The Forest House (7 page)

After a moment she dropped into a chair and shielded her eyes with her hands. She said, "Do you think I have not considered that?”

"I know you have thought of it,” he said. "And I know the result of your thoughts. Vernemeton might one day be served by one who, let us say, answered the cries of the many for war, rather than the prayers of her Priestess. And then there
would
be war. And you know what will become of us then.”

"I can only serve the shrine while I live,” said Lhiannon bitterly. "Even you cannot ask more of me than that.”

"While you live,” echoed the old Druid. "It is of that we must speak now.” Lhiannon passed her hand across her eyes. More gently, he asked, "Do you not choose your own successor?”

"In a sense.” She drew a deep breath. "They say I will know when I am to die and thus pass on my powers and such wisdom as is mine. You know who makes the real choice. I was not Helve's chosen. She loved me, yes, but I was not her choice. That one—her name does not matter; she was but nineteen, and disturbed in her wits. It was she on whom Helve's choice fell; she gave that girl the kiss of farewell, and yet she was not even considered nor given any trial at the hands of the gods. Why not? No doubt you know better than I. The priests make the final choice. What I say about my successor will have little weight—unless I am careful to name someone acceptable to them.”

"Yet,” said Ardanos, "it could be arranged—that your choice would be theirs.”

She said, "Your choice, you mean.”

"If you will.” He sighed. She was simply too quick to see through him, he could hardly resent that—certainly not now.

"I tried that once,” said Lhiannon wearily, "with Caillean; and you know how that experiment turned out.”

"Do I?” he asked.

Lhiannon looked at him oddly. "You should pay more attention to what is happening in the Forest House. I suspect you would find it hard to trust her; she has the extremely awkward habit of thinking, usually at precisely the wrong time.”

"But she is the senior priestess. If you were to die tomorrow you know Caillean would be chosen—unless,” he added with emphasis, "she were to die in the hour of trial.” Lhiannon paled, and he went on, "You know best if she would be acceptable to the gods…”

She was silent this time, and he added persuasively, "But if there were someone else, less well known, whom you could train. If the Council…never suspected prearrangement—”

"If the girl was suitable and intelligent I cannot see why it should be thought a crime or a blasphemy to prepare her for the choice of the gods…or even for the ordeal at their hands,” the old High Priestess said thoughtfully.

Ardanos was silent; he knew he could drive her only so far. Outside he could hear wind soughing in the trees, but there was no sound but their breathing within the room.

"Whom have you chosen for me to choose?” Lhiannon asked.

 

For the three days preceding one of the festivals at which she was to serve as the Voice of the Goddess, the High Priestess lived in seclusion, attended only by her chosen priestess, resting, meditating, and purifying herself. Caillean, who almost always stayed with her, welcomed this time of separation. The shelter of the Forest House could be constricting, and whenever so many women, however holy, lived together, there were bound to be conflicts from time to time.

But now she found it hard to put memories of the outside world behind her. She spooned oat porridge—made more nourishing by the addition of nutmeats, since the High Priestess might have no animal flesh during her time of purification—into a carved wooden bowl and offered it to Lhiannon.

"What did Ardanos want of you?” Caillean heard the bitterness in her own voice, but could not stop the words. "I did not expect to see him here until the day of the festival.”

"You must not speak so of the Arch-Druid, child,” Lhiannon shook her head, frowning. "He has a heavy load to bear.”

"So have you,” Caillean said tartly. "And he makes it no lighter with his demands on you.”

Lhiannon shrugged, and Caillean thought once more how fragile those shoulders were to bear the weight of so many hopes and fears.

"He does the best he can,” the High Priestess said as if she had not heard. "He worries about what will happen when I am gone.”

Caillean looked at her in alarm. It was said that a priestess, especially one of high degree, would know her time. "Have you seen some omen—has he?”

Lhiannon shook her head fretfully. "He spoke in general, but someone must take thought for these things. No one is immortal, and whoever is to succeed me will have to begin her training soon.”

For a moment Caillean looked at her. Then she laughed.

"By that am I to understand that none of us who are already trained is acceptable—especially me? Do not bother to answer,” she said then. "I know that you will only defend him, and in truth I do not mind. The title of High Priestess is not enough to justify what I have seen you suffer all these years.” Especially, she thought, since the honor of it was empty so long as Lhiannon did not choose to exercise her power.

Lhiannon made a movement of discomfort, and Caillean realized that she was treading too near forbidden ground. She had been closer to the older woman than a daughter since before her moonblood began to flow, and that was more than twenty years ago, so she knew how Lhiannon depended on the illusions that cushioned her reality.

Another woman might have asked Caillean what she wanted instead. Caillean's lips twisted wryly as she cleared away the half-eaten porridge for, indeed, she herself did not know. But her heart told her that there must be more to serving the Goddess than these formal rituals with their tantalizing hints of power.

The secret teachings of the Druids included tales of a time long ago when priests from a lost land now sunk beneath the sea had come to Britannia. They had been masters of magic, and as they married into the ruling lines of the people they found here and later into the families of each new group of conquerors, the old blood, and the old knowledge had been preserved. But those most learned in that lore had died on Mona, and their knowledge with them.

Sometimes it seemed to Caillean that what they retained at the Forest House was only the dregs of greatness. Most of the other women were content with their small magic, but from time to time Caillean would feel an odd conviction that there must be more. She had spoken truth to Lhiannon—she did not want to be Priestess of the Oracle. And yet if not that, what was it that she wanted to do?

"It is time for our morning devotions,” Lhiannon's voice pierced her distraction. The older woman gripped the table and pushed herself upright.

And Goddess forbid that we should fail to perform even the slightest step in the ritual!
thought Caillean as she helped the High Priestess to move out to the garden and settle herself before the plain stone altar there. But as Caillean lit the lamp set on its top and brought the flowers to lay before it, she found a measure of peace returning to her soul.

"Behold, Thou art come with the dawning adorned with flowers,” Lhiannon said softly, lifting her hands in salutation.

"Thy radiance blazes in the strengthening sun and in the holy fire,” Caillean replied.

"In the east arising, Thou art come to bring new life to the world.” The voice of the High Priestess seemed to grow younger, purer, and Caillean knew that if she looked, she would have seen the lines of age fading from Lhiannon's face, until the beauty of the Maiden Goddess shone from her eyes.

But by then, the same power was filling her own heart.

"The flowers spring up in Thy footsteps; the earth grows green where Thou dost pass…” As she had so many times before, she allowed the rhythm of the rite to carry her to a place where there was only the Lady's harmony.

 

On the morning of the Beltane festival, Eilan woke before dawn in the women's house where she slept with her sisters. Eilan's bed, a wooden frame strung with rawhide and covered with skins and fine woolen blankets, was built up against the sloping thatched roof, so close that she could reach up and touch it. Over the years she had widened a crack in the mud plastering to a chink through which she could peer. Outside, the light of an early summer dawn was just beginning to break.

With a sigh she lay back again, trying to remember her dreams. There had been something about the festival, and then the scene had changed. There had been an eagle there, she knew, and she had been a swan, and then, it seemed to her, the eagle had become a swan as well, and they had both flown away.

Little Senara still slumbered; she slept closest to the wall for she was still small enough to fall out of bed. Her sharp bent knees poked into Eilan's side. Across the room Mairi, who had temporarily moved back in with her sisters until they learned what had happened to Rhodri, slept with her child; and on the outside Dieda, her loose pale hair scattered across her face, and her shift undone so that Eilan could see about her neck the chain that held Cynric's ring.

Rheis and Bendeigid did not know yet that the two had plighted themselves to one another. The secrecy made Eilan uneasy. But they meant to announce it at this festival, and ask the family to begin the complex negotiations regarding dowry and settlements so that they could be wed. At least Cynric had no living kin, which would make it simpler.

The only other furniture in the room was a bench fixed against the wall and the oaken chest in which the girls kept their extra shifts and holiday garments. It had belonged to Rheis before she married, and she had always said that when Dieda was wed it would be a part of her dower. Eilan did not grudge her this, for another, equally fine one intended for Eilan was already taking shape at the hands of old Vab the joiner. And in due time there would be one for Senara. She had seen the oak planks rubbed until they shone, and the wooden pegs stained till they did not show.

The baby whimpered sleepily and then began to squall, and Mairi sat up with a sigh, her curly hair an aureole around her face. She got up to change his breech-clout, then came back and laid him across the bed. He gurgled and she patted him.

Eilan put her feet into clogs and said, "Listen; I hear Mother outside. I suppose we had better get up.” She pulled on her gown, and Dieda opened her eyes and said, "I'll be dressed in a minute.”

Mairi laughed. "I'll help Rheis as soon as I've fed the babe. You and Eilan can stay here and make yourselves beautiful for the festival. If any of the young men have caught your fancy, you'd best be prepared to shine.” She smiled kindly at her young kinswoman. Dieda, with two younger brothers at home, was not accustomed to being pampered, and they all connived to spoil her a little whenever she was here.

When Mairi and her child had gone, Dieda smiled and said sleepily, "Is it truly festival day? I thought that was tomorrow.”

"It is today,” teased Eilan, "when you and Cynric will plight your troth.”

"Will Bendeigid approve, do you think?” Dieda asked. "He is Cynric's foster father after all.”

"Oh, if
your
father gives his consent, it does not much matter what mine thinks,” observed Eilan shrewdly. "And if he did disapprove of the two of you being together, I suppose he would have said so before now. Besides, I dreamed last night about you and Cynric at the festival.”

"Did you? Tell me!” Dieda sat up, wrapping the bedclothes around her, for the air was still cool.

"I don't remember much about it. But your father was happy. Are you sure you want to marry that brother of mine?”

"I do, indeed,” said Dieda with a small smile, and Eilan knew she would say no more.

Eilan said, "Maybe I should ask Cynric—he might have more to say!” and laughed.

"And maybe he would not,” said Dieda. "He does not talk that much either. You do not want to marry him yourself, do you?”

Eilan shook her head emphatically. "He is my brother!” If she had to marry, surely the great hulking lout who used to put frogs in her bed and pull her hair was the last boy she would choose!

"That's not really so, you know,” Dieda said.

"He is my foster brother, and that is like kin,” Eilan corrected. "If Father wished us to marry, he would not have fostered him.” She reached for a comb of carved horn and began to unbraid the glistening strands of her hair.

Dieda lay back with a sigh. "I suppose Lhiannon will be at the festival…” she said after a time.

"Of course she will. The Forest House lies by the spring at the foot of the hillfort after all. Why?”

"Oh, I don't know. Now that I'm thinking about getting married it makes me shiver to imagine spending one's life that way,” said Dieda.

"No one has asked it of you,” said Eilan.

"Not in so many words,” said Dieda. "But Father did ask me once if I had ever thought of giving myself to the gods.”

"He asked you that?” Eilan's eyes grew wide.

"I said I had not,” said Dieda, "but for weeks after I had nightmares that we had quarreled and he had imprisoned me in a hollow tree. And I do love Cynric. Anyway, I could not bear to live my whole life within the Forest House—or confined in any other house whatever. Would you?”