Daughters of Fire

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘And what is my destiny?’ Carta whispered. ‘When will I marry again? Who will it be? Will I have another baby one day? I have begged the gods to tell me and they say nothing. Will Medb’s curse last forever?’ Tears filled her eyes.

  Gruoch shrugged. ‘That is not for me to know, Carta. That is for you to learn from the gods. Consult the omens. Your teachers say you are a talented seer. Now is the time to put your gifts to good use. Consult the signs. See what is required of you.’

  Praying to her gods was as natural to Carta as breathing. She consulted them, railed against them, pleaded with them, made them offerings. Their voices were everywhere. In the wind in the trees, in the song of the birds, in the rippling of the water over the broad sweeping rivers, the roar of the waterfalls and in the echoes of the hollow hills. Making her way now across the steep hillside, avoiding the sink holes which led down into those echoing hollows where only the gods dared go, she paused again to listen. The west wind was whispering across the soft fell grasses as she stood deep in thought, the hood of her cloak pulled up over her hair. She was alone. No one would accost her here and there was no danger from strangers on these her homeland hills and yet the whispers spoke of danger.

  Vivienne?

  She whispered the name out loud.

  Vivienne! Tell me of the future. Tell me where my destiny lies!

  There was no answer.

  Then as she stood there a flock of small birds flew out of the gorse bushes ahead of her. She watched them automatically, listening to their gossip, noting the direction of their flight, tuning her mind to the messages they had for her. In the space of a heartbeat she saw the birds wheel as one and turn and dive back into the bushes as a shadow passed across the grass at her feet. Squinting up from beneath her hood she saw, high up, the drifting watchful silhouette of a sea eagle and she heard it scream.

  She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stir. The whispers of the grass were true. There was danger lurking in the future, distant danger, not imminent, not close but somewhere in the shadows it was there, waiting.

  II

  Viv woke to find herself sitting staring out across the fells and fields towards the west. The sun was high in the sky now and it was growing warm. She tensed, listening. From far away she could hear the sound of galloping hooves. For a moment she didn’t move, then slowly she stood up and turned, shading her eyes as she stared up towards the folded ramparts and beyond into the distant haze. The sound was coming closer. Several horses, moving fast. She could hear the chink of harness now, the click of hoof on stone but she could see nothing. High above, a buzzard wheeled, riding the thermals and she heard its plaintive wild mewing echoing off the distant scar. The sound grew louder. It was on her. Then it passed and almost at once had drawn away with a rattle of hooves on the scree until it had died away into silence. She had seen nothing. Shaken, she turned round, staring in every direction. There was nothing and no one to be seen. If any horsemen had passed close by on the faint track they were invisible.

  Peggy was alone in the kitchen when she finally reached the farm, exhausted by her second long walk in two days. The men, it appeared, had gone out early to the lower fields, haymaking. ‘You must have left soon after them.’ Peggy put down a pot of coffee and some toast in front of her. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cooked breakfast, love?’

  Viv shook her head. Her fear had evaporated considerably on the long walk back down from the summit, but she was still shaken. After a moment’s hesitation she told Peggy what had happened. ‘It was as though they rode right past me. I could feel the ground shake.’

  Peggy nodded. She sat down across the table from Viv. ‘So many people have mentioned it over the years I’ve got used to hearing about it.’

  ‘Is it some kind of trick of geology? An echo through the ground, through the caves and potholes, of people riding miles away?’ Relieved at Peggy’s matter-of-fact reaction, Viv found she was ravenous. She reached for the homemade marmalade.

  Peggy was shaking her head. ‘Nothing like that. Several people have been up and investigated it. Even the local TV news came up once. It is horses galloping. Everyone agrees on that. You can hear the squeak of leather, the snorting, and breathing of the horses sometimes. They tried to record it, but nothing came out.’

  Viv stopped eating for a moment to study her hostess’s face. ‘You don’t really think it’s ghosts?’

  Peggy shrugged comfortably. ‘I don’t have a view. It happens. All sorts of strange things happen round here. It’s part of what makes it so special. The land is alive. It’s full of memories of the past and, who knows, echoes of the future as well.’ She leaned across to top up Viv’s coffee cup. ‘You’ve written about the fort in your book, Steve tells me.’

  Viv nodded. ‘Can I tell you something about that? Something that’s been happening to me?’ She hesitated, her eyes fixed anxiously on Peggy’s. Steve had said she would understand. ‘I’m nervous talking about this because I think maybe I’m going mad.’ She paused. Then she plunged on. ‘My best friend is a psychologist. I’ve told her about this, and she’s calm and reassuring and has lots of professional suggestions to make about me being obsessed with the subject of my book, but -’ She hesitated again. ‘Well, I think you’ll know what I’m talking about.’

  Peggy listened without comment as Viv told her the whole story, interrupting once to answer the phone and once to replenish the coffee pot. Otherwise the kitchen was silent save for the sound of Viv’s voice and the ticking of the old clock on the shelf above the Aga. When she had finished Viv sat nursing her empty mug, staring down into the dregs.

  Peggy looked up at last. ‘I think your friend is wrong,’ she said slowly. ‘As a psychologist she is looking for orthodox answers to your problem. That is not necessarily helpful. Tell me, does all this frighten you or does it interest you?’

  Viv shrugged. ‘A bit of both.’

  Peggy nodded. ‘I think you need to decide which feeling is the stronger, love. If it’s the former you must stop doing it now. Forget it. Fight it. Never let yourself do it again.’ She glanced up and held Viv’s gaze. ‘If you’re not going to stop, then you need to lay down some ground rules. Whatever - whoever - she is, she’s in your head and you only want her there on your terms.’

  ‘So you believe she’s real. Do you think I’m being possessed?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t think that. But I think maybe you are being used and I think that at least to start with that was by your invitation. You’ve opened up a line of communication, but that needs to stay open only as long as you want it to.’

  Peggy stood up and went over to lean against the Aga rail. ‘I’m not a clever psychologist like your friend and I’m no church-goer.’ Again she paused and scanned Viv’s face for a reaction. ‘So I speak as I find. These things happen. There are people out there,’ she gestured towards the ceiling,‘from other times, maybe from other dimensions, who knows where they come from, but they have stories to tell. We can welcome them and listen or we can push them away. That’s up to us. It’s our business and theirs. But it is natural. You needn’t be afraid of it. But you must be strong.’

  ‘You’re saying it’s normal.’

  ‘It would be if people would open themselves up.’

  Viv, elbows on table, rested her chin on her hands.

  Peggy pushed the kettle onto the hotplate again. ‘You said there is stuff this Carta is telling you that you didn’t know before. That nobody knows?’

  Viv nodded. ‘It could all be rubbish.’

  ‘It could. Or it could be true. Stop worrying about that. Listen to her.’ She smiled. ‘That is what you want, isn’t it.’

  Viv nodded.

  ‘Well, go on writing down what she tells you. You are a writer first and foremost, my Steve says, so write. Only when you’ve got it all down and the story is finished one way or another do you have to make a decision about what to do about it. My guess is, she’ll go once she’s told you everything.’
/>   Viv grinned. ‘I knew I was right to talk to you. Thank you. You’ve made it all sound so simple.’

  ‘It is simple.’ Waiting for the kettle to boil, Peggy moved across to the fridge and lifted out a huge lump of crumbly cheese. ‘Now, I’m going to make some sandwiches for my haymakers and if you like you can come down to the fields with me and on the way back I’ll show you the Druid’s Well.’

  It was down three steep limestone steps at the bottom of a steeply folded valley near the hayfields. As Peggy led her towards it, Viv felt her throat constricting. There was something about the place, the line of the tumbling beck, the outline of the hills, she recognised as they picked their way between lichen-draped trees and through waist-high grasses feathery with seed, deeper into the tumbled limestone cliffs which closed the end of the valley.

  Peggy stood back on the path and waved Viv past her. ‘There’s only room for one at a time in there. Be careful. The steps can be slippery.’

  The well head was cold and dank and smelled of musty rock and water. The sound of the beck behind them echoed in her ears. Carefully stepping down out of the sunlight she was immediately in a different world, the liminal halfway house so beloved of the Celts, neither one thing nor the other, neither light nor dark, neither wet not dry, neither outdoors nor in, gateway to the underworld. Someone had put a small candleholder on a natural shelf in the rock and near it lay a spray of wilted flowers.

  It was just possible to squat down under the low rock roof and sit on the edge of the stone basin where the water lay unreflecting in a pool of darkness. Cautiously she reached down and dipped her fingers in the pool. The smooth surface broke and moved and for a second she saw the reflection of her own face then it was gone.

  It was coincidence, of course, that this should look so like Carta’s sacred spring. Probably they all looked much the same. She had seen them in Cornwall - secret, special hidden places, their presence often advertised by a nearby tree festooned with ribbons and rags. Clooties, they called them in Scotland, left by people as a plea or a promise, an offering or a thank you to whoever or whatever spirit looked after the well, be it one of the ancient Celtic gods, or a Christian saint, or the Virgin Mary herself.

  She gave a wry smile, aware of an unlooked for atavistic urge within herself to leave her own gift here by the dark water.

  Vivienne

  The voice was little more than a whisper of the water outside. Viv shivered and climbed to her feet. It was her imagination.

  Turning towards the daylight she looked up and saw Peggy seated on a rock near the entrance, her back to the well, staring down towards the gurgling water of the beck. Hesitating, she glanced back, then groped in her pocket to see if there was a coin there she would offer to the gods. What she found was a sweet smelling head of lavender she had broken from the clump near Peggy’s kitchen door. It seemed a fitting offering and she laid it near the flowers and candle and imagined for a second that its sweetness was powerful enough to fill the whole valley.

  Peggy glanced up as she re-emerged and came to sit beside her. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it.’ She scanned Viv’s face with steady blue eyes which seemed to be able to read her soul.

  Viv nodded. ‘Very special.’

  ‘I come up here sometimes on my own and light a candle.’ Peggy looked away again. ‘It’s a place of immense power and healing.’

  ‘Do many people know it’s here?’ Viv kicked off her sandals and let her feet rest on the soft moss on the edge of the waterfall.

  ‘The locals. Of course it’s not in any guidebooks as far as I know. Once these places become too popular they lose part of their specialness.’ She glanced back at Viv and once more the intensity of her gaze was almost uncomfortable. ‘Can you keep it to yourself?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s just that not everyone has the right respect these days and even those that do don’t always behave appropriately. It’s a sad fact of life.’

  ‘I won’t tell anyone.’ Viv was silent for a moment. ‘Why do you call it the Druid’s Well?’

  Peggy shrugged. ‘It’s always been called that. The Celts honoured water just as they honoured the sun and the moon, the stars, the rocks, the trees, the soil beneath their feet; they knew it all as sacred. They must have known this place as a spring, so near the hill fort but the ordinary people would have been afraid to come here, so it must have been a Druid sanctuary.’ She laughed cheerfully. Then, sobering, she glanced sideways at Viv. ‘Did you feel anything in there? A sense of the sacred, perhaps?’

  Viv nodded. She was staring down at the glittering gurgling stream pouring over the rocks at her feet. There was a strange red tinge to the water. ‘It’s odd. I feel as though -’ She shook her head. ‘I feel as though I’ve seen it before, but I suppose holy wells often look and feel the same?’ She looked up almost pleadingly.

  ‘I suppose they do. Or you’ve seen it through someone else’s eyes. If that’s the case, don’t let it worry you. Accept it for what it is. A gift.’ She put her hand on Viv’s shoulder for a minute. ‘The people who lived in the ancient world had a respectful attitude to life. They would have thanked a tree before cutting it down. They would have acknowledged that an animal had to die so they could eat it but thank it for that sacrifice. They had a generosity of spirit as opposed to our selfishness. It’s something I like to think still happens here.’ She fell silent. For a while they sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the water, then at last Peggy stirred. ‘Do you want to wait here for a bit and come back to the farm later, or come back with me now? I’ve another guest coming this evening and I have to get ready for her. She’s booked a week’s painting holiday.’ She hesitated, then she stood up. ‘You wait a bit. See what happens. Who knows, perhaps the goddess will bless you.’

  Viv sat there for a long time, listening to the water. The sound filled the whole valley, swirling into the silences, drowning every other sound as she gazed down into the glittering ripples. She wasn’t sure when Steve arrived, but after a while he was there, watching her, sitting on a rock a couple of yards from her. He smiled when he saw she had noticed him at last. ‘Any interesting dreams?’ He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the water.

  She shook her head. ‘This is a fabulous place.’

  He nodded. ‘Very special.’

  ‘Your mum is a wonderful woman.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He climbed to his feet and held out his hand. ‘Come on, we need to go back or you’ll miss your lunch. I’ve left Dad to it for a while.’

  They walked back up the fields side by side, in companionable silence. As the farmhouse came in sight, nestling in the fold of the hillside above them Viv reached over and took his hand again. ‘I’m enjoying this so much. I wish I could stay longer.’

  He grinned, squeezing her fingers back. ‘So do I. When do you have to go?’

  ‘After lunch tomorrow. So, I need to make the most of every second here. What do you suggest I see next?’

  ‘The waterfalls. We’ll go this afternoon.’

  He was, she realised, still holding her hand. She pulled away gently. ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

  The walk was spectacular. They climbed through woodland and cliffs, alongside the river as it hurtled down from the moors above through gorges and glens towards the river valley beneath. From time to time they would come to a viewpoint where the water was particularly dramatic. She paused on one of these, staring down into the foaming pool beneath, feeling the ground tremble under her feet. Ahead of her Steve strode easily up the path beneath tangled ash and hazel and great bushes of yew. He reached a corner where the path turned around an overhanging outcrop of rock and stopping for a moment, he looked back. Then he walked on out of sight.

  The water thundered in her ears, sunlight catching the torrent, reflecting into her eyes, mesmerising, sliding in great sheets, stained reddish-brown by the minerals on the high moors, thundering past her in spate. She stood for several minutes, overwhelmed b
y its beauty and power before she gradually became aware of the image of a face looking at her from the mist of spray that hung in front of the fall. Not Carta. These eyes were pale, the hair the colour of moonlight, the gaze implacably hostile. Viv could feel the power of the questing mind reaching out, searching.

  Medb.

  Viv took a step back, feeling the spray cold on her face. The intrusion was brutal. The threat unmistakable. There was evil here. Hatred. Jealousy.

  Slipping on the wet rock, she turned back towards the path, pushing past curtains of ferns and hanging mosses, her feet sliding in the puddles of spray as she hurried to catch up with Steve. Once she paused and looked back. There was nothing there but a glittering sheet of falling water. Where she had been standing two figures in red cagoules were poised photographing the water. The face had gone.

  Steve was waiting for her at the next viewpoint. ‘Isn’t it awesome? We’ve had a lot of rain this year, so they’re especially good. I’ve loved this place since I was a child.’

  She nodded, trying to catch her breath.

  ‘You can feel the power of the water making the ground shake.’ He laughed. ‘This is a sacred place! You can feel it, can’t you. Druids would have worshipped here. It’s a place to talk to the gods. I sometimes think it draws you in. You feel you could fly out into the water and soar towards the heavens all at the same moment!’ He raised his arms.

  ‘Be careful, Steve!’ With a cry of alarm, Viv grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t go too near the edge!’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not. Do you see the rainbows in the sunlight? Castles and ramparts and figures dancing in the water. Naiads. Undines. Water sprites. Goddesses!’

  But no face. Viv gazed into the spray. The pale vicious face of Medb of the White Hands had gone.

  ‘Please, Steve! Come away!’

  He stepped back and turned towards her, still laughing and for a moment they found themselves staring at each other. She realised she still had her hand on the sleeve of his shirt. She could feel the warmth of his skin under the cotton which was damp from the spray. ‘I hate you going too near the edge. It gives me vertigo.’ Letting him go, she gave an awkward little laugh.