Magdalen Rising (4 page)

And it is
hot.
Something like an electric shock begins in my crown and spreads through my body, concentrating most powerfully in my hands. It streams through my fingers as if each hand were the source of five holy rivers of fire. I don't know what to do with these hands—mine and more than mine. I gaze at them: the backs, the palms, and then the backs again. They burn, and though the burning is not pain, exactly, it's no less unbearable for that. Finally, I hold my hands out over the water. The pool's surface shivers and ripples in response. Then the blackness returns. I pull back my hands and use them for balance as I lean over the pool again, peering into its depths. I want to see to the bottom, but all at once, my face forms again, except—

Except that it isn't my face. Eyes, almost as black as the pool, meet mine. Eyes alive in a face I've never seen before. Yet, somehow, I know this face, strange as it is, as if it were my own. The image grows sharper. Now I can see black hair. My hands tingle as I grip my own bit of earth to keep from falling headlong into the world opening before me. I see a whole figure now, though the eyes still hold me. Whoever it might be is standing in a brown, thirsty-looking world of walls and what could be dwellings. The figure wears what I take for a tunic, its color a mixture of the dust that coats his feet and the glaring white sky of that world. All these details hover at the periphery. The eyes are the main event, dark and curious, looking out of a face that is lean but unlined. The skin is
browner than any I've seen; the nose is narrower. The mouth almost smiles.

Suddenly, I know what it is that's different. This is not a grownup face. This body has no breasts! It's as flat as mine was a year ago. For the first time in my life, I am seeing another child. Tremendous excitement rises in me and, with it, recklessness. I am about to hurl myself into the pool, when the eyes, that have held mine until now, lose their focus.

The figure looks around in mild confusion. Then it shrugs, as if the coming and going of fiery visions (such as I must have appeared) were an intriguing but not uncommon event, not a matter for undue concern. Then, very casually, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, the figure does something extraordinary. Turning, so that I now see the profile, it hoists its garment and takes hold of some strange apparatus between its legs.

Then, behold: a golden arc, caught in the light of that other world, streams from that amazing appendage, darkening the dry ground like a tiny rainstorm.

Are there alarms going off in your head, shrieking: Blasphemy! Obscenity! For, of course, you've figured out that this is it: my first glimpse of Jesus of Nazareth. Well, did you think he came down from heaven to earth and held it for the duration? Listen, whether you think he was the only begotten son of god, or a great ethical teacher, or a failed Jewish revolutionary, while he was here, he ate and drank and shat and pissed with the best of us—and with the worst. Because we're all incarnate. That's what it means.

For me, this vision of my foster brother pissing in an alley was an epiphany, an encounter with my other self. I was not entirely ignorant of male anatomy. I'd seen the penises of rams and goats, boars and stallions. But I'd never taken penises personally, so to speak. Here was a personal penis, attached to someone my own age—somehow I knew we were age mates. A person who had locked eyes with me across worlds. A young, male person. I did not even know the word “boy.” But immediately I wanted to know all about such persons. No, I did not develop a sudden case of penis envy. Fascination, yes. Instantly, utterly. I couldn't wait to get my hands on one. On that one.

I can see it so clearly: the tender, oh so vulnerable male member, held in those strong brown hands, as he gives it a final shake. Shedding what shreds of caution remain, I plunge in my hand and make a grab for it.

I can still feel the shock of that water, my hand burning now with cold. I can still hear my own cry as the world in the magic well is lost to me. You know it is. You can see the dark water, the ripples made by my hand catching the light, which is now beginning to fade. You can feel my confusion. It was so real—not the mere watery reflection of some fancy. The veils of water, the veils between the worlds had parted for an instant.

My frustration is mounting to rage. I have been cosmically thwarted. I don't take things lying or even sitting down. I am on my feet, wading into the pool up to my thighs, ignoring the sharp, slippery stones. I bend over, reaching in with both arms, as if I can seize the vision with sheer force of will.

My hands do close on something. It is smooth and round on the top, but full of jagged holes on one side. Diverted by this encounter with something I can actually grasp, I lift the thing from the water into the air where it gleams eerie and unearthly as a daytime moon.

Have you guessed what it is? Wist ye not?

Even though I've never seen one before, I know with a shock of recognition: it's a skull. In my hands I am holding a human skull.

Y
ES, THAT'S RIGHT, A skull: the brain case, the hard nutshell that protects the mysterious meat called mind. What was it doing there? I didn't have a clue. Regardless of what you may think of my mothers' eccentric rites and the unconventional education I was receiving at their hands, believe me they had not schooled me in the niceties of headhunting—though maybe they were saving the best for last.

You probably know more about the cult of the head than I did. No? You don't believe that collecting the heads of your enemies gives you access to their powers? Then why do you still speak of heads of state, and heads of household? Head is still synonymous with power and control. When you want to procure someone's powers for your own purposes, what do you do? You hire a headhunter.

As for what the skull was doing in the well, if you wanted to send a messenger to the otherworld or to appease its powers, where would you look for entry? I know. You're more sophisticated than that. You know all about underground springs and the strata of the earth. More than that, you know that the underworld is just code for the collective unconscious. Wells and caves are archetypal symbols. Right. And you've never tossed a penny into a wishing well.

Okay, you admit, a penny. But a skull is not exactly loose change. True. Votive offerings may be the one commodity that's gotten cheaper. If you're still wondering whether my mothers hurled that head into the Well of Wisdom, I still can't answer you. But consider: with a population like ours and a birthrate of one child to eight women, human sacrifice was hardly practical. Though my mothers were dedicated to the warrior arts, I had never seen violence. My childhood was, in fact, sheltered beyond ancient or modern comprehension.

So here I was, hip deep in a magic pool with night approaching and a skull giving me the hairy eyeball. It was that sense of personal confrontation that prevented me from dropping the skull like a hot potato. The skull had presence. It gaped eyelessly and grinned with its remnant of tooth and jaw, as if I were the best joke to come along in quite some time. I decided against putting it back in the pool. If something unnerves
you, it's best to keep an eye on it. Finally, I tucked the skull cozily into the crook of my left arm, then, using my right arm to balance, I made my way out of the pool, my feet and legs numb with cold.

Back on dry land, I placed the skull on a flat stone and took stock of my situation. The sun was setting. I was cold, wet, and hungry. I had eaten all my oatcakes, and, to top it all off, I had succeeded in my goal: I was alone; there was not a mother in sight, which, at the moment, I considered gross maternal negligence on their part. Moreover, I had just been seized with cramps. Thinking that the cold water might have brought them on, I peeled off my damp tunic and hung it on a hazel branch. Then, careful not to take my eyes off the skull, I backed up a few paces and squatted.

Just as I was about to loose a stream, I remembered my vision of the dark-eyed stranger and the elegant golden arc that had poured from the appendage. It must be so much fun to stand and aim instead of crouch and flood. Of course I had to try it for myself. And so I rose and grabbed hold of what I could—with predictable results. But as I gazed in disappointment at my hands and thighs, I made a great discovery: blood. My woman's blood.

I felt a shock of joy as sudden, bracing, and pure as the cold water of the spring. Maybe you can't fathom the absoluteness of my elation, unmixed with fear, confusion, or dismay. As for shame, you may already have gathered I did not know the meaning of the word. Well, you've met my mothers. Their own blood was no onerous secret suffered as a curse. They had not taught me that the coming of the blood would mean the end of my freedom. Unlike other mothers, they probably never considered the reproductive repercussions of menarche. There are advantages to living on the Isle of Women. Among my mothers, blood was an openly declared mystery, an occasion for abandon and celebration. Now, I exulted, now I was an initiate.

I might have missed my mothers more in this momentous moment, except that the whole world seemed to be celebrating with me. The sky turned from gold to brilliant red. The Well of Wisdom shone red in reflection. A flock of cranes circled the valley, the curve of their wings catching the color. Even the skull took on a pinkish glow and seemed to regard me with greater respect.

I walked, stiff-legged with the newness of it all, back to the edge of the pool. Kneeling, I rinsed the urine from my hands and legs. Then I sat down, knees drawn up against my breasts, to examine myself. As
you may know from experience, it's hard to see much. But fingers can go where eyes can't. I thoroughly explored those petal-like folds, enjoying their smooth, watery feel. Then I found the hidden opening. Talk about springs and caverns and gateways between the worlds! My fingers slid deeper, and my mind filled with images of red, iridescent caves and strange, bright fish, swishing their tails, riding the red currents.

When I resurfaced from the inner world, the red had drained from the sky, leaving it that nameless color—not silver, not blue, not purple—that lingers an instant before sheer night. Stars came out to keep me company, and the skull glimmered faintly.

On impulse I rose and approached the skull. Crouching before it, I dipped my fingers into my blood and began to draw swirling patterns on the skull's crown. I don't know what prompted me or why I heeded the urge. I can only tell you that it was a deeply satisfying act. So absorbed was I in this task that I did not notice when an approaching light chased away a portion of the night, except to take pleasure in a clearer view of my handiwork: mostly spirals and groupings of circles. (Let me tell you, in case you've never tried it: forefinger and menstrual blood is a crude medium.) Still, I admired the look of blood on bone. Then the light leapt and flickered in response to a gust of wind. I startled and looked up.

Beyond the skull I saw a grey robe, stopping just above bare feet, the most beautiful feet I had ever seen, surely the feet of a goddess. Hardly daring to breathe, I lifted my gaze and a flash of fiery beauty almost blinded me. Imagine if lightning walked the earth and took a form. That's what I saw in the split second before I shielded my eyes. When I summoned the courage to look again, the robe was the same, but the feet were gnarled and knobby. A bent hooded figure stood before me, holding a torch in one hand and a walking stick in the other. I could not see the face, but I knew absolutely: this was not one of my mothers. It occurred to me that it might be the spirit of whoever once inhabited the skull, wrathful at the liberties I'd taken. Patting the skull on the head, so to speak, I rose to face whatever face or facelessness the hood concealed.

What I saw was almost as much a revelation as the vision in the pool. If the person I'd glimpsed across the worlds was younger than anyone I'd ever seen, the one standing before me was infinitely older—though at that time I had no concept for age any more than I did for boy. My mothers, as you will have gathered, were not menopausal. Though I
know now that they may have ranged in age some twenty years, then they were all old to me. I had never given much thought to anyone's age or aging but my own. I did not think “old” when I saw this face, but I was fascinated by the intricacy of the thousands of tiny lines, by the sheerness of the flesh that barely concealed the bone. (At the moment, I was all too aware of the bone beneath the mask of face.) But here was no glaring emptiness like the skull's sockets. The eyes that met mine were as gold as the Salmon of Wisdom. In these eyes I saw again the living light of the Valley. That light had not disappeared with the sun but stored itself in these eyes, eyes as dangerous and promising as the sacred well.

A shiver ran through me as I guessed: This must be Bride, Bride herself taking form before me. Gods and goddesses are famous for shifting their shapes. They can be animals or trees, young or old, beautiful or ugly. It's a form of sport. And if you know a god when you see one, that's score one for you. If you don't, you not only miss that point, you miss
the
point: divinity is everywhere. Beware. Never scorn an old woman or a beggar. Listen carefully to what children tell you, and never hurt an animal.

I glanced from the goddess's face to her breasts. Her eyes may have matched the well of wisdom, but her breasts did not seem very mountainous. They were hardly visible beneath the loose, grey tunic. Still, appearances can be deceiving. That's their point. I looked back, wondering when or if she would say something. Then it struck me: she's waiting for me. It's my move.

“So,” I said with a brave show of nonchalance, “are you the goddess of this place, or what?”

The response was a low laugh that sounded at first more like a growl. Then she said, quite distinctly, “They told me you were a precocious brat.”

Brat? Me? But the way she said the word did not sound pejorative. I even detected a note of approval, which, I confess, I considered no more than my due.

“Who told you?” I ventured.

“Who else but your poor mothers, whose hairs are turning grey even as we speak. Did you give a thought to the grief you would cause them when you ran away this morning?”

Whoever she was, she seemed to know more about me than anyone, even a goddess, had a right to. Still my conscience—something I'd been about as aware of as my liver—prickled uncomfortably.

“But they would not have let me come if I had told them,” I pointed out. “Besides, Liban will make walnut rinse for the grey hairs. She and Fand and Deirdru already use it every dark of the moon.”

“And do you know why they would not allow you to come here?”

“No. They would never say.”

But I was beginning to wonder if maybe they were right. I wasn't sure I liked being alone in this valley with this goddess person before me and a bloody skull at my feet—never mind that it was merely my blood. Where
were
my mothers? Why hadn't they warned me properly? And look here: they'd gone and told this personage all about me and told me nothing about her. Her shining eyes were unsettling. Predators had glowing eyes. Suddenly I wondered again: How
did
that skull get into that well?

“And what have you found, now that you have defied your mothers and come here alone?”

I hesitated. I wanted to know more about the pool and the vision I'd seen, where it had come from, and why it had vanished. But I also didn't want to tell. Others had secrets from me. I needed a secret of my own. That vision was mine, and the person with the wondrous appendage, my secret, mine.

“I found a skull in the well.” I indicated my find with a gesture.

“And you have honored it with your first blood,” she observed. “It was well done. I must say, they have brought you up to have nice impulses.” She said it as someone else might say nice manners. “Though clearly they haven't managed to curb your impulsiveness, which I'm afraid may land you in a lot of trouble one of these days.”

Like it hadn't already?

“The skull,” I said, getting back to the point. “How did it get there?”

“She has persistence, too,” the personage observed, “which may help to balance the rashness. But then again it may not. Combined, rashness and persistence may become merely foolishness and obstinacy.”

She seemed to be running down a checklist, making notes to herself. I was, in short, being weighed in the balance, and I didn't like it. Until now, I had never questioned my own utter perfection—nor had anyone else.

“But the skull,” I persisted, proving her point. “The skull, did
you
put it there?”

“Direct.” She spoke again to herself. “A refreshing quality but not always a wise policy. Listen, honey, rule number one: if you want to keep your head, don't lose it. And the second is like unto it: don't ask too many questions.”

But I had rules of my own. Growing up with eight mothers, number one was: never listen to advice.

“Who in
Abred, Gwynfed,
and
Ceugant
are you?” I demanded, naming all the circles of existence. A sort of formal, Celtic way of saying: who the hell are you, anyway?

“Listen, Little Bright One, Bride's Flame.” She knew my mothers' names for me. “Listen well, and I will tell who I am.”

She thrust her torch into the ground and raised her arms, still holding the stick in her left hand. “I am the Cailleach,” she began. I recognized at once the shift from ordinary speech to chant.

“Anoint me,” she commanded. “Anoint me as you did the skull.”

For the first time in my life I felt shy, but it did not occur to me to refuse. So I bloodied my fingers again. First I made a sign on her forehead, three dots within a circle. Then, renewing the blood, I touched her cheek and lost my shyness in wonder. Her skin was so soft, softer than mine, as if time and the elements, working in those thousands of lines, had made her into finer stuff, just as beaten gold is finer than metal that has not been worked. I did not draw designs on those cheeks but gently smoothed in the blood so that the beauty of the designs already there showed more clearly. Just as I was putting on the final touches, I was startled nearly out of my skin by
bean sídhe
screeches resounding in the valley.