Skin

by Ilka Tampke

  Llwyd sipped his ale and stared at the flames. ‘It was a child,’ he said. ‘A boy. This is what was lost to the Mothers. This is whom she called.’

  For a long time we did not speak, only the fire’s crackle breaking the silence.

  ‘How long ago?’ I asked.

  ‘She was not long returned when you were found,’ he said.

  ‘So the…boy—?’

  ‘The boy—the man, if he lives—would be nineteen summers. Twenty, perhaps.’

  A shiver ran through me. ‘I see.’

  When Llwyd had gone, I walked to Cookmother, lifted her coverings and climbed in beside her. She was cool and unyielding, but I curled up around her familiar shape. ‘I have found him,’ I whispered, my lips at her cheek. ‘And he is beautiful. He is the most beautiful soul I will ever know.’

  The night was icy and I pulled a heavy skin over us both.

  ‘I will bring him back,’ I promised, cradling her. ‘I will give him the love that you could not.’

  For the last time, I slept beside her.

  After a few short hours, Bebin returned, and she, Ianna and I washed the body with rosewater. I mixed a resin paste with salt, honey and sawdust, infusing it with herbs to help her safe passage. For several hours I pressed the mixture over her skin, into her creases, her mouth and nose and all the entranceways of her body. We wrapped her first in an inner shroud, then a woollen outer shroud, filling the folds of the cloth with resins and powders so she would be sealed from rot while she was waked.

  The girls prepared me food and water.

  Then I sat for seven sets of the sun. I sat at her head, giving thanks for her. I honoured her strength and her suffering. I thought of the times I had been vexed by her and how I would have given my fingers to be vexed so again. I thought of how I did not come. How I had chosen to spend her final hours with my lover. How my lover was her son.

  When I became tired, I lay on the floor beside her and slept. I was clinging to her spirit. I had not released her.

  She started to bloat and her frothing insides soaked into the shroud. I stomached the smell gladly in her honour. But by the last day, none other than I could be in the house without retching. She had to be buried.

  It took several men to lift her out of the kitchen and onto the bier. We covered her with birch brushes and began the long walk through the northern gate, down the hillpath and through empty fields, to the part of the river Nain that protected our dead. The whole township followed. Llwyd was waiting at the head of a freshly dug shallow pit.

  Her gifts and provisions were laid in first. I placed a comb, a nail file, a joint of pork, a bladder of mead, a drinking horn, a summer cloak and her favourite games and brooches. I had left her plant oils in the kitchen for my own gift. Tribespeople clapped their hands vigorously up and down the length of her, banishing bad spirits and summoning good, before her body was lowered into the grave.

  Llwyd dedicated her soul to the Mothers and sang her Amra, the lamentation that spoke of her greatness in this life. He sang her true name, Ceridwen. The crowd sang back when they concurred with his praise, then branches and sticks were cast down upon her. She would be left uncovered by earth, so that air spirits and ravens might relieve her of flesh, and her soul could journey, weightless, to the Otherworld.

  Many wailed and howled as the branches were dropped in. I remained silent. My cheeks dry.

  I could not cry for her until I had brought back her son.

  ‘Can I sleep by your hearth this night?’ I asked as I walked back with Bebin. ‘I do not know if I can abide the kitchen without her.’

  ‘It would not be a peaceful night,’ Bebin said. ‘I am roused twenty times in the night to the piss pot with this—’ She motioned to her giant belly. ‘And besides—,’ she looked to me, ‘—you know you must pass this night in her bed.’

  I nodded and we walked on in silence.

  ‘But come for food at least,’ she said, taking hold of my arm.

  It was still early evening when I returned to the kitchen from Bebin’s fire, having eaten little. Ianna was visiting her family and had taken Cah. Heka was nowhere to be seen. Bebin had told me she was often out, back with those of the fringe fires, making kin of drink. I sat down at the fire. Its light on the walls made the red spirals dance. They at least still spoke of Cookmother. For the thousandth time, I pored over the shape of her illness. How could I lament her death when I chose, by absence, not to prevent it?

  A dark weight descended as I sat slumped at the table. It seemed that I was knowledge-gifted without sense or instinct to use it well. The purpose of journeying was the pursuit of light. Yet by my journeys, light was lost. It was all for the lack of skin that I failed. Skin would have held things firm. If Heka would not grant it to me before I left Cad, then I would be destined for this darkness.

  I stood up and walked to Cookmother’s bed. The bedding was worn and old, still soaked with the smell of her nightsweats. I lay down and rolled myself in its familiar comfort. Here, at last, I let myself cry. I cried from my bones, for the mother she was and the mother I missed, for Taliesin, who would never see her, and for the flaw in me that kept us apart.

  Through my sobs I heard a shuffling in the dark. ‘Who is there?’ I called, sitting up.

  Heka walked, bleary-eyed, into the firelight. ‘I was asleep,’ she said, ‘until your noise woke me.’

  ‘I did not see you.’ I straightened my dress and wiped my face. ‘Why do you sleep so early? Why did you not announce yourself?’

  ‘Announce that I am sleeping?’ She walked to the breadpot, pulled out a loaf and sat by the fire.

  So quiet was the kitchen that I was almost glad to see her.

  She tore the loaf and passed me half as I joined her. The oat bread was fresh and I realised how hungry I was. We sat, chewing in silence.

  ‘Your loss is deep and I am sorry for it,’ she said.

  I looked at her in surprise.

  She wore a winter shawl dyed a deep blue. She was fattened by her time in the kitchen, her body strengthened by the work. There was something close to beauty in her face in the firelight.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘for what part you played in her care.’

  ‘She called for you,’ Heka said, staring into the flames. ‘Ianna will not confess it. But I thought you would like to know. Especially on her last day.’

  My stomach constricted. ‘I could not hear her.’

  ‘She was in much pain.’ Heka looked up from the fire, her beauty gone. ‘She asked many times why you did not come. I tried to reassure her. But she died with your name at her lips.’

  I stared back at her. I saw her savagery, how she stabbed at my softest parts. I was suddenly desperate to be gone from her. But this pitiless woman held the secret of my skin and if I was to learn it, I had to stay. I was coming to know now that Heka could not be matched by force. Only by cleverness would I gain what I sought.

  I drew my shawl around my shoulders. ‘You have done well here in my absence,’ I said. ‘I will speak to the Tribequeen about keeping your place in the kitchen.’

  ‘Ay, I was going to ask you to
ensure it.’

  ‘And I will.’ I placed two large logs into the fire and we watched the flames rise. ‘Are you content here, Heka?’

  ‘Ay.’ She looked at me warily.

  ‘It has been fortunate for you that our paths crossed.’

  Her chin lifted. ‘My contentment is deserved.’

  ‘I have given you all you have asked of me. Do I not deserve some repayment?’

  She smiled, as though expecting the question. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’ My battle plan fell away. ‘I have helped you. I help you still!’

  ‘And yet look.’ She stretched out her arms, each weighted with metal armrings of Fraid’s favour. ‘You are losing your power to help me now.’

  She was right. Ianna had told me that she had worked hard in the kitchen and Fraid was pleased with her. My ability to shape her life was weakening.

  Yet Taliesin’s future hung on my skin. Albion’s Kendra hung on my skin. I drew the one tool I had not yet used: the truth. I told Heka what I had told no other. ‘There is a knave—a man—I have met in my learning time. His name is Taliesin. He is of the hardworld, but he is trapped, by birth mischief, with the Mothers.’

  Heka watched me with a faint scowl.

  ‘He is skin to the salmon and by salmon flesh he travels here for just a day’s journey or less. With knowledge of my skin I could aid his return—’ I paused, ‘—through marriage.’

  Heka’s eyes widened and I saw she was caught in the tale. ‘You love this man.’

  ‘With all my being.’

  She nodded, slowly. ‘A pretty problem.’

  ‘Will you help me?’ I whispered. ‘Will you give me my skin?’

  Her face twitched. ‘No. I shall not. You have been truthful with me and I will return it.’ She wiped her nose with her hand, her manners still of the fringes. ‘Your skinlessness has bought my comfort. And your skinlessness preserves it. While I have your skin, I have your protection. I am not stupid. If I gave it to you, you would cast me away.’

  ‘I will protect you!’ I cried. ‘You are safe, I can promise you this.’

  ‘Your promise is strong but my knowledge is stronger.’

  My balled fist slammed down on the bench beside me. ‘I will speak to Fraid. I will tell her to exile you from Cad. She will heed my command. I am the Kendra in training.’

  ‘Do so if you will,’ she said, unflinching. ‘But you know, as I do, that if I am cast from Caer Cad you will never have the knowledge you seek.’

  My shoulders fell. ‘When will you tell me?’

  ‘Perhaps I will never tell you,’ she sneered. ‘That is the chance you take.’

  A vast depth opened beneath me. I had not imagined that Heka might never tell me.

  The doorbell clattered.

  ‘Who comes?’ Heka and I both called at the same time.

  ‘It is Llwyd’s manservant.’

  I straightened.

  ‘The Tribequeen and Llwyd require Ailia in the Great House as soon as she is ready.’

  We are each responsible for our own enlightenment.

  Praise and honour go to those who possess sovereignty of self.

  DESPITE A WELL-BUILT fire, the cold seeped into the cavernous room. Fraid and Llwyd huddled under heavy blankets and I drew a deerskin over my legs. They told me how Roman rule was now well established in the eastern tribelands and how the campaigns to the west and north had moved forward. I was tired to the marrow with no hunger for talk of Rome.

  ‘Strong tribes have submitted,’ said Fraid. ‘Even Cartimandua has made a treaty.’

  My eyes widened. I knew Fraid looked to this powerful tribequeen of the north in matters of queenship. ‘And what of Caradog?’ I asked. ‘Does he submit?’

  ‘Not him,’ said Llwyd. ‘He runs free and attacks the Roman camps by stealth.’ He gave a small chuckle. ‘The Romans hunt him like a pack of wolves. Plautius has set thousands of men to the task. But none can draw him from the forests.’

  ‘He gathers his own army,’ said Fraid. ‘He incites breakaway forces among those tribes whose leaders favour Rome.’ She worked a gold-knotted ring over her middle knuckle. ‘This war is turning tribesman against tribesman.’

  ‘He must be well spined,’ I mused, ‘and steadfast in his bonds to Albion.’ I warmed to the image.

  Llwyd nodded. ‘He is a true leader.’

  ‘Or a leader of trouble,’ said Fraid. ‘He is not far from Cad, at this moment.’

  ‘Will he come here?’ I asked, curious to meet such a man.

  ‘No. He heads west for the mountain tribes, who offer him their fighters,’ said Fraid. ‘He has asked if the warriors of Summer will join him.’

  ‘And what have you answered?’ I said.

  ‘I will supply him with weapons if he needs them,’ said Fraid. ‘But I cannot grant him our fighting men. I will give Rome no good reason to enter our tribelands.’

  ‘But is it not certain that they will enter?’ I asked. ‘Ruther has said that they seek Durotriga.’

  ‘My hope is that they will desist,’ said Fraid. ‘The Empire now has full control of the eastern tribelands, the gateway for all the wealth of Albion. We do not threaten their position. We are peaceful. There has been little fighting in the past few months…’

  Her frantic tone made me fearful. Fraid had always been clear-eyed about danger. It had been one of her greatest strengths. Her denial now made me realise how afraid she was.

  ‘We have both heard the messages, Tribequeen,’ said Llwyd gently. ‘Vespasian’s Second Legion camps at the southeast border, building supplies—’

  ‘Perhaps if I offer more generous terms for our tin—’ Fraid rubbed her eyes.

  ‘They do not want better terms,’ I said, turning to her. ‘They want the country.’

  ‘But already they take our metals—’ said Fraid.

  ‘Not our metals…’ As I spoke, an understanding was finding shape in my thoughts, faint, yet alive as an image in the visioning pool. I closed my eyes, willing it to come clear. ‘They want our waters.’

  ‘Speak, Ailia,’ said Llwyd, seeing my knowledge form.

  ‘We are the most richly veined country in Albion,’ I said. ‘Rivers run from the south to the north of us. With control of our waterways, they would not have to sail the cliffs of Dumnonia to supply their armies in the north and west, would they?’ I asked. ‘And are those tides not the death of ships?’

  ‘You are right,’ said Fraid. ‘They need our rivers to take the furthermost parts of Albion.’

  ‘But the waters are sacred,’ said Llwyd. ‘They cannot fall to such a purpose. If you are right, Ailia, then we must protect them.’

  I nodded. ‘When is it thought that the legion mounts the next drive, Tribequeen?’

  ‘Preparations are slow because their supplies come south by the Avon—’

  ‘And the current works against them,’ I finished.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fraid, her brows raised at my statecraft. ‘Cun believes Vespasian will make his attack this spring.’ She met my eye. ‘We s
till have the choice to resist or submit.’

  ‘This is no question,’ said Llwyd calmly. ‘We do not submit our knowledge. We do not betray our Mothers.’

  ‘An heroic stance,’ cried Fraid, ‘but look at the two paths before us!’ She steadied herself with a breath. ‘This is an invasion like none we have ever seen. Their numbers, their battle plan, their weaponry—’ She grimaced. ‘We are told of attacks where arrows rain down from over one thousand paces.’

  ‘No man can strike an arrow that far,’ I said.

  ‘It is not the work of their bowmen,’ she said. ‘It is machines that do their bidding.’

  ‘Machines?’ I asked, disbelieving.

  ‘And the arrows carry flame.’ Fraid looked to Llwyd. ‘How can we defeat such an attack on Caer Cad? Would you have me lead our tribespeople to their death?’

  ‘Would they not be glad to die for their freedom?’ Llwyd’s voice was calm but the hand that clasped his staff was shaking. ‘These are the Mothers’ tribelands. They will not fall to Rome under the Mothers’ protection.’

  ‘Why did they not protect the eastern tribes?’ cried Fraid.

  ‘Where they are not honoured, they cannot be strong.’ His fingers whitened on his staff. ‘We are among the strongest tribes in Albion. The Mothers will protect us if we give them the chance. Why do you doubt them?’

  Fraid lowered her head. She deferred to Llwyd but I felt the doubt in her silence. This faultline between them was not good.

  Llwyd rested his staff against the bench and leaned forward. ‘The Romans are skilled soldiers, it is true,’ he said, ‘but their sharpest weapon is not their blade. It is their scorn of our knowledge. Warriors of Albion have always lived and died by the truth of their tribelands. Now the Roman leaders tell them a different truth.’ He looked to Fraid, to me. His faded eyes blazed. ‘This is a greater death than any death by arrow. It is the death of our Mothers, our skin.’