Daughter of Albion (26 page)

I could see nothing in the blackness, but as I swam my fingers brushed against walls of stone beside and above me. I was underground. I swam effortlessly, water coursing through my body like blood. There was bliss in it, sustenance, and I was not afraid.

Soon there was a glow ahead. I eddied forward, drawn to the light, then I was free of the underwater chambers and rising toward a bright moon. My face broke the surface and I gasped air, a human breath.

I was within a wide lake, a shoreline not far in the distance. It was still dark but the air was warm; the seasons were askew again. I had journeyed. Joyously, I took another breath and began to swim. Yet as I drew closer to shore, I recognised a shape rising out of the water, lit by the three-quarter moon. It was Glass Isle's mighty Tor. I remained in the hardworld. Yet had I not travelled by trance to come here? By journey?

Night mist clung to the shore of the Isle. I crawled onto the pebbly bank and collapsed on my side. It was the same bank that met the canoe when I first arrived with Sulis. I was sure of it.

I stood up, wringing the lake from my under-robe. I could not find the shape of what had happened. If I had not journeyed to the Mothers—if I was still in the hardworld—then how had the season been turned? How did I swim such a distance?

I checked the strapping that held my sword to my waist. I would rest in my temple bed this night and leave at first light. If I walked the same forest path that led me to Taliesin, the same mist-filled gully, I would surely be able to cut through once more to the place of the Mothers who held him.

I walked the treeline in the darkness, searching for the opening that led to the temple. But when the shore began to curve to the north and I had been walking almost half an hour, I knew I must have passed it.

I walked back, scouring the forest edge as I went, but still the path was not revealed. At last there was a small gap in the trees, marked with a clump of buckthorn heavy with berries. Had the path been so narrow and unformed? I did not recall it so. I took a few steps but the spongey ground and overhung branches soon turned me back onto the shore, my skin prickling with fear. I walked back and forth with a quickening pace, but the line of trees was as dense as a wall. This was maddening. There was nothing for it but to return to the buckthorn path. It had to be the path to the temple. There was no other.

I would be through in moments, I told myself as I stood poised at the mouth of the track. I had walked the Oldforest by night before, so why did this path set my heart thumping?

The moon scarcely penetrated the forest canopy. There was a bank of sheared earth to my right and I trailed my fingertips tentatively along it. Soon all light was banished. Whether my eyes were closed or open made no difference. I pawed forward over the uneven ground, my arms outstretched, groping into the space before me.

I tried to calm myself, to argue with my pounding heart, but my muscles were strung taut, alert to every sound that echoed in the blackness. Was that the rustle of a wolf? An animal smell rose through the odour of wet leaves, but I was so addled by loss of sight that my mind was surely bending my senses. I had to be nearing the temple clearing. Or was I wandering deeper into the Isle's forests? I stopped. I had lost all sense of direction. Moments as long as hours passed while I stood, unmoving.

The darkness began to attack, full of spirits, circling and readying. I spun toward the sound of footsteps behind me, then others in front. There was a wailing cry and I did not know if it was my voice or another's.

With a jolt, I realised what was happening. This was my long night. My trial. And I was failing it. The making of fire or finding of food was beyond me now. The test of the long night was to banish fear. But with every shaking breath, I summoned what waited in the darkness. The rot beneath my feet was not leaves, but bodies, infected, predatory, clamouring for me.

Even in my terror, I recognised this darkness. There was something monstrous in me that called it forth. What I had feared my whole life was upon me. I was utterly alone. It was my punishment. Deserved. For placing my lover before my milkmother, for shunning the wisdom of my Elders, for thinking I could live outside skin. If fear could be withstood during the long night it would not return again. But fear had slaughtered me.

I sank to the ground and curled into a ball, my body aching with the need for sleep. But there would be no escape from the full passage of this terror.

I lay for many hours, rigid.

I learned the true shape of my fear.

I learned what it was to be only myself.

Dawn came like a kiss, its flesh light filling the forest. Never had I been happier to see the day. The scene of last night's torment was now so tranquil, the path clear when I turned to find it. I had survived.

I moved slowly, fractured by the night that had torn through me. But when I finally stepped free of the trees, there were no temple huts. No initiates. There was nothing here at all. ‘Sulis?' I called feebly. ‘Taliesin?'

Had I wrought this change by my tearing of skin? Was I to remain alone here as punishment? Last night's horror began to stir and I knew I could not endure it again. I wondered if I should leave the Isle while I had light. But there was no boat to travel back to Caer Cad over the water and I would never find the passageway that brought me here under the vast lake. Still I was not even sure if I stood in the hardworld or on Mothers' ground.

Perhaps I had died this night. Perhaps I had come to Caer Sidi. Part of me wished it so. But my hunger, my exhaustion, my grazed skin, my loneliness all felt very much of the living.

It was only the thought of Taliesin that bade me walk on. But there was no forest track, nothing I recognised here except the Tor, looming before me. Was that a thread of smoke winding from its summit? A fire?

I blundered forward, ignoring the teachings that forbade me from ascending the mountain. It was steeper than it appeared from below. Panting, I clambered up a winding path through dense wildflowers and mountain shrubs. Near the summit the path became stony, banks of low cloud drifting past. I kept my eyes on the ground, the smell of the smoke urging me on.

When at last I reached the peak I was in a clearing ringed with rough-cut branches, buckthorn and stones. A woodfire burned in the centre but no one tended it. No one was here. I collapsed on a log, my legs shaking, and closed my eyes. I had been truly cast from all I knew.

Then on the howl of the wind, I heard a human breath. When I looked up there was an old woman sitting cross-legged behind the fire. Had she been so still that I did not see her? With a cry of relief, I ran forward and crouched to greet her.

She was older than Cookmother, older than Llwyd. But beneath the droop of her brow, her eyes were the colour of the greenest water. She stared at me then spread her arms. Without pause, without thought, I climbed into her embrace. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed my forehead with the love of a mother. I burrowed into the warmth of her lap, sinking deeper as she yielded to my weight.

For a teetering moment, I could have pulled myself back from her embrace and returned to the solid ground of the mountain. Even as I fell into it, I knew there was risk in this pleasure that I may not return. But her hold was so blissfully tender after my night alone that I no longer cared for anything else.

I closed my eyes and let her skin and muscles grow around me until I was entirely buried, submerged in the current of her blood. Soon there was no more flesh and I was falling, surrendered, into emptiness. My journey was over.

To know the earth, we must learn to hear it
in a way that reveals its language.

P
AIN SEARED THROUGH
my centre.

Something had caught my fall.

When I clutched my belly I felt a cord, warm and sinewy, coursing with blood. This was what held me. In agony, I grasped it and hauled myself up to lessen the strain.

I did not want to be caught.

Bearing my weight with one hand, I reached for my sword with the other. This was its promise: to do my will. It would slice through the cord that halted my fall. Even a flash of Taliesin's face, vivid as flame, could not bid me stay.

My fingers tightened around the cord as I readied to cut. Then, through the membrane of skin, I felt a vibration. A hum. Faint, as though from a great distance. I raised the sword. But the humming strengthened. It was a voice, a song. An illusion, I told myself, a trick of the mind. One last barrier to pass before I could enter the freedom of the fall. Again I lifted my sword. A wave of song poured into me like breath, pure and spinning with light.

I hung, suspended by the cord, by the song. Beneath me was an infinite dark. Above me was the light. And the song. I looked up and I pushed the sword back into its sheath. I could not defy this sound.

Slowly I placed both hands around the cord and began to shunt myself up. It took many hours to make the ascent. Soon my shoulders ached and I was dripping with sweat. It was only the song, ever louder, that urged me on. Just as I could not heave myself up one more length, the cord thickened, becoming fleshy, muscular. Then it was a hand and an arm and I was being pulled back into the lap of the old woman.

But when I opened my eyes, it was not her, but the flat ground that cradled me, and the fire that warmed me. I lifted my under-robe and rubbed the place where the cord had attached. Now there was only smooth skin and some tenderness where it had pulled.

Still the air was full of song. I looked up to see a river of women in ceremonial furs surging past me, down the mountain. Straightaway I recognised their bearing, though I had not seen their faces before. I was indeed with the Mothers. It was their singing that had called me back from the fall. With a gasp, I recalled what Sulis had told me and I reeled with the question: had my long night been of the Mothers' realm? Were they preparing me to be Kendra? It could not be so. I was not ready.

Hesitantly I rose to follow them, my hair whipping in the wind, then I paused and turned back. I wanted to see the view from this height. At the summit's edge, I drew breath in wonder. I had never seen so much of the world. Woodlands, meadows, mist-crowned rises, iridescent rivers and, beyond these, the endless lake, all spread in a vast living cloth. In the distance I saw the hill that marked the salmon's nose, the river of its spine and the jutting stones of its tail tips. The totems of dog, crow and many others were clear also, marked in the earth as they were in the night sky. I saw the land's stories of which Llwyd had spoken.

Through the howling wind, the Mothers' chant drifted up the hill. I walked to the other side of the summit and peered down. Hundreds of women, all singing, were pouring into the flatlands beneath the Tor. This was not just one group of Mothers, nor two, nor three. All the Mothers were assembling.

I scrabbled down the path, behind the women who descended, their sound unceasing. I alone did not sing.

At the base of the mountain I stood against a sheared stone bank and watched the Mothers gather in their circles, in turn making one great circle around a central fire. For what purpose did they gather? I shrank further back against the crumbling earth.

The greater circle was nearly complete. As the last women trailed in from the forest paths, my heart jumped.

‘Tara!' I rushed forward to greet her.

She did not break her song, but her eyes told me she was pleased to see me and I took refuge beside her. ‘Is this all of the Mothers?' I whispered.

Tara nodded, still singing.

‘Tell me of them,' I said.

She halted her song and looked to the circle beside us. ‘They are the Mothers of grain.' She turned to the next. ‘They keep the language, and they the children…' One by one, she named each of the knowledges: nine I had not yet been called to learn, and one that I had. Steise and the Mothers of change stood across the great circle. I craned, searching for Taliesin, but he was not among them.

Tara nodded to the women who had sung me back from the fall. ‘They are the Mothers who keep the renewal of laws. And she—' she pointed to an old woman who stood at the heart of the circle, raised high on a platform of interwoven branches, ‘—she alone keeps the twelfth lesson.'

It was the woman who had cradled me as I fell.

‘She is the Mother who makes us all one.' Tara glanced at me. ‘Once you have met with her, you will not return to the Mothers.'

I stared at Tara in shock. I had met with the old woman. But surely this could not be my last time with the Mothers? For if it was, I could not yet bring back Taliesin.

Tara took up her tone again and motioned that I leave. Distressed, I walked back, beyond the circles, to listen and watch.

The old woman stood with her arms raised, her gaze flickering around the circles. Then slowly, when every eye was upon her, she lowered her arms and the Mothers were silent.

She held one hand out to Tara's circle, the Mothers of fire, summoning their song. When the sound was strong, she used her other hand to call for another group and then a third. The exquisite blend of the three tones coiled through the air, soothing my fears and winding around my spirit.

With this, the old woman began an intricate dance of gestures, silencing one circle, summoning another, calling five, six, even ten at once. I listened spellbound as, with threads of song, she wove the fabric of the world around me.

I looked up at the great Tor and the trees covering it. They were made of song as much as of wood and earth and I could not tell if I was hearing or seeing them. The ground hummed beneath my feet and I looked up to a sky full of sound.

This was the Singing, the birthing of our country.

Slowly, I understood why skin was not part of the Mothers' world. They were before skin, beyond it. Skin was what held the hardworld in place. Skin was our name for what they created.

Slowly, I understood that our world could not exist unless the song was heard that made it so. And I was the woman who heard it for my people.

There was an abrupt silence as the old woman quieted the Mothers and raised her left hand high above her head. I watched her, without breathing, as she lowered her arm toward the place where I stood, until finally it came to stillness pointing directly at me.

I froze.

She wanted me to sing. She wanted me to answer. But what would I sing? I had no skin. I had no song. I looked at the old woman and then around at the Mothers, all silent, all staring. I met Tara's eye, then Steise's.

I opened my mouth and drew a lungful of air. My breath reached where it had never been, into the deepest core of my being, where I sensed something dislodge and take form. It rose from my core, then broke from my throat on trembling air. A note, as sweet and thin as a shoot of grass. And as it was uttered, it took root, strengthening, until it was as dense and textured as the ground beneath me.

I knew it. It was my song. My part of all creation.

I did not have skin, but I was the Kendra.