The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  Hath flowered over each leafy den;

  Great joy it is to see, Hey ho!

  Down, derry down,

  Down derry, down derry …’

  Olwynne went running through the trees, ducking under branches and pulling aside leaves, eager to see who it was who sang so beautifully. She had heard that song sung many times before, but never with such warmth and joy. The woman’s voice was unusually deep and rich, but as she sang the chorus her voice flowed up into the higher registers with an ease few could ever hope to match. Olwynne came from a family of singers. Her father had the same golden quality to his voice, and so did her eldest brother. She herself was counted a very pretty singer, and certainly music was one of the few indulgences Olwynne allowed herself. She was overcome by an urgent desire to hear more, and to know the woman who could sing with such technical purity, and yet also with such heartfelt emotion.

  Through the dark tangle of leaves and twigs, she saw a woman dressed all in black sitting on a fallen log, her face a pale oval lifted to the sky. As Olwynne hurried towards her, a twig cracked under her foot. At once the singer broke off mid-note, leapt up and fled away into the garden. Olwynne hurried after her, but it was no use, she had disappeared. Olwynne stood alone in the clearing, feeling acute disappointment. There were no clues as to who the singer had been, no footstep in the mud, no scrap of black cloth hanging from a stick. She could have been a figment of Olwynne’s imagination. Yet, as Olwynne slowly turned and retraced her steps, she was humming ‘down, derry down, derry down’ under her breath.

  Whistles sounded shrilly.

  Black-clad students ran through the trees, blasting away the tranquillity of the dawn. A procession of witches, sorcerers and faeries followed Isabeau the Keybearer along the avenue towards the palace, all wearing crowns of leaves and early spring flowers. The Keybearer carried a bouquet made up of the seven sacred woods in her hand, her owl blinking sleepily from her shoulder. A flock of nisses flew about her head, shrieking in excitement, while two tall tree-changers walked at her shoulders.

  Olwynne stood under the trees and watched them walk past. Whether it was the freshness of the dew, the pleasure on the faces of the crowd, or an echo of that joyous voice she had heard singing in the dawn, Olwynne could not tell, but she was filled with a new sense of hope and happiness. Her lips curved upward in a smile for the first time in weeks. One of the crowd turned and smiled in response, then held out a narrow, long-fingered hand to her. Olwynne’s smile deepened. She stepped forward and took the Celestine’s hand, joining the procession.

  You have been dwelling in a dark place, Thunderlily said.

  Aye, Olwynne answered.

  The shadow of it is still there, behind you.

  Olwynne felt her spirits dip, and made an effort to hold on to her new-found gladness.

  But there is light breaking upon your face. That is good. Once you follow a road down into darkness, it can be difficult to find your way out again.

  Thunderlily, do the Celestines travel the dream-roads?

  The Celestine bowed her snow-white head. We may travel all roads. They are not always safe though. Darkness overwhelms them. I cannot reach my mother even in dreams. I have been sorely troubled, for it is not our nature to walk in silence and darkness, alone. I cannot see what lies ahead of me, and my heart is uneasy.

  Mine too, Olwynne whispered.

  I know. Yet when I saw you there, coming out of the forest, you were gilded with gladness. It was like an enchantment laid upon you. It made the darkness behind you larger. My heart troubles me. Who did you see, to cast this spell upon you?

  A spell? Olwynne was surprised. It was no spell. I heard someone singing, that’s all. It was a lovely song. And such a lovely morning.

  It is a lovely morning, the Celestine agreed. And beauty is its own spell. Perhaps that is all it was.

  I’m sure it was, Olwynne said, but she felt troubled. She glanced at the Celestine with something approaching resentment. The Celestine knew, of course. She returned a look of regret and apology.

  If it was true, it should not pass so quickly, she said. Who was this singer, that you saw in the dawn?

  I do no’ ken, Olwynne answered sulkily. She ran off afore I saw her face. It could’ve been a student. She was dressed all in black.

  There are many here that have magic in their voices, the Celestine agreed. There is so much magic here, at the Tower of Two Moons, that it clouds my sight and makes it hard for me to trace its sources. The air itself sings with it, and the earth thrums.

  Olwynne glanced sideways at the Celestine again. Although Thunderlily had been at the Tower of Two Moons for almost eight years, she was several years older than Olwynne, and so they had not often conversed. She was indeed fascinating. Olwynne could understand how her brother Donncan and her cousin Bronwen could be so enamoured of her. Thunderlily was their great friend, as Lewen was hers and Owein’s. The Celestine had made a foursome with Donncan and Bronwen and Neil MacFóghnan of Arran, whom they all called Cuckoo. Olwynne wondered if she missed them, now the other three had all turned twenty-four and left the Theurgia. Donncan had been away, travelling with Neil, ever since he graduated five months earlier, while Bronwen had thrown herself into life at the court since her graduation.

  I do indeed miss my friends, the Celestine said, a tone of wistfulness in her mind-voice. Soon I too shall celebrate the anniversary of my twenty-fourth year in this life, and my days at the Theurgia will come to an end. I must return then to the garden of my ancestors, deep in the forest, far from the cities and towns of those of humankind. Then I will see my friends rarely indeed.

  I am sorry, Olwynne said awkwardly.

  So it must be, the Celestine answered.

  They had reached the great square before the palace, and many of the courtiers and servants were thronging out the doors to join them. Everyone was shouting and cheering, throwing up handfuls of petals and waving long coloured streamers, while the sound of the whistles was deafening. The Celestine turned her face towards the palace, her eyes, which seemed so full of light yet also so blind, looking with a strange, intense expression at the crowded steps. My days here are not yet finished, though, she said, so softly her voice was little more than a murmur in Olwynne’s mind, and look, they are all here now. If there is one thing I have learnt from your kind, it is how to live lightly, in the here and now …

  Olwynne gazed at her curiously, then turned to look where she looked.

  Standing on the steps, smiling round at the roaring crowd, stood Olwynne’s eldest brother, Donncan Feargus MacCuinn, heir to the throne of Eileanan.

  He was a tall, slim young man, with thick wavy hair the colour of ripe corn, and great golden wings that sprang out from his shoulders and brushed the ground behind him. They seemed to attract the light so that, even in the grey dimness of the fading night, he seemed haloed in sunshine. He was dressed in the forest-green kilt of the MacCuinn clan, with a crimson sash across his breast.

  Olwynne caught her breath in surprise, then waved at him enthusiastically. There was no chance to speak to him. He was separated from her by a thronging crowd, all blowing whistles and cheering. She saw Bronwen beside him, dressed in a scandalous gown of silvery-green gauze that clung to her as if it had been dampened, which it probably had. Neil of Arran stood on her other side, gazing down at her with admiring eyes. They did not see her wave, but Owein and Lewen did and plunged through to her side.

  ‘When did Donn get in?’ Owein demanded.

  Olwynne shrugged. ‘I dinna ken. Listen to the crowd! They’re going mad.’

  ‘They love him,’ Owein said. ‘He always looks so damn princely!’

  Lewen was carrying a pretty nosegay of spring flowers, the dew still on the petals. He offered it to her shyly. ‘I picked these for ye,’ he said softly. ‘I’m glad to see ye up and about. Are ye feeling better?’

  ‘Och, sure,’ she answered lightly, taking the flowers with a smile but moving away from him, not wanting him
to see her eyes had filled with tears. ‘I couldna miss May Day!’

  The sky had been growing steadily paler, and light gilded the top of the palace’s golden domes. Trumpets sounded, and the crowd quietened, turning as one to look at the Keybearer, who was standing before a massive pyramid of wood, her hands resting on her staff.

  ‘The sun has arisen,’ she said into the sudden silence. ‘Let us light the Beltane fires and celebrate the return o’ summer and the green months. Let us rejoice, for winter has gone and the time o’ quickening is upon us.’

  Sunlight fell upon the top of the bonfire. Isabeau flung up both hands, her staff standing upright on its own. The bonfire roared with flame. Everyone cheered and the whistles blew again, maddeningly loud. Olwynne covered her ears, laughing, and saw many in the crowd were doing the same.

  Bells rang out, peal after peal filling the air. Men and women came and thrust long torches into the fire, forming a long procession that would wind round the palace towards the city. Donncan had been seized by a group of laughing girls, all clad in green, who were trying to tie leafy twigs to his arms and legs.

  ‘All hail the Green Man!’ they cried to the crowd.

  Donncan was protesting, but no-one listened, the crowd roaring their approval. One girl had a wreath of leaves, and would have crowned him with it, but Bronwen, laughing, seized the wreath and put it on his head herself, kissing him on the mouth. The cheers were deafening. Donncan came down into the crowd, shaking hands with the men and allowing himself to be kissed by the girls.

  Owein applauded loudly, laughing. Donncan saw them and waved, smiling wryly. Owein put his hands to his mouth and called, ‘When did ye get in?’ but his brother could not hear him over the crowd. He smiled, shrugged, and let himself be borne away by the crowd. Then they heard his warm golden voice raised in song.

  ‘I wonder who was meant to be Green Man today?’ Owein whispered in Olwynne’s ear. She shrugged.

  ‘I hope whoever it is doesna mind too much,’ she whispered back. She saw one of the palace guards standing on the steps, dressed all in green, looking disgruntled. She pointed him out to the others, who both grimaced.

  ‘That’s Mat,’ Lewen said. ‘He’s one o’ Bronwen’s crowd. He doesna look happy at all, does he?’

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ Owein said. ‘Mat’s always getting in a huff over something.’

  Donncan’s voice was receding as he ran at the head of the procession, leaping and twirling, a flaming torch held high in his hand.

  ‘Come on!’ Owein cried. ‘Let’s go watch the chain o’ fires being kindled. We’ll get a good view from the bell tower.’

  Olwynne shook her head. ‘Nay. I’m rather weary still. I think I’ll go back to bed.’

  ‘Ye’ll come to the feast tonight, won’t ye?’ Lewen asked anxiously. ‘Ye canna miss the party.’

  ‘Why, ye could be crowned May Queen,’ Owein said teasingly.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Olwynne answered, her voice coming out more bitterly than she had intended. She tried for a lighter tone. ‘With Donncan as the Green Man, the May Queen will have to be Bronwen, there can be no other choice!’

  ‘I’d say she was always first choice,’ Lewen said.

  ‘Aye, that’s why Mat’s looking so put out,’ Owein agreed. ‘All right, then, I’ll see ye tonight, will I?’

  ‘Aye, I’ll come tonight, if only to reassure Aunty Beau that I’m feeling better. I do no’ think I can stand any more o’ her medicines!’

  ‘Fair enough. See ye tonight then,’ Owein said. ‘Come on, Lewen!’

  ‘Have a good rest,’ Lewen said. ‘See ye tonight!’

  She raised a hand in farewell.

  ‘I’m glad to see ye looking so much better,’ he called over his shoulder as he ran to join the others.

  Olwynne turned to walk back to the Tower of Two Moons, bending her head to smell her flowers to hide the pleasure his concern had given her. The Celestine was still standing at the edge of the gardens, half-hidden beneath the drooping branches of a weeping greenberry tree. Their eyes met. With a start, Olwynne realised that Thunderlily was also trying to conceal some strong emotion that threatened to crack the composure Olwynne had thought effortless. Recognition leapt between them. If they had been able to phrase the thought, it would have said: You too love and are not loved in return?

  After that moment of recognition and empathy, Olwynne and Thunderlily looked away, the apprentice-witch making her way slowly back down the avenue towards the tower and the Celestine disappearing into the trees. Neither wished to name their pain.

  Olwynne slept that afternoon, and for the first time in days woke refreshed.

  She had gone to her aunt before the midday meal break and asked her to remove the ward Isabeau had placed on her third eye, to protect her after her attack of sorcery sickness. After a long, searching glance the Keybearer had done as she asked. Although she had done no more than touch her lips lightly to Olwynne’s brow, it had felt like a sharp blow that the Banprionnsa fell back from, reeling. She had gone back to her room slowly, feeling odd, as if her arms and legs were too long and loosely jointed. She had been afraid to lie down, afraid of what her dreams might show her, but although she had dreamt, it had been the usual vague inconsequence and had left no residue of terror.

  Olwynne lay for a while in the green dimness, looking out into the trees, then she yawned, stretched and rose. She stripped off her clothes, heated water on the fire and filled a hipbath with jug after jug of warm water. She washed her body and her hair with rose soap, then anointed herself with precious oils scented with rose and jasmine and lovage, all of them herbs used in love spells. Drawing upon the One Power, she dried her hair gently between her hands so it sprang up in thick, glossy ringlets the colour of the Beltane fires.

  Naked, Olwynne looked at herself in the mirror for a long time. She thought of Lewen’s last look at her, his face lighting up with a smile. He canna want to love that satyricorn girl, she thought. It’s for his own good.

  Lying before the mirror, casting a delicate fragrance upon the air, was the little nosegay of flowers Lewen had given her – tiny pink roses, lavender, jasmine, violets and lovage, hemmed with bright new leaves from the hazel tree. Olwynne picked it up and smelt it then, wincing in anticipation, plucked one long, red, wiry hair from her head and wound it about the stems.

  She went to her spell-box and drew out two tall pink candles, candle-holders made from rose quartz, a long pink ribbon and a tiny vial of precious dragon’s blood. When Olwynne uncorked the vial, the rich, cloying smell almost made her gag. Holding it away from her, she quickly corked it again, then she set up the candles either side of the mirror, anointing them with the aphrodisiacal oils.

  Lit only by the dancing flames of the candles, in the cooling dusk of the day, Olwynne looked herself in the eyes. She knew what she was doing was forbidden by the Coven. If anyone found out, she could be expelled from the Theurgia. All her dreams of being a sorceress would be ashes.

  But in the warm candle-light, she was beautiful. It hurt her that no man would ever get to touch her skin, to breathe her breath. She had loved Lewen so long and so secretly. All her dreams of desire were tied up in him, and she felt she could never recover. It was wrong that he had given himself to some other girl. It was cruel. Olwynne could not bear that all her sweet imaginings should bear no seed, no blossom, no fruit. It was unnatural.

  So, gazing into her own eyes, she took the dragon’s blood upon her fingertip and drove it into the deep, hot, wet absence of her. She felt an immediate dilation, an opening of the hard closed petals. Her breath came in a quick pant. She pulled her hand away and, furtively, lifted it to her nose.

  Finding it hard still to catch her breath, Olwynne dipped her fingers again in the sweet-scented oils and touched, ritualistically, her third eye, her left breast, her right shoulder, her left shoulder, her right breast and then her third eye again. As she drew the pentagram of protection, she said in a shaky voice, ‘By the powe
rs o’ the five directions, above me, below me, within and without, may I be protected from all harm.’

  She then took the ribbon and ran it through her warm, oily fingers, chanting softly: ‘Flowers and ribbon, make him love me, flowers and ribbon, make him need me, flowers and ribbon, bind him to me, as long as our hearts should beat.’

  Three times she chanted the spell, then Olwynne bound the ribbon about the flowers five times, knotting it each time and saying, ‘By one this spell is done, by two it will come true, by three so let it be, by four for the good o’ all, by five so shall love thrive.’

  Olwynne was frightened, but also exhilarated. She lifted the nosegay and breathed in the sweet fragrance deeply, then laid it down and began to dress. It had taken her a good part of the morning to decide what to wear. She had discarded outfit after outfit until, at last, she had settled on the dress she had worn to her first ever ball. She had loved the dress then, but had rarely worn it since, thinking it too pretty for a woman who wished to be a sorceress.

  A skirt of white satin, embroidered all over with tiny flowers, was worn under a kirtle of pale spring green. The bodice was of the same colour, and was usually worn with a lace collar, which Olwynne now discarded. She tucked the nosegay of flowers into her cleavage, aware that it drew attention to the curve of her pale breasts above the deep-cut square neckline. She then carefully crowned herself with a wreath of roses, jasmine, lovage and violets, woven together with a silken ribbon the same colour as her kirtle. From beneath her wreath, her heavy red-gold curls hung down her back to her knees. Olwynne looked at herself in the mirror critically, pinched her cheeks, and smiled. She truly did not think she had ever looked so well.

  The central garth was filled with excited students, all dressed in their best. The predominant colour was green, as befitted the celebration of the first day of summer. A few of the music students were playing flutes, fiddles and guitars, and couples were dancing. Olwynne walked through the crowd, smiling and nodding to those she knew. Fèlice was dancing with a tall medical student, and waved at her enthusiastically. Landon was seated on a step, writing in his notebook, occasionally splattering passers-by with ink as he finished a word with a flourish. Then Olwynne saw Edithe, who called to her and tried to speak to her. Olwynne deftly sidestepped and went on. She only wanted to see Lewen.