Magdalen Rising (17 page)

For the first time I sensed shame in Esus.

“The Jews are no longer a sovereign people.”

He could not confine his concern to nine generations of direct ancestry.

“First the Greeks conquered. They defiled our holy places and persecuted us for obeying the
geasa
of Moses.” He'd caught on to the word I'd used. “Then came the Syrians. Great leaders rose up from the people and waged war for forty years.”

He was still speaking for himself. I'm sure he would have liked to tell the heroic exploits of the Maccabees. But he sensed the druids had extended tolerance and suspended judgment for as long as they could. Just because his god was long-winded, you must not get the idea that Esus was a bore. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

“For a time, Israel and Judea were free, paying no tribute to any foreign power. Then—”

“Then?”

“Just over forty years ago, Jerusalem fell to Rome.”

At the name of Rome there was a collective hiss and some hearty spitting.

“Our Temple still crowns Jerusalem, and we still worship the God of our forefathers,” he said defiantly. “But Judea is occupied by Roman troops and groans under heavy taxes. In Galilee, where I come from, we have a so-called King, but he is no more than a Roman puppet. ”

“But that doesn't make you a slave, boy!” It was the same man who'd had his cloak cut. He was irrepressible. “Hark, you druids, if Roman rule disqualifies a candidate, then you can't admit any candidates from Gaul.”

There was a murmur, generally of assent. Rome did not look upon the druids with favor. In the not-too-distant future, the Roman Senate would outlaw the practice of druidry in all of Gaul. Esus's probing for a definition of freedom was hitting home. The grey druid addressed Esus again.

“Discounting Roman military occupation or rule, direct or indirect, is your father freeborn?”

“Yes.”

“And his father?”

“Yes.”

“His?”

And on to the ninth generation. The druids nodded, satisfied at last on the first count. As to who would stand surety, his friend in the gold trade had made arrangements. And, in fact, more than twelve men stood up. Esus had captured the imagination of his audience. Not only could he tell a good story, he
was
a good story. I glanced at the druid panel. It
was clear that they had taken note of the popular response to Esus. But the silent tap of nose ogham suggested that they still had reservations.

“You are not of the
Combrogos,”
the druid stated. “Why do you come to us? Are there no wise men among the Jews? Why do you seek to know our stories and our secrets? Why should we impart them to you?”

I could have answered that! My mind flew back to the sweet, spicy garden on the hillside below his temple. I could still see his half-awed, half-wary expression as Anna the prophetess gave him his marching orders. I could still feel her brown, ancient hands on my dove's breast.

Once again Esus seemed at a loss. It was a tense moment.

“Anna told him to come here!” I blurted out.

“Anu!”

The exclamation swept through the crowd. All attention—the druid's, the people's, my mothers', his—suddenly focused on me.

You must understand, the name I had uttered meant something different to the
Combrogos
than it did to Esus. They had immediately translated Anna as Anu, another form of Don or Danu, mother of all heroes, the very ground of the Holy Isles.

For Esus, I had called up a memory he might well have wanted to forget. He had been humiliated that day of the dove. He might not want to admit that he had been spooked enough to heed an old woman. Perhaps he had even persuaded himself that his little excursion with the
Keltoi
had been his god's idea.

“Is it true that Anu called you here?” asked the druid.

Esus looked at me in utter bewilderment, in need of translation of something way beyond words.

“Just say yes,” I encouraged him in Aramaic.

And do you think it was a lie? She had told him to find the
Keltoi.
She had told him to step outside his world.
The world is a big place, Yeshua, and small, small as a mustard seed, small as a hazelnut.
Maybe old Anna was Anu herself. How else would she know about those hazelnuts? Suddenly I saw the well of wisdom again, the hazelnuts dropping into the depths where I had first glimpsed Esus. Before I knew what was happening I heard myself shout:

“He is the salmon in the pool!”

Esus looked more alarmed than enlightened. Who could blame him?

“By what authority do you speak, maiden?”

Maiden? So he hadn't troubled to remember my name.

“She can't help it,” Fand intervened. “She—er—has the sight.”

“Not to mention a big mouth,” muttered Boann.

“Let the stranger speak for himself.” The druid turned to Esus again. “The maiden would have us believe that that you have been called here by divine powers for some divine purpose. What do you say?”

That was just the beginning of the awkward questions that would dog him all his life.

“I am here,” he said simply. “I do not know why or what it is I may learn from the druids that the rabbis, the wise men of the Jews, cannot teach me. Only you can answer that.”

That cinched it. Here was this mysterious stranger, bearing the name of a Celtic god, possibly called to Mona by a Celtic goddess, daring to give the druids this cryptic non-answer. They had attempted to place the burden of persuasion on him, and he had gracefully, casually, lightly, tossed it back into their collective laps. Teach me—or not. Take this cosmic dare—or not. Find out why I'm here—or not. It was irresistible. He was irresistible.

There was a wild flurry of ogham hand signals that made me think of the flight of cranes, and then—

“Dear Candidate, we are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted for admission to the College of Druids on the sacred Isle of Mona.”

The crowd roared approval. The gold merchant pounded Esus on the back. Esus and I exchanged a glance.

“Wait a minute!” The obstreperous man objected. “He hasn't recited his piece of poetry yet!”

The druids sighed as one.

“I think we can waive any further demonstration of the candidate's ability to meet that requirement.”

At a signal from the druids, two students from orientation came forward.

“You will wish to rest now,” the druid informed Esus.

Everything happened too fast. Esus was on his feet, bowing his head courteously to the druids as I struggled none too gracefully (my left leg was all pins and needles) to stand.

Then Esus gave me (
me
! his cosmic twin, his tireless translator, his goddamn prophetess, for Anu's sake!) the briefest smile before he turned and went with his escorts out of the grove, leaving me to face the druids alone.

I
HAD TO PEE.

There is no other way to say it. Well, come to that, I suppose there is: Take a piss; take a leak; urinate; void water; relieve my bladder. Euphemisms such as “visit the little girls room” or “powder my nose” or even the all-purpose “go to the bathroom” did not exist. Celts were not mealy-mouthed or prim about bodily functions. You may have noticed that I am not exactly shy. Still, if you were facing a panel of twelve druids (you could have found menhirs with more expressive faces) how would you put it?

“Excuse me,” I said. “I'll be right back. Save my place.”

And I bolted, crashing through the undergrowth till I deemed myself a respectful distance from the Grove proper. I count that exit as one of my minor heroic deeds. Soon everyone, druids included, followed suit. For a brief span of time, all you could hear was the hiss of hot piss hitting the ground. If we had been gods and goddesses, no doubt we could have altered the geography of Mona. Drowning a host of Egyptian chariots would have been a cinch. As it was, a collective steam rose up, a creeping yellow ground mist

(Do you think there is too much pissing in this story? I don't. Just think of it as a belated release for all the characters who held it for the duration in 19th century novels.)

My own release was all too brief. Soon I was facing the druids again, with Boann and Fand on either side of me cutting off the circulation in my arms with their tight, anxious grips.

“Declaim your lineage!”

I was glad I'd had a chance to practice with King Bran. When I got to Bride the same thing happened. The crowd behind me and the druids before me all began to recite the genealogy of Bride complete with all its protections:

“I shall not be hewn; I shall not be riven....” I lip-synched along with the rest, taking advantage of the moment to prepare myself for the inevitable next question.

“And your father? It is customary for candidates to trace their lineage through the father's line. Nine generations.”

“This is a female child,” Fand objected. “Why shouldn't she declaim her matrilineage? You don't ask male candidates to recite the mother's line.”

Although what she said made sense, Fand's interruption surprised me. My descent from Manannan Mac Lir had always been a point of pride with my mothers.

The grey-bearded druid turned a mild and courteous gaze on Fand.

“Be that as it may, the candidate must declaim her paternal line. You may begin,” he instructed me.

“I am Maeve Rhuad,” I stated once more,“ daughter of Manawyddan ab Llyr or, as we call him, Manannan Mac Lir.”

This declaration caused a ripple in the druid ranks; eyebrows rose in a domino effect all along the line of druids. Seeing all those pairs of eyebrows rise and fall made me think again of the crane wings.

“I don't know who Lir's father is, do you?”

“Maeve, don't get smart,” warned Boann.

“But no one can say Mannanan and his father are not freeborn,” I blithered on. “Unless you choose to argue that the tides are slave to the moon.”

“That's enough, Maeve!” admonished Fand.

“Anyway. That's who I am. I don't know any more than that.”

There followed another heated exchange in nose ogham. Curiously, I did not feel nervous anymore. My lineage was the druid's problem now.

“Have you ever seen your father, maiden?” the grey-bearded druid wanted to know.

“He lives in the Land under the Wave.” Surely the druids ought to know that! “It's not easy to visit.”

The druid sighed, sensing that this line of questioning would lead nowhere.

“Why do you name eight mothers instead of one?”

“I'll answer that if I may.” Fand jumped in before I could make any more wise-ass remarks. “Naturally,” she said, as if there were nothing supernatural about the circumstances of my birth, “naturally, one woman gave birth to her, but all eight of us nursed her. Think of us as foster mothers, if you like.”

The druid nodded. Fosterage and wet-nursing were common enough among all Celts, though granted, fourteen extra breasts might be considered excessive by any count.

“To what
tuath
do you belong?” The grey druid persisted in his attempts to place me in the conventional scheme of things.

“Surely,” said Fand, standing precariously on her dignity, “we have answered that question already.”

“Can't you see!”

I swear not only my balance but the balance of the whole grove shifted as Foxface rose, in one fluid motion, to his feet.

“They are the
bean sídhe.”

Have you seen the way the wind just before a storm lifts the leaves, exposing their silvery undersides? It was like that as the crowd registered the presence of the Otherworld in its midst.

“Maiden,” said the Greybeard, “where do you come from?”

“I come from the Shining Isle of Tir na mBan.”

It was as if I had unstopped a vial of some pungent scent. The air in the Grove became heavy with fragrance. You know how smell calls up memory more powerfully than any other sense? That's what happened. People were remembering, remembering things they had forgotten for a long time, things that may never have happened, except in dreams. Only for some, the dreams were not sweet. Grief was unleashed with the name Tir na mBan, and yearning and anguish, even terror. All the passions hung in the air, thicker than the smoke from the torches. It was becoming difficult to breathe.

Foxface was still standing and staring, wild-eyed. The grey-bearded druid, looking lost in thought, came to first. He clapped his hands twice in the four directions. Then the air was ordinary again, though perhaps a little stale. People stretched and yawned, unaware, I sensed, of the Otherworldly interlude. Foxface resumed his seat. I stole a glance at his face. His expression now was closed, neutral, as if he had never lost his composure.

“Maiden,” Greybeard resumed. “Why do you seek entrance to this college?”

Good question, I thought, though no other candidate, except Esus, had been asked to answer it. More evidence that he and I were cosmically paired.

“Destiny,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

Before I could elaborate, Fand jumped in.

“You see, we have taught Maeve all we can of our arts, and the girl's not bad with a sword, although she's a bit lazy with her shield arm. Actually, her strong suit is the slingshot, and when it comes to casting the
laigen
she's got pretty good hand-eye coordination—”

“Fand,” hissed Boann, “get to the point!”

“But it became apparent to us that Maeve's greatest gift is her tongue. She's good with languages, you see. We believe she'll make a fine bard. When I look back, I realize that ever since she was a tiny babe, guzzling from her mothers' breasts—”

“Fand!” Boann and I both moaned.

“—in the air around her there's been a faint tinkle, tinkle of the bells on the poet's branch. The reputation of your college here on Mona has reached us even on—”

“Quite.” The druid cut her off before she could pronounce those dangerous syllables and trigger another mass psychotic episode. “You do understand that the full course of study is nineteen years, as long as it takes for the sun and the moon to complete a balanced cycle. To become a competent bard can require as much as twelve years.” He spoke slowly and with exaggerated care in Q-Celtic, as if Fand not only spoke a rustic dialect but was not very bright. “Due to the rather obvious seasons and cycles of a woman's life, we must be very sure of a candidate's suitability before we take him, or rather her, into training. I am going to ask you a blunt question. Have you considered arranging a marriage for your daughter?”

“We have not.” Fand was affronted.

“Many a chieftain would welcome a wife trained so thoroughly in the warrior's arts.”

“We just told you.” Boann took over as spokesmother. “She's got the poet's gift. Do not insult us with condescending suggestions. We have thought long and hard about what is best for Maeve Rhuad, eight times as hard as most mothers, and nine, counting the Cailleach.” (Obviously my opinion still didn't count.) “We have made a long journey to come here and present her as a candidate. Will you have her or not!”

“Hear! Hear!” A small chorus rose from the waiting crowd.

“We must determine if she meets all the requirements,” said the druid.

“The last one didn't!” called the man with the sawed-off
sago.
“Not really. But you let him in. Don't try to fool us. You druids always do what you bloody well please, and we all know it. So get on with it.”

“If you don't want to lose your tunic, too, keep quiet, man,” snapped the druid. “Now if we accept your lineage as stated, you are, at least, freeborn.”

“Why shouldn't you accept it?” The man was not so easily quenched. “Everyone knows the gods are even hornier than we are. She wouldn't be the first god-begotten brat the world has seen. And as long as there are meddling gods, not the last.”

“Second warning!” growled the druid. “Now then, who stands surety for this candidate?”

“We do. Obviously,” said Fand.

“And I stand for her.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw King Bran on his feet fulfilling his part of the “extremely cordial terms.”

There followed an unnerving silence. The druids let it lengthen.