Voices of the Stars

by Rowena Whaling

  Brennos was aging, yet still enjoying his Ravens and Dragon, as well as my more frequent visits.

  Sometimes I would visit with my friend Princess Rowena. She was still sharp as a dagger. Her beauty had changed but not left; she was aging in the loveliest way. Her daughter, Ribrowst, who had always had Rowena’s beauty and her wit, married a Cymru man soon after the battle – which even by then folk insisted upon calling “Baddon Hill” – and began to bear children.

  Gwenyfar and Branwen had been moved from Dumnonia to an abandoned Roman coastal villa, which they themselves had chosen. Of course, Arthur had had to spend a small fortune on it before it met with Gwenyfar’s approval. There they lived unbothered by all around them – except for the fact that a certain Monk, who had been in attendance at Arthur and Gwenyfar’s wedding, had taken to visiting and talking with Gwenyfar on a regular basis – he seeming to be her only contact with the outside world. In the most charitable way possible, Arthur let me know that he would have done most anything to relieve Igraine of Gwenyfar’s presence in her fortress. He, of course, in addition to providing everything they needed or wanted continued to make occasional visits to their villa, in order to keep up appearances. For, true to his word, Gwenyfar was still his Queen.

  Lady Vivianne’s health was declining, as were her years. She, of course, faced all with dignity and grace. On the one occasion that I had seen her, it was obvious that her limbs were becoming stiff – as does so many Times happen with age.

  I saw or heard little of Morgan through those years – much less than I would have liked to, but I felt that all was well with her.

  Much to everyone’s relief, no one had heard from Morganna Le Faye.

  The movement of Time meant little to me in my pleasant, sometimes solitude.

  Then one Day a courier arrived at my Cave. He looked as if he had been chased by the Cwn Annwn. The missive told that Igraine’s health was sorely fading and that she was asking to see me one last Time. She warned that I must not tarry, “but” she promised, “I will wait.” I rode my horse like the Wind. Arthur and Bedwyr had also been notified and were on their way to her side from Aquae Sulis. We all made great haste to reach Igraine while she still held onto life – which we did.

  She must have seen this coming, for we later found out that she had been suffering general weakness, difficulty breathing, and occasional pressures in her chest, but she told no one until the Day came when she no longer had the strength to walk to the Sacred Well. At that, she had sent word of her ill health to the Grandmother of her Tribe, to Morgan, to Bedwyr and Arthur and to me.

  She was only perhaps sixty-one or -two years old, which, it is true, was more than a long life for the mean person. But I had always considered Igraine one of the Magi... an enlightened one. Her meditations and Magic should have given her longer years even than that.

  She had looked so young and beautiful the last Time I had been with her, but now I was shocked to see her. Very little flesh covered her withered, yellowed skin. Her eyes, which had always been so beguiling, were dull. The moment she spoke, albeit hoarsely and quietly, I found the woman I had known.

  “My dear Igraine, why did you not call sooner?”

  “No matter, Gwyddion, you are here now.

  “The breaths left to me are few, so please listen carefully to my words. Call my Scribe here to my side so that he can witness what I say.”

  Her words were obviously well thought out. I silently thanked the Gods that at least her memories and Wisdom were still with her.

  “My beloved husband Gorlois would have expected me to leave his Dumnonian fortress to Morganna, according to his family’s hereditary customs. However, it is fact that he made me owner of all that was his before his Death. It is written and let it be remembered, that to Morganna – she who is called “Le Faye” – I leave nothing.”

  She winced, and had to stop speaking for a moment. She looked at Morgan and asked, “Morgan, do you want this fortress? You could take my place as Guardian of the Well...”

  “Thank you, Mother, but no. My life is on the Isle of Apples.”

  “I thought so. Then I bequeath one half of my great wealth to your Order. To you, my dear daughter, I leave my blessings and all of my personal, Sacred objects.

  “Arthur and Bedwyr, my two boys, only one of you is of my body and blood, but you are both mine, with even a stronger tie than...” She coughed, and then winced, “blood... with a Love... that is greater than blood... Always care for this fortress and for the birth Mother of Bedwyr and his Father. Let them keep their cottages and land, keep them happy and well fed. Of course, I know that you would do that without my asking. I bequeath all I have – not already left to Morgan and the Order – to both of you, which includes this fortress, lands, Horses, livestock and all else within. You may decide between you what you will do with it all – but with this one stipulation: that for as many generations as can possibly be, Nodens’ Well will be tended by a Holy Woman or Man... Promise this to me.”

  “We do... we will, Mother.”

  “One more thing... I wish for my Tribal Grandmother to choose the first Keeper of the Well. Lay my bones near the Well when I am gone.

  “My dear ones, I am always with you.

  “I must stop talking, for I have not the strength to go on, but sit by me, my beloveds and keep vigil until my Spirit has gone from this body...”

  Those were her last words, spoken with her last breath.

  We kept vigil until the third Day, when her kin of the Tribes arrived to lay her bones to rest.

  The Holy Men – the Raven Men – came to her fortress dressed in their bells and black feathered cloaks, with Raven and Owl feathers braided into their long black hair. From a distance we heard them coming, but it was only their bells and anklets of gold jingling that we heard, for beyond this they were silent.

  First they covered her in honeyed beer and then rolled her body in sweet Herbs, grasses, and seeds. Then, as was their custom, they carried her to a clearing in the deep Wood, upon a Hill where the Birds of prey were allowed to feast upon her flesh for three Nights and three Days, after which they retrieved, cleaned, then washed her bones and brought them back to the fortress, where they wrapped them tightly in many layers of woven cloth.

  From the Time of their first arrival, not a man had spoken a word. The women had ceaselessly Hummed, Night and Day, their voices taking up one from another to create an exquisite, unending, drone.

  They buried her bones in a shallow grave next to Nodens’ Well, ‘returning her to the womb’ – as the Tribal ones say. Large Stones were stacked above the grave and then packed with dirt to form a mound upon which new grasses would grow.

  Then a rhythm of persistent and steady drumming was added to the other-worldly Humming of their song, so ancient and beautiful that even the Birds did not mock it.

  We wept.

  Everything has its cost...

  Two more years rolled by in peaceful succession and it seemed that without the driving force of challenge and accomplishment, our Loved ones, one by one, having fulfilled their predestined works of this life, faded through the Veil into the Summerlands – there to refresh and await a rebirth. Some, perhaps, would ascend to the Stars, to join those of their Ancestors who have not the need to return to life on this Earth – those who have done and learned all they must in their Human cycles of lives. We earthly beings never can know who these might be. We mortals may be inclined to elevate certain ones of our peers, in our own thinking, as being amoung the ascended ones. But I have learned through my own experience and have been taught that many things may cause a person’s return to life on this Earth, again and again. An unrequited Love or desire, an obsession for a person, a goal, a place, or a thing – even loving this Earth too much... Any of these things can bind a Spirit to seemingly endless incarnations. One may also be bound by some shadow fault, held so deeply to themselves that only they know of it. A secret heart, an unspoken shame... I know that I have mine.
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br />   The next Death was an unexpected shock, indeed. It was Princess Rowena’s daughter, Ribrowst Ardora.

  She had married a man much younger than herself, named Rhodri Nau Caw – whose name means, ‘the seventh son of a ninth son – full of joy.’ She had chosen him for Love and had born three red-haired sons to him. The oldest, Huail ab Nau Caw, was thirteen years upon her Death, the second son, Celyn ab Nau Caw, was ten and the youngest, Gildas, later known as “Sapiens,” was three. Ribrowst had given birth to two daughters, but they had died in infancy.

  She had waited until after her twenty-forth year-turn to marry. This was at a much older age than was expected of a sole heiress. But Princess Rowena would let her do as she pleased in all things. Unfortunately this one thing proved to be a sorrowful mistake.

  Although Ribrowst was a good wife and loving Mother, her husband was given to rages and unkind words. He drank too much and too often. Oh, he knew how to beguile and charm all whom he wanted to, so no one around them really saw how he treated Ribrowst when the two were alone – no one, that is, but Princess Rowena. It would have taken a person of much more wit than he to fool Rowena and so she despised him. And because his two eldest sons became more and more like their Father, she did not Love them much either.

  One Day Rowena rode to their house without invitation or warning, to find her daughter, Ribrowst, bruised and swollen. He had beaten her. Rowena threatened that she would take Ribrowst away from Rhodri to live at her fortress if she ever heard of his cruelty again. What was more, she said that for as long as he lived, he would never personally own so much as one gold coin of Rowena’s great wealth – and that only Ribrowst would ever live in her fortress.

  Rowena told Rhodri that from that Day on her spies would be watching him always. She also insinuated in her politic way that she would dispatch his life promptly if he was ever caught beating Ribrowst again.

  Ribrowst begged her Mother to not be so hard.

  “He only hits me sometimes Mother... when he drinks too much. There are still some good Days too.”

  She still Loved him! This infuriated Rowena all the more. Rowena shook her head in disgust. She kissed her daughter goodbye and rode off.

  Rowena always remembered that Day too well, for it was the last Time she saw Ribrowst before the ‘accident’ that caused her Death two weeks later.

  She told it all to me when I went to comfort her. There had been a Storm the Night before...

  “The husband” said she, for she would not speak his name, “went to assess the damage to the roof of his stables. Apparently a timber had been knocked loose and was precariously hanging from another. Ribrowst had gone with him to see that the Horses were unhurt. When she walked to the stall where her Horse was to stroke, comfort and bring him from harms way, the timber became dislodged and fell on Ribrowst. “She was dead at once” – had said her grieving husband. “Look at how it caved in her head. I pulled it off of her, to try to save her, but she was already gone. Oh my God... She is gone.”

  They buried Ribrowst at the fortress of Vortigern, which I had designed, and much later had come to Love as the home of my dear friend Princess Rowena. But never again did it seem as bright and alive with warmth as it had been before. There were no grand funerary Rites for Ribrowst. It was a small, somber affair for family and closest friends only.

  Queen Gwenyfar came for the burial of her niece, but to my surprise she was not accompanied by Branwen, but only by Arthur, Bedwyr, and Freidl. Oh yes, and by a certain Monk named Collin – who had come uninvited, except by Gwenyfar – and never left her side.

  I noticed with disdain that the Monk declined to sing the Saxon Death song with everyone else or even to stand at the Ritual site in respectful posture.

  Perhaps because of my sadness for Rowena or that joyful little blonde haired girl I had once so Loved, I felt my anger rise hotly – and this is very rare for me. One thing I do pride myself on – and I will probably pay for my pride someday – is that I can control myself very well. But that Monk almost made me lose myself. How dare he place his jealous God so far above all others. Where is the compassion, the Love, the humanity in that? Why come to a funeral Rite at all if only to make a spectacle of his bigotry?

  Thankfully, not all Christians are like him. In fact, most that I have known were not. They were good people. Theirs is a God of compassion and Love, offering the bread of a covenant of peace, of redemption from the sorrows of this world. Their King, leader, and teacher has been quoted as saying great words of comfort and Wisdom. It is written that others of the Magi came to his birth to recognize him as one of their own – and they tell of his birth as being expected by the great astrologers of Persia and that he was born at Winter’s Longest Night, just as were Cernunnos, Balder, and Mithras – the Children of Promise. These are not so different from all other cultural beliefs. The Mysteries are the Mysteries, after all. Cosmic truths do not depend upon what we believe. The truth is the truth, regardless. And the truth is that we all must mourn our dead – and be dead someday, too. It is unseemly beyond words to disrespect such a thing. But no, this Monk is of a new breed, and I like it not.

  I made my hand sign and began even and deep breathing. I calmed down and regained balance.

  While I was thinking of all this, I wondered if my brother Uther had been grieved at all? Well, I had grieved his loss. And I had grieved the sadness of his not being grieved by anyone else. Regardless, grieve I did, but as for the why’s, I do not know – for he left not much to commend him. Someday I will weep for Uther and every other sadness of my life – of which there have been many and which I have for too long held fast under my control.

  Chapter 27

  The Nine Mother Goddesses

  Morgan

  During those years The Merlin has written of – the Summer Years – the years of peace and tranquility, most things remained as always on the Isle of Apples. One Day breezed into another, Moon into Moon, then into a new cycle – on and on did go our works, pleasures, worship, and Rites. But there were some notable changes…

  Makyr, who was about five years older than I, was elected into the circle of The Nine High Wise Mothers. I was so happy for my dear friend. The very old Priestess who had died, thereby creating the vacancy in this position of honour, had been called Anuit – ‘Of the Stars.’ I believe she had passed ninety years, but no one knew for sure. She died peacefully in her sleep. “May she be joyful in the ‘Realm of Rejuvenation’ and may she choose her next life well.”

  Makyr had been the youngest to be elected into the circle of The Nine in several generations. Her strength of Wisdom and devotion were unquestionable, but I wondered what had made her Moon blood cycles end at such a young age. I was by that Time past my thirty-eighth year-turn, so Makyr must have been about forty-three years.

  Oh, my... well... perhaps we were not so young anymore... Still – she was young for a woman to be elected one of this position.

  She was initiated into the Circle of Nine on the Dark Moon before the end of the year. It actually was almost a month before the great Fire Festival at the Time of Red and Gold Leaves. The Clans call this Samhain. We have a secret name in our ancient tongue for it, too. But either way, the Dark Moon fell right before the leaves came into their full colours that year. The ceremony was a closed and private Sacred Rite of Passage. Only The Nine have knowledge of its Mysteries.

  Perhaps, to lend understanding to you who will read this one Day, I should tell one of the Old Tribes’ Myths that my Mother’s Mother had told to her and that she told to me... ‘May those who have sight, See...’

  My Mother said:

  “In the beginning, there were nine Mother Goddesses – in the beginning of Human reckoning that is...

  “Once, before Time began... from out of the Chaos – which was formless, a breath was breathed. That breath formed the Air, which became the first Mother Goddess, She who floated in freedom. Eventually She became aware that She was... That was the first thought... From then on
She was always thinking...

  She named herself Shi-Zikru... Breath... Thought... and Beginning...

  After a Timeless eternity, her thoughts became so enlightened that She began to glow... So She formed Herself into the first silver Crescent Moon hanging in the Air... She wished to show herself to her children – but She existed in aloneness and there was no one to see. Shi-Zikru thought about this. After millions and millions of Thoughts, one gave birth to Desire – a Desire for companionship. And so was born the second Mother Goddess.

  The daughter of Shi-Zikru named herself Desire – who, because of her passionate, Fiery nature shone in the darkness as a great white sphere, dancing in Her cloak as the Full Moon. Her dance was to light the desires, passions, and will of all Creations – which were yet to be. She named herself A-ama... Full Ripened Womb... White Moon Goddess... But her twirling frenzy was so brilliant that it would be impossible for her never to rest. A-ama realised that she must sleep. As She fell into her slumber, she began to dim. As She began to Dream, She became distraught, for She was unwilling to lose her glowing beauty – yet even in her Dream she could see that her light was dwindling. She uttered the first prayer:

  “Oh please, Mother, have I been selfish? Haughty? So delighted in my own beauty that I thought I needed no one else? Will my Fire now be extinguished forever?”

  In her sadness, and regret, one teardrop fell, which became the third Mother Goddess, who was Emotion.

  Her name was Mudi... Oracle... Enchantress... Secret Keeper. She became the Western gate into the twilight – the land of Trance – the Seer, who passed on her knowings to her children as they slept at Night. She became the great empathizer who draws all into herself, showing herself as the last Crescent Moon, waning into darkness. She gave all of herself until she was no more – plunging into Death and sweeping along with Her all She had taken in.

  So the Spirit of Mudi gave birth to the fourth Mother Goddess – who was Wisdom. But remember, to enter Death is to enter the gateway into re-birth.