“What’s that?” said Eira in a tone that made us all jump.
Off to our right, far away, we could see a light move. It appeared and disappeared, making a shaky progress northward.
“Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Jesus and Mary and all the saints,” said Signy. “It’s the eastern bank. We’re close.”
Just then a crack, like a rifle shot went off.
“Spread out,” said Håkan, “that’s the ice cracking.”
Myrna
Alexandria – about 380 CE
Myrna smiled as the young girls danced around the fountain. They whirled and twirled so gracefully, so full of life and giggles. Even though a winter chill lingered in the air, the sun shone brightly on the far side of the courtyard, picking out the starry whiteness of the jasmine that climbed part of the inner wall. The girls moved in and out of the sunshine, clapping their hands and spinning on the spot, dipping and rising just as they had been taught by the Lady.
Cat watched them from a patch of sunshine under the jasmine bush. Her yellow eyes switched from one to another, and the silver ring in Cat’s ear twinkled in the bright light. She raised a paw and delicately but purposefully washed her nose.
“That’s enough,” said Anastasia, flicking her long wavy black hair from her eyes and stretching her arms high above her head. “I need to breathe.”
Nysa, the slimmest of the three, settled herself on a part of the low stone wall of the fish pond that had not been soaked with spray from the fountain.
Devorah, the young lady of the house, turned and shouted, “Drinks, Myrna, we’re completely parched!”
She’s imperious, that one, thought Myrna, but underneath she’s kind, and so very clever.
“Yes please, Myrna,” added Nysa, always careful to be polite.
Myrna put her hands on her hips and sighed. The stub of her tongue ached today and she moved it against the sharper part of her back teeth. That gave a little solace. She focused her attention on Nysa. Something had changed. She had danced with a precision that escaped the other girls and her movements had the supple fluidity of a gazelle. Myrna closed her eyes and looked. Nysa’s colours had expanded. A new and deeper blue played delicately around her neck. Myrna nodded to herself. As I thought. This one can Hear. Now I understand what the Lady meant. ‘She is the bridge’.
Someone clapped their hands. “Really!” said Devorah, “we’re actually dying of thirst here Myrna, and you’re in a dream.”
Myrna opened her eyes and slowly moved her hands from her hips. Nysa frowned and whispered something to Devorah, who compressed her lips and turned to stare into the fishpond.
Minutes later the girls had drunk their weak beers and bolted down honey cakes. They were licking their fingers and giggling again. Myrna, sitting on a stone bench in the deepest shade in the courtyard, pulled her woollen shawl closer around her shoulders. The sweetness of the honey stuck to her teeth and she sucked at them and loosened a flake of sugary crust with her fingers. Across the deep blue of the sky a cluster of white birds appeared above the roof, nearly cleared the whole distance and then wheeled as one, flying right over where Myrna sat. A sign?
Over the past few nights she’d heard her mother’s voice quite distinctly. Her mother, dead these twenty years or more. Her mother, who’d taught her to read and write and assured her of the reality of the Old Gods whom Myrna sensed even as a child. Speak with her, her mother had said, it is time she learns the inner voice. At first Myrna had thought her mother meant Devorah. Certainly she served the young Jewish girl, although she belonged to the girl’s father. But now, seeing the play of those delicate colours at the throat of the pagan Nysa, she concluded it was this girl who had awakened the old gift, the gift of hearing. The three young friends now sat on the stone bench across the courtyard from Myrna, their faces turned towards the warmth of the sun, their eyes closed, the gentling effect of the honey having done its work.
Myrna closed her eyes once more and focused again on Nysa. She held the young girl’s image, with her brown eyes and pensive mouth, hovering before her. She delicately wove a cord of light between her solar plexus and that of the girl relaxing on the far side of the courtyard. She projected in words that were more than words the thought, ‘Listen, Nysa, and do not speak. Stand. Move towards the fountain.’
She waited three full, slow breaths and then repeated the message. She sensed a responding thought, chaotic, but there. Opening her eyes once more Myrna found Nysa standing just to the right of the fountain. All colour had drained from her face. She looked around the courtyard as though seeking someone and then her eyes came to rest on Myrna, who nodded slowly to her and impelled the words ‘You can Hear. It is a gift. Keep it secret. Use it wisely.’
Nysa sat once more on the edge of the fountain. She looked up at the sky above and down again until her eyes met Myrna’s. She bit her lower lip and took a deep breath. Then she let it out in a rush and shook her head as though to clear it. She closed her eyes. The silence deepened around Myrna. A breeze played with the folds of her gown.
‘I must go. Will you walk with me?’
Myrna heard her words distinctly. As always the meaning settled first in her mind and then the words clothed the meaning. She nodded. ‘So, we who both follow the old Gods, can hear.’ She stood up from the bench. Anastasia and Devorah were sitting oblivious to what happened so close by them, enjoying the sun and the music of the water in the fountain. She crossed to them and tapped Anastasia’s knee. When the girl had opened her eyes, Myrna pointed to the sun lowering in the sky and to the great door to the street. She made walking gestures with her fingers.
“Oh, all right!” said Anastasia, standing and smiling. “I suppose I have to go. Leah will be annoyed with me anyway for having stayed away so long. You ready, Nysa? Seems like Myrna wants to march us home. Goodness, it looks like you’ve seen a shade! Are you all right?”
Nysa nodded. “Just a bit tired,” she said.
“We will meet again on Aphrodite’s-day?” asked Devorah. “Isn’t that when the Lady needs us?”
“Yes,” said Anastasia, frowning slightly. “Though Leah says I shouldn’t call it that – I should call it Preparation-day.”
“Pfft!” Nysa snorted, now having joined them. “We have these wonderful names for the days of the week and your sister wants to call them by numbers. Preparation-day follows what? Fourth-day?”
“No, it follows Fifth-day, the fifth day after the day of Our Lord.”
“Oh it’s all getting much too complicated,” said Devorah. “I know we don’t really believe in them, but I like the names of the Gods. Father says if we banish those Gods we banish our heritage. Knowledge is not something to be broken up.”
“Not your heritage, though, is it, Devorah?” said Nysa.
“Sort of,” her Jewish friend responded. “After all, we have lived in Alexandria since my great grandfather’s time. We have the temples all around. My family came here because of all the knowledge you Greeks and Egyptians have tucked away in your libraries.”
Myrna clapped her hands and pointed to the door. The girls pouted, giggled and ran to get their cloaks.
The Man on the Horse
For a while Nysa walked in silence beside Myrna, with Devorah’s family watchman walking a respectful distance behind them, his heavy cudgel designed to deter anyone who might bother the young slave and her charge. After leaving the Jewish quarter, they had taken Anastasia safely to her home.
Nysa looked up at Myrna.
“So you can, sort of … you know, you are actually able, even though…”
Myrna did not help her out. She had accepted her fate long ago and Nysa needed to toughen her mind. She kept her eyes on the road in front and steered the young dancer safely past shiny horse dung.
“Even though you are mute you can talk,” said Nysa, colouring.
Myrna looked across at her but kept her face blank. She wondered if the girl could commune inwardly with her out in the bustle and grime of
Alexandria’s busy streets. She had absolute certainty that if the Old Gods conferred a rare gift like this, it would be for a purpose. It had been so for her. Would it be so for Nysa?
The girl bit her lip again and her walking slowed a little. Myrna matched her stride and drew silence around them both as best she could with people bustling by them and horses, carts and mules to avoid.
‘You can talk even though they took your tongue. So cruel.’
Myrna nearly stepped into a puddle and had to jig to one side to avoid it. Nysa’s words had arrived so clearly it had almost blotted out her sight.
She drew the young girl into the lee of a building at the edge of the Jewish Quarter and out of the throng of the street. The watchman stopped several paces behind, his eyes watching but not watching.
‘The new powers in Alexandria consider these gifts as witchcraft. Let no one know you have them.’
Myrna held the dark-brown eyes with her own.
‘Gather your thoughts with care. If you can Hear you can also Speak inwardly. Beware of letting the wrong people hear your thoughts. These are dangerous times.’
As if to provide emphasis to the thoughts Myrna had just shared, a squad of soldiers marched past, all flapping leather straps and thumping of boots. The men had their hands resting on the hilts of their short swords. A couple of them cast sly glances towards Myrna and her charge. One man stuck out his tongue and wiggled it around. Myrna pulled Nysa further back into the shadow of the wall.
When the backs of the soldiers with their red cloaks were a good distance down the road, Myrna nodded to Nysa and they set off once more. The soldiers had returned to the Macedonian camp on their right and Myrna turned left to put as much distance as possible between them and the leering men.
They walked on in silence for a time, both inward and outward. Over the past two years, since the awful Desert Mother, Elizabeth, had started her wild preaching against all the Old Gods and against the Jews, the streets had become less safe. Myrna glanced over her shoulder to check the watchman was in place. Behind him, just three or four paces to his rear, walked the biggest man Myrna had ever seen, a mountain of flesh on legs. His head, either completely bald or shaved, rose from a neck that would have done justice to one of the oxen pulling carts through the market streets of Alexandria. His arms dropped from vast shoulders like the carcasses of sheep hanging in a butchery. His hands looked like they could crush a coconut without difficulty.
Myrna walked a little faster. Perhaps they should have taken the litter and been carried by four powerful slaves. She had heard rumours in the market place of young pagan girls being snatched and turning up in slave markets far to the south. She hoped they were just that – rumours. Glancing back once more she received a wink from the watchman. Behind him the man mountain had vanished. He must have turned up a side street.
“Are you all right?” said Nysa, her forehead puckered.
Myrna nodded and touched her young charge’s arm. She pointed ahead. The blue of the sea could just be made out now, and in a moment or two the full glory of the Royal Harbour would be visible.
“Can we get some of those? I have a little money.” Nysa had paused near a table where a street vendor had laid out fresh dates on palm leaves. Myrna also had money and gave the man a few staters, receiving a toothless grin and some dates in return for her coins.
Myrna loved dates, although she had to use her fingers to shift the sweet flesh around her mouth and remove the pit. Having no tongue resulted in more than having no speech. She wiped her sticky fingers on the edge of the green leaf and dropped it in the gutter. Yes, she loved dates, but she loved coconuts more. Maimonides, her owner, had shared some with her occasionally, when they worked on a difficult translation together. His wealth could manage that great luxury, for coconuts came from far away, often in the boats owned by Nysa’s father, who had even greater wealth than Maimonides.
The harbour with the huge Pharos lighthouse came into view. The beauty of her home, with the multi-coloured sails of all the boats and the splendour of the old palace of Cleopatra, never ceased to delight her. She lived where the greatest ideas of the world were gathered. Alexandria was the most civilised city on earth. She had seen Rome as a child, from the wrong side of a slave pen. She knew Alexandria surpassed the brute grandeur of the Emperor’s city in both its beauty and its learning.
Her breath caught in her throat when she realised that the huge man stood in the public gardens to their left. Next to him a man with military bearing but wearing civilian robes, sat on a jetblack horse of magnificent size. He had the tanned face and build of a soldier and leaned forward talking steadily to the giant, who nodded occasionally. The man on horseback smiled, raised his hand in farewell and rode forward. He looked directly at Myrna and Nysa. Myrna stared back. He changed the direction of his mount to pass more closely to the slave and her young friend. His eyes had a blue-green colour and his dark hair, uncovered, had suggestions of silver at the temples, highlighted by the setting sun. His mouth formed a firm line and he had the prominent chin of one who knew how to command. Myrna felt as though she’d become transparent, that the man had the ability to see within and through her. She sensed the vastness of the desert in the man’s gaze and the sweet sanctity of ancient temples. He switched his gaze to Nysa and pulled the horse to a standstill. Nysa still looked out towards the harbour with the sunlight twinkling on the blue of the waters. The man carried a short staff of ivory. He touched it to his temple, nodded at Myrna, kicked his heels into his horse’s silky black flank and cantered off, his back as straight as a stone column.
Once more the big man had just melted away. He must have walked amongst the trees in the garden whilst Myrna looked at the strange horseman. She shuddered and took Nysa’s hand, walking fast towards where the girl lived beyond the Sun Gate.
Passing the gymnasium they came close to the Temple of Saturn. This building, with its high columns and cool colonnades, always pleased Myrna. While Saturn, or Kronos as the Greeks called him, had little to commend him as a God in terms of kindness – he had after all eaten all his own children until Zeus defeated him – there was a profound stillness and clarity within the temple that Myrna found soothing. Shouts and bellowing caused both the young women to turn.
A group of young men ran down the street shouting abuse about the temple. One bravo picked up horse manure and threw it at the temple steps. “Filth to filth,” he hollered, and raced on with his friends, hooting and yelping.
Nysa and Myrna walked on in silence. The older woman sensed the young girl’s pain; her gods were being desecrated. The new Christian God was usurping their place. The tolerance of centuries had given way to bigotry and hatred.
When they reached the door of Nysa’s family house the girl turned to Myrna.
“I’ve had dreams. Strange dreams. Dreams of flight to distant places.” She paused, searching Myrna’s face. “Maybe to distant times.”
Myrna nodded and waited. She knew much of such dreams.
“Someone is coming. I sense it. Someone who I know already even though I’ve not met them. Someone who can…” She stopped talking and took the hand of Myrna in both of her own.
‘Someone who can also Hear.’
Neither knew whose thought that was. It arose within and between them. Myrna’s eyes filled with tears and she touched Nysa’s cheek. Her hand returned involuntarily to the silver chain at her neck, the mark of her slavery. Her master, Maimonides, treated her well and respected her gifts, but now this young girl, true to the old Religion, had proved to be a real kindred spirit. A warmth spread around her heart, and the deep pangs of aloneness that had been with her ever since her mother was struck down before her and her own tongue taken from her mouth, lessened just a little.
‘Thank you, Nysa. Your thoughts will always find me. Just hold my image clear.’
She reached into a fold in her clothing and drew out a feather, the sort of feather worn by priestesses long ago. She gave it to the little d
ancer.
‘This will help.’
Cold Comfort
Sweden – about 1520
Fear jabbed cold electricity up my limbs. I moved away from the sled. The cracking continued, changing the black silvery ice at my feet to a mosaic of crystal lines. I moved towards where we’d seen the light. A dark mass rose ahead, resolving into a hillside covered in trees. Someone shouted behind me. I stumbled on, my legs still not fully my own. I heard a shout from the land and stopped. What if the soldiers were there?
The ice first sloped and then sank. I went down with it. The buoyancy of my boots and thick trousers slowed my sinking, or maybe it was the plate of thick ice, dislodged below my feet. When the water met my skin it seared with an angry chill, sharp as a knife. I’d never felt anything so cold. I couldn’t see or think. But I did spot that my life didn’t flash in front of my eyes. What a disappointment. I hung onto the ice in front of me, completely alone. I could see no one, as low down the mist hid everything. I tried to kick my boots loose, but they were laced and becoming as heavy as lead as they filled with liquid ice. I could still breathe, but not well enough to call out. What if no one had seen me fall? What if they’d also fallen as the ice broke up beneath us?
Each breath became a battle as water burned against my skin and stole all feeling.
Dad sat next to me, the water nearly reaching his knees.
“You know, Rhory,” he said, “ice is amazing. It is actually lighter than water, which is why it floats. If water did not have this unusual quirk there would be no life at all. Water is heaviest at four degrees Centigrade.”
I tried to nod. The cold had sent living icicles into my brain and my thoughts now moved slower than schoolboys asked to tidy their bedroom. Perhaps Dad knew how I could get out of this fix. I didn’t, and the water – painless now – pulled my numbed body, down into it. It’ll be warmer at the bottom. Had Dad said that or did I imagine it?
Time Knot Page 21
