Authors: Felicity Pulman
The first secret way I create takes me to the ancient spring that lies beneath the fountain at the heart of my garden. It was probably once a shrine to the old gods, but when the new abbey and priory were built it was turned into a fountain; I adapted this to my design, and to my purpose. I used my wands to cast spells and now, when I walk widdershins and recite the chant that I found in Merlin’s book of magic, I come to the ancient spring. I make offerings and, in reward, I sometimes catch tantalizing glimpses of the future—or perhaps it’s the past—when I look into the water’s rusty red depths. Voices speak words that sometimes resemble the language of the church, but there are others that I cannot understand at all.
On one occasion I see a young woman looking back at me: mouse-brown hair and a plain, rather solemn face. I look into her greenish-gold eyes, and see a mirror reflection of myself. “Who are you?” I whisper, trying to contain my excitement for I can’t help wondering if perhaps she is me, but in some Otherworld or at some time into the future.
“Morgan,” she answers. “Who are you?”
“My name is Morgana.”
“Morgana.” The word is echoed on a sigh as the vision fades.
I do not see her again. Instead, I hear a wailing chant that is beyond any words I know. The sound of it prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. There is danger here, a form of madness. I can sense it even if I do not understand it. By keeping still and quiet, I can feel in my heart the passion behind what’s being said, although there seems such a depth of hatred and rage, such a roaring and shouting, that I am shaken with terror and a deep sense of foreboding that this can only lead to the end of our world as we know it. I long to know more, and fear it too, but for full understanding I suspect I shall need patience and a great deal more time.
Perhaps this is the most important lesson I am learning during my time here in the priory. Patience, as I struggle to understand. Patience, as I try to see a way to fulfill my dreams.
My other secret way is the portal I have made in the bramble hedge that forms one side of the abbey garden. No one else can enter this way, for their path is blocked by thorns. I use the same chant to open this portal but I have not yet fathomed all its secrets, although I hope in time to find a way through to the Otherworlds I long to visit.
Meanwhile I am learning about the man they call Jesus, for his followers are becoming more widespread across the realm and it’s in my interests to find out how they think and what they believe. Even Arthur, so I have heard, now carries a cross on his shield. I suspect it’s to honor our mother, who, I’m told, repented her sin of lying with Uther before they were wed, and has now died of grief and remorse. I feel some vindication that she acknowledged the truth behind Arthur’s conception, although my brother is still acclaimed as the heir to my kingdom.
As well as learning about the Christ, I am also learning about a past that I never suspected. There are a few scrolls and books at the priory but many more at the abbey library, ancient writings from Greece and Arabia with much of interest concerning both our world and what lies beyond. I owe my thanks to the prioress for ensuring I have access to whatever texts I want, and to the brothers at the abbey for helping me to read and understand them. I know they expect some largesse in return, and so I give them a gold ring that once belonged to my father, but that is too large for me to wear on any of my fingers or even my thumb.
There is a good reason for my industry. Although I enjoy learning for its own sake, it is my belief that if I have more knowledge than Merlin, I shall be able to outwit him when the time is right. I haven’t forgotten my promise to punish him for his betrayal—of my father and of me—and the harm that he has done. Arthur too. They have taken what was mine, my birthright, and I will not rest until I have wrought vengeance on both of them.
To my delight, I finally solve the secret of Merlin’s crystal. The spells of the garden and my secret ways were cast with wands of ash, oak and hazel, under a full moon. All of these spells I found in Merlin’s book, but it says little about how to access paths to Otherworlds and other realities, perhaps assuming a knowledge that I don’t have. When I visited some of these worlds with Merlin at Tintagel, he never showed me just how it was done. This is a trick I’ve had to learn through trial and error, and I’ve discovered that Merlin’s crystal is the key, along with the need to also carry some portion of an oak tree, either my wand, or even a leaf or a twig, when I venture forth through the bramble bushes.
One of the worlds I return to is the island of Avalon, the sacred isle of healing guarded by the high priestess Viviane and her acolytes, all of whom worship a being they call the Mother Goddess. Viviane is also known as the Lady of the Lake because of her habit of bathing naked in the lake in the center of the isle under the light of the full moon. She claims the moon’s power fills her with radiance and enhances her magical abilities. I have noticed she allows no one else the same privilege, or opportunity for improvement. Indeed, she guards her magical arts just as jealously as the Christian priests guard their mysteries at the high altar. To me, the rituals at the shrine of the Mother Goddess seem to be as hierarchical and narrow as the rituals of the Christians in their church; only the gender of the being they worship is different. But I respect their knowledge of the natural world, and I am learning all I can about the magical healing properties of some of the unfamiliar herbs, flowers, trees and bushes that grow in the wild there. On each visit I secrete some of these magical plants under my cloak to bring back to the priory, for it gives me great pleasure to make use of the knowledge and skills I have learned in Avalon to heal the sick and bring relief from suffering in our own world.
I have also returned to the world of the Druids. I’m beginning to think that the seed of Arthur’s destruction may lie in this world, for it is similar to our own in appearance and in almost everything else except that in this Otherworld it is the Druids who have the power over the hearts and minds of the people. I spend more and more time there, where I am known and revered as the daughter of an Otherworld king. I am learning high magic from the Druids while plotting how to take my revenge on Arthur and Merlin. Several years pass by while I bide my time, and learn what I can, and wait for my hour of triumph.
*
When word comes to the priory that a great battle has been waged against the invaders from across the sea, and that Arthur’s army is camped close by, I know it is time for me to act. I have learned not only how to shape-shift into other creatures but also how to take on the appearance of someone else. It has been a great source of amusement trying out various personae in the places where I am known. I have become an old crone, a young boy, a priest (with a most unholy tongue!) and a juggler. With this last, I’d thought to entertain the sisters with some songs and juggling tricks, but there was such consternation to find an unexpected stranger in their midst that I found myself quickly bundled outside the gate, and had to fly back inside disguised as a swallow.
Now the time for experiments and playing is over. This time I assume the guise of a young woman, beautiful enough to tempt Arthur to abandon his troops and follow me to the Otherworld of the Druids, where people are ruled by a man they call Myrddin. Before I leave the priory, I inspect my reflection in the blood-dark water of my scrying pool. I am content with what I see: a slim, shapely form clad in a silken gown the color of the ocean. My eyes sparkle with desire; my red lips invite temptation; my hair gleams like a river in the moonlight. I know that I have made myself irresistible to all men and, briefly and fiercely, I wish I could always stay as young and beautiful as I am today. But I suspect, if Merlin’s book is to be believed, that my transformation can last no longer than a year and a day.
I cast a final lingering glance at my reflection, but I cannot see myself. Instead I hear the shouts of battle and the screams of the dying, while a barge, clad in the black of deep mourning, sails slowly upriver. Before I can decipher any more, the vision has vanished and the water becomes still.
I feel uneasy, but shrug away my misgivings, anxious to be gone.
I have chosen the night of Samhain for my revenge on Arthur. It is the night when hearth fires are doused and homes abandoned. The night when the dead walk and no one is safe. The night when, in this Otherworld I have come to know, a new fire is lit for fortune in the year ahead. It is the night when stones are cast to tell who will live and who will die. This is what the Druids believe, and this is what I’d have Arthur believe too.
When I reach Arthur’s camp I am shocked to see the toll the battle has taken on his troops; young men look old before their time, their eyes betraying the horrors they’ve witnessed. The stench of spilled blood mingles with the scent of their cooking fires. An uneasy quiet pervades, broken only by the jingling harness of a restless steed and the occasional muttered oath. Confident that I can take care of myself if necessary, I walk among the men. I use my skills and what limited resources are available to help the injured, giving relief where I may, for their wounds are terrible. As I minister to them, I indulge in flirtatious banter in the hope of easing the burden of their memories. But it is Arthur’s attention I am after. Soon enough, he joins the growing band of warriors ringed around me, each of them hopeful of catching my favor for the night.
He is a grown man of twenty-one summers now, tall and come into his strength, although I can see he has been wounded; a bloodied bandage is bound around his left arm. Having learned much of healing from the priestess of Avalon and the infirmarian at the priory, I know enough to tell that the wound is clean and is not deep enough to be dangerous. I smile at Arthur, and he smiles back at me. I recognize that smile from his childhood; it is a brave smile, one that covers a knowledge of hurt and harm, of doubts and fears. A smile that rips my heart into shreds.
When first I devised my plan, I did so with hatred and a desire for revenge; it seemed eminently sensible. Now I am not sure I can go through with it. I call on Merlin’s early teaching to help me.
You have to think that raven,
be
a raven
, he’d said. I have to remember that I am no longer Arthur’s sister, Morgana. Instead, I am a beautiful young woman, ripe for seduction by a young and handsome king. I have no past and, after tonight, no future either.
I take his arm and say softly, “I can see that you are hurt and in need of comfort, my liege. I pray you, walk with me a way for I have remedies to heal your wound and …” I pause, eyes downcast and eyelashes fluttering demurely, “… and I am willing to do what I may for you in any other way you desire, sire.” I raise my face and our eyes meet. In that instant I know he has understood my meaning, and he is mine for the taking.
I lead him back to the priory and the hawthorn hedge, and silently say a special chant that I hope will open the portal wide enough to admit strangers. I pass through and, to my relief, Arthur is able to follow me. Together, we walk through an avenue of trees so closely growing that their leaves form a green tunnel over our heads. Arthur is not aware that we have just left behind all that is known to him as the Otherworld opens before us. There is a crowd pressed around a great bonfire, just as I had been told there would be on this night of nights, and I lead Arthur toward it. He shivers with the wind on his back; its icy breath frosts our noses and ears and I press closer to him for warmth.
Myrddin, the Druid priest, is a tall man, with long flowing hair and a nose like an eagle’s beak. He raises his arms to the sky. The fire lights his face, throwing into relief his stern features and the coarse strands of his long gray beard.
“Oh Dark One, Lord of Death, grant us a boon this night and let us walk in safety,” he intones. “Take none of us for your sacrifice, for we are few in number and we live in desperate times. Our land trembles under the tread of rapacious invaders. Their warriors nip at our heels. Our men are brave but when they leave to fight our enemies, our homes and our livelihood depend on children and the courage of women. The winter will be cold and hard for all of us. Seek what ye will, Lord of Darkness, but protect our land and leave our people in peace, we beseech thee.”
He bends to raise a mighty branch of oak. Sweating with the effort, he thrusts the log onto the sacred bonfire. It flares up, crackling and spitting its fury. The wind carries sparks high into the dark night, fireflies to light the path walked by the dead.
“Who is this priest?” Arthur whispers. “I have never seen him before.”
“He’s someone new, come to Glastonbury from across the sea.” I hope my explanation is enough to lull any suspicions Arthur may have.
Two acolytes stagger forward, their shoulders bowed under the weight of a huge stag. Its feet are bound but it struggles still, wild with panic in the face of imminent death. Reverently, the acolytes lay the beast at the priest’s feet.
The Druid raises his hands in blessing over the stag. “We give you this offering with a full heart and a prayer that you will protect Riothamus from the swords of our enemies. Our hopes rest in the power of his right hand when it is raised to protect us against them, and we pray that you will keep him safe this night and until the threat against our land is over.”
From the sheath slung at his waist, Myrddin draws a ceremonial dagger. With a swift movement he slits the animal’s throat, and raises the bloody knife to the sky.
“Who is Riothamus? Where are we?” Arthur sounds somewhat anxious.
“Riothamus is you, Arthur; it’s just his way of saying your name. Hush, now, there’s nothing to fear. This priest has brought new ways to Glastonbury from across the water. It seems they do things differently there.” It is almost the truth, after all.
I touch his arm and try to distract him from Dryw the Vatis, who watches intently as the animal staggers and falls into a pool of its own blood. He makes a single thrust down its belly and its guts spill out. It is Dryw and the Vates who interpret signs and make predictions, and now they all crowd around to divine the future from the beast’s death agony and its looping entrails. Once the divination is over, the animal will be cast onto the fire to placate the Dark Ones who walk the land. And in the morning, the ashes will be raked and fortunes told from the charred bones. This is a yearly ritual, similar to what country folk used to do in our own world, so Merlin once told me, as was the life-reckoning of the stones that will come next.