Songwoman

by Ilka Tampke

  No fresh-slain beef could disguise the bitter taste of what this meant: when the scouts returned to Scapula, he would learn that these mountains were our haven and come in pursuit. To our north was ocean. To our northwest was Môn. Our east was blocked with captured tribelands.

  There was nowhere else to hide.

  Caradog and I sat up late that night while the camp lay sleeping.

  ‘I cannot believe he has pursued us so swiftly. It is as if we throw pebbles in his path instead of mountains.’

  ‘You are the Empire’s most wanted man. Such a prize will fuel a man.’

  ‘You said he was sick.’

  ‘Determination can cloak even the most painful ailments.’

  We sat in silence, listening to the crackling flames. ‘I wonder if you and he would enjoy a drink by the fire,’ I said, ‘if you were not enemies.’

  Caradog snorted. ‘I do not foresee it. He hates the very air I breathe.’

  ‘Of course he hates you,’ I said. ‘But beneath that, do you not think he admires you?’ I swirled the last of my ale in my cup. ‘Just as you admire him.’

  ‘He is a strong commander.’

  I stared at his face, lit bronze by the dwindling fire. His hair and beard had grown long and unkempt in the weeks of travelling. He looked almost as a journeyman returned from forest seclusion. But he was not a journeyman. He was a warrior, a weapon-bearer, as I was a knowledge-bearer.

  ‘You want to fight him, don’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘With all my being.’

  10

  Some Souls

  Some souls are born to a lowland path and walk without effort over even ground.

  Others are born to a precipice and must tread with constant wariness.

  Their path is more difficult,

  but they see the world from a dizzying height.

  ‘AILIA, LOOK at this.’

  Caradog and I were riding back to Branovi, the river Glaslyn at our side. I stared up to where he was pointing: a slope rose on the other side of the river, as sheer as a wall, thick with bracken and young oaks growing outwards from its face.

  ‘What?’ I asked. The scene was no different from any other we had passed in the past few days. We had been riding among the settlements, appraising the mood of the Ordovices chiefs, testing their war vows, searching for a battle site that would favour our weapons and deny Scapula the flatlands he needed to make his formations. The chiefs were ready. They did not wish to remain at the brink of war for another season. They wanted to fight.

  The legion was moving slowly. We still had time. But we had found no strong places, only an abandoned copper mine, where we had sheltered from a violent summer storm this morning. Its entrance was a cleft in a grassy hillside, an hour’s walk upstream, and we had spent far too long exploring its earth-scented passages, delighted that so secret an opening had led to such an otherworld of chambers and underground pools, still glinting with pink veins.

  Caradog rode to the river’s edge. ‘Can we cross it here?’ he said, staring into the water. ‘Ailia, come! I think the horses can get through…’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said as I approached. ‘We do not need to cross—’

  But his horse was already chest-deep in the gushing river. ‘Ha!’ He was grinning as I finally caught up to him in the river’s belly. ‘Look how well the water slows us.’

  We emerged wet and bedraggled on the opposite shore. Caradog’s face was alive. ‘And now we are sodden, and our boots are heavy!’

  ‘And we will be cold as we ride,’ I said, wringing my skirt in irritation.

  ‘This slope,’ he said, ignoring me. ‘See how it is already well-walled?’ I followed his gaze. Between the clumps of oak, bracken and ash were banks of limestone that made natural fortifications along the face of the mountain.

  ‘Scapula will come from the south,’ continued Caradog. ‘He will need to cross the river. It is too fast upstream and too deep downstream. This is the only crossing point.’

  ‘And we can attack them as they cross,’ I said, starting to grasp his vision.

  ‘The river will slow them…We can kill them with stones before they even reach the slope.’ He strode to the base of the mountain and craned his neck upwards to study its surface. ‘There are many strongholds for the warriors,’ he said. ‘Scapula’s men will need their hands to climb. We will spear them as they ascend…’ He turned to me, eyes blazing. ‘Ailia, this could be our battle ground.’

  ‘And what of the rear?’

  ‘They can’t get there but by crossing this river.’

  ‘But if they did—?’

  ‘There are yet steeper mountains, but I know not their shape.’

  ‘Then let us find out,’ I said.

  We tethered the horses by the water and began to scramble upwards.

  ‘This is good…’ murmured Caradog, as we hauled ourselves up the hill face. The slope was intermittently grassy and rocky, secure enough to stand upon and cast a spear, but steep enough to make climbing slow.

  We stopped to catch our breath on a small plateau. The mountain face to either side fell away in sheer drops, topped by ledges of stone that were almost begging for our warriors to stand upon them, in paint and headdress, screaming curses and drawing their arrows.

  ‘It is as though the Mothers have crafted this ground for our purpose,’ said Caradog in amazement.

  ‘We are less than halfway,’ I cautioned. ‘We need to look further.’

  We took several hours to explore the jags and crevices of the slope, marvelling at the view as we ascended, but nothing could prepare us for the outlook from the summit.

  The mountains lay before us like sleeping giants. No longer dwarfed by their stature, we stood abreast of them, sucking their cold air into our pounding chests. We could see to the distant entranceways of the valley below and every corner of its lakes and flatlands. No matter from which direction it came, no army would be able to approach without being sighted hours before it reached the river crossing.

  A long, flat ridge along the mountain’s peak would allow our swordsmen to deploy their skills and slay, row by row, any Roman soldiers who might succeed in cresting the ascent. Behind this ridgeline were gentler descents and lush, grassy hollows, well-protected from the wind, perfect for the war band to camp in the days awaiting battle.

  Impenetrable mountains formed a bulwark at our rear, but the gorge between them allowed an easy passage to the north, which we could use as a line of retreat if, by some chance, the Roman soldiers gained footing on the front face.

  ‘It is perfect!’ shouted Caradog over the howling wind.

  We stood before each other as our hair whipped about our faces and our clothing flapped like flags. He reached for my hand and drew me against him. ‘Is this where we will claim back our sovereignty?’ he whispered into the chill of my upturned cheek.

  And there, atop a mountain in the centre of the free tribelands, with my heart beating just a finger’s width away from that of Albion’s greatest war king, I felt the Mothers’ intention surge up from the stone, through my legs and spine and into my chest. I knew that they had wrought this land to strengthen our fight, and that there could be no more powerful place for the warriors of Albion to meet Rome than this.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  But with the utterance came a sadness that I could not fathom.

  The mount was called Emrys, meaning immortal. We summoned a measurewoman to test its strength. She came with her plumb stone, wooden pegs and a long coil of horse-hair rope. I accompanied her to Emrys by torchlight an hour before sunrise.

  She was old. Perhaps fifty summers, and walked with a hump in her spine that mirrored the mountain. She was scarcely taller than my waist, and her skin was mottled from a lifetime of turning her face to the sky.

  She could not climb the mountain. ‘Do not worry,’ she assured me, tipping her pegs to the ground. ‘I can measure from here.’

  Under the faint colour of a pre-dawn sky,
we walked to an area of flat ground near the mountain-base that permitted a clear view of the eastern horizon. Here, she observed the point at which the sun rose, set an anchor pole, then tracked its shadow throughout the day, marking directions and angles with the pegs and rope, chanting verses under her breath between taking each measure.

  I stayed near her side, ready to take a rope end she would hold out or collect a peg that rolled from her reach. Measurement was one of the most sacred branches of journey-craft. Its practitioners positioned our towns, our shrines, our groves and the roads that joined them. Through the reckoning of the sun and the seasons that swayed it, they aligned us to the shape of all things.

  The Roman surveyors had no idea of the directions we lived by. It was secret knowledge, passed only by voice and many years of practice. I marvelled at the skill, but my task, I reminded myself, as she called me to attention with a toothless smile, was not to learn it; my task was to protect it.

  We returned to Branovi by late afternoon. Caradog strode forth to hear what wisdom the day had yielded. Carefully, he helped the measurewoman from her mount and led her to his fire, where she sipped a cupful of broth before she answered his questions.

  ‘I know why this place called to you,’ she finally said, her voice a rasp. ‘A serpent lies stretched beneath the earth. At its head is the summer rise, at its tail is Môn. This mountain is its heart.’

  ‘Then it is a strong place to meet an enemy?’ pressed Caradog.

  ‘There is no stronger.’

  We sent a rider to Môn. Only the journeymen, with their grain and gold and unbreakable ties to all of free Albion, could sanction this battle.

  The sun rose and fell six times without a response, and each day saw Caradog pacing around the borders of Branovi while his warriors trained. His agitation was not without reason. Each day that dawned was another opportunity for the legion to move closer. Yet somehow, by the Mothers’ grace, our riders informed us that Scapula remained still, as if he too was waiting on the word of Môn to decide the future of these tribelands.

  At last a rider came bearing word from Sulien. Caradog and Rhain found me as I draped my washed under-robe over a hazel branch in the late morning sun.

  ‘Ailia—’ The war king bowed deeply, kissing my hand. When he lifted his face there was wild excitement in it. ‘Cast down your work and go to the groves. See when the Mothers would have us commence battle.’

  ‘They want you to fight?’

  He grasped hold of my waist and lifted me high as he had on the first night we had feasted. ‘There will be battle!’

  ‘Môn desires it?’ I asked, laughing as he set me down.

  ‘Yes, yes, if you can see it…’ He waved away the question, smiling at the crowd who were gathering around us.

  I stilled. ‘What do you mean, Caradog…if I can see it?’

  Rhain spoke. ‘Sulien has asked you to vision for the battle outcome. If you see us victorious, they will approve it. If you don’t, we will not fight.’

  I stared at him. ‘It cannot rest on me.’

  ‘Yet it does,’ said Rhain.

  ‘But they know I no longer claim the title of Kendra…’

  ‘It is not your title they value,’ said Rhain. ‘They are ready to support battle but only if the Mothers command it by your voice.’

  ‘No—’ I looked from Rhain to Caradog. ‘You know how deep this scar runs in me. Do not make me open it.’

  ‘There is no other way,’ said Caradog. ‘Go to the forests without delay. Vision for battle. As soon as you have seen our victory, I will speak to the tribes.’

  With a thudding chest, I walked through the forest toward the nemeton where I would ritual. I carried what I would need to open my vision: wolfsbane steepings, rods, bells, and a linen sack that quivered with a live hare.

  Neha kept pace, whimpering at the twitching sack.

  We were deep within spruce forest, dim and moist. Flakes of light fell sparsely through the canopy. Branovi’s head journeyman had sung me the twisting route that led to the grove. When I reached it, I would kindle a fire. I would sit day-long in a cycle of breath and song. Then, when the hours of chanting had thinned the boundary between our world and beyond, I would stand at the altar and permit the hare the bliss of my blade. In this small gesture of violence, I would glimpse something of our greater violence. I would peer into Annwyn through death’s fissure and see an image of what would befall us in battle.

  This time, I would tell no lie.

  Neha halted in a convulsion of barking.

  There was nothing ahead. I crouched at her bristling shoulder, quieting her. Then I saw it.

  The serpent emerged smoothly from the leaf bed onto the path.

  ‘Steady,’ I whispered. ‘It will pass.’

  The adder was long, brilliantly patterned with a black saw-toothed spine against a moon-grey torso. It turned onto the path and rippled onwards in the direction we were heading.

  I watched it, unbreathing, as it slid over a rise in the path, then disappeared down the other side. Slowly, keeping Neha to my heel, I edged forwards, hoping the snake would have returned to the undergrowth. When I mounted the crest I stopped in horror.

  The pathway fell to a shallow dip. At its base, less than ten paces ahead, was not one, but perhaps twenty, thirty adders entangled in a writhing clump. I lurched backwards, shouting at Neha to stop her lunging.

  Never had I known such a thing in flesh—only in song: the adders’ nest, the egg of serpents. In the poems it was a manifestation of the Mothers’ voice, a strong omen, though dangerous to observe, for the snakes, aroused by their mating frenzy, were easily stirred to attack.

  Mesmerised, I watched as the ball of flesh seemed to remake itself in a constantly shifting knot. It was monstrous. And beautiful. I began to feel its pull. Slowly, the forest softened around me as the snakes grew more vivid. This slithering mass felt kin to me, as though my own heart were just as alive, entangled and ever-forming. I wanted to draw closer.

  The serpent we had followed circled the pile, sensing where it might penetrate. I could smell the pungent secretions that seeped from its skin. It smelled like my kind.

  Neha’s bark was faint at the fringes of my awareness. There was only the snakes.

  I walked forward.

  With the vibration of my footfall, the serpent turned and reared. Its forked tongue flickered, tasting the air between us. The long, muscular rope of its body lifted until it was half off the ground, swaying and lurching through space before me, as if moved by the Mothers.

  I knew no fear of it.

  With my next step, it reared higher, unhinged its jaws to a yawning cavern, and bared the thin needles of its fangs.

  I knew only its beauty. I moved closer again, right before the adder now. Its eyes were red, as if lit by fire.

  I reached out my hand.

  It hissed, swung backwards, then struck.

  The bite pierced the enchantment. I staggered backwards, searing pain in my hand. I gripped my wrist to stem it, but I could not. The poison ran hot up my arm, into my heart. I cried out to the Mothers.

  Then, with adder’s venom pumping fast through my bloodstream, it came.

  The knowing.

  Certainty, in every vein.

  I sank to my knees with the force of it. My heart pounded with its clarity. I squeezed my eyes shut, but there was no escaping this truth. In all my journeywoman’s wisdom, I had never known anything with the sureness that I now knew this.

  We would not win this war.

  Rome would take Albion.

  Neither Caradog nor I could protect these tribelands.

  Poison now numbed my body. I could not feel my limbs. Odours of dung and a nearby carcass flooded my mouth. By Mothers, was I taking form? Please no, I begged. My spirit reached towards the escape, the rapture, of change, but I fought it back with all my strength.

  I needed my human mind. I needed to think. This was a vision from which I must not flee. I braced my hands
on the ground, determined to hold my shape. Stay, I willed, stay. I would not join the adders.

  Where was Neha? I knew her presence would bind me. I could smell the oil of her coat and feel the shudder of her barks, but I saw only blurred shapes. With a strangled voice, I called her name and then she was beside me, whimpering, licking the sweat from my face. I laid my arm over her back, drawing her against me so I could lean on her trunk. She bore my weight as I shook and vomited onto the ground.

  The change began to lift. I was left panting, my head hanging. Slowly I turned my face, seeing the bark of the spruce trunks with my own eyes and scenting their leaves with my own nostrils. I had held my form. The forces of change had heard my authority. I touched my hand. There was no bite, no pain. Praise the Mothers, it had been a conjuring to awaken my sight.

  I stood. In the path’s dip there was nothing but a scattering of fallen spruce. I had heard the adders’ message. Now they were gone.

  The Mothers had spoken. This land would be Rome’s.

  I sat down on a fallen trunk by the path edge. A pair of warblers perched above me, trilling furiously. A fat, striped slug recoiled from my fingers splayed on the log. The forest seethed with life. I waited, poised for terror or despair. But neither came.

  For as I sat, steeped in the vision of our defeat, I began to sense, beneath it, the stirrings of a deeper truth. With each moment of stillness I saw it more clearly.

  Could it be that this battle was not a test of war, but of the very laws that our people held most dear? Nothing endured but by death and rebirth: the sun, seasons, crops, our souls. Only in the swirling rhythm of growth and destruction was life sustained. We knew this. Rome, hungry for expansion, did not.

  This land was Albion’s soul. What if we were not meant to protect it by triumph, but by allowing the Mothers to play out their inevitable poem of death and renewal? Could it be that our land had to fall in order for its soul to live?