Authors: Alys Clare
They made an awkward descent down a tortuous track that went steeply down the low cliff and emerged on to a narrow, rocky shore that faced out due north across the sea. Then Joanna was told to find a place out of the wind to feed her child and settle her for the night. ‘We will come for you when we are ready,’ Huathe said, ‘but you must come alone.’
Once she might have protested that it was not safe to leave an infant sleeping alone under a cliff. Now she knew better. Although she did not know the identity of the hooded figure, she realised that he – possibly she – was one of the Great Ones and possessed even more power than Huathe. They would not allow any harm to come to Meggie.
And that, she thought with a sudden burst of confidence, is ignoring
my
power, for now I sense that I am fully competent to protect my daughter myself.
Soon they came for her. She was ready; Meggie lay warm, fed and deeply asleep in a cocoon of soft blankets inside Joanna’s cloak. Joanna stood in her tunic and shift, barefoot on the sand, and felt no chill but instead a hot glow of anticipation.
She followed Huathe and the hooded figure along the shore to a place at the western end of the bay. The shoreline faced north-west and on the clear horizon Joanna thought she could make out the faint outlines of seven islands. A small fire had been lit and pieces of driftwood fuel had been set out beside it. A fur-lined cloak had been spread on the sand. Something was bubbling in a pot suspended over the fire on a simple tripod; curls of steam rose from the pot and a sharp scent mixed with something sweetish filled the air. The hooded figure leaned forward and, with a gloved hand, removed the pot from the fire, setting it in a hollow in the damp sand to cool. After a moment, the figure poured the liquid from the pot into a small pewter cup and offered the cup to Joanna. She said quietly, ‘Am I to drink all of it?’ and Huathe said ‘Yes.’
The drug took hold very quickly.
She was aware of strong hands holding her arms, guiding her so that she lay down on the cloak. She was sufficiently conscious to mutter her thanks – already her legs had begun to give way beneath her – and then her soul seemed to fly out of her body away over the emerald sea . . .
She saw the seven islands but so swiftly that there was only time to count them. Then she flew on, over the waves that rose up to meet her and refresh her with their spray, on towards land. But it was no land that she knew, for it lay in the vast reaches of sea where the western ocean begins and, even as her eyes took in details, she realised that it existed not now, in her time, but in a time of the far past only reachable now in dream and in vision.
She flew over a shore of white sand and then inland, over a woodland where sunlight sparkled on hurrying streams and on the bright green of springtime. There were figures running and dancing beneath the trees and, flying low to look at them more closely, she saw that they were the Korrigan, the earlier race who were the first to come over the sea out of the west, bringing with them the most profound knowledge that was necessary for an understanding of the Earth.
Then she was floating over a city on a grassy plain, its towers flying proud banners that blew in the westerly wind. The buildings were strange, delicate structures, in a style that she had never seen and that seemed too fragile, surely, to bear their own weight. They were made of pinkish stone and many had towers of pure white. Tall trees grew among the buildings and there were courtyards full of flowers where fountains played and the air was the colour of rainbows. There was a sense of vibrant colour, of a love of beauty that recognised it in nature and tried to emulate it in every man-made structure. There was song and laughter on the air, as if the people found life a constant delight.
She seemed to come to rest above a large building that must be a palace. It was situated above the sea so that, looking out through its many windows or from the numerous terraces, it would appear that you stood directly over the water and perhaps floated upon its surface. As if her eyes could travel independently of her body, she could see within the palace to where nine auburn-haired women dressed in white sat around a brazier in which blue and violet flames burned. The room where they sat was circular, its walls nothing but slim pillars through which the sound of the sea blew in on the scented air. The women were chanting softly and there was strong magic all around them.
Then the scene shifted and with a suddenness that was as shocking as the events themselves, Joanna saw a violating army come crashing through the palace. First came men in the garb of soldiers, then came the holy men with their shaven heads and their musty robes, holding wooden crosses in front of them as if they were swords. They came at the white-robed women like an advancing sea and drove them out of the pillared room, across the terrace and out over the dizzying gap beyond; it seemed to Joanna that the women turned into delicate, graceful white birds whose cry hung on the air like a lament.
Then the waters rose. High, higher, higher, and a deep voice chanted in a language that she did not understand. The soldiers and the holy men looked at first haughty, as if to say, we do not fear your magic! But their expressions became wary and then fearful; the waters were rising, rising, and from the city came sounds of masonry crashing down into the waves. The screams of the invaders mingled with the shrieks of the sea birds that wheeled and circled above.
Joanna made herself watch even when she would have shut her eyes against the dread sights. The soldiers and the holy men died, some bravely, trying to help their comrades; some as base cowards, scrambling over drowning men as they desperately tried to save their own skins.
All of them perished in the unforgiving seas.
When it was all over, there was nothing left on the surface of the water to show where there had once been land. But, listening carefully, Joanna thought she heard the doleful sound of a slowly tolling bell.
Then, without any sensation of travelling, she was somewhere else. It was a dark, sombre place, and the mood was sorrowful. Violence had been done; pain had been inflicted and there had been a death; the victim had been a great and important figure and both the death and the manner of it were greatly mourned. Joanna was looking down into a glade that was very familiar but, before she could latch on to that thought and identify the place, her mind was wrenched away. Now she saw a vast circle of white-robed figures moving slowly like a huge wheel, their heads bowed, small flames in their hands. They were chanting and, as the words translated in Joanna’s head, she knew that it was a lament for the dead one. In the centre of the circle an enormous fire had been lit and as the flames scorched up into the sky, it seemed to Joanna that a figure rode upon them, a figure miraculously returned to youth who smiled and laughed and sang aloud for joy.
I know you! Joanna thought, you are—
But, again, her mind was torn away. And now, bizarrely, she was looking down at herself. She was dressed in a hooded red tunic decorated with rich embroidery and over it she wore a cloak in a sort of speckled wool, fastened at the neck with a gold pin. Her head was bare and her dark hair hung in a long, thick plait down her back. In her hand she held a short wooden stick, the end of which had been hollowed out so that a smoky brown crystal could be inserted. The crystal was roughly the length of her palm, cut to a flattened hexagon and with a pointed tip. She stood with her eyes closed, holding the wand over a bowl of clear water.
People were sobbing with pain, or perhaps fear; it seemed that they were calling out to her. Then suddenly Meggie was beside her; an older Meggie who stood confidently on her own two feet and, looking up at her mother, tried to speak. As Joanna stared at her vision self, she saw her daughter slowly begin to open her hand . . .
The transition back to the shore and the October night was brutal. Joanna lay on the sand, eyes tight shut, trying to control the dreadful dizziness that filled her head and her belly, putting her hands to her head to crush the terrible pain that seemed to be splitting her skull in two. The bile rose into her mouth and, raising herself up, she leaned over the sand and vomited.
There was a cool hand on her forehead, holding her while she heaved and convulsed. Then a voice said calmly, ‘It is often thus the first time. You will never suffer as badly as this again.’
Small comfort, Joanna thought, as another spasm tore through her. She heard herself groan, then the same cool hand pressed her back so that she was once more lying on the cloak. Huathe appeared with a blanket, which he tucked around her; she was grateful for its warmth and tried to give him a smile of thanks. He muttered something about fetching her a restorative, and turned towards the fire.
Joanna stared up at the hooded figure. ‘I know who you are,’ she said, her throat sore from the vomiting.
The figure drew back the hood, revealing deep-set dark eyes in a face whose skin was so smooth and unlined that it belied the long, snow-white hair. She – for it was a woman – wore a pale robe under the dark cloak and around her throat was a silver lunula.
It was the Domina and, eight months ago, it had been she who initiated Joanna into the tribe. Now, looking down on Joanna with a kind smile, she said, ‘Aye. I have been with you, child, for some time, for I am your
anam chara
. Your soul friend,’ she translated. ‘You have done well.’
‘You were at Folle-Pensée?’ I didn’t see you, she wanted to add.
‘I was in the forest. I stayed close to Nime’s spring.’
‘Yes.’ It made sense, for the spring was the source of the power.
‘You have just made your first soul journey,’ the Domina went on, ‘and, although I sense that I know what you saw, we wish you to tell us.’
Huathe had made her a hot drink, which he gave to her; she sipped at it and felt the restorative honey which he had melted into whatever herbal brew he had prepared course through her. The nausea had receded; she sat up and began to speak.
The vision was so fresh that she did not think she had omitted anything. As she spoke she saw the Domina and Huathe exchange occasional glances and once, when she described the death of the beloved figure in the dark wood, Huathe made as if to speak, but the Domina hushed him.
When Joanna had finished, the Domina briefly closed her eyes and raised her head, almost as if she were giving thanks. Then, dark eyes snapping open and drilling into Joanna’s, she said, ‘You are honoured. You have been granted a sight of the blessed land that was our first home here beyond the great sea, where the Korrigan settled and built their city of granite, marble and glass.’
‘It’s gone,’ Joanna said, a sob in her voice. ‘It slipped under the waves and they all drowned.’
‘Not all,’ the Domina corrected. ‘Did you not hear the sea birds? The Korrigan flew away to safety as gulls; the Grac’h as terns.’
‘The Grac’h?’
‘We call them the fiery-haired ones; they were the high priestesses of the land.’
Joanna reached deep into her mind, for she was certain that she knew what the land had been called. The Domina waited calmly. Eventually Joanna said, ‘It was Lyonesse.’
And the Domina said, ‘It was. The land held true to the old ways and the men who brought the new faith could not abide that. They came with soldiers and would have slaughtered everyone in the land, down to the youngest baby. So the Grac’h called up the west wind and the waves blew in on the great sea that rose to their bidding. The land was lost to them, that loveliest and most serene of lands, but that was preferable to witnessing its rape and despoliation at the hands of the invader. The Korrigan flew south to the shores of Armorica and they discovered that, although this was no Lyonesse, it was a tolerable substitute.’ The Domina sighed. ‘But still, those of us who remember lament our first home.’
She must, Joanna decided, be speaking figuratively, perhaps of a folk memory that lived on in the people, kept alive by the bards’ retelling of the old legend. Anything else was just impossible . . .
As if keen to move on, the Domina said, ‘You also saw something else; the death whose wake you witnessed was that of one of our Great Ones.’
‘Yes,’ Joanna put in eagerly, ‘and I really felt that, given a moment to think, I could have—’
‘And you also saw a vision of your own future,’ the Domina interrupted. ‘This moment that you saw will come soon, for the time for you to take up your skill and your power is at hand.’ Giving Joanna no chance to comment, she went on, ‘We have prepared these things for you. Stand up and take off your tunic and shift.’
Joanna did as she was bidden. Standing naked on the sand, the Domina led her closer to the fire. Huathe came to stand beside her and he poured a clear liquid from a flask into a small cup of gold.