by Jacky Gray
“Although it can be more of a sensation than actual speech.” Paulina’s certainty suggested she had experienced this. “And at Samhain, when the barrier between the two worlds thins.”
Senna nodded. “I’m curious. I think you sensed Bryce after he passed, am I right?”
“Yes. Before I even knew of the fire, I felt sensations of pain and heat.” Her eyes filled with tears. “The fire marshal did not want me to see the body, but I held his hand through the sheet they’d wrapped him in, and I sensed calmness and love. So much love.”
As she embraced the woman, Senna exchanged a glance with Jarl. Lareeta saw him shake his head, a tiny movement.
Paulina swallowed, swiping at her eyes. “Then at the ceremony, I smelt the familiar scents of wood smoke and rosemary.” She smiled. “His mother was so taken with the herb, she would put sachets of it among his clothes to keep them smelling fresh. She showed me how to dry it so the aroma would last longer.”
“No bushes grow near the henge.” Senna’s terse statement revealed an uncharacteristic anxiety and Lareeta suspected something distracted the healer.
Paulina continued. “I know. I searched for them the next time I went there. I did not realise it was him; I expected to hear him. At least, most people talk about hearing their dear departed ones.”
“It’s actually rarer than you might think.” Senna’s attention returned. “Several people think they hear voices when they do not have any kind of auditory experience.”
Lareeta frowned at the unfamiliar word.
Senna explained it was a scholarly word for hearing. “I apologise. Lyran cared about this subject passionately. He often quoted from the learned texts he studied at the university, which are written in a language it is not always easy to understand.”
“If people are not hearing the voices, how else do they commune with spirits?” Paulina seemed to share Lareeta’s fascination as they listened eagerly.
“Some people have visions, like dreams, other people smells scents or feel a touch. From what Lyran said, quite a lot of people describe having a ‘knowing.’ Like a thought in their head, rather than a voice.”
“Lareeta. I sense other people there. Is it safe?”
“He’s here. I felt his arms around me. Did he say something?” Paulina sniffed the air.
Echoing her, Lareeta again caught the strong scent of rosemary. She reassured the man. “It could not be safer. Senna has come to help; she knows about these things.”
Jarl spoke up. “I cannot hear you, Bryce, but I know it is you, man. Rest assured we will get to the bottom of this with your help.”
“Bryce thanks you both for supporting Paulina. He says she will need your help till the babe is born.”
“Congratulations, man. Good on you.” Jarl made a move to slap Lareeta’s back, then realised his mistake, stopping his hand. “Ask if he can hear me.”
She smiled. “You are coming through loud and clear. There is no need to shout.”
“No I wasn’t,” Jarl hissed at someone. He gave a rueful grin. “This could get complicated. Lyran just told me I was shouting loud enough to wake the dead. Now he’s laughing.”
“Ask Bryce if he can commune with Lyran.” Senna’s abrupt tone startled Lareeta and she conveyed the message, “Not so far.”
Suddenly all tension left the healer’s face and she smiled. “Lyran says he will find you, Bryce. As soon as we are done here.” She pulled both the younger women to her. “He has confirmed it is indeed Bryce, and will be instructing him on the best way he can improve his link to Paulina so she can hear him.”
They returned her hug, and Lareeta passed on Bryce’s gratitude to Lyran and Senna for helping.
Senna released them. “Lyran suggests I should teach both of you a few skills to strengthen the link, and recommends you rehearse several times every day. Now, while we have his attention for a few moments, is there anything either of you want to ask him?”
~*~
Lyrelie was at her wit’s end over her relationship with Cal. After Imbolc, other boys and even men seemed to treat him with new-found respect. He seemed impervious and although he scoffed, ignoring most of the comments, she could tell he basked in the approbation of a diverse crew from quarrymen to magisters. Suspecting it had to do with the secret initiation, she suppressed her natural curiosity.
In addition to his improved status, she sensed a cooling of his previous ardour. He had hinted at them leaping the flames to announce their betrothal at Imbolc, but the disastrous fire at the council building which claimed the constable’s life had brought the celebration to an early end; no bonfire had been lit.
In the following weeks, she saw little of him as his duties at the farm escalated. With a chuckle, he always described the planting season as harrowing, in more ways than one. On the few occasions they met, he no longer enthused about their future, instead chatting about drilling holes for potatoes, fertilising fields, or the joys of lambing.
He had no choice but to address the matter when Freya and Verat announced they would be jumping the Beltane bonfire. Lyrelie could not hide her disappointment at his non-committal answer of, “Maybe later.”
As he replied, she recalled the entire conversation in her head, wondering if she had imagined a change in his attitude. He returned to his normal self as they discussed the Ostara ritual, suggesting she must be a likely contender to play Mother Earth after her amazing performance at the first plough ceremony.
When the names were proclaimed a week before the event at the pre-ritual gathering, Cal’s announcement as Green Man led to a huge applause as everyone in the village showed their approval. Squeezing her hand, he pecked her cheek before taking his place on the dais, bowing to receive the green cloak and leafy mask.
Magister Domenyk held up the scroll, catching her eye as he declared that the role of Mother Earth would be played by … In the following pause, even as she felt the gaze of many in the room, Lyrelie realised he was deliberately tormenting her.
Assembling her features into a pleasant mask, she clapped along every bit as enthusiastically as he read out Eanje’s name. Despite the opinions of many, she was a popular choice, and Lyrelie had to admit they made an attractive couple. Accepting the commiseration from Freya and Verat, she maintained her sanguine persona until she sat alone in her bedchamber, where silent tears flowed.
Everything about the spring celebration was tinged with the energy of failure. It started when she awoke early to greet the day, hoping to see the special “first red,” while the sun was still connected to the earth. But the dull grey clouds had other ideas, and rain threatened all morning.
It held off and, a few moments before the exact equinox, along with many others at the smaller circle known as the Sanctuary, she attempted to balance her raw egg as she had done every year she could remember. For the first time, it refused to stay upright on the ground, even though all around her had great success, marvelling at the sight.
As everyone processed down the avenue, the heavens opened, and the part of the celebration where Eanje and Cal played out their courtship and planted the seeds became reduced to a very brief pageant.
Instead of the normal egg hunt and races, the soggy crowd bundled their disgruntled youngsters home with the promise of running the activities on the first dry day. Which happened to coincide with the festival of Easter.
Most of Lyrelie’s knowledge of Christianity came from Freya’s friendship with Lareeta. When the older girl first arrived in the village, she was timid and serious, always afraid of breaking some regulation imposed by her church. As she embraced the old ways, Lareeta lost her diffidence and began to laugh and jest with the rest of them. Lyrelie experienced her first mass because she and Freya were bridemaidens when Lareeta wed Taron. It was interesting, but not something she wanted to repeat in a hurry.
However, she agreed to attend the Easter Mass because Taron was being baptised into his wife’s religion so he could support her more fully as they brought up their child to kn
ow both types of worship.
Lareeta embraced her. “Thank you, we appreciate the support; we do not know many Christians in the village, because we still go to St Mary’s in Marlborough, but they refused to perform the ceremony because we live here.”
“I remember that church from your wedding.”
“Of course, I forgot you were there in all the fuss. It will be very different here though; this is a much smaller parish.” She went on to describe how few people had attended when she first arrived in Avebury two years ago, and they didn’t even have benches until Taron built them.
“We were going to come last week, but Christian was poorly. Just as well, it would have been very bleak with all the statues and paintings covered.”
At Lyrelie’s frown, Lareeta explained about the deprivations of the Lenten season, when the church was stripped bare of the decorations and people were encouraged to give up many things to echo Christ’s forty days and forty nights fasting in the desert.
“Surely you do not fast for all that time?”
“No, but people give up things like meat, poultry and strong liquor. And they do not eat anything but bread and water on Ash Wednesday and every Friday.” She shrugged “We are all different, but it is not a bad thing after the Christmas season when everyone eats and drinks so much.”
When they arrived on Sunday, the church had little in common with Lareeta’s description, with many of the benches filled, although a front one had been reserved for Taron’s family and friends. She greeted Cedany and Baxter, and took her place on the end of the bench.
Glancing around, Lyrelie’s simple ceremonial robes felt plain next to the women who had obviously worn their finest clothes, with extravagant cauls and ornaments in their hair. They all knew the Latin prayers and responses, and she felt quite out of place, having little idea when to sit or kneel, frequently finding herself standing alone with several people staring.
In particular, she caught a couple of lads sniggering, while their companion merely gazed at her. Refusing to meet his eye, she nevertheless felt it on her often during the extended service.
The priest made a huge deal about the number of new people, welcoming them into what he called the flock. He asked Taron to stand, introducing him to everyone as the latest person to convert, jesting that any of his friends would be welcome.
Again, Lyrelie felt the unwavering stare and, as her heightened senses connected, she recognised something familiar about his energy.
When it was time for Taron’s baptism ceremony, his wife handed their babe, Christian, to Lyrelie. Her father’s illness meant Lareeta had to step in as sponsor, and their friends joined him at the font in place of his family.
The babe snuffled and snorted, and Lyrelie rocked him gently, focussing calming energy to settle him back down. This left her vulnerable to the dark-haired lad’s attention. A chill descended on her body, and she shivered at the sensation of being caught in a violent snow storm.
The priest bade everyone stand while Taron said his baptism vows and each person renewed their own. She empathised with the shy carpenter as he struggled with the unfamiliar language. She was so caught up in Taron’s plight and keeping Christian quiet, she did not notice the point at which the connection to the dark lad had severed. At the end, she glanced over, but the trio of lads had gone.
Although Taron’s family had not shared his conversion, Cedany and Baxter were so enamoured of the new religion they bombarded him with questions about the preparation.
“There is much to learn, and it is very much harder when you don’t understand the words.”
Lareeta squeezed his arm. “You did well, my love. I only heard you stumble once in the Credo.”
Baxter couldn’t resist showing off. “Aha. The Creed. It is full of long, complex promises. But don’t you worry, my dear. We shall learn it together. And Taron will help.”
After a celebratory pie and ale at the Waggoners, they crossed to Silbury Hill in time to catch the joint festivities as the children from both faiths spent the afternoon rolling painted eggs down the side of the massive hill, chasing after them with delighted squeals in the glorious sunshine.
4 – Beltane
April remained chilly and, as she stirred the warming broth, Lyrelie sighed, knowing her mother and Jarl were involved in something dangerous. They often disappeared before sunset, coming back ravenous after a while. Snatches of overheard conversation suggested it had something to do with the deaths of her father and Bryce.
Although they’d never openly discussed it in her presence, she was aware of the connection her mother and father had with the souls of the departed from the many people they had prepared for burials.
It made sense her mother would have an even stronger link to Lyran. Over Yule, Lyrelie had also felt his presence nearby. But not for a while, particularly since she started spending so much time with Cal. She sighed, wishing her father were with her right now; it would be good to discuss her worries about several things with someone wise. And impartial, her inner voice hastened to add, not wanting to imply either Senna or Jarl were not wise. But their advice would be tainted with fierce protection and she doubted they would be able to see past any imagined harm to her.
“You do not give them full credit; I believe they would exercise some fairness. Eventually.”
Lyrelie flinched. Not at the voice, whose warm humour could only belong to her father, nor at his words, which held sage wisdom. But the idea he could listen into her thoughts at any time … She gulped. Did that mean he could be watching when she and Cal were …?
“Do not finish that thought, daughter mine. I promise that unless I sense you are unhappy, or in need of counsel, I would not observe you at all. And I would never dream of watching if you were engaged in any situation you would not want me to see when I was alive.”
Lyrelie had dozens of questions she would have asked her father, but one rose above all others. “Are you happy?” She jumped at the sound of her voice, until then he had conversed with her thoughts.
“Please continue to speak aloud. I love hearing the sound of your voice. It helps me to connect to you even more easily.”
She felt his hug, which became even stronger when she closed her eyes, as though he were there in person.
“In answer to your question: Yes, I am happy. Unreservedly so. The same happiness I had living with your mother and you. I feel as though I have come home. Just to a different home.”
“Oh.” She heard the tinge of sadness in her voice. Although she wanted him to be happy more than anything, she could not help but feel sad he didn’t miss her.
“Don’t be sad, daughter mine. I have no need to miss you because you are with me, here in my heart for every moment. I can never forget you, because we are linked. No matter where you are, I will always be able to find you.”
“Truly?” An unexpected feeling of joy filled her heart, bubbling inside as it transformed her frown into a smile before demanding to escape in laughter. A laughter which echoed his own for a while. Then she felt him take her hand, his voice becoming serious.
“I never lied to you when I was alive, and I do not intend to start now. I have no cause to. I will confess to being quite badly broken when I first got here, but now every moment is filled with the kind of joy you recently experienced. A joy which has absolute control over your facial muscles so you have no choice but to smile.”
“Oh, Da. It sounds delightful. I am thrilled for you.”
A strident knock at the door curtailed her next question, and he warned her not to discuss this with anyone but Senna and Jarl. She cried out as she felt his presence fade, but the next knock was more persistent and even louder. At the instant she raised the latch, the door was flung into her face by an extremely angry man.
“M-magister Domenyk.” She stood back as he rampaged around the room.
“Where is he? I know your mother isn’t here, so you’ve been entertaining a young man on your own. Don’t try to deny it, I heard
you laughing and talking to him.” He poked his walking stick into the neatly folded blankets on the healing cot in the corner of the room.
“You cannot hide from me, you reprobate.” He tugged at the pile, scattering them over the floor in his frustration. With a howl of rage, he strode toward the stairs.
The door burst open admitting Jarl, whose rage matched the magister’s as he dashed to block the man’s path.
Only a few steps behind, Senna brought the serenity of a tranquil lake at midnight, without a ripple as it reflected a full moon. Her voice had the inexorable energy of a wave lapping the shore as she urged both men not to bring violence to her home.
Domenyk sneered. “I am a man of peace; however, some things bring me to anger. Young Cal is extremely well thought of in the village, and I would not see him cuckolded by this … this …”
“Be very careful what you say next, Magister.” The snarl in her stepfather’s voice would have made even the stoutest of men tremble, but Domenyk was so fired by his self-righteous frenzy, he displayed no qualm.
“… daughter of yours.”
Jarl’s dissatisfied hiss suggested the depth of his desire to strike the man.
Senna had but one purpose: to rid the house of the man’s unwelcome presence. “As you can see, there is no-one here but my daughter, so I bid you farewell.”
“Her lover doubtless hides up the stairs. Unless you allow me to investigate for myself …” His oily smile left no doubt about his intention.
“Enough. How dare you force your way into my house and make unfounded accusations against my daughter?” Jarl had taken all the anger out of his voice, resulting in a far more intimidating cold fury as he pointed to the door.
“You leave me no choice but to draw an unsavoury conclusion. Be assured I shall pass it on to concerned parties. I am confident Farmon and Chalette would be shocked by the kind of mischief their son’s …”
Jarl took a step toward the foul man and, as he stopped abruptly, it took Lyrelie a moment to understand the strangled yelp was not that of a dog but came from her stepfather.