Magdalen Rising (39 page)

I don't know how to describe what happened next, except to say that Bride communicated her whole nature to me: the divine and the bovine. I was myself, Maeve, fifteen-year-old girl, six months pregnant, and I was also the goddess. We had been singing to Bride and calling her all day. Now she was here, if I would let her be. That's what she asked of me, the mild-eyed, starving cow. I stepped into the circle. The cow, already looking in my direction, turned fully toward me. Just as on the day of the caber toss, my awareness narrowed and intensified. I could not hear the murmuring of the crowd or the sharp admonishments of Crows or Cranes. All human emotion was a flickering of energy on the periphery like silent heat lightning. I undid the knot of thorn that had fastened my cloak since I'd tossed my brooch into the spring. A droplet of blood appeared on my thumb, but I felt no pain. Then I reached for the hem of my tunic and pulled it over my head. It joined the cloak on the ground, a layer of green over the grey.

The holy cow gave a long, low moo, tossed her garlanded head and retreated into the crowd. The archdruid and the Crows backed away from me, perhaps inadvertently. There I stood, in the center of the circle, naked. All around me, there was what you might call a willing suspension of disbelief. Yes, think of me as a suspension bridge, spanning a great chasm, holding the tension of the moment in balance. Or think of me as one glistening thread of the web, suddenly illuminated, making the pattern visible for an instant. No one spoke, no one made a move to
stop me. For an instant, I could do whatever I wanted—or rather whatever was wanted in that moment, by that moment.

I just stood for a time with the firelight playing over my body. I gazed at my breasts. They were fuller than ever, their blue veins matching the blue at the base of the flames. The nipples had the almost golden cast of bare mountain tops at sunrise. Round as my breasts were, my belly now was rounder. I could see its full-moon curve rising over their peaks. With the cold of winter and the necessity for concealment, I'd scarcely had a chance to simply marvel at myself. Now I did. Never mind that I was standing in the midst of several hundred people. Slowly I turned in a circle, looking at my belly in all lights and angles. As I turned, a fresh wind began to blow, a soft, warm wind. It smelled of wet earth. It bore the scent of blossom and fruit from the magical orchard of Tir na mBan. I recognized, too, the spicy smell of the Temple gardens where I had been a dove in Anna's hand.

Gently, the wind pushed the clouds aside. Overhead, the almost full moon echoed the curve of my belly. The
Combrogos
began to weep.

At the sound, my breasts tingled and burned the way my hands do when the fire of the stars pours through them, and my nipples began to spray a fountain of golden milk. Then, you might say, all heaven broke loose. The cows lowed and sheep bleated loudly. A cry went up from the crowd.

“The ewes are in milk! The ewes are in milk!” And then someone shouted: “The snakes are awake. The snakes are awake!”

From the rocks around the spring, two snakes emerged, coiling and uncoiling and began gliding in my direction. When they reached my feet and began to twine themselves round my ankles, the crowd went crazy.

“Bride! Bride herself!”

They began to surge towards me, a huge wave of human passion that threatened to take me under or sweep me out to sea, far, far beyond my depth. It is dangerous to be adored. It can be fatal. The Cranes and the Crows acted quickly and no doubt saved my life. Linking arms, they surrounded me, a black and white barrier reef, and stood fast till the ecstasy began to ebb.

“My
Combrogos!”
said the archdruid, holding out his staff, then rooting it again. “As Bride is the goddess of the hearth's flame, go home now and celebrate her with laughter and song, with cakes and ale. Then rise up early tomorrow to sow the first seeds in the ready ground. Let the
earth quicken. That is what Bride desires of you. That is why she appeared to you in this guise. To your hearths now, all.”

When the last of the crowd had wafted away, like the last wisp of cloud or smoke, the Cranes and the Crows, who had been facing outward, dropped their arms as one and turned in on me. Then they linked arms again.

I was caught.

“N
O ONE CAN SAY that our Maeve lacks dramatic flair!” someone said. “What timing! What an entrance! ”

“N It was Nissyen. As soon as I recognized his voice, something snapped or I snapped out of it, you might say. Suddenly, I was no longer the embodiment of a divine force. I was merely myself, Maeve, a first former on academic probation, standing naked in front of the entire faculty of the college. Now, the
Keltoi
were not overly modest. You wouldn't find them scrambling for fig leaves (even supposing fig trees were indigenous). Woad-painted warriors often rode naked into battle. But even so, appearing naked and pregnant in front of a host of robed authority figures does put one at something of a disadvantage. You may wonder why I did not put on my tunic or cloak. But think about it. I was surrounded. To pick up my clothes I would have had to bend over or squat, positions that would have exposed me even more. The Crows must have sensed my dilemma. One of them retrieved my tunic and gestured for me to lift my arms over my head and another Crane held out my cloak.

“Wait!” commanded the archdruid. “Do not cover her yet.”

“But she'll catch her death of cold,” objected a Crow.

“I think not,” said the druid.

Indeed the air was warm, even balmy. The snakes continued to luxuriate around my ankles. Divinity had not altogether abandoned me.

“Haven't we seen all there is to see?” snapped the Crow who held my cloak.

Without waiting for permission, she put the cloak around my shoulders. (Let me tell you, the expression “cover your ass” is not an empty one.) Now most of me was modestly draped. Only my belly protruded, and, of course, that was the part of me under scrutiny.

“Between six and seven changes of the moon, wouldn't you say?” The archdruid deferred to the Crows' expertise.

“About that,” agreed a Crow, grudgingly.

“That would put the conception in the vicinity of
Lughnasad,
would it not?” They could count well enough, those druids. “Is it just my
imagination or do my colleagues agree that it was about that time when we began having a rash of freak storms and accidents culminating in this extraordinarily harsh winter?”

“She is the misbegotten one.”

I started so when I heard Foxface's voice that one of the snakes nipped my ankle in protest. He was to the right in my peripheral vision. I could easily have turned my head to look at him, but I had the instinct of prey in the presence of the predator. I couldn't bolt, and I was vastly outnumbered, so I stilled myself. I scarcely even breathed.

“Lovernios,” the archdruid acknowledged him. “Would you care to expand this theme?”

“She is the misbegotten child who will give birth to the misbegotten child.”

“I am sure everyone here remembers the
Samhain
prophecy. Can you tell us more, now that this young woman stands before us? Let's begin at the beginning. We are told she is the daughter of a god. In what manner was she misbegotten? Treachery? Deceit? Violence?”

“Treachery. Deceit. Violence. All three.”

“Are you saying Manannan Mac Lir suffered these or perpetrated them?”

Foxface didn't answer. I risked a glance at him. He wore that look of confusion I had seen so many times before. I realized he couldn't remember what he had just said.

“Who are we to understand the ways of the gods?” he managed at last. He was not called the Fox for nothing.

“Pardon me, but could we get to the point?” My mentor Crow, Moira, butted in.

“Which is?” The archdruid's voice was mild and unhurried. It reminded me of the cow's eyes.

“The girl is pregnant, and she's a first former. We have to decide what to do about her and the child. The college does not have a clear policy, which was sheer foolishness on our part. This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“What you say is true,” soothed the archdruid. “And these practical matters shall be addressed in due season. We are concerned here with the larger aspects—or shall we say dimensions—of this pregnancy.”

“For women, childbearing is first and foremost a practical matter,” said another of the resident Crows, Morgaine, I believe. “In fact, it's
practically the only thing that does matter, when you come right down to it. The rest is mostly wind.”

“An essential element, though a changeable one,” the archdruid murmured.

The mention of wind reminded everyone of the ill wind that had moaned all winter—until I stepped into the circle and stripped.

“If I might be permitted to rephrase my concern,” resumed the archdruid. “Whatever we decide regarding her status at college and the fostering of the infant, we must take into account the
Samhain
prophecy. We cannot ignore the evidence of Otherworldly interest and influence in this case. We know that six months of ominous omens and misfortunes have coincided with this pregnancy. And tonight—”

“Tonight she brought Bride to us!” declared Moira. “The ewes are in milk and the air is soft and sweet as a baby's breath. Mark you, Maeve Rhuad is under Bride's protection.”

“That is certainly one possible interpretation of tonight's events. But then why the preceding woes?”

“Because she was forced to conceal her condition! Because we all refused to see what was under our noses,” Nissyen burst into speech. “When she bared her lovely belly, the clouds blew away and the waxing moon shone down on us all. Can't you see? It was the concealment that was all wrong.”

“Which brings us to a critical question,” said the archdruid.
“Why
was she hiding?”

You may have noticed that it hadn't occurred to anyone to ask me anything. For the moment, I was just as glad.

“Surely that's obvious,” said another Crow, Morgause, I think. “She was afraid of losing her place in college.”

Slowly, with an air of regret, the archdruid shook his head. “I think we must probe more deeply than that.”

I didn't care for his turn of phrase. I placed my hands protectively over those parts most vulnerable to probing.

“For instance, leaving intact the veil of mystery surrounding her own begetting, we still might wish to inquire about the begetting—or misbegetting—of the child she now carries. We must consider the possibility that this concealment of her condition might have arisen from a mistaken wish to protect the misbegetter. Given her youth and inexperience, she may not have understood that hiding such a deed could put the whole college, indeed all the
Combrogos,
in danger.”

“We don't know that for certain,” said Moira sharply. “We don't know that she has anything to do with the hard winter.”

“And yet as you yourself pointed out, the revelation of her condition has broken winter's hold—at least for the moment.”

No one spoke for a time. The wind blew softly; the pores of our tight, winter skin opening to drink in the sweet moisture in the air. I gazed down at my belly, almost forgetting my predicament as I watched it ripple and heave with the baby's movements.

“Young woman,” the archdruid addressed me at last. “You who are called Maeve Rhuad, you who claim to be the daughter of the god Manannan Mac Lir, I charge you, entrust us with your knowledge. We seek only what is best for the
Combrogos.
As must you.”

Even though, I added to myself, what's best for the
Combrogos
might not be best at all for me. Entrust us with your knowledge, he said. I thought of Esus asking: who has had knowledge of you? Now the Cranes and the Crows wanted knowledge of me. Or they thought they did. Would they, if I told them the truth?

I looked up and met the archdruid's eyes, so like the cow's in their insistent patience. I glanced at the Crows' faces. They seemed more human tonight, as if their rock-like countenance had been shaken by some earthquake and settled into softer lines. There was Nissyen, his thistledown hair awash on the breeze. Above me, hovering, not quite visible, I sensed my own dove form.

“She does not remember.” Foxface spoke with authority. “She cannot speak, because she cannot remember an event too strange for words, just as Arianrod could not name the father of Dylan and Lieu.”

I flew, not away into the night, but into a rage. The dove was in my heart, wings beating madly against my ribs. My throat constricted. Then, suddenly, it opened. I gave a cry that rang in the hollow of every bone.

“You!” I rounded to face him. I seized his gaze and held it. “You will not take my voice from me. You will not take my words from me. You—”

Talk about a sense of timing, good or bad I'll never know. Just when I had the spotlight, just when I was about to speak the unspeakable, Foxface shifted his gaze and pointed beyond me.

“Behold the man.”

Like everyone else, I turned to look. O shit. Esus.

“No,” I shouted. “It's not him.”

Esus, my lover, my brother, my cosmic other turned to me with that sweet, secret smile of his and spoke to me alone.

“Who else am I, Maeve, if not myself? I am that I am.”

“Esus,” I said severely. I was the only one who knew enough of Jewish theology to be shocked. “That is blasphemous.”

I spoke in Aramaic. The closest Celtic translation would have been: you've broken a geis. The situation was dicey enough already without introducing an extraneous theme.

“Since when are you worried about blasphemy?” Esus laughed. We were both a little punch drunk.

“Anu knows Yahweh is not my god, but I don't think you should risk offending him right now. What are you doing here anyway?”

“I'm standing with you. I told you I would. You could try being a little appreciative.”

“You see,” said Foxface. “They speak together in a secret tongue.”

“It takes more than talk,” said a Crow tartly.

“Esus is not the father,” I said in plain P-Celtic.

My words were lost as Esus sprang in front of me, planting himself between me and Foxface, shielding me with his body.

“There is danger to her here,” he informed the archdruid.

“There is danger to us all,” said the archdruid gravely. “Tell me, Esus ab Joseph of the interminable lineage, stranger from a strange land, foreteller of disasters, if you are not the father of the child Maeve Rhuad carries—and I must tell you, I am not yet satisfied on that point—why are you here? Why do you protect her body with your own? What is the nature of your bond with her?”

Esus didn't answer. I wished I could see his face, but he was standing in front of me. He was not much taller than me. I could easily peer over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Foxface whose eyes were guarded, his expression carefully controlled.

“Are you under some
geis,
that you refuse to answer me?”

“As a matter of fact, I am under a
geis,”
he said thoughtfully.

I pinched his arm. “You are not under a
geis
to tell anyone about the
geis,
” I hissed in Aramaic, except for the word
geis,
which no doubt all pricked ears picked up. “Besides, you're a Jew. No
geis
need apply.”

“Or I was under a
geis,”
he continued. “Does a
geis
become moot once you've honored its terms?” He sounded genuinely interested in this fine point.

I pinched him again, harder.

“Well, now, that all depends.” The archdruid was quite willing to take off on a technical tangent. “Often a
geis
is a chronic condition. For example—”

It was the Temple of Jerusalem all over again. I thought longingly of my dove form. A druid's hood is not the same as a yarmulke, but I felt confident that I could spatter one just as thoroughly.

“I see no point in discussing
geasa
in the abstract,” a Crow cut in, Morgaine, I think, “unless the stranger's
geis
has a bearing on this case, which is, may I remind you, the pregnancy of Maeve Rhuad.”

“And its effects on the general population not to mention the prevailing weather conditions,” added the archdruid.

“Putative effects,” insisted Moira.

“Whatever,” said the archdruid, showing his first sign of impatience. “Esus ab Joseph, I charge you, tell us what you know of this case.”

“You are not telling about the goddamned
geis,”
I muttered in Aramaic.

“Maeve, my dove, if we tell the whole truth, we are invulnerable.”

“That is such bird crap, Esus. Besides, what is truth?” Okay, I did say it. “The truth, as I recall it, is that you forgot all about the
geis
when we finally did it that day under the yew trees. What is the point of bringing up how I tried to force you to be my lover? Can't you see they're trying to pin this pregnancy on you?”

“Well, what if they do? What if they don't believe me? Where's the harm in that now? The hard winter is over. You may not believe in him, but the Most High has shown his favor to you by vouchsafing you a miracle, Maeve.”

“You can't be serious!”

“Maeve Rhuad, Esus ab Joseph. Speak to us all in our common language.”

“Esus is not the father of my child,” I said again.

“Are you saying that you have not been lovers, that you have made no ill-advised, premature practice of sex magic?”

I thought of how we had made summer come in the dead of winter.