Lady of Avalon (6 page)

Gawen watched without moving as the stag swung his head, pausing for a moment almost as if he could see Gawen through the leaves.

At his side Gawen heard Sianna whisper half aloud, “The King Stag! He must have come to welcome you! I have sometimes watched the deer for more than a month without seeing him!”

Without having willed it, Gawen stood up. For a long moment his eyes met those of the stag. Then the beast’s ears flicked and he gathered himself to leap away. Gawen bit his lip, sure it was he who had startled the beast, but in the next moment a black feathered arrow arched through the air and buried itself in the earth where the stag had been. Another followed it. But by that time all the deer were in among the trees once more, and there was nothing to be seen but shivering branches.

Gawen stared from the place where the stag had disappeared to the point from which the arrows had come. Two men emerged from the trees, peering under their hands against the afternoon sun.

“Halt!” It was the Lady’s lips that moved, but the voice seemed to come from everywhere. The hunters stopped short, staring around them. “This prey is not for you!”

“Who forbids-” began the taller of the two, though his companion was making the sign against evil and whispering to him to be still.

“The forest itself forbids it, and the Goddess who gives life to all. Other deer you may hunt, for this is the season, but not this one. It is the King Stag you have dared to threaten. Go, and seek another trail.”

Now both men were trembling. Without daring even to reclaim their arrows, they turned and crashed away into the undergrowth through which they had come.

The Lady stepped out of the shadow of a great oak and signaled to both children to rise.

“We must return,” she said. “Most of the day has gone. I am glad we saw the King Stag. That is what I wanted you to see, Gawen-the reason I brought you here.”

Gawen started to speak, then thought better of it. But the Queen asked, “What is it? You may always speak your mind to me. I may not always be able to do or tell you everything, but you may always ask, and if it is something I cannot do or allow, I will always explain why.”

“You stopped those men from hunting the stag. Why? And why did they obey?”

“They are men of this country, and know better than to disobey me. But as for the stag, no hunter of the elder races would touch him knowingly. The King Stag can only be killed by the King…”

“But we have no king,” he whispered, knowing he was getting close to an answer now, and not sure he wanted to know.

“Not now,” she agreed. “Come.” She started back the way they had come.

Gawen said heavily, “I wish I did not have to go back at all. I am nothing but an unwanted burden to the folk on the Tor.”

Rather to Gawen’s surprise, the Lady did not at once reassure him about the good intentions of his guardians. He was accustomed to the way in which adults always reinforced what other adults said.

Instead the Lady hesitated. Then she said slowly, “I also wish you did not have to return; I do not want you to be unhappy. But every adult must do, sooner or later in his life, some things for which he has no liking or talent. And though I would consider it a privilege to foster one of your lineage, and I have always wished for a son to bring up with my daughter, it is necessary for you to remain in the temple, as long as is needed for the making of a Druid. This learning is necessary for my daughter as well.”

Gawen thought about that for a moment; then he said, “But I do not really wish to become a Druid.”

“I did not say that-only that you must receive that training in order to fulfill your destiny.”

“What
is
my destiny?” he burst out suddenly.

“I cannot tell you.”

“Cannot, or
will
not?” he cried, and saw Sianna go white. He did not want to fight with her mother before her, but he had to know.

For a long moment the fairy woman only looked at him. “When you see the clouds red and angry, you know that the day is likely to be stormy, do you not? But you cannot say just when the rain will come or how much will fall. It is like that with the weather of the inner worlds. I know its tides and cycles. I know its signs and can see its powers. I see power in you, child; the astral tides ripple around you as the water parts above a hidden tree. Although it is no comfort to you now, I know that you are here for some purpose.

“But I do not know what that purpose is, exactly, and if I did, I would not be allowed to speak of it; for it is often in working for or in avoiding a prophecy that people do those very things they should not.”

Gawen heard this without much hope, but when she came to the end he asked, “Will I, then, see you again, Lady?”

“To be sure you will. Is not my own daughter to live among the maidens of Avalon? When I come to see her I will visit you too. Will you watch over her among the Druids as she has watched over you in the forest?”

Gawen looked at her in astonishment; Sianna did not at all fit the pattern of Druid priestesses, for whom his model was Eilan, or perhaps Caillean.

So Sianna was also to be one? Did she have a destiny too?

He told himself that it was only because it was raining, or the wind was cold, and he wanted to watch the goats from shelter. It might have been different if he had had a companion of his own age, but the Faerie Queen had not yet fulfilled her promise to bring Sianna to live at Avalon, and he was lonely. He hid when any of the monks were about, but the long, slow surge of their music stirred him, though in a different way, as much as the music of the Druid bards.

One day a little before the solstice, the shelter of the wall seemed especially attractive, for his sleep had been troubled by nightmares in which his mother, surrounded by flames, was calling to her son to save her. Gawen felt his heart wrenched as he watched, but in his dream he did not know that he was the one she was calling to, and so he did nothing. When he woke, he remembered that he was her son. He wept then, because it was too late to save her, or even to tell her that he would have loved her if he had only been given the chance.

He eased down against the plastered wickerwork of the wall, tucking his sheepskin around him. The music today was particularly beautiful, full of joy, he thought, though he did not understand the words. It dissipated the anguish of the night as the early sunlight was melting the frost. His gaze fixed on the rainbow play of light on ice crystals, and gradually his lids grew heavy, and without warning he slept.

It was not sound, but the lack of it, that brought him to himself again. The singing had stopped and the door was opening. Twelve men came out, old, or at least they seemed so to him, clad in grey robes. Heart pounding, Gawen shrank into his furs, still as a mouse when the owl is flying. At the very end of the line came a little old man, stooped with age, with hair wholly white. He paused, his sharp gaze flickering around him, and far too swiftly fixed on Gawen’s trembling form. He took a few steps toward him and nodded.

“I do not know you. Are you, then, a young Druid?”

The last monk before the old man in the line, a tall man with thinning hair and blotchy skin, had turned to watch them, glaring. But the ancient lifted a hand, in reproval or blessing, and the other, still frowning, turned away, like his brothers, to his own little beehive hut.

Gawen got to his feet, reassured by the old man’s courtesy. “I am not, sir. I am an orphan, brought here by my foster-mother because I had no other kin. But my mother was one of them, so I suppose that is what I will be too.”

The old man surveyed him in mild surprise. “Is it truly so? I had believed the priestesses of the Druids were under a vow of virginity, like our own maidens, and did not marry, neither did they bear children.”

“They don’t,” said Gawen, remembering some remarks Eiluned had made when she thought he did not hear. “There are those who say that I should not have been born at all. Or that my mother and I both should have died.”

The old priest surveyed him kindly. “The Master, when He dwelt among us, had compassion even for the woman taken in adultery. And He said of little children that of such was the kingdom of heaven. But I cannot remember that He ever inquired into the birth, lawful or otherwise, of the children.”

Gawen frowned. Was even his own soul of value in this old priest’s sight? After a moment, hesitantly, he dared to ask.

“All men have souls of equal worth in the sight of the true God, little brother. You as well as any other.”

“The true god?” echoed Gawen. “Does your god, whoever he may be, regard my soul as his own, even though I am not one of his worshippers?”

The priest said gently, “The first truth of your faith, as well as of mine, is that the gods, by whatever names they may be called, are but one. There is really only one Source; and He rules alike over Nazarene and Druid.”

He smiled, and moved stiffly to a bench that had been set beside the little thorn tree. “We have dealt with immortal souls, and still do not know each other’s names! My brothers who lead the singing are Bron, who was married to my sister, and Alanus. Brother Paulus is the lastcomer to our company. I am Joseph, and those of our congregation call me ‘Father.’ If your earthly father would not object, it would please me if you would call me so.”

Gawen stared at him. “I never set eyes on my earthly father, and now he is dead, so there is no knowing what he might say! And as for my mother, I knew her, but not”-he swallowed, remembering his dream-“that she was any relation to me.”

For a few moments the old priest watched him. Then he sighed. “You called yourself an orphan, but it is not so. You have a Father and a Mother too-”

“In the Otherworld-” Gawen began, but Father Joseph interrupted him.

“All around you. God is your Father and Mother. But you have a mother in this world also, for are you not the fosterling of the young priestess Caillean?”

“Caillean? Young?” Gawen repressed a snort of laughter.

“To me, who am truly old, Caillean is no more than a child,” Father Joseph answered with composure.

The boy asked suspiciously, “Has she, then, spoken about me?” He already knew that Eiluned and the others gossiped about him. The idea that they might have been talking even to the Christians was infuriating.

But the ancient priest only smiled at him. “Your foster-mother and I talk together from time to time. In the name of the Master who said that all children were alike children of God, I will be a father to you.”

Gawen shook his head, remembering the gossip he had heard about the Christians. “You would not want me. I have a second foster-mother, the Lady of the Elder Folk who are called Faerie. Do you know her?”

The old man shook his head. “I am sorry to say I do not have that privilege, but I am sure she is a worthy person.”

Gawen breathed more freely, but he was still not ready to trust this man. “I have heard that Christians say that all women are evil-”

“But I do not,” said Father Joseph, “for even the Master, when He dwelt among us, had many women friends: Mary of Bethany, who would have been his wife, had he lived long enough; and that other Mary, of the town of Magdala, of whom He said much was forgiven her because she loved much. So of course women are not evil. Your own foster-mother, Caillean, is a worthy woman. I say, not that women are evil, but that they are sometimes mistaken or wrong-headed, just as men are. And if some of them do wrong, that does not mean all women do the same.”

“Then the Lady of the Elder Folk is not evil, nor her daughter?” The old man sounded as if he would be no threat, but Gawen had to be sure.

“I do not know the Lady, so I do not know. There are many tales of the Elder Folk. Some say they are lesser angels, who fought neither for God nor for the Evil One when he rebelled, and so were condemned to live eternally here. Others say that Eve, ashamed to have so many children, hid some of them and so they were not blessed by God with souls.

“My masters taught that the folk of Faerie are spirits themselves, who speak for all in nature that has no voice of its own. But surely God created them. And just as men who go to dwell in Faerie never die, those of the Elder kin who cast their lot with men become mortal, and if they live well, the Almighty will grant them a soul. As for her daughter, she is only a child. And if she is partly of mortal race, then surely she has a soul already. Can children be evil? The Master said that of such was the kingdom of heaven.”

Father Joseph looked at Gawen and smiled. “You have listened to us singing often, have you not? Would you like to hear us from inside?”

Gawen eyed him suspiciously. His heart drew him to the old man, but he was tired of adults telling him who he was and what he should do.

“You do not have to,” Father Joseph added, “but it does sound better that way…” He had spoken gravely, but the boy saw the gleam in his eye and began to laugh. “After the festival of Midwinter, when there will be more leisure, you could even, if you desired it, learn to sing…”

Gawen grew abruptly still. “How did you know? How did you know that I would like that above all other things? But will Caillean give me leave?”

Father Joseph only smiled. “Leave Caillean to me.”

The big meeting hall was fragrant with the spicy scent of pine boughs. The Druids had gone out to cut them from the trees that grew on the next hill along the ley line that led from Avalon. The line passed through the Tor from the northeast, extending all the way to the farthest point, where Britannia jutted out into the western seas. Other lines of power came through the Tor from the northwest and the north, marked by standing stones or pools or hills, most of them crowned by pine. Caillean had not explored them in the flesh, but she had seen them while traveling in the spirit. It seemed to her that all of them were pulsing with power today.

According to Druid calculations, this night was the time of the year’s greatest darkness. Tomorrow the sun would begin its return from southern skies, and though the worst of winter was still before them, one might dare to hope that summer would come again.
What we do here at this node of power,
thought Caillean as she directed Lysanda to fasten the end of a garland to a post,
will send echoes of energy throughout the land.

And that was true of all their actions, not just tonight’s ritual. It was coming to her more and more strongly that this refuge in the marshes was the secret center of Britannia. The Romans might rule its head in Londinium, directing all that happened on the outer plane. But just by being here, the priestesses of Avalon could speak to its soul.

There was a squeal from the other end of the hall, and Dica, red-faced, turned on Gawen and began to swipe at him with a branch of pine. Eiluned, frowning like a thundercloud, bustled toward them, but Caillean was before her.

“I didn’t touch you!” exclaimed the boy, dodging behind Caillean. From the corner of her eye the priestess saw Lysanda edging away and grabbed her.

“The first duty of a priestess is to be truthful,” said Caillean sternly. “If we tell truth here, there will be truth in the land.” The girl looked from her to Gawen and blushed.

“She moved…,” Lysanda muttered. “I meant to poke
him.
”

Caillean knew better than to ask why. At that age, boys and girls were like cats and dogs, two kinds of creatures, alternately hostile and fascinated by their differences.

“You are not here to play, you know,” she said mildly. “Did you think we were putting up these branches just for the sweet smell? They are holy, a pledge of continuing life when all other branches are bare.”

“Like the holly?” asked Dica, her indignation replaced by curiosity.

“And the mistletoe, born of the lightning, which lives without touching earth at all. Tomorrow the Druids will cut it with golden sickles to use in their magic.” Caillean paused, looking around her. “We are almost done here. Go and warm yourselves, for soon it will be sunset, and we will extinguish all the fires.”

Dica, who was a skinny little thing and always chilly, darted toward the fire that was burning, Roman-fashion, in a wrought-iron brazier in the center of the room, and Lysanda went after her.

“You must tell me if they tease you too badly,” said Caillean to Gawen. “They are young, and you are the only boy their age around. Enjoy their company now, for when they have had their passage into womanhood they will not be able to run about so freely.

“Never mind,” she added, seeing his confusion. “Why don’t you ask Riannon if any of those sweet cakes she was making for the festival were spoiled in the baking? We who have taken vows must fast, but there is no reason for you young ones to know hunger.”

He was still young enough for that to bring a grin to his face, and as he ran off, Caillean smiled.

Without light, the hall of the priestesses seemed huge, a cavernous expanse of chill darkness in which the humans who had gathered there could be lost. Gawen nestled closer to Caillean, who sat in the midst of them in her great chair. Through her robes he could feel the warmth of her body, and was comforted.

“And so the Giants’ Dance was built,” said Kea, whose turn to tell a tale it was now, “and not all the powers of evil could prevent it.”

Since sundown they had huddled in the hall, and the priestesses had told stories of wind and tree, of earth and sun, of the spirits of the dead and the deeds of the living, and of the strange beings that are neither one nor the other that haunt the waste between the worlds. Kea’s story was of the building of the great henge of stones on the windswept central plain. It lay to the east of the Summer Country. Gawen had heard of it but he had never been there. It seemed to him that the world was full of wonders he had not seen, and never would if Caillean kept him here.

But just at this moment he was glad to stay where he was. The sound of the wind in the thatching whispered along with Kea’s voice, and at times it seemed to him he discerned a few words. The priestesses said that at this time of darkness powers walked that had no liking for humankind, and, hearing that whispering, he believed them.