‘Then I will go to there and harvest its seed. Replant it if I can.’
‘It is no common shrub with berries to be picked. No-one’s even seen its seed and bloom above the ground.’ Strychnine scoffs unpleasantly.
‘You must seek an audience with that rare plant; beg it to shed its kernel.’ Angel’s Trumpet does not sound certain of its instruction. ‘Perhaps you can persuade it you are worthy. But it will not speak to a red blood. Unless you call it by its Green name.’
‘What is its name? It’s true name. Tell me please.’
‘Gwirdrych.’
‘Gwirdrych.’
‘ Yes. Gwirdrych is its name.’ There is something unexpected in Strychnine’s voice. It might be fear. ‘It means ‘True Sight’ in the old tongue. We can smell trouble in our roots, Weed. Go to it. Succeed with Gwirdrych and he’ll show you what pains are coming.’
I look down at my bloodied bandages. ‘I’ve suffered pain already. I don’t want this burden. I didn’t ask to play anyone’s game.’
‘Aye, Weed, but the game is in play and we must all take our places.’ It is Connell who speaks. He has risen to his feet and he gently helps me to mine. ‘But for now you must rest and heal. Be made whole and strong again, lad. Do you know where you must go?’
‘Yes. To Alnwick Castle.’ I feel cold.
Chapter 19
Connell has made up a soft bed for me by the fish pool in the middle of the library; it is the only room in this northern barbican. I recline at ease as he spends his days among the shelves. I watch the leaping fish and sometimes I watch Connell as he consults books and papers, busily working and making notes. We repair to the platform that floats on the sea outside at least once each day. I do not wish to vex him but he cheerfully insists and claims to take pleasure in the cool waters of the Holy Isle himself.
As evening draws in and the windows dim, Connell lights many candles to read and see by; he does not neglect to set torches burning brightly by the poolside for my benefit. It is strange to me. I am used to rising and retiring with the natural cycle of the sun but I am beginning to see that driven men may work deep into the night. There is a delight in keeping the darkness at bay and defying the sun’s rays.
On my third night in the library I am watching the pool by the bright light of the torch. The fish are continuously at play in the waters and their scales shimmer in reds, greens and blues. The patterns of their movement do not seem quite random. Often their delicate bodies seem to follow the contours of the symbol on the pool’s floor; they arch out from the central axis down one of the four straight arms before turning clockwise at ninety degrees, angling along its crook.
I look over at Connell to see that he is staring beyond his writing labours and seems lost in thought, dreaming to himself. ‘Connell, if I am not disturbing you, I have a question.’
When he looks over to me his furrowed brow relaxes and he smiles. ‘Of course, Weed. What can I do for you?’
‘This symbol carved into the floor of the pool. The fish seem to recognise and swim along its edges. What is its significance to them?’
‘Hmm? Oh, the Tilapia.’ He gets up from his desk and walks over to the pool before sitting down next to me on the bed. Together we watch for a moment as the fish dance along the lines of the glyph. Connell looks at me. ‘The Sol Invictus is the most potent symbol in nature. It is cognate with the sun, after all.’
‘That which gives life to the Green.’
‘Yes, in part. But the Sol Invictus has a mate. The Uroborus.’
‘What is that?’
‘The Uroborus is the snake that eats itself. It is the eternal return.’ Connell leans into me and takes my hand in his. He holds it up and with his finger he traces a circle on my palm, pale under the burning glow of the torches. ‘The circle that begins anew as soon as it ends: a symbol of the earth. Together the Sol Invictus and the Uroborus are the heart of the growing world.’
‘At my old home in Soutra Aisle, I was a lens for the power of the Sol Invictus. It showed me much; it was glorious and also terrible.’
Connell lets his hand play in the water and the Tilapia come to his fingers. ‘Yes, that sounds about right. Glorious it may be but the Sun can be destructive and jealous in its glare. Once its ardour almost consumed the whole world until it was tamed by the earth. Or at least that is how the story goes.’
My hand joins Connell’s in the cool water. ‘Tell me then.’
He stares hard at me for a moment, measuring me. Not like Malina, who appraised me as predator appraises prey. But as a man determining my merit. He clears his throat and speaks. ‘It is an important tale told among Druids. It concerns the law of Mab, and the establishment of the first cycle of the Green world. And we do not tell it to everybody.’ Connell smiles. ‘But you, Weed, with your odd green eyes and your strange task, you ought to know it I suppose.’
Connell relaxes and leans back on the bed, propping his head on one arm. ‘So: about Mab, strange womb of the earth that dwells under the soil. In a time before time could be reckoned in days and seasons Mab had legs that walked and she called the ancient forests of the earth home. She was young, joyful and wise and all the creatures of green sap and red blood did come when she called. But she had no man and did not know love.
‘That is until Sol saw her playing and he desired her. Sol was a great Prince of flesh and bones and one day he rode through the forest on a powerful steed. They met together in a deep glade of light and there did they know pure love together.’
Connell shifts easily on the bed where he lies. ‘You see, Weed, pure love is a love between equals. It must be generous and never controlling or coercive.’ Connell’s deep voice rolls sonorously through the great chamber and I like to hear his story.
‘And yet Sol’s ardour for Mab burned too brightly. He became proud and jealous and he commanded that Mab give her heart to him forever and always. Now Mab loved him deeply and she had with her a pure white egg, smooth and flawless, cherished in the bloom of youth and she offered it to him. “Sol, my love, here take this egg. This is my heart.” But Sol did not believe her and in his rage he broke the egg and Mab was heart-sore.
‘The next day Sol rode in the forest and the blossoms of the trees were closed and no pollen floated on the breeze. He came to Mab and her soft cream skin was cracked and wrinkled, her glossy hair was thin and wild, and he forced himself upon her. Afterwards she said “Sol, how can you want me now? You have taken my youth.” And proud Sol said, “I care not for your youth and beauty. If I am bound to you, give me your heart.” Now this Mab had a rare bird that flew above and around her in great swelling arches and who chirped in pleasure and she offered it to him. “Sol, my love, here take this bird. This is my heart.” But Sol did not believe her and in his rage he throttled the bird and Mab was heart-sore.
‘The next day he came to her in the forest and the leaves on the trees were curling and yellowing on their branches. Mab was insensible, could hardly raise her head from where it lay on the soft ground and Sol took her in the glade. Afterwards she said “Sol, how can you want me now? You have taken my mirth.” And Sol said, “I care not for your joy. If I am bound to you, give me your heart.” Mab had with her a hare that knows wisdom and she offered it to him. “Sol, my love, here take this hare. This is my heart.” But Sol did not believe her and in his rage he cracked the hare’s back and Mab was heart-sore.
The next day Sol came to Mab in the woods and the grasses were grey and dust. Mab couldn’t speak out or cry as Sol did his morning ritual. Afterwards she said “Sol, how can you want me now? You have taken my comprehension.” And Sol said, “I care not for your wits. If I am bound to you in love, give me your heart.”
‘So Mab knelt to the dry floor of the dead wood and picked up a stone and whispered hoarsely “Sol, my love, you have taken from me my youth, my joy and my understanding. There is nothing left of my heart but hard stone and now I stand as a crone filled with barren emptiness.”
‘At
this some of the deadly glare left Sol’s eyes and he looked about himself clearly for the first time. He saw the lifeless forest and the broken body of his lover and he knew shame and regret. He cried out and ran from her then, far away to the other side of the sky and Mab was left alone with nothing and how she wept.
‘She wept for an age in darkness and her tears flowed like a river onto the stone of her heart. She wept for the Green and growing things and she wept for the beasts and animals and she wept for Sol for she had loved him truly. She wept until the weight of her tears bore a hole straight through the cold stone of her heart.
‘And then something quite miraculous happened. When the first tear breached the stone and watered the ground, a green sprout grew there. Mab wept on and gradually the earth became fertile around her; its vigour and joy, its wisdom and industry returned until the whole of creation sang with pleasure. The song rang out so loudly that even Sol heard it from far away on the other side of the sky and he saw Mab made whole and beautiful again.
‘Sol courted her anew, bashfully at first, but Mab welcomed him, calling him down from his high perch, and for a brief season they lived together in love once more. But his vigour returned and his heat blazed hot and he came too close to the earth. When Mab saw the green things wilt she held up to Sol the stone of her heart and he remembered his terrible glare. She showed him the hole bored through it and he remembered her terrible grief. Mindful of his baleful passion, he returned to the top of the sky and left Mab in peace, to rest until she was ready for his return.’
Connell stares at me for a moment before continuing his story. I look back in rapt attention. ‘And so the cycle was formed that continues to this day, giving us summer and spring, autumn and winter. Mab and Sol exist in pure love as equals and so long as it continues then life exists in the Green world without death. And that is the story told, Weed.’
I regard Connell, this singular human who understands so much about the nature of the growing earth. ‘Malina asked me in the courtyard without this chamber if I knew the law of plants, that which binds the Green world as the doctrine of kill or be killed binds the Red. I repeat my lesson learned: Green law is everlasting life in the cycle of renewal, our nature drawn from Mab’s womb under the wax and wane of the generous Sun.’
‘Yes, Weed. The Green law. Its symbol is the circle of Mab’s heart, with the hole bored though it.’
The torch has burned dim after the telling of Connell’s story and in the faint glow we two exist in keen isolation from the rest of the world. I take his hand and repeat his gesture, carefully marking the circle in his palm. ‘The Uroborus.’
‘It is the grief of winter and the joy of summer in one. We need darkness to rest and be reborn. That’s why the year begins in October at Samhain when Mab takes her ease from the burning sun.’ Connell takes my hand then and holds it fast in his. ‘The harmony of this balance must be guarded from corruption at any cost or final death will come to growing things and that is the only sin. The Green world cannot be allowed to gutter and spark and die forever like animals.’
‘You talk like you are not an animal yourself, caught up in mortality and death.’
‘I am an animal.’ Connell reaches out and gently touches the bandages that still clothe my torso. ‘But Druids worship the Sun and Nature as you do. We guard the cycle of Green life and for this vigilance we are rewarded. We pass to the otherworld when we die and that is no final ending.’ My hand goes to help Connell as he removes the dressings from the wound at my chest and he smiles at me. ‘Or that’s the theory.’
Chapter 20
May, Feast of the Ascension
I have spent five days and nights with Connell at his library and under his care my body has been made whole. He has an easy way about him and offers me generous hope even while warning of dire danger. I feel bright in the sun’s light and so today I leave Lindisfarne. My legs are strong enough to journey by land yet Connell has offered to ferry me south by boat. I have spoken to him of my counsel in the Medcaut gardens and my obligation to repair to Alnwick Castle and meet Gwirdrych. I do not wish it and yet Connell is of their opinion. Must I follow this path set out before me? I remember saying to Malina how I felt like a leaf blowing in the wind. She blew me all the way to Lindisfarne, murder, theft and injury.
‘Connell, I could easily go on foot. Leave Lindisfarne the way I came.’
‘Ah, Weed. The forests by which Malina fled may have been touched by her malevolence. Glamours spun in the branches thereabouts could bring you mischief. Wild beasts could overwhelm you. My guards are dead and so your way is unprotected.’ Connell is leading me down to the shore and he turns to looks at me. ‘I’ve not bought you back to health only to have your flame snuffed by a pack of wolves. That I can assure you!’
Rounding a lee, Connell brings me to a simple rowing boat. ‘What do you think? She’s called The Red Dragon and today she’ll be our ride! I made it myself!’
‘She appears a fine vessel.’
‘You’re lying. You’re not impressed at all but you will be. She’s fast and sure. So get in. In!’ Connell stamps one foot into the boat to steady it and holds out his hand to me.
‘I don’t need any help.’ I say and stride in.
‘Suit yourself.’ Connell jumps off the shore and into the boat, making such a rocking motion that I fall to my knees.
‘HA! Ha ha ha ha!’ Connell is still laughing as he pushes us from the mooring with an oar. ‘You look like a drowning fish. Get up already and sit down. We have one stop to make and then through the skerries of the Farne Islands to Lesbury, as was once called Laece Burg. City of Leeches! It’s an old doctor’s town. We’ll make landfall by noon!’
‘Between Soutra Aisle, Lindisfarne and Lesbury is there a place in this land not made for healing?’
‘Now you’re learning. It’s the north east for you! Good old soil in these parts.’
‘Shall I take an oar?’ I offer.
‘Weed. You are rooted to the ground. It’s time for you to respect your own nature! You’ve got plenty of skills others would dream of but leave the rowing over to the experts.’ Connell grabs both oars and sets to it. ‘Malina called me a Druid, but really I’m a Priest of the water. That’s why I live on an Island.’ The boat glides smoothly through the still currents around us. Remembering the cool feeling of its touch I let my hand trail in the surf.
The boat’s prow is headed directly for the wooden pontoon. ‘The stone of Llŷr. The legend has it that one day the Holy Isle shot from the frothing waves all at once and it gave the God Llŷr such a fright that he shat the stone out right here. On this very spot. Ha! What do you think of that?’
‘It sounds like a dubious story to me.’
‘Quite right! But we make sacrifice here nevertheless.’ As the prow hits the platform, Connell hops out and proffers his hand to me. I take it this time and join him on the wooden surface.
I remember Malina’s words about Druids and their blood currency. ‘I’ve seen enough sacrifice for a lifetime, Connell.’
He looks into my eyes. ‘Ha! What are you worried about? You think I’ve brought you here to let my sickle find your throat? Spill your life into the seas?’ He draws from within his robes a growth of leaves. ‘Mistletoe! It’s cure! A Fo Ben Bid Bont! That means: “He who would be leader let him be a bridge”! That’s you. A bridge between the Green and the Red! A Fo Ben Bid Bont! Now we eat the berries.’ Connell throws a bunch of the poisoned white berries into his mouth and chews. Then he gives me a handful. ‘Go on! Eat them or the blessing’s not good. They’ll lively up the journey at the very least!’ He thrusts the stalks into the water beneath us. ‘There. Now that’s done.’
We get back into the boat and Connell begins to row south. I watch the pontoon fade into the distance. ‘Malina said Druids run on the barter of blood.’
Connell gazes out to the sea. ‘She is right. Much can be understood by sacrifice. And the Gods used to like it. This land once ran thick with blo
od but the old religion is almost dead now. A spot of Mistletoe is quite enough for hungry Llŷr these days. Plus you are going on a journey, Weed, and a blessing will help you. Every little helps and it’s better than a kick in the teeth. That’s what my old mother used to say.’
Small islands are passing us now on either side. ‘These are the islands of Farne. Old seats of knowledge, riding on the Holy Isle’s coat tails you could say. Water, islands: they’re very important to us Priests, you see. The water is one barrier between this world and the otherworld, where we go if we’re lucky when this life is ended. Look beneath you.’
I peer over the side of the boat as we travel; the currents beneath us swirl and move. Small silver fishes move in fast schools around the boat. They shine brightly as they catch the light. ‘All I can see are fish.’ At my words they bunch together into a thick cloud then split and shatter ahead of us in great flashing whirls of movement.
‘They’re no more plain fish than my Tilapia back home! Souls, Weed. Souls of the dead. Every one.’ Connell pulls the oars hard. ‘We believe, you see, that the otherworld is just within reach. Just under the water’s surface or just beneath the earth. You have seen the under-earth yourself, have you not? When you drank the Sol Invictus in Soutra Aisle and saw the cardinal root, the gossamer gallop? Well then, that was when you saw the otherworld. And a frightening place it would have seemed. Though perhaps a rather seductive one as well.’
‘Malina said she felt it when I saw the great cavern under the ground.’
‘Ha! We all felt it. And we felt her going to you as well. Tramping up and down Mab’s roots, spilling blood all the way like an unwelcome houseguest.’
‘I asked you before, Connell, who is this ‘we’ you keep talking about?’ It is strange. I have shared so much with Connell and yet I still know him so little. One thing that I have learned from him, though: what is real trust. I realise that what I felt for Malina was nothing of the kind.
‘All the Druids and anyone else who feels inclined to pay attention. There was great debate amongst some of us as to whether to come to your aid.’
Weed: The Poison Diaries Page 12
