And as the waters exhale, so do I, opening my eyes to the journey ahead, our little boat cleaving through, Gwenlli guiding its path through the maze of high reeds and mud. It isn’t long before we find our strange harbour. Bare rot-blackened branches loom down through the mist like a hanged man, still as death without a breeze. I reach for one, Gwenlli another, and we pull ourselves in towards the old dead willow trunk where I can step off the boat and onto dry land.
The spirit form of a man seethes through the mist, his void-full eyes piercing all that he perceives. At his shoulder, another joins him, staring, silent, waiting. There is ancient recognition, but no words that need be said. I reach up a hand and again touch the mist-sodden wood, bowing to the dead, barely forming the words from the depth of the sentiment, Thank you for your guardianship of this place, revered kin.
It is with their help, fingers without substance, hands that cannot be held, that Gwenlli pulls our boat up onto the muddy bank. I make my way through the trees.
These mists have enveloped our islands for many cycles, for many generations. To those who study the mysteries, they are a sacred embrace, and in this belief have we learned how to call them to us, that they may protect all we retain through times of turbulence and death. So is this island called Ynys y Niwl, the Isle of Mist, for seldom is it without its veil, isolating it from the world beyond, holding our community in sacred seclusion. Yet at its heart, where the apples of my Lady’s trees grow fat and sweet, where her students and priestesses have built their dwellings, where we gather for our rites, we have learned too how to clear the skies, breathing in the stars of our most honoured ancestors, drawing down their gift of light as a glow of unflawed certainty.
So it is that I sit now beneath the exquisite blue of a winter’s early morn, the mists still hanging over the valleys and waters below. It is a blue sky yet more beautiful seen through the twisted grey branches of this ancient apple beneath which I sit, the grey-greens and soft blue of lichens and moss softening her still, like the fluff of a caustic old woman’s beard. Her tangled roots have grown around the sides of this wide flat stone that is my seat, as if clasping it for her own, and before me, her sacred spring trickles from its muddy cleft in the incline, slipping over stones laid out for her path, and into a pool of what has been for aeons deep black water. My gaze settles into its depths.
Do all people, I wonder, consider the era of their lives to be the most aberrant, the most bloodied with death, the most violent with change? The druids of our land are losing their power, the old magic decaying with the corruption of their sacred vows, corroded with their thirst for positions of importance. The ancient rites of our people are left undone. I close my eyes to ease the sadness which is too vast to endure, gathering up the threads to weave tight my intention. Then whispering my prayer, My Lady, mother of life, show me ... I slip on the path of my gaze, down into the pool.
~~~~~
In pelting rain, the fury of a gods-driven storm, this is where they fight, on the sliding banks of a sacred lake, stamping, screaming, mud and water beneath their feet, hundreds of men, women, children, fighting, in the brutality of panic, my people, in rage and fearful chaos. And still the enemy comes, seemingly invincible, like strange beetles with metal shells, cowering protected from axe blows and daggers, emerging unhurt to fight on again, and again and again.
Then I see the leader of these metal-clad warriors, proud in his arrogance, riding high on a mighty horse, and out of the water his men are dredging up offerings, blades that have been broken and cast in sacrifice to the gods, our gods, in prayer, and each offering is given to the warrior on horseback, and he claims some, dropping them into a bottomless sack, and some he hurls back into the water with the disdain of deep ignorance. They are seeking some thing, but what? In the darkness of battle, I can barely see. Then a druid stands to call his curse and he is slain, then another, and another. And then I understand.
It is a long blade, and on its hilt is carved the great boar of my people. And as each druid falls, his blood spilling thick and red into the turbulent storm of this sacred water, the struggle to grasp this long unbroken blade becomes easier, until in one sleek movement the warrior takes it. As he holds it high, the eagle of Roma alights on his shoulder. And my sight is blurred by the tears of my rage.
For a moment I falter.
The call of a raven wakes me. I breathe and find my body has been starved of breath, my heart now racing. The surface of the pool flickers over my mind, then once more I am sinking into the soft suffocation of water, and on the wide wings of the raven, with blackest raven eyes, I find I am flying above a crowd, innumerable people all gathered together before a great temple hewn of stone, shining with gold. It’s a strange land, of searing heat and dust.
Then I see warriors bringing that Iuddic lad, the one with clear sight, such bright and grieving eyes, the one of the tin miner’s blood, bringing him before a chief of Roma. He is older than when we met, broken with exhaustion, beaten, bloody, pale and bruised. His grey-white face is wet with tears and for a moment I think he is already dead. Yes, he is dead, no more than an illusion in the arms of his captors.
The crowd is shrieking victory, and the great Roman chief offers that broken lad our long blade, the white boar’s blade of the Brythannic Isles. And every spirit within my blood opens its soul to scream and, raven-voiced with rage, I too rise up to scream, a curse enough to rouse the force of every god of this sacred land ...
But he turns away. He does not take the blade. The dead lad turns away.
~~~~~
When I lift my head from my hands, I find a young girl is seated near me, waiting for me. She is shivering, cowering in the folds of her cloak.
“Did I frighten you?” I whisper.
She nods.
“Were you sent to find me?”
Again she nods, her cold pink nose poking through a chink in her cloak. I beckon to her that she come close and help me rise to my feet. She bows, murmuring the words of respect she has been taught.
“Come, help me.”
And her little cold fingers wrap around mine, and she pulls as I stagger to my feet, letting the vision fall through me, finding its own place to settle in my soul. Then, out of the blue, as we walk through the trees, I remember.
“Eosaidh!”
The child looks up, “My Lady, my name is Tegan.”
And I laugh, “Not you, child. My old head forgets many things, but from the mud of my memory I have just remembered the name of a tin miner: Eosaidh!” I rumple her hair through the cloak’s hood, feeling the name like a fallen leaf now silently floating upon the water of my soul. “Now run along and tell Gwenlli I need bread and cider, and a good chunk of hard goat’s cheese. And apples. He is hungry, this Iuddic tinner, he’s hungry and cold and waiting for me ... ”
~~~~~
A reed-woven basket in my hand, I make my way to the path beyond the orchards. Walking out from under the winter-bare branches, I step again into the soft white embrace of mist. The path rises, until it reaches the base of Bryn Ddraig, and I follow its course down the other side into the valley of the sacred springs, where the people come to collect the healing waters.
While I’m still at some distance, a young woman spies me. Before I can blink, she is running towards me.
“My Lady,” she bows, breathing hard with fear and coughing, “my child is sick, my Lady, I beg you!”
I touch her arm and see the child she holds in her heart, a body rotten with damp. By the springs, amidst those gathered, I see a few of my priestesses, one a bone-setter, one a herbwise, and I keep my stride, smiling gently to assure the woman she will be given help. Then before another soul in desperation reaches for my aid, I pull the hood of my goat wool robe down over my face and whisper a prayer to the mist that I might pass unseen.
The herbwise bows as I slip by, our fingers almost touching.
~~~~~
It is beneath the old yew that I find him, half lying on the cold ground be
side the splashing stream of iron-red waters that are y Ffynnon Goch. Eyes closed, he breathes the deep growl of a lifelong miner, his cloak clasped about him with a rough cold hand. And I watch him as he slumbers, a flood of images moving through his dreaming mind. Slowly, through the storms of many years and much sorrow, my soul starts to remember this man I have known before. Yet as I watch, I find myself both troubled and moved by the depth of the change that is obvious within him.
“Eos,” I whisper.
Then I remember the mist-spell that has lent me invisibility. As I step from its cloak, his eyes open, and I murmur, “Eosaidh. Forgive me, I am late.”
He blinks, “Vivian?”
So few call me by name, I am unaccustomed to the intimacy. The word reaches into my soul and I am aware of the urge to take half a step away. He blinks again, his shade still a little uncoupled from his body, as the flood of time washes through him with its flotsam of memories. I lift the hood of my robe, and his eyes, waking, search mine. There is an intensity, an urgency, that was but a glimmer all those years ago, and I watch as he realizes the intrusion of his gaze.
He struggles to lift himself, resentful of the winter’s ache in his limbs, and clears his throat as he reaches to grasp again his dignity. “I am still asleep,” he says, and again looks up, with an uncertainty I sense unfamiliar to him. Empathy touches my heart, and I bend my knees to sit on the stone by the spring beside him.
“It seems we are both older than when we last met,” he smiles. “Yet, I think the years have been kinder to you.”
He runs the fingers of both hands through his hair, brushing off the yew needles and other debris of the night, plucking a few from the nest of his beard. And when he feels himself a little more adequately composed, he bows, saying softly, “Shalom, my Lady,” and he offers me his hand with the greeting.
It takes a moment for me to respond. As he gains the coherence of wakefulness, in his voice and his face the changes rise into evidence. It is as if he has been on the road for a dozen cycles of spring and harvest, wandering in search of something he has yet to come close to finding. And as I lean forward to take his hand, in its rough cold weight I am filled with a sense that he has come to a halt. Without his quest resolved, he has laid down his pack, here, on Ynys y Niwl, before me.
I feel two streams of water meet within me, a flood of caution and one of strange relief, their currents pushing against each other, leaving eddies of disquiet. I can do nothing but acknowledge this effect of his presence. I let go his hand, and I smile.
His face flushes in response.
“It has been a long time, Vivian.”
“Yes, Eosaidh. A very long time.”
And our words drift into stillness, held by the timeless breathing of the yew. It is a stillness I need, that I might find my feet in this moment between all that has happened and the looming storm of the future. I hear the voice of a child, a spirit yet to be born, crying out in fear and rage, It’s him, he’s bringing it, it’s coming with him! pointing to this old man with tired brown eyes, and I whisper, No, child, he brings only the story. And I know that is the beginning: I must hear the story.
It is he who breaks the silence, “Vivian?”
“Eos, I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I brought you some food,” and I push the basket between us, lifting out the bread, “I’m not good at these things any more, I forget - ”
But his hand touches mine. “Lady, it is not your place to serve me.” He smiles, “We have graver things to be good at than baskets of food.”
I look into his face, wondering if he feels this weight of apprehension in me. Yet in those dark brown eyes what I see are the colours and clamours of a thousand villages, of camps and stories, of markets and fighting, of a life without me in the great towns of Roma across the southern water, the noisy dirty caers of other lands I have seen only in visions. It is like a baneful dust upon his body and soul, a pungent scent, at once repelling me yet also provoking a curiosity to understand.
“How many cycles have passed since last you were here, Eosaidh?”
“It has been almost twenty five.”
“So long?” I shake my head.
Holding lengths of time is another craft I have little skill for. Beyond these islands and the endless flow of the water, the world travels at a speed that lies outside my grasp. It seems only to get faster. In this tinner’s face, through the clutter of so many brutal worlds, in his eyes, there is such a craving for peace. He reaches for the loaf of bread and breaks off a piece. His hands are shaking.
The shimmer of the dead draws my focus to his side: the young lad of his blood is there crouching beside him. With arms bare, sun-browned, he is of the same age as when we met, twenty five cycles gone. His face is soft, his beard barely grown, yet the depth of grief in his eyes is more acute than I remember. He bows gently to me, with a blend of sadness and purpose, and I too bow in greeting, opening my soul to hear what he would say.
Care for him? he murmurs.
Will you tell your tale ...
But with a smile, he says, It has been a long and wearying journey. Care for him?
I can feel the tinner gazing into my face, wondering what I am thinking, as I myself wonder what I should say to his kin. With that gentle smile upon his face, the spirit fades, a flicker of light in the well-depths of his grief.
I look down into the water and sigh, so full of emotions.
“It has been a very long time,” I whisper.
He bites into the bread and, as if weighing the moment, I lift an apple from the reed basket. In all the dull dark colours of late winter, the bright green seems as a treasure in my hands. Our eyes meet.
“Yes, my Lady, it has been a very long time,” he says softly.
And suddenly there is so much sadness, I turn away, resentful of his intrusion.
His voice is gentle, “I have not seen nor tasted the apples of Affalon for so many years. Are they as sweet as ever?”
“They are as sweet,” I say quietly, and pass him the one in my hand. Smiling with a tenderness, as if with wonder and relief, he lifts the fruit to his nose and breathes deeply its scent. Then he cuts into it with his trader’s knife, closing his eyes as he bites, drawing in its soulful nourishment with all that he is.
“Why did I stay away so long?” he whispers.
And again I turn away.
For a while the world is put aside as, his blade thrust into the cheese, he tears himself another wedge of bread, finding the hollow of his hunger. With the vigour and the manners of a traveler, he eats in great mouthfuls. And it is only after some time that he comes to chase the thoughts that are sliding through his mind, and I wait until his words rise into sound.
The edge of his hunger a little dulled, he pauses his meal and with concern across his brow he says, “I saw scores of campfires up on the Mendydd last night. The clans are fighting for control of the mines, hoping to be in a good position to bargain with Vespasian.” He pulls off another wedge of bread, cutting a slab of cheese. “My Lady, Vespasian does not bargain with clans. When he arrives he will seize all the mines, and enslave every owner he does not kill.”
He fidgets with his knife, looking down, pushing the blade into a shard of bark. “He and I were nearly friends once. But no more. Now I am in as much danger as the others.”
He offers me the bread and cheese, but I have no hunger. He eats, more slowly now, then reaches for the jar of cider. Pulling the cork, he breathes in the scent of the fermented apples and spice, and once again I have the sense of his road-weary decision to cease his travelling. A flicker of winter sunlight finds its way through the yew canopy, touching his shoulder. He looks into my face, concern laden with resignation.
“The Romans are upon us, Vivian. The world is changing.”
“I know.”
He wants me to say more, but there are no words to speak aloud.
“Tell me why you are here, Eosaidh.”
He looks up, for a moment unsure. Perhaps the word
s which I had meant given into sound were spoken only in thought. He heard them, nonetheless. The bread and cheese in his fingers has taken on a weight, and he sighs, throwing it gently into the mud and dead leaves, then turns his eyes to the skies above, as if seeking strength from his Iuddic god. It is a god of the islands that blesses him, however, with a golden light that barely warms the skin, yet still soothes the soul. Half a smile crosses his face as he sees the cleft in the thick cloud letting through, as it does, the vision of a pale winter blue and sunlight, but it is a smile drenched in sadness.
“I cannot go back to Cornualle. The Mendydd mines are closed to me, and I fear there is a Roman price on my head. The only safe place I know is here. The Isle of Mist is well hidden and thought uninhabited.” He looks into my face, ”I hope to evade Vespasian here,” then lifts the jug to his lips, drinking down the cold cider with a thirst. Yet his thirst is for comfort too. Avoiding my eyes, perhaps he hopes that I will accept his plea and offer him shelter. He is not a stranger to these lands and must know few are allowed to stay. I watch him, waiting for him to speak his truth.
“Why are you here, Eos?”
He is silent for a long while, the splash and flow of the spring’s song holding our presence. When he speaks, his voice is low, his soul heavy with grief.
“The lad ... ” His eyes question me, do you remember the lad? I nod and he continues, “The lad is dead. These fifteen years. At the hands of Rome. And now those hands are closing in around me.”
The basket of food is forgotten, and cloud covers the morning sun.
He looks up, waiting for my response, but sees in my face that I already know.
He sighs, “Vivian, I need your soul-help.” This time as he talks his eyes change, tears rising behind the old shield of his strength as he reveals the wound to me, the rent in his soul. “I know you have seen his death in the depth of your being. I, too, must understand what happened with the lad, for I fear it is something greater than this world."
The Apple and the Thorn Page 3