by Неизвестный
Mandy could only nod. It was not easy to talk about the Leannan. Sometimes she seemed like a memory, then like a dream. Ivy began to clatter in a chest. “I've really got to mix Robin's salve and go. Please make use of my house. And if you want to, you can handle my tools. In fact, ifd be a privilege if you did.”
“Your tools?”
She gestured toward the hearth. “My witch things. Just don't touch the drying herbs. Connie'll be furious with me if I don't pass my herbals exam this term.” A silence fell between them. Ivy looked at Mandy with the very plainest sorrow in her eyes. She continued, but with effort. “It's really a good day for harvest. We needed that. Grasshopper counted over four hundred good pumpkins!” She busied herself at her hearth for a few minutes, crushing dried herbs in a mortar, then mixing them with purified fat. She left the salve with a note for Robin, and an admonition for him to get out into the fields since he wasn't going to New York. “His feet aren't that bad. And we need the help.” Then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a creak and a decisive click.
Mandy stood in the middle of the compact room. Deep silence settled. Soon the smell of the bacon made her forget her misgivings about eating Hiram, and she sat down again. She was in a state of great sensitivity. Her whole body was tingling with life. Her senses were pretematurally acute. She noticed, for example, that she could actually hear herself eating. He jaws creaked, her teeth ground, her lips smacked. They were not unpleasant sounds. She also began to notice, very faintly, the music of a harp mingling with her own sounds. Maybe it was next door, maybe farther away. She couldn't tell. But it was sweetly done, a tune that reminded her of a thousand tunes, of moments and days that were lost. Normally Mandy did not think much about her past. Life had been too hard to dwell upon. Nobody in the family had cared about her or been interested in her desire to be an artist. She was an encumbrance to her mother and father, an interruption in the titanic duel that defined their marriage.
One hot afternoon when she was seventeen she had seen some framed canvases tucked away in the garage rafters. She had climbed up and discovered six paintings of her mother, all enormous, all profoundly awful. They managed to mix sentimentality with bad technique and ghastly color choice. In them Mother looked like a corpse with the hands and thighs of a hairless gorilla. She was a voluptuous woman, but not coarse.
The fact that the paintings were by her father had revealed a lot to Mandy, crouching up there in the dust, a secret witness to his failure. Their ignoring of their daughter's talent wasn't a side effect of a failed marriage, it was purposeful.
She had left that attic furious at her parents for their tragic self-absorption and their indifference to their own child. She became sullen and hostile, then openly rebellious. There were blows, and Mandy had screamed out her contempt for the hidden paintings. Dad had wept then, and Mother had crept away, her cheeks blazing. It was not until some time later that Mandy understood what had been behind their reactions. They thought of the paintings as a sort of personal pornography, but they did not destroy them because they were their only link to the time when their marriage had been good. Not long after that Mandy moved to New York.
She finished her meal and got up from the table. The harp had faded, and with it her painful memories of the past. They had been teaching memories, though. She saw that she should have been more compassionate toward her parents. It was too late now, though.
She didn't know quite what to do with herself. Should she explore the village? Could she? And what of the library up at the main house—what did it contain?
Before she left, she stopped to look at Ivy's ritual tools, which were lying on a piece of white linen on the mantelpiece. Chief among them were a long silver sword and a shorter knife, hooked at the end. There was red cord neatly wound, and a small cauldron. Mandy could see things in it, but she did not know what they were and she dared not reach in and touch them.
“It's a fine cauldron.”
“Constance!”
“Good morning, dear. I brought you some clean things.”
Constance strode into the middle of the cottage and put a bundle on the rough table. Mandy unwrapped the clothes.
They were beautiful—a cream-colored silk blouse, a tweed suit, hose, Gucci shoes. A small makeup kit completed the package. “Constance, these clothes—what's it all about?”
“You should dress your part. You're a princess now, to half the people of Maywell. Soon you'll be their queen.”
“Maiden, I thought it was called.”
“That's the first turn of the cycle. Maiden, then Mother, then Crone. I am, obviously. Crone. And I'm at the end of my time.”
“Constance, you're healthier than most women half your age.”
“Don't you patronize me, girl. When a woman in my position says she's near death, you accept it. As a matter of fact, you don't have much time before I go across. Now, don't stand there like a scarecrow. Dress!”
“I can't wear these things—I'm on a farm.”
“You'll be going down to the town this morning.”
Mandy dressed. There was even perfume in the makeup kit. Norell. Constance did everything right.
“Why am I going to town?”
“You'll see.”
Mandy would have none of that, not anymore. “I am not as passive as you think, Constance. So far you've done pretty much what you wanted with me. But I'm afraid from now on I'm going to need reasons before I agree. I could have gotten my head blown off last night.”
Constance shrugged. “You want to be Maiden of this Covenstead, don't you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Certainly. Fail one of the tests and you won't inherit your birthright.”
“What would happen to me if I did fail? For example, say I hadn't found the Holly King last night.”
“Oh, you were going to find the Holiy King no matter what, as long as you stayed alive. In these tests the only way you can fail is to get yourself killed. So if you'd been shot dead instead of my horse—”
“My God. Do you mean to tell me that the purpose of all this is to see if I can stay alive? Oh, Constance, that's awful. It's downright immoral. I won't do any more. I quit.”
“No, not you. You've got too much determination, my little warrior. You'll see it through. All your instincts make you want to protect the Covenstead. I know, I'm the same type as you.”
“Constance, this is absolutely crazy. I won't hear of it. I won't!”
“Don't you ever call me crazy, you little whelp. If you had any idea how hard this is for me—what sacrifices have really been made for you—you would go down on your knees to thank me.”
“So tell me! Why should I thank you for trying to get me killed. I'd very much like to know.”
“Oh, what force you have. Reading your history, I've wondered what you were like.”
“Don't try to change the subject. I want to know, and I want to know now.”
“Well, what you really want to know is why you should risk your life. You cannot love the Covenstead like I do, more than your own life. You hardly know the Covenstead. But you will come to love it exactly as I do.”
“I can see that.”
“You must prepare yourself.”
“I know. Find my inner strength so that I can rule. I've understood that. It seems to me that I've also done it.”
She looked Mandy up and down. “Yes, perhaps so. You did well with the Leannan and with the Holly King. In the sense that you're still alive.”
“The Leannan. . . the fact that she exists is what 1 cling to. No matter how I feel, that tells me something about this is very real and very important.”
“Oh, little creature, how innocent you are. I suppose there's still enough arrogance left in me to make it impossible for me to see how anyone could take my place. Then I see the fire in you, and I think: you can do it. And I'll tell you something. You're going to have a terribly difficult reign. There will be persecution of witches, environmental disaste
r, perhaps even a world war that will burn us along with the rest. But somehow, if you survive the initiation, I think I agree with the Leannan Sidhe. You are welt chosen.”
“I guess I'm complaining because I'm not used to this constant sense of jeopardy. I sort of see the need, but still, haven't I proved myself yet?”
“Do you know the story of Persephone in Hades?”
“Of course.”
“You haven't proved yourself until you have gone to the world of the dead and returned to tell the tale. And I won't say another word about it, except that a young woman—not a very good witch, but a witch—died for you yesterday, and I want you to respect her memory and not be such a complainer.”
“Died for me? In the Wild Hunt?”
“Before that. In an entirely different part of the process, one that relates to the Great Test.”
“I wish you wouldn't be so damed cryptic.”
“You haven't complained before. If that woman's death is to have any meaning, don't complain now. And don't overdo that eye shadow. The Vamp look went out some time ago.”
“I wish I was in control!”
“The only one in control around here is the Leannan. She knows something about you of which you're totally unaware. The Leannan knows who you really are.”
“I'm me. That's the long and short of it.”
“You're an ancient and very powerful witch.”
Those words seemed to explode in Mandy's brain like a white slash of lightning. She cringed, such was the power of this fiery internal bolt of recognition.
Constance continued. “You're terrified of your own history. That's part of what makes you such a passenger in your life. You will drift until you begin to do what you were bom to do.”
“You say the Leannan is in control. She's like a ghost. We hardly see her, let alone talk to her. Most of them have never seen her.”
“She's not fifty feet away from this spot. She's even played her harp for you. Haven't you heard?” “The music was very nice.”
Constance snorted. “It was designed to evoke conscience, and it did. You learned from it. Now, listen, you must act. You must begin now, immediately. Show yourself in the town. The town covens need a boost of morale.”
“Who's my armed guard?”
“You can't use a guard.”
“How about Raven? He could have used one.”
“Let's go up to the house. Your car's there and you're due at your uncle's within the hour.”
“At my—since when? I don't want to go to my uncle's. Has that ever occurred to you?”
“You've got canvases and frames and paints there. Clothes. Books. You need to pick them up.”
“I don't want to leave here. If I'm so important, I must be able to make a few decisions. And my decision is, I'm staying right here on the Covenstead.”
“The prospect of Maidenhood is making you imperious, Amanda. I'm not sure I like you imperious.”
“Then don't come in here and order me around. I've had more than my share of terrifying and difficult experiences orchestrated by you, and I have no intention of having any more.”
“What possible terror could your uncle hold for you?”
“I just don't want to deal with him. He's disturbed, and he's not going to become my problem.”
“After what happened to Raven last night, and the business of the young woman, I just want you to give the town covens a morale boost.”
“Why don't you go?”
“You're the one they're excited about.”
“How can you be sure of that? My impression is that I'm quite the outsider.”
Constance looked a long time at her. “You were bom to your role.”
“You hardly know me.”
“You say that! You're naked in your work, dear girl. I know you from your painting. And I know that your visual skill is more than ordinary, or even extraordinary. It's almost unique.”
“I'm not that good.”
“As a painter, no. There is something inherently banal about fantasies of elves and such, I'll grant you that. But the detail with which you render them, the depth of vision, suggests an imagination of great power. I know, I've spent time over your work.”
“So have I.”
“The Leannan says you have the birthright and I say you have the power. If you can visualize, you can do magic, which is a matter of making the real world run parallel to the inner one of images and dreams. You have the strength to visit the House of the Godfather and come back. I did it, and I am less than you.”
Visit the House of the Godfather?
In the story Constance had told the children the other night, the Godfather was death.
The visit to me town suddenly seemed even more dangerous.
She wished she could just be left alone to wander around and learn more about the Covenstead, maybe even do a little painting. Some portraits of the witches, sketches of Raveh before the memory grew too static.
Constance looked straight into her eyes. “That, my dear, is not your fate. The days of painting and dreaming are behind you. You have a great work to do.”
What could Mandy say? Constance had just read her mind. “What are you, Constance?”
“You've asked me that before.”
“What are you?”
“The best friend you ever had!” Her voice rang through the cottage. In the silence that followed the harp started again. This time the tune turned Mandy's heart, for she had not heard it since she was very small.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea.
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea. . .
The harp notes were from a small instrument, plucked by fingers able to touch the strings with great precision. Behind the gravity of Constance's expression was hidden a smile. “The Leannan wants you to go, Amanda.”
The music, Constance's loving expression, Mandy's memories, all combined to create a moment of great beauty. Mandy found that she had not the heart to refuse them what they asked.
“Your uncle needs you now. Help him. He is your father's brother, after all.”
Her father's brother. Maybe in another age that would have meant a lot.
The harp whispered, the harp sang.
Mandy dressed in the clothes. Constance embraced her and kissed her, and wished her well. “Blessed be,” Constance whispered.
Mandy started on her journey.
Chapter 17
High morning was relentlessly bright, with water and melting snow sparkling off every twig and tuft of grass. Amanda guided her little Volks along, aware of the expensive crinkle of her suit and the creamy scent of her perfume.
She understood that she was entering the world of death and that there was great and ancient precedent for her journey. In the passage of the seasons Persephone moves through the netherworld to return to life in the spring. She is the corn seed hiding in the winter field, springing up alive again in the summer, giving humankind nourishment and prosperity.
Amanda was to make Persephone's passage, and she was to do it now, dressed as if for a sacrifice. Constance had obviously walked death's edge herself when Hobbes shot her. Among ancient cultures everywhere: the Indians, many African tribes, the peoples of Siberia—wherever the old religion persisted—it was necessary to make this journey in order to become a guide for others.
The Volks hummed on. Nice of them to pull it out of the mud for her. Nice of them to tell her how to leave the estate by car. She was supposed to follow an almost hidden track through the hummocks and northward into the farm.
It was eerie in among the sharp little hills, especially considering how old they were and what they were said to contain. What must the fairy city have been? Were there silver towers, or painted gates, or peari-white roofs sweltering under the prehistoric sky? Or had the fairy come from some far place, from the stars, even recently?
Did their ancient cities exist only in the minds of their human follower
s? Somehow she thought they lived in structures very much like the round meeting hall of the witches. Theirs was a whole civilization of magic, based on the simplest of goods. Their glories were those of thought unbound.
To them the mind of man was easy to control. Thus the Leannan could seem to change her shape or even become invisible.
The fairy would never emerge, though, into this world, not as it was, a place of illusions. They would do no more than watch from their far hills and their flights in the sky.
The goal of the witches was to create a world where even fairy could be understood, which meant one where men no longer thought of the earth as something separate from themselves, but viewed humanity as one organ in the living body of the planet, and could see the universe all in its truth, without the self-deception that the human species was separate from the deeper continuity of the planet to which it belonged.
The Leannan was without question the loveliest form Amanda had ever seen or imagined. She almost wept to remember the music of that tiny, perfect harp, to imagine those fingers working the golden whiskers.
Just in time she downshifted to compensate for a length of muddy sand, and found herself out of the valley of the hummocks and on the witch farm.
Riding through it last night, she had known that it was fertile, but by day the fecundity of the place was startling.
There were no tractors rattling here, and the air smelled of the sweat of the plants, not the sharp odors of fertilizer and insecticide.
The scent was an intoxication, pouring in her open windows as she drove along the narrow road between rows of corn. It was mixed of wet hay and cut stems and the rot of the season. Among the fallen stalks and the brown vines the farming covens worked. Amanda came to a group of women laboring with scythes in wheat. They moved along the roadside, their tools whistling in the air, the stalks falling with a hiss and a swish, and the rattle of the wheat berries dropping onto canvas. They chanted as they worked:
“Where have you gone, John Barleycorn,
Where have you gone, John Barley?”
“I've gone to the fields where the stalks are grown,