Daughters of Fire

by Barbara Erskine

  Surrendering as gracefully as she could to the fact of Pat’s arrival, once she had recovered from the shock Viv allowed her to select a couple of scenes and a section of narrative and if the ambient sound proved right up here they were going to try recording. If the idea worked out they planned to record trial sections in other places as well. Ingleton Falls, perhaps, with the thunder of water in the background, and somewhere where the muffled resonances of damp mossy limestone and caves with their echoing mysterious acoustics would fit in with the script. There were all sorts of possibilities.

  For their first attempt to create some of the background atmosphere, they bivouacked in the lee of the shelter on the very top of the hill where the faint signs of the round houses of two thousand years ago were still visible within the ramparts. Around them the views stretched out over the full 360°: to the west the Irish Sea, a brilliant sparkling blue line, and in the distance the Isle of Man, hazy on the horizon. Northwards they would see the great Lakeland hills, nearer at hand the two sister peaks of Peny Ghent and Whernside.

  The soundtrack to Viv’s introductory section was the gentle whisper of wind over the long dry grasses and the distant mew of a buzzard.

  NARRATOR: Just over two thousand years ago on a hilltop seven hundred and twenty-one metres above sea level in what is now the Yorkshire Dales National Park a queen was born. No one knew she would be a queen. Her father was a tribal leader. Her mother the granddaughter of the king of the Trinovantes in a region that would one day be called Essex. But for now, in this Iron Age fortress behind ramparts already hundreds of years old, the bright courageous little girl grew up, a tomboy amongst her brothers and her cousins.

  ‘Cut!’ Pat brought her hand down, beaming. Engrossed in their work, they had both put their earlier animosity behind them. ‘Perfect! At this point I think we should add in the sound of some young children playing and laughing. Maybe a dog barking. We’ll ask Peggy to find us some kids.’

  Almost on cue they heard shouts in the distance. It was male laughter. Adult laughter. Pat swore. She had hoped to have the area to themselves a little longer. They stared round, trying to spot the intruders. There was no sign of anyone.

  ‘Ghosts?’ Viv whispered to Pat. She shivered, remembering Peggy’s account of the visitors’ experiences on the hill.

  Pat shook her head. ‘If they’re ghosts, they’re very loud ghosts,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll check out where they are. We can’t risk them interrupting.’ Walking swiftly, she headed down towards a stone wall built at an angle across the hillside. From behind it she could just make out a wisp of smoke rising into the clear sky. As she approached a man rose to his feet from behind the wall. He was dressed in a tunic and leggings, a tartan mantle round his shoulders pinned with a large circular silver pin. He sported a large drooping moustache.

  Staring at him, Pat let out a scream.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m not a ghost!’ The accent was modern Yorkshire.

  For a moment she was too shocked to move.

  He came towards her. ‘We’re up here for the weekend. Re-enactors? You know, Ancient Celts!’ He paused, gauging her reaction. ‘Not dangerous, I promise.’

  Pat breathed again. She was laughing. There were behind him some dozen or so people, all in costume, clustered round a fire pit full of carefully smouldering peats. Their tents had been painted to look like skins. In fact, she realised, they had draped furs and blankets over the nylon. Nearby lay a stack of weapons. Swords. Spears. Bows. Shields.

  Suddenly she had an idea.

  It worked like a dream. Jake, Art, Dave, Lugh and their colleagues slogged it out with a will for the microphone. The clash of iron blades, the thwack of shields and twang of bow strings, the shouts and shrieks and groans were all Pat could have wished for. She and Viv pooled their twenty-first century farmhouse picnic with slightly underdone barbecued rabbit, doughy homemade bread, local cheeses and vast quantities of mead and then went on to record the sounds of girlish laughter, women’s gossip without words, difficult, but made easier by the mead and the ever-strengthening wind. No children, though; children would still have to be found down in the village, but now they had a wonderful repertoire of noises off to be used as and when required.

  By the time the sun was beginning to sink towards the west they had gained an audience of climbers, plus a few intrepid Sunday afternoon walkers and had discovered that Jake and Art were drama students from Manchester. They were beginning to find their cast. At least six of them were planning to spend the whole week on the hill and would be available for further sound effects and auditions when needed. It seemed too good to be true.

  As the distant sea disappeared into a turquoise haze they began the long walk home, tired but, Viv had to admit, triumphant.

  Pat was astounded to find that she was enjoying herself. ‘Can you imagine living here for real!’ The fury which had driven her from Edinburgh in the hired Fiesta had dissipated; her certainty that even one day away from the emotional support of the city landscape would terrify her had not happened and here she was in the middle of nowhere, exhausted, her feet covered in blisters in borrowed boots, her skin sticky with sun cream and insect repellent, wearing a hat belonging to the farm which made her feel like a refugee from the outback and she was unutterably content. Sinking down on an outcrop of limestone she slipped off her rucksack and stretched out her arms.

  Viv was staring out into the distance. ‘This is the place of my ancestors! The cradle of my blood and my bones!’ She raised her arms towards the west. ‘Sweet goddess, keep this place between your breasts; guard it in your hands; nestle it within your womb. Let no enemy come within its walls, no weapon strike in anger, no voice cry out in pain. This is a sacred place. May it be heavy with your blessings, fertile with the blood of your creation, kissed with sweet heaven’s tears and hidden from the world by the veils of sacredness.’

  Pat narrowed her eyes. This was Cartimandua speaking. Her contentment vanished and she felt a wave of anger. Medb’s anger. She hesitated, then, remembering the play again, she dived into the rucksack for the recorder. ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

  Viv shook her head. Her arms dropped to her sides and she slumped down on the rock beside Pat. She gave a short uncomfortable laugh. ‘That re-enactment was all very real as far as it went, but we have to listen too.’ She shivered as though she could see the shadow of Pat’s alter ego standing between them. ‘Come on, Pat. Let’s be honest about this. Medb brought you here, didn’t she. So, why don’t you try. See what happens.’

  ‘Ask Medb to speak?’ Pat was nervous suddenly.

  Viv hesitated. Then she nodded. ‘Why not. You made me do it.’

  Pat shrugged. Why not indeed. She closed her eyes and waited, frowning.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Pat?’ Viv whispered. ‘Are you OK?’

  Pat laughed. ‘He thinks I can’t see what’s going on. He thinks I have gone away to leave him with you. He’s betrayed me.’ The voice was quite different from her own. Lighter. Harsher. Medb.

  ‘I can see him, standing with you under the trees. You think the oaks have blessed your union. You think he will follow like the puppy dogs which fawn at your heels.’ Pat got up and walked a few steps away towards the edge of the track where she stood staring out towards the north. There was a strange silvery light in her eyes. ‘You are so wrong.’ She turned and looked at Viv - looked straight through Viv. There was real hatred in her expression. ‘I will take Venutios away from you and make you crawl before me and I’ll see him eat the dust under my shoes.’

  Viv stepped back, shocked. ‘Pat?’ Her voice was husky with fear. ‘Pat! That’s enough.’ She took a couple of steps forward, grabbed Pat’s arm and shook her. ‘Pat!’

  ‘Let go of me!’ Pat pushed her away violently. She took a deep breath. ‘Bloody hell, Viv!’ She paused. ‘What happened?’ She was speaking with her own voice again.

  Viv was staring at her, her face white. ‘You were Medb! You were speaking fo
r her; threatening Venutios. You sounded vicious.’

  Pat bit her lip. ‘It was that easy?’ she said softly.

  Viv nodded.

  Pat sat down on the out crop of rock and put her head in her hands. ‘I didn’t think it would work. I thought it was only in my dreams.’

  Viv sat down beside her. ‘You scared me.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘As you say.’ They were both silent for a long time.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Pat said at last.

  Viv made a face. ‘Go on. We have to. We owe it to history. We have to find out the truth.’ She sighed, staring at the ground. When she looked up at last her eyes were blazing with excitement. ‘This is too interesting to stop, Pat, don’t you see! We’ve seen the most amazing things; heard history being made. Both of us! This is incredible. We can’t give up.’

  ‘But we’re being taken over.’

  ‘Are we? Or are we just mouthpieces for -’ Viv hesitated, spreading her hands helplessly, ‘spirits. Shadows. Echoes from the past. We’re not possessed.’

  Pat grimaced. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Did you feel possessed?’

  ‘I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t know it was happening that time.’

  ‘Exactly! That’s not possession.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Are you sure we’re not being set up against each other?’

  Viv stared at her suspiciously. ‘No. No, Pat.’ She was dismissive. ‘Come on, don’t you see how exciting this is? We are mediums. Look at all the thousands of people all over the country who act as mediums. They don’t think it’s dangerous. They just relay what they are hearing. That’s all we’re doing. I wasn’t expecting it when it started, so it scared me, but now, up here, I understand what’s going on. It’s fantastic. And exciting. And after all, we know what happens. We know the history. No one gets hurt; no one gets killed. ‘She paused. ‘If we’re frightened by anything we can stop before it happens. Can’t we?’

  IV

  It was very dark in the narrow river ravine. Stumbling and slipping on the loose stone scree, Viv made her way down the path towards the sacred well, every now and then flashing the beam of torchlight in front of her feet as she drew nearer the small waterfall. Behind her the house was in darkness. Everyone else was asleep.

  In the chamber it was cold and damp and very still. Carefully she dug in her pocket for matches and a nightlight, setting the little candle on the rocks beside the water basin. Someone else had been there recently. Fresh flowers in a small cut-glass vase were standing on the shelf in the rock and something else had changed too. She frowned, trying to see what it was and realised after a minute that the small figure of the goddess had been moved to the back of the shelf. In its place there stood a crude stone head. She felt herself grow cold. In the light of the candle the head stared at her balefully; carved from gritstone, its two round eyes and circular mouth were dark holes in the flat expressionless face. It was old. There was no doubt about that. As old as time itself. Repelled, she stepped back, staring back at it. If this was the true ancient god of this place it was to this head that Carta had prayed; this cold stone she had touched with her own hands. Dragging her eyes away from the impassive stare, Viv forced herself to sit down at the edge of the pool and study the reflections in the red-brown water.

  ‘Carta? Are you there?’ Her whisper was lost in the dripping and splashes of the spring and of the beck outside as it plunged over the limestone boulders, out of sight into the valley.

  ‘Carta?’ She raised her voice. ‘Speak to me. Where are you?’

  There was no answer.

  V

  Hugh’s good mood had lasted all the way home from the department, but now as he hauled his briefcase out of the car and slammed the door, he hesitated. Something was different. Wrong. Cautiously he surveyed the house front. The grey stone building stood foursquare to the gravel parking space where he had pulled up. There were two windows evenly placed on either side of the square front door with its small cracked Corinthian pillars. Upstairs there were five windows, the central one arched, giving a slightly supercilious expression to the otherwise dour face of the house which was only softened by its shroud of honeysuckle and clematis. One of the things he loved about coming home to the house in the summer was the smell of those flowers.

  He could smell nothing. Putting down the briefcase at his feet, he took a deeplungful of air. Nothing. No flowers. No grass. Nothing. All around him the garden was totally silent. Yet he could see the trees moving in the breeze. Cautiously he put out his hand in front of him, half expecting to touch something, a sheet of glass perhaps. His fingers shimmered slightly and then he heard it. The bronze note of the carnyx.

  He froze. ‘Venutios.’ His lips framed the word, but no sound came. For several more seconds he remained immobile, trapped by his own fear, then he turned and bolted for the car. Throwing himself inside and slamming the door, he could feel his heart thudding inside his chest as he pushed down the locks and grasped the wheel white-knuckled, trying to steady himself. As he groped for his mobile and stabbed in Meryn’s number, he could see his briefcase standing where he had left it on the gravel. The garden looked completely deserted.

  26

  I

  They were once more at Dun Righ.

  Venutios had come to her bed late. The room was lit by smoking lamps as the rain lashed the roofs of the houses and the wind howled down the dales from the west.

  Carta was sitting before her mirror thoughtfully combing her hair, all her women dismissed for the night save Mairghread who was sitting near her singing softly as she stitched up the hem of one of Carta’s tunics. Staring into the depths of the bronze, Carta realised suddenly that another face was there behind her own. She frowned for a moment, seeing the outline, then she realised who it was and turned to look up at him.

  He bent, his hand behind her head to hold her still as he kissed her fiercely. She could smell the wine on his breath and for a moment was tempted to send him away but as ever he knew how to excite her. He pulled her to her feet, took the comb from her hand and threw it on the floor. ‘Go away, woman!’ he shouted at Mairghread and Mairghread stood uphastily. She glanced at Carta seeking permission but Carta was not looking at her. Her eyes were fixed on those of her husband. As Venutios lifted Carta in his arms and carried her to the bed, Mairghread slipped out of the room and pulled the heavy curtain across the doorway.

  Carta and Venutios had disagreed in council again that afternoon and again she had overruled him, well aware of the simmering anger of some of the men there. Venutios had summoned his brother, Brucetos, from Caer Lugus the week before and the two men, shoulder to shoulder, had tried yet again to persuade her to give up her support for Rome. She could sense the discomfort of the others, leaders of the various tribes of Brigantia, who had come here to the west to talk, far away from any possible listening ears. In spite of all her efforts they were polarising into two factions. On the one side, Venutios, Brucetos and the men of the wild central moors and hills who treasured their freedom and despised the wealth the Romans brought as bribes. They had no wish to be part of the Empire, not as a client kingdom, certainly not as part of the province under the Roman yoke. On the other side were the men who supported her without question, the men from the eastern territories, the rich grazing lands, the cleared arable lowlands, where they had grown used to the traders from Gaul and the olive-skinned merchants from the south around the Mediterranean with their luxurious goods packed into ox-drawn wagons and onto mules. These were men who paid for gold and silver and all the other highly prized goods from Erin and the western lands of Pritannia that came into the western Brigantian ports and round over the estuary from Deceanglia and then on over the high pack trails. It took all her powers of diplomacy to hold them together, these diverse, strong men of her council and hardest of all to rein in was her own husband.

  As he threw her down onto the deep heather bed she felt the accustomed bolt of excitement and fear
explode through her belly. In the council chamber she could control him. In bed it was a different matter.

  This time she tired long before him, but still he held her down, thrusting savagely deep inside her. Her body had a life of its own. Still it responded, time after time, shuddering with pleasure and pain as he held her wrists pinioned to the pillows.

  At last he stopped. He didn’t slump beside her as usual. He was still above her, his eyes narrowed, staring down at her in the smoky lamplight. ‘So, why no child, wife? Why do I have no son?’

  She tensed and turned her face away. ‘Because it has not pleased the gods to send one yet.’ She gasped as his fists tightened round her wrists, determined not to let him see how much he hurt her. She could feel the flaccid penis lying possessively across her thigh, the weight of the man crushing her and suddenly he disgusted her. ‘When it is time for the high queen to bear a child, the goddess will send her one. Until then we can but wait.’ She tried to push him off, but he was a dead weight on top of her and his hands still held hers prisoner.

  Gruoch had taught her long ago how to study the rhythms of her body as it ripened and waned with the moon and how, to be sure, to use the herbs and waxes which would keep her belly empty, her body fit and young. As queen she had no time for pregnancy. Besides, her child was dead. Hers and Riach’s. However much she might long for another baby deepin her heart, he could never be replaced. When the time was right, if he chose to be reborn, or if another soul chose to visit the earth again as the child of a queen, the goddess would tell her. Until then, she would keep the hard body of a warrior-woman and no amount of rutting by her great bull husband would plant a seed that would take.