Spires of Spirit (10 page)

The day passed, and he was still sitting, floating somewhere between one world and another, catching glimpses of a grassy plain and a skyful of stars behind his closed eyes. His strength was returning quickly, as though whatever power had been in the tree was still there, nurturing him, giving him back what it had taken. They were lovers who had been long with one another, who together felt the deep peace of a quiet exhaustion that ebbed away and left only tranquillity behind.

It was a good day, a lovely day, and when he looked out his window at the fields and the harvest, he did not see the bare, stripped land as a termination of the summer's bounty. He saw instead but a step between one season and another, a resting of the world before spring would return once again. It was a cold step, and yes, there was death in it, but death seemed to him now not so much an abyss from which nothing returned as a door, a passage into another land, another life, another season of growth and promise.

It was true. He was sure of it. And in the clear gray eyes that watched him, there was a light that told him that his surety was not misplaced.

And then, when the sun was nearing the western horizon, Alban arrived.

David felt his coming, and though he turned around to face the open door just as the priest stepped across the threshold, the anger that spread over Alban's features had no effect on him, and he watched calmly as the priest circled the statue, examining it from every side as though simultaneously fascinated and repelled.

When he had done looking, Alban turned on David. “Sacrilege.”

David did not move. “No,” he said. “It's not sacrilege. It's a statue. You can call it what you wish, but that doesn't change what it is.”

“I ordered you to carve a crucifix.”

“And I did not carve it.”

“You refuse to serve your God?”

“Not at all. I serve as I can.”

The priest regarded him; then: “Very well, Carver. You have chosen.” Shaking his head, he turned to the door.

He stopped short. Varden was standing in the doorway, the starlight in his eyes blazing fiercely, even dangerously. There was a staff of pale wood in his hand.

“You are threatening an innocent life, Jaques Alban.” The Elf's tone was surprisingly mild, almost respectful.

Alban found his voice after the better part of a minute. “What is that to . . . to one who has no soul?”

Varden was choosing his words carefully. “It would be best for you to drop this matter.”

“It would be best for you not to meddle.”

The Elf sighed, but he took a step into the room. “You shall not leave this house until you have promised and sworn by your God that the woman will not be harmed.” An edge of steel had crept into his voice. He was stating a simple, inescapable fact.

“I make no promises to the damned.”

Varden grounded his staff firmly. Almost imperceptibly, the wood began to glow. Alban saw it and backed away quickly, circling around to put the statue between him and the Elf, but he bumped into David's workbench and could back no further.

“You must promise,” said Varden.

But in response, Alban whirled, seized a heavy hammer from the workbench, and hurled it at the Elf.

“Varden,” David cried, but it was too late. There was not even time for Varden to move or dodge, and Alban's aim at such close range was deadly.

Varden simply stood where he was, motionless and, apparently, accepting, but as the hammer passed the statue, it suddenly shone brightly, expanded into a haze of gold . . .

. . . and fell softly to the floor as a shower of new-ripened wheat. The base of the statue was blanketed with the grain.

The Elf bent his head.

Alban stared in shock, first at Varden, then at the wheat, then at the statue. With a small, strangled scream, he turned and fled through the back door.

David's mouth was dry. “Varden . . . he'll kill Catherine. He's a vengeful brute.”

“True. And a brute he shall remain,” said the Elf quietly. His staff brightened into a rod of fire as he stepped quickly across the room to the door. Ahead of him, the priest was lost among the forest trees.

Varden lifted the staff.

A flash . . . and yellow light everywhere.
Everywhere
. Shadows fled. Trees seemed burned into the sky. David's vision reeled as though he were confronted with a sun a hand's breadth away.

Then, as abruptly as it had come, the light was fading, and the world was coming back. Bare trees. Brown earth. A sky blue with afternoon. Rubbing his eyes, David stumbled to Varden's side. The Elf was looking into the wood, and the carver saw a bulking shape that snorted and grunted in the bushes.

“Be off,” whispered the Elf, and the shape lifted a tusked head for a moment, stared with bestial eyes, and then bustled away with a crash of underbrush.

David was frightened. “Varden . . . that was . . . I mean . . . you . . .”

Sighing, Varden rubbed his face as though tired. “Catherine is safe. Fear not. The priest will not trouble her.”

A distant sound of shaking. A thump of hooves. It was true, but David, despite his fear, put a hand on Varden's shoulder. “Another will come.”

Varden shrugged and grounded his staff. “They are not all like Alban.” He looked worn, grief was heavy upon him, and the starlight glimmered uneasily in his downcast eyes.

But a flash pulled the carver's gaze back to the trees, and he caught his breath, for out among the gray trunks and the bare branches, he saw a woman's form. She was standing, tall and slender, among the trunks, and even at a distance, he could see the clear gray eyes, the dark hair, the robe of blue and silver.

His grip on the Elf's shoulder tightened. “Varden . . .”

Varden lifted his head, and David felt the smile break over his friend's face like a sunrise, felt the strength flood into him, felt the sadness and care wash away.

He wanted to say something more, wanted to say something that would, perhaps, give reassurance, or confirmation . . . or perhaps ask for them. But he could not. There were no words to be said. He decided, though, that he was quite content simply to stand in silence and let the vision last as long as it would. And then he decided that it was obvious to him that She had always been there, and always would be; and it seemed a little absurd to him that, living on the edge of forest and field as he did, it had taken him so long to realize it.

In years to come, Roxanne would remember that morning clearly, as though it were etched in her memory, or wrapped in silk and put away with the wedding clothes that her mother had lovingly made for her . . . which lay, unused, in the dark oak chest in her bedroom.

She stood at the edge of the farmlands to the south of the village, naked save for a dark cloak she wore against the pre-dawn chill. It was Midsummer Day, and she was waiting for the sun to rise. She had work to do. She was a witch.

The growing light in the east began to banish the stars from the sky. Venus, a splinter of diamond a hand's breadth from the horizon, was lost in the effulgent flood. Off to her left, Malvern Forest came alive in a chorus of birdsong, and the crops before her were lush and waist high.

And as the sun broke free of the edge of the earth, she let fall the cloak that covered her and lifted her arms. “I am the Mother of all things,” she chanted, her voice as clear as the warm light that washed over the fields, “and My love is poured out upon the earth. My life is the life of the world. My promise is eternal, and shall not be broken.”

And so she channeled the energies of the longest day, blessing the growing crops, feeling each plant—root and stalk and seed—clearly in her mind. For long minutes she stood thus, an incarnation of the divinity she worshipped, reaffirming Her promise of life and continuance; and then she dropped her hands and walked into the fields, touching the future harvest, wishing it well, loving it as only a Goddess could.

The sun was well into the sky when, her rite finished, she let the energies fad and redonned her cloak. In the old days there would have been others with her, and this would have been only the beginning of much feasting and dancing. But those times were gone, and she was alone. For most of the townsfolk it would be an ordinary work day.

And, for that matter, those who labored in the fields would be arriving soon: best, therefore, that she be on her way, for it would not do to be seen. Kay, the new priest sent to replace Jaques Alban, was from Saint Brigid, and though he had been a kind and tolerant soul as a boy, Roxanne did not know how his seminary training might have changed him. And, indeed, it might have changed him greatly, for he had been trained in the north, in Maris, and the Inquisition was very active there. True, the Inquisition had not stretched as far south as the Free Towns—not yet, at least—but it was certainly better not to give it any excuses, and so she threw on her cloak and headed for the forest, where she had left her clothes.

Why was she out that morning? Why, only to gather fresh herbs, Your Excellency. Their virtue is best at dawn, as I am sure Aquinas says somewhere. The village healer must have her herbs, must she not?

She wrinkled her nose at the imagined conversation. Good, except for the reference to Aquinas. She was a woman, and she was therefore supposed to be ignorant. If she ever had the misfortune to face a bishop across an Inquisitorial desk, her knowledge would undoubtedly trip her up. An intelligent woman, particularly a young and pretty one, was just as bad as a witch. Even if, by some miracle, she managed to deflect her accusers from her religious practices, they would probably burn her anyway just to be rid of her.

She snorted under her breath, reflecting that her jokes were not particularly funny these days.

The path led her close by the house of David, the woodcarver, and the sight of it half hidden among the trees reminded her that there were still some things for which she could be thankful. David's carvings, for example, antic and serious by turns and full of the life of the wood from which they had been carved, graced the village church in profusion, and they comforted Roxanne greatly during her weekly ordeal of mass attendance. His statue of the Virgin was always of particular aid during those interminable hours, and now, as she passed by the carver's house and heard the steady blows of his mallet and chisel, she recalled that slender figure and wondered again if it really was supposed to be a statue of the Virgin at all, for a moon and rayed star, conjoined, gleamed on her breast, and there seemed to be an elven air about her . . .

The Elves. Yes: that was something else she could be glad of, for since Varden had healed the hands of the smith five years before, something gentler and more tolerant had become a part of the daily life of Saint Brigid. She was not sure what to call it. A widening of the heart, maybe, or the touch of an elven hand. Nor could she lay her finger upon any given manifestation of it so as to call it unmistakable evidence of a change. All-pervasive and yet as ephemeral as a soul's bond with its deity, it had seeped into Saint Brigid as though that first healing had opened the smallest of chinks for a slow but steady influx of compassion; and year by year its influence had grown.

Had anyone noticed? Possibly not. Certainly the Fair Ones were no more visible in the village than they had been before, but Andrew and Elizabeth were known to entertain Varden now and again, and their adopted daughter, Charity, had once given Roxanne to understand that that immortal being had been in the habit of giving her pickaback rides through the forest.

She smiled at the image as she reached her bundle and slid out of the cloak, but as she pulled on her clothes, she recalled that she did, in fact, have herbs to gather this morning . . . and it was for Charity that she would gather them. Elizabeth had come to her the evening before to tell her that her daughter had nightmares, and as Roxanne was a healer—well, perhaps something to send the girl sweet dreams?

All-heal, the witch thought as she laced her bodice. And chamomile. And vervain. And . . . and maybe just a touch of the white sandalwood her mother had left her. It was rare, and valuable, but Charity was worth it. Charity was worth a great deal.

Fully clothed now, she threw the cloak once more about herself and set off along the path, her ebony-handled knife stuck firmly in her belt. She had a favorite place for herb gathering, but it was some distance away. If she did not dawdle, she could be back home by noon, and Charity would have the mixture that night.

There was a hearty feeling about the forest that day, as though now, at the height of summer, the trees were stretching themselves to their fullest in the sunlight. Roxanne could not help but reach out now and again to touch a trailing bough or a gnarled trunk. How are you today? Wonderful, is it not? And blessings upon you, too.

She was reminded of a morning in early spring, years ago. She had been initiated by her mother the night before, and with the coming of the new day she had taken to the forest in boy's clothes: breeches, shirt, and cloak. The air had been cold, but she had been warm, and she had climbed a hill that, bare at the top, had given her a view of the sunrise, The wave of morning light had rolled across the land, washing her in the dawn, and she had instinctively lifted her arms, feeling, in that moment, the sure and immanent presence of Another in her own being; and thereafter, Roxanne, then thirteen, had sat down on the grassy slope and had cried and laughed the morning away, her heart so full that it hurt.

Now, her boy's clothes put away, she felt it, in a gentler fashion, once again: the Mother of All walking in the world, greeting Her children this Midsummer Day.

The path she traveled took her to a stream, one of the many that wound through the forest, tributaries to the Malvern River. Barefoot, her skirts belted high, she picked her way across a series of half-submerged stones; and it was not until she was sitting on the far bank, tying her shoes, that she noticed that someone was watching her.

He was slender, clad simply in green and gray, and his dark hair fell smoothly to his shoulders. His face was gentle, almost womanly, and something about his eyes made her think of the light of the stars on a clear night. Roxanne recognized him: Varden. She had met him once before, when he had healed the smith's hands. At that time, she had been awed by his power. Now, though, under the spell of the day and her Goddess, she smiled graciously at him, a fellow traveler in this forest on this splendid morning, and she lifted a hand in greeting. “Blessings upon you this day, Master Elf,” she called. “The hand of the Lady be on you and your folk.”