But the ancient priest only smiled at him. “Your foster-mother and I talk together from time to time. In the name of the Master who said that all children were alike children of God, I will be a father to you.”
Gawen shook his head, remembering the gossip he had heard about the Christians. “You would not want me. I have a second foster-mother, the Lady of the Elder Folk who are called Faerie. Do you know her?”
The old man shook his head. “I am sorry to say I do not have that privilege, but I am sure she is a worthy person.”
Gawen breathed more freely, but he was still not ready to trust this man. “I have heard that Christians say that all women are evil—”
“But I do not,” said Father Joseph, “for even the Master, when He dwelt among us, had many women friends: Mary of Bethany, who would have been his wife, had he lived long enough; and that other Mary, of the town of Magdala, of whom He said much was forgiven her because she loved much. So of course women are not evil. Your own foster-mother, Caillean, is a worthy woman. I say, not that women are evil, but that they are sometimes mistaken or wrong-headed, just as men are. And if some of them do wrong, that does not mean all women do the same.”
“Then the Lady of the Elder Folk is not evil, nor her daughter?” The old man sounded as if he would be no threat, but Gawen had to be sure.
“I do not know the Lady, so I do not know. There are many tales of the Elder Folk. Some say they are lesser angels, who fought neither for God nor for the Evil One when he rebelled, and so were condemned to live eternally here. Others say that Eve, ashamed to have so many children, hid some of them and so they were not blessed by God with souls.
“My masters taught that the folk of Faerie are spirits themselves, who speak for all in nature that has no voice of its own. But surely God created them. And just as men who go to dwell in Faerie never die, those of the Elder kin who cast their lot with men become mortal, and if they live well, the Almighty will grant them a soul. As for her daughter, she is only a child. And if she is partly of mortal race, then surely she has a soul already. Can children be evil? The Master said that of such was the kingdom of heaven.”
Father Joseph looked at Gawen and smiled. “You have listened to us singing often, have you not? Would you like to hear us from inside?”
Gawen eyed him suspiciously. His heart drew him to the old man, but he was tired of adults telling him who he was and what he should do.
“You do not have to,” Father Joseph added, “but it does sound better that way….” He had spoken gravely, but the boy saw the gleam in his eye and began to laugh. “After the festival of Midwinter, when there will be more leisure, you could even, if you desired it, learn to sing….”
Gawen grew abruptly still. “How did you know? How did you know that I would like that above all other things? But will Caillean give me leave?”
Father Joseph only smiled. “Leave Caillean to me.”
The big meeting hall was fragrant with the spicy scent of pine boughs. The Druids had gone out to cut them from the trees that grew on the next hill along the ley line that led from Avalon. The line passed through the Tor from the northeast, extending all the way to the farthest point, where Britannia jutted out into the western seas. Other lines of power came through the Tor from the northwest and the north, marked by standing stones or pools or hills, most of them crowned by pine. Caillean had not explored them in the flesh, but she had seen them while traveling in the spirit. It seemed to her that all of them were pulsing with power today.
According to Druid calculations, this night was the time of the year’s greatest darkness. Tomorrow the sun would begin its return from southern skies, and though the worst of winter was still before them, one might dare to hope that summer would come again. What we do here at this node of power, thought Caillean as she directed Lysanda to fasten the end of a garland to a post, will send echoes of energy throughout the land.
And that was true of all their actions, not just tonight’s ritual. It was coming to her more and more strongly that this refuge in the marshes was the secret center of Britannia. The Romans might rule its head in Londinium, directing all that happened on the outer plane. But just by being here, the priestesses of Avalon could speak to its soul.
There was a squeal from the other end of the hall, and Dica, red-faced, turned on Gawen and began to swipe at him with a branch of pine. Eiluned, frowning like a thundercloud, bustled toward them, but Caillean was before her.
“I didn’t touch you!” exclaimed the boy, dodging behind Caillean. From the corner of her eye the priestess saw Lysanda edging away and grabbed her.
“The first duty of a priestess is to be truthful,” said Caillean sternly. “If we tell truth here, there will be truth in the land.” The girl looked from her to Gawen and blushed.
“She moved…,” Lysanda muttered. “I meant to poke him.”
Caillean knew better than to ask why. At that age, boys and girls were like cats and dogs, two kinds of creatures, alternately hostile and fascinated by their differences.
“You are not here to play, you know,” she said mildly. “Did you think we were putting up these branches just for the sweet smell? They are holy, a pledge of continuing life when all other branches are bare.”
“Like the holly?” asked Dica, her indignation replaced by curiosity.
“And the mistletoe, born of the lightning, which lives without touching earth at all. Tomorrow the Druids will cut it with golden sickles to use in their magic.” Caillean paused, looking around her. “We are almost done here. Go and warm yourselves, for soon it will be sunset, and we will extinguish all the fires.”
Dica, who was a skinny little thing and always chilly, darted toward the fire that was burning, Roman-fashion, in a wrought-iron brazier in the center of the room, and Lysanda went after her.
“You must tell me if they tease you too badly,” said Caillean to Gawen. “They are young, and you are the only boy their age around. Enjoy their company now, for when they have had their passage into womanhood they will not be able to run about so freely.
“Never mind,” she added, seeing his confusion. “Why don’t you ask Riannon if any of those sweet cakes she was making for the festival were spoiled in the baking? We who have taken vows must fast, but there is no reason for you young ones to know hunger.”
He was still young enough for that to bring a grin to his face, and as he ran off, Caillean smiled.
Without light, the hall of the priestesses seemed huge, a cavernous expanse of chill darkness in which the humans who had gathered there could be lost. Gawen nestled closer to Caillean, who sat in the midst of them in her great chair. Through her robes he could feel the warmth of her body, and was comforted.
“And so the Giants’ Dance was built,” said Kea, whose turn to tell a tale it was now, “and not all the powers of evil could prevent it.”
Since sundown they had huddled in the hall, and the priestesses had told stories of wind and tree, of earth and sun, of the spirits of the dead and the deeds of the living, and of the strange beings that are neither one nor the other that haunt the waste between the worlds. Kea’s story was of the building of the great henge of stones on the windswept central plain. It lay to the east of the Summer Country. Gawen had heard of it but he had never been there. It seemed to him that the world was full of wonders he had not seen, and never would if Caillean kept him here.
But just at this moment he was glad to stay where he was. The sound of the wind in the thatching whispered along with Kea’s voice, and at times it seemed to him he discerned a few words. The priestesses said that at this time of darkness powers walked that had no liking for humankind, and, hearing that whispering, he believed them.
“And so the ogres did nothing?” asked Lysanda.
“Not quite nothing,” answered Kea, and her voice held laughter. “The greatest of them, whose name on a night like this I will not speak aloud, swore he would bury the ring of stones where we worship the Mother—the one that
lies to the northeast of here. One of the lines of power that run through the earth connects us, and this night the folk that live there will be lighting a fire on the central stone.”
“But what did the ogre do?” asked Gawen finally.
“Ah—well, I was told that he scooped up a great load of earth and bore it to the circle, but the Lady rose up and stopped him, and so he dropped the dirt in a great pile and fled. And if you do not believe me, you may go and see the hill for yourself. It is just to the west of the ring of stones. We send a priest and priestess there to lead the rites at the equinox of spring.”
A stronger gust of wind made the walls tremble. Gawen set his hand to the beaten earth of the floor, for a moment certain that the earth itself was shaking to some ancient, heavy tread. And what of the Fairy Folk, he wondered then. What of Sianna and the Queen? Did they ride the wind, or did they keep the festival in some secret place deep underground? Since that day on the lake he had thought of them often.
“Are we safe here?”
Gawen was glad it was little Dica who had asked.
“The Isle of Avalon is sacred ground,” answered Caillean. “While we serve the gods, no evil can enter here.” There was a silence, and Gawen listened as the wind whined round the rooftop and faded away.
“How long?” whispered Dica. “How long until the light comes back?”
“As long as it would take you to climb to the top of the Tor and come back down,” said Riannon, who, like the other priestesses, had an ability to gauge the passage of time that seemed uncanny.
“Then the Druids who will bring the fire are up there now,” said Gawen, remembering what Brannos had said to him.
It was Caillean who answered. “They wait for midnight, braving the cold and the dangers of the darkness. Be still now, my children, and pray to the Lady to kindle a light within your own darkness, for, though you may not think so, your darkness is deeper and more dangerous than this night that wraps the world.”
She fell silent. For a long time, it seemed, no one moved. Gawen laid his head against Caillean’s knee. No sound was heard but the soft sigh of breathing; even the wind had abated, as if all the world were waiting with the human souls who huddled here. He started as something touched him, then realized it was Caillean’s hand, stroking his hair. He stilled in wonder, and something within him that had been as frozen as the winter rime began to ease. As that gentle, regular caress continued, he turned his face against her thigh, glad that it was too dark for anyone to see the tears on his face.
It was not a sound, but some other change, perhaps in the air itself, that brought him to full awareness once more. It was still quite dark, but the shadows that surrounded him seemed to weigh less heavily. Someone stirred; he heard steps as someone went to the door.
“Listen!” The door was pulled open, revealing a rectangle of midnight-blue frosted with stars, and, faint as if the stars themselves were singing, came a breath of song.
“From darkness comes the light;
Out of our blindness, sight;
Let shadows now take flight!
Now at the holy hour
the word of power is spoken;
and night is broken….”
Gawen stiffened, straining to make out the words. Someone gasped and he looked upward. At the top of the Tor a light had blossomed, a tiny, flickering point of flame that in a moment was followed by another, and then a third. The maidens murmured, pointing, but Gawen was waiting for the next verse of the song.
“The year shall cycle round,
The cold earth be unbound,
All that was lost be found!
Now at the holy hour
the word of power is spoken;
the ice is broken….”
The line of light flowed downward, spiraling around the Tor. The voices faded as the light passed around the far side of the hill, and then, returning, grew stronger. As when he had yearned for the music of the Christians, Gawen trembled, hearing these harmonies. But whereas the monks’ liturgies were majestic affirmations of order, the melodies of the Druids met and parted, soaring and fading with the simultaneously free and inevitable harmony of birdsong.
“When loss is turned to gain,
By joy transforming pain,
Shall sorrow strive in vain.
Now at the holy hour
the word of power is spoken;
and death is broken….”
They were close enough now so that the torchlight showed him the men who carried them, a line of white-mantled Druids winding down the hill. Gawen swayed where he stood, wanting to be part of that music.
“The blessed tidings bring,
From winter cometh spring,
This is the truth we sing.
Now at the holy hour
the word of power is spoken;
and fear is broken….”
The singers, led by white-bearded Cunomaglos, approached the hall. The women parted to let the men enter. Brannos, his aged features luminous with the ecstasy of the music, met Gawen’s ardent gaze and smiled.
I will be a bard, thought the boy. I will! I will ask Brannos to teach me.
Pushing back into the hall behind the others, he blinked, confused by the brilliance after so long in the dark. A dozen flaring torches cast their light on smiling faces, but as Gawen’s vision sharpened, his gaze fixed on one person. Her fair hair floated in a nimbus around a face as bright as day; her eyes shone. Very slowly a name took shape in his mind—Sianna—but this was not the very human girl with whom he had trudged and talked all one autumn day. Tonight she seemed entirely a daughter of Faerie.
Someone handed him a seedcake and he began to eat without taking his eyes from the girl. Gradually, with the nourishment, human senses returned to him. Now he could see the freckles that dusted her cheeks and the smudge on the hem of her gown. But, perhaps because of the hours he had spent in darkness, that first image retained the force of illumination.
Remember! he told himself. Whatever happens, this is the truth of her! Remember!
Always, thought Caillean, no matter how many Midwinter Nights she waited for the return of the light, there came a moment when she wondered if this time it would not happen, the fire would not kindle, and darkness would overwhelm the world. Tonight, as always, her immediate reaction when the first flicker appeared at the top of the hill had been relief. This year, perhaps, she had more reason to be grateful than most. After so many tragedies, the promise of renewal was especially welcome.
The wood in the brazier in the center of the hall had been lighted; with the heat from the torches, the temperature was rising rapidly. Caillean let her mantle fall open and looked around her. She was surrounded by smiles. Even Eiluned had for once allowed herself to be content.
Father Joseph, his own midnight services completed, had accepted her invitation with one of his monks, not the sour-faced Brother Paulus but a younger man, Alanus, beside him.
In what other bodies, what other lives and lands, have we waited together to greet the returning of the light? she wondered. Encountering Father Joseph often set her thoughts on such paths. There was a curious comfort to the idea that, despite the confusions and sorrows of their present lives, something eternal would remain.
She made her way through the crowd to greet him.
“In the name of the Light I return your blessing. Peace be upon all within these walls,” he answered her. “I need to speak with you, Lady, regarding the training of the lad Gawen.”
Caillean turned, looking for him. The boy, his face flushed and his eyes like stars, was staring across the fire. She felt her heart twist. Eilan had looked like that after her initiation, when she came up out of the pool. Then Caillean followed the direction of his gaze and saw a fair-haired girl, as bright and merry of face as if she had been born from the flames, and, like a shadow behind her, the Faerie Queen.
Caillean looked from the gawky boy to the luminous girl and felt, in a way given sometimes to those trained as she
had been, the completion of a pattern. After the night on which she had spoken to the Lady of Faerie, Caillean had thought a great deal about the child she had promised to take and her possible future here. It was hard enough to teach girls who had come from the lands of men. How was she to deal with a child brought up half in Faerie? But Sianna had not come, and after a time that concern had been overlaid by the demands of every day.
“Father—I will speak with you about the boy, but there is someone I must greet,” she said hurriedly. His gaze followed hers, and his eyes widened.
“Indeed, I understand. The boy spoke of them, but I did not quite believe. Surely the world is still a place of wonders!” he said.
As Caillean approached, the fairy woman stepped out from among the shadows to face her. She had that gift of drawing all attention when she wished, and conversation stilled as those whose sight had passed over her before suddenly saw her standing there.
“I come, Lady of Avalon, to claim the boon you promised me.” The Lady’s low voice carried through the hall. “This is my daughter. I ask that you take her to train as a priestess here.”
“I see and welcome her,” answered Caillean, “but, as for training, that decision must be made by the child herself and no other.”
The fairy woman murmured something and Sianna stepped forward to stand before Caillean, head bowed. The firelight glinted on her fair hair.
“I know that you are here with the consent of your kin. But have you come among us of your own free will, without threats or coercion of any sort?” asked Caillean.
“I have, Lady,” came the answer, spoken in a low voice, but clearly, though she must know that everyone was staring at her.
“Do you promise that you will live at peace with all the women of this temple and treat each of them as mother, or sister born of your own blood?”
For a moment Sianna glanced up. For the most part her looks were those of her unknown father, but she had her mother’s deep gaze. “The Goddess helping me, I will.”