Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (11 page)

“I can foresee disasters in plenty even if the Island of the Mighty remains above the sea,” said Shizuret gloomily. “We are in for a hard time, my sisters, and we must set ourselves to endure.”

“That will be difficult when our leaders put all their energy into fighting each other instead of addressing the ills that assail us,” agreed Linne. “I am reminded of a litter of puppies someone tried to drown. The top of the bag had come open, and they were struggling to stay afloat. But every time one reached the surface, another would try to climb up and push his brother under again.”

“Hard luck,” said Leka.

“What happened to the puppies?” asked Kaisa-Zan.

“I pulled them out and found them homes . . .” Linne’s smile faded. “But I cannot do the same for your chieftains.” Her gaze lingered for a moment on Saarin and Nuya, then passed on.

“Our magic is for growing and healing,” whispered Kaisa-Zan.

“And the chieftains doubt our ability to use it,” agreed Nuya with a venomous look at Saarin. “The only power men understand now is the point of a spear.”

Anderle closed her eyes, summoning up the image that had come to her more than once in dreams. She had seen Mikantor, grown to manhood, striding across a battlefield with a sword in his hand that shone like white fire.
Dare I tell them? They need that hope so badly, but it will be many years yet before what I have seen can come to pass.
She bit back the words with a sigh. So long as Galid lived, the world must continue to believe that Uldan’s heir had died.

“And yet we
are
the Sacred Sisterhood.” Linne straightened, the folds of her blue gown giving her gaunt figure a sudden majesty. “And if all we can do is to pull an occasional puppy from the flood we will do that.”

Or from the fire . . .
thought Anderle, remembering Mikantor, as she had seen him when she passed through the Lake Village on her way to this conclave. It must have been nearly time for Redfern to dye his hair again, for hints of red sparked through the dusty brown like a fire through ash. In the past year there had been no exploits as outrageous as the visit to the island of the Wild God, or not, at least, that involved her daughter, but he seemed to have twice the initiative and energy of any of his playmates.
I will have to do something about that boy.

“We must work with the children,” she said aloud, one thought leading to another. “This crisis will not be over soon. We must teach the children to trust each other, even the girls you are training, and we cannot do that if you keep them at home.”

“What are you suggesting?” Saarin asked sharply.

“Send them for a few seasons to Avalon, both girls and boys. We will teach them healing and history, make them work together in the rituals. When they have learned and laughed and tested each other’s minds, it will be harder to think of the folk of other tribes as those evil wretches from over the hill.”

“As we do here . . .” Linne said dryly.

Anderle shrugged. “Send me the ones you think have talent. The ones with energy and inquiring minds. The ones who their parents think are troublemakers, but whose hearts are good. From each tribe, take two or three between the ages of seven and fourteen.”

“With a load or two of supplies toward their upkeep?” snorted Shizuret, “or had you thought about how you were going to feed them? Children are always hungry at that age, and your marshes are not exactly the breadbasket of this isle.”

“Neither is Azan, these days,” murmured Nuya sadly.

“The men of the Lake Village will teach them hunting”—Anderle smiled—“but we will not turn down any supplies you can spare.”

“Speaking of which, I believe that the oat cakes are almost done—” said Shizuret, “and to waste the good food would be a sin.”

And that, thought Anderle, was a sentiment upon which all of them could agree.

 

 

 

TORCHLIGHT THREW THE EARTHEN banks that defined the Processional Way into high relief, leaving both the rolling plain and the river behind them in an even deeper darkness. Anderle held the edges of her cloak together with one hand, for the wind had come up with sunset, and the black wool flapped around her legs. At least it was also driving the clouds away.

The light brightened as Shizuret emerged from her tent to join the other priestesses who were forming up behind the Lady of Avalon, and her escort fell in around her. In the flickering light the black boar sewn to the back of her cloak seemed gathering itself to charge. A few more moments and Saarin and her wolf-warriors followed and took their places in the line, the priestess in the middle, her torchbearers to either side. Images of Wolf and Frog, Hare and Ram and Bull danced in the firelight, for all of the priestesses wore their tribal regalia here.

That was the last of them. Anderle held up her staff, crowned with the same triple moon that was stitched across her shoulders. A glance over her shoulder showed the real moon already well above the horizon, easing shyly in and out of the remaining clouds. As the staff lifted, the whisper of conversation ceased, until the only sounds were the crackle of the burning torches and the murmurous voice of the river.

“Sisters, the moon is risen. The season of Achimaiek is come. Is it the Hour of the Calling?” Anderle cried.

“The Hour of the Calling is come—” came the reply.

“Then let us seek the Gateway between the Worlds. . . .” She signaled, and the two lads with the bull-roarers began to swing their thongs. As they started forward, the eerie buzzing rose and fell, making the hair prickle on her neck with a chill that did not come from the cold.

The way led to the right and up a gentle slope before turning west toward the Henge. As the road leveled and they emerged onto the plain, Anderle saw the line of barrows extending to her left, and brought the procession to a halt to salute the ancestors who lay there. Before her, the avenue ran straight for a time, and the moon, escaping finally from the encircling clouds, revealed the plain with a cold light that made the torches pale. Here and there the smooth line of the horizon was broken by the tree-covered grave mounds of ancient kings.

As they resumed their march, Kaisa-Zan, who had a fine, clear voice, began to sing the verses that welcomed Achimaiek, whom the tribes worshipped as Grandmother, and whose season was the wintertime.

Anderle saw a point of light to the north where at Carn Ava the balefire had been lighted upon the Lady’s hill. On this night the fires would be signaling from hill to hill from the farthest north to the southern sea, sending the living to huddle behind their doors, calling the dead to their long home. At the sight her heart beat more quickly. The dead whose spirits had clung to bone and ash were waking, hearkening to the song.

The priestess had a sudden awareness of the Henge before them, even though at this distance it seemed no more than a leafless thicket, barely visible in the light of the moon. Despite that clarity, shadows were everywhere, more sensed than seen. The ghosts of the ancient folk whose mounds dotted the plain were welcoming the more recent dead, whom Anderle could feel gathering behind them.

The final note faded, and the bull-roarers began to swing once more, but this time that humming was supported by the voices of the priestesses, rising and falling in eerie harmonies. The tension thickened; the spirits in the barrows were listening. As the road curved once more to the left, Anderle could see the paired stones that marked the entrance to the causeway across the ditch. The shadows of the priestesses lengthened before them as the torchbearers fell back to follow in single file. Anderle paused again when they reached the upright that marked the Midsummer sunrise and unhooked the flask of beer from her belt to pour over the stone in offering. Then their line bent around it and they continued forward.

As they crossed the gap in the bank and ditch and passed between the three boundary stones, their shadows changed again, for the men who carried the torches were turning aside to form a circle of fire outside the Henge. As they moved, light and shadow began to weave a wavering pattern through the linked stones of the sarsen ring. The priestesses slowed their steps so that they entered it at the same time that the men completed their circle. But though only seven living women had entered the circle of stones, a far greater company had followed them.

Now the light steadied, raying between the linked standing stones and the circle of smaller bluestone pillars within them so that as the priestesses arranged themselves within the semicircle of great trilithons, they seemed to stand at the center of a great wheel. But only light entered the circle. If there was any sound from outside they could not hear it, and Anderle knew that the men outside would hear only the faintest murmur from within.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, directing awareness to tap into the current of power that coursed beneath the surface of the soil. Across the great island it flowed, from the southern coast through the Henge and Carn Ava and thence northward all the way to the Ai-Siwanet lands. A lesser current connected the Henge to the Tor. She stood at a crossroad, invisible to the ordinary eye, and as she brought the power back up her spine, activated a third channel that linked Above and Below.

“Sisters, are we gathered?” she called.

“We are gathered!” came the reply.

On this night they stood between life and death. The people of this isle had chosen their site well, and her other ancestors, fleeing the fall of the Sea Kingdoms, had done well to recognize the native wisdom, even those—or so said the legend—who had sought to appropriate the power of this place for their own ends. Anderle glanced toward the southern side of the Henge, where the sarsen stones that had formed the fallen segments of the ring lay scattered on the dead grass. At Avalon the story of how those stones had been knocked askew in a battle of magic between the priests of the Henge and of the Tor was taught to the senior adepts. It was said that after the conflict the survivors left the sarsens where they fell as a permanent warning to those who would misuse their power.

And now, thought the priestess, they no longer had the craft to erect the fallen uprights and replace their lintels even if they would. The secret of shaping sound to make such magic had been lost in the generations that had passed since the stones were raised. But they still knew how to use the unique qualities of the Henge. When you were standing inside the circle, sound had a peculiar quality, a vibration that was not quite an echo. Voices seemed particularly clear.

“Call upon those who now must make their passage!” she cried.

Leka of the Dales was the first to move to the center and lift her hands. “Ultakhe son of Izora I call. You lost your life when the rocks of the sheepfold gave way before the flooding stream as you were trying to save the last of the lambs.”

“Blessed be your life and blessed your passing,” chorused the priestesses.

Anderle felt the vibrations of their voices passing through her, took another deep breath, and as she let it out, opened her mind to the spirit who had been called. In the darkness behind her eyelids she could see the glimmering outlines of the Stones, and the misty shape of the man, gazing about him in wonder. What was he seeing?

“
Ultakhe, hear me—”
She sent out an inner call.
“Your flesh is ashes, your spirit body unbound. Now comes the final sundering. Will you leave a part here to watch over your family and hold your memories?”
She waited, and felt a strong assent. No doubt an echo of the man would haunt the scattered stones of that sheepfold. She hoped that his descendants would be able to rebuild it one day.

“It is well. But now I call your higher soul, the Self that survives all changes.”
At those words the image of the man grew brighter, but it was shifting, the bone structure altering, the scars and lines of care fading away. A succession of faces flickered across that countenance, combining at last into an image that was beyond race, beyond age, beyond gender, and yet unlike any other soul.
“This is the face you had before you were born. Go into the west, Child of Light, to consider what you have learned in this lifetime, and to rest until the time is right for you to take a human body again.”
Anderle could feel the flow of power intensify in the direction of the Tor. She turned in that direction, the arms of her spirit body lifting, releasing that bright spirit into the west.

This was the task to which the Ti-Sahharin had called her, the wisdom brought from lost Atlantis, to ease the natural confusion of passing and speed the spirit beyond the circles of the world. There, it had been a deathbed ritual performed by a priest for an individual, but the Sacred Sisters of the Isle of the Mighty already gathered their dead when the harvest of the crops was done and called them to the Henge. Some early priest or priestess of Avalon had been inspired to guide the passing of the dead of all the tribes at once. The tribes called the goddess into whose keeping they consigned their dead Achimaiek, but it was Ni-Terat on whom Anderle called, the Dark Mother who cradled the seeds in the tomb of her womb through winter’s cold until it was time for them to be reborn.