Lady of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Will we reach Avalon tonight?” Viviane called from behind him. Taliesin turned; the road was climbing into the Mendip Hills, and their beasts had slowed.

  He frowned. “On a good horse I would be certain of doing so, but these beasts will go at their own pace or not at all. We will try.”

  By midafternoon he felt a wet touch on his hand and, looking up, saw the sky had turned to solid cloud, which was flaking away into the first snow. Oddly, with the snowfall it seemed warmer, but the bard knew that was illusory. The girl had not complained, but when, soon after they crossed the road that served the lead mines, darkness began to fall, he turned down a path toward a cluster of buildings surrounded by trees.

  “They make tiles here in the summer,” said Taliesin, “but at this season the works will be empty. As long as we bring more wood in to replace what we use, they will not mind if we sleep here; I have done it before.”

  The place had the damp chill of disuse, which resisted the warmth of the fire. Viviane sat close to the flame, shivering, while the bard began to boil water for gruel.

  “Thank you,” she said when it was ready. “It is true that I never asked to go on this journey, but I thank you for your care of me. My father—my foster-father, that is—could not have done more.”

  Taliesin gave her a quick look, and then began to scoop gruel into his own bowl. Her olive skin had gone sallow with cold, but sparks of flame burned in her dark eyes.

  “Are you my father?” Viviane asked then.

  For a moment, shock held him still. But his mind was racing, for in truth during this long ride he himself had wondered. He had been newly made priest at the festival at which she had been begotten, come for the first time as a man to the Beltane fires. And Ana, though she was five years older than he and had already borne two daughters, had worn the beauty of the Goddess like a crown.

  He remembered kissing her, and the taste of the mead she had drunk was honey on her lips. But, then, they had all been drunk that night, meeting and parting in the ecstasy of the dance. And from time to time a couple would touch, and cling, and stumble off into the shadows to join in the oldest dance of all. He remembered a woman crying out in his arms as he poured out his seed and his soul. But that first time, the ecstasy had overwhelmed him, and he could not remember her face or name.

  The girl was still waiting, and she deserved an answer.

  “You must not ask me that.” He managed a smile. “No pious man can claim to have fathered a child to the Lady. Even the beastly Saxons know better. You are born of the royal line of Avalon, and that is all that I, or any man, can tell you.”

  “You are sworn to Truth,” she said, frowning. “Cannot you give truth to me?”

  “Any man would be proud to claim you, Viviane. You have borne the pains of this journey well. When you have come to the Beltane fires yourself, perhaps you will understand why I cannot answer. The truth is this, my child—it is possible, but I do not know.”

  Viviane lifted her head, and for a long moment held his gaze so that he, for all his training, could not look away.

  “If one father has been torn from me,” she said finally, “I must find another, and I know no man I would rather call my father than you.”

  Taliesin stared at her, huddled like a little brown bird beside the fire, and for the first time since he had been made bard could find no words. But his thoughts were tumultuous. Ana may come to regret she sent me on this journey. This daughter is no Anara, to go meekly, whether to fetch water or to seek her death, at my Lady’s call. But I will not regret it—what a priestess this girl will make for Avalon!

  Viviane was still waiting.

  “Perhaps we had best say nothing of this to your mother,” he said finally, “but I promise you this—I will be as good a father to you as I may.”

  They came to the lake just as dusk was falling. Viviane surveyed the scene without enthusiasm. Yesterday’s snow crusted the mud and edged the reeds, and more was falling. The puddles were frozen solid, and ice extended into the pewter-colored water in sheets that glistened faintly in the fading light. Farther along the shore she saw a few huts, raised on poles above the mud of the marsh. On the other side of the water she could make out a hill, its top swathed in clouds. As she looked, from that direction she heard the faint clangor of a bell.

  “Is that where we are going?”

  Taliesin’s face brightened momentarily in a grin. “I hope not—though, if we were not of the People of Avalon, Inis Witrin is the only holy island we would ever see.”

  He plucked down a cowhorn, its surface carved in spirals, that was hanging from a branch of a willow tree, and blew. The sound rang hard and throaty in the still air. Viviane wondered what was supposed to happen. The bard was gazing toward the huts, and it was she who saw the first quiver when what she had taken for a pile of brush began to move.

  It was an old woman, bundled in woolen wrappings topped with a tattered cape of some grey fur. To judge from her size and the dark eve that was all Viviane could see of her face, she must be one of the marsh folk. Viviane wondered why Taliesin was staring at the woman oddly, at once amused and wary, like a man who finds an adder in his path.

  “Gracious lord and young lady, the boat cannot come in such cold. Will it please you to rest in my house until a better time?”

  “No, it does not please,” said Taliesin decidedly. “I took oath to bring this child to Avalon as swiftly as could be, and we are weary and exhausted. Would you have me forsworn?”

  The woman laughed softly, and Viviane’s skin prickled, though it might have been from the cold. “The lake is frozen. Maybe you can walk across.” She looked at Viviane. “If you are priestess-born, you must be foresighted, and will know where it is safe to go. Do you have the courage to try?”

  The girl stared back silently. She had seen things, in fragments and flashes, as long as she could remember, and knew that, untrained, such Sight was not to be trusted. But she was aware enough to sense meanings in this conversation she did not understand.

  “Ice is treacherous—it seems solid, and then it cracks and you go down,” said the bard. “It would be a pity, after bringing the child all this way, to see her drown….”

  The words hung in the chill air, and Viviane thought she saw the old woman flinch, but that must have been an illusion, for in the next moment she was turning, clapping her hands, and trilling a call in a language the girl did not know.

  Immediately, small dark men bundled in furs swarmed down the ladders, so swiftly that they must have been watching all the while. From the shelter of the reeds they dragged a barge, long and low enough to accommodate even their mounts, with some dark stuff draped around the prow. Ice cracked and shattered as they pulled it forward, and Viviane was glad she had not been tempted to show off. Would the old woman have allowed her to try? she wondered. Surely she had known the ice was thin.

  There were more furs heaped inside the barge. Viviane snuggled into them gratefully, for as the boatmen pushed off with their poles and the craft began to slide away from the shore she could feel the chill fingers of the wind. She was surprised to see the old woman, whom she had thought one of the villagers, sitting in the prow—upright, as if she did not feel the cold. She looked different, almost familiar somehow.

  They came to the center of the lake. The marsh men had switched to paddles now, and as the wind strengthened, the barge rocked on the swell. Viviane had just realized that through the falling snow she could now see the shadowed shore of the island, with its round church built of grim grey stone, quite clearly, when the boatmen lifted their paddles from the water.

  “Lady, now you call the mists?” one of them asked in the British tongue.

  For one horrified moment, Viviane thought he was talking to her; then, to her astonishment, the old woman got to her feet. She did not look so little now, nor so old. The girl’s face must have shown her feelings, for she glimpsed on the Lady’s face a mocking smile as she turned to face the island. Vivi
ane had not seen her mother since she was five, and could not recall her features, but she knew her now. She glanced at Taliesin accusingly—he might have warned her!

  But her father, if he was her father, was gazing at the Lady, who moment by moment gained in height and beauty as she lifted her arms. For a breath she stood, body arched in invocation; then a string of strange syllables left her lips in one clear call, and her arms curved down.

  Viviane felt in her bones the tremor that moved them from one reality to the other. Even before the mists began to shimmer she knew what had happened, but her eyes still opened wide in wonder as they parted, and she saw the Isle of Avalon glimmering in the last light of a sun that had not been shining in the world she knew. There was no snow on the ringstones that crowned the Tor, but white sparkled on the shore and lay like blossom on the apple boughs, for Avalon was, even now, not completely apart from the human world. To her dazzled eyes, it was a vision of light, and in all the years she lived after, Viviane never beheld anything so beautiful.

  The boatmen, laughing, dug in with their paddles and brought the barge swiftly to the landing. They had been seen—white-cloaked Druids and girls and women in shades of natural wool or priestess-blue were running down the hill. The Lady of Avalon, shedding the wrappings that had disguised her, stepped first onto the shore, and turned to reach for Viviane’s hand.

  “My daughter—be welcome to Avalon.”

  Viviane, about to take her hand, stopped short, all the frustration of her journey suddenly bursting free in words.

  “If I am so welcome, I wonder it has taken you so long to send for me, and if I am your daughter, why did you tear me, without a word of warning, from the only home I have known?”

  “I never give reasons for what I do.” The Lady’s voice abruptly chilled.

  Suddenly Viviane remembered that tone from when she was very small; she would be ready for a caress and instead the cold would come, more shocking than a blow.

  Then, more gently, the Lady added, “My daughter, a time will come when you may do the same. But for now, for your own sake, you must undergo the same discipline as any peasant-born novice on this isle. Do you understand?”

  Viviane stood speechless as the Lady—she could not think of her as “mother”—gestured to one of the girls.

  “Rowan, take her to the House of Maidens and give her the dress of a novice priestess. She shall be pledged before the evening meal in the hall.”

  The girl was slender, with fair hair showing beneath the shawl she had wrapped around her head and shoulders. When they were out of sight of the Lady, she said, “Don’t be frightened—”

  “I am not frightened. I am angry!” hissed Viviane.

  “Then why are you shaking so hard you can hardly hold on to my hand?” The fair girl laughed. “Truly, there is nothing to fear. The Lady does not bite. She does not even bark much if you are careful to do what she says. A time will come, believe me, when you will be glad you are here.”

  Viviane shook her head, thinking, If my mother showed her anger, I might believe she loved me….

  “And she always lets us ask questions. She is impatient sometimes, but you should never show that you are afraid of her—it makes her very cross. And you should never let her see you cry.”

  I have started well, then, with my defiance, thought Viviane. When she thought about her mother on the way here, this was not how she imagined their reunion would be.

  “Had you ever seen her before?”

  “She is my mother,” said Viviane, momentarily enjoying the girl’s consternation. “But I am sure you know her better than I do—I have not seen her since I was very small.”

  “I wonder that she did not tell us!” exclaimed Rowan. “But perhaps she thought we would treat you differently. Or perhaps it is because we are all, in a sense, her children. There are four of us novices now,” the girl chattered on, “you and me and Fianna and Nella. We will sleep together in the House of Maidens.”

  They had reached the building. Rowan helped her strip off her travel-stained clothing and wash. By this time Viviane had no regrets for the clothing of the world. She would have happily donned a sack, as long as it was clean and dry. But the gown into which Rowan bundled her was of thickly woven oatmeal-colored wool, and the cloak of grey wool, pinned around her shoulders, both soft and warm.

  When they came to the hall, they found that the Lady had changed as well. All traces of the old woman were gone. She stood up now in a robe and mantle of dark blue, and a garland of autumn berries rested on her brow. This time, as Viviane looked into those dark eyes, she recognized, not the mother she remembered, but the face she saw when she herself looked into a forest pool.

  “Maiden, why have you come to Avalon?”

  “Because you sent for me,” said the girl. She saw her mother’s eyes darken with anger, but remembered what Rowan had said and faced her boldly. The ripple of nervous laughter that had started among the girls who stood behind her faded at the Lady’s glance.

  “Do you seek admission among the priestesses of Avalon of your own free will?” the Lady said tightly, holding her gaze.

  This is important, thought Viviane. She could order Taliesin all the way to Mona to fetch me, but he cannot compel me to stay here, nor can she, for all her power. She needs me, and she knows it. For a moment, she was tempted to refuse.

  In the end she decided to stay neither from love for her mother nor out of fear, nor even from the thought of the cold world outside, but because, during that journey across the lake and earlier, traveling with Taliesin, senses that had been dormant while she lived on the farm had begun to awaken. When her mother brought them through the mists, Viviane had tasted the magic that was her heritage, and she wanted more.

  “For whatever reason I came, I wish to stay here—of my own free will,” she said clearly.

  “Then I accept you in the name of the Goddess. Henceforth you are consecrated to Avalon.” And for the first time since she had arrived, her mother took Viviane into her arms.

  The rest of that evening was a blur to her—the admonitions to hold all the women of the community as her kin, and the names by which they were introduced to her; her own promise to remain pure. The food was simple but well prepared, and, exhausted as she was, the warmth of the fire had sent her half to sleep before the meal was done. Laughing, the other girls bore her along with them to the House of Maidens, showed her a bed, and gave her a linen shift that smelled of lavender to wear.

  But she did not fall asleep immediately. The bed was strange to her, as was the breathing of the other maidens, and the way the building creaked in the wind. Like a waking dream, all that had happened since Taliesin came riding up to her foster-parents’ farm passed through her memory.

  In the next bed she could hear Rowan turning. Softly she called her name.

  “What is it? Are you cold?”

  “No.” Not in body, thought Viviane. “I wanted to ask you—for you have been here for some time—what happened to Anara? How did my sister die?”

  There was a long silence, and then, finally, a sigh.

  “We only heard whispers,” said Rowan. “I don’t know for sure. But…she finished her training, and they sent her out beyond the mists to make her own way back. More than that, perhaps even the Lady does not know. And you must not say I told you—since then Anara’s name has not been spoken. I only heard that when she did not return they went out searching, and found her floating in the marshes, drowned….”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Lady of Avalon walked through the orchard above the holy well. On the branches the hard green apples were beginning to show the first blush of color. Like the maidens who sat at the feet of Taliesin, she thought, they were small and unripe, but they would grow. She could hear the girls’ voices now, and his deeper tones answering. Drawing about her the glamour that would allow her to pass unseen, she moved closer.

  “Four Treasures there are that have been guarded at Avalon since the Rom
ans came to this land,” said the bard. “Do you know what they are, and why they are held holy?”

  The four novices were sitting together on the grass, their cropped heads tilted as they listened, fair and red and dark and brown. Their hair had been cut for convenience, as was customary in the summer. Viviane had protested, for her hair had been her chief beauty, glossy and thick as a horse’s mane. But if the girl cried, she had done so only when she was alone.

  The fair girl, Rowan, was lifting her hand. “One of them is the Sword of the Mysteries, is it not? The blade borne by Gawen, who was one of the ancient kings?”

  “Gawen bore it, but it is far older, forged from the fire of heaven….” The bard’s voice took on the cadence of poetry as he recounted the legend.

  Viviane sat with a rapt face, listening. Ana had thought of telling her that the hair-cutting had not been meant as a punishment. But the Lady of Avalon did not explain her actions, and she would do the child no favor if she coddled her. Her breath caught as a vision of Anara’s pale face beneath the water, her hair tangled in the reeds, superimposed itself upon Viviane’s. Once more she told herself that Anara had died because she was a weakling. For her own sake, Viviane must do and suffer whatever was necessary to make her strong.

  “And what are the other Treasures?” Taliesin was asking now.

  “There is a Spear, I think,” said Fianna, sun gleaming on her autumn-colored hair.

  “And a Platter,” added Nella, as tall as Viviane, though she was younger, with a tangled mop of brown curls.

  “And the Cup,” Viviane added in a whisper, “which they say is the same as the Cauldron of Ceridwen, and the Grail that Arianrhod kept in her temple of crystal, all set about with pearls.”