The Burning Time

by Robin Morgan

  There was a sudden clamor of agreement. It stunned Alyce. She had expected the anxious, exchanged glances that followed her announcement. But she had never anticipated this response. The heath-folk were rebelling. Furthermore, they were immediate, unanimous, and firm in their rebellion. They did not want to remain in Ireland while the Bishop held sway. Nor would they permit their High Priestess to fight the Bishop while they fled.

  Old lessons of blood privilege rose up in Alyce, and she addressed the assembly in words sharpened by her lineage.

  “You forget to whom you speak!” she declared. “I know what is best, for all of us. You will do as I command! That is the end of it.”

  The ensuing silence lay heavy with hurt. Poised for the first time openly as opponents, Alyce and her people glared at each other.

  It was Will Payn, the harpist, who broke the impasse, speaking gently from his half-kneeling position near her feet.

  “Your Ladyship,” he said, his eyes sadder than his smile, “This be a testing time for all of us. Even—oh forgive me for saying, m’Lady—even for yourself. You sought to create a change here, a different way. Not the distant Lady ruling her serfs, but something new. Something that taught us and healed us and … you changed us, M’am. We, all of us, together—we now be feeling that change, living it. Nor has it been swift, nor easy, this change, nor—begging your pardon—nor ever so solid we might rest on it for a given. Yet t’is this we have done. Changed we now are. What troubles we be forced to face in days to come, this night—here, now—mayhap t’is the hardest test of all. Will ye not hear us out? Please, M’am?”

  Alyce stood rigid, staring over their heads.

  “Speak, then,” she said curtly. Let them finish, she thought, Let them spew it all out. It matters not. I decide.

  Eva de Brounstoun spoke up then, her husky voice cracking with emotion.

  “Oh Madam. T’is only in such a dire time I dare ask it. But ask it I must. Was it all a dream of faerie lore then? A sweet tale only, fit for children to believe? And us—your serfs—being those children? Fancying ourselves Her Ladyship’s special people, fancying we be sharing our lives outside the ranks of great noble and base peasant? Because we all kept The Craft together? See, we believed. T’was it daft we were, then?”

  Next, Alyce Faber the smith rose heavily to her feet and stood level with Alyce Kyteler, adding, “Or is it we stand on the same sweet soil—Smithy Alyce Faber to Dame Alyce Kyteler? Can we here—” she looked around the cellar “—have a voice in our own fate? Be we our own people, sistren and brethren in The Craft, deciding our lives, right or wrong? Or be we in the end forced to obey your will, brooking no dissent? Like—like serfs anywhere, m’Lady?”

  Finally, Petronilla de Meath stood, speaking so quietly the others had to strain to hear her. At first she stammered with the effort. Yet as she spoke, she began to radiate a strange composure no one had seen in her before.

  “T’is because she knows now all her fears proved right, I wager,” Helena whispered to Sysok.

  “T’would m-mayhap be said, Your Gr—t’would mayhap be said, Your Ladyship,” Petronilla began, “that being what I am—what we are—serfs and peasants I mean … t’would mayhap be said that though all of us know nothing much … still, some of us know better … what and who we be fighting here than do you, M’am. Please, I mean no disrespect, m’Lady. But mayhap ye canna see. We—I—we dinna know how to be grand and make stands and fight and … be brave heroes and all. Still, when t’is knowing who to fear, or when to flee, some of us know better what that is, mayhap, than do you, M’am. We had our lives to learn it, to learn how to … gauge that fear, gauge the measure of that fear. T’is our measure what’s been gauged in that knowledge—if you take my meaning? While your measure be lifelong as … but leave that be. Yet, if you could learn this, m’Lady? What we be knowing? Care what we be thinking? Aye. Join in it? If you could—if you could trust …”

  Her voice died away. No one spoke.

  Still disconcerted at having been challenged, Alyce nevertheless could not deny being moved by Petronilla’s passion. If I take her meaning, she wondered to herself. Looking round the cellar, she studied the massed faces. They speak with such certainty. How did they learn that? Familiar faces. They are skilled in some wisdom I know not. Fear? Aye, they are skilled in fear! It has kept them alive. Sharp-eyed sunburnt faces, weather-creased, labor-coarsened. What did she say? If I could learn it, join in it? Something else shadowed the expressions on these faces, something expectant, inviting, demanding. My own measure is being taken. If I take her meaning. Suddenly the Bishop’s words floated through her mind: “the ideal mistress—until you get bored or until the peasants you have indulged begin to take themselves seriously.” She would prove him wrong. She would learn whatever it was they knew that she did not. They are the adepts here, I am the neophyte, she thought again. And with the word “neophyte” other words crystallized in her mind—clear as the peals of a bell at evening: Perfect love and perfect trust.

  Her eyes stung—but whether with tears of embarrassment or gratitude, shame or pride, she could not tell. Barely able to speak, she whispered.

  “Speak what is in your hearts, then. I shall listen. If it is wise, I shall—perhaps agree.”

  No one thanked her.

  But from that moment, the meeting drew together in mutual planning—a council. And Alyce Kyteler read the character of her people as if for the first time. Watching them think through each contingency, hearing them briskly debate different strategic approaches, she was giddy with a confusion of emotions. Initially, she felt a profound relief, as at the setting down of a heavy burden. Then she found herself off balance, missing the burden, as though carrying its weight had defined her. Finally, she felt stabbed by regret—for all the hours she had focused on teaching these people, certain they had nothing to teach her; hours when she might also have been learning from them.…

  But this was no time for regret. Fixing her concentration on the matter at hand, she stayed intent on keeping up with the rapidity and shrewdness with which her peasants were making plans. To her surprise, the various plans suggested were quite sophisticated. Finally, almost tentatively, she joined in the discussion. Gradually, the decision took shape.

  Whatever they did, they would do together. Again to her astonishment, despite the depth of their lifelong roots in this land, and despite the fact that they had never in their lives ventured further than Kilkenny Town or possibly Wexford, the people chose exile and uncertainty. Yet even after hours of argument, Alyce still resisted flight for herself.

  Finally, Old John, noticing his mistress’s increasing adamancy as she cast about for reasons to stay when there were none, made a suggestion. Noting that he had seen many things come and go in his time, he pointed out that the Irish would surely outlast the Bishop, and that Lady Alyce would after all be leaving her lands merely as a temporary tactic, with imminent return fairly certain. That he did not believe for a moment this was true mattered less to him than that she might. And so she did. She changed her plans. If she could return, why then she would depart at the same time as her people, who would join her to live under her protection in England until they could all come safely home to Kyteler Castle.

  Two days were left before Samhain. Together the group resolved not to leave the next night—when a group of traveling mummers was to perform in Kilkenny Town and the absence of everyone from the Kyteler estates would look suspicious—but the night after that: Samhain Eve itself. No one was eager to be out journeying on the Great Night of the Dead, but there was no help for it; the immediate, practical peril outweighed any dangers from Otherworlds. The fugitives would avoid suspicion by making their escapes at staggered times and in small groups, departing under cover of darkness, beginning at dusk and continuing until midnight. Taking separate routes, they would not ride the northern roads to the coast via Dublin; that would be a safer point of departure, but was too far. They would aim instead for the nearest harbor, at
Wexford, thence to sail across St. George’s Channel and Cardigan Bay. They would make landfall at Cardigan or, if weather there rose against them, at Fishguard, further south down the Welsh coast.

  It was agreed that Lady Alyce should at once send a rider to the Wexford shipyards, to engage three small masted cutters to sail at different tides beginning with Samhain Eve on through the following day, as different bands of fugitives arrived at Wexford. It was further agreed that they would all meet up, once safely in Wales. If for some reason they should miss one another, they would seek each other out in England, now the destination for everyone, not only William—a change of plan that had the young man beaming with relief.

  There was one last matter of contention.

  The parents of the youngest children were insistent that their babes travel with Lady Alyce. William was to ride separately, as were the other young people, and the older children would go with their own families—but the heath-folk wanted the youngest in their mistress’s keeping. In vain she argued that if she were taken by the Bishop’s men, the children would be with the most wanted fugitive of all and would therefore be most endangered. Sysok replied that the children were in danger no matter whom they accompanied, since if caught they would be taken by the Church and whipped into conversion or face the same death as their parents. Helena added that sending the children with Lady Alyce ensured their best chance to begin a new life, with or without their parents. Back and forth the debate went. No one acknowledged that the real reason for this strategy was the assumption that Dame Alyce, despite being the Bishop’s primary target, would be able to buy herself and their children greater safety.

  At last she surrendered, agreeing to take responsibility for the youngest ones. It was settled that she and the seven littlest girls and boys would ride to the coast and set sail together, and that Petronilla de Meath would accompany them to help care for so many children on such an arduous journey. There was further debate about whether one or two of the men should ride with them, but Alyce argued successfully that two women with a brood of children would appear less threatening. Since nine people would constitute the largest party of travelers—and, as John Galrussyn pointed out, the one bearing the most precious cargo, their future—it was decided that this party would depart first.

  Plans, times, and differing routes were restated and rehearsed over and over, until everyone claimed to know them by rote. At last, facing a multitude of tasks ahead in the next two days, the Wiccans rose and turned to take their leave.

  But Alyce raised her hand. The assembly paused.

  “There is something more,” she said, and Petronilla noticed that her mistress’s hand was trembling—how unthinkable!—as she drew a parchment scroll from her sleeve. “As you know, there will be no feast this Samhain. No roasting of apples, no quaffing mulled wine. No burning of wormwood to honour the lives of our ancestors, no leaving open the burial mounds so that we may speak with the Past. No Sabbat, no Ritual. We stand here with no Tools of Art. So must we be our own Tools. Air billows our lungs. Fire heats our blood. Water flows through our tears and spittle. Our flesh is earth. We are a living Covenstead. Wherever we stand is sacred space.”

  In silence, the people formed a ragged circle around her.

  Turning rapidly to the east, the south, the west, and the north, she cried out, “Spirits of Air, Spirits of Fire, Spirits of Water, Spirits of Earth, we welcome thee! The Circle is closed.”

  She addressed the assembly as she unrolled the parchment.

  “These words of counsel come from our own kind across the sea. How these words came to me, and from whom, is a knowledge with which you need not be burdened. But know that these words come from those who follow, as do we, The Old Ways, and who have continued to follow them through times of horror and despair. These are words of survival. They should be known to you. It is your … right.” Her voice was unsteady as she began to read, but she willed herself to continue.

  We have come to the end of an age. We have come to a pause in the moonlit feasts, the bonfires, dancing, laughter, the open Pagan joy. A pause—because one day it shall return, for it breathes in the spirit, no matter how smothered.

  But not now, not for us. For us there is a new age, of suffering, secrecy, flight from enemies who are themselves trammeled in fear and ignorance.

  We have named this age ‘The Burning Time.’

  Certain things must be done that our people may survive, and that the wisdom of The Craft may endure, even if it must be hidden for centuries to come.

  We have learned these lessons through affliction. We offer them to others in The Craft who may yet be forced to find them useful.

  Keep a book in your own hand of write. Let sisters and brothers copy what they will, but never let this book out of your hand—for if it be found, you will be taken and tortured. Never keep the writings of another—for if it be found in their hand of write, they will be taken and tortured.

  Think to yourself: I know nothing, I remember nothing. Chant this as poem, spell, prayer, meditation. Will yourself to believe it.

  Let the Working Tools be as ordinary things anyone may have in their homes—a cracked bowl, the stump of a candle, a kitchen knife. Let the Pentacles be made of wax that they may be melted or broken at once. Have no names on anything.

  If you are taken, tortured, and confess, deny it afterwards. Say that you babbled under the torture. Drive this into your mind. If the torture be too great to bear, then say: “I will confess. I cannot bear this torment. What do you wish me to say? Tell me and I will say it.” Hearken well: There is no blame in striving to survive. There is no heroism in embracing pain. If they force you to confess impossibilities—flying through air, consorting with devils, sacrificing children, eating human flesh—say simply: “I had evil dreams, I was not myself, I was maddened.”

  But herein lies the heart of the lesson: Name no others.

  If you betray others, there is no hope for you, not in this life or in any Mystery that yet may be to come.

  If you be condemned, fear not, for The Craft has its ways.

  If you are steadfast, you may be helped to escape.

  If you are sentenced to the pyre and yet remain steadfast, potions will reach you so that you will feel naught. Instead, you will pass through death and slip like the babe from the womb into what lies beyond, the Abyss into which all things fade and from which all things arise.

  Alyce’s voice broke. She paused, to regain her control. Then she touched the parchment to a candle, watched it crackle and flame, and dropped it to the cellar floor, grinding the ashes underfoot. Only now could she look up at the surrounding faces, only now see that each face was as filled with hope as with fear. So it had been worth telling them the truth.

  “The Burning Time is come upon us in Ireland,” she said. “So I cannot bid you Merry Part until we meet again. But this can I say: may we Merry Meet soon in a safe land, my people. Until such time, Blessed Be. And remember: The blood of The Old Ones courses our veins. The Forms pass. The Circle remains.”

  She flung her arms wide, her torch-cast shadow spreading like a massive brood hen, wings extended, across the cellar walls.

  “Earth! Water! Fire! Air!” she cried, “Recognize thy children and protect them!”

  Slowly, the shadow folded its wings.

  “The Circle is opened,” she said.

  As the people filed silently up the cellar steps, no one looked back. No one saw her shoulders sag and her head droop, as if life had drained from her.

  No one heard her whisper, the words evaporating into the dank air.

  “The Circle is broken.”

  XIV

  LEAVETAKINGS

  THAT NIGHT WAS SLEEPLESS for most of the people of the Kyteler estate—especially Lady Alyce.

  At dawn the next morning, she flung open her treasury and distributed gold coin and plate among her people—to keep them on their journey, in case they needed to offer bribes, and as insurance should they miss the arranged
first meeting in Wales or, later, in England. Her own ancestral jewels—unworn for years but for the few items she’d donned in her recent masquerade in Kilkenny Town—she placed in a casket; these would buy security and lodging for herself, the children, and their parents, once safely across the sea. The only other possessions she packed were her writing materials and her Working Tools, placed in a second casket along with her Grimoire and a few other books—although choosing from her considerable library brought her to tears. Decades of study and practice were already packed in her brain, and she could reassemble her medicinal closet anywhere herbs and flowers grew. The brown woolen shirt and trousers with a man’s leather jerkin she would wear should be sufficient wardrobe against the late autumn chill, along with her black cape of boiled wool so tightly woven it resisted rain.

  That night, most of the peasants trooped dutifully into Kilkenny Town for the mummers’ performance, striving to act relaxed and entertained while their hearts were cramped with fear. They could not help noticing more men-at-arms than usual patrolling the streets, yeomen now wearing tunics emblazoned with the coat of arms and stylized crucifix that denoted the Bishopric of Ossary.

  The following day seemed to pass with frightening speed as well as drag with agonizing slowness. The castle’s pantries were raided to assemble parcels of meat, cheese, bread, and onions, plus a flagon of wine and one of water for each traveler—each of whom also received one of the soaked, dried, stiffened shirts Alyce had made. The stables were opened so that anyone who lacked a swift horse or solid cart could choose what was needed. Some of the peasants made personal pilgrimages far out onto the heath, where generations of forebears had been buried, for one last visit to a particular grave. Others busied themselves trying to cram their worldly belongings into small wagons. Young lovers clung to one another, weeping, pledging devotion. Elders shook their heads at having lived to witness such a day descend on the Tuatha de Danaan.