Isolde: Queen of the Western Isle (22 page)

Isolde felt the ground slipping beneath her feet. "But we don't!" she cried. "Women don't!"

"Ah, little one—"

Now it was the Queen's turn to fold her in her arms. "We do it all the time," she murmured. "All the time."

Isolde felt herself dissolving into tears. "I never will." She wept fiercely on her mother's breast. "Never on this earth!"

"Be careful, child!" Suddenly her mother's hard brown finger was on her lips. "Never is too long a word to say."

This is madness. I must not listen to this.
The thought catapulted Isolde out of her tears. "Madam, I—"

"The pilgrim." The Queen's voice took on a strange, incantatory note. "He was a worthy knight and the son of a king. You were the beautiful daughter I knew I would have. You came from the love I had for such a man. I only wanted the joy of that for you."

"Joy, madam?" Isolde felt older than the Old Ones themselves. "You mean lying down with a man? Has it brought joy to you?"

The Queen's eyes slid sideways. "Joy and pain. They weave together in the loom of life."

More madness.
Isolde pressed her fists to the side of her head. "I dream of spirit children," the Queen sang on. "Little ones in white and gold who smile and laugh and play about the throne. Your children, Isolde—when they come to us." She smiled roguishly. "And till then—"
Till then, what?

With a sick lurch, Isolde saw her mother looking at Sir Tolen, who smirked and braced himself and sheathed his sword. Any minute now he would take the Queen from her arms and carry her back to the castle for the brief feast of oblivion she found in men's flesh.

And tomorrow, what, Mother?

Sir Tolen in the place of Sir Marhaus?

A new chosen one young enough to be your son?

She turned to the knights muttering in the rear.

"Put up your swords," she called strongly, "and escort us home." She looked Sir Tolen in the eye and waved him away. "You are free to go about your business, sir. The Queen will sleep in my quarters tonight."

"Alas, lady—"

He stepped forward with a foxy stare, and showed his white teeth in a confident grin. "Her Majesty commanded my attendance tonight."

Isolde turned to the Queen. "Madam?" she ground out.

The Queen flared her eyes, fluttering her hands like a child lost in the dark. "Isolde?" she murmured through her tears.

Isolde could not breathe.
Is this my burden, written in the stars? I must be mother to my mother, even though that makes me a motherless child?

She felt a wind from Avalon and heard a voice dropping lightly from the astral plane.
Have pity. Always have pity. There is only faith and love.

It was the very sound of Avalon, the mellow teaching of the Lady of the Lake.
We must each take up our burden of pity and love.

She bowed her head.
So be it.

She looked again at Sir Tolen and saw the confused fighting boy beneath the swaggering knight.

"As you see, sir," she said as gently as she could, "the Queen is indisposed. When she is herself again, she will think of you."

"Yes, yes!" the Queen fluttered eagerly, leaning against Isolde for support.

Isolde reached out her arm and embraced the trembling form.

Take up the pitiful burden.

She turned her face toward the castle and saw its windows shining through the dark.

Home. I must get her home.

She put her arm around her mother's waist. "Come, Mother," she said. "Let me take you home."

Avalon, Avalon, sacred island, home-

Who is Queen here, Isolde, I or you?

In a frenzy, Isolde roamed the Queen's House, wrestling with her thoughts. A fitful moon tracked her steps from room to room, and the stars were cold companions for her fears. She had brought her mother home safe and seen her asleep, but where would she find a safe place for herself? There was nowhere for her since she left Avalon.

Once again she saw the sacred island, the green hill rising from its shining lake, its sleeping flanks crowned with apple blossoms, its orchards alive with the flutter of white wings and the call of doves. There she had lived and studied with the Lady and her maidens, there she had found the love of the Mother and discovered herself. Now Avalon was very far away.
Goddess, Mother, help me. What shall I do?

Earlier that night the Queen had been eager to lay down her royalty and give Isolde command. Now she was at peace, sleeping like a child, and while the Queen slept, all the world slept, too. But tomorrow—who knows?

Whooo knows?
echoed the owls in the bell tower as Isolde roamed on. Tomorrow the council would meet on affairs of state. Would her mother be fit to attend, and if she did, fit to rule?

Outside the window a lone ship was sailing down the pathway of the moon.
Where is he now?
floated into her mind. She forced the thought away. The pilgrim was nothing to her from now on. Her life lay here in Ireland, his in—

Cornwall!

She groaned aloud. Her mother had challenged the Cornish King for his throne. At the last council meeting, Sir Gilhan and others had insisted that given such provocation, any ruler could seize the chance to counterattack. King Mark might be planning his revenge against Ireland now.
Oh, Mother, Mother, those who start a war should know how to end it
—
did we?

She had come to the door of the Throne Room, where the council would meet. Looking into the chamber, her anxiety soared. Tomorrow this cool space could echo again with angry voices calling for war. Sir Gilhan and the wiser souls might find it very hard to keep the peace.

Gods and Great Ones, when will we have peace?

Brooding, she stroked her father's ring to give her strength and drifted unhappily into the vast space. The great chamber loomed stark in the moonlight, the black beams of its vaulted roof like a petrified forest, its white walls stretching away into the gloom. Ahead of her the throne stood alone on the dais, communing with itself in a powerful hum. The pale moon gilded its great gaunt shape and cast a shadow behind it as dark as night. Made of black bog oak as ancient and hard as rock, it gleamed and breathed like a living thing. Whoever had fashioned it, where it had come from was a mystery.

Beneath it lay the greatest wonder of all, a stone that had been old when the world was young. Serene and slumbering, the stone of destiny for all Ireland's queens never failed to cry out under any true ruler of the isle, and without its blessing, none of them could thrive. Till now this seat had always been her mother's place, its high back carved with scenes of the Goddess, its mighty arms ending in great crystals like the one the Queen bore as a symbol of her power. Now for the first time Isolde saw herself seated there and felt the stone calling her,
I am Lia Faill, the Stone of Destiny, approach, Isolde, draw near.

Unhesitatingly she obeyed. Entering its circle, she felt a long-forgotten calm and joy around her heart. This was one of her favorite stories, first learned at her mother's knee, years ago. In the shadow of the throne, she heard again her mother's thrilling voice from the time when she herself could hardly speak.

D'you hear me, little one?

I hear you, Mawther.

Long, long ago, when the world was young, the Shining Ones made our island out of sunshine and rain. Then the Great One Herself came here to live and called it Erin the Fair, because there was no finer land in all the world.

Erin, Mawther?

She gave it her own name. Then other lands cried for her, and she had to go. When she left, the Shining Ones left us, too, to live forever on the astral plane. Now they shine down on us from the world between the worlds, and we mortals struggle on as best we can. But they left us the sunshine and rain, and when these two hiss, the rainbow they bear is the Mother's word to us all

Word of what?

Religion should be kindness. Faith is love.

Behind the throne a low arch led down to the Dark Pool below. Once, long ago, her mother had taken her there, but she had been too young to know what she saw.

You will return, Isolde
, her mother had said then,
when the time comes
. Now another voice floated into her head.
The time is here.

Taking a torch from the wall, she passed behind the dais and down the stone steps beyond. As she felt her way carefully forward into the dark, the sweet smell of holy water rose to meet her and draw her on. Down she went and down into the fragrant gloom.

At the foot of the steps her feet encountered sand. Beyond it she saw a lake as smooth as glass. Above her arched a rounded roof of rock and around the edge of the water, boulders lay scattered here and there. Heartsick, she planted her torch in the sand and sat down. Here at least she would have peace to think.

How long she sat there musing she never knew. The low cave was warm, and its red-brown primeval rock welcomed and enfolded her like a living thing. Slowly her fears subsided and she slipped into a waking dream. She felt the soft pulse of the water keeping time with the song in her veins while kindly things rustled in the velvet air. Far off she heard the sea's eternal roar and caught the endless beat of life itself.

Now she knew that she was not alone, but part of earth's turning circle since time began. Staring into the dark, she saw all three worlds in one, the world that was, the world that is, and the world yet to come. When the waters parted, she did not see the silent head that broke the surface, and the beckoning hand. All she felt was a brief sensation of bright eyes and the memory of a smile that tugged at her hungry heart.
Avalon
, she wept,
Avalon, mystic island, home
—

The water was moving again in the middle of the lake. A dark head surfaced, and for the second time she felt a keen, bright glance and a welcoming smile. A hand called her forward, and the faint cry,
Come!
sounded insistently through the cavern's perpetual night. But still she sat entranced, unable to move.

The head vanished, and once more she was alone. Slowly, slowly, she felt her senses stir.
If the swimmer returns, this time will be the last
. She stood up and breathed deeply in the warm, scented air.

Ahead of her the lake rippled and she saw the head and shoulders of a laughing young girl. Her gray eyes twinkled, as friendly as a young seal's, and her long hair spread out around her like a cloak of seaweed. As she broke the surface, one long white arm rose straight into the air.

"Come!" she called clearly, in a strange, rusty voice. "Isolde, come!"

Then she dove and was gone.

Isolde ran forward to the edge of the lake.

Can I get back to Avalon?
ran through her mind.

There is no going back,
came the echo from her soul.
Forward, always forward, is the way of truth
.

Feverishly she tore off her overgown. Like a woman in a dream, she fumbled with her headdress, kirtle, and shoes till she stood on the edge of the water in her shift. The lake lay black and unsmiling at her feet.

Goddess, Mother, save me,
she prayed, then, flipping up like an otter, threw herself in.

The chill of the water cleansed her soul like balm. As she broke the surface, caught her breath, and looked around, the joy of the swimmer's laugh still echoed in her ears. Already she could see her guide swimming strongly away. Filling her lungs with air, Isolde doubled over and followed her down.

In the silent world beneath the lake, her body was filled with the faraway sound of the sea, and its rhythmic pull drew her forward through the dark. Ahead of her she could see the swimmer's fluttering feet as her passing disturbed the water and made it glow. Supple as a mermaid, Isolde followed the scattered flakes of light without fear. They led her down to a deep channel through the rock, and as they went, she tasted salt.

Now her chest felt hollow under the weight of the water all around. The rocky roof of the tunnel was inches above her head.
How much farther?
flickered through her mind as she drove herself on. And still she seemed to hear
Come!
ringing around her head.

On…

How much farther?

On…

Don't breathe!
she exhorted herself shrilly as her lungs contracted, loading every movement with pain. And still the rippling form ahead carved onward into the dark. Powered by desperation, she hung on to the fleeting vision with her last vestige of strength. At last she saw her guide turn upward and vanish into a shadowy pool of light. Moments later, trembling with relief, she broke the surface herself, gasping for air.

She was in a lagoon of warm water, in a low, quiet cave. Far away she could hear the cold rattle of shingle against the cliff as the sea howled round the shore. But here the air was soft and welcoming, like the warmth off the seashore on a summer night. As she found her feet and waded out of the pool, a beach of white sand ran back to a dark tangle of boulders around the walls. From the roof of the cavern to the floor, the red folds of living rock embraced her fondly, like a long-lost child. With the dull, muffled throb of the waves like a heartbeat far away, she might have been inside the womb of the world.

Around the edge of the water, a host of small fires bloomed in the rosy dark, and the salt tang of burning driftwood filled the air. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw white blossoms of spindrift wreathed around blood-red walls, and chests groaning with the riches of the sea. Her soul surged with wonder and delight.
I am in the house of the Mother. I have come to the place where the Great Ones live
.

"Isolde!"

She thought it was the voice of the maiden who had guided her here. But the slender, seal-gray form was nowhere to be seen, already lost in the gloaming at the back of the cave, where a dozen or so young women clustered round the walls.