Daughters of Fire

by Barbara Erskine

  II

  ‘I can’t work on the play today!’ Viv stared at Pat in dismay. The sound of the doorbell at 9.30 a.m. had dragged her out of a deep exhausted sleep. She ran her hands through her hair leaving it standing on end, uncomfortably aware that Pat, in a pale blue blouse and cream trousers looked rested and alert while she herself was wearing nothing but a crumpled shirt, her customary sleeping attire, her legs and feet bare.

  ‘I could make us some coffee while you jump in the shower,’ Pat said, eyebrow raised. ‘Please, don’t make me go down all those damn stairs again. What on earth made you choose to live in a place like this without a lift?’ She dropped her bag on the floor and pushing past Viv, walked into the living room.

  ‘I live here because I like it,’ Viv retorted.

  ‘And it’s fabulous. You’re right,’ Pat said quickly. ‘It’s just the stairs getting to me. I’m too unfit. Put it down to the smoking.’ She changed the subject. ‘I did some more work on the play last night. I can’t wait to show it to you.’

  In the shower Viv stood for a long time allowing tepid water to pour over her head and face and down her aching body. The story from the night before was coming back to her. The two young lovers in the orchard under the apple blossom. Carta’s ecstatic passion. The sound of their laughter, the heat of their young bodies. Her eyes closed, she found she was smiling as languidly she sponged her own body beneath the water. Then she remembered the bird sitting high above them. Medb’s messenger; Medb’s spy. Abruptly she opened her eyes and reached out to turn off the tap. How did she know the bird was a spy? Somehow she had to get rid of Pat; go back to Carta’s life. Find out about Medb.

  Pat was waiting with a mug of black coffee. Sipping from it, Viv listened to her as she read from the pages on her knee. It was good. Fluent. Well written.

  ‘This bit,’ Pat said, glancing up,‘is straight narrative. And I think it should be your voice. You would be good at this -’

  ‘Pat,’ Viv interrupted. ‘I’m really sorry, but I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘You have to be, Viv. We have a deadline,’ Pat said firmly. ‘I’m sorry too, but we’ve got to keep at this if we can, to get it done.’

  ‘No.’ Viv stood up. ‘No, Pat. I can’t. Look, give me some space. We’ll do this tomorrow. I promise.’ She put down the mug. ‘There is something I have to do now. Something important.’

  Pat peered at her over her spectacles. ‘You do look like shit.’

  Viv scowled. ‘No doubt.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. Really sorry.’ She relented. ‘I should have rung, but I overslept. I didn’t get to bed till the early hours and I’ve got a foul headache. I won’t make any sense today.’ She just wanted Pat to go.

  She needed to know what happened next.

  She had to warn Carta about the bird.

  ‘OK.’ Pat did not look happy as she stood up. ‘But for God’s sake ring me next time. I didn’t get a lift, you know. I had to make my own way here.’ She gathered together her papers and slotted them into her bag. ‘I’m up in Edinburgh to do you a favour,’ she said sharply as she opened the door. ‘You might give that fact some thought.’

  ‘A favour that will be very well paid!’ Viv retorted. ‘Shit!’ she muttered as the door banged and she heard Pat’s heels clattering down the stairs outside. For a moment she entertained the idea of opening the door and shouting down after her to come back. But only for a moment.

  In seconds Pat was forgotten.

  III

  ‘She has cursed me! Look!’ Carta held out the amulet with a shaking hand. She had found it on her pillow. ‘She has made me barren!’

  Truthac took it from her soberly. ‘This is bad work, daughter. Grave. But a curse can be unmade. The woman who put this on your bed is not a powerful seer and nor is the person who made this charm.’

  ‘You know?’ Carta stared at him through her tears. ‘You know who did this?’

  ‘I know.’ He sighed. ‘The spell maker came to me for advice after it was bought from her. It was undedicated and without power. You have nothing to fear.’

  ‘And you know who it was who bought it?’

  ‘And so do you, child. You have the strength and the knowledge to fight her viciousness.’

  ‘I might have.’ She didn’t sound certain. ‘But what about Mellia? She died.’

  ‘Of an accident.’

  ‘No. She was murdered. The gods have told me.’ Carta’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘As was my Catia. Are they to go unavenged? Is Conaire to go unavenged?’ Her voice rose passionately. ‘He spoke out against this vicious woman at the feast. He loved Mellia too. You are a great judge. You must deliver justice!’

  ‘And so I shall.’ He paused. A scandal at Beltane when the fort was full and the surrounding settlements overflowing with visitors in celebratory mood would be unpropitious. ‘It will be done at the right time, Carta. At Elembivios, you will bring me your charge and your evidence when I hold my court of justice, and at Edrinios, in the time of arbitration, I will give judgement.’ He paused, seeing her shoulders slump. ‘It’s but three moons away, daughter of Brigantia, and then justice will be done.’

  Medb was hiding in the shadows, watching the dancing.

  Riach and Cartimandua were holding hands, their vows made before the whole world. Gifts had been exchanged, her marriage portion safely lodged in the Votadini warehouses and the three days of feasting had begun. On their marriage bed lay silken sheets, brought by trade routes from the east through Galatia to Gaul, and rich soft brown bearskins from the northern forests of the Caledones. On her arms were gold and silver bracelets. Round her neck she wore her enamelled pony on its golden chain.

  Lugaid had given them their own house as a wedding present. Small, neat, newly thatched, it afforded them privacy as long as the members of their household - their servants and slaves and companions - were outside around the communal fire.

  All night they made love, sometimes in their own deep heather bed in the new house, sometimes wrapped in Riach’s cloak out in the hay meadows and orchards, staring up at Sarn Gwyddion, the great swathe of stars, which came to be known to the poets as the Milky Way. And then they danced, late into the night with their friends around them to the tune of pipe and lyre and harp. Or they sat with others listening to the songs of the bards and to the sennachies with their stories of long ago. Only Carta was aware of the sadness in Conaire’s eyes and the wistful lilt to his music and deep in her heart she vowed she would make it up to him. He too would be avenged.

  But all the time Medb was coming closer, her eyes narrowed, her heart locked in jealous rage.

  In the second week of the festival, as slowly the farmers began to drift back to their fields and the hunters sharpened their spears and arrows and the warrior parties drew apart to plan new raids, Carta bade a sad farewell to her parents and her brothers and the friends who had accompanied them to see her married and watched them ride away. Then at last she decided to act. Her husband knew nothing of his stepmother’s lustful rage. He had eyes for none but his wife. Truthac had still said nothing; whatever was to be done, it had to be done by her. It was her friend and her dog who had to be avenged. Her bard whose heart was broken. It was her life and the lives of her children to come that had to be saved. Even as she lay in Riach’s arms she could feel the threat approaching. Somehow she had to be free of it.

  Outside, at the street door someone rang the bell again and again. Viv did not react. In her dream there was no door. No sound other than the crackle of the fire in the fire pit and the bubble of boiling water in the cauldron suspended over it, as Carta sat alone in her new house, deep in thought.

  The first party of merchants of the year had arrived from Gaul. The members of the tribe were used to such visitors now. Traders from the Empire were commonplace in the coastal towns, but this far north it was unusual to see them in person. King Lugaid fêted them and talked with them long into the night, promising rich goods, wolfhounds and slaves from Erin, sil
ver and gold and lead, skins and weapons, in exchange for their wine and olive oil, beautiful pottery, luxury fabrics, exotic herbs and spices.

  Listening to them talk, Carta had begun to form the beginnings of a plan.

  It would take three men of the Brigantes to carry it out. Men who would be richly rewarded and then sent home to her father’s service; one of those men she suspected had been as much in love with Mellia as was Conaire, and would look to his young mistress to avenge any wrong that had been done to her. The others would follow without question. No one would ever know what became of Medb of the White Hands.

  Two days after the Gaulish party had set off back towards the coast where they would embark into the Germanican Ocean and thence, down the coast and across to Gaul, Medb rode south with two of her maidens in response to an invitation to visit the dun of her friend, Étain. The small party travelled in an ornate wagon, escorted by three horsemen. What danger was there, after all, in the land of the king’s allies and compatriots?

  The raiders came upon them swiftly, weapons drawn. The warriors died hard, protecting their king’s wife. The three women were captured. Horses and chariot were part of the booty. The bodies were buried so no trace would be found, given to the gods in the hungry depths of a local marsh.

  The price for female slaves was high. The traders paid handsomely. No one believed women chained with neck rings and manacles when they cried that the king of the Votadini would pay handsomely for their release. Why should they? Slaves made claims like that all the time.

  At Dun Pelder, Carta danced in a circle of women round the fire and wondered with the rest of the township what could have happened to Medb of the White Hands.

  It was a long time before she dared to hope that Mellia and Catia could rest in peace. That they were avenged and that she was safe.

  Viv frowned, staring at the monitor. Page 143. She could see the numbers flashing at the bottom of the screen. 143 pages! Her arms were cramped, her fingers stiff and painful. In disbelief she clicked on the save icon and pushed back her chair. It was dark outside once more.

  IV

  How many people sit down in this chair and announce that they think they’re going mad?’ Viv threw herself uneasily into the chair in Cathy’s office.

  ‘About sixty per cent.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Viv was silent for a moment.

  ‘Viv, whatever it is, if it worries you, tell me about it. It won’t go any further, I promise.’

  ‘What if I told you I sat in front of the computer last night and typed 143 pages without being aware of it. It took me several hours.’

  Cathy took off her glasses. ‘Have you read what you wrote?’

  ‘Not all of it, but it makes sense, if that’s what you are wondering.’

  ‘Can I ask what it is about?’

  ‘Cartimandua.’

  ‘Viv, we’ve been here before! You’ve just finished a book about her. She is very much on your mind for all sorts of reasons. This is normal.’

  ‘This is about her life before the book starts. The part of her life no one knows about.’

  Fiction.

  The word hovered on Viv’s lips but she didn’t say it. It wasn’t true. ‘I’m not making it up, Cathy. I can’t stop. She’s talking to me.’

  Cathy nodded. ‘I’m sure it feels like that. Your brain has gone into overdrive. The exhaustion from writing the book and then the hassle with Professor Graham has probably triggered the same reflexes which give us nightmares and make us sleep walk. That, combined with your very real frustration at finding there are so many aspects of her life you can’t ever know about.’

  Viv slumped back in the chair. ‘I suppose so. But it’s so vivid!’

  ‘As are a lot of dreams.’

  Viv hesitated. ‘So you don’t think she is actually communicating with me?’

  ‘No.’ Cathy shook her head.

  ‘Or that Tasha and Pete really saw her the other night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you don’t rule out the possibility of some sort of communication between the living and the dead?’

  Cathy frowned. ‘Like spiritualism, you mean? I think, on the whole, most of that is a con.’ She paused. ‘I’m not saying I don’t believe in some paranormal stuff, in fact, yes, I do believe in some things, but not that you’re being stalked by some Celtic female with tattoos, no.’

  ‘So, Tasha told you what she looked like.’

  Cathy nodded.

  ‘It was Cartimandua.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Look,’ Cathy leaned forward in her chair, ‘you have a story to tell. You are putting on a radio play. So your brain is providing you with the story. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter where this stuff is coming from. Who ever knows where creative stuff comes from? It is a wonderful story. You now have an extra scene or two to go at the beginning of your drama: her childhood; her marriage. Who cares if it’s fact or fiction?’

  ‘I care.’ Viv shrugged. ‘I care very much. I’m a serious academic.’

  Behind them there was a slight click as the door opened a fraction and Pablo pushed his way into the room. He sat down, carefully surveying them both before beginning to wash his ears.

  ‘You can’t tackle this academically and I think that fact is at the root of your problem,’ Cathy went on. ‘Your brain is creating a let-out for you. Just use it. Tell Pat what’s happening. Let her help you write it into the play.’

  ‘And give Hugh Graham even more ammunition to use against me?’

  There was a pause. ‘Why do you really care so much what he thinks?’

  ‘Because he is my professor. The head of department.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What do you mean, and?’

  ‘What is wrong with an academic writing a semi-fictional piece? I am not saying any of your book was sourced like this -’ Cathy stopped abruptly. ‘Or was it?’

  Viv shook her head. ‘No! No, of course not! At least …’ She looked at Cathy in despair. ‘I’m not sure. It’s all got so muddled up.’

  Cathy raised an eyebrow. ‘Then you’ve got nothing to lose, if you ask me. Exploit your dreams and your creative visions. Turn them into, what do they call it, faction?’ She grimaced. ‘Use all this as a kind of catharsis to clear Cartimandua out of your system.’

  ‘Catharsis, maybe.’ Viv shook her head wearily. ‘But for me professional suicide.’

  ‘Why?’ Cathy looked genuinely bewildered. ‘I don’t understand what you’ve got against it. You are an academic writing fiction. It’s been done before.’

  ‘No, Cathy, I’m not a fiction writer. I can’t make these leaps of deduction. It’s not allowed.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘It’s just part of the rules.’

  Behind them Pablo finished his ablutions and sat watching Viv intently. Neither woman noticed him.

  ‘Yet in your book, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ Cathy said slowly,‘everything is supposition because it is pre-historic in the literal sense of the word, and all your sources are suspect in that they are Roman spin! Didn’t you tell me that? So, how come that is allowed?’

  ‘It just is.’

  ‘Well, now you have Pat on board to keep the academic in check. Use her, Viv. You really upset her by chasing her away yesterday, you know. And then this morning. She is threatening to go back to London.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if she does.’ Viv was getting more and more stressed.

  Behind them Pablo stood up. He was staring at her in a panic, eyes wide, ears flattened against his head, and leaping off the chair, he fled through the door. Once more neither of them noticed.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ said Cathy.

  ‘I do. She’s going to interfere.’

  ‘That’s what she’s here for.’ Cathy frowned. ‘Be reasonable. Don’t upset her. Listen to her.’

  ‘And if she upsets me?’ With her mentions of Medb, for instance. Where had they come from? She shuddered.

>   ‘She hasn’t. Or if she did, she didn’t mean to. You need her -’

  Somewhere in the flat a door banged. Cathy sat back in her chair, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. ‘Look, that must be Pete and Tash,’ she said gently. ‘Hang on a minute while I let them know we’re here -’

  Before she had a chance to move the door was flung open and Tasha stood there, an evil grin on her face. ‘I thought so. You’re hiding! Mummy’s here. Don’t you want to talk to her, Cathy?’

  Cathy laughed uncomfortably. ‘Tasha, we are having a meeting. I’ve asked you before not to burst into my office. I might have had a patient here.’

  ‘But you haven’t,’ Tasha retorted.

  Cathy groaned. ‘Nevertheless, we are having a meeting. When it’s finished Viv and I will come and say hello, OK?’

  Tasha looked both quizzical and smug. It was an extraordinary feat of facial gymnastics which brought Viv to the conclusion that the child would go far on the stage.

  ‘Should I surrender now?’ Cathy smiled wryly as the door closed behind the girl. ‘May as well.’

  Greta greeted Viv and Cathy with a patently insincere smile. ‘I’m so sorry not to be able to stay. I have an appointment.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Tasha smiled. ‘We want to talk to Viv about her ghost, don’t we, Cathy.’ Turning, she reached for her mother’s handbag. ‘Mummy, please. You promised me some extra pocket money.’

  ‘Ghost?’ Greta frowned. ‘What ghost?’

  ‘It’s nothing, Greta.’ Cathy glared at Tasha repressively. ‘A joke, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Greta turned towards her daughter. ‘Put my bag down!’ She was peremptory.

  Viv clenched her fists. Cartimandua was a ghost; not a dream, not imaginary, not a disembodied memory. She was a ghost and she had shown herself in this room.

  ‘I’m frightened of ghosts!’ Tasha continued firmly and glanced at her father as Cathy sighed.