Voices of the Stars

by Rowena Whaling

Lost… Without regret…

  All of my fears I will forget

  Nothing really matters anymore

  Have the Gods now opened every door for me?

  Or am I lost?...

  Chapter 33

  Morganna Le Faye Returns

  Morgan

  When Mordred, son of Morganna, was past his seventeenth year-turn, Morganna intruded into my life once more.

  She made her grand entrance just as I would have expected – had I known she was coming – with luxurious pomp, of course. An escort of eleven black war Stallions, affixed with decorative trappings and each mounted by a leathered and armed Guard, arrived at the Isle of Apples. Mean and dangerous looking were these men in their full black battle armour. Behind the first contingent of riders was a tall and handsome, solitary young man a-mount a solid black destrier. The standard bearer riding behind him flew the Pen Dragon emblem. The symbolism was not lost to me. Twelve followers and the one leader – this has played out in many a Myth, far and near across the world.

  In the middle of the grand entourage was a canopied litter of golden beauty, which gleamed in the mid-Day Sun. Flying above the litter was the Dumnonian banner of Blue Ocean waves and black five-pointed Stars upon a field of white. Save that, to this, Morganna had added one large pearl, visually reinforcing her claim of being the true heiress of Dumnonia. Long ribbons of brightly coloured blue and white silk trailed behind the litter, fluttering in the Wind. In this rode Morganna Le Faye. Was Morganna playing the role of the Goddess, then? At her back rode four more heavily armed Guards ceremoniously carrying wood and leathern shields, also bearing Dumnonian colours. Were these, then, the four Elements – also under Morganna’s power?

  As no one was allowed to enter the Order’s grounds whilst armed for battle, the entourage was stopped at the gate.

  It had been a warm breezy Day. The blue Sky above had not a cloud in it. It was now mid-Day and everyone on the Isle was busy with each their own works. What a gift was a sunny Day, for our weather was always moody and changeable. Why, in the space of one whole Day and Night, we might see Sun, warmth, Snow, sleet, strong Winds, hail... None of this would have been unusual, except for the circumstances that transpired.

  It was at the very moment that I was standing just inside the doorway of Lady Vivianne’s quarters speaking with her about the beauty of this Day and attempting to plan a special evening’s bonfire gathering – should the weather hold into the Night – that a runner was fast approaching from the gates to announce Morganna’s arrival. I looked outside even before the runner had had the chance to speak, for I heard an ominous rumbling. I looked in the direction from whence the rumbling came. The whole Sky down to the Earth’s floor was a wall of darkness; I saw a swirling mass of black and Thunderous clouds swiftly rolling in from the West – while moments ago the Sky had been clear.

  The runner gave Lady Vivianne the message: “Lady Morgan’s sister, Morganna Le Faye, has come to visit with her. Also, she says that she has brought along another very special guest. However, now, they have not the Time to fully unarm and follow all protocols because of the great gale coming in behind them. She asks if they may be sheltered quickly before the Storm ravages their party...”

  I had never seen the Sky so black. Everyone was coming outside to stare at it. Then I heard a great howling noise and felt a great change in the pressure of the Air. Heaviness hung all around us.

  Hail began to beat down upon us in ever increasing measure. Then it began to fly sideways, clinking against the Trees and the outside walls of our cottages. Everyone ran for shelter.

  I looked at Lady Vivianne.

  “We cannot let her onto our Sacred ground.”

  “Morgan! We can do nothing else. A Tempest is brewing!”

  “Go to the gate and give them leave to enter,” she told the runner – “but take care.”

  Just then I saw Morganna’s entire entourage riding in a fury toward us. So, she had not even waited for permission.

  “Curse you, Morganna!”

  “Morgan!”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Vivianne.”

  “Beg nothing of me, my girl, but take care for your Spirit in the Halls of Justice. She is not worth a scar on your measure.”

  “She has already scarred me from my childhood on, Mother.”

  “Yes, yes. But those inflictions have been written on the great scrolls to be weighed against her. She will owe the debt for her wickedness, Morgan. Everything has its cost.”

  Just then, Morganna and a beautiful young man, burst into Lady Vivianne’s cottage. She hollered orders to the rest of those with her, to seek shelter in the stables.

  A very cold Wind blew through the cottage, scattering scrolls and vellum pages; knocking down the Lady’s Altar and precious things.

  Then she slammed the door shut, fell into a deep bow and said, “Forgive me for the intrusion, Lady Vivianne.”

  When she arose and looked into my face I was shocked. She had not aged one Day. She looked as young as she had at Dumnonia, before Arthur’s crowning. She smiled sweetly with her lips, but her eyes betrayed her inherent evil.

  “Sister...” quoth she, whilst nodding her head in acknowledgement.

  “I would like to introduce you to your nephew, my son; Mordred Pendragon” I noted the shift in her pronunciation of Pen Dragon... as if it were a name that could be inherited.

  He stiffly nodded at first – but then he smiled, with the sweetest of smiles.

  Was he Charming me? Or could this young man really be of good heart, as would seem? When he caught sight of his Mother’s gaze his face suddenly became stoic again. Fear... Was that what I smelled upon him? Was he then, in total subjugation to Morganna? Or did he simply hold a son’s natural devotion to his Mother?

  Of course, she had shielded his thoughts from me totally. Morganna was the most adept person at shielding thoughts that I had ever encountered.

  “If only I had the key to breaking down her fortress of Dark Magic...”

  Then... right there...at that very moment... the Voices whispered to me, “If there is a way in, there is a way out, Morgan. Always, you must only find the key.”

  Now, as I think back upon those words, they, of themselves, do not relay the layers of meaning that fled through my thoughts. Or rather, more were they like knowings. Through these words, I gained a deep understanding of a Magical truth, which had heretofore been held secret from me. Now I knew... And in years to come, I would find this key.

  “Someday Morganna, I will be your undoing!”

  I had not even tried to shield that thought from her. Morganna’s lips curled up on their sides, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head in a gesture, which acknowledged that a battle line had been drawn in the ground between us.

  The Storm hit with a fury. The cottage walls were trembling – or was that just me trembling in anger? For a few moments I feared that the Lady’s cottage might be blown asunder. But no. Lady Vivianne and I began quoting the words of an ancient Chant of protection, invoking the four Winds to keep us safe. Of course, these words were said in silence – for never would we have allowed Morganna to hear our Sacred phrases spoken aloud. The Storm quickly passed, causing no harm.

  ‘Difficult’ does not begin to describe Morganna’s and Mordred’s visit with us.

  Regarding her son – Arthur’s son – so torn were my feelings, that I could not get a grasp on them. He was so like Arthur – not only in the way that he looked, with his golden hair, his radiant, dimpled smile, his broad, square shoulders and guileless blue eyes – but in his obviously generous heart. A part of me wanted to Love and protect him. Yet, whenever Arthur, or anything vaguely related to him was broached, those eyes turned hard as Stone and filled with vehement rancor. I recognized his as a murderous hatred.

  “Why?” I wondered how many venomous lies Morganna had told to make him despise Arthur so. On the one hand, I knew he was to be the only son that Arthur would ever have. On the other, I kne
w that he was fated to be Arthur’s doom.

  During their visit, and the flaunting of the trophy of Morganna’s treachery toward Arthur, I realised the extent of my own hatred toward Morganna. There was no use in my denying it.

  As I watched Morganna fawn over Mordred’s every capricious whim, showering him with more favours than he could ever have thought to ask for – coquettishly teasing him as she would a lover... A lover?

  Just as that picture entered my consciousness, remembrances of Morganna’s unspeakable perversions swept all other thoughts away.

  “No! No!” I told myself, “I have no basis to even suspect such a horrible thing.”

  It is known that some men sink to their lowest, base Natures, against all cultural and moral taboos, by having sexual relations with their own young children. This is to me an abomination beyond all others. But never have I heard of a Mother doing so. Yet, somewhere, some Time – although surely, very rarely – there must have been women who... My thoughts trailed off.

  A chill ran through my blood as I was stung by a flash of murky memory from my own childhood… perhaps from a Dream?

  I was very young, three or four years old... A dark room... alone in my bed... awakened by heavy breathing... Morganna saying “Shhhh…” in a hoarse voice. Fear overtaking me. She said “Shhhh!” more vehemently – then I was slapped. She was touching me in a way that made me cry. I was afraid and confused. I cried out loud, “Mother, Mother!” Morganna fled.

  My Mother hurried into my chamber.

  “Morgan, what is wrong?”

  She sat upon my bed and took me into her arms. We rocked back and forth together – she, caressing my hair and murmuring soft endearments into my ear.

  “Hush now, my dearest, you must have had a bad Dream. Everything is all right now.”

  My Mother had always known the truth of a thing. I knew that...

  “So then, it must have been a Dream...” thought I.

  She spent that Night sleeping in my chamber and I felt safe again.

  Perhaps it was just a Dream. But it was Morganna’s touch that had made me cry. After that Night, I had never again trusted being alone with her. However, as the years went by, the image of that Night’s events had faded into oblivion. Until now...

  I looked deeply into Mordred’s eyes. No, he was an innocent, spoiled and doted upon by a Mother who had very real ambitions for him – and for herself. She could not threaten his confidence in her by allowing him to know the true depth of her perversions.

  Morganna and I never really engaged in conversation with each other after that first Day, whereupon I had asked where she had been all these years.

  “Well, in Breton Breiz, of course. It is to where the more cultured Britons have been re-locating. I lived there with my two lovers – a very rich man and his wife. They both claim descendancy from Conan Meriadoc, the founder of the House of Rohan.

  “Nothing but the very best was offered to me and Mordred whilst living in their house. For Mordred, that included being taught by the best instructors their money could buy in the Games of War, political diplomacy, hunting, writing, and manners. Mordred is fitted to be a King. After all, he is a Prince, no?”

  She had accomplished her mission. Mordred – King Arthur’s son – had been announced to the world.

  A week later they were gone.

  However, before they left, Mordred sought me out to say goodbye. I saw him, through the open doorway, approaching my cottage. There, walking toward me, was a square and straight, muscular young man. He was walking slowly and looking around whilst obviously admiring our environs. When he reached me, he said, “How beautiful and peaceful is this Isle.”

  His eyes and expression were wistful.

  “Yes,” I replied. “We are happy here.”

  “I have come to bid you farewell, Aunt... and one other thing as well... My Lady Morgan, Enchantress of this Isle of Apples, you of my own blood, I put myself at risk in trusting you with what I am about to say, yet I believe that I can trust you.”

  “My dear nephew, so like your Father...”

  He winced when I mentioned Arthur. I continued; “I pledge to you on my heart’s honour, that you can always trust me.”

  “I believe that, Lady... It is an odd thing – you look so like my Mother, yet there are some things missing in your countenance, which are constants in hers...”

  He did not say what things these were, but for the first Time, I detected a note of disapproval in his voice toward his Mother.

  He continued: “There is a waving beauty of Spirit that hangs in the Air around you. It is filled with colours. I see much violet and white about your head – and then, moving flashes of scarlet, blue, and green. I see nothing of this in my Lady Mother.

  “I feel a bond of friendship toward you, Aunt Morgan. So I am asking; if ever I have need of seeking your counsel, confiding in, or warning you of something, may I?”

  “Yes, you may. But does that go both ways between us? Mordred, your Mother has ambitious plans for your future. There may come a Time when you and I find ourselves in opposing lines of a great battlefield. There may come a Time when we see the issues at hand differently. But no matter what may come, as my blood, my nephew, and my friend, I will be there for you, to guide – or to reason with – you.”

  The world began to spin around me. Had that just been prophecy?

  Of a sudden, I knew that the next Time we spoke, he would, somehow, be out of Morganna’s clutches – yet it would be a black Day of mortal doom. This I knew within – deep within.

  As my head cleared, Mordred was mounting his splendid black Horse. Had I missed something? He rode away with a nod of farewell. So like Arthur... but ruined by the bitch who was his Mother.

  Market Day...

  About a week later it was market Day at one of the villages across the Inland Sea to the Northwest of us. It was our wont to go and so I and one of our young novices carried cheese, mead, honey, Apples, Plums and cloth to it in our sturdy wagon, pulled by one of the work Horses from the Order’s stables.

  Long ago the Marsh Folk had built a village in the Marshes. Their huts and their walkways from one hut to another were built upon tall wooden stilts. They were all made of Willow, Hazel, and Reeds, which they had covered in pitch to protect them from the Water. Their walkways were unlike anything else I have ever seen. That Day we must use these to cross over the Marsh.

  I must admit that I so preferred crossing by punt, but the punts of the Marsh Folk were small. They could perhaps hold three or four people plus the Punts-men, but not a Horse and wagon. Since we had to cross this way, I would greet and share news with some of the Folk living there, so as to be polite and to ask their assistance in safely crossing, whilst using their paths.

  By the Time these histories are known again, perhaps things will have changed. The Marsh Folk have lived as they do now for unknown hundreds of years or perhaps longer, yet they are not as many now as when Lady Vivianne was a child. I want to write of them – for things can evaporate into the Mists of Time.

  The Marsh Folk are very ingenious, although ignorant people. They know nothing of the lands, peoples, or cultures beyond the area immediately surrounding their unusual world. They are excellent rope makers. If and when they trade with others, it is their rope that is sought after.

  These people are small and dark as are my Mother’s race and so their dwellings are on a smaller scale than others. Their huts and walkways are above the Water’s level at high Water Time. The walkways are also supported every now and then by pitched wooden pole foundations – but most sway – or float – between the posts, held up by thick ropes, wound and tied to the wooden structures above them. Oh bother... I hope that I am describing this clearly enough. They are like bridges, but not at all like the Roman bridges made of Stone. These, they walk on a daily basis to socialize with their kindred. Each family, of usually two or three generations, has their own separate dwelling.

  For generations unknown they hav
e marked with lines the highest and lowest Water levels of each year upon a very tall pole with carvings of ancient symbols, which pole stands nearly in the exact center of their village. I asked what the ancient symbols meant, but none of them seemed to know.

  The conical roofs and outside walls of their huts are made of reeds tied tightly together with rope and then also washed with pitch. When I asked if they kept warm on Winter Nights, they nodded “Yes” – but I wondered how, for on all the land surrounding the Tor, the Winds blow hard in Winter and it seemed to me that the Winds must blow right through the Reeds of these walls.

  I had been honoured by being invited into their homes. Of course, I always leave gifts of honey, cheese, and mead for their hospitality for never have they asked to be paid for punting Priestesses across the Lake or Marshes. This Time, we had Apples to leave for them, as well. I enquired if all were well or if Healing was needed. They responded, “Only your blessing, Lady.”

  In their hut they all sat on the wooden planked floors, although there were one or two crude benches for their eldest family members. They offered one of these to me out of respect, but I saw that there was a very old looking woman and an old man living in this hut, so I declined. Their expressions changed. I wondered if I had broken a social taboo, so I quickly said, “Thank you, we have not the Time to sit and talk, we must be on our way now. I only wanted to greet you and to be sure all was well. Please accept our gifts and may they increase your health.”

  Before leaving, I looked around. In the center of their hut was the hearth Fire, built upon a flat Stone foundation, several layers high. Then atop that hung a large cauldron of iron filled with Stones. I looked up to see that the roof had an opening in its center, not unlike other cottages. This was a very practical design, as the tall cone shape drew the smoke upward; of course I had seen other conical roofs, including the one above my own cottage at that Time – but mine and others were shorter and less even. All the reeds went upward in vertical lines – perhaps that caused the better draw. There was very little smoky odour and not much black soot either. They said this hole was the Spirits’ door and that they, the Spirits, came and left through it. I asked them of which Spirits they spoke.