Cat Magic (28 page)

She worried, though. The challenges of the past two days had made her aware of a passivity in her personality she hadn’t even known was there. By thrusting her into one incredibly difficult situation after another Constance and the witches had shown her how rarely she really took charge of her own life, and how good at it she was when she did. The trouble was, she had seen the passivity, but she had not surmounted it, not completely. If she was to take responsibility for all of these people and their remarkable way of life—especially during a time of persecution—she had to reach deep into herself and transform the passive into the strong.

She had spent her life placing herself in situations and waiting for things to happen, and that was not enough. Now she was to be Maiden of the Covenstead. Not President or Queen, but Maiden. To her it was a beautiful word. Not as cold as “crone” or as warm as “mother.” Maiden. It had a suggestion of home in it, but also another element, one that was fierce.

Maiden was a word of both love and power. She remembered herself on the hunt, how she had screamed.

Maiden meant woman’s softness. It meant tentative beginnings. But there was also the connotation of the Maid of Orleans, and Athene the Maiden of Battle, and the Maiden Huntress Diana. The Maiden, singing softly, seated on a creekside stone… the Maiden astride Raven, galloping to the battles of the night. It was a long, long time ago that women had such a role in this man’s world. She remembered reading a hymn to Ishtar, written at the dawn of time:

She sat down to the meal Ivy was making for her. Alone in her own place Ivy exuded loving decency.

The bitch of the maze was no more. In fact the whole incident—everything that had happened to Mandy on the Collier estate—was obviously part of this great testing of her spirit. The choreography of it all was subtle but not invisible. She knew the object: to help her find her strength and live from it so that she could be Maiden.

“I’ve got to get out to the farm,” Ivy said as she laid a plate of brown bacon before Mandy. “We’re harvesting pumpkins.” She laughed. “The Vine Coven is going to be making a
lot
of pumpkin pies and pumpkin bread and pumpkin soup this year. We’ve got a great crop.”

“The farm is organized according to covens?”

“There are three farmer covens, one shepherd, and one husbandry. The others are all more generalized.”

“What are their names?”

“Well—we’re Vine. And there’s Demeter. They do the grains. And Rowan does the orchard and stuff.

Hard labor is Rock Coven, lo is the husbandry coven. They raised the hog that gave the bacon that’s in your mouth. His name was Hiram, by the way. He was a very friendly guy. He used to root in the kids’ pockets.” Mandy stopped chewing. ” ‘Who eats flesh must do it with conscience, otherwise the weight of death will enter your blood.’ Constance always says that when she sees us eating meat.”

Slowly Mandy began to chew again. This time the bacon tasted very different, much richer and more succulent. The hog had given its life. Its sacrifice was somehow present in the meat and could be tasted by a sensitive palate. All of her life she had eaten meat and never thought twice about the suffering that went into providing it. Never before had she thought to honor the animals who gave their lives for her.

There was something strange here, strange and terrifying, that seemed to hover at the edge of consciousness. Mandy was afraid, and ate no more bacon.

Ivy continued. “Besides those of us in the covens, there are people like you who haven’t been initiated into the Covenstead yet, or taken into a specific coven. They—not you—are sort of outsiders. They live in the two end cottages.”

Mandy smiled. “You’ve told me more about the organization of this place than anybody else.”

“Well, since you captured the Holly King—”

“I’ve passed muster?”

Ivy smiled. “Let’s say that Connie’s very pleased with your progress.” Her cheeks colored. “The rest of us, to tell you the truth, are awed.” Her face became grave. “What was the
Leannan
like?” she asked in a low voice.

“Very small. Pale, blond. Her eyes were dark, almost the color of sandalwood. She was beautiful, but not in a simple way. Her face was gay and sort of light—that’s the best way I can describe it. But it was also very
aware
. It was the loveliest face I’ve ever seen. Also somehow the most dangerous.”

Ivy stared a long time into Mandy’s eyes. “What a wonderful experience that must have been. I’d give a great deal to see the
Leannan
.”

Mandy could only nod. It was not easy to talk about the
Leannan
. Sometimes she seemed like a memory, then like a dream. Ivy began to clatter in a chest. “I’ve really got to mix Robin’s salve and go.

Please make use of my house. And if you want to, you can handle my tools. In fact, ifd be a privilege if you did.”

“Your tools?”

She gestured toward the hearth. “My witch things. Just don’t touch the drying herbs. Connie’ll be furious with me if I don’t pass my herbals exam this term.” A silence fell between them. Ivy looked at Mandy with the very plainest sorrow in her eyes. She continued, but with effort. “It’s really a good day for harvest. We needed that. Grasshopper counted over four hundred good pumpkins!” She busied herself at her hearth for a few minutes, crushing dried herbs in a mortar, then mixing them with purified fat. She left the salve with a note for Robin, and an admonition for him to get out into the fields since he wasn’t going to New York. “His feet aren’t that bad. And we need the help.” Then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a creak and a decisive click.

Mandy stood in the middle of the compact room. Deep silence settled. Soon the smell of the bacon made her forget her misgivings about eating Hiram, and she sat down again. She was in a state of great sensitivity. Her whole body was tingling with life. Her senses were pretematurally acute. She noticed, for example, that she could actually hear herself eating. He jaws creaked, her teeth ground, her lips smacked. They were not unpleasant sounds. She also began to notice, very faintly, the music of a harp mingling with her own sounds. Maybe it was next door, maybe farther away. She couldn’t tell. But it was sweetly done, a tune that reminded her of a thousand tunes, of moments and days that were lost.

Normally Mandy did not think much about her past. Life had been too hard to dwell upon. Nobody in the family had cared about her or been interested in her desire to be an artist. She was an encumbrance to her mother and father, an interruption in the titanic duel that defined their marriage.

One hot afternoon when she was seventeen she had seen some framed canvases tucked away in the garage rafters. She had climbed up and discovered six paintings of her mother, all enormous, all profoundly awful. They managed to mix sentimentality with bad technique and ghastly color choice. In them Mother looked like a corpse with the hands and thighs of a hairless gorilla. She was a voluptuous woman, but not coarse.

The fact that the paintings were by her father had revealed a lot to Mandy, crouching up there in the dust, a secret witness to his failure. Their ignoring of their daughter’s talent wasn’t a side effect of a failed marriage, it was purposeful.

She had left that attic furious at her parents for their tragic self-absorption and their indifference to their own child. She became sullen and hostile, then openly rebellious. There were blows, and Mandy had screamed out her contempt for the hidden paintings. Dad had wept then, and Mother had crept away, her cheeks blazing. It was not until some time later that Mandy understood what had been behind their reactions. They thought of the paintings as a sort of personal pornography, but they did not destroy them because they were their only link to the time when their marriage had been good. Not long after that Mandy moved to New York.

She finished her meal and got up from the table. The harp had faded, and with it her painful memories of the past. They had been teaching memories, though. She saw that she should have been more compassionate toward her parents. It was too late now, though.

She didn’t know quite what to do with herself. Should she explore the village? Could she? And what of the library up at the main house—what did it contain?

Before she left, she stopped to look at Ivy’s ritual tools, which were lying on a piece of white linen on the mantelpiece. Chief among them were a long silver sword and a shorter knife, hooked at the end. There was red cord neatly wound, and a small cauldron. Mandy could see things in it, but she did not know what they were and she dared not reach in and touch them.

“It’s a fine cauldron.”

“Constance!”

“Good morning, dear. I brought you some clean things.”

Constance strode into the middle of the cottage and put a bundle on the rough table. Mandy unwrapped the clothes.

They were beautiful—a cream-colored silk blouse, a tweed suit, hose, Gucci shoes. A small makeup kit completed the package. “Constance, these clothes—what’s it all about?”

“You should dress your part. You’re a princess now, to half the people of Maywell. Soon you’ll be their queen.”

“Maiden, I thought it was called.”

“That’s the first turn of the cycle. Maiden, then Mother, then Crone. I am, obviously. Crone. And I’m at the end of my time.”

“Constance, you’re healthier than most women half your age.”

“Don’t you patronize me, girl. When a woman in my position says she’s near death, you accept it. As a matter of fact, you don’t have much time before I go across. Now, don’t stand there like a scarecrow.

Dress!”

“I can’t wear these things—I’m on a farm.”

“You’ll be going down to the town this morning.”

Mandy dressed. There was even perfume in the makeup kit. Norell. Constance did everything right.

“Why am I going to town?”

“You’ll see.”

Mandy would have none of that, not anymore. “I am not as passive as you think, Constance. So far you’ve done pretty much what you wanted with me. But I’m afraid from now on I’m going to need reasons before I agree. I could have gotten my head blown off last night.”

Constance shrugged. “You want to be Maiden of this Covenstead, don’t you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Certainly. Fail one of the tests and you won’t inherit your birthright.”

“What would happen to me if I did fail? For example, say I hadn’t found the Holly King last night.”

“Oh, you were going to find the Holly King no matter what, as long as you stayed alive. In these tests the only way you can fail is to get yourself killed. So if you’d been shot dead instead of my horse—”

“My God. Do you mean to tell me that the purpose of all this is to see if I can stay alive? Oh, Constance, that’s awful. It’s downright immoral. I won’t do any more. I quit.”

“No, not you. You’ve got too much determination, my little warrior. You’ll see it through. All your instincts make you want to protect the Covenstead. I know, I’m the same type as you.”

“Constance, this is absolutely crazy. I won’t hear of it. I won’t!”

“Don’t you ever call me crazy, you little whelp. If you had any idea how hard this is for me—what sacrifices have
really
been made for you—you would go down on your knees to thank me.”

“So tell me! Why
should
I thank you for trying to get me killed. I’d very much like to know.”

“Oh, what force you have. Reading your history, I’ve wondered what you were like.”

“Don’t try to change the subject. I want to know, and I want to know now.”

“Well, what you really want to know is why you should risk your life. You cannot love the Covenstead like I do, more than your own life. You hardly know the Covenstead. But you will come to love it exactly as I do.”

“I can see that.”

“You must prepare yourself.”

“I know. Find my inner strength so that I can rule. I’ve understood that. It seems to me that I’ve also done it.”

She looked Mandy up and down. “Yes, perhaps so. You did well with the
Leannan
and with the Holly King. In the sense that you’re still alive.”

“The
Leannan
… the fact that she exists is what 1 cling to. No matter how I feel, that tells me something about this is very real and very important.”

“Oh, little creature, how innocent you are. I suppose there’s still enough arrogance left in me to make it impossible for me to see how anyone could take my place. Then I see the fire in you, and I think: you can do it. And I’ll tell you something. You’re going to have a terribly difficult reign. There will be persecution of witches, environmental disaster, perhaps even a world war that will burn us along with the rest. But somehow, if you survive the initiation, I think I agree with the
Leannan Sidhe
. You are well chosen.”

“I guess I’m complaining because I’m not used to this constant sense of jeopardy. I sort of see the need, but still, haven’t I proved myself yet?”

“Do you know the story of Persephone in Hades?”

“Of course.”

“You haven’t proved yourself until you have gone to the world of the dead and returned to tell the tale.

And I won’t say another word about it, except that a young woman—not a very good witch, but a witch—died for you yesterday, and I want you to respect her memory and not be such a complainer.”

“Died for me? In the Wild Hunt?”

“Before that. In an entirely different part of the process, one that relates to the Great Test.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so damned cryptic.”

“You haven’t complained before. If that woman’s death is to have any meaning, don’t complain now. And don’t overdo that eye shadow. The Vamp look went out some time ago.”

“I wish I was in control!”

“The only one in control around here is the
Leannan
. She knows something about you of which you’re totally unaware. The
Leannan
knows who you really are.”

“I’m me. That’s the long and short of it.”

“You’re an ancient and very powerful witch.”