by Ilka Tampke
The very next day I commenced the first lustre: the degree of learning. It would last one year, or several, depending on my speed and strength.
Each day was without variation. We awoke two hours before dawn to sit on long benches under the open sky. Even as the autumn rains came, running in icy rivulets down the necks of our cloaks, we had to sit unmoving, bearing witness to the Mothers’ birthing light, training our breath to align with its rhythm.
After sunrise came our day’s first meal of sheep’s curd and bread, taken in the temple house. We huddled and chattered, thawing our damp robes against a fragrant birch fire, initiating friendships despite the many tongues that were spoken between us. These were young women selected for the deep seams of their thoughts, and it was easy to feel at peace among them.
The hours of the sun’s ascent were given to lessons. We sat in the gardens learning the poems by tireless repetition. Writing had come to Albion, but the poems were too sacred to be given to letters. Their power lay in the months it took to seed them in memory.
We walked with the teachers through the forests and grasslands of the Isle, learning survival arts of fire, water-gathering, wild food and shelter—arts that would be tested in the long night.
I pushed my terror of this night from my thoughts. We were told little of it, only that it would come without warning, and that it would separate the weakest from the strongest of the initiates.
In the afternoons, we tended the hutgroup: weaving, thatching and herding the sheep that fattened on the lush pastures surrounding the Tor.
We ate our only other meal at sunfall: an unvarying stew of mutton and roots. There were no rose cakes, no honey glaze on our bread, no fruit wine or other Roman delicacies. Rome had not touched this place.
Over many weeks, I learned the stories that formed the Isle, the stories of which Llwyd had spoken. The magnificent Tor was the longest poem, a well of sacred lore, and I wept, sitting in the grass beneath it, on the drizzling morning when Sulis nodded that I had spoken its final verse without error.
We learned the laws of fair treatment of one person by another, the moral truths, the correct attitudes to pain and death. Slowly (for it would take twenty lustres to say I had truly learned) I began to see the patterns that lay over all things: the veins of a leaf, the cast of the stars, the bones of a robin. I saw the shapes mirrored between these and everything beyond, and I also saw the pricked holes of difference that threw the Mothers’ light in its infinite directions. I saw that it was neither Llwyd’s oak nor Ruther’s burning wheel alone that was truest, but the two set in perfect balance, one at the heart of the other, the stillness created by ceaseless spin.
Every day I was more fully awakened. But the truth remained. I was still without skin. At first it had caused sharp words among the teachers, and some had refused to give me lessons. But gradually, as my strengths were seen and the story of my sword was repeated, I was taken by them all, until there was only one lesson I had not yet commenced.
I had been two moon turns at temple. Sulis called us to the red springs before dawn, and we gathered drowsily, stamping against the cold. ‘Sit,’ she commanded and began passing out cups of dark liquid that she ladled from a bucket. ‘Not you,’ she warned, as I reached for a cup. ‘You will watch only. You will not journey.’
‘No, Sulis—’ I protested before I could stop it. Surely she would not withhold me from this.
‘Silence,’ she said. ‘Without skin, you are unguided. We cannot sing the spells to prepare you. We cannot protect you. It is for your own sake as well as ours.’
I watched wretchedly as my sister initiates drank the herbs and raised the chants that would prepare the passage. Over many hours I bore witness as they fell into trance, their bodies emptied, quivering, as they made their first spirit flights toward the Mothers.
Sulis wandered attentively among them, guarding their passage.
‘Let me journey, Sulis,’ I cried as she passed. The lure of the Mothers was an ache in my chest.
She crouched before me, her grey eyes alive to this rite. ‘The danger is too great.’
‘But I am not scared.’
‘I know it. But there is more at risk than you alone. Skin holds us all. It must not be breached—’
‘Why not?’ I whispered. ‘What is the risk?’
‘Infection,’ she hissed. ‘Disease of the hardworld. In shape and form we cannot imagine.’
‘Then when?’ I lamented.
She scowled, searching my face with her journeywoman’s sight. ‘I can see that they want you. But you must go on our terms, held fast by your skin.’
From that day onward, I sat beside my sister initiates through all their journeys. I watched them commence each morning, eager and rosy, then emerge hours later, pale and exhausted, their eyes black and glazed. Sulis asked if I would not rather spin or harvest late-autumn herbs while they practised, but I chose to stay with them, wanting to be close to the rite that my soul craved.
Sometimes the call was so strong that even without the medicine, without the chants, I began to slip into trance, plunging toward the Mothers in a wash of elation.
Sulis stayed near me always, watching for the loll of my head, the whimper of my breath, so that she could rouse me and bring me shuddering back to the wet ground of the temple garden.
I was marked to be the Kendra, yet forbidden the journey that would birth me.
On nights when the moon phase bestowed sufficient protection, Sulis kept me in the temple house after all others had retired to sleep, to teach me what she could of Kendra law. Enough to protect me, but not enough to endow me: it was not permitted for any to touch the Kendra’s head; only the Kendra could ascend to the summit of the Tor; her purpose was to bring the Mothers close to the tribes and to nourish the hardworld with their song.
Sulis spoke with expressionless eyes and a voice as cool as night. My questions bubbled over, yet few were answered. Still I did not have her trust.
‘How is she made Kendra?’ I asked. Winter was approaching and we sat under heavy blankets beside the fire.
‘She must endure a long night more terrifying than those of all other journeywomen.’ Sulis paused. ‘For her long night is in the Mothers’ realm.’
‘My pulse hastened. ‘And if she survives it,’ I asked, ‘what marks her transition?’
‘The Singing,’ said Sulis. ‘She is Kendra when she has sung.’ She laid down her blanket and rose to stand. ‘That is enough. Let us return to the sleephouses—’
‘But might not any of the initiates say they have sung in their journey?’ I asked. ‘And claim the Kendra’s title?’
She stared at me. ‘None would be so devious.’
‘Yet if they were?’ I persisted.
Sulis hesitated, displeased at the question. She breathed heavily and sat back down. ‘I had not intended to speak of it, but I will tell you only this: she who has sung is given a scar. The Mothers cut her.’
My gasp was audible in the quiet night. ‘What if the scar is falsely made?’
She laughed. ‘Have no doubt, girl. It cannot be falsely made. Now ask nothing more. For until your skin is claimed by a totem, the Mothers will never scar it.’
We returned to our beds with no further word. Sulis could tell me of the Kendra’s duties and her taboos. But the rest of it, the thrumming heart of it, I had to learn with the Mothers. As I drifted to sleep, I consoled myself that I would learn of my skin.
That I would journey again.
That Taliesin would wait.
23
Flight
She who understands has wings.
I HAD BEEN four full moons at the Isle. It was a wane day, a day of rest. They were granted to us once in each moonturn.
I was scouring the Isle’s forest for late peppermint, vervain and pansy leaf for Sulis’s lessons. None of the girls had wanted to walk in the rain, preferring to sit by the temple fire, telling stories from their villages and sewing charms for the young smiths
or warriors who waited for them there.
The rain padded down on my back as I stooped to tug out plant stems. Black soil clumped at the roots, oily between my fingers, like bloodcake. With my eyes locked to the ground, I did not expect it when I found myself at the other edge of the forest. We had been told it was a full day’s walk, at least. This was the western side of the Isle, the burial place. Sulis had said that herbs grew well here, but that I must not come here to harvest. Those of later lustres may come here for trancework, she had said, but never initiates.
I peered out from between the trees. Despite Sulis’s warning, the country looked inviting. The hills were lushly grassed, thin streams of mist settling in their shallow gullies. I saw no burial mounds or marking stones. A heavy bank of vervain, with lingering purple blossom, lay just beyond the forest’s edge. I darted out to pluck one quick stem. The vervain was beautiful, mature and strong—perfect for a tincture for Sulis’s lesson. I walked a little further to gather more.
A movement in the distance caught my eye. Squinting against the drizzling rain, I saw a figure with dark hair and a fineness of stature that I could mistake for no other. ‘Taliesin!’ I shouted, running toward him, without a thought for Sulis’s warning.
He was too far away and could not hear me.
‘Taliesin!’ I shouted again and this time he looked toward the call. I was directly in his sight but he continued walking.
‘Wait!’ I screamed with all my breath.
He glanced back once more but did not stop.
Why did he not see me? I paused, panting. To follow him I would have to run deep into these lands of the dead. But I could not let this chance pass. I let go my basket as I launched down the slope. A gully of mist lay between us and I prayed, as my feet pounded toward it, that he would not be gone before I could reach him.
As I headed into the first drifts of mist in the crevice of the hills, there was an odd thickening of the air that slowed my pace. I pushed on but it grew yet more dense, repelling me, until finally I could press no further into the whiteness without it holding firm, like flesh, against my weight. Was this some contrivance of wind and water that I had not yet known? Why could I not pass?
Every moment took Taliesin further away.
With all my strength I pushed against this vaporous skin. It was impenetrable. With a wail of despair, I wrenched my sword from my belt and stabbed furiously at the barrier before me. Through my wild strikes, I saw the mist shiver and bend with the force of my sword, and a small fissure break open around its tip.
I worked my arm through the tear and felt the cold, strange air on the other side. Again I slashed into the veil and a strong, living smell, like blood or milk, rose to meet me as I cut. Soon I could wriggle my body right into the hole. With tendrils of torn membrane brushing my face and arms, I stepped through.
The valley seemed darker, disturbed. Had I angered the Mothers with these steps? I could not think of it. I started to run.
Taliesin was no longer at the rise of the hill where I had seen him. I screamed his name and ran westward, as he had headed. As I rounded the hillside, I stopped in surprise, gasping with joy and relief. A hutgroup stood before me. I had found him.
The houses were like none I had seen before: small stone domes wedged deep into the slope, their roofs covered in grass, hidden in the hillside. Smoke snaked from the roof peaks. I hesitated as I approached. We had not been told of any settlements on the Isle, other than the temple hutgroup. Perhaps it was a lesser village of the temple or a place for retreat. But why was Taliesin here?
I saw the signs of a ritual slaughter. Hoofs, ribs and knuckles of spine, stripped clean by birds, lay scattered along the path. ‘Taliesin?’ My voice snagged in the silence. Doorways were closed and no one answered my calls. Beyond the last house was a stream that ran from the hilltop, and beside it on a fallen branch sat a small, trance-stilled woman with moon-blonde hair. Her skin was translucent, the flutter of blood visible in her upturned wrists. With the crunch of my footsteps, her eyes flickered open.
I startled at their lightness. A blue so pale it was almost white. ‘Tidings,’ I ventured, stepping toward her. ‘Forgive my disturbance but I can find no other. There is a man I seek—his name is Taliesin. Is he here?’
She frowned and her eyes drifted shut.
Had I roused her from a spirit journey? ‘Please,’ I urged. ‘Have you seen the knave? Are you a sister of the temple?’
Her eyes sprang open. ‘I am not,’ she said in a high, clipped voice. ‘I am sister of no temple.’
My belly stirred with a rising unease. ‘Then who are you?’
‘Do you not know to whom you have come, Ailia?’
At the sound of my name I sickened. Had it happened again, as it had when I fell through the waters? Had I slipped, once again, to the place of the Mothers?
My thoughts were churning. I could not stay. I had to leave straightaway and tell Sulis the entire truth. Of Taliesin. Of Heka. ‘Lady?’ I said, unsure how to address her. ‘There has been some mishap in this. I have not been sent here under the blessing of my teachers. I have stumbled through in pursuit of my own desire and now I must be restored to the proper place.’
‘Do not worry,’ she said. ‘This is the proper place.’ She had the voice of a child but the command of a tribequeen.
‘Please, I am a temple initiate of less than one lustre. Tell me how I can get back to the temple.’
‘You cannot leave until it is done.’
My innards clenched. ‘Until what is done?’
‘Until you secure our wisdom. This is why you have been called.’
‘But I beg that you hear me—I received no call!’
‘Something led you here. Otherwise you would not have come.’
Now I was certain that I had transgressed the sacred boundary and entered the Mothers’ realm. Already I felt the numbing wash of stasis, of acceptance, begin to descend and disperse my doubts, just as it did when I walked with the Mothers of fire. I had to convince this woman, while my mind was still hard. ‘Steise,’ I said, for already I knew her name, ‘I do not have skin.’
She stared at me. ‘Skin is not needed here.’
I frowned. Did she mistake my words? I mean that I have no totem kin…’ I stammered. ‘I am half-born…I cannot be in this place.’
Steise looked at me as if I spoke in a foreign tongue. ‘You are here because we wish it,’ she said. ‘It is not your totem, that determines it.’
My blood halted in my veins. There was no sense in this. She did not observe the demands of skin. Yet the Mothers were the very origins of skin. Was this a demeanour of the Mothers I had not yet learned of?
I floated, dazed, toward the stream and sank to a flat stone at its bank. I sought learning so desperately, yet I became more and more trapped in my own ignorance. Sulis had been right to doubt me. I should not have come to the Isle without skin. I was too unformed. I looked out over the darkening valley to the forest. Might I not simply walk back the way I had come? But I knew already that the Mothers would hold the mist firm.
The grey sky began to spit. I looked back at the hutgroup, unearthly in its stillness. There was still one hope. It was Taliesin who had led me and I was certain he was here.
I cupped my palms in the rushing stream and quenched my sudden thirst before walking back to Steise. ‘What am I to learn?’ I asked. ‘What is the knowledge that you keep?’
She nodded at the question. ‘We keep the wisdom of change. And of death.’
‘Whose?’ I gasped. ‘Taliesin’s? My own?’
‘Neither of these,’ she said. ‘But you will touch death here, Ailia.’ She looked to me. ‘And it will alter your form.’
My thoughts raced. I had heard of such learning. Forbidden in the hardworld to those without skin. ‘And the knave?’ I asked. ‘Is he here?’
‘Yes.’
I could not stifle a joyous laugh that became a sob.
The sky deepened. The day was waning. I
tightened my cloak around my shoulders. Death was present here. I felt it in the cold ground, I saw it in the dark stones that studded the hillside, and in the clutch of bare yew trees that circled the hutgroup. But I did not fear it. I was calm. Like the Mothers of fire, this woman, this place, was unbound by skin. I could make no sense of it. And yet if the Mothers themselves did not demand my skin, then who was I to question it?
‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘I am ready to proceed.’
When I had been bathed and tended by Steise’s own hand, she led me to the Great Hut, where the Mothers were gathered to mark my arrival. Noisy chatter and aromas of meat seeped from the doorway as we approached.
The room within was warm and crowded. The women were captivating to look upon: each small in stature, like Steise, yet each possessing, in varying hue, the most disarming gaze.
As I searched for a place, my breath stilled. Pressed close between two of the Mothers, and laughing as he sipped his ale, was Taliesin. I startled afresh at his beauty, the blade of his jaw, the song of his eyes.
Steise gripped my arm as I surged forward. ‘No,’ she hissed. ‘You will sit here.’ She motioned to the furthermost place from where Taliesin sat. ‘When you have learned, you will speak with him.’
I silenced my cry of disbelief. There was only one path with the Mothers and that was by their ways, their wishes.
Taliesin’s gaze flickered toward me. A twitching smile betrayed his joy. But he had clearly been given the same instruction, for he did not approach.
Steise went to the strong place, spoke my welcome, and dedicated the meal. Although I was hungry, I could not eat. Taliesin was too vivid before me. I spoke to no one, nervous of these strange and powerful women with eyes like spears. My bowl untouched in my lap, I leaned against the wall and watched. I was a stranger here but Taliesin was not. This was his place. Never before had I witnessed him in the presence of others.
He sat sprawled on the bench, devouring his stew, his face animated in the firelight. The women grouped around him, smiling, attentive to his every word.