“Why... our Ancestors and the Spirits of sickness and Death and bad luck and strife.”
But their eyes said... “You are a Priestess and you do not know this?” Of course they only smiled. So only did I smile and offer my benediction...
“May your beloved Ancestors come often to bless and comfort you. And may the Spirits of ill fortune not enter through your Spirit door. Yet should they get in by some other means, may they be cast out as soon as they enter.”
They liked this speech very much.
I knew that they usually lived on a poor diet of mainly Fish and I knew that what I had brought would help them. They smiled toothless smiles. So all was well. I had not offended or at least I had covered my blunder over.
Just before I left I looked around for their Ancestors’ shrine, there it was – just by the hearth-Fire – with pieces of shell, bone, dried Herbs and knotted twine upon it. I suppose a knot for each of their Dead? I did not ask, but bade them farewell.
Two of the young men insisted that they aid us with our Horse and wagon across the Marsh walkways until we landed on solid ground. Of this I was grateful, for it was a tricky business.
A world unto itself was this. But the Marsh Folk lived and continued to bear children and faired as well as did others, I suppose.
Rumours...
The girl and I arrived at the village market, well before mid-Day. I stayed with the wagon to disburse our goods and let the girl go off to amuse herself. I remembered when I was fifteen years and came to the Isle as a novice – I Loved it all... but sometimes I had the wander-lust. I suppose all the young ones do. I told her to meet me in an hour as we already had lodging arranged in the village. By the Time she returned to me, the wagon was empty. We retired to the cottage, whose inhabitants had offered their hospitality and shelter.
A nice couple were they, with three grown children of their own and five grand-children. So, for the first Time in their lives, they lived alone together. We shared surprisingly bawdy talk engendered by the mead I had brought. We laughed a lot too.
“We are old and do little more than sleep in our bed together now, what a shame we did not have this privacy when we were younger!”
They both laughed and he patted her hand. They shared some innocent gossips of the village including some of improper relationships amoungst some of the women in the Christian Monastic order.
“Improper – that is – according to the rules of their Church. You know the one close by where Queen Gwenyfar is retired?”
A knowing look passed between them...
“Oh, do not mistake our meaning – we are worshippers of the Goddess and all Love is Sacred to her. But not, they say, to their God. Yet people are people, right? And Love may be found by whoever truly seeks it...”
I nodded my head in agreement. People are people.
I had not noticed the girl drinking as much of the mead as she apparently had, for her tongue was loosened too. Wanting to be included in the adults’ conversation, she began to speak, “Lady Morgan, I heard gossip in the village today too! The villagers told that when your sister, Morganna Le Faye, with her son and their guards stayed in this village, they were passing it about that King Arthur, your brother, was begotten upon your Mother, the Lady Igraine, through a brutal rape by Uther the Pen Dragon. But then, they said, Igraine fell hopelessly in Love with Uther and lay with him often as she could and allowed poison to be given to the Dux Gorlois, your Father, to kill him so that she might have Uther for her own!”
I stared at her in horror.
“Child... how dare you speak so of my Lady Mother? She who was a great and powerful Seer? These are all lies... lies!”
“Oh, Lady, I am so sorry! I was only saying what rumours go ‘round... only what I have heard – not what I believe!”
“Yes!” I snapped at her, “and with much relish in the retelling!”
She burst into tears. I pursued it: “What else have you heard today?”
“Oh Lady please... I cannot repeat it!”
“Where does your loyalty lie, girl? Must I send you back to your Mother in disgrace?”
“Oh Lady Morgan, my loyalty is to the Goddess and to my sisters and brothers of The Order; to you My Lady... and to Lady Vivianne... but also to my King Arthur!”
“Arthur? What about Arthur? Tell me – right now!”
“Oh I cannot say it!”
“Speak, girl!”
Almost did I strike her... but regained my composure in Time.
“They say... Oh Lady! They say that upon the Night of King Arthur’s acceptance celebration he... He violently raped his own half sister Morganna Le Fey – your sister, my Lady Morgan! And he begot Prince Mordred upon her... and then... then he banished her to Lesser Briton. But when... they say... he heard of her being with child from his crime against her he sent some of his companions to find Mordred and to slay him! But Morganna’s Magic was too strong so she killed his two companions who sought to kill her son. Then it is said that King Arthur lied and said these men were killed in battle. And that The Merlin knows all of this, yet still he serves King Arthur – to his own disgrace. Oh, my Lady, I do not say this is so! Only that it is the rumour that is being passed from village to village. I am so sorry, please, please forgive me!”
“Magic so strong... yet she could not prevent her own rape?”
“Oh, you speak wisely, my Lady... how could this be true?”
“Be silent girl.”
So now, everywhere Morganna went she was dropping seeds of her poisonous vine. How many would believe her slanderous lies? Did Mordred believe her?
Of a sudden, a cold North Wind picked up in the cottage and blew in a harsh spiral around me. Dried leaves were catching in my hair, stinging my face. Where was I? So cold and empty! Where was this place of dolorous doom? …this ancient darkness revisits men as thrashing down come their highest aspirations, their lofty plans, and their most valorous moments. ...the wounding of a dream, the pains of Love lost, the fading of Gods... it was the chill of the White Lady of Death.
But do the old Gods die, too, when they are forgotten? ...or when the dreams of men are lost? On that moment, that was how it seemed. But what of the Goddess... will She too withdraw beyond the Veil one Day – unreachable to her earthly children?
So cold was I, so utterly alone, falling... falling, somewhere into the Night of Time. In total silence and near blackness, here I was, hiding behind an old Oak Tree and some bushes in the Wood. Morgan of the Woods – watching. Watching what? Then my Vision faded away. I came back to myself, hearing the last of a terrifying scream – my scream. Arthur? Was that what I had screamed?
The old couple were kneeling on the floor next to me, white faced and worried. As my sense of where I was came slowly back to me, my hearing returned as well as my sight. The couple were clucking over me like Mother Hens. The girl that I had brought with me was cradling my head in her lap – her copious and genuine tears were falling onto my face and eyes. She was muttering, “So sorry... please forgive me!”
When I had my thoughts together enough, I said, “I will be alright – hush child. You did not cause me this pain; it is the ‘Sight.’”
A benediction or a curse? No... No, it is a gift, one to use as we may. The troubling thing of it is that sometimes we can see things that are to come but cannot change them. They are written in the primordial script of the Weavers’ web. Pray the GREAT GODDESS and all the Gods that this Vision just past is not bound thusly. For I fear it beyond all comprehension.
I slept fitfully that Night. Always running through my thoughts was an old theological quandary: Being as idealistic as I have always been since my childhood, I was wont to believe that psychic Gifts came from the Gods as a reward to those of great and good spiritual merit. But then, there was Morganna. She was the only one I had ever met whose thoughts or motivations I could not read, and for that matter neither could anyone else! From whence and why have come her powers? Had she been born wicked? Or were sh
e and other wicked Seers born good and with great potential? Have they been gifted in this life, perhaps on the merit of one past, only then to choose evil as their path? This concept had always bothered me greatly; could the Weavers not foresee these things? Was evil a random potential lurking within us all, awaiting our own secret will or unholy desire to release it? This, then, was my great doubt and conflict. Were Mystical abilities not really Gifts at all? So saddened was my heart at the thought.
The child stayed with me, never leaving my side through the Night. I slept, I awoke. Again, I slept – off and on – fretfully. With the Dawn we left for our Isle.
It was from that Day forward that I began to find silver threads in my long black hair. I fear I will take this lack of understanding of – no, I must admit it, lack of agreement with – the Gifts of the Bestowers with me to my grave. I fear that this judgment and criticism of Them may be the unraveling of my ultimate ascension. Yet, if this is, I am allowing Morganna to hold the power of my undoing. No! This I must not do. I suppose that there will always be some things beyond Human comprehension.
Chapter 34
Bedwyr – A Man of Few Words
Bedwyr
So many years have passed since last I placed my quill to vellum for your histories, Morgan. But I promised to you, my dear sister, that I would write of my life and Times. Where do I begin?
So much has happened – I cannot write of everything. We forget the Day-to-Day happenings of life. It is only the exceptional moments we remember, of joy and of beauty – or of pain and sorrow.
So, I will begin by listing those I Love.
First, my Lady Mother, Igraine, now with her Ancestors – she awaits me at her Well. Beyond that knowing, there is a hole in my heart, which I am unable to fill.
The Bear... my brother of the heart, for whom I have lived this life, and for whom I would die.
Gwyddion, The Merlin, my teacher of the Arts and Wisdoms; the only true Father I have ever known.
Morgan... raised we were as sister and brother. Who could but Love her? We share the Sight, she and I.
Bronte... So short a Time I had with her, yet I believed I Loved her. I held back from declaring it – perhaps for Gwyddion’s sake – but he held back, too, and then she was gone. So briefly did she bless our lives. The Voices have said that she must return soon, but I know it would not be soon enough for us.
When my carousing Days were over, I married Freidl – after all these years. I suppose I enjoyed wenching too much to ever commit myself to her. But eventually comes, or at least it came for me, the longing for a deep and comfortable, committed Love. This was, is, and will always be, my Freidl – who had first caught my eye even while I was as if Spell-bound to Gwenyfar. What a waste were those years in-between. We have two children now and I am satisfied and happy with her beyond measure.
All in my life would be perfect except that I sorrow for Arthur’s old wound – his Love for you, Morgan. It keeps him from ever having the kind of Love and joy in his life that I share with Freidl. I grieve for him.
Morven, my Dragon... I hope he does not dislike my mention of him, but with the way things are changing, especially on the continent with the new One God – who knows but that in centuries to come, the Dragons will abandon us Humans and will be forgotten entirely. Already they have become extremely particular regarding with whom they will communicate. But know this, they are real, and to all who may ever read my words, they live in the Spirit Realms. They live! If ever they should feel enough distrust or disgust for Humans to impel them to withdraw entirely from our world, it would be the loss of the aeons. And it would entirely be the fault of unenlightened, suspicious, and Spiritless people. Already I am forbidden to speak more of their great Magics and Mysteries – save to another Dragon Caller – or, to some extent, to one Dragon-called. But perhaps people, or at least some people, far into the future will remember the old ways, or the Great Truth. Perhaps even the Dragons, by whatever form they take, will remind them that we are all one, there is only ONE.
Morgan, I suppose you wanted me to write of battles, political intrigues, and deeds of heroic proportions, but I am no Poet. Yes, I fear that he Bardic skills have passed me by. Yet the “Sight” forces me to see what is to come.
We and all our deeds are like Grains of sand in the Seas. Really, I think we individually mean very little in the passing of the ages. So what does it matter? Only that now there lives a dream of fairness, a dream of beauty for all people. The true Christians have a beautiful dream as well; the words of Wisdom and Love from their Teacher and King. We, Arthur’s people, mostly are believers in the old ways – of the Old Gods – of honour and respect for our Ancestors, our brothers and sisters of “Tree and Bone, of Spring and Stone, of feather and fur and all who creep.” All our dreams and beliefs, our Kingdoms and Tribes – our worlds even – are no more or less than Grains of sand or particles of dust.
It is my own wish too, that the old ways and the Old Gods will be remembered. That, whenever there is need for a new dream and the Time is right, a new King, – a Summer King or Summer Queen – will again arise.
These are my Loves, my sorrows, and my hopes. They are the only things of any true importance in my life.
Morgan, perhaps towards the end of this life I will write of the endings – which I have already ‘Seen.’
I mean no disrespect to your dream of true histories, Morgan. Perhaps my inability to express feelings with quill upon vellum will confuse you as to my true meaning – however it is only that I believe that the Time of wonder is now. So I will honour our dream, now, in this life – for it is a good and worthy dream.
I will say this one more thing – I well know those who have given their histories to you, and I absolutely hold faith in their complete honesty. So by my word of honour I support and recommend them and their words to who-so-ever reads them.
May you, Morgan, live each hour you are given to its richest fulfillment.
Bedwyr, Arthur’s man
PART FOUR
The Final Conflicts
Chapter 35
Growing Threats
Lady Vivianne
And so, AIXIA had Spun her gossamer threads and we all were set in our places and Time.
Word reached me that Hengist had died. But his Saxon Kingdom on our Eastern shores was well established – flourishing and growing. Other Tribes of the Horse, Wolf and Boar people – the Saxons, Angles, and Jutes – were slowly migrating to join Hengist’s lands, albeit peacefully so far, and so stealthily that they were hardly noticed until one blinked and saw their spreading.
We heard that Hengist died with a sword in his hand and all rejoiced that he was now in Paradise – feasting, drinking, and enjoying his women. They had not sent a flaming boat out to Sea with his body and funerary goods in it. They had chosen to put his corpse, his crown, personal treasures, armour, sword and shields in a great boat and buried the lot on the land he had won and had been given by Vortigern.
So then – he is forever a part of us.
Lucian came often to our Isle of Apples to visit with Morgan of whom he is very fond. I read more than friendship in his eyes when he looks at her. I had seen it from that first Day – now so long ago – when he and Arthur battled. He had bowed to Morgan with his flirtatious smile and given to her a piece torn from his tunic. The light of desire that I saw upon that Day still shines. But Lucian, knowing of the Love that Arthur bears for Morgan, has never spoken of his feelings to anyone. A good man is he, loyal to his King and friend.
Funny how the Human heart is; although I truly believe that Lucian never allowed himself feelings of jealousy toward Arthur over Morgan, it was not that way regarding Arthur’s Love for Bedwyr. Bedwyr was so protective and possessive of Arthur, always having to be first of his men. This, of course, always kept a thin wall between Bedwyr and Lucian. Both men, in small and not too obvious ways, were always competing for Arthur’s Love and attention. Of course, Lucian had to have known that Arthur and
Bedwyr were as close as twins, for blood aside, they were. But next to Bedwyr, I think Arthur favored Lucian above all of his other companions.
Now Lucian has grown from the seventeen year old boy-man I first met to a self-composed, dignified, intelligent, and cool-tempered man. He is loyal and honourable way beyond the measure of most folk. Only when it comes to competing for Arthur’s attention do I always see the boy again in him.
I do not include Gwyddion into these comparisons, for he was as a Father and more to both of his boys.
There is one more thing about Lucian. I read in his hand and eyes a very long life. Also I know he has a part to play in some great journey. But this, I think, will be beyond my earthly life.
I believe that I am beyond my sixty-third year-turn now. Sometimes I forget things, so I am not sure. I also have pains in my knees and hands and sometimes in my back as well. I do not complain for it is just old age. I have, long ago, chosen Morgan to replace me as Lady of the Lake upon my Death, whether she has already become one of the Nine Wise Mothers or not, by then. She can always replace me on our council at the Time of my Death if none of the others cross the Veil before me.
In all things but name, Morgan is already acting High Priestess, for I tire so easily. But our tradition says I must remain the Lady of the Lake until my Death. All will be ready for Morgan to take over at that Time.
I am very happy in my old age. My true daughter, Nimue, has lately returned to live at our Order with her lover – Gwyddion! They say they have come here for just a while to refresh their Spirits and bodies. But I know they have come for my benefit – to help me as they can, while I live. She, of course, wants no Priestly duties here – as she follows her own path. That is just fine. I am so pleased for her. How wonderfully strange the workings of the Fates are.
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