Later, with the celestial fire filling the heavens above the trees, we ate warm stew and sopped it up with flat bread charred on fire embers and called something like Gahkko. Fish of a loveliness I’d never experienced before came served on more of the delicious flat bread. We drank a fiery liquid that sent warmth to all the final redoubts of the empire of cold that had been within me for what felt like weeks.
The musicians answered the angelic light show with music to match. Then Curly Hair, the man with the big moustache, stood up and danced and the great fire was lit, bursting into flame and sending sparks high into the sky above us, challenging the stars overhead.
Curly danced towards us, and took a drum from one of the players. He beat it with the palm of his hand. The rhythms he made were subtle and tumbled over themselves, defying any music teacher’s question ‘how many beats in the bar’.
Using the drum for emphasis he started telling a story. Maybe he used Swedish. Maybe he spoke in their own tongue. I saw his story with the inner hearing of the ideas he expressed as they whirled around his mind. Although his words rhymed, I could tell this was not a repeated song but a story told for us now, however many times it had been told before.
The heat of the fire gave us warmth and the words of the story carried us on its own journey into the past.
The Story of the Three Women
Aggu, son of Lavrass, son of Issat
Travelled to the far North
To the far North travelled Aggu.
Wanted to see horned fish, said some,
Wanted to see the fish maids, said some,
Wanted to find the night sun, said some,
Wanted to catch his own whale, said some,
To feed his wife, Maddji, a woman of rare beauty.
The drummer drummed, laughed and winked. The green light slowly rippled its silent music in the sky. The fire sent its sparks higher and higher in a vain attempt to kiss the stars twinkling above. The Chihuahua pipe-band blew and whistled for all they were worth, accompanied by images of a man dressed in dark leather, embroidered in pure silver who rode an elk of amazing size further and further north.
Back home, Maddji made bread, milked the reindeer, produced cheese and dreamed of her one true love, Aggu.
Milked the reindeer? Really? I didn’t know reindeer could be milked and wondered if that was what floated in the meat stew we were all now eating? It had a white, creamy texture and tasted sort of … white and creamy.
A woman’s face hovered in the space between my mind and the singer, her eyes blue-grey, her pale hair long and partly braided, and her jacket silvery with dark-red embroidery. The woman being drummed into my mind had small, pretty features and was short.
While Aggu, son of Lavrass, son of Issat,
Hunted seal and hunted bear and hunted whale,
Maddji, loved by Aggu, grew.
Too much cheese, I concluded. Not enough exercise.
The pretty woman, with her blue-grey eyes, waited, but Aggu didn’t return. The pretty woman, with her pale blue-grey eyes, worked, but Aggu didn’t return. The pretty woman, called Maddji, grew. And grew some more.
Judging by the images popping into my mind this woman, quite diminutive, began to become quite spherical, or possibly very pregnant. As this thought arose, the drummer went into a particularly impressive riff, and stopped singing. The drum rhythms rose and fell, elided and folded sounds that chased each other, like paws pattering over flattened snow.
Behind the drummer, between where we sat – Eira on one side and Håkan with his mother on the other – with the distant lavvus dancing their own melody in the firelight, a pack of wolves crossed the snow. I froze and spilled my stew, spoiling my clean trousers. Still the wolves padded past. Still the Chihuahua pipe-band played and the drummer drummed. One wolf stopped and stared right where Håkan and I sat, its eyes flashing firelight. The drummer reached a crescendo and the wolves padded into the dusk where the fire’s reach ended and the night darkness began. The drummer’s fingers pattered wolf cub sounds. I looked at Håkan. He stared, and held his mother’s hand, his wooden platter ignored by his side. Eira had fallen asleep half resting against me and half on the pelts where we sat. The heat of the fire warmed our backs. The singer started again.
Aggu did not return from his adventures. Maddji retired to her lavvu to give birth. Women hurried here and there. Silence fell. A meteor crossed the sky, falling slowly and burning cold fire. A baby cried. And then another, and then a third.
Three girls, small as rag dolls,
Bore the woman, bore Maddji.
One had one eye, one had another eye, one had no eyes,
Bad luck, said the tribe wives, bad luck said the birth wives,
Bring us bad luck, said the jealous men,
Jealous of Maddji and her Aggu, with his courage.
The three tiny bundles were carried out by a birth woman and taken into the forest. Snow fell and a wind blew harshly while wolves prowled and howled deeper in the forest. The woman laid the three tiny children naked in the snow, to perish quickly and save the tribe from bad luck. Another meteor fell slowly across the sky, burning with cold fire. The night lasted for so long the babes would be frozen before frail rays of sun could find their way into that part of the forest. A final meteor crossed the sky.
The pipers played sad, wandering notes to the drummer’s slow heartbeat.
Maddji wants her children and as the dawn comes, giving weak light for a few hours, she searches. She searches by the lake and she searches where the reindeer wait and she searches in the forest. But her three babes, one with one eye, one with another eye and one with no eyes, are nowhere to be found. Every day she searches, but in vain. And the tribal women tut and sniff and shake their heads. It’s for the best, they say, and nod. Bad luck, they say, and nod. Would have done no good, they say, and nod.
The drummer danced and leapt, as he wove patterns of sound, his moustache reddish in the glow of the roaring fire behind us.
Aggu returns, returns with silver,
Aggu returns, returns with beaver,
Aggu returns, returns with walrus tusks,
Tusks marked with pictures,
Tusks full of power, and three falling stars.
Near to home, he enters a cave to keep out the winter chill. Tired beyond imagining, he falls asleep and dreams of a great wolf. The wolf licks his face. He awakens to see a wolf who turns and pads out of the cave. Aggu grabs his spear and stands but hears behind him a sound, a very human cry. He is terrified that he has walked into some spirit’s lair. But the cry calls to his heart. He makes a fire and by its light sees three little faces looking at him. One has a blue eye and the other hazel. One has a hazel eye and the other blue. One has hair of pure white and eyes of pink. They gurgle and laugh at him. They are fat and healthy, nested in leaves and tree bark. They walk over on all fours and nuzzle him.
Aggu returns, returns with silver,
Aggu returns, returns with beaver,
Aggu returns, returns with walrus tusks
and his three daughters. Returns to Maddji.
The drummer laughed. Everyone laughed. Nearby, a mournful howl stopped even the chief Chihuahua in his piping. A wolf, a real one this time. Silence fell as we all held our breath.
A tall young woman, one I hadn’t seen before, walked into the distant glow from the fire. She didn’t rush but everyone stopped talking. She wore no hat, even though the air was crackling with frosty cold. Her hair fell straight, and glowed with golden firelight as she came closer to us. She approached Garral, and taking his hand, touched her forehead to it. She turned, her eyes glistening, and came straight up to Signy, who stood slowly at her approach. They looked at each other for a long time. A tiny whisper of a smile appeared on the girl’s face.
“You have come,” she said. “At last. I have long dreamed it.”
Then she came over to us.
This girl had the grit and bearing of Pocahontas and the inbuilt sense of superior
ity of my sister Juliette. She didn’t smile, but looked long and hard, first at Håkan and then at me.
“They will see you tomorrow. The three sisters. They say tomorrow night the stars will dance for you. That is their message.”
Portals of Time
Alexandria – about 380 CE
“A large shipment of slaves arrived today,” said Devorah. “They’ve been taken to the plataea by the Temple of Serapis.”
Nysa nodded, her mind elsewhere. The girls stood looking out over the harbour from the shade of the colonnade just outside the Labyrinth Library. Soon they were to join Hypatia and many others for an important dance. Myrna came and rested against the balustrade by Nysa and Devorah.
‘This dance is of the greatest importance. A prophecy is to be fulfilled. The stars are aligned in a way most propitious.’
Nysa nodded and repeated what Myrna had said to Devorah.
Devorah smiled. “I caught some of it. I think I’m getting better at listening.”
Nysa turned at the sound of hand clapping.
“Come inside,” said Anastasia. “The room is prepared.”
Once more the Time Knot had been suspended, its curving metal shape casting shadow patterns on the geometric lines of the pink floor. The girls took their places as the boys and young men started the rhythmic pulses of the music. Moments later, led by Angelos playing the flute, the senior Sisters of the Order entered. They formed a circle around the dancers. The Time Knot slowly span and the girls whirled and twirled within the shifting, geometric shapes.
As they danced the floor – smooth and cool – became transparent. Nysa’s feet carried her on this glassy surface far away from all the others. Behind her a stench arose, a constricting and throat-squeezing pressure; three grey figures also span slowly, weaving trails of cobweb cloud that choked and obscured all it touched. But in front, three short women walked towards her. Their faces bore tattoos like some of the women of Egypt, but they didn’t look at all Egyptian. Their hair, drawn tight and gathered at the back of their heads, fell almost to their waists. One had hair of pure white. Their eyes flashed fire. Each of them beat a drum and as they drummed, the surface behind Nysa shattered like marble struck with a heavy hammer. The spinning cobweb women behind were furious. Their anger lashed at Nysa’s ankles and pulled with cold venom at her heartstrings. But the three small drumming ladies dressed in embroidered leather marched closer and closer. Nysa turned to face her oppressors. Wild eyes and screaming mouths shouting cold silence; they tried to jump the gulf that had opened, but failed. Dust and darkness took the cobweb women. A hound wailed a truly dreadful cry.
Turning back towards the drumming, Nysa found a vast herd of massive deer, bearing great antlers, rumbling past. As cold fresh dust arose – like the Olympic snow in the stories – one beast broke free. Huge, with antlers greater than outstretched arms, it drew close, tossed its head and looked straight at her. Scraping one front hoof, it ducked its head low, snorted and thundered off to join the vanishing herd.
Going on a Visit
Sweden – about 1520
Both Håkan and I slept the sleep of the dead that night. Perhaps the drumming had soothed us or the firewater we’d shared had worked its magic. When we woke the sun had risen nearly overhead and the lavvus had a deep stillness about them. We had a breakfast of sour milk and flat bread, and spent the sunny hours chatting. Håkan now accepted me. At least he looked like he did. We spoke about the objects Paracelsus had passed on to him and I filled him in with my adventures. It took a bit of explaining to show how I had come to Sweden from Alexandria, some hundreds of years in the future. But whatever he’d experienced when we went into the time zone of the Judge Circle allowed him some understanding. Håkan had no real grasp of the forces we were up against and listened in silence when I spoke of the tussle with the evil priests and priestesses in Ancient Egypt who had tried to sacrifice Shoshan.
“Are we done now, do you think, now we have escaped the Danish captain?” Håkan asked.
“I hope so,” I said, but a niggly worm inside whispered otherwise.
I explained to him about my vision or dream, where I had seen the Lucian look-a-like on horseback supported by three women aspiring to be witches. He crinkled his eyes, took a breath and let it out again without saying anything.
We chewed over the significance, if any, of my arrival from North Africa. He had very little idea about Egypt or Alexander the Great, and did not believe such a man had actually existed. I began to wonder how I would get home to England, or modern Alexandria, or wherever I should actually be now. Time-hopping teenagers could not just look up the next flight. Somehow I didn’t fancy spending the rest of my days drinking sour milk and eating dry reindeer meat, even if some of the tattoos the men wore were cool.
Eira came to our tent and told us we were wanted. We had to bring the things the German doctor had given Håkan, and Håkan’s pipes, as well as the berries.
“You have your bagpipes?”
“Of course, I played them at the Judge Circle, remember?”
I’d forgotten. I’d no idea the pipes had been in his back pack all along. I collected the berries, which were still entirely fresh looking; neither of us had actually tasted one. At the tent where Eira and Signy slept, Garral’s tall daughter waited. She glanced up at the sky when we arrived. Signy and Eira came out at the sound of our voices.
“I will need to take them soon,” said the girl.
“Can I come?” asked Eira, sounding and looking her age for once.
“No,” said Signy. “The sisters didn’t ask for you.”
“Why? I was the one who shot the horse wasn’t I?”
Signy gave a slight smile and said, “Yes, that’s true. But the sisters only asked for Håkan and the English prince.”
English prince! Did they know something I didn’t know?
Signy held Håkan by the shoulders and looked at him without smiling.
“You’re a good boy. I’m proud of you.”
She turned to me and said, “Keep safe. We owe you much I think, now and in the future.”
Confusion clouded my thoughts and I’m not sure I said anything in response. I thought we were only going to another lavvu and would be back a few minutes later.
“I’m Hilká” said Garral’s daughter as she took the lead. We soon left the circle of tents and followed a narrow well-trodden path through the forest. Hilká walked fast and we almost had to trot to keep up with her. The dusk deepened between the tall trees, and more than once I nearly whiplashed my face with a low branch. We climbed a little, and crossed a frozen stream, stepping on a couple of greenish stones to make the far bank. Something snuffled and crashed away through the undergrowth but I didn’t see what. Still Hilká walked like she’d entered the Ladies’ Marathon.
The path swung to the right and we came into a clearing. Two reindeer stood tethered to a tree with a low wooden trough nearby. Central and towards the end of the clearing stood a lavvu, almost white in colour, made from pale leather, I guessed. A fire crackled nearby. All the men of the tribe stood to one side, talking quietly with each other. They didn’t catch our eyes as Hilká led us to the lavvu. She held up her hand to get us to stop, and went in on her own.
The men now looked our way, unsmiling and some with deep frowns. My heart started to speed up and a pool of coldness settled in my stomach.
“Come,” said Hilká, beckoning us into the lavvu.
The Woman with Pink Eyes
Inside, the space – bigger than I’d anticipated – appeared empty at first. From the centre, radiating struts of wood ran down to the upright circular wall made of soft leather. Hanging from the struts were many bunches of dried flowers and herbs reminding me of the room Signy used at her farm. The ground, covered with thick pelts, had padded cushions, all embroidered and looking luxurious in the soft light of several oil lamps. The flames flickered and something on the far side of the lavvu glistened. Eyes! Three women stared at us. Three women
sitting close together, also dressed in soft leather so light in colour, they nearly merged with the wall behind them. All three were tiny. I mean, they really were very small. Not midgets, but none of them would have quite made the five-foot mark needed to go on certain Disneyland rides. Two had coiled silver hair and one had hair whiter than cotton wool and as fine as silk. Her eyes were entirely pink.
Hilká cleared her throat noisily behind us. I turned and she pointed with her chin at the pouch I held in my hand. I started to move to give it to her and she shook her head. Then I got it. Finally. I approached the tiny sisters. I half-bowed and bobbed and felt a flush rising to my cheeks as I offered the berries in the bag to the pink-eyed sister. Her hands had large veins and papery skin; she opened the pouch. She poured some of the berries into her hands and her sisters examined them. All three smiled in unison and nodded.
Pink-eyes waved to where we could sit. We eased ourselves down onto the comfort of a raised multi-coloured pelt. The sisters in front of us had faces so crinkly no amount of face cream would have made any difference, even if they were worth it. Their features, apart from the peculiarity of their eyes, were virtually identical. I thought they could easily be over 100 years old. But then I thought that of some of my teachers at Scrivener’s. Maybe I wasn’t a good judge.
Pink-eyes nodded once more. A cold swish of wind suggested that Hilká had left. Silence settled around us as the three crones studied us in their own time. From a great distance I sensed a rushing, as though a huge herd of wild horses charged through grasslands and we could just make out the sound. The tiny woman with snow-white hair raised her eyebrows a fraction, as if to say, “Did you hear that?”
Time Knot Page 29