by Ilka Tampke
Gradually the floating truths began to make a whole. ‘You know my skin,’ I whispered.
‘Yes,’ she breathed.
I was as abject before her as a hatchling fallen. ‘Will you give it to me?’
‘Speak to Cookmother,’ she said, ‘and speak of this to no one, or you shall learn nothing more.’
I walked back to the kitchen formless, as if my body had dissolved into the night air around me.
The Mothers had answered me.
I would learn of my skin.
My sisters were gathering and feeding the yardstock when I returned. Cookmother was alone, sitting by the fire.
I placed my hands on her rounded shoulders. ‘Will you take some elder water if I warm it?’
‘With thanks, I will not.’ She did not look up, but the tendons of her neck softened beneath my touch.
I could not tell her what I had just heard or why my fingers were trembling on her shoulders. But, by the Mothers, I would not leave Cad without healing what was torn between us. ‘May I speak?’ I asked without lifting my hands.
She said nothing but did not protest it.
‘You know, more than any other, how much I have wanted to learn,’ I began. ‘You have been my teacher when I could not be taught. I have wondered lifelong of the Isle. And now, even beyond the laws of skin, I am called to it.’
Her shoulders stiffened beneath my fingers. Still she did not speak.
‘Durotriga is under threat, Cookmother. I have heard it clearly spoken at Mai Cad. By some mystery it is thought I could be part of its protection. I want to do what is right by the tribes, by Llwyd and Fraid. But more than anything, I want to do what is right by you.’ I stepped closer that my belly felt the warmth of her back. ‘You have birthed me with your teaching, with your care.’ I closed my eyes. ‘You are my mother.’
She remained silent but reached up for my hand.
My questions spilled over. ‘Why have you pushed me from this path?’ I asked. ‘You have warned me from the forest so harshly. Are you so fearful for me? Do you not believe that I have the journeywoman’s strength?’
She turned to face me, crushing both of my hands so firmly in hers that I winced. ‘I know you have the strength, Lamb. I have always known it. Oh, I am a stupid old woman and only now do I see it. Fetch some elder water, after all. You will need drink for what I must tell you.’
I poured us both tea and sat beside her at the fire.
She took a long draw, holding her cup in both hands. The hot steam unsettled her chest and for several moments she was bent in a spasm of coughing. When she straightened, her breath was rasping. ‘I fear for you, Ailia, because I, myself, have walked with the Mothers.’
I stared at her face, unable to speak. She was my constant, the one thing that had been unchanging. ‘You are a journeywoman?’ I finally breathed.
‘I was,’ she said. ‘I trained at the temple. I walked once with the Mothers.’ Her face darkened. ‘But they cast me from their place against my will.’
I shifted closer and pressed my temple to hers, marvelling at the unlived greatness of her. She was a kitchen servant but had possessed the power for so much more. She must have wondered of it every day. I drew back my head. ‘Why did you cease to be journeywoman when you returned?’
‘I was too angry. I lost something to the Mothers that they would not give back.’
‘Could you not retrieve it? Could you not journey again?’
‘I tried with all my strength, but I could not pass back.’ She looked to me. ‘Then I found you, laid down on the step like a flower—I am selfish.’ Her face twitched. She was unpractised with tenderness. ‘I wanted to keep you safe—’
All I was sure of began to unravel. ‘What was it, Cookma?’ I asked. ‘What did you lose?’
But her face reddened with tears and her breath started to heave. She shook her head, nose streaming, too grief-stricken to speak any further.
As I tightened my arms around her, it struck me that I had never seen her cry.
As her sobs subsided, I asked her a final time. ‘What should I do, Cookmother, with my call to the Glass Isle?’
‘Go,’ she whispered, crushing my hand. ‘Go.’
That night I told Cookmother and my worksisters that I had asked Heka into the kitchen. There were protests and questions and I parried them all, arguing and appealing, until Cookmother agreed to suggest her to Fraid, and I knew it would be so. It was a physical pain not to tell them I had learned of one who knew my skin. But Heka’s way was as vengeful as an angered wasp. If I breached her terms, she would give me nothing.
Dawn came late on the morning of my departure. But it mattered little, for I had lain awake for hours. Never had I been so aware of the sounds of my kitchen home: the whispering embers, scuttling mice, and the murmurs and grunts of bodies asleep. I could think of nothing but Heka’s words and the promises they ignited. With knowledge of my skin, I could journey to Taliesin. I could become what the sword foretold. I could, in truth, become Kendra.
When the light finally seeped under our doorway, I was glad for the distraction of the morning. The first hours of the day were the busiest in the kitchen and my leaving day would be no exception.
I visited Mael, who gave me currant cakes for my journey, then dressed Fraid, finished hemming ribbon for Bebin’s dress, and helped salt a late-season calf for drying. But as the hour of my departure neared, I ceased my work and hurried to the fringes in search of she who knew my skin.
It was the time of day when men and women of able body were all at work, but Heka was lying on her side by a peat fire with others of her fringe kin, gnawing on bread torn from a loaf on the ground.
At the sight of me, she staggered to her feet, ale-addled once more, and pulled me a few paces away. Her companions whistled at the tidy robes of a Tribequeen’s attendant.
‘It is done,’ I told her directly. ‘Cookmother awaits you when I am gone.’
‘Well done.’ Her face creased into a smile. Her gums were crimson with infection. I could easily soothe them with comfrey, I found myself thinking, but her comfort was not my concern.
‘Cah will instruct you,’ I explained. ‘You know her already. Ianna is gifted at weaving but little else—though don’t tell her I said so. And Cookmother—’ I paused. ‘Cookmother is not well.’
‘Have no fear,’ Heka said. ‘I will care for her.’
Instinctively, I shivered. How could this woman care for another when she cared so little for herself? All of my being lamented this decision, but I could not protest it.
She knew my skin.
I met her gaze. ‘I have kept my part in our bargain. Now you must keep yours.’
She stared at me, her expression bemused. ‘Ah yes. Your skin. Are you so certain you want it? You are temple-bound. You already have all you could wish for.’
‘No…’ I whispered, my heart thundering. ‘Do not play with me, Heka.’
‘Why not?’ she challenged. ‘I am fond of games.’
‘Tell me, you stupid woman!’ I spluttered, almost crying. ‘Do you not know what is at risk in my not knowing?’
She laughed. ‘Risk? I will comfort you with this: you are born of those who are lucky in risk.’ She turned back toward the fire, still laughing.
‘Stop!’
Slowly she turned.
‘Is that all I shall know?’ I gasped, incredulous at her deceit.
‘I shall tell you more when I have reason to do so.’
‘You are lying. You do not know my skin!’ I wailed. ‘You invent stories for your gain.’
‘Perhaps.’
Please, Mothers, I prayed, let her not be lying. ‘I will withdraw your place in the kitchen—’
‘Do so if you will.’ She nodded to the misery around us. ‘I will be no worse off. And you will never know anything more.’
I brimmed with fury at the weapon she made of her knowledge. ‘You inflict an unspeakable cruelty with this,’ I whispered.
&n
bsp; Her eyes blackened with contempt. ‘It is nothing to what has been inflicted on me.’
My temper erupted. ‘That was not my doing!’ I shouted. My legs were trembling with the injustice, the indignity of anger.
Her fire companions turned at the noise. One sprang to his feet, hungry for trouble.
Then Heka screamed, her teeth bared like an animal, ‘Yes, it was!’
I heard it ringing in the marrow of my bones.
I ran, shaking, through the streets of Cad. I could not fight this battle now. Heka knew my skin. She was telling the truth. I could feel it within her. To protect this knowledge, I had to protect her. When I returned I would find a way to make her tell me. But now I had to steady myself. Now I had to leave.
I had time left only to pack my few belongings: my shawl, a waterskin, a bone comb and the golden fish pin. They fitted easily into a pouch I tied across my back.
Ianna had made rye porridge but I could not eat. Bebin brushed and re-braided my hair and, too quickly, I was ready.
Neha was not permitted to accompany me. She had been tethered to a pole at the stable, out of sight, so she would not see me leave. I went to her one last time and crouched to farewell her, rubbing her muscled shoulders and soft belly. She stared up at me, her odd eyes questioning, and I fought back the wave of sorrow that told me not to leave without her.
I walked to the Tribequeen’s gateway, where Fraid and my house kin waited to bid me leave. Llwyd was already leading the horses through. He would accompany Sulis and me on the day-long ride to the lakes.
I stood first before Fraid. She straightened my cloak. ‘I am proud of you,’ she whispered as we embraced. ‘Continue to make me so.’
I kissed the cheeks of each of my worksisters, murmuring blessings for Bebin’s marriage into her ear.
Then there was only Cookmother. Her hold threatened to crack my ribs. I pressed my face into her hair and drank the thick, smoked smell of her: burnt milk, sour bread, nettle, sage and a thousand other herbs. The smell of my girlhood. I filled my lungs till they took no more.
‘Go well, daughter,’ she muttered hoarsely, ‘go bravely.’
I nodded vigorously, unable to speak.
The next moment, she had released me and pushed me away.
I walked through the gateway without looking back. Llwyd waited with my mare just beyond the queen’s wall. Only he saw my face collapse.
At the final rampart of Cad Hill, a messenger stopped to tell us his news before he took it to Fraid.
The stammering, limping leader of Rome, the Emperor Claudius, had landed on British soil and led the legions into Camulodunon. On his ships, he had brought more men, jewelled chariots and beasts from foreign lands to make up his procession. The animals that bore him into Camulodunon were as moving stones: hairless, grey and as big as farmhouses, with curved, white swords that grew from their faces. They were said to be the mightiest and greatest beasts that walked the land, all under the Emperor’s command. He appointed General Plautius as Governor of Britain.
I looked to Llwyd, white-haired and stooped, on his brindle pony. What hope did we have?
22
Reaching the Mothers
People of Albion do not seek to invade other lands.
We seek to invade the lands of our souls.
WE RODE WEST along the Nain, turning north into the vast wetlands that bordered the great lakes. Already I felt the pull of the water as we travelled the wooden causeways that spanned the marshes. Already it seemed as a spirit world, where land and water slipped into each other without boundary.
Llwyd and Sulis said little as we rode. Where the pools deepened, or the willow trees were grouped in a certain way, they dismounted and stood by the water, chanting and casting in pieces of silver.
By late afternoon we had reached the lakes. Never had I seen such breadth of water. I squinted into the distance as we approached, trying to find the shape of the Isle.
‘It would not be called Glass,’ smiled Llwyd when he saw me craning, ‘if it were easily seen.’
‘Do not tease, Journeyman,’ called Sulis, who rode ahead. ‘You will see the Isle clear enough, girl. But it is still a night’s boat journey away.’
‘Further than the Mothers’ world,’ I joked to cloak my sudden nerves.
‘Indeed,’ said Sulis, unsmiling. ‘The Isle is hard, but the realm of the Mothers is reached easily from its shores. This is why initiates train there. And why you, especially, must be careful.’
When we had reached the place where the lake became deep, Sulis stopped. A wooden canoe knocked against one of the causeway’s pylons. As we dismounted and Sulis untethered the boat, a thick mist poured in across the lake’s surface.
‘Come, girl.’ Sulis was lowering herself into the canoe.
‘Do not betray my faith in you,’ whispered Llwyd, as we embraced farewell.
‘I will not,’ I murmured into the folds of his collar. I stepped into the wobbling boat and sat opposite Sulis. ‘Journeyman—’ I knew the answer but I could not help asking. ‘Can you not come with us?’
‘It is not the Island of Mona,’ he chuckled. ‘You’ll find no men on Glass.’ He unhooked the rope and cast it into the boat. ‘Or none that hope to return.’
I shuddered as he pushed the boat away with his foot. Taliesin was such a man: caught in the wrinkles of a place where he did not belong. Not the Isle, but somewhere more deeply hidden: the Mothers’ place. I prayed that the Isle would admit me to him.
As Llwyd faded from view, the mist wrapped around us, and soon I could not see land in any direction. Sulis rowed without speaking. At times we passed a gliding nightfowl or a quiver of reeds, but otherwise the lake was as lifeless as a tomb, and only the splash and drag of the oars broke the silence.
Though we faced one another, Sulis kept her eyes averted. She was among those who did not trust the Mothers in choosing me. Soon my eyes grew heavy and I dozed, while Sulis rowed through the night.
A dull dawn met us as we pulled onto the beach. I glimpsed grassy banks, startlingly green. But what stilled me, as I stepped into the shallows and stood on the Glass Isle for the first time, was a mighty, steep-banked hill rising out of the mists, like a cry from deep in the earth, a crag of stone at its peak. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘The Glass Tor, our most scared place.’ Sulis glanced at me as she dragged the canoe up the pebbly shore. ‘You are forbidden to climb it. And you are forbidden to walk on the west side of the Isle. It is our burial place.’
I nodded, following her up a woodland track until we reached a small group of huts dotted amid beautifully tended gardens and fruit trees at the foot of the Tor. A round, stone temple welcomed the sun, surrounded by a labyrinth of narrow streams and springs.
Sulis waited as I walked, delighted, among them. The rocks lining the streams were stained deep rust. Even the water itself appeared rose-tinted. ‘What is this redness?’ I asked, peering into the deepest pool.
‘It is the blood of the Mothers,’ said Sulis. She took a cup that nestled in a low rock wall and handed it to me. ‘Drink.’
I crouched at the pool and filled the cup. The water was cold and tasted of metal. No one could have missed the magic in it and I was glad I had come.
We entered the temple house where the journeywomen were preparing to take their morning meal. Sulis had told me that I would not eat, and that none would acknowledge me, until I had been ritually admitted. I sat at the outer edge of the curved room, watching, listening. There were women from all tribes of Albion, many in the green robes of the initiate, others in the blue that marked the ovate’s learning. The teachers wore undyed cloth and sat closest to the fire.
Sulis stood in the strong place to dedicate the food, her staff in both hands, her head lowered. For the first time, I heard her speak the three laws that would become the shape of all my learning: ‘Remember the Mothers,’ she began. ‘Seek their world. And know your own.’
That night, an older initiate led me w
ordlessly to the sleephouse where I was finally permitted to rest. The day of admittance had been long. I had been bathed in the red pools—not once, nor twice, but five times—scrubbed, soaked and skin-roughed in between with salt and herbs, fresh leaves and blossom. I had been naked in the groves, surrounded by women bearing fire sticks held at the outer points of me, and had smoke washed through my skin and hair. The chanting was ceaseless, its breath warming my bare thighs and shoulders in the autumn chill. I had not eaten or drunk all day and, even as the sun had fallen, my growling belly was not given a crumb to relieve it.
The sleephouse was sparse, its floor swept and without skins. Six tidy beds lined the walls and sage smoke rose from the scent pots beside them. For the first time since I had arrived, I missed Cookmother so sharply that I would have gladly gone another day without food for one embrace against her grubby breast. But I was to have neither. ‘Where are the others?’ I asked my companion, suddenly terrified that I was to sleep alone.
‘They will come.’
In a moment the hut was full of giggling voices, busied hands and discarded robes: the music that is many girls.
Sulis threw open the doorskins. ‘Silence, initiates! To sleep without delay. The new one needs rest.’
The room fell quiet but I lay awake, sleepless in this strange place. ‘Friend,’ I finally whispered to the girl beside me, the one who had led me in. ‘Might I sleep in your bed? I am not accustomed to sleeping alone.’
‘Come then.’ She held open her bedskins.
I curled against her bony back. It was not as comforting as Cookmother’s, but still drowsiness descended at the touch of another.
‘Enjoy it now,’ she whispered as I began to drift. ‘There will be no such relief when you go to the forest for the long night.’
‘What is this?’ I asked, fully awakened.
‘We all fear it,’ she said. ‘At the end of the first lustre you must sleep alone in the wild places of the Isle. With only forest food and water.’
‘I cannot do that,’ I said, horrified. ‘I cannot sleep alone.’
‘We all must endure it,’ she said. ‘But do not worry. It is many moonturns away.’