by Ilka Tampke
Admiring her own beauty in the bronze mirror, she caught my eye in the reflection. ‘You run the fires also tonight, do you not?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like me to colour your lips?’
I nodded and crouched beside her.
Her fingertips were cool as she patted powdery roan across my mouth and cheeks. Then she feathered a small juice-soaked brush over my eyebrows and dabbed rose oil at my temple and throat.
‘There,’ she said, handing me the mirror. ‘Does it please you?’
My eyes widened in the mirror. The colours made them sparkle and had turned my lips to petals. My tinted cheeks tempered my jaw, drawing my face into perfect alignment. I was beautiful.
Fraid, too, seemed astonished. She looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. ‘I may have chosen the First Maiden this morning, but it seems the Mothers have chosen you.’ She laughed.
She asked for rose oil to be rubbed into her arms and shoulders so they would gleam in the firelight. As I stroked her skin, I marvelled at how it was just like my own: warm, alive, pale from the winter sun. It held her as mine held me, and wept blood when cut, as mine did also. Our skin was the same. Yet hers had a name and mine had none.
After admiring my face, Bebin brushed my unruly hair and wove the crimson ribbon down its full length as I kneeled on the floorskins before her. I could hear the distant shouts of the men dragging the last of the branches up to the bonfires on Sister Hill. Ianna and Cah were already dressed and readied, waiting outside, watching the Beltane moon rise.
Cookmother groaned, struggling to feed the buck by the fire. She grew more and more impatient, guiding its whiskery mouth to her nipple. ‘By Mothers, there’s scarcely a drop left in these useless sacks,’ she muttered, kneading her breast. ‘I’m too old for this. Bebin, you need to start breeding so I can be free of this cursed nursing.’ She would feed the buck until it was strong enough to be given back to the forest. When the hunt took a feeding mother, this was what we had to do.
Cah’s face burst through the doorskins. ‘Come!’ she called. ‘It will be over before we leave.’
Bebin squeezed my shoulders. ‘Let’s away.’
‘I’ll catch up,’ I said, rising. ‘I want to settle the buck first.’
‘Butter heart!’ She shook her head. ‘Be quick at least.’
Milk bubbled from the buck’s nostrils when he had drunk his fill and Cookmother put him down on the floor with a thud. ‘It’ll stink of deer shit in the morning,’ she muttered, getting up.
I fashioned the tiny deer a nest of straw in my own bedskins and cradled him into it. He quivered at my touch. ‘Hush, youngling,’ I cooed. ‘You’re safe here.’
I stared at his dewy face, the whisper of spots across his back, and wondered at the wash of love that rose in my chest. Was this skin love? Was this my kin? I had grown on deer country. Surely my kin could not be far from here. But no one had claimed me. It was said that those without skin were still seeking their souls. I took a deep breath as I stroked the creature’s knobby spine. If I was without a soul, what was it that heaved and thrashed within me?
Neha approached, sniffed the buck, and flopped down beside it.
‘That’s it, girl. You watch him for me.’ I stood to leave.
Cookmother was poking inside the rosewood chest where her most precious oils and powders were kept. She pulled out a tiny leather pouch and brought it to me, pressing it into my hand. ‘I meant this for your next birthday,’ she said. ‘But every maiden needs a threshold gift on her first Beltane, so take it now.’
Inside the pouch was a gold pin in the shape of a fish. I shook it out into my palm, then fastened it to the front of my new yellow dress.
She crushed me with her embrace and I breathed in the warm, sour smell that had swathed me all my childhood. ‘Let me take the red ribbon out and thread a blue so you can sleep in peace another summer,’ she whispered. ‘Men’s hunger is like a dog’s—always sharp.’
‘Leave it so. I am ready.’
5
Sacred Love
Through sacred love the fields are made fertile.
Through sacred love we are freed from famine.
Through sacred love the world is renewed.
I WALKED THE torch-lined path to Sister Hill with Bebin, Ianna and Cah. The moon hung fat and low in the eastern sky, teasing a honey fragrance from the elder blossoms that brushed our shoulders as we passed. We all wore dresses of yellow and orange, and our hair ribbons whipped in the wind. Laughter trailed down the hillside and the air felt ripe with magic.
Cah pulled a flask from her belt pocket and took a long swig.
‘Ay, Cah, do you not want steady wits for the rite?’ said Bebin.
‘Surely it is a night to abandon steady wits?’ She offered it around but we refused. ‘Mind you are not chosen by Fec, Ailia. He is as ugly as a boar and carries contagion, I am told.’
‘Cah!’ chided Ianna.
‘Well, it’s true. I see you smile.’
‘You’ll not have Fec,’ whispered Bebin into my ear. ‘It will be a noble match for you this night.’
As we neared the crest, the unlit woodpiles reared like two beasts silhouetted against the western sky. Circled around them were the journeymen and -women, chanting purifications for the flames to come. Tribespeople milled around the poles set for the dance. Men had worked for three days to dig holes deep enough to hold the trunks upright. Eleven had already been positioned. The raising of the twelfth would commence the rite.
At the pole-bearer’s cry, we all surged back, making space for the men to bring the trunk. It was a grown oak, freshly felled, its skin smoothed to a silk sheen and wound tight with twelve ribbons along its length. It took ten men to manoeuvre it over the final hole, shuffling forwards then back until they were in place.
‘Down!’ came the call and the pole rose skyward. Tribeswomen packed the base with dirt so it stood as firm and straight as the others. I craned my neck to see them all: stretching from earth to sky, the ribbons like water, swirling about them.
A drum strike began. It was time to dance. The crowd fanned open to form a circle.
Instinctively, I moved to the back. Already the music was coiling around me and I was swaying and treading with its pulse. There was little my bones loved more than to dance.
‘Come!’ Bebin tugged my hand. ‘It’s your threshold year—you must dance at the poles.’
‘No,’ I said, horrified. ‘I am not permitted.’
She grabbed both my shoulders, thrusting her face close to mine. ‘Ailia, you are true and whole and you love the Mothers more than any I know. Come and dance. No one will protest it this night. The Mothers know your heart—’
‘Wait—’ But she was pulling me into the centre.
There were twelve maidens to a pole. We each caught a dangling ribbon and began to walk. The weight of so many eyes upon me was crippling, but I listened to the drumbeat and forced myself forward.
A second, faster rhythm began, counter to the first, and this was our call to start the steps: a fast-moving pattern of footwork, twisting one leg behind the other. I watched Bebin ahead of me, her hips and shoulders rolling smoothly. The ritual was deep in her body and she wove its spell effortlessly.
The tribespeople began to sing and the drums gathered pace. My feet kicked up dirt as I danced. Panting, I kept my eyes fixed on Bebin, her hair sailing behind her. Faces blurred as they flew by. The drums become faster, the chant yet louder. Soon I was sweating, heat pouring through me. My chest cried to stop but I danced faster and harder.
Now I felt the magic we pounded in the dirt. Now I felt the power of the dance to wake the Mothers from their winter sleep. Now it was no longer a dance, no longer twelve maidens. It was a wheel wrought of our bodies and as it turned I was flooded with an intense joy. I ran and ran until I was no longer there. There was earth and sky and the poles that bridged them but I, Ailia, had melted away and there was only the da
nce. Only the wheel.
A voice was raised in a mighty call and the drumbeat ceased.
We stopped, breath ragged. The fires were to be lit. I hurried back into the crowd, my heart still hammering.
Llwyd stood between the two woodpiles, arms raised. We fell silent to hear him speak. ‘Our earthly world—our hardworld—is a place of wildness,’ he began. ‘The forces of chaos run through its veins. They are our breath and our devastation.’
The crowd gave a rumbling cheer.
‘By our knowledge—by skin—we are aligned to these forces. Yet we know in our souls they can never be harnessed. The wildness is stronger than us and we are always subject to its mystery and power.’
Voices began to swell.
‘This night, beloved people of Summer, we kindle the fires that will cleanse our cattle, seed the belly of our earth, and bless our souls. Then—’ he paused for a moment, ‘—let the forces of chaos run free!’
The crowd erupted into cheers. Two lesser journeymen approached, bearing burning sticks. Over stamping and shouting, they called the final incantations to the Mothers and the towering woodpiles were ignited.
Fire surged upward into the indigo sky. I watched, motionless, staring at the flames, my cheeks smarting with heat. I had been separated from Bebin and forced back to the edge of the gathering. But as I looked out over the grainfields, pastures and forests that stretched beneath the hill and the magnificent rise of Cad beside it, my heart brimmed again with the gladness I felt in the dance. All my people were here around me, rejoicing in the land that held us. All we could ever want was given to us. For this moment, the ache for skin was gone, healed in the love and warmth of the fire.
There were shouts and we scrabbled to make way as two white bulls were driven toward the flames. They stalled at the mouth of the firepath, bellowing in fear, eyes rolling and muscles twitching.
Llwyd called their blessing, and they were forced, galloping, through, burning sticks at their rumps. The crowd roared.
Now the farmers were herding all of Cad’s cattle up the hillside. The air was filled with their screams and the smell of their terror as they, too, were run through the flames and onto the safety of their summer pastures.
When the animals had been purified, Fraid called forth the First Maiden. I pushed my way forward to see her. A deerskin cloaked her naked, painted body, and beneath her antler crown, the mask of the doe covered her face. None could see who had been chosen. She was the earth now, a Mother.
The drums began again and the young men of Summer formed a line before her as she walked the length of them. They stood tall and bare-chested, baring their teeth and making animal cries to attract her attention.
We all swayed and stamped as we waited for the Mother to make her match. From the corner of my eye I noticed Ruther, standing well back from the line, and I wondered why he, of all the young men, would not contest this honour. Finally the Maiden held her hand out to Juc, the newest of the warrior initiates. He dropped to his knees to accept her and then together they ran through the fires to the crowd’s screams of excitement.
Now all were free to run the fires. The threshold maidens were brought forward first and Llwyd called blessings on their wombs as they entered the flames. Young men raced to the other side to meet them when they emerged.
Tribespeople were dancing furiously, drunk on the fireheat. Maiden and knave were writhing in pairs, then racing down the hillside or coupling right there by the fire.
I hovered at the edges and saw Bebin bounding away with Uaine. Ianna and Cah were nowhere to be seen. I turned back to the fires. They were why I had come.
When all the tribespeople had run and only those without skin remained, it was my turn. I walked to the threshold. Once I had run through this passage of fire, I would be something other. Something new.
The heat was searing. It pushed me back, yet I forced myself forward.
‘Run! Run!’ chanted the few who awaited their turn.
I ran. Embers blistered my feet and stung my eyes, but I pushed on blindly. The passage went on and on. The heat was too great. I stopped, panicked. Were the fires collapsing? There was no way forward. I cried out, my voice drowned in the roar of the flames. How had others endured this torment? Every part of me commanded me to turn back, but I kept going. There was a final, unbearable surge of heat. My bones softened like iron in a forge, then I burst out the other side into the cool night. I had done it. I was through.
I beat out the sparks smouldering on my dress and looked around, unable to wipe the smile from my face.
‘Found you!’ Ruther was at my side.
I threw my arms around him, unexpectedly happy to see him, then screamed with laughter as he scooped me up and began to run. With my height, I was no easy load, and he staggered as we careered down the hill. I could not stop laughing with his every clumsy step.
Where the hill met the flatland he set me down and we fell to the grass, panting as our laughter faded. Out of the fire-warmth, it was dark and cold. I could not make out his features as he took my face in his hands.
‘Do you accept me?’ His voice was hoarse from chanting.
‘Ruther, I am unskinned.’
‘I follow the laws of my own judgment, Doorstep. Do you?
‘Don’t call me so!’
He pulled me closer. ‘Will you take me?’
His hips were hard against mine. My singed skin howled for his touch. ‘I will.’
His mouth descended and I startled at its strange, serpent softness and its taste of ale.
We stood and walked a short way to the shelter of a fennel bank. Then, with the crackle of fire masking my sharp cries of pain and pleasure, and the cool grass beneath my back, the doings of a man and a woman were made known to me.
We slept entwined, part-hidden under the fennel. I awakened with the starlings’ cry. In the rosy light I watched Ruther’s face: his smooth, broad cheeks and lips half smiling, even in sleep. The thick muscles of his chest and shoulders were slack. There was so much force in him, yet last night he had been gentle.
His eyes flickered open and he seemed to take a moment to remember where he was. ‘Tidings,’ he croaked.
‘And to you.’
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘You will not be called Doorstep and I do not remember your true name.’
I could not help but laugh. ‘What if I were a nobleman’s daughter?’
‘But you are not.’ He stared at me through bleary eyes. ‘You’re of the groves, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ I said, frowning at his forgetfulness. ‘I am of the Tribequeen’s kitchen.’
‘A kitchen girl! I have chosen highly.’
I lowered my eyes and rubbed off the ash smeared on my legs.
He sat up and pulled the leather tie from his hair, scratching it loose. ‘I’d have picked you for an initiate, though. There’s a presence about you—’ He reached for me, snuffling my neck like a boar. ‘You are beguiling.’
I smiled. ‘The fires beguiled you.’
‘No,’ he said, pulling me close, ‘it’s you.’ His kiss tasted bitter and stale, but he was so assured in his want of me, and so splendid behind the creases of sleep, that I had to return it.
‘What have you done?’ He held my face between his warm hands. ‘You’re fine-faced—true—but so are many women…’ He frowned and drew back his head. ‘Have you charmed me this night?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Why would I have wish or knowledge to charm you?’
He stared hard at me. ‘Then, by the Mothers, I am caught,’ he declared. ‘By a kitchen girl. And without skin!’ He laughed in disbelief.
‘You’re not caught,’ I said, annoyed. ‘We are fire lovers, nothing more. Have no fear.’
He offered me his water pouch before taking a long draft himself. Around us people were rising and wandering back to the township. Ruther stood and took a long piss against a tree.
‘Mule!’ I laughed.
When he sat back down he stare
d at me again. Neither smoke nor little sleep had dimmed the blue of his eyes. ‘Woman, I speak in truth.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I know not what magic was worked last night, but there is a force in you that has disarmed me entirely. I am here for only one more day before I ride the trade routes again. Will you join me at the feast today?’
‘I will be serving—’
‘Then tonight?’ he pressed.
There was something of the child in his demand and it did not kindle my affection. ‘If I am free.’
He reached for a last embrace and laid his head upon my chest. My thoughts spun as I looked out over the fields of Cad, Ruther cradled like a babe in my arms. He lifted his head. ‘Would you remind me of your cursed name?’
I laughed. ‘Seek it for yourself, if you are so persuaded!’ I stood up, brushing the twigs from my skirts, and bade him farewell.
Cah spoke of feeling weakened by the doings of a man. But I felt strengthened as I walked back to Cad, as if I had a new part to myself.
‘At last,’ said Cookmother as I walked through the door. She handed me a cup of warm goat’s milk. Bebin and Ianna had also returned. We awaited only Cah before we would go to the river to scrub the ash from our faces and smoke from our hair.
Over porridge and milk we shared our night’s stories. Ianna squealed when I told them of Ruther, but Bebin and Cookmother were silent.
‘Cah had Fec,’ said Bebin.
‘Fec?’ said Ianna. ‘But she said—’
‘Hush,’ chided Bebin, as the doorskins were pushed open.
Cah walked in without greeting, dark shadows ringing her eyes.
‘Come, Cah.’ Ianna leaped to her feet. ‘We’ve been waiting. We have to bathe before—’
‘Stop clucking,’ groaned Cah, but she gathered her soaps and brushes without further complaint.
‘Ailia,’ Cookmother called as we were walking out the door.
I turned around, though I knew what she would say.
