Magdalen Rising (40 page)

“They have been seen together under the yews,” said Lovernios, his face expressionless.

“Have...been...seen?” the archdruid repeated, stressing each word.

“I myself have seen them,” Foxface amended.

“Do you deny that you have held lovers' trysts under the yews?” the archdruid asked us.

“No,” said Esus.

“But we were never lovers until the shortest day of the year!” I cried out. “At
Lughnasad
Esus ab Joseph was sealed in Bryn Celli Ddu.”

The sharp druid's mild gaze sharpened. No doubt he was remembering what Lovernios had said on
Samhain
about people who angered the gods with wanton trespass in sacred places.

“Well then,” the archdruid said smoothly, “supposing what you say is true and putting aside—for the moment—the matter of how you came to be in possession of information no initiate is permitted to divulge, then tell us, Maeve Rhuad, tell us truly, who is the father of your child?”

I stepped out from behind Esus. As I stood face to face with Lovernios, I started to shake. Holding myself as still as I could, I looked at him, trying to fix in my mind who he was: fox, druid, bird of prey. Beyond all his changeableness was the face I had glimpsed beneath Bride's breast, the face that was mine and not mine. I saw this face not as a distorted reflection of my own but as another version, another telling of the same story. Another truth. Silently I pleaded with him: Go on, speak. Tell your story. But he just stood very still, looking past me at something no one else could see.

“Maeve Rhuad,” the archdruid prompted. “You will name the father of your child.”

“He is,” I whispered.

“Who is? Speak up.”

Lovernios's face swam before my eyes. I felt the dark waters close over my head as I sank down to the land beneath the wave where my father lived.

“My father is the father.” I spoke slowly, my words swimming through fathoms of water to reach the surface.

“The child is raving!” said a Crow. “The strain has been too much for her. We should never have kept her standing under question. Look, she's about to swoon.”

I was swaying in the cold, cold undersea currents, but Esus held me fast. The night air was warm, but he was warmth itself, the warmth of the sun, of the earth steeped in sun. He was the dry land. As long as I was rooted in him, the angry riptide could not carry me away.

“In my own country of Galilee there was once a wise and learned man, a rabbi, a great teacher whom everyone respected.” Esus began to speak.

My head cleared a little, of necessity. What was he up to? I opened my eyes, which I had not realized till then I had closed. Foxface was paying close attention to Esus. Everyone was.

“Whenever this rabbi went out of his house to teach in the square or to pray in the synagogue, all the people would cry: There goes a righteous man. The rabbi was particularly revered by the young men and warriors who were trying to free the holy city of Jerusalem from the domination of Rome. Whenever he was not at home, he would travel from village to village preaching against the Roman occupation and encouraging the people to do whatever they could to resist. So great was his reputation that kings and warriors sought his advice.”

I was standing so close to Esus that I could feel the vibration of his voice, the tautness of his muscles. I watched Foxface. I saw the very moment when a bead of sweat appeared on his brow and caught the light of the moon, now brighter than the dying fire.

“And yet I say to you that though this man was revered, the honor he received tasted bitter to him and the word of small victories against Rome rang hollow in his ears.”

Esus paused, perhaps for effect, and perhaps to consider a fine point of translation. He was speaking P-Celtic.

“Why? What was his problem?” his listeners urged him on, caught up in the story. For the moment everyone was more concerned with what happened next than with anything else.

“He had broken a great
geis.”

The audience nodded. It happens to the best of us.

“But that is not all. Only he knew of the
geis.
Only he knew that he had broken it. And when disasters followed, he kept his secret and did not tell the people of his transgression.”

“But how can that be?” Lovernios interrupted. His voice was calm and reasonable in contrast to his face that had turned pale with a greenish cast like the air before a thunder storm. “When someone breaks a geis, disaster, destruction, or death come upon him alone.”

“Usually,” someone added. Throats cleared as the faculty prepared to debate the point.

“Perhaps that is a difference between your people and mine.” Esus jumped in quickly. He knew all the pitfalls of learned discourse. “Among my people it often happens that not only the wrong-doer suffers but the innocent suffer.” He waited exactly one beat. “The lambs suffer.”

I shifted my weight and drew aside so that I could look at Esus. He stood silent and intent. It was the silence of sap rising in a young, straight tree, the silence of surging green life. My foster brother directed all that vibrant power towards Lovernios who seemed at once to yearn towards Esus and to shrink from him.

“It is true,” mused the archdruid, “that when a king is wounded the land is barren. But your story is not about a king. Tell us, Esus ab Joseph, what finally happened to the wise man. Did he ever tell his secret?”

“I don't know. Yet.”

“Then what is the point of your story?”

“That is the point. The wise man must choose.”

The blood that had drained from Lovernios's face flooded back in a sudden rush. His jaw tightened.

“You have said you are under a geis, Esus ab Joseph,” said the archdruid. “Perhaps you will choose now to speak.”

Esus said nothing.

“You will at least show me the courtesy of facing me when I address you,” the archdruid commanded.

Obviously reluctant to break his connection with Lovernios, Esus slowly turned to obey. But I was quicker. Whirling around I placed myself between Esus and the archdruid.

“I myself laid a
geis
upon Esus ab Joseph. It's none of anyone's business what it was. Far from breaking it, he has honored it fully. This I swear on my own life and on the life within me. I swear it on my mother's womb and on the sixteen breasts of the eight mothers who gave me suck. I swear it on the Cailleach who initiated me into the mysteries. And—” Inspiration struck. “—I swear it on the Shining Isle of Tir na mBan.”

The air could scarcely grow sweeter or balmier, but suddenly it was full of sighs and low, sensual moans. One of the Crows began to sing a wordless song in a deep, quavering voice. Even the old archdruid closed his eyes and swayed rhythmically. Only Esus and I were unaffected. Only we saw Lovernios turn away from the circle to vomit.

I grabbed Esus's arm. “Let's get going while the going's good.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Maeve, where could we possibly go?”

“What were we saying?” The archdruid came to, looking a bit muddled, looking, in fact, like an old man longing for his bed, bone tired of this tedious business of probing, divining, and uttering wisdom.

“We were saying....” A new voice spoke. I turned and saw Dwynwyn elbowing aside a couple of druids as she entered the circle. She wore her usual blood-red tunic, her necklace of small skulls gleaming on her breast, her white hair floating all around her like moonstruck sea mist. “Or were about to say or might have said long since, if we weren't so long-winded, that Maeve Rhuad, the daughter of a god, has conceived by a god, which makes perfect sense, coming as she does from the, uh, let's just say, Otherworld.”

“The ways of the gods are strange. They come to us in many guises. Often in the guise of a Stranger.”

“Who speaks?” Dwynwyn shaded her eyes with her hands, as if the light were very bright, and peered around the circle. “Ah, Lovernios. The famed fox. Hear this, and take heed: A man can be a stranger to himself.”

Then she rounded on the archdruid. “As for you, you and your whole flock of Cranes and Crows, next time you need someone to help you locate the noses on your faces, call me. Sooner rather than later. I may have only one good eye, but it sees clearer than any pair of yours. Now I will take Maeve Rhuad back with me to my island. I am the best midwife on all of Mona mam Cymru. I will receive the god-begotten child into my own hands, and I will mediate for the Combrogos with the Otherworld.”

“Not so hasty, not so hasty, my dear Dwynwyn for whom I—and I believe I speak for my colleagues as well—have only the highest regard and esteem—”

“Pigs' testicles,” spat Dwynwyn. “Get to the point.”

“I will endeavor to do so. As I was saying, accepting your rebuke as perhaps deserved, I must nevertheless inform you that I cannot allow you to take Maeve Rhuad into your care. She is a student of the Druid College of Mona, and as such she is under our jurisdiction.”

“Does anyone want to know what
I
want?” In fact, I wasn't sure myself, but I thought it was about time I raised that point.

“Hush, Maeve,” said everyone in concert, and they went on arguing.

I felt as if I was back on Tir na mBan with my mothers united only in ignoring me while they ranted about childrearing. Suddenly, I was so tired. I wished some mother would pick me up and carry me to bed. I leaned against Esus who put both arms around me and held me tightly.

“Look! The child is asleep on her feet,” cried Moira. “We are taking her with us to Caer Leb this instant.”

Then I was enfolded in Crow wings.

“Esus,” I called. “Dwynwyn.”

I looked over my shoulder to see them standing next to each other. Maybe it was the moonlight, maybe it was the growing distance between us, but Dwynwyn's white hair looked like a purple shawl. The red had drained from her dress. She held a white dove in her hand.

A
T THE DRUID COLLEGE of Mona, students did not have a spring break in the sense that college students do now. We did not pile into overloaded cars and drive all night to some overcrowded mecca of sun and booze. But after
Imbolc,
with the weather continuing mild and the living infinitely easier, a party mood prevailed—especially at Caer Leb. And guess who was life of the party, the hub of the bub, the queen of a carnival that would not give way to a dreary forty-day Lent? That's right: the old cosmic M, as in me, M, as in miracle worker, M as in Maeve Rhuad.

Now that my pregnancy had been publicly revealed, and under such dramatic circumstances, my growing belly became an object of attention and affection. Dwynwyn had effectively settled the hash of the child's paternity—some god or other. For the moment, everyone seemed content to leave it at that. In the absence of an ordinary father, the unborn child belonged to everyone. She became the class mascot; we had names for her: Small Moon, to commemorate the moment of her unveiling when the clouds parted and the big moon shone; and also Moon Calf, in honor of the white cow with the red ears.

Naturally, the fame of my pregnancy spread beyond the college. Lore grew up around me. People came from all over to touch and stroke my roundness for good luck. The Crows had the added responsibility of scheduling and supervising these audiences. Though I am sure they found their new duties onerous, the sight of my great belly had a softening effect on them, too. They made up for months of “ignoring what was under their noses,” as Dwynwyn put it, by now sticking those noses into every minute detail. They brooded over my every bowel movement; they constantly checked the rims of my eyes for anemia. (They didn't call it that, but they knew what to look for.) They kept track of what I ate and often forced the chopped livers of various creatures down my throat. No one had more painstaking or painful prenatal care than I had in the last few months of my pregnancy. I accepted their excessive interest with as good a grace as I could muster. Their vigilance in monitoring every detail of my pregnancy was matched with a laxness regarding everything
else. As long as they could examine me to their hearts' content, they didn't much mind what I—or anyone else—did.

Every night after we'd labored under the stone—(Except for me. I did my memory work but had weight enough pressing on my internal organs)—we'd gather outside around a fire. I'd hoist my tunic and let my hut mates, and anyone else who was hanging out, take turns placing their hands or heads over my belly. Moon Calf responded to this attention by performing amazing antics in her increasingly cramped space. No doubt her leaps and turns were encouraged by the chief harper who often came to play at Caer Leb while others drummed and the rest danced. The ground quivered and the whole earth quickened. I usually danced a turn or two myself, though I was easily winded these days. Most often I lolled, sipping the minuscule amount of mead the Crows allowed me.

Branwen was never far from my side. Maybe because I was uncharacteristically silent, content in my magnificent being, she was uncharacteristically talkative. It troubled her that no one appeared to be considering what would happen when the baby was born. To reassure herself, she made plans and went over them obsessively. Her favorite was that first form should keep the baby and raise it collectively. The child could get a head start on her studies while, by sharing her care, the rest of us could keep up with ours. Since this solution was so unprecedented, she felt obliged to have a contingency plan, which was that the child should be fostered among her own kin. Without being quite sure why, I tuned out most of Branwen's talk. Her voice became background, like the crackle of flames, or the endless, soft moan of wind.

The only person at Caer Leb who kept her reserve and refused to worship the great sacred mound was Viviane. One day when we found ourselves alone—(again at the trenches; for once, I had managed to sneak away without a Crow on my tail)—I asked her outright if the sight of my pregnancy caused her pain.

“It's not that,” she said, stiff with pride. “Well, I suppose it is, at least in part. Don't we always wonder about the course we didn't choose? Isn't that part of what makes life so hard?”

Life hard? Oh, no. Despite my exposure to violence and rage, I rejected her words. From now on, life was going to be all honey on the lips, mead singing in the blood.

“But it's not just that. I'll swear it,” she went on, her tone horribly earnest. “Remember how Dwynwyn said I'm your true enemy? Maybe
that means I can see some things more clearly than Branwen or Nissyen or the Stranger or even the Crows. Anyway, I do know one thing: I was with you right before it happened. At moonrise, remember? When you and I were left alone at Caer Leb. That's the night it happened, isn't it? That's the night you conceived.”

“You told me before that you didn't want to know anything about it,” I said coldly. “Why are you asking now?”

The truth was, I didn't want to think of that night. I had almost forgotten about it. Not forgotten in the sense of being unable to remember, but forgotten as if it didn't matter any more. I was angry with Viviane for bringing it up.

“Believe me, I don't want to know. But I still owe you a debt.”

“Drop it,” I said shortly. “You've helped me enough. The blood on my thighs—”

“I haven't saved your life.” She was dead serious.

“Sorry, but I don't think that will be necessary,” I said airily.

“Don't be so sure,” she cautioned. “Maeve, I have to tell you: I'm worried. Something's wrong. And I can't help feeling in some way responsible. If it did happen that night, then I let you go. I let you deceive me.”

“I didn't mean to deceive you. I just didn't want to involve you.”

“You mean you didn't want me to interfere with you. So, you admit it. Look, whether or not I want to know, why don't you just tell me what happened that night.”

I shook my head and bit my lip till I tasted blood. She waited.

“Viviane,” I finally said, “I got through that whole ordeal with the Crows and the Cranes on
Imbolc.
You weren't there, but believe me, it was no picnic. Dwynwyn came along and told everyone that a god fathered my child. If that was good enough for the Cranes and Crows, it should be good enough for you. Besides, what difference does it make how it happened, anyway? That part is all over now. It doesn't matter anymore.”

“I think you're fooling yourself, Maeve.”

“And I think you're jealous, if not of my baby, then of all the attention I'm getting because of her. And maybe you're jealous because I made the hard winter go away, and everyone knows it.”

“If you want to insult me, Maeve Rhuad, go right ahead. We wouldn't want to jeopardize our precious enmity. Ha! Fat chance of that. So I'll tell you straight out, I think you're stupid to talk that way.”

“What way?”

“Putting on airs, getting above yourself, saying you brought winter to an end.”

“Well, it did end. I'm just stating the obvious.”

“Yes, it did. And if you had anything to do with it, it's that you made yourself an opening for something greater than your silly little self to come through, just the way you did when you saved my miserable life, thank you very much.”

“If I was just an opening, why do you persist in pestering me about the bloody debt you owe me?”

“Because you did not have to open yourself,” she said, ruthlessly honest with herself. “Well, that's all I have to say. I've warned you. Maybe you'll be able to take in some of what I've said when you're not so...so full of yourself.”

So full of shit, I bet she meant. And she turned and flounced away.

There is no denying that Viviane's warning marred my pleasure, at least for an evening. I felt listless as I lay back listening to the music and laughter. Perhaps sensing my mood, Branwen for once did not review her postnatal plans. Instead, she silently massaged my belly with oil. Now and again one of her long braids slipped over her shoulder and tickled me, but I didn't laugh. I was staring at the stars. They seemed a bit wan and peaked, as though they were weary of shining.

The best and worst part about this time was that I was allowed to see Esus—more or less. Excursions to the yews were out of the question. We were both under scrutiny, and even if no one stopped us, we could never feel safe or private there again. But as I've noted, Caer Leb had become a hot spot and rules, in general, had relaxed. Whenever the ovate students could spare time from their studies, they came to our caer to party. So we had time together, of a sort, in the midst of a crowd. Often he sat near me, but not near enough to touch me. People were always coming up to talk to me—or rather to prattle and coo to my belly. It was hard to have a private conversation. Our most intimate exchanges were made with our eyes, and I suspect many of these speaking glances were intercepted by watchful Cranes and Crows.

Lately I had noticed that something was bothering him. His brows almost met, they were so tightly knit, and he chewed constantly at his cheek. I tried to tell myself that he was merely frustrated by the lack of privacy. But after my encounter with Viviane, I began to suspect that he,
too, thought something was wrong. One night when almost everyone else, even the Crows, were dancing a reel, Esus came and sat closer to me than he had in a long time. Small Moon leaped, and I laughed and reached for Esus's hand, placing it on my bared belly.

“She is happy to see you.”

“It can't see me,” he stated, and he removed his hand.

“How do you know?” I demanded. “Anyway, she feels you near. You could return her greeting. There now. You've hurt her feelings. She's turning her back on you.”

I was still absorbed in watching her maneuvers.

“People are worshipping your belly, Maeve,” he said in Aramaic. “You shouldn't let them.”

“Why not, if they enjoy it?”

“It's like the Israelites worshipping the golden calf.”

“Moon Calf is not a golden idol!” I was still speaking more to the baby, than to Esus. “She's alive. What's wrong with worshipping life? Besides,” I added, turning towards him, “I never did understand why stone tablets with rules carved on them are a better thing to worship than a golden calf.”

“I've explained this to you before, Maeve.” He was thoroughly exasperated with me. “My people don't worship stone tablets. They don't worship rules, written or unwritten. They worship the living God.”

“A god they can't see or touch,” I countered. “Look, Esus, look!” I pointed to my belly. “Here is a wonder people can see and touch. You could, too, if you'd let yourself. Why do you have to spoil everything by bringing Yahweh into it? If that's all you can think of all the time, why don't you just leave me alone and go back to his country?”

We were spoiling for a fight. What young lovers wouldn't be, under the circumstances?

“You said it yourself, Maeve: There is nowhere that the Eternal One is not. Besides, regardless of whether or not you believe in Yahweh—and I know you are a thoroughly unregenerate gentile, despite the mercy and favor the Most High has shown to you—”

“Oh, give that a rest.”

“—no matter what you believe or don't believe, you are making an unseemly display of yourself.”

The reel had ended, but hearing raised voices speaking a foreign tongue, the crowd held back, giving us a few feet of privacy. Not that we cared, at that point.

“You're jealous.” This seemed to be my all-purpose counterattack. “Just like your god. You don't want anyone else to see me. You don't want anyone else to touch me. Well, I've got news for you, brother. I don't belong to you. I am not a slave. My body is mine. I do with it as I please. I belong to myself.”

I took my eyes off my holy belly long enough to glare fiercely at Esus. I was momentarily taken aback. His eyes were hot with anger; the set of his mouth, cold. It was one thing to be outraged and imperious myself and quite another to realize that he was even more furious with me.

“No one belongs to himself, excuse me, or herself.” His voice was rich with scorn. “Whether or not I am jealous is beside the point. Have you no shame? Have you no modesty?”

Had we not been speaking Aramaic, he might not have been able to ask those questions—or not in this context. Shame for the
Keltoi
had nothing to do with how many clothes you did or didn't have on. And modesty was decidedly not a virtue. So I didn't actually know what Esus was talking about.