Beneath the Hallowed Hill (15 page)

A beam of sunlight fell on the oak door, illuminating the intricate carving of the god and goddess at Midsummer. The rooks were gathering in the orchard up the slope to sing the sun down. They needed to tend to the younger trees, mend the fence on the north side, weed the garden plots. Her mother claimed these extremes of the seasons were new, that before the disaster, the changes during the year were mild. Now, even the stars moved in the heavens and the seasons created a struggle to survive.

Caitir shook herself slightly, trying to clear her mind of all these mundane things, no matter that their small settlement depended on her guidance already. She should be preparing herself for the ordeal—for ordeal it did become, to walk between the worlds. Megan’s voice stopped. Her eyelids drooped. Caitir waited, and when her mother’s breath lengthened, she slipped into the garden and walked the paths between the beds of feverfew, yarrow and chamomile. How long would Megan tell her stories of the days gone by? Regardless of what her mother thought, Caitir had her own memories of those golden times before the island fell, before the land she yearned for despite her best efforts sank deep into the sea. Now her task was to establish this stronghold, to teach the young ones and serve visitors to the shrine. She feared the goddess blessed her with an abundance of common sense and little of the psychic sensitivity she would need for this quest. Why not send Sorcha? She practically lived in the other realms, traipsing through her days forgetting what was at hand to do, her long flaxen hair flowing behind her.

A quickening in the air announced the turning of the tides toward evening, so Caitir made her way back to the vigil hut. She would make her pilgrimage deep into the night. She found Megan stirring. Without a word, Caitir poured a cup of the hot herbal brew that cleared the lungs and mind. Her mother’s hand, dotted with brown age spots, was steady after her short nap. She drank half, then rallied her strength and began her tale again.

“The trip to the northern isles was quite the adventure of my young life. No beaming through the crystal for me yet. They were saving that for another time. We went by boat. It was a cargo ship going to pick up tin, delivering goddess knows what. I was too young to think of that. The dolphins ran with us on the first day, leaping and twirling. I stood on deck and watched them, forgetting my sadness at leaving Govannan. At night, the sickle moon sat low in the heavens with the closest planets a line in the sky, Venus bright and close to the horns of the moon, Mercury and then Mars fainter dots of light. It was pure magic.

“Most of the day we sailed under crystal power, but toward late afternoon, when the winds picked up, the seamen turned off the engines and ran up the sails for the joy of it. They used my father as an excuse to hang the purples out with all the other colors. The wind belled out the sails, and the sun slanting across the water lit them up like lanterns at a festival. If there was no wind, the weather worker called a bit of breeze, nothing to cause an imbalance, mind you.” Megan looked up at Caitir as if to admonish her.

Caitir frowned as a memory surfaced. She was seven or eight. The gang of children went up to Wearyall to fly kites, but the wind didn’t cooperate. Onchu called it up, but it wasn’t just a breeze. The wind quickly turned into a gale, and three priestesses were needed to quiet it. Her mother remembered that Caitir did it, but that was not the case; she wished she had that kind of power.

Megan was lost in her past again and continued her story, although Caitir heard this one many times before. “We danced on deck in pools of scarlet, emerald, gold and purple. We arrived on the fifth day just as the sun began to dip back toward the sea.”

* * * *

The ship sailed from the open ocean into the estuary where the land and water intermingled and made peace with one another. Cranes flew overhead or sat in the trees like ghosts in the haze. Ducks floated, breaking the silence with the bell beat of their wings when the ship sailed too close. Here and there, the heads of reeds just cleared the water and swayed with the tides, a forest in miniature. In the distance an island appeared from the mist. Alders skirted the shore and willows dipped their graceful boughs into the water. Above them rose a green hill, which then dipped back down again and almost submerged like the coils of a giant water serpent. Another undulation of the land ascended into a terraced hill, the coils tightening into a spiral; on the summit, a circle of low standing stones with a tall, graceful obelisk in the middle announced they had come to Avalon.

Megan grasped her bag to her chest, trying to calm her pounding heart. She was here at last, in the land of her mother’s ancestors. She would meet the Lady of Avalon, someone she heard stories of all her life. At night when the family gathered in the scented garden, her mother told tales about the magic of this place—of the energy of the twin springs, the majesty of the Tor and the entrance into the Underworld, of the Lady who held the keys to all these mysteries. As a child she yearned to walk beneath the Tor and find the crystal cave, to call the faeries and be invited to join them in their court.

A figure appeared beneath the canopy of trees on the shoreline, dressed in white with a blue shawl draped over her shoulder. Wheat-blond hair hung down her back in a long braid. From the trees sounded the caw of a raven; it took flight with a rustle of leaves, rounding back to perch on a distant standing stone. It sent a shock of recognition through Megan. She had seen this scene before. Despite the warmth of the sun, a shiver ran the length of her spine.

The sailors dropped their easy jocularity when they dropped anchor at the base of Wearyall Hill. It was well named, the point of arrival after a journey, where weary travelers could find rest and sustenance. The crew stood at their posts almost at attention, stealing glances at the priestess and the Tor. Megan straightened up and smoothed the folds in her clothes, suddenly aware of her wind-tangled curls. A skiff pushed off from the shore poled by another tall figure in white. As the skiff grew closer, a man’s long hair and beard became visible beneath the shade of his cloak. He pulled up to the boat and stopped, nodding to the captain who now took Megan’s arm. “I’ll help you down.”

She turned to him. “I haven’t said goodbye.”

“They’ll be missing you.” The captain faced her, his eyes bright in his wind-wrinkled face. “Hope we see you on your return.”

It sounded like a question, so Megan said, “I don’t know how soon I’ll be coming home.” A bank of clouds covered the sun and suddenly she missed the bright light and cheerful colors of Eden.

“Now, now,” the captain clucked to her like a hen to her chick, “you’ll be fine. I expect the Lady will keep you too busy to miss us much.”

She turned and raised her hand in stiff salute to the crew. They smiled or nodded from their places, still overawed by the sight of Avalon. The captain lowered a rope ladder over the side and climbed down first. He handed the bag over to the Druid, then returned for Megan. With a final wave to the sailors, she followed him down the ladder and settled on a narrow bench, retrieving her bag from the bottom. The Druid turned his small craft, delicate as a mosquito, and poled back to shore. Megan glanced over her shoulder as they drew close to shore, but the ship was already turning toward the open sea. She settled in the skiff and looked at the Tor.

After a few more expert pushes with the pole, her guide stepped into the shallow water, pulled the skiff onto the beach and held out a hand for Megan. For the first time in five days, she put her feet on firm ground, but it still seemed to bob with the rhythm of the sea.

The woman who was waiting stepped forward. “Welcome to Avalon. May you find peace here.” The words had the ring of a ritualized greeting.

“Thank you,” Megan said, and introduced herself.

“My name is Thalana,” the woman said.

“An Atlantean name.”

“Yes, I was born in Authochthesa.” It was the far northern coastal region of Atlantis, close to Iber. Megan never visited it. Thalana took her bag. “Come, I will take you to your quarters.”

Megan turned to thank the Druid boatman, but found he also slipped away, his boat already blurred in the mist. They climbed the first hill along a narrow path through tall trees, a mix of ash, hawthorn, and oak. The forest thinned and then gave way to a green expanse. They walked along the spine of the hill. The settlement of the Sisters of Avalon nestled in the clearing at the foot of this knoll, below the ceremonial site. The thatched roofs of the cottages blended into Chalice Hill and the Tor that rose behind them. Clusters of woodland herbs nestled among the trees surrounding the village, if village you could call it.

Thalana stopped in front of the first cottage on the edge of the tiny settlement. “This is for visitors.” She put Megan’s bag down on the threshold. “Settle in and I’ll come get you when the Lady can see you.”

Megan’s stomach gave a growl—she skipped breakfast—but she thanked Thalana, took up her bag and walked in, closing the rounded oak door behind her. Sudden tears blurred her vision as she took in her surroundings. This was her third new home in the space of ten days. Before, she lived in the same house, the same room, surrounded by the same people. There was always someone to listen, someone to play with, someone to comfort any hurt. Not anymore. Now she was alone in a cold, gray land of stone and water and dark trees, away from her family, away from the man who awoke her budding womanhood. He was the one who sent her, in fact.

She shook her head, trying to master herself. Avalon was her mother’s old home. She had family here. Soon she would meet them, and she would meet the Lady. Megan wiped the tears from her face and forced herself to explore the new cottage. She found a small nook for preparing food, and on the table sat a jug of water, a loaf of bread, a round of cheese, and a few of last fall’s apples—a bit withered, but giving off a wholesome scent. Her stomach growled again, as demanding as a younger sibling. Beside the kitchen was a private bath. Steam rose from the tub prepared to welcome a traveler. Next to the bathroom was a bedroom with a view of the hill she just came from. Megan dropped her bag by the bed, stripped off her clothes, and sank into the steaming water. She lathered up with rose-scented soap.

After putting on the last of her clean clothes, Megan helped herself to a late lunch. She opened the door to explore the group of cottages, but found she only had the energy to sit in a pool of sunlight and munch the cheese and fruit. Lore promised eternal life for those who ate the apples of Avalon. A black, long-haired cat with wide yellow eyes and a splotch of white on his chest sauntered up, plopped down and turned on his back, offering his belly to be scratched. Megan obliged him, and after a while found her usual good mood restored.

While she sat with the cat, two women walked down toward the water where a small boat, much like the one the Druid ferried her on, waited. They gave her a friendly wave on their way. The woman in the boat was small, with dark hair and olive skin. She gave the women woven reed baskets brimming with fish and vegetables, then turned and poled away. This answered one mystery of Avalon.

When the sun had moved halfway down the sky, Thalana appeared. She pointed to the cat, which now lay in Megan’s lap. “I see Malcolm has befriended you.”

“Oh,” Megan scratched under the cat’s chin. “Is that your name?”

“The Lady will see you now.”

Megan put the cat down and stood, shaking out her skirts. In the last two weeks, she faced the Circle of Thirteen, the leader of the Crystal Matrix Chamber, the head of the Crystal Guild, and now the Lady of Avalon awaited her. This time she felt no anxiety. Was she getting used to this constant judging, this assessment of her abilities and flaws, or was it this place that made her drowsy and tranquil? She followed Thalana through the small cluster of huts and across a meadow full of early spring flowers whose names she did not know. Malcolm followed. They came to a stream splashing through rocks and followed it up the hill to a stone-lined pool in front of a long hedge. At one end, a horse drank; it lifted its head to look at them, muzzle dripping. A butterfly flitted by and Malcolm abandoned her to chase it.

Thalana opened a gate in the hedge and Megan followed her up a grassy slope to a flat area circled by yews. A tiny stone shelter huddled behind the circle in the midst of thicker yews. Behind it the hillside darkened, suggesting the mouth of a cave. Two streams ran on either side of the circle, murmuring amongst the roots of trees. An older woman sat on a mossy stone bench, a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Thalana stopped a few feet away from her and waited. The woman raised her hand and beckoned to Megan.

“The Lady of Avalon,” Thalana said in a low voice.

Megan hesitated, a sudden knot in her stomach.

“Go on,” Thalana whispered. “The Circle of Thirteen is much scarier than this.”

Megan jerked her head up to see Thalana smiling. This place was not so foreign after all. She walked across the expanse of needled forest floor and kneeled before the Lady.

“Sit.” The woman patted the stone bench beside her.

“Yes, my lady.”

The woman chuckled. “I see my niece has raised you properly.”

“What?” Megan gaped, forgetting her manners altogether.

A silvery laugh escaped the Lady of Avalon. She sounded much younger than the wrinkles around her eyes suggested. “Probably great-great-niece, but who can keep up?” She patted the bench again. She had the same curly brown hair and ocean blue eyes as Megan, only her hair was streaked with silver. “How is Pleione? I haven’t seen her in some time.”