The Lyre Dancers

by Mandy Haggith

  There is a bang on the door, and a full-throated female voice I don’t recognise. ‘Greetings sisters!’

  Pushing her way into the broch is a woman in a huge white fur coat, with a black leather patch over one eye. She stands in the entrance with both hands on her hips. ‘I thought I’d find something happening here if I came for the solstice.’ Her voice is deep and smooth but the face it is coming out of is hideous, and the combination makes me shudder. I know immediately who this must be, and I watch, fascinated, as she looks around her.

  ‘You’re not welcome, Ussa.’ Danuta says.

  The Wren pushes herself to her feet with surprising force and steps towards Ussa, her hands out in front of her, fingers making a little gesture of riddance with each step.

  As if she’s surprised but unable to help herself, the big woman takes a shuffle back, and then another until she bumps against the door.

  The Wren keeps on towards her, saying nothing.

  Ussa’s gaze settles on me. ‘I know who you are.’ She points at me. ‘I’m watching, you see. I know things.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ Danuta is completely calm.

  The Wren is almost touching her, fingers flicking.

  Ussa backs around the door, turns and ducks out. She is gone.

  The Wren makes a final waft with her fingers, then returns to her seat, sits down and sighs deeply, before turning to Danuta and carrying on talking as if she has done nothing more serious than put a wasp out of the house. I find I am trembling, so make myself busy at the hearth.

  In the morning I am initiated. Eilidh puts a wreath of summer flowers on my head and I dance the Moon Dance with the Sisterhood in the solstice ceremony for the first time that white night. I can’t reveal anything about it of course, but it is wonderful, pure, wild magic. I emerge the next day feeling like a butterfly after a long pupation.

  Before she leaves, The Wren draws me aside and speaks gravely to me. ‘Danuta will not be long for this world. Take care of her for us all.’ She gives me some special herbs to put in her mead if she seems to be suffering.

  Too soon, Danuta, Buia, Donnag and I are waving the women goodbye. There’s a light easterly breeze that is perfect for their crossing, and although it’s cloudy, I feel as though the radiance they have left me with could outshine the sun. When their boat is no more than a fleck on the horizon, I turn to the broch. It too has changed over the past two days. It is my home. I find myself thinking of Rona, wondering how she is getting on in her new place and whether the broch she is living in feels like home to her. I hope one day she will visit me here, and I wonder how I will make her feel welcome.

  RONA

  RONA AND EADHA

  My name is Rona and in time I will show that I am capable of great things. My man, Eadha, too. Ever since we first met at that distant cousin’s handfasting, I knew he was the one for me and that we would be marvelous together. And we will be.

  Today, we have come to Brigid’s Cave to spend time with the priestess, Ishbel, learning the Lyre Dance. No one has danced it for generations. It has become merely legendary. We shall revive it, so it can be wonderful again.

  It is so exciting! The right place, the right time, the right everything: blood, age, partner, teacher. It is as if everything has been waiting for this moment. We shall dance the world to happiness.

  It is my destiny to come to live here on the Winged Isle and bring the dance back to life. It has been a month now since our handfasting and I don’t miss Mother and Soyea one bit. Not even Father. Sometimes I feel a bit lost, not really knowing anyone here very well, but I have Eadha now and he’s better than all of them put together. I chose him because, like me, he is not happy with humdrum existence. He is willing to strive. He seeks a better future and sees that we must work for it.

  How the lyre shines in the lamp light! Its wood gleams, the strings shimmer and the sound it makes is like starlight and moonbeams reflected on flowing water. It makes your blood ripple inside your veins and waves crash in your heart. It really is the music of love. It is impossible not to be moved by it. It is impossible not to move to it.

  Ishbel plays like a goddess. We follow all of her instructions to the letter. I am not allowed to tell anyone else what we do. So much of what we are learning is secret.

  First we bathe in the dome tent getting fresh, our skin softened by steam. Ishbel gives us a blade and I carefully scrape Eadha’s beard away. I only cut him once, a little bit under his ear, and he says it doesn’t hurt. The sensation of the blade on his face is so intense: the smoothness of his skin under my fingers; the curve of his chin, his cheekbones, his lips; the weight of his head in my hands. Our longing to hold each other is almost unbearable, but we know that we are cleansing ourselves for the ceremony and that we must hold apart from each other. I cut his hair to a curve around his neck and it curls so much more now than it did when it was longer. He looks magnificent now. You can see his cheeks and his beautiful mouth. I can’t stop kissing that mouth. Each time I catch sight of it, I want to reach for it, touch it with my own.

  After I shave him, he plaits my hair. All these tender things we have to do to prepare – it is heavenly and excruciating, holding back from what we really want to be doing with each other. But Ishbel is watching, or if not actually here all the time, we know she could come in at any moment, and she is very clear in her instructions that we must abstain from what she calls ‘any intimate caresses’. And we are obedient. We both want to do this so much.

  That’s what I love about him most, the way he shares the passion for this ritual. I think he is perhaps even stronger in his belief of what it all means than I am. He has thought about it more deeply, over years and years. He and Ishbel have talked about it forever. I hear them sometimes and wonder if it matters that I do not have this knowledge. She says it doesn’t. She says I have other wisdom, and what I bring is an instinct for the music. That feels right. I do not dance with my mind. I sometimes sense Eadha thinking too hard and allowing his analysis to get in the way of his body. Whereas with me, the rhythm is everything and I cease to care what any of it means. But of course I do care. I care with all my heart and I can give it all my heart because I am dancing with him, who has all of my heart anyway. I am not making sense, perhaps, but I hope you know what I mean.

  We giggle about it as we dress, the way we are so desperate to touch each other, yet must cover up our skin in our costumes, denying ourselves and each other, for the sake of the dance. He looks so gorgeous in the leather jerkin, his bare arms and upper chest muscles somehow accentuated by its lines, the shape of his legs, buttocks, groin, smoothed and held by the tight hide. He says the same of me. The leather dress is like a second skin. I can feel how it makes my movements lithe and smooth. I love the way the straps on my legs stretch and flex as the muscles work. There is more of the costume to come, Ishbel says. Horns for our heads, once we have learned to make the movements properly and built up the strength in our necks to carry them. It is all getting so exciting. Each day we learn a little more, practise harder, make progress towards the day we will be ready for the ceremony.

  And of course, after we have practised and eaten and changed back into normal clothes and set off home, alone, together, we can’t keep our hands off each other. We can’t wait for a right time, can’t bear the prospect of arriving back home, having to be civil to Eadha’s mother, listen to her sickly moaning and groaning, talk to whoever may have called in. There is always someone staying and it isn’t seemly to rush straight off to bed and even then we have to trap the wild noises of love inside because there is embarrassment about being heard.

  So we stop in the woods, lay coats down under a birch tree and allow our bodies to do what they need. We are like a single animal, our instincts and rhythms seem to be so perfectly attuned, and when we join our bodies together we seem to move into some spirit realm. Surely no two people have ever been so perfectly in love, so blessed. We are able to touch something entirely divine when we fuse. He makes me feel
so alive, so vibrant, so beautiful. It’s a level of ecstasy I am certain no one can ever have felt before. That’s why we are so right for the ritual. We will channel love into the earth so powerfully that nothing will ever be able to fail again. Ishbel says I shouldn’t make claims like this, that we are just two leaves on the tree of life, but I know that we are not just any two leaves. We’re the golden ones. We’re the seed from which something perfect and beautiful will grow.

  When I try to express this to Ishbel, she says, ‘Watch such pride, lest it fell you.’ So I am careful where I put my feet, and make sure not to lose my balance.

  When we get home there are no visitors after all, and Cuilc is happy to see us home safely, smiling at what we tell her about the dance. Obviously we just reveal a fraction, none of the secret parts. She seems proud of what we are doing. Of course, she finds something to complain about: mice in the rafters keeping her awake at night, eating holes in the roof. We promise to go and find a cat tomorrow. Someone is bound to have some kittens. It will be a lovely thing to do.

  After Cuilc goes to bed, I drink my foul tea, which Ishbel says will stop me getting pregnant before the ritual. It seems to have worked so far: I bled last week. I’m pleased. I don’t want a squalling baby sucking at my breasts, keeping me awake at night, hanging on my back all day or crawling around my feet, like Mother had at my age. I don’t want anything to get between Eadha and me. We are complete together already. There is no room for a child.

  Cuilc’s right. I can hear the mice scratching up there, and squeaking. But I think I am tired enough to sleep anyway, and if not, Eadha will take my mind off everything. Even if he’s snoring, I know the touches that will have him awake again in no time.

  Eadha says we must treasure this time, for it may not last, but I love to dream of the future. He says if we hanker after harvest when the seed is being sown in spring soil, then we may go hungry later. We must watch for weeds, he says. He talks of the dangers of pride. I don’t altogether understand him.

  But when I say, ‘let’s dance,’ he agrees, and when I say ‘let’s swim,’ he agrees, and when I say ‘let’s learn the mysteries and always live by the wisdom of the priestesses and druids,’ he agrees and kisses me and I know I am blessed to have found him.

  This morning we walk early, just because it is a perfect day: quiet, almost windless, just a ruffle of breeze to stroke your skin and shimmer the surface of the loch. We stroll hand in hand along the shore path, down over the stream where they built the little stone bridge last winter, and up through the woods. We step from one sun-dappled spot to another, stopping often just to kiss.

  Our walk takes us up onto the ridge where we can look out to sea. It is a sheen of fabric for a fairy queen, with a gemstone necklace of islands. If I could wear clothes made of the colours and textures of this place on a day like today, I would be happier than a lamb. As it is, I have Eadha, who makes me feel like I am dressed in the most glamorous outfit even when I have thrown on my raggiest dress.

  This island is the most beautiful place I have ever known. I’m sure I’ll never tire of exploring it. Every day the light is different and there are so many colours and textures on the hills. And what hills! On today’s summit we practise the dance. Our necks are getting strong. Soon we will be able to try it wearing the horned headdresses, Ishbel says.

  In the evening, she comes to the broch with her lyre. Aonghas, one of Cuilc’s cousins, has sailed over from Rum. A few others come round and Cuilc cooks up a delicious sauce of fresh herbs to eat with trout that someone caught from one of the mountain lochs. I’m a bit nervous about what to say to all these strangers, so I concentrate on making bannocks. I hate cooking, but I can do bannocks reliably enough and hungry people are always grateful for them. I bake a huge quantity to make up for not cooking otherwise. Cuilc grumbles at me for using up the flour and goes on about how short we are running on grain, but it’s getting mealy and it needs using up, and a big batch means I won’t have to make more again for a while. Cuilc says the more I make the more people eat. So what? If we’re generous, others are generous back. Just look at the fish. If we weren’t known as a house where food is shared with open hands, those fish would have been taken elsewhere. Cuilc likes to claim it’s her tasty sauces and pickles that draw folk in with meat. Eadha tells us we’re both right – ever the diplomat.

  After we’ve eaten, Ishbel plays her lyre and Eadha gets out his drum – how different it is from the Cave Music! I had forgotten how good it is to dance a jig and sing the simple songs. I could sing all night.

  Tomorrow morning they will all leave. Cuilc is going with Aonghas to see his wife, who is sick. Cuilc isn’t well herself, but she is enjoying herself so much, dancing and singing, so when Aonghas suggests she return with him she allows herself to be persuaded. Ishbel has given her some herbs to take and we encourage her to go, telling her it will do her good to see some other people. She is old, and she needs to see her oldest friends. But mostly we’re pressing her to join them because it means we will be alone!

  RIAN

  SAILING NORTH

  Rian’s place on Bradan was beside the helm. If they ever needed to tack, she took the mainsheet through to the other side of the boat and fastened it there, while Kino, Badger and Fin did the heavy work at the mast and the bow, and Manigan had the tiller. She had her manoeuvre down to a slick, relaxed set of movements. Most of the time they didn’t need to change course so she could simply look around at the huge, empty expanse of the northern ocean.

  Manigan was attentive to her, and she had never been so happy, afloat in this dreamscape with time to listen to his stories. She was well wrapped up against the cold, though it was really not as cold as she had expected. In any case, no amount of chill would have perturbed her. The open sea was so beautiful. There was no land to be seen anywhere, no other vessels, nothing but their little boat and the infinite ocean.

  Was it infinite? She didn’t know but she wanted to believe so. And if the ocean itself was not, it blended and mixed with the sky, which surely was.

  Beside her, Manigan was ‘muttering on as usual’, as he put it. He always had a tale to tell and she finally had the chance to be there, prompting him. She didn’t need to know what would happen in the end, she just liked the sound of his voice. And here she could really attend to the telling of the story, accompanying him on his journey inside the tale, with grunts and nods and little questions about what he thought something meant or an observation of how it linked to real life.

  The tale of the sea horse finished, and she laughed and he fell silent. For a while there was only the hush and fizz of waves and wake.

  She looked round at him. His hair was greying but his face was still that of the only man she had ever wanted to touch. He was gazing out to the west, where the satin surface of shimmering ripples met the grey lightness of sky.

  ‘Will we ever reach the edge?’ she said.

  He bent forward and kissed her. ‘Rian, you speak so little, but when you do it is a kind of poetry. Look out there.’ He gestured out to the horizon. ‘Is that the edge? Is that what you mean? What a beautiful question. I don’t really believe in it as an edge, no more than I believe that you and I are separate. There is ocean and there is sky, but there is no line where one stops and the other begins. There is a space where they merge. We can be aware of it sometimes, like when a tempest or a storm makes them blend in chaos or when stillness settles, mist rises and sky falls. But I’ve come to realise that the horizon is always an illusion. I have spent half my life sailing towards it and sailing away from it and the forwards direction never took me any closer and the retreat never found me any further away.

  ‘So yes, it looks like a line but it’s not really an edge. The sea is a body and the sky is a body and between them is a plane of touching. All over that surface of the sea, all over, the sky is reaching in and the ocean is reaching out. See its ripples, even in such calm as this; it is reaching, pushing itself up, while the sky is stroking it
, kissing it, rubbing itself over the skin. The sea reveals the sky to itself, reflecting it back, playing with its light. What lovers they are, what passion they have for each other, what a love it is to witness. And just as when our skin touches, we are no longer separate, we have no edges, our breath, our pulse, our soul is shared, it’s the same thing with them. We only see the horizon as a line of separation because we cannot really imagine a joining of such vastness, such perfection.’

  She thought about this for a while, then said, ‘Pytheas believed we live on a ball. He tried to explain it to me once.’

  ‘Did that man think he was one of the gods, to be able to see the whole world and know its shape?’

  She breathed out slowly. They never spoke about Pytheas because of Cleat, it was too upsetting. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘He thought he was a superior body. He gave that impression anyway.’

  ‘He was in awe of you. He said there are three kinds of people in this world: the living, the dead and the mariners. He thought you were a spirit man.’

  ‘Rian, there was only one reason he was interested in me and that was because ivory was worth something to him. He had the same greedy glint in his eye as the rest of the traders. No object really means anything to those people, they just see it for what they can get for it.’

  ‘Is that why you hated him so much?’

  He sniffed and tossed his head. ‘You know exactly what my problem with him was. He took Cleat and never brought him back. He stole your son – the only son I had. What is the Mutterer to do without a son? I love you Rian, I have never loved another the way I have loved you. But you have only given me Rona. I say “only”, and that is cruel. Rona is my most precious, my songbird child. I adore her pretty little soul. But I need a son. I cannot train her to kill, I cannot teach her the wisdom of the oceans, I cannot pass on the Muttering to her, not that she’d want it.’