Avelynn: The Edge of Faith

by Marissa Campbell

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She rewarded me with a tentative smile. She set a stool beside the tub and helped me up and over the edge. I slid into the luxuriously hot water. This time I did moan. I closed my eyes, feeling the silk of the water lave over my legs, belly, and breasts, and sank deeper, until the water lapped at my shoulders. I leaned back and rested my head against the rim of the tub. How long had it been since I’d had a bath? I tried to think back. I’d had a wash basin for the wedding ceremony with Demas, and before that, scented wash water came as part of Halfdan’s gift when I was his prisoner. As for a full bath, that would have been in Wedmore. A world ago.

  I could have lain in that tub forever, melting into the water, letting the world flow around me, but a slight touch on my arm had me sitting forward. Tilting my chin up, she leaned my head back. Water sluiced through my hair. Deft fingers applied the soap, kneading my scalp. The delicate scent of lavender and rosemary enveloped me. Strong, consistent pressure ran along my hairline. Her fingertips circled to my temples, above my ears, and up the back of my head, rubbing and pressing. Blunt nails grazed, shooting gooseflesh down my spine. After rinsing the soap from my hair, she plucked the stopper from the urn. Subtle notes of myrrh and frankincense lifted into the air. She worked the oil through the tangled tresses, the wide-toothed comb teasing out the knots. My body melted into the rhythm of her hands. My eyes grew heavy, my breathing deep, my mind still.

  A loud bang on the door jerked me upright, and water sloshed over the edge. I blinked, confused, uncertain of my surroundings. I must have fallen asleep.

  “Avelynn?” Alrik called from outside.

  The woman stood behind me, her hand gripping the comb. I nodded, and she bustled to the door, releasing the lock.

  Alrik ducked under the lintel, his frame filling the doorway. He stepped aside, encouraging the woman to collect her things and go. She assessed me, her face an image of shock and disapproval at my imprudence that a man should enter my chambers whilst I reclined, naked, in the bath. Decorum be damned. I smiled my thanks, expectant. She shook her head, huffed, and grabbed my washing before scuttling out the door. Alrik replaced the lock.

  “I brought food.” He set a platter filled with breads, cheeses, and roasted meat on the table and stalked closer.

  “Have you found a suitable place for the ritual?” I asked.

  “I have. I am in the process of acquiring horses and supplies to see us through till morning.” He stood beside the tub and gazed inside. A smile spread across his face. A blush stole across mine. “Has she washed you?”

  The deep thrum of his voice stirred more than the surface of the water. I was suddenly famished, though it had little to do with sustenance. “No.”

  He lifted the sponge. “May I?”

  I nodded, my mouth parched of an answer.

  He ladled out the soap, squeezing and working the paste into the myriad of holes before dipping the sponge into the water. Sudsy bubbles trickled to the surface as he lifted it back out. “Stand for me.”

  Gripping the sides, I rose out of the water, conscious of his heated gaze. He stood behind me and brushed the hair from my shoulder. Fingertips trailed down my neck, and the sponge lighted against my skin. It had an odd texture. The fibers, slightly coarse, invigorated my skin, while the soap glided over my body, slippery and smooth. His fastidious attention laved my arms and back until his focus shifted. It lingered on my backside, and his free hand cupped and squeezed. The sponge dipped lower, poised to slide between my thighs. His advance halted. I inhaled sharply as yearning pooled just beyond his reach.

  “Face me.”

  Not what I had in mind, but I submitted, and the sponge swept across hip, and waist, working its way down to my belly. For a breath, it hovered below my navel then swept lower, riding the edge of pleasure promised. My legs quivered, and longing ignited my body. I needed that sponge to dip a fraction more. He was so close. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

  “Hold still or the washing will take longer.”

  “Alrik, please.”

  His mouth tightened into a firm line, and his eyes brooked no exceptions. He was a warrior, a leader, and he commanded respect. With the flick of his wrist, he’d killed a man to protect me. He was dangerous and feral. An ardent force coursed through him, and I was drawn to that power. Nothing stops a Viking from getting what he wants.

  Alrik was thorough with the sponge, his persistence in avoiding the areas I longed to be touched unyielding. His dogged pursuit of evasion followed a tortuous path under my breasts, up between them, out along my collar bones, and down my ribs at the side. Never once did he brush a nipple, both of which were achingly hard.

  “Foot,” he said, ignoring my whimpering completely.

  I frowned at him.

  He pointed to the side of the tub.

  Resigned, I lifted my leg, resting my foot at waist height. He scrubbed my heel and toes, sliding the sponge up my leg then back down. Each arch came torturously close to my center.

  “Other foot.”

  I acquiesced, and he repeated the process, sweeping and rubbing until my skin buzzed, reacting to the merest breath of pressure.

  I shivered. The hearth crackled softly, but the heat only reached within a small radius. Had I been fully clothed, the fire would have been sufficient. As I stood there naked, water dripping from my body, the chill crept over my skin.

  “You are cold; sit.”

  I slid back into the warm water, bubbles tickling, teasing as they purled around me. Desire made me feverish. The cool air had done little to douse the flame. He set the sponge aside and poured some of the oil into his hands. His attentiveness moved to my neck, his knuckles stroking the tight muscles. Gripping the tops of my shoulders, he squeezed, alternating between pressure and release as he worked his way down my arms. A moan escaped my lips. I could have lain there forever, gladly giving myself over to those capable hands.

  “Do you like this?”

  “Yes,” I replied breathlessly.

  His palms pressed, his thumbs kneading around my shoulder blades. Hands slid down my back, rubbing and massaging their way to the tops of my hips. My body churned to butter.

  “I missed a few spots.” He reclaimed the sponge and lathered more soap on my skin. He smoothed the bubbles over my breasts, and his fingers brushed the tightened buds. I sucked in a breath.

  “And this? Do you like this too?”

  “Yes.” I bit my lower lip, arching into him. After so long a wait, sensation flooded through me.

  His focus remained meticulous until nary a grain of dust or smudge of dirt tarnished either nipple. My stomach coiled in tension. Each touch found its echo throbbing lower.

  “Open your legs for me.”

  I didn’t think I could take much more of his teasing. I parted my knees, and he dipped the sponge into the water, swirling lower until it rested against me. He held painfully still. My heart pounded in my ears. My body pleaded. I placed my hand on his, urging him to press a little harder and groaned in frustration as he resisted. I might explode just imagining him moving it.

  “What do you want, Avelynn?”

  I thought that perfectly obvious. I glared at him.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Gods, no.”

  “Then tell me. What do you want?”

  “Alrik, I beg you,” I pushed out through gritted teeth.

  “Beg me to what?”

  I growled. “Move. Your. Hand.”

  “Like this?” He set a tortuous pace, slow and light.

  Most certainly not. “Harder.”

  He scrubbed every nook and cranny and then slid a finger inside me. I cried out, my center clenching hard around the penetration. That’s what I needed.

  His free hand sought my breast. His efforts kept a delirious rhythm, each tug, each brush, each thrust in time with the other. I gripped the sides of the tub, my hips rising and kneading to meet
him.

  Cool air nipped exposed skin, alternating with the warmth of the water as it lapped my body. Sensation swelled, crested. He held me at the precipice.

  “Alrik.” My voice cracked, strangled with urgency.

  “Let go, hjartað,” he whispered.

  I shattered before him. Wave after wave of pleasure rippled through me, until I collapsed in the tub, panting.

  He held up a blanket. “Enjoy yourself, did you?”

  I mumbled something incoherent and noncommittal.

  He laughed. “The feast will be finishing. We should leave within the hour.”

  I didn’t want to go traipsing about the countryside. I wanted a nap. He offered me his hand and I took it, letting him wrap me in the soft wool. He rubbed and patted, leaving no valley or mound damp, save one. His hand lingered over the damp curls between my legs, and passion, so quick to light around this man, smoldered, the embers of desire, hot and white, sparking to life at the merest hint of his touch.

  “You are all fire, Seiðkana.” His eyes held a look of awe and wonder. His gaze darkened and razed my body. He suckled my neck and earned an unabashed moan in recompense. He whispered in my ear, his lips teasing. “Later.” It was as much threat as promise.

  After that wonderful bath, I sat clothed and dignified at the table and opened the lid to the locked chest laid out before me. It appeared a few additions had somehow made it into the crate. Muirgen’s book sat atop the heap, wrapped in red silk; I placed it on the table. Next, I scooped out my divining bones, benign-looking in their white silk pouch. Several packets of herbs had been crammed into the tight space. I removed the ones that Muirgen had given me in her cottage. They contained herbs to stop a babe from clinging to a woman’s womb. The other bundles of herbs I didn’t recognize. I unwrapped several layers of cloth and discovered two long, thin stoppered urns. The stone goddess that had sat upon Muirgen’s table, old as time and worn by generations of hands, squatted at the bottom of the chest. There was also a wood carving of a raven, small enough to fit in my palm. Underneath it all was a letter, Muirgen’s handwriting as crisp and clear as if she had written it only yesterday.

  How had they gotten in there? I had never left my chest unlocked. I thought back to my decision to fight in the war against the Vikings, and my subsequent detainment with Halfdan and then Demas. I’d left everything in my cottage—all my keys, my possessions. Bertram knew where to find them. He must have placed these objects inside the box. But why?

  I turned the letter over. On the back were instructions on how to prepare the tonic to ensure a woman’s monthly bleed. Muirgen’s note recounted in detail the herbs used and how and when to collect and dry them. Below that were instructions on making a ritual drink for communion with the Goddess. I shuddered, remembering the potion Muirgen had given me at Samhain. Could I do that again? At the time, I’d not known she was giving me anything other than wine, but the effect of the powerful stimulant had been remarkable. I hesitated, uncertain whether I wanted to read the body of the letter. I steadied my resolve and broke the seal.

  Avelynn,

  A lot has happened, and I know you have questions, but I’m afraid I do not have answers. Bertram and I made choices you may not appreciate or approve of, and I apologize for not being forthcoming with you. We did what we felt was best. One day, when you have grown into your full power, perhaps you will understand.

  I know you feel you still have much to learn, but there is no right or wrong way to honor the Goddess. You do not need the book, nor do you need guided rituals and ceremonies. You will find your way, carving a new faith from the old, melding new ideas with ancient ones. You have only to follow your heart.

  I do have one request, and I imagine after your last experience with my special wine, you may be reluctant to visit that place again, but you must. There are two bottles of wine laced with ergot. I have included the recipe on the back of this letter. You must drink one of the vials and travel to the Otherworld. I will meet you there.

  Yours in faith,

  Muirgen

  Even in death, the woman was frustrating … and elusive. No answers—only more questions. I set the letter down and rubbed the strain between my eyes.

  I read the recipe for the mystical wine. Two ingredients caught my eye and set my gut rolling and my palms sweating: ergot—a fungus that sometimes grows on grains and can afflict entire villages, causing hysteria and killing many—and mandrake, also a deadly and poisonous plant.

  It appeared to be a diluted solution. The recipe called for long boiling in multiple batches. Each time, one cup of decoction was added to a fresh cauldron full of water. I reminded myself the potion hadn’t killed me the first time, but I looked at the stoppered urns dubiously, unconvinced.

  I set the letter down and unwrapped Muirgen’s book, opening it to Ostara. The spring equinox belonged to a time of new beginnings and rebirth, when day and night were even. Fertility rites and symbolism dominated the ritual—a time to bless seeds and bury loaves of bread in freshly plowed fields. In ancient times, a young, virile man became the offering of choice. His life’s blood darkened the soil, a gift to the gods. Thankfully, Muirgen’s book called for a sacrificial hare instead.

  If there were ever a time for new beginnings it was now. Homeless and wandering, I craved direction and guidance.

  My ancestors believed in one Goddess with four separate and distinct personalities. I could appeal to a particular aspect when I was praying or celebrating, or I could embrace and entreat the whole. Starting at Samhain on November 1st, there were nine major observances—auspicious times to connect with Her. I leafed through the thick pages. When I was younger, I emulated my mother as she performed the rituals. I recalled only a few formal rules for observing the sacred days. I could hear my mother’s voice. “We must always cast a circle. Invite the Goddess to attend our ceremony by honoring each aspect of her personality at each of the four directions. Weapons are not permitted within the ritual space, and we must always close the circle. Thank the Goddess for her presence.”

  My mother used to tell tall tales of ancient rites. Acts that involved animal guides, horned beasts, and blood—lots of sacrificial blood. The ceremonies elicited frenzied ecstatic states amongst the participants. At the time, the surreal images and stories didn’t make any sense to me. I understood now that they involved acts of wild sexual congress. That was how my mother had been conceived. The outcome of Muirgen and Bertram’s union determined the success of the crops, the harvest, and the health and vitality of the people and their livestock.

  I grabbed a mug and filled it to the brim with mead. The book was written in code. When Muirgen had first shown me the tome, the scribbles looked like nothing more than gibberish. It had taken me a while to figure out the cipher, but as I looked at the sweeping script now, the words formed in my mind’s eye.

  According to the book, there were specific ways to honor each of the sun or moon days. My mother had followed her own path. Sometimes we would drum; other times we would dance. Often we would just sit and hold hands in silence. The world would hum and buzz around me until I floated in the pulse of it all. Muirgen had said there was no right or wrong way of honoring the Goddess. Perhaps I could meld a little bit of everything.

  I sat back and swirled the golden liquid in my cup, my gaze flitting across the stoppered urns. I suspected the drink helped the seeker reach a sacred place, creating terrifying and fantastical visions. Under those circumstances, it would give access to the dark carnal places sanctioned by societal norms. I saw things when I drank Muirgen’s potion. I didn’t know what exactly, but I swore the Goddess appeared before me in all her forms: child, young maid, wise woman, and crone. I’d never experienced anything like that before.

  I drained the contents of my cup and set it down. It was time to go.

  I wrapped Muirgen’s book back in its silk shroud and tucked it away, fingering the terracotta urns, their mysterious and potent contents concealed within. Muirgen had said s
he would meet me in the Otherworld. What could that possibly mean, and how was the wine supposed to transport me there? I shuddered and tucked one of the jars into my satchel.

  I lifted the pouch containing my divining bones. The last time I’d used them they foretold doom. I had asked about my future and if I was to marry the new suitor who had sought my hand. I marveled that I had once considered giving Demas a chance.

  The silk was soft and smooth in my palm, pleasant. Did I want to cast the Ogham again? Did I really want to know? Everything predicted had come to pass. I hesitated, hovering over the chest. I wanted to drop them back inside and lock them away.

  What was the point of knowing the future if I couldn’t avert my fate? I had asked myself this question over and over again. Once, I had challenged Bertram. He told me little could be done to change the course of events. He questioned whether we were meant to. At the time, I had obstinately refused to listen. I wanted to believe we were in charge of our own destiny, each decision, each choice, creating a new web, a new pattern. Didn’t Muirgen allude to that very possibility by her own actions? By securing her book with me and by agreeing to go to the Witan and stand for my character against Demas’s lies, did she not in fact contribute to a certain outcome? Did she not create or at the very least continue to weave a specific thread, ensuring, up to a point, a future she herself had helped to orchestrate? The thought gave me hope. I locked the chest and tucked the divining bones in my satchel, ready to face my future.

  A knock at the door interrupted my ruminations. I released the latch and for a moment merely blinked, uncertain what to say or do. I had expected Alrik to be standing there.