Ancestors of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “Look!” said Iriel excitedly, as a flock of birds rose noisily from the reeds and scattered like a handful of stones flung across the pale sky.

  “Enchanting,” Damisa said dully, not so easily shaken from her gloom. She was beginning to suspect that the hills they had seen from the sea were no more than a vision sent by mischievous sprites to entice them into this wilderness in which the Crimson Serpent was doomed to wander until they all sank into the muck and mire below.

  Or is the rotten smell I’ve been noticing all day something recently half eaten by something waiting to eat us?

  The river had in fact become much more brackish as they moved inland, but its level was still determined by the sea. Yesterday the men Captain Reidel sent ashore as scouts stayed out too long and were stranded in the marshes until ebb tide. By the time they could get aboard, they were covered to their necks in mud that was full of leeches and . . . Damisa shuddered and swatted another tiny-winged predator from her eyebrow, swearing, and Iriel snorted with laughter behind her veils.

  “Oh, shut up,” Damisa warned, watching Arcor, the grizzled old Ahtarran sailor, taking soundings from the ship’s bow. How does he stand it? she wondered. His knotted muscles flexed and released beneath the short sleeves of his tunic as he swung out the line and the lead splashed into the water, again and again. Midges clouded around him, but he never once paused to swat them. Even a few moments’ inattention could leave them stranded on a mudbank until the evening tide.

  By sheer force of will, Damisa ignored the little insect now walking on her elbow. I should not complain, she told herself, thinking that even Arcor had an easier job than the men who rowed the small boat that was laboriously towing this one upriver . . . She hoped Reidel knew what he was doing. The only thing worse than being eaten alive as they floated through the wilderness would be to get stuck here, unable to move at all.

  Suddenly Arcor stood up, peering ahead.

  “What is it?” came Reidel’s calm voice. “What do you see?”

  “Sorry, Cap’n. Thought ’twas a helmet,” Arcor joked. “ ’Tis only Teiron’s bald pate! And there’s our Cadis wit’ him, keepin’ the magpies off!”

  The captain’s broad shoulders relaxed in a light laugh, and Damisa, watching, felt her own tension easing as well. Reidel was only a shipmaster, and a lot younger than he looked, but in the past weeks they had all come to depend on his quick mind and ever-ready strength. Even Master Chedan, to say nothing of Tiriki, seemed to defer to him, which seemed vaguely wrong to Damisa. Abruptly she realized that she had been assuming that their journeys would lead them to a new civilization and Temple in the new land. She and the other acolytes had spent quite a lot of time speculating about what the people here would look like and, to a lesser degree, how they lived, or where; but so far it seemed that there simply were no inhabitants.

  Which—she frowned—might be better. At the moment they were quite simply castaways. Reidel had done well enough at sea—maybe even remarkably well—but how would he fare against angry savages?

  Lost in thought, Damisa jumped when the undergrowth shivered and two men suddenly pushed into view, muddy to their calves and perspiring freely. But she saw their teeth flash in fierce grins and recognized them as Teiron and Cadis, who had been sent out to explore earlier. Arcor tossed a rope over the side and they scrambled aboard to the welcoming jokes and laughter of the other sailors.

  Tiriki and Chedan emerged from below, accompanied by Selast and Kalaran. It occurred to Damisa that she had not seen Elis since morning. Was she still trapped below deck, assigned to cheer up the priestess Malaera, who was still weeping for all they had lost? Damisa shuddered . . . That’s right, she drew today’s duty with the Stone. Ugh. Even with it in its box, just sitting outside the cabin door, it makes me uncomfortable. Better the bog-rats! Or even Malaera’s endless tears . . .

  “Good news, gentles,” the shaved-head Alkonan sailor Teiron was saying. “There be someone in these parts! Where ’e live I don’t know, but someone made that trackway in the marsh!”

  “Trackway?” Chedan repeated. “What do you mean?”

  Teiron moved his hands tentatively, sketching on air. “It’s—a raised pathway, over the muck. Too weak to take a chariot I guess, but still good an’ solid. Made from split planks—laid across logs—everything pegged into place. An’ since some logs are old and some are new, someone must keep ’em repaired.”

  “But where does the path go?” Iriel wondered out loud. “Didn’t you even look? Are there lions?”

  “No, no lions, little mistress,” the Alkonan said mildly. “At least I didn’t see any. But we were under orders to return quickly—”

  “I’d guess the plank road leads there,” said Cadis, pointing past the trees that lined the shore. The mist had begun to fade away. Before them they could see the spreading blue waters of the lake that fed the stream. Beyond it, thin spring sunlight glistened on the green protruding tip of a hillside perhaps a thousand ells farther in.

  Tiriki gripped Chedan’s arm as they advanced across the muddy trackway. The carefully cut planks seemed to sway alarmingly underfoot, but after so many days on shipboard, she suspected she would have felt unsteady walking on the smooth granite stones of the Processional Way in Ahtarrah. She swallowed, fighting back the familiar nausea. She no longer felt as wretched as she had at sea, but she was far from her usual self, and she felt bloated, even though she could see that her wrists were growing thin.

  On the high ground just ahead, a group of marsh dwellers in leather kilts awaited them with faces that were impassive but not, she hoped, implacable. They were small in stature, but wiry and well muscled, and pale where the sun had not browned them. Their dark hair glinted with rusty highlights in the sun.

  Tiriki focused on her feet. It would not befit the dignity of a priestess of Light to arrive with her backside smeared with mud, even if the hems of her robes were stained already. If I slip now, likely I will drag down Chedan with me, and maybe Damisa and old Liala as well. Taking a deep breath, she kept her steps as measured and solemn as if she walked not amid a ragtag of sailors and refugees, but at the head of the Great Procession to the Star Mountain.

  I should have worn my cloak, she told herself as the sweat cooled on her brow. The sun was finally shining, but the sky remained cloudy, and the air held a chilling dampness. Why that should surprise her she did not know. Chedan had said often enough that the weather here was peculiar. But I haven’t been truly warm since last Micail held me . . . Ruthlessly, she put the thought away.

  Only the faint cries of birds disturbed the silence, as the natives continued to stare. Their black eyes seemed to examine every detail as they approached—from the elaborate priestly costumes and the glittering metal that gilded Chedan’s ceremonial dagger to Reidel’s short-sword and the short pikes of the sailors. Some of the natives carried cudgels or spears, but most were armed with bows of finely worked, polished yew, the arrows flint-pointed. The sailors noticed that the marsh folk did not seem to even have bronze and took heart. A little swagger even came back into their steps.

  Tiriki took a breath and stopped a few feet away from the natives. Chedan halted just behind her, and then Reidel. The sailors took up positions on the plankway, ready to cover a quick retreat. The silence became absolute.

  Raising her open palms to the sky, Tiriki trilled the lilting formal phrase: “Gods, look kindly upon this meeting.” Only then did she remember that these people almost certainly would not understand the Atlantean tongue. She tried to smile, wondering if it would help to bow again . . . but the marsh folk were no longer looking at her. Their eyes had returned to the foreign silhouette that had drawn them here—the high-prowed wingbird just visible through the willows that hid the river.

  “Yes,” said Tiriki, still smiling tightly, “that is our ship.”

  Perhaps in response to her words or her gestures, a thickset man with heron plumes waving from his headband stepped forward, showed his palms, and made a
series of rippling gutteral sounds. Helplessly, Tiriki turned to Chedan, and after a moment the mage replied, rather slowly, in the same sort of speech. Tiriki blessed again the fate that had sent Chedan to these isles once before. She sensed it was going to be hard enough to reach an understanding with these people even with the help of words.

  The headman’s scowls melted away, and he spoke again. Chedan’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Tell me what you’re saying,” Tiriki whispered.

  Chedan blinked at her. “Oh. Sorry. This fellow is the chieftain. His name is Heron. He says our arrival is fortunate, or fated. If I understand correctly, these people spend winter in the hills, and have only now returned here for the hunting season—and to celebrate some kind of festival.”

  As Tiriki nodded thoughtfully, Chedan turned again toward Heron, and initiated another complicated exchange . . . Tiriki bit her lip and tried to look patient and wise.

  “He says,” Chedan interpreted at last, “their priestess—a wise woman of the tribe—has invited you to visit her. Apparently she dreamed about our ship. He says all may come and receive her blessing, but the men must wait apart while she speaks with you—”

  “What? Lady, you must not go alone!” Reidel interrupted, with a protective glare that, Tiriki thought, was really meant for Damisa. She had observed such glances often lately and wondered if the girl herself had noticed them.

  “Tell him we will come,” said Tiriki suddenly, and catching Heron’s gaze, gave him a smile and a nod of her head. “I think that Liala and Damisa and I can handle one old woman by ourselves, no matter how wise she may be.”

  Reidel muttered and cast a dark look around, but Chedan turned and indicated to the chieftain that he should lead the way. To Tiriki, however, the mage said softly, “Do not underestimate these people. There are some in this land who wield great power. I do not know if that is the case with this wisewoman, but . . .” He shrugged, and said again, “Do not underestimate her.”

  With Reidel and Cadis at their back to guard against treachery, Tiriki, Damisa, and Liala followed the trackway across the marsh and through a dense stand of beeches and alders to a wide, raised platform made of broad planks. At its center were a number of huts and low-walled buildings, some weathered or even roofless, but several had been freshly daubed with mud and thatched with green reeds.

  The inhabitants emerged to greet them—a mixed group, old and young. Although the women were no taller than an Atlantean child, many of them clasped even smaller children, who stared at the newcomers out of huge dark eyes. Tiriki wanted to spend some time there, but the chieftain hurried them on into the marsh again, along yet another wooden trackway, until they reached the banks of an island of solid ground. The distinctive point of the hill they had seen earlier loomed up ahead, between the trees and the clouds.

  Until now, the marsh folk had behaved almost casually, laughing and talking among themselves, with many a sidelong glance at the strangers. Now they all fell silent, and began to move with exaggerated care, as if the spot was somehow as unfamiliar to them as to the Atlanteans. The wooden planks went no farther, but there was a path, old and well trodden, and edged with small rounded stones.

  Tiriki knew immediately that this was holy ground. The rustle in the leaves made it clear, as did the subtle shift in pressure in the air. It was not only because the path was so level that she found herself straightening and striding more freely. She began to draw strength from the earth and the air. More than relief, she felt a surge of actual hope, and a quick glance showed her that Liala felt the same wonder at the unusual energy here.

  The path wound gently upward along a wooded slope, curving only occasionally to accommodate a particularly venerable tree. From time to time the smooth green rise of the Tor could be seen between the leaves, and this, she realized, was because the trees were thinning.

  Before them lay a small meadow. To the left, a tangle of hawthorns formed an enclosure. From an arched opening in the bushes emerged a small stream, edged by rusty red stones. On the right, farther up the hill, white stones jutted from the ground, half hidden by trees. From among them, a second stream coursed down to join the first. On a knoll just above the point where the rivers joined, nestled a small round hut, its faded close-packed thatching extending almost to the ground. Unlike the simple shelters in the village, this building had clearly been there for a very long time.

  They had not quite reached the edge of the rushing waters when a figure emerged from the hut, leaning on a short staff. To the Atlanteans, her stature seemed that of a girl of ten, but as she raised her head to survey them Tiriki saw a face webbed with wrinkles and knew that this was the oldest person she had ever seen.

  Heron held out his palms and greeted the wisewoman in his throaty speech, then turned to Chedan and spoke again.

  “This is their priestess. Her name is Taret,” Chedan interpreted. Tiriki nodded, unable to look away. Though the wisewoman’s flesh was ancient, surely no one had ever had such lively and penetrating black eyes.

  As the Atlanteans made their various bows, Taret took another step forward.

  “Welcome,” said the wisewoman in the tongue of the Sea Kingdoms. “I wait for you.” Her words were heavily accented but otherwise entirely understandable. Observing their surprise, she grinned merrily. “Come now.”

  With hardly a pause, the priestesses set out across four great stepping stones that bridged the turbulent waters. But when Reidel sought to follow, the chieftain stepped in front of him. Immediately, the sailors rallied to their leader and the scene grew tense, but Chedan put his hand on Reidel’s shoulder and drew him gently back.

  Taret, standing at the edge of the water, stared at the mage for a long moment, but his only response was to make an odd kind of salute to the sun.

  “Ah! You, then,” said Taret—it was clear to whom she spoke—“you shall walk here.”

  Chedan looked startled, but Heron appeared even more surprised. He looked from Taret to Chedan and back again several times before, with a conflicted expression, he moved aside, allowing the mage to tread the stepping stones.

  Chuckling softly, the wisewoman settled herself on a sturdy three-legged stool just outside of the doorway of the hut, and motioned to the others to take their ease on a bench carved from a felled tree trunk.

  Taret’s bright black eyes darted over each person in turn, and came to rest on Tiriki’s headdress and the wisps of golden hair that were visible beneath it. The wisewoman smiled again, but more gently.

  “Sun people,” she said, with evident satisfaction. “Yes. Children of red snake that I saw in dreams.”

  “We are very thankful to have found this place,” answered Tiriki, and though her words were formal, they were enlivened by genuine emotion. “I am Tiriki, a Guardian of the Light. This is Chedan, Guardian and mage—”

  “Yes. Man of power,” said Taret. “Most men, I don’t ask to come here.” Chedan was flustered at the compliment and made another little bow, but the wisewoman’s gaze moved inquisitively to the others.

  “Liala is a priestess of the healers and kinswoman to me,” said Tiriki, not quite realizing how slowly and carefully she was enunciating the words. “And Damisa is my chela.”

  Taret inclined her head. “Welcome. But there is another.” Again her ageless eyes probed at them. “With you in my dream . . . one who sees into closed places. Perhaps—” She gazed curiously at Liala, then shook her head. “No. But you are friend to her, maybe?”

  Tiriki and Chedan exchanged glances as Liala replied, a little nervously, “We do have a seeress. Her name is Alyssa. She injured her knee during the journey, and I have tended her, but she is . . . unready to leave the ship.”

  “If you wish,” Tiriki offered, “we will bring her to you when we can.”

  “Good. I like to ask her, did she see what is here? Did she see me?” The old woman chuckled again.

  “We come here not by intention,” Chedan said earnestly, “but by a turn of fate.
We ask only to be friends with you and your people. Our home has been destroyed, and we must seek refuge here.”

  Taret shook her head. “You lose more than old home. And you come here because Shining Ones want you. You feel their power.”

  “Yes,” said Tiriki fervently. “But we did not know—”

  “The gods knew,” Chedan interrupted. “Indeed, I saw it myself in the stars! But I did not understand until now. We thought we were sent here to build a Temple, but it may be that the sanctuary is already here.”

  Taret grinned. “Not Temple like Sea Kings make, but holy place of safeness, true.”

  “We don’t want to disturb your sacred place,” Chedan said swiftly.

  This time Taret’s wizened shoulders shook with what they soon realized was not a spasm of pain, but uncontrollable laughter. “Fear not!” she gasped at last. “Shining Ones not disturbed!” Her wrinkled face could not contain her smiles. “In dreams I see. I know you belong. And dreams be true, or you not be here. Anyway, sacred place not belong me.” She gestured toward the Tor. “I show some things. Then, if Shining Ones wish, they show more.”

  “The Shining Ones,” Chedan repeated, as if not certain he had heard her correctly. “You will introduce us to them?”

  “What?” Taret bobbed her head and almost laughed again. “No, no. I just say—you people live here. New home. Shining Ones—find you.”

  Chedan grew thoughtful, then said, “Wise one, your generosity is far greater than we could have hoped. We sought this place because it is well above the flood line. But I was beginning to get the impression that building here would not be allowed.”

  Taret nodded. “For my people, no. All this valley a spirit place, but the Tor—special. A gate. Only wisefolk live here.” She sat back for a moment, seeming to look within, and then pointed a bony finger at the mage. “So now you know. And you go now, yes?” She smiled, almost coquettishly. “Tell others, all is well. But priestess and priestess must speak—of other things.”