At night, strange, horrid creatures stalked my sleep. A beast—was he human or demon?—craved death and pain to all of creation. My dreams were dark, full of pain and sorrow. But, when I awoke, covered in sweat and shaking, I could not piece together what it was I was crying about.
In fact, I could not remember at all how I came to be in this place. Oh, I could recall my beautiful homeland. I could conjure the memory of the day I left my father forever. The first time I came to the Motherhouse. The moment we lost the Lady. The ceremony when I became the Lady of the Motherhouse. The strange day when the Arus Sisters joined us.
But, not why I was in this place.
Slowly, I recovered. Bit by bit, I was able to walk outside the hut and stand in the sunshine. The priestesses of Avalon—the name they taught me of that place—were very kind. Birdsong and the scent of apples fill the air. As I made my way around the grounds, I came to believe I had died and gone to the Summerlands of the afterlife. Avalon was so very beautiful.
Despite my returning health, there was a terrible scar on my left cheek. I knew it would never go away. I pushed my hair over it or found a reason to put my hand over my face when anyone looked my way. Mabina was the only one with whom I did not hide the mark. She indicated it was beyond her skill to heal.
As soon as I could, I began to help Mabina. She was as ancient as Jasoslava, my teacher at the Motherhouse from which I came. There was mixing to do and drying and macerating of the herbs. These do not take an understanding of words; I knew what to do with most of the ingredients. Mabina used exaggerated gestures to make me understand that which was unfamiliar. She began teaching me the healing songs of Avalon, and I shared some of the songs from my homeland.
Neither Mabina nor the others I met could say how it was I came to Avalon. Only that Lord Merlin brought me from the sea. But I could not discover who this Merlin was. I still needed to learn their tongue. I picked up a few words daily.
Mabina helped me make a necklace to hold my blue shell. She said it was in my hand when I came to Avalon. I had no idea how I came by it. Touching it made me feel safe. I never took the necklace off.
No one questioned me about my life before coming to Avalon, and for this I was grateful. I did not want to think of it. I knew that locked within my mind was the reason why I was there, and not in Viborg. But given the violence of my night terrors, I could not face whatever it was. Not yet. But the dreams were torture. I feared I would go mad from the nightly attacks.
During the day, things seemed calm and perfect. I particularly liked to work in Avalon’s garden, planting and tilling, weeding and watering. These were simple tasks, not requiring any thought on my part. There were no decisions to make. No one needed me for anything.
Two moons after my arrival there, the high priestess came to the patch of garden where I was working. I prostrated myself to her, and the Lady indicated I might stand. I now knew it was the Lady whom I saw my first day there. She was most beautiful and exuded power and knowledge as I never had in her position.
The Lady spoke for a time. I only caught a few words: “Girls,” “Learn,” “Speak.”
I nodded enthusiastically. Whatever the Lady proposed, I would try to do it. I was grateful to be in Avalon and eager to obey.
The Lady called over another priestess. The woman tapped her breast and said, “Yseult.”
“Anya,” I said and bowed to her.
Yseult stretched out her hand to me. I went to her, wondering what I would see.
I discovered I was to learn to be a priestess all over again. I was placed with the new girls, who were only in their eighth or ninth winters. They stared at me—a woman of seven winters more than them. And of course, behind my back they remarked upon the scar on my cheek. They were curious. The moment they thought I was not looking, they whispered and snickered. I was not hurt by their behavior. I recalled being their age. My presence gave them reason to feel superior when they were used to feeling quite the opposite. I offered no rebuke and pretended not to see.
I worked hard at the lessons, which I easily mastered once I understood what was wanted. It was difficult when none of the words were familiar. My mistakes in comprehending were greeted with guffaws by the girls. I bore the ridicule with a smile.
Outside of the learning hut, I tried out new words on the other initiates. It became a game. Sometimes, I knew they gave me the wrong word for something.
The third day after I started, one of the initiates taught me a word I suspected was not what she said it meant, so I tried it out. “Fart!” I said, pointing at the nose of a freckle-faced girl.
Screams of laughter erupted. One said, “No. Not fart. Nose!”
Soon, they stopped laughing and began to help in earnest. And so, I started my real understanding of these people.
A few days later, I was moved to another group of girls, more advanced. This went on for three moons. As soon as it was determined I understood the rituals and the uses of power at that level, I was moved to the next age group up.
I learned the language fast, but the writing of the new tongue almost defeated me. The squiggles would not resolve into proper words—except in Mabina’s hut. There, I comprehended the symbols for mint and foxglove, cone flower and bee balm, and all the other ingredients of the healer’s art.
One night, there was a terrible storm. It sounded as if all the gods were in the sky hurling boulders at each other. I slipped into a troubled sleep. My night terror returned, but this time, it was as if I was living it.
I woke drenched with sweat and ran into the night to retch. Over and over, I gagged out the remains of my meal until I collapsed on the wet grass, sobbing. Rain pelted me, adding to my shivering fit.
I know what happened to me.
Chapter Nine
In the evening, before the Flower Moon’s rise, Yseult walked into the healer’s croft, “Anya, the Lady Morgaine bids you attend her.”
“Me?” I asked, surprised at the invitation. It is not yet time! I have not yet reached the point in my re-initiation to serve the Lady. But I did not say this out loud.
“Yes, please. As soon as you may,” Yseult bowed to Mabina and rushed out.
“What does she want, do you think?” I asked the white-haired healer.
“I don’t know, but ‘as soon as you may’ means right now!” Mabina said. She helped me comb out my hair, then hurried me out the door.
Heart pounding and worried I had somehow offended, I entered Lady Morgaine’s croft. Immediately, I prostrated myself before her, as I was taught at my old Motherhouse. The Lady indicated I could rise.
Morgaine, Lady of the Lake, High Priestess of Avalon, was shorter than I, but her presence was large. Black eyes shone from a face that was always carefully expressionless. Her dark hair was worn unbound, and a streak of white ran beside her left cheek. Although she was dressed in a simple blue robe, Lady Morgaine looked regal in her Roman chair, the ends of which had brass lion heads that glinted in the firelight. Mabina told me that chair belonged to her father, Duke Gorlois. He used it like a king did a throne when he meted out justice in Tintagel Castle.
There was a lifeglow of reddish-brown and violet that shimmered about the Lady, indicating great spirituality, a little too much self-love, and strength—a rare combination. The only symbol of her power was a necklace of gold on which hung a pendant in the shape of a flame. Rubies and yellow topaz lined the fire shape. The jewel seemed to move and dance in the light like a real flame.
As I rose, I realized there was a man there. Males were not seen in Avalon, and so I could not help but stare. He was nearly bald, with a bushy gray beard that flowed down his chest. His gnarled right hand grasped a great carved oak staff, which obviously showed his status—whatever that might be. I could not make out the scenes, but the top knob was a Green Man—a wild man whose hair and beard are made of leaves and vines. Despite his staff of office, the stranger’s brown robe was simple homespun, much patched. His sandaled feet were yet muddy from t
he road. Whatever brought him, made him come here in haste.
He watched me, slate gray eyes narrowed. A large lifeglow of an intense blue and violet surrounded him, denoting spirituality, combined with creativity, and a deep intelligence. I felt no thoughts from his mind, so I knew he must be some sort of greater adept.
Lady Morgaine pointed me to a stool by the fire. “Anya, this is Lord Merlin, the High Priest of the Druids.”
I bowed to him. A brother-priest, then. That explained much. I had recently learned about the Druids, the male priests who worshiped in sacred oak groves and were servants of the Goddess, as we priestesses were. That I was aware of, there were no Druids in my homeland. “Greetings, Lord Merlin.”
He took in a sharp breath. “You speak our tongue well.”
“I am trying. It is not hard to learn, just much words. Writing. Writing is very, very hard.”
Lady Morgaine smiled thinly. “I’ve heard of your difficulties. You must practice harder.”
I nodded, understanding the tone of her voice. I will do better. I must.
“Anya,” Lady Morgaine said, “it was Merlin who heard your plea and had King Arthur and his knights attack the raiders when they descended on Wyke Regis.”
“Raiders? A king?” While I recalled what happened to me, I did not know how I came to be in Avalon from the ship.
Lord Merlin inclined his head. “Indeed. I heard you in a dream. I saw there was to be an attack on the village.” He settled back on the bench in a manner I had often seen storytellers use. “I was resting my eyes—”
Lady Morgaine made a noise between a snort and a laugh. “You dozed off.”
His eyes flashed, and his look seemed half-amused and half-annoyed. I assumed he and the Lady must know each other very well for him to tolerate such an interruption. “Resting my eyes,” he said firmly.
“Of course, my lord,” Lady Morgaine said with a chuckle. She waved her hand to continue.
“—in my chair at the Round Table hall at Camelot that night,” he resumed. “There was no council that day. The knights had nothing better to do than play at knucklebones, knife pitch, and guessing games. They drank more than their fill, and the tales of their strength, sexual prowess, and intelligence grew louder and more preposterous.
“I noticed when my drifting thoughts evolved into a dark and complex picture. It seemed a village was being attacked. I could see flames racing through thatched roofs. The voices of panicked animals and people mingled into a hellish music. I saw the flames illuminate a Saxon-like ship at the shore with a dragon head at the prow. I willed myself to look closer. There were few attackers, but what I saw them do was so horrific … Well, I had trouble even understanding what was occurring! Then I saw the leader—a man so closely resembling a demon that I awoke, shouting, ‘To arms!’” He raised his staff dramatically.
“As the dream faded, I heard a woman’s voice clearly: ‘Save these people! Spare them from this hideous creature!’” He looked at me carefully. “Hearing your voice now, Anya, I know it was you who called out.”
His words conjured that which I tried daily to forget. My stomach did a slow, sickening spin. I struggled to speak. “That was my plea to the Goddess, yes,” I whispered.
Lady Morgaine leaned forward. “You didn’t tell me this when you brought her, Merlin.”
“When last we spoke of this, I had just ridden nine days and cleaned up a battle. I was eager for bed. Forgive an old man.”
Lady Morgaine sank back in her chair. “Hmm,” she said. It was not a friendly sound.
“Have I leave to continue?” he asked.
“But of course,” Lady Morgaine said quietly.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I had never seen Lady Morgaine angry, or even mildly irritated, but I was sure she was of a temper now. I said, “Perhaps we should talk about this another time?”
“No, I insist the High Druid continue,” Lady Morgaine said, her eyes flat and shiny in the firelight. “Anya, know that Merlin is also a bard. He tells a story to please the listener, and not always the truth.”
Although Lord Merlin sat quietly on the bench, I had the feeling he was expressing his displeasure with the Lady in mindspeech. I wished myself gone and safely under a rock, far away. It was not fit that I witness the Lady insulting another high adept to his face. I tried to make myself small and inconsequential, as the Druid and the Lady sat staring at each other across the hearth.
Finally, as if something had been agreed upon, he started up again. “The room full of boisterous knights became silent. ‘Bad dream, sirrah?’ Lot asked me sarcastically. The men laughed nervously. While I am the butt of many jokes, they know who and what I am.”
I was stunned at this admission. How could men not recognize a high priest and respect his word?
“‘What is it, old friend?’ King Arthur asked me,” Merlin recounted.
Such was the power of Merlin as a storyteller that I saw the great hall in my mind, as if I were there. Heard the men as if I were sitting with them:
“Saxon raiders! A demon in man shape!” Merlin shouted.
“Where?” “How far?” “Is it happening right now?” the knights asked.
Merlin held out his hand and paused for a long while testing if the vision was in the past or the future. “Five days from now.”
The king handed Merlin some watered wine and bade him drink before he let his friend continue. “Where does this happen?”
Merlin went through the vision carefully in his mind. “I don’t know this shore. The village is hard by a bay. Beside it, the land rises up to a high hill. There are standing stones near a cliff. Two are right at the edge. They’re tilted and look as if they’re about to fall off into the sea.”
“Wyke Regis!” Sir Lucan said. “It’s not far from my keep. A fishing village of about two hundred souls below a ring of standing stones they call the Drunken Monks. That’s four days hard riding from here.”
“You’re sure of this?” the king asked Merlin.
Merlin nodded, the terrifying vision filling his mind and stilling his tongue.
“Then we ride!” the king shouted. The knights raced out for their gear, drink and idleness abandoned for more interesting sport. “This isn’t just a dream, old friend?” the king asked.
Merlin heard the voice in his mind again: “Save these people! Spare them from this hideous creature!” “I’ve never been surer,” he told the king.
As Merlin started out to the courtyard, Lancelot said, “You aren’t riding with us, Merlin?”
“I must go,” Merlin said. He felt the Goddess’s hand in the dream. But more, the voice and vision compelled him as few other things in his life had. He was determined to see what was in Wyke Regis.
As the knights rode through the darkness, Merlin regretted his decision. He wished he could have stayed by the fire at home. Riding through the woods in the night is fine and bold to tell about, but on an older man’s bones, it wasn’t very pleasant. But, every time his will flagged through the next four days, he heard: “Save these people! Spare them from this hideous creature!”
Lady Morgaine shifted so hard in her chair it emitted a sharp squawk, dispelling the tale-dream.
I sat blinking in the low firelight, my mind still riding in the dark with a great company of men.
“Anya, my dear, would you refill my mug? Tale-telling is thirsty work,” Lord Merlin said.
Lady Morgaine pointed to the vessel on the table, and I leapt to obey, glad for a way to be useful and not have to watch the two high ones vie mentally with each other. I could only imagine the power between them. Certainly, the tension in the room felt like the moment before a violent thunderstorm. I placed the cup in the Druid’s hand, but he did not move. I wondered if I might sneak out while they were thus engaged. But, I knew I would be chastised if I went without leave. I returned to my stool by the fire and turned my thoughts inward.
After a long pause, Lord Merlin seemed to notice the cup in his hand a
nd drank thirstily. He held out the cup for me to refill and drank it dry again when I returned. But he did not hold it out for another.
Without looking at the Lady, he started his tale again: “Days later, we arrived at Sir Lucan’s castle. There had been no reports of a raid anywhere in the knight’s realm. The men eyed me suspiciously. ‘It will be tonight, at the setting of the Harvest Moon, some few hours before dawn,’ I told them, and I knew it was so. ‘Plenty of time for a bit of rest.’”
Once again, I sank into his tale, as if I were there.
Late that night, after a meal, they set out to Wyke Regis. They were joined by twenty men on horse and fifty on foot. Merlin rode beside the king.
King Arthur said, “You know, if there’s nothing there …”
“Ah,’ Merlin said, “now wouldn’t that be a fine weapon for Father Paulius to use against me? Not only am I a heathen, but a dotard with crazy dreams that waste the king’s time!”
“Have they no respect for the High Priest?” I said, and was immediately sorry I had spoken for the glare the Lady aimed at me. But it was appalling, the behavior of these people to a high priest.
Lord Merlin smiled tiredly. “King Arthur’s court is Christian. They brook no other god but their own—and a jealous deity He is. Any respect I get there is not as a priest, but as a bard and advisor to the king.”
I shook my head in disbelief. I had been told things in this land, this Britain, were different than mine, but to hear that a servant of the Goddess was treated so … it seemed quite impossible. “Please, go on. I am sorry to interrupt you.”
He nodded his thanks. “The king laughed. ‘As you say. For your sake, I hope there’s a raid we can stop. For the people’s sake …’”
The Priestess of Camelot Page 4