by Alys Clare
Back in the cheerful company of the young women’s camp, she soon forgot her fright. Many of them, it seemed, had had strange experiences during the night just past, yet none was perturbed. On the contrary; they appeared to regard the occasion as one for which to be deeply thankful.
Suckling Meggie – who, according to the women who had been watching the babies, had taken a small feed from her and then slept soundly for the rest of the night – Joanna felt her feet slowly return to Earth. When, a little later, Cailleach returned to the camp with a deep purple love bite on her neck, Joanna had to suppress a giggle.
The two of them talked for a while, teasing one another, and some of the other young women joined in. To begin with, Joanna was quite surprised at their ribaldry, but then she thought, why should I be shocked? What possible evil can there be in men and women lying together in the Great Mother’s name, giving and receiving pleasure and, for a time, love?
But as she thought on this, something occurred to her. She had borne two children and knew herself to be fertile. Meggie was her delight, and she would not be without her for the world. But to bear another child, that was another matter. What if it should be a boy? Life in the forest was not the life for a young man.
Or was it?
This morning, after all that had happened, she found that convictions which she had formerly held so rigidly were taking on an air of uncertainty.
Nevertheless, she beckoned Cailleach over to her and asked in a low voice, ‘Do we – I mean, do any of the girls become pregnant after the festivals?’
Cailleach laughed. ‘Of course! It is the same act of love, Joanna, even if it comes at the Goddess’s bidding. Children born of the festival nights are especially blessed because we believe they have Her kiss on their brow.’
It was a lovely concept. But still Joanna was not entirely happy. ‘Do we – that is, what if we think that it’s not actually the right time for a baby?’
Cailleach regarded her kindly. ‘We put our trust in the Great Mother,’ she said. Then, a smile breaking out on her face, ‘Although there are steps that we can take if we are not ready for a pregnancy.’
‘Are there?’ Joanna was amazed.
Cailleach laughed delightedly. ‘You have lived in the old ways for a year and you do not know?’
It hasn’t been relevant until now, Joanna thought. But she merely said, ‘No. Please tell me, Cailleach.’
Cailleach sat down on the ground beside her and told her of the workings of her body. Then she explained how to make conception more likely, and how to make sure it did not happen at all. She told Joanna of the mysterious cycle that kept pace with the Moon, how to calculate which were the most and the least fertile days.
‘You wish to know whether you conceived last night, I would guess,’ Cailleach said when she had finished the lesson.
‘Yes.’
Cailleach studied her for a moment. ‘No. You did not.’
‘How do you know?’ Joanna burst out.
Cailleach grinned. ‘You are about to have your courses. Tomorrow, perhaps even later today, the blood will flow.’
‘But—’
From close at hand, another of the women laughed. ‘Is that Cailleach working her magic again?’ she said, eyes on her child feeding at the breast. ‘You believe her, young Joanna, she is never wrong.’
Joanna gazed at Cailleach. ‘How do you know?’ she asked again, whispering now.
‘Experience,’ Cailleach said modestly. ‘Anyone can do it with practice.’
Watching her as she gracefully got up and wandered away, Joanna thought, there has to be more to it than that. She’s only my age, if that, so just where has all this experience come from? She hasn’t had the time!
And, as if in confirmation, the woman who had laughed said, ‘She’s a midwife in a hundred, is Cailleach. They nickname her Mab because they say the fairies taught her.’
Then, as if her remark had been nothing more than some mundane utterance about the weather, or the plans for the next meal, she calmly returned to feeding her baby.
There was one more day of celebrations – far less exuberant than the one before – and then the gathering began to break up. One by one groups set off from the hilltop, seen on their way by the singing of the others. Joanna, busy with tying up her pack, felt a tap on her shoulder.
A young man stood there. He had thick auburn hair, smoky grey eyes and a shy smile. He said, ‘I’m a silversmith. I heard tell you were looking for one.’
Too much had happened in the last two days for Joanna to ask who had told him or how he had found her. She simply said, ‘Yes, I am. Thank you for seeking me out.’ Then, pulling out the claw on its thong, she held it out to him. ‘Could you set this in silver, with a ring on the top from which to hang it?’
He was staring at the claw, his eyes wide. ‘Yes, I can,’ he said slowly. ‘It’ll be a rare test.’
‘Is it a difficult task, then?’
He looked up at her, smiling briefly. ‘Not difficult, no. It’s the honour, see.’
She thought she did see. ‘I do not know how I can pay you,’ she said. ‘I have some skills, so perhaps if you name your price?’
But he shook his head. ‘I don’t want payment,’ he said gently, ‘thank you all the same.’ Before she could protest, he added, ‘That piece of thong’s all very well, but a thing such as this should have something better.’
‘It’s all I have.’
Again he gave her his gentle smile. ‘You just leave it with me,’ he said. ‘When I’m done I’ll come and find you.’
She passed the thong over her head. Without the claw resting over her heart, she felt suddenly vulnerable. Reluctantly she held it out.
The young man took it. Studying her, he said, ‘Don’t worry, lass. I’ll be swift. You will have your treasure back before you sleep this night.’
He was as good as his word.
Joanna and her group left the hillside after the midday meal. They marched for a few hours then, as night fell, found a place to camp for the night. As she was settling herself after the evening meal – she had just begun to bleed and was uncomfortable, feeling bloated and in some pain – the silversmith came to find her.
He held out the bear’s claw for her to see. Now it was set in solid silver and it hung on a fine silver chain, of some intricate design that she had never seen before. Putting out her hand to take it, she said, ‘It is beautiful, even more so now that your work has enhanced it.’
He bowed his head at her words. ‘Thank you. I am glad that you are pleased.’
‘More than pleased!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t know how I can repay you.’
He backed away as she spoke, making a gesture with his hands. ‘There is no need for that, as I said. It has – I mean, the task is its own reward.’
Then, bowing to her, he backed away and disappeared into the darkness.
She never saw him again.
13
Home once again in her own dwelling, Joanna looked back on Imbolc as if on a dream. All that had happened at the festival was so far removed from everything that had hitherto made up her normal experience that there seemed little else she could do.
One thing, however, remained at the forefront of her mind: she had to face – and pass – another test.
As the February days went by, she was unconsciously preparing herself.
She had been on a hunting trip. Her prey was not, however, any living creature; she had been taught only to kill when she was in dire need, and she preferred to live on what she could grow in her little garden. She had been hunting for sheep’s wool to spin and weave into cloth for Meggie’s clothes, and the best places to go were the gently sloping hills and vales of the Weald where flocks of sheep caught their woolly coats against brambles and twigs.
It took a long time to find enough wool to make even a baby’s garment, but then Joanna had plenty of time. Although the February daylight was short, there were few tasks that had to be done in the
course of a winter’s day. Nothing yet grew above ground, so there were no tender young plants to protect and nurture. She had to collect wood for the fire and prepare food and drink for herself – Meggie was beginning to try other mashed and blended foods although she still fed primarily off her mother – but those jobs were easily and swiftly done because she did them every day.
Today she had collected a fat bag of wool. Heading home, Meggie almost asleep in her sling, Joanna was already happily anticipating getting out her spindle after supper and meditating quietly in the light of the fire while she spun her wool. Hurrying away from the sheep pasture, she was eager to get back under the shelter of the forest’s guardian trees.
She always took steps to ensure that none of the Outworlders should see her. Not that there were many people abroad today; she could have believed that she had England to herself. But then, as she reached the outer limits of the forest, she heard something.
Someone. The sound was a low moan, as if whoever had made it could no longer suppress his – or her – distress.
Joanna felt two conflicting impulses. One was to run, to hurry away on silent feet and hide in the depths of the forest so that she did not become involved. This person must surely be an Outworlder, and Joanna had detached herself from them.
But a part of her was urging her to go and help. There was somebody in trouble close at hand, and human compassion dictated that she must do what she could to alleviate his pain.
She cuddled Meggie closer to her – the child let out a small cry of protest as Joanna squeezed her – and then turned to walk in the direction from which the sound had come.
Lying under an oak tree, huddled under a thin cloak stained with blood, was a woman. She had a veil over her head and face, held against her mouth with hands that were blue with cold, and she was sobbing quietly.
Joanna said, ‘I will help you, if you wish it.’
The woman shot up, dropped the veil and stared at Joanna from terrified eyes. She was older than Joanna by perhaps a decade, round-faced, short and quite plump. Or she had been; it looked as if she had lost weight rapidly quite recently so that now the yellowish flesh had settled into pouches around the jaw, neck and shoulders.
There was a flaming, infected sore in the middle of her forehead.
Making as if to get to her feet, she stumbled, fell, and screamed in pain.
Joanna went to help her. Putting one arm around the woman’s waist, she got her to her feet. ‘You can’t stay here,’ she said gently, trying to make her tone warm and reassuring, ‘you’re chilled enough already and if you lie here overnight you’ll surely freeze to death. I will take you to my hut and look after you.’
The woman ceased her feeble struggling. Staring into Joanna’s face, she mouthed something, but Joanna did not understand.
‘I mean you no harm,’ she said earnestly. ‘I am your friend, I promise you.’
One word seemed to have penetrated; slowly the woman repeated, ‘Fren. Fren.’ Then, leaning against Joanna, she allowed herself to be led away.
The journey back to the hut took some time. The woman tried to be brave but could not always contain herself; even had she not cried out loud, all Joanna’s healer instincts told her that the woman was suffering severely. It was all in the way she held herself, in the way she moved so carefully to save herself further pain.
And Joanna had to think about Meggie, too. It was awkward carrying a baby in a sling and trying to half-support a grown woman at the same time.
When they finally got to the hut, Joanna was sweating and her back was aching. Swiftly she put Meggie into her cradle and, ignoring the child’s hungry cries – ‘You will have to wait for a while, sweeting, there is another here whose need is greater’ – she gently sat the woman down on the floor beside the little room’s central hearth. The embers of this morning’s fire were still glowing faintly and it was the job of moments to get a good blaze going.
By its light, she turned to look at her patient.
Having given herself into Joanna’s care, all the woman’s resistance had leached out of her. She sat slumped, hands cradling the opposite shoulders, exposing the damage that somebody had wrought on her back.
Somebody had beaten her.
Joanna warmed water and added some of her precious supply of salt; Mag had demonstrated to her years ago that lightly salted water was less painful on raw wounds than pure water because it was closer to the body’s own fluid. Then she soaked a clean piece of linen and, with as light a touch as she could manage, began to moisten the remains of the woman’s gown until it was washed from her torn skin. The woman was quietly sobbing. Realising that even such gentle treatment was causing her great pain, Joanna fetched a selection of the little wooden boxes that she kept safely stored away on a high shelf.
She gave the woman a dose of the strongest painkiller that she had. It would make her sleep – maybe for a day, a day and a night – but then that would do her no harm. Joanna would look after her.
As the draught took effect, Joanna laid her patient down on the floor, cushioned on Joanna’s own furs. With the woman slipping into unconsciousness, Joanna was able to work faster. Soon she had the wounds of the lash anointed and dressed, and she turned her attention to the woman’s brow.
When she had cleaned the wound, she saw what it was. Somebody had branded the woman with the letter H.
Joanna, who knew full well what it stood for, felt a tremor of fear run through her. If there were people hunting heretics, then she was in danger herself. Oh, no, and she had brought this woman right here, into her home, her own private place! Supposing whoever was after her had seen? Was even now making his way stealthily through the forest, about to order his men to surround the hut, pounce, kill the woman and Joanna?
Oh, dear Goddess, and Meggie!
Danger to herself and her patient had been enough to freeze her temporarily in terror. Danger to her child brought her swiftly out of her paralysis.
She knew what she must do. She had prepared for this and she need not sit there helpless while they – whoever they were – came searching for the woman. For her. She picked up Meggie, fed her and cleaned her, then put her back in the sling. It was dusk now, and there was no time to waste. There was not a great deal that she could do before night fell, but what she could, she must.
She checked on the woman – sleeping deeply, well wrapped and warm – and then, collecting her ash staff from a far corner, slipped out of the hut. The first task was to conceal any tracks that she had made in bringing the woman here to the glade. She found her broom and spent a while sweeping vigorously until there were no traces of stirred-up leaves or footprints to mark their passage. Then she collected brushwood and bracken and fabricated a sort of screen in front of the hut. It was not perfect – she stood considering it – but it would have to do. Now the falling dark was on her side; soon it would be night and the hut would become as near invisible as made no difference. She had banked down the fire in the hearth before she left, so that it was now giving off hardly any smoke. What there was became absorbed in the thick reed thatch of the hut’s roof.
Standing a few paces from the hut behind its screen, she remembered something that Lora had taught her. It was a way to make yourself invisible in a crowd; Joanna had laughed at the time and remarked that this was a skill for which she would not be likely to have much use. Lora had looked at her darkly and said, ‘You cannot know, child. Never turn down knowledge.’
The way in which this invisibility was achieved was to make people look straight past you. You had to blend, Lora had said, you had to become your surroundings. Like many of the old skills, it was a question of believing; in this case, believing yourself to have melted into the background. Deed followed thought, and there you were, unobserved.
Joanna wondered if it also worked for large objects such as huts. Taking a few moments to slow down her breathing and concentrate her mind, she began to make a picture in her head. She imagined that the hut’s outline
was softening, that long strands of creeper and kindly, helpful leaves and branches were slowly covering it, hiding it, making it safe from eyes that had no business seeing it.
When she brought herself back to normal consciousness, she had quite a hard job seeing the hut at all.
Smiling, she picked up her staff, turned and strode out of the clearing.
Her destination was no great distance away. She knew she must hurry – the light was fading – but nonetheless she trod lightly, careful not to leave any record of her passage. After a short while she arrived at the foot of a huge, ancient yew tree. Looking up into the dense, dark green of its foliage, she studied the convolutions of the thick trunk. It would have taken three people holding outstretched hands to encompass it; legend said that the yew was a thousand years old.
Joanna raised her staff and, standing on tiptoe, poked it into the fork where one of the lowest branches met the trunk, perhaps two or three man-heights above the ground. After a few attempts, the hidden rope that lay curled up there came tumbling down. Checking that Meggie was secure in her sling, Joanna quickly climbed the rope. Once she was safe on the branch, she pulled the rope up after her and put it back in its hiding place.
She now did the same with a second rope that was tied to a branch further up the tree. Once she had gained that higher branch, it was easier; she had made herself a rough rope ladder, which hung there permanently since it was quite impossible to see it from the ground.
The rope ladder led up to a platform in the middle of the place where the yew’s great trunk divided into four. The platform was very old; it was made of oak planks, beautifully sawn and planed, smoothed to a glossy finish. The joints were pegged, as secure and solid as on the far-distant day that they were made.
Lora had told Joanna about the yew tree’s secret.
‘It’s a refuge, see,’ she said. ‘There’s been times when our ordinary places of concealment haven’t been enough, or at least we’ve feared so. Our forebears in their wisdom made the secret refuges, where our people could go when there was danger and where they could remain until it was past.’