Authors: Alys Clare
Joanna stayed at Folle-Pensée throughout the spring and summer. It was a period of such intensive study and learning that at times she had to isolate herself from the community and, alone in the forest, try to order and make sense of the endless lore, the legends and stories, the whirling thoughts and inspirational possibilities that her teachers were instilling into her. She realised that, while people came and went from Folle-Pensée quite regularly, there remained a core of elders and teachers who were healers or instructors; sometimes, like Huathe, they were both. These elders lived in the relative comfort of the low granite cottages; for temporary residents such as Joanna, it was the shelter under the birch trees.
Not knowing how much she already knew, her teachers started at the beginning, telling her of the Goddess and the Earth that is her body; of the Earth’s natural rhythms and how the people learned the Mother’s lesson of how to position stones and mounds to maintain her body’s balance. On a starry night at the end of April, Joanna joined a procession that wound its way down through the Broceliande on the long road south-westwards to the standing stones that marched in ranks on the headland above the sea. There, in the light of the stars, she stood waiting with her people, although she did not know what they waited for.
Then the Moon rose.
The first sight of the brilliant moonlight on the endless rows of huge stones, their shadows lengthening on the springy grass as if they were an advancing army, was something that Joanna never forgot. And when she heard the chanting begin – a sole voice joined by another, then another, then more and more until it seemed that the very Earth was singing – she thought her heart would break with joy.
As if that powerful experience had been the introduction, they taught her astrology and how to make a mental map of the night sky so that, when asked where to find the Little Bear, the Swan, Cassiopeia or the Heavenly Twins, she could instantly point in the right direction. They taught her to make the association between the moving pattern of the stars over her head and the turn of the seasons on Earth below and she understood then how the two were and had always been interdependent. She learned of the fundamental link between the heavens and the people, animals and plants of Earth, and she came to know instinctively how and why a person born in late January differed from one born in mid-August, and why crops must be planted and harvested only at certain times.
At the midsummer solstice she went with her people to gather at a long, ground-hugging structure made of great granite stones, arranged so that the doorway stones allowed but a low, dark entrance into the interior. They stood vigil through the short hours of darkness and then, as the Sun rose, his first rays shot like an arrow from the eastern horizon, over the hills and vales and straight into the entrance to the long barrow. The sexual imagery was obvious and, to Joanna’s surprise, there was quite a lot of laughter and ribald joking. She asked her teachers later if this had not been disrespectful.
‘Do
you
not laugh and joke after the sexual act, Beith?’ they asked her. ‘Does the Goddess-given ecstasy not make you joyful?’
‘Er—’ But the answer was complex and would have taken far too long, so Joanna did not give it.
They smiled, taking her reluctance as coyness. ‘Do not be shy,’ an incredibly old woman said. ‘And do not fear to join in the fun the next time you witness the God penetrate the Goddess and you feel their passion reflected in your own body!’
They taught her how to recognise, collect and prepare the magical drugs that give insight and, in a lucky few, open the window on the future and bestow the gift of prophecy. They watched over her as she drank down the draught that her own hands had prepared and they listened to her as, deep in her own inner world, she cried out and sobbed as the images formed, broke and formed again. She learned how to channel the power and use it for the benefit of others and, in time, dreams, trance and vision became some of her most valuable and potent tools.
She learned the long history of her people. Over four successive nights leading up to Lughnasadh, she sat with her people around a fire and they listened in utter silence to one of the great bards tell the story of how they came out of the East and the Great Mother showed them the vast river that winds through the lands like the blood in the Mother’s own body. He told how she led them to the wonderfully rich and fertile area at the headwaters of three great rivers, giving them this precious piece of her body as a place in which they might settle and thrive so that, in time, their descendants grew numerous and confident and set out to spread themselves throughout the green lands. He described the journeys westwards and northwards and, because his gift of communication meant that he was aware how important it was to make a story personal for its audience, he finished by describing the very place in which they sat in the warmth of a summer night.
When she had learned all of that, at last they began on the long road that would make her a healer.
As the days shortened and the first leaves began to turn, a newcomer arrived in the settlement at Folle-Pensée. Joanna was preoccupied and barely noticed him; Huathe was teaching her the extraordinary concept that a person’s body may be made ill because their mind is in distress, and she was undergoing another period of having her mind stretched to encompass something that she could hardly believe. Huathe had ordered her to spend the day with two of his patients, a woman whose grief for a stillborn baby had rendered her feeble-minded and mute and a youth who wanted them to amputate his arm as he feared it would pick up a sword and cut his parents to pieces. The impact of those two damaged minds had been harrowing and Joanna was exhausted when she returned to the shelter.
Fearn, who had remained there to greet her when she came in, gave her a hug and a mug containing a restorative infusion. ‘Don’t expect to grasp it all at once,’ she murmured, and Joanna gave her a grateful smile. ‘That’s better!’ Fearn said. ‘Now, you sit there – here’s Meggie, see, wanting a cuddle! – and I’ll bring you something to eat. Then we’re in for a treat because Reynard’s here!’
At ten months, Meggie was a strong and active child, able to stand if she held on tight to someone’s hand. As Fearn deposited her in Joanna’s lap, the little girl turned to give her mother a smile.
You, my precious, smile like your father, Joanna thought. The resemblance was enhanced by Meggie’s velvet brown eyes; if ever the two stood side by side, there would be no denying who had engendered
this
child . . .
Don’t think about that, Joanna told herself. Think instead about this Reynard, whoever he might be, and why the fact of his having arrived is making Fearn so excited that she’s just spilt the milk.
She never forgot Reynard, although his enduring place in her memory was more because of what came soon afterwards than for himself. Not that he was insignificant; nobody could have called him that. He was a man of indeterminable age who apparently lived alone in the wildwood and communicated with the animals; they said he was a shape shifter, one who was able to take on the spirit and essence of an animal and project it so that it walked the Earth and would sometimes act according to the man’s wishes. He had a head of tangled russet-coloured hair and was heavily bearded and he wore a garment made of animal skins decorated with shells, feathers and small white teeth. His spirit animal, they said, was the fox; he wore its fur and his essence mixed with that of the fox.
Tired from her day’s efforts, lulled by the warmth of the fire and the soft sounds of Meggie asleep in her arms, Joanna watched Reynard dancing and listened to his yelping song. In the firelight his image seemed to float close and then away again and, seen through the smoke, it really did appear that he changed from man to fox and back again.
But of course, she thought drowsily, he can’t possibly do that . . .
On the night of the autumn equinox they told her that she must leave Meggie with Fearn and go off alone into the forest. She must find her way to the fountain of Nime. Naturally, they did not tell her why.
She had learned much in the six months since Huathe had first taken her deep in the forest to the spring and at first she was not afraid. She hummed as she strode along the tracks, aware of the forest life all around her but content in the knowledge that if she did no harm then no harm would be done to her.
Then she heard soft, stealthy movement away off to her right.
She remembered the faint green figure she had seen under the pines on that first visit.
She clutched the bear’s claw that she wore around her neck and made herself stride on.
She reached the open glade, heartened by the happy sound of the stream. She gave a nod of greeting to the hawthorn bush – it looked even more like a crouching man in the moonlight – and went to kneel down so that she could put her fingers in the cold water of the spring. She resumed her humming.
Then he was standing beside her as if he had sprung out of nowhere. Without turning, she knew who he was; nobody on Earth smelled quite like he did. It was more than half a year since she had seen him, since he had summoned her at the great Imbolc festival, but as she leapt up and felt his warm, strong arms encircle her, it seemed as if she had been there, so close to him that she could feel his heart beating, all the time.
In that instant of reunion she remembered everything; how he had appeared to her simultaneously as bear and man, how her delight in him was in part because of the wildness of him, the feel of soft fur brushing against her naked flesh whose origin could equally well have been the soft skins in which they had lain or his own pelt.
But he was man, she knew that now, for they had coupled as man and woman and it had been an experience whose power had left her weak. Now he was here, she was in his arms once more and there was an inevitability about the meeting that told her it was destined; that there was a pattern to her life and he was a crucial part of it.
He kissed her, his hands under her tunic tender and warm on her bare skin. He did not hurry; it seemed that he would take all the time that was required to arouse her and make her ready for him. Entranced, enraptured, Joanna gave herself up to him and did not think to tell him that she had been more than ready from the moment he had touched her.
He led her across the glade and down a narrow track that led to a bracken-roofed den lined with furs. Then he slipped her tunic over her head and removed his own garments. Lying down beside her, he touched the bear claw in its silver mount. He smiled – she caught the glitter of white teeth – and then, bending to kiss her, tip-tonguing his way from her neck down over her breasts to her belly, his fingers on her, inside her, slippery in her own moisture, slowly, slowly he entered her.
In the morning, just as before, she woke alone. Warmly wrapped in furs that smelt of him, she lay on her back staring up at the golden birch leaves high above. Soon – for she was ravenously hungry – she sat up, dressed, tidied the den as best she could and set off on the long walk back down to the settlement.
Chapter 9
Joanna’s departure from Folle-Pensée came as suddenly and unexpectedly as her arrival; one morning in early October, when the clear sky appeared deep blue in contrast to the ochre and bronze of the autumn leaves, the order came that she was to prepare for her next journey and they would be leaving that evening.
Four of them left the Broceliande settlement as the sun went down: Huathe, Joanna, Meggie and a slim, lithe figure cloaked in dark grey who wore a deep hood concealing the head and face. They travelled through the woodland paths for a long time; Joanna could tell by the Moon that it was after midnight when they stopped, making their camp on the dry and dusty floor of a hollow crevice in an outcrop of rock. She had been watching the sky whenever the tree canopy allowed a clear sight and she knew that they had been walking north-westwards; wherever they were bound, it was not, therefore, to the beach where she had first landed in Armorica because that lay due north of Folle-Pensée. But there was no point in speculating; she would find out their destination soon enough.
They walked for all of the next day and the day after that. When Joanna became tired – for much of the time she was carrying Meggie and, at almost a year, she was no longer a lightweight – Huathe would take the child and let her ride on his shoulders. Their frequent but brief stops were usually taken when Meggie, fed up both with being carried in a sling and born aloft on Huathe’s shoulders, clamoured too persistently to get down.
Their marching order did not vary: the hooded figure went first, maintaining a steady pace that allowed them to cover the ground quickly; then came Huathe; and Joanna brought up the rear. Late on the second day, Joanna sensed that they were near the water and as they reached the summit of a long, heather-covered incline, abruptly the huge expanse of the sea appeared before them, dark green and lit with diamonds in the fading light.