seemed to hum.

  Chedan drew another breath, and let the power rise to his belly, and began the Second Word. As the circle reinforced it, his manhood stiffened with the raw power spiraling through his abdomen, but even as he recognized his arousal he was refocusing the energy . . . It was not usually so difficult. Sweat beaded on his brow.

  The circle made a smooth transition into the Third Word, but Chedan could not help twitching spasmodically as fires flared in his solar plexus, implosions of energy that sparked in every nerve. When the tremors eased, he saw that Liala had become a glowing golden figure flecked with topaz lightnings. But her power was wavering. As her difficulty began to resonate back to him, Chedan fought panic.

  But it was too late for second-guessing. Chedan took another deep breath and voiced the Third Word again, this time directing the full force of it at the figure in the mask of Ni-Terat. Her limbs shook, cascading bands of blue and violet rippled around her like a feeding serpent, and with a shock the barrier gave way. The circle gasped and swayed in the sudden surge of energy.

  Trembling with relief, Chedan modulated the lingering resonances into the higher note that carried the Fourth Word . . . hearts opened, they were filled with waves of love. With the Fifth Word came a wind of energy, a sound of beauty so intense it became unbearable. It was a deliverance to move onward to the point of power in the third eye.

  The utterance of the Sixth Word, reflecting and recurring in visible waves of sound, resolved the conflict of perception and illusion. Even Chedan could not tell if the auras of the others had grown brighter or if it was his own vision that had changed; yet he could see each member of the circle plainly—and not only their physical features. Chedan knew that he was looking into their very spirits. The merest glance at Liala revealed her dedication and her pride, and the need for love that yearned within her soul; but then all was subsumed as the greater power flowed, a great pillar of light, arcing between earth and heaven.

  Little by little it steadied, and Chedan began to draw the energy downward and out along his shoulders to his hands.

  Suddenly, out of
the kindling piled upon the altar stone, a pale thread of smoke spiraled upward.

  Lines of gold sparked in the wood, and then the flames rose. The scent of sweet oils filled the air.

  “Blessed be Light!” they chorused. “Blessed the Light at our inner dawn, showing the way to wake, to warm. Blessed the Light that lives in every pulsing heart. Blessed the Light of which we each and all are made.”

  The flames leaped higher, gilding the faces of the worshippers as they began to dance sunwise around them, and glowing upon the weathered contours of the ancient stone circle. Chedan stepped backward as the eternal power of the earth swelled to a steady flow of energy that radiated out from the altar, burning away the fog that had cloaked the Tor.

  Chedan gestured, and the celebrants unclasped their hands, raising their arms. “Come, Light’s children, Light’s champions,” he sang. “Bathe your worldly torches in the fire of the spirit. Bear new light to hearth and to home!”

  One by one, each of the celebrants approached the altar, lit his or her torch from the sacred fire, and then continued round the circle to begin the journey downhill. Chedan watched with a tired smile as the line of torches bobbed away, garlanding the path with light. The singers continued,

  “A spark to make the sunfire blaze,

  And flame-lit visions fill our gaze,

  Yet Love endures; we know its ways,

  As the Wheel turns.”

  In years to come, the mage mused, things would have to change. There had been an uncommon roughness to the power, and though all had come out well in the end, the strangeness troubled him. What could the explanation be? Was my uncle Ardral right? he asked himself, with a pang of loss. Do we stand at the verge of a new age?

  “The Mother rests, but soon will wake,

  Her herbs to gather, bread to bake,

  From Earth’s womb, new life we take,