“You must trust me, Eosaidh,” she says. Trust has not been easy between us, and it does not come easily now. But I nod quietly. Her eyes are coldly penetrating, compelling. She looks through my own eyes, into my mind, into my being. For the first time in my life I am aware of my own soul, as she gently touches it with her gaze, touches and holds me. I am rooted to the spot. Vivian takes a few steps closer, our eyes still connected. I am aware she is using the magic of her Craft, letting me feel what it is to be her. Suddenly she is directly before me, though I am no longer aware of movement. It seems as though her cloak opens and envelops me, her warm skin touching mine, and I realize I, too, am naked and unable to move, caught in the spell, her energy flooding through me like crystal clear yet black dark water. Only for an instant do I feel her touch, for she passes the boundary of my own skin, and I am enveloped in her flesh. Expecting the hot, masculine response to this greatest of intimacies, I am surprised to find something very different. For I am aware of receiving rather than penetrating. My loins have a sense of roundness as if they were meant to embrace life rather than spew it forth. A gentle swelling above my heart is filled with the awareness of motherhood, and the presence of milk. Muscles that had become hardened with labor are softer, subtler, gentler. My heartbeat grows quicker, though the racing in my mind calms. Slowly, I stop analyzing, and begin simply to feel. I cross my arms over ripe breasts, and hug to myself a heartlonging for life. I am aware of a gentle swelling of my abdomen, a straining of the muscle wall, and I feel movement inside. Slowly, in awe, I move my hands to my rounded belly, and feel the hard kick of a child within me. I know the feeling of oneness with a new life being brought into the world. I look out through the eyes of a woman, and see the poetry of the world about me. I am a mother, and I feel the strong, gentle arms of the Mother of All wrapped about me, wrapped, myself, in swaddling clothes and lifted to her breast to drink.
I hear the music of her voice in my heart. Eos, Eos, how I have longed to hold you to my breast as a mother holds her young. I give in to that voice, and sink into the deep, soft warmth of an embrace so tender it breaks my heart and mends it again. All is darkness. All is silence, except for the quiet steady thrum of a beating heart.
Suddenly I feel a sickening blast of blind rage. The angry mother shouts within my mind, How dare you? How dare you take my child?
Every muscle in my body seizes and prepares to fight. My mind is torn with the conflict of warring emotions. The warm gentleness of nurture, the blazing anger of attack, and the cold, dead horror of despair. It is too much. My head reels and the world spins around me. I drop to my knees in the grass, retching up bile from the emptiness of my stomach.
And then it is gone, as if she has taken a step back. And we are once more wrapped in our robes, and the world around the spring is returning to my senses. The experience must have taken no more than a few moments, yet it lasted for ever. Slowly, I rise to my feet. Still she gazes into my eyes. Still her eyes are hard. She has given me a profound gift. But it is not a gift of tenderness. It is a gift of reality.
I hold my hands before my face. They are once again the hands of a tinner, though a moment ago they had been soft and fair. I can feel again the weight of muscle in my arms and shoulders; in my spirit there is the struggle and conflict of birth and death. I look at the stern power in Vivian’s face, and begin to speak,
“I never, I could never . . . ”
“Such things do not offer themselves to be held by words, Eosaidh,” she says in a voice that is cold and calm. “You have brought me here to show me something. Show me, for the day is passing.” But the experience is still full in my soul and I try again to reach her.
“Thank you, my Lady. Thank you, Vivian.”
She nods. "Show me what you have brought," she says.
I reach down and pick up the acacia box. “On the day I arrived, Vivian, you asked if I had with me anything that was his”
Gwenlli's hand grasps Vivian’s cloak as she whispers to her in the old language. Vivian murmurs a response, turning back to look into my eyes as the words slip accusingly from her lips.
“And you denied it.”
“Until this morning the treasure this box holds had meaning only for me. It is my memory of the last meal we shared, on the night before he died. These fifteen years I have shown it to no one. I have spoken of it only once, with the Magdalene as we sat on the deck of a Phoenician trader and watched the setting of the Evening Star.” I raise the box to eye level, sense the smell of acacia wood, and in my mind’s eye see the soft glow of blue glass within. “Now I am aware it has meaning and power beyond my imagining. The power of Life, and the power of Death. But mostly the Power of Love.”
Her expression is cold, and her words as still as ice. She does not share my anticipation, and her face betrays growing anger.
“Be careful, Eosaidh of Cornualle,” she says. Her eyes grasp the box with an intensity as though she had taken it into her arms, though I still hold it.
Suddenly I am shaken. The coldness in her gaze and words chills my heart, and, holding the box tighter to my body, I make a sudden decision.
“More than anything you have taught me, Vivian of Affalon, you have taught me to be careful.” I pick up my staff, and step back from her. Full daylight has come. “I have been repairing my old boat,” I say, “and there is much work left to do.”
Slowly I turn from the women at the well and look down the path that runs along the stream, winding its way down the hill toward the vale before Wirrheal. The few early spring flowers growing along its edges bring no joy. Clouds from off the western sea cover the sun; I feel older than ever before. Sighing, I take one step, then another, and the leaving begins.
I am a dozen steps down the path when I hear footfalls behind me, and a tentative voice,
“Eosaidh?” I know it is Gwenlli before I turn. When I do, I see the worry and the nervousness in her face. Looking over her shoulder, I see Vivian standing at the well. Her face is hooded. I cannot see it.
“I have been thinking of leaving for some time, Vivian. Fianna knows. I have spoken to her about it as we cared for the children.”
Gwenlli turns and looks at the Lady, saying something in their old tongue. Slowly Vivian nods her head.
“I have been here two months, and still you do not trust me. I can understand now why trust is a challenge, but I cannot understand why that challenge has not been met.” I take a few steps back toward her. Gwenlli steps aside on the path to allow me to pass.
Quietly I say, “Vivian.”
She looks at me, a fold of her hood falling aside. I can see her eyes, but I cannot guess what she is thinking.
“Vivian, we have been friends. Do not let the gods make us enemies.”
She looks at me strangely. I wonder whether she is thinking, or feeling. Then I remember the spell, and I know that both are the same for this woman of the marshes.
"This word, magdalene," she whispers, "means priestess?"
“In a manner of speaking. It means ‘She of the High Place.’”
“His magdalene bore him a child?”
"Not his priestess, Lady, for the lad desired not priests or priestesses, but friends only. Miryam Magdalena was high priestess of the Temple of Mari, the Great Mother - She who is called by some Asherah; by the Egyptians, Isis; by the Greeks, Aphrodite. There are some who said the Magdalene was his wife, and Sarah, his child. The truth of this is among the many things I do not know. But, I suspect it is so. There have been many more unions between the followers of Adonai and of Asherah than my people have ever cared to admit, as is attested to in their own scriptures.”
But the details about my people aren’t the focus of her attention. Her eyes fall on the box I hold so securely beneath my arm.
"Did she use it? At the Temple of Mari?"
The sunlight is reflected off the waters of the spring, blinding me. In the light, I see a woman holding the cup. She lifts the glowing blue glass, offering a prayer I cannot
hear. It seems that it is Vivian, but how can that be so? Might it be the Magdalene? Might the lad have shared the cup with her? That, too, seems unlikely. But I am newly aware of how much I do not understand. The vision fades, and there is Vivian again, standing beside the well. I cross the remaining space between us, dropping my staff at my side. Gwenlli is there, and takes it up before it falls to the ground. With both hands, I hold the acacia box before Vivian.
“I do not have knowledge of that, Lady,” I answer. “I know only that it was the lad’s, and held the wine he called his life’s blood. Perhaps, Vivian, you will take the cup, and tell me.”
This is the first time I have used the words 'life blood' and 'cup' together. A light flashes in Vivian’s eyes as if she is seeing again a vision she has seen before. Her body seems to relax, and she utters a long and peaceful sigh. Her gaze remains fixed to my own eyes, but she is seeing beyond me. Gwenlli says nothing, her nervous energy palpable as she stands beside me absently holding my staff. She bites her lip and watches her mistress, waiting.
Slowly Vivian lifts her hands from the dark folds of her cloak and silently takes the box from me. Never have I given this treasure into the hands of another since I first removed it from the upper room that night so long ago. Never would I give it to any other human being, save the one whose hands hold it now. Yet I sense the solemnity with which she receives it. Why is it so important to her? How can she know anything of this holy cup? It is a moment of extraordinary trust that I offer her, and I sense she is aware of that moment with all of her being. Each of us allows the other’s trust to live.
When she turns her back to me and moves to the spring, it is harder for me. I follow as closely as I dare, not wishing to be far separated from the cup. She crouches down, stumbling a little, provoking Gwenlli to move quickly to her side, helping her to her knees by the sacred waters. I step forward to her shoulder, on her right, with Gwenlli on her left. Gwenlli hands back my staff, and kneels. Vivian rests the box on the ground and, untying the leather thong, turns the lid back on its leather hinges. She places both hands upon the open box, uttering an invocation in the old tongue. Slowly, her fingers push aside the lamb’s wool, and she pulls back the covering of linen cloth. For a moment she pauses when it is before her. Rays of the morning sun strike the glass. A blue glow fills the space before the Lady, and rests upon her face. Gwenlli whispers to her. She looks up at the young woman and nods with a smile, a smile that seems to reveal both relief and sadness. High in the yew over our head, a raven calls, spreads its wings, and flies off. Vivian takes a slow, deep breath, then lifts the cup into her hands, bowing her head in prayer, whispering to the waters, waking the sound of their journeys in my mind, splashing, rushing, turning and diving, as if they are responding to her quiet call.
She turns to me, looking up into my face. As though she were describing it to me, I can feel she is filled with love and tenderness, the wholeness of a woman's task, the deep satisfaction of giving, sharing, holding. I have seen this look before, many long years ago, as the lad and I were returning to Cornualle from the Mendydd. As I lay awake on deck in the night darkness, I saw her face, and her arms extended outward, as if giving the lad something precious. I never saw the gift, but I never forgot the look on her face. And I am looking at it again now.
When she speaks, her words are as soft as the comfort of love, "Thank you, dear Eos, blessed soul, for returning this Cup of Enaid Las."
Returning? I drop my staff in surprise, letting it fall to the ground beside me. There is a lightness in my head, I seem to lose connection with the solid earth beneath my feet. Returning? She knows the cup! Has it come from Affalon? Can it be so? Returning? I would utter the word as a question to her, but before I can speak, she lifts the cup high and breathes in with the power of the sudden gust of a wild storm. I see the look in her eyes, and realize that she is about to smash the glass on the stone of the wellhead! No!
I am on my knees before her, between her and the hard, wet stone. My hands reach out, taking both of her arms with a firmness no one would dare use toward the Lady of Affalon. There is a gasp from Gwenlli, who reaches for something inside her cloak. But Vivian, in a steady, unearthly voice says,
“No, Gwen. It is all right.”
Gwenlli removes her hand and slumps back, sitting on her heels. Vivian still holds the cup at chest height, and I hold both her arms. We look into one another’s eyes.
“Vivian,” I say, “Not yet. Not until I have heard the tale.” I can feel her tremble, and let go of her arms. She clasps the cup to her breast. “So here is the true reason I returned to this isle.” My voice trembles even as she does. Slowly, I raise my hands again, joining them with hers around the cup. We hold it between us, both looking into the soft, blue glow of its bowl. I look up to her face again, into her eyes, and she raises her eyes to mine.
“It is beyond all reason, Vivi, but this cup binds us both. Tell me the first part of its story, for I know only the last. What is this cup? And how did it come to the lad?”
Together we are kneeling before the spring, its blood red waters overflowing the pool and tumbling down the narrow valley toward the sea. Around us are the ancient, towering yews of Affalon. Around the old trees, beneath the eastering clouds, another mist begins to rise upon the isle. In the quiet we listen to the tumbling waters, the whisper of the wind, and the gentle rhythm of our breathing. In the silence it is Gwenlli who speaks.
“Shall I make a fire, and boil more water for tea, Lady?” she asks.
Chapter Seven
The Stone Womb
(Vivian)
Had I doubted my vision? Yes. For, in truth, I had not believed that any but the young lad would hold it with sufficient reverence. I look up at the old tinner and acknowledge fully the love that has kept the cup so safely in his heart,
"Thank you, dear Eos, blessed soul, for returning this cup of Enaid Las."
His mouth drops, his staff clattering to the stone rim of y Ffynnon Goch, and with it I find assurance that he did not know of its origin: the boy never told him. It matters not. I close my eyes and the prayers flow through me, as spirits rise around me, the waters lifting through my soul as rain from the ocean, gathering up into the songs of the old dead like vast black clouds, tearing open the web of life with the sky gods’ gift of fire, thunder roaring through my soul as I cry out the words of a spirit returned, the torrential storm of rain about to come -
But before the invocation finds sound, the tinner’s hands are upon me, holding me firm. For the briefest second, rage fills me, but before I can struggle, a voice fills my mind with surety.
Not yet, she says.
“Mother,” I whisper.
She crouches down and lets her fingers touch the red water, a cool flush of spirit moving through my soul as she does, and she looks up into my face,
There is time, Lady.
Behind her my grandmother smiles with a beautiful strength that flows so clearly upon the ancient blend of our blood and the waters. And with her I see others, women of the old council, sisters of the sacred lakes. There is an undiluted calm.
Then I feel Gwenlli’s soul and the taste of her blade. Her instinct to protect me is strong enough for her to wound him badly, and I must respond. Time has slowed. I hear my voice aloud, saying, “No, Gwenlli. It is all right,” as much for the tinner as for the girl. Hearing her sheath the blade, in the flow of one quiet long breath I find the beat of my heart once more, and look into the soul of the old Iudde. His eyes are moving fast, searching mine for reason.
“Vivian,” he says, “Not yet. Not until I have heard the tale.”
With my soul, I nod, and he perceives it in my eyes, breaking the tight clasp of his hands around my arms. I don’t know if he knows what he has just said, for his words were only in part his own, and in part the flow of my mother’s in the air that he is breathing.
His voice trembles, “Now I know the true reason I returned to this isle.” He lifts his hands and gently places t
hem around mine as I hold the cup, amplifying the power already pulsing through me. I am shaking. He looks down and whispers, “It is beyond all reason, Vivi, but this cup binds us both.”
The words crash through me. My soul in its entirety longs for nothing but to be released into the waters, to slip down into the depths, to join the souls of my ancestors on their journey to the otherworld, and in my longing is the longing to take this man with me, to fill every atom of his being with dark water, sparkling with the breathless life of the gods, utterly undivided. But his mind is cold, he has no idea what he says, nor what I am feeling. His hands slip from mine, and he sits back on his heels, suddenly a meadow’s breadth from my soul. Across the well, my grandmother is the only spirit who remains, her face now whispering to me of the sadness of love and understanding.
“Tell me,” he says, “tell me the first part of its story, for I know only the last. What is this cup? And how did it come to the lad?”
I look down and find my breath, murmuring a prayer for strength.
“Shall I make a fire, and boil more water for tea, my Lady?”
I turn to Gwenlli and smile, aware of my exhaustion, “No, child. Bless you.” I speak in the old tongue of the marshes, “I need to take him to Croth Ddraig Las.”
“My Lady - ”
“The old ones are with me.”
“My Lady, you are needed.”
“And I will be with you yet a while, child. Long enough.”
She looks down.
“Please arrange for Creyr and Fianna to come to Penn Willows.”
She bows and gathers up all she has brought, giving to Eosaidh the woven basket of provisions that were to have broken our night’s fast. They speak together, but I barely hear their words, he questioning what is to happen and she evading his questions. With the full weight of love I feel for my land, I replace the cup in its protective covers and gently put it back into the box of foreign wood.
The Apple and the Thorn Page 8