Daughters of Fire (74 page)

A week later Viv had another dream.

Cartimandua, white-haired now, was sitting by a fountain in a small courtyard. There were pots of lavender and rosemary near
her and a brace of puppies were playing in the sun. A slave had brought her a letter and carefully she broke the seal and unrolled it. It was written in the secret script of the Druids. She frowned. It was a long time since she had deciphered such letters.

Carta put down the letter and smiled.

Thank you, Vivienne, she whispered. Blessed goddess, thank you!

Heather had finished watering her cheese plant and was turning towards the gurgling coffee machine when the door opened and Viv came into the office, her hair on end from the wind.

‘Hi, Viv. Coffee? Your students haven’t arrived yet. You’ve got time.’ Heather reached for a couple of mugs from the tray as Viv dropped her bag of books on the floor in a patch of sunlight, unwound her scarf and pulled off her jacket. ‘The Prof’s already in,’ Heather added. ‘Just a few minutes ago, in fact.’ She raised an eyebrow.

Viv smiled. ‘All right, so we drove in together.’ She knew it had been pointless hanging back so they would arrive separately. Heather’s eagle eye missed nothing.

‘From Aberlady?’

‘Yes, from Aberlady.’

‘You spent the weekend there?’

‘If it’s any of your business.’

‘Of course it’s my business.’ Heather handed over the mug - a reward for honesty so far. ‘So?’

Viv shrugged. ‘So. We were working on the timetables.’

‘Rubbish. I did the timetables.’

Viv shrugged again. ‘You got me there!’

‘So, what did you do?’

‘If you must know we drove out to see Hugh’s friend, Meryn.’ Viv paused. ‘He took the Steadmans’ dogs home with him, Heather. They attached themselves to him, wouldn’t let him out of their sight and Steve’s brother has said he can keep them. As working dogs they might have been put down otherwise. It was fantastic to see them racing around on the mountain. They seemed so happy.’

Both women were silent for a moment, thinking of the horrors of the past three months: the police and then the coroner’s
enquiries, the publicity, the anger and disbelief of Steve’s brother and sister and finally, their painful decision to sell the farm.

It hadn’t been easy trying to put it all behind them. Of course it hadn’t been easy. Looking back over these last months, Viv thought of the times she and Hugh had visited Meryn, listening to his patient gentle reassurance, both of them wearing always now the silver amulets he had given them.

She smiled at the memory of Hugh at first uncomfortably tucking his under his shirt, now used to it and displaying it in a distinctly rakish manner round his neck. In fact the new Hugh was distinctly rakish all round, a huge improvement, noticed and approved by the whole department.

They hadn’t stopped quarrelling. In fact, the first time they had made love had been after yet another quarrel. She smiled to herself again, remembering the evening so clearly. They had been to the museum to look at the new display, in the centre of which, on a chunk of carved black bog oak, itself dating from the Iron Age, on a bed of clean, raked sand, lay the crane’s head brooch. They had stood side by side, staring at it in silence.

‘It’s exquisite, isn’t it,’ she had said at last.

He nodded. ‘Perhaps I’ll borrow it again when
Venutios, Hero of the North
is published.’

Viv stared at him. ‘You are joking!’

He shrugged. ‘It’s been disinfected and blessed. What harm could it do?’

‘What harm?’ Viv rounded on him. ‘Have you learned nothing?’

He hadn’t been serious, of course, but she hadn’t seen it. Storming out of the gallery and out of the museum she had allowed her anger full rein.

He had followed her down Chambers Street. Followed her home. Followed her up the stone stair to her flat, by now as angry as she was, and following her inside had slammed the door behind them. Then he had taken her in his arms and shortly afterwards, to bed. One thing was for sure, life would never be boring with Hugh.

If there was going to be a life with Hugh. It was too early to tell yet.

He had taken such tender care of her after the tragedies at Winter Gill. Reassured her, comforted her, held her in his arms, and latterly since they had been together, cradled her when she woke screaming from the nightmares that still haunted her. Cathy had said they
would get better. So had Meryn. Cathy and Pete had liked Meryn hugely when they met. Cathy and he had talked for hours and between them they had brought Viv back almost to her normal self.

Behind her, Heather had seated herself at her computer and was gazing at Viv’s back as she stared out of the window, lost in thought. ‘You OK?’

Viv turned, smiling. ‘Sorry. Miles away.’

‘Thinking about the play?’

Viv shook her head. ‘The play’s finished. Out of our hands now.’

Meryn had insisted on that, helped them and taken an unexpected interest in the technicalities and the studio production. It would be broadcast in the New Year and the Daughters of Fire Production Company had been asked to produce another. About Boudica. Maddie had commissioned a documentary about the making of the play, too, which would include a certain amount about its unorthodox research. Viv gave a wry smile. Facing their demons and admitting in public some of what had happened was something they were all learning to do slowly. Pat had gone back to London once the play was finished and almost at once had been cast in a TV series, but she would come back soon to start work with Viv again and in the meantime there had been a flood of requests for Viv to write articles, give talks, go on lecture tours from people who knew her through the book and its attendant publicity. Life was very full.

Donald Grant had taken up the position of Reader as planned. She didn’t resent him for it. She didn’t have time. She hadn’t been sacked either, of course, and for now she was content to stay. Very content. The job offer in Ireland had been very tempting but she had turned it down. Maybe in the future there would be other opportunities and she would consider one of them, but for now she wasn’t ready to make any decisions of that sort. For the immediate future her life would be here in Edinburgh.

A small group of students headed out of George Square Gardens and across the road towards the department. It was time to go back to work.

‘Sounds as though your students have arrived, Viv,’ Heather said quietly as they heard the outside door bang and a sudden burst of talk and laughter in the hallway outside. Viv nodded. Later, after her tutorials, Hugh and she were meeting Stephanie and Bill
Steadman for lunch to discuss the plan to set up a research fellowship in Steve’s name. No doubt they would all shed more tears, but she knew Steve would be there in spirit. Meryn had reassured her about that. He had laughed and shaken his head when she accused him of being the reincarnation of Artgenos, but he had persuaded them all, even Hugh, of the possibility of a cycle and circle of events which would, with the strength of knowledge, always be essentially optimistic.

That meant that however bitter the tears, there would always be laughter as well.

Why ghosts?
Part of an address given by Meryn Jones to the annual meeting
of the Celtic Society

As some of you know, I have studied many philosophies, many histories, many religions in this lifetime and in many others. Those of you who have read my books know that I have assimilated much from these sources, and also from my own meditations. Many scholars and churchmen disagree with me. That is of course their privilege. But for those who seek answers may I put forward this small contribution to the understanding of some of the more unusual phenomena which sometimes puzzle those to whom they occur.

Like Hamlet, I believe there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our philosophies.

Like many religions of the world, I believe the soul goes on many journeys through many lifetimes, in many forms. It is given choices and it makes them. And it never dies. The ideal destination of the Celtic soul is of course Tir n’an Og, the land of the Ever Young. The Isle of the Blessed.

But, like the Celt, I also believe in a form of reincarnation. Some believe, and I agree with them, that the soul, on occasions, splits into three parts on death, one part to reincarnate, one to go to the Blessed Isle and one part to enter another life form - perhaps a bird or a shooting star. Others believe, and I agree with them, that sometimes the entire soul returns to this Earth in a new body. Others again believe, and I agree with them also, that the soul can choose to return to this Earth as a spirit. As a ghost. Indeed sometimes this occurs inadvertently and the soul finds itself trapped on this Earth.

The Celts believed passionately that one’s ancestors stayed in
touch. They consulted them much in the way that many eastern religions still do. They are told all the news. They are available for consultation and advice and have strong views on everything. This implies of course that sometimes the soul just stays somewhere on another plane, ready to be of service in this way, and that too I believe.

On top of these strands of belief we have an assumption that everything has spirit. Not just animals, but plants - trees - rocks - everything. To the modern and to the Christian mind this has up to now been an anathema, but particle physics would appear to be bringing some interesting new angles on this. This is valuable for people who need scientific reassurance for everything they believe for fear they may be considered flaky and New Age. The Celt believes the evidence of his own eyes, his own inner or second sight and his intuition.

The choices the soul makes can leave it unhappy. The life it has led may not have been full of glory. It may have ended in anger, sorrow, unfulfilment. Some will go for another crack of the whip in a new lifetime. But others haunt the scenes of their last life. And in doing so they can grow frustrated and angry because they find that people on the whole cannot see or hear them. If they find people who can and who welcome them, they will make use of them.

Most souls, like most people, gossip inconsequentially. They seize on things to say which they feel will reassure or convince. Hence some of the less than world-shaking comments that mediums so frequently relay.

But some souls have a huge agenda. And this is where danger can lie. The men and women who inadvertently allow them into their lives can find themselves drawn into events over which they have no control and which can put their lives and their sanity in danger.

Beware, my friends. Think carefully before you let a passing stranger inside your head. I have seen what happens if you do.

Anno domini

Within 10 years the conquest of Wales and much of Northern Britain had been accomplished. It didn’t last.