Magdalen Rising (46 page)

When I woke I was alone. That was the first thing I knew. My baby was gone. Every mother knows this particular kind of terror and desolation if only in nightmare.
Where is my baby? Where is my baby?
That is what I mean by alone: without my baby. For a long while I didn't move. I didn't want to know what I knew. Anything I did—sitting up, crying out—would only make it more real: my baby gone.

As I lay still I began to notice thin lines of light leaking into the darkness through chinks in the stone. I did not want to consent to any reality, but my mind began to organize information anyway. I must be in a chambered cairn. It was probably the nearest shelter from the storm. They'd brought me here because I was having a baby.
My baby. Where is my baby?
I had fallen asleep with her in my arms, and now she was gone. I couldn't not know anymore.

I sat up, and when the dizziness cleared, I tried to stand, but my legs buckled under me.

“My baby!” I wailed. “Where is my baby?”

Moira must have been waiting outside. She rushed in and tried to put her arms around me. I struggled and screamed until exhaustion overcame me and I collapsed against her. She held me and stroked my hair.

“You're going to have to be very brave, Maeve.”

She spoke to me as if I were a child. But I was a woman, a mother.

“Where's my baby?” I asked again.

“She is well and safe, Maeve. That's all I can tell you.”

“Where's Dwynwyn?” I changed tack. Dwynwyn would know. Dwynwyn would help, as she had helped me rescue Esus. Esus, Esus. I couldn't think about him yet. I had to find my baby first.

“Dwynwyn has gone back to her island.”

I rubbed my eyes with my fist to keep the tears back. How could Dwynwyn desert me now?

“Ah, no,” said Moira. “I see what you think. Let me spare you a little pain, at least. She fought as hard as she could to stay with you. She was removed by force.”

“I don't understand. How could anyone force her?” I did not welcome the discovery that Dwynwyn was not all-powerful.

“Dwynwyn is a great sorceress, to be sure, but, in the end, only flesh and blood, for all her Otherworldly connections. And the druids are not without powers. Dwynwyn did all she could do for you, more than she would have for any other. Take what comfort you can from that. Now listen, Maeve, there are some things I think you'd better know.”

“Where's my baby?” I repeated without hope.

“Maeve, the druids believe you helped the Stranger to escape. You are being accused of meddling and interfering with high mysteries.”

“High mysteries like rigged lots,” I spat.

“They don't think you acted alone. They are almost certain Dwynwyn had a hand in what happened. But she is outside their jurisdiction. You are not.”

Nothing she said moved me much. Esus was free. There was at least that: an aching throb of sweetness in the midst of pounding loss.

“Where's my baby?”

“She is well, I tell you, and will be well cared for.”

“Who! Who will care for her? Who?”

Moira didn't answer. I waited, sensing that she was debating with herself.

“I am under orders not to tell you anything at all. But that seems unnecessarily cruel. I will tell you this much: Your daughter is on her way east, as we speak, away from this strife, away from the burden of prophecy and the confusion of rumor. She is to be fostered by a proud, strong, wealthy tribe, the Iceni, rich in horses and known for their strong, beautiful women. Believe me, Maeve Rhuad, your daughter will be well-treated and honorably raised.”

“She's gone?” I whispered. “Gone?”

“It will be better for the child, Maeve.” Her voice was gentle but inexorable. “The college would never have let you keep her. You are in too much trouble. Maybe mortal trouble. Pay attention, Maeve. As soon as you're strong enough, you are to appear before a court made up of the druids of Mona and the priestesses of Holy Island. You will be questioned about the Stranger's escape as well as the escape of three female prisoners. The archdruid will make a judgment concerning what is to become of you. You must begin to think clearly, and when the time comes, you must answer the court's questions very carefully. Your life hangs in the balance, Maeve.”

What life?

“Do you understand?”

I nodded, just to stop her words. Then I turned away my head and was sick.
Gone. My baby is gone.

My whole body wept.

W
E ARE NEAR THE end of this story? Are you wondering how I'm going to pull off a resolution, let alone a happy ending? Listen, I never promised a happy ending. You can laugh your way to a tragic end, just as you can weep for a night and find joy in the morning. Comedy, tragedy. It's we who named them and separated them into two distinct masks. But life is messier than that. It won't resolve itself into neat symbols you can wear around your neck or hang from your ears.

While we're on the subject of symbols, I have something I've been waiting to say for two thousand years. Thanks to the cult that's grown up around my foster brother's life and death, we've gotten used to thinking of the male principle as the prototype of the human: the god who shares our humanity, who suffers and dies with us, who harrows hell for us. We tend to think of the female as other than human. The old crone doesn't die; she is death. The maiden is forever young; the mother eternally squatting to give birth or suckling with her many breasts.

Listen: I am a woman. I am flesh. I have been to hell and back more than once, like many a woman before me and since. I have lost my lover. I have lost my child. I am about to stand trial for my life. I want to tell you, whoever you are, male or female: When you are in the place of no hope and no comfort, I am there with you, just as surely as he is. You can call my name: Maeve, Magdalen, She Who Suffers. Call on me. I will be with you.

I thought at first that justice (so to speak) would be swift and simple. The Beltaine festivities were still going on, the tribes still gathered. I was delivered of my baby. What were they waiting for? I'd cost them a sacrifice. Surely they would demand that I pay in kind. To me it seemed the most obvious—even desirable—solution. But the days passed, and nothing happened. I stayed in isolation at the cairn—not Bryn Celli Ddu but a small cairn halfway between the dunes and the college. The three resident Crows took turns tending me. I was allowed no visitors. Apparently the date of my trial had not been set.

“We have all agreed that you must regain your strength first,” Moira explained.

Fattening me up, I thought to myself. No fun sacrificing someone who was half dead already. But I began to wonder. The cosmic moment for the quinquennial sacrifice had come and gone. The days passed; the moon waned; the tribes dispersed. Against my will, I was recovering, the young, green life within me putting out root and shoots, taking hold, making it harder for me to sustain my death wish. My bleeding tapered off. The Crows made compresses to ease my aching, engorged breasts. Still, several times a day, with a great, tingling rush, my milk would let down. In fact, what happened was more like the eruption of a fountain, tiny jets of milk shooting out in all directions. Whatever released the milk also unstopped my grief, and, at those times, I would weep until I had wept myself dry again.

Finally, late in the afternoon before the night of the dark moon, the druids sent for me. As soon as I realized that I was being taken to my trial, I felt more relieved than anything else. I rode on horseback behind Moira. We headed west, and somehow I was not surprised when we arrived at dusk in the very grove where Esus had received the blackened barley cake. When the trial was over, would they lead me away and tie me to the same tree?

As was their custom on windswept Mona, the druids stilled the air. (They were capable of that much weather magic, at least.) There was silence in the circle of trees except for the crackling and hissing of a small fire. I stood alone between the fire and a semi-circle of Cranes and Crows, my shadow dancing before me to the rhythm of the flames. Beyond the Crows and Cranes, I could see the beech tree where my old woman self had sat concealed. A smile tugged at my lip and laughter bubbled in my throat and threatened to explode. I wondered why I had so little fear.

Then it hit me: there was no russet beard and eyes under any of the white hoods. Before I had a chance to consider the implications of that conspicuous absence, the archdruid planted the world tree and sang the quarters. He was impressive by force of habit, but he seemed a little shaky tonight, more like the old man that he was. After a rambling preamble about why we were assembled, he turned to me. Apparently he was going to conduct the questioning himself, which meant, I reckoned, that I was a V.I.P. (Very Important Prisoner).

“Maeve Rhuad, is it true that you took it upon yourself to meddle with the sacred mysteries of divine sacrifice?” he began, his tone more sorrowful than stern.

“If you want to put it that way.” I shrugged.

“You will please confine your answers to yes or no, unless otherwise directed.”

“Yes.”

“Did you conspire to contrive the escape of the chosen one?”

“You mean the one chosen by the druid Lovernios in a rigged lot?”

You would think the archdruid would have blanched or blushed. But it has been my experience, then and since, that people don't get very far in the ecclesiastical business—or any other—if they are overburdened by shame. The archdruid traveled light.

“Was that a yes or a no?” the archdruid inquired politely, completely ignoring my reference to Lovernios. Where was he, I wondered again?

“Yes.”

“How did you accomplish your aim? You may expand your answer here,” he encouraged me. “The court wishes to know how you, er, pulled it off.”

“The court may wish to know, but I may not tell. I am under a geis not to reveal my methods.”

I wasn't sure that was strictly true but it sounded good to me, and it frustrated them. There were regretful sighs and disappointed murmurs, but everyone had to respect a geis.

“Pity,” said the archdruid. “I will say for the record—and please don't misunderstand me; I don't wish to encourage behavior such as yours—but I will say that though the court is appalled by what you admit you have done, we cannot help but be impressed. You managed to convince a perfect—and perfectly willing—sacrifice to shirk his fate. You got him clean away right from under our noses. We suspect you also had a hand in the escape of three important political prisoners, and I take it you are not denying responsibility for that tidal bore?”

“I am not.” I'm afraid I could not suppress a grin, and I'm afraid the grin did not help my case, supposing there was any help for it, which I doubt.

“Well, then, my dear young lady,” (Don't you hate that term?) “we can only grieve, grieve and deeply mourn and lament that you did not see fit to apply your considerable talents to your studies at this College;
that you lacked the grace to offer your great, natural gifts for the good of the whole
Combrogos.

“But, no. Green, young, and callow as you are, you defied the wisdom of your elders, setting yourself up as judge of what was best, and put your will above the good of the
Combrogos.”
He paused to take a rasping breath. “In so doing, you have upset the delicate balance of the cycles, on which all life depends; you have put in jeopardy the safety and survival of the
Combrogos,
which a willing sacrifice might have ensured. Moreover, out of a blind, foolish, selfish passion, you have interfered with the divine destiny of an extraordinary young man who might have joined the Mighty Ones.”

The charges against me did sound serious. Had I been as bad as all that?

“And finally—”

There was
more?

“—though you may not yet know it, you are responsible for a man's death. Yes. The great druid Lovernios, whom you have falsely accused of manipulating the lots, is dead—or so we fear.”

Foxface, dead? My father dead? And yet...hadn't I already known?

“Lovernios fell from his mount and was overtaken by the tidal bore you so recklessly raised. He was swept out to sea.”

As the archdruid spoke, the scene played itself again in my memory: the rider dismounting and turning to meet the wave.
My father. My father lives in Tír fo Thuinn, the land under the wave.

“His body has not been recovered. We may not even give his remains the rites and honor due so great a man, who tirelessly served the
Combrogos,
whose loss is incalculable.” Here the archdruid allowed his voice to break. “Therefore,” he went on, tears standing in his eyes, “although you may not have killed him knowingly—we will give you the benefit of the doubt, however undeserved—we are forced to regard you as a murderess.”

“No!” I don't know how I found the strength to shout that word, but I did.

“No? What do you mean, no?” For the first time the archdruid was thrown off stride. “You have already admitted that your raised the bore.”

“I mean no. No, I did not kill Lovernios. I called the wave, but I was there. I saw. While the others galloped to safety, he stopped and got
down from his horse. He walked straight towards the bore. On purpose. He wanted to die.”

There was a shocked silence, then an indignant sputtering.

“Oh come, come now, Maeve Rhuad,” said the archdruid. “You can't seriously expect us to believe that. Why would Lovernios, a renowned druid upon whose counsel famous kings depended, a great and mighty druid whom I favored as my successor, why would such a man cut short his life?”

I looked at the archdruid's cold, closed expression, repeated on so many other faces. Nissyen was right. No one would believe me. It was not in their interest to believe me, or, as the archdruid might say, it was not in the interest of the
Combrogos.
It was not the story the druids were telling themselves. It would skew the plot line, make chaos of the cast of characters. What was left of my heart (a few jagged pieces) sank to my feet, then deeper, into the earth itself where dead things are buried.

“Because,” someone was answering for me. I looked up and saw Nissyen tottering towards the archdruid, trembling from the wisps of his hair right down to his gnarled toes. “Because the great druid Lovernios fathered a child on Maeve Rhuad, his own daughter whom he denied, and he could not face the College, the
Combrogos,
or himself.”

A heartbeat of silence gave way to outraged whispers that soon rose to gale force.

I looked at Nissyen through sudden tears. In my eyes, this little lightweight druid had taken on the stature and sturdiness of an oak. He smiled at me and gave a little sideways nod. I knew what he was saying: “It's all right, Maeve Rhuad. It doesn't matter what happens to me now. I am at peace.”

“Silence, please. Silence, everyone.” The archdruid took command. “The late, lamented Lovernios's honor and reputation have been impugned. We must determine the truth of the matter. Maeve Rhuad.” He turned to me again. “Do you hold what Nissyen says regarding your paternity to be the truth?”

“I do.”

“Then I am confounded. Do you have as many fathers as you have mothers? How many more fathers will you name?”

“I have...had only one father.” I had a lump in my throat. How could I mourn the loss of a father who had hated me? Yet it seemed I did.

“Perhaps my memory deceives me, then. Did you or did you not present yourself to the College as the daughter of Manannan Mac Lir?”

“I did, but—”

“Then how do you come to make this wild claim that the late, lamented Lovernios is your father?”

How, indeed? What was I to tell them? Should I explain that Dwynwyn's magic well had revealed to me a key episode in Lovernios's mysterious past? Should I describe my mothers' glee as they surveyed his shipwrecked form? That was just the beginning. Would the druids really sit through an account of what happened that night in Bryn Celli Ddu?

“Can either you or Nissyen offer any proof whatsoever for this allegation of paternity?”

Nissyen and I exchanged a helpless glance. Of course Nissyen knew nothing but what I had told him and believed it only for love of me. Dwynwyn was a prisoner, of sorts, on her own island. Esus, who had heard Lovernios break down and admit the truth, was long gone. Lovernios was dead. I had no witnesses. It was my word against his eternal silence. Then I remembered my first vision of him, the one I'd had beneath Bride's breast.

“My proof, archdruid, is in my face and in the face of the child you have stolen from me.”

There was a collective gasp, followed by a scrutiny so intense that it scoured my every pore. In a flash everyone saw what no one, including me, had wanted to see. My face echoed his. He was gone, but the shape of his bones remained in the set of my eyes and jaw.

“She speaks truly!” cried Moira, and the rest of the Crows added their voices to hers in triumphant ululation. “The rest of the story must be true, too. He was the father of the child she bore.”