The Shining City (25 page)

“Do no‟ let go o‟ my hand,” she said in Olwynne‟s ear. “Hold on to me tightly. Remember, ye walk the dream-road. All this is only a dream.”

Olwynne could hardly hear her over the raucous screech of the ravens. She felt beaks and sharp claws slashing at her face and arms, tearing her skin.

“It is only a dream,” Ghislaine repeated. “Walk with me.”

Her hand was so insistent that Olwynne had no choice. She stumbled forward a few steps, and the cloud of black birds rose and swirled away, and she was once again standing on the chalky road, a cold wind tugging at her hair. She lifted her hand to her face and was surprised to find herself unscratched. The raven still watched them with an unblinking eye. Olwynne stared back suspiciously.

“The raven may be the gatekeeper o‟ your door,” Ghislaine said. “If so, it is here to guard and guide ye. It is a powerful symbol, the raven, the bringer o‟ truth.”

Olwynne shook her head instinctively. She knew the raven meant her ill.

“Ye may speak here; I shall hear,” Ghislaine said.

Olwynne tried to speak but her throat was dry and sore. She cleared it and tried again. “The raven . . . it brings only nightmares.”

Ghislaine frowned and regarded the raven. It cawed mockingly and rose into the air with lazy beats of its wings, circling the thorn tree once, twice, thrice, before soaring away. Ghislaine stood still, holding Olwynne fast when she would have stepped forward.

“Look about ye,” she said. “Do no‟ let the raven distract ye. Can ye see anything?”

Olwynne glanced about, seeing nothing but a vast undulating landscape, empty of all life.

Suddenly Ghislaine bent, beckoning to Olwynne to do the same.

“Look, a spider,” she whispered. “Spinning her web.”

A tiny spider, no bigger than Olwynne‟s smallest fingernail, was busy constructing a delicate cobweb between thistles.

“Is that my gatekeeper?” Olwynne asked, disappointed.

“Perhaps,” Ghislaine answered. “If so, it is a great omen, Olwynne. The web a spider spins represents the web that holds all worlds and all creatures together. She is a creature o‟ the Three Spinners and thus o‟ Eà herself. If she is your guide and guard, then I feel ye are blessed indeed.”

“Ye said that about the raven,” Olwynne muttered.

Ghislaine‟s face was stern. “Ye are in the dream world now. No‟ all is as it seems.” She indicated the spider. “Pick her up. Greet her. She is here to help.”

Reluctantly Olwynne bent and laid her finger across the spider silk, breaking it. The spider dangled below. Olwynne lifted her hand so the spider hung level with her eyes. She stared, surprised to find it was a pretty creature, soft and grey. Not knowing what else to say, she muttered the ritual greeting, “How are ye yourself?” and felt silly and uncomfortable. The spider hung there a few seconds longer, then rapidly descended on her fragile line of silk and swung back into the thistle.

“Let us walk,” Ghislaine said.

Hand in hand they walked down the road. “Where are we going?” Olwynne asked. “Where does the road lead?”

“I dinna ken,” Ghislaine answered. “This is your dream. Take me where ye will.”

Olwynne dragged her feet. “I do no‟ ken where we go.”

“What do ye wish to see?” Ghislaine asked. “Or more important, what are ye afraid to see?”

At once another door stood before them, slightly ajar. It was made of heavy oak and barred with iron. Olwynne did not want to open it, but Ghislaine raised her hand and Olwynne‟s with it, and pushed the door open.

Lewen stood inside, Rhiannon in his arms, his mouth on her neck. Rhiannon looked over his shoulder at Olwynne and smiled triumphantly, gloatingly. Lewen pushed Rhiannon onto the bed.

Olwynne watched, half-repelled, half-fascinated, as he slid his hand up her bare leg, pushing her dress up around her waist. Olwynne slammed the door shut. Tears stung her eyes.

“Open the door, if ye wish to see,” Ghislaine said implacably.

After a moment, hating her, Olwynne opened the door again. Rhiannon was astride a black winged horse. It was evening. Lightning flashed and thunder muttered. Lewen clung to her hand, drawing her down to kiss her. Their mouths fit together, then at last drew reluctantly away. The horse leaped up and away into the dark stormy sky, black disappearing into black. Lewen turned away. At the sight of his face, Olwynne stepped forward, hand outstretched, longing to comfort him. He brushed past her as if she did not exist. Tears poured down her face, and then the whole world was awash with rain. It battered Olwynne‟s face and body, soaked her hair and clothes, swirled up around her knees till she could barely stand. She fell to her knees and wept and wept.

“Walk on,” Ghislaine‟s voice whispered. Olwynne became aware the sorceress kneeled beside her in the rising water. “Come. Walk on.”

Wiping her face with her free arm, Olwynne struggled to her feet and took a faltering step forward. The rain pelting her face softened and warmed. She realized feathers were now whirling against her, black feathers. They tickled her nose and throat and made her cough. Faster and faster they whirled against her, like black snowflakes. She began to fear they would engulf her, suffocate her. She flailed wildly, coughing.

“Walk on,” Ghislaine urged. “Walk on.”

“I canna!” Olwynne cried, choking on feathers. “Which way, which way?”

“Follow the girl,” Ghislaine whispered. “She may be the key.”

Olwynne looked up wildly. Somewhere far above her, the moon was breaking out of clouds, and silhouetted against it was the shape of a black flying horse and rider. Olwynne leaped to the silvery break, and found herself flying. Olwynne had always longed to fly, all her life, the only child without wings in her family. She had always imagined it to be a glorious feeling. It was not. Helter-skelter she flew through the air, wind dragging at her, endless space yawning about her, blind and deaf and terrified.

“I am here,” Ghislaine said in her ear. “Fly on.”

They burst out of the storm into a deep, calm, silvery place somewhere between the clouds and the moon. The girl Rhiannon lay sleeping, curled into tendrils of mist as if it were an eiderdown.

Her hair writhed out among the softness like sleepy black snakes. She opened her eyes and said in a deep, gruff voice, “There are ghosts gathering close all about. I see them. He must beware.”

“Who?” Olwynne demanded.

Rhiannon shook her head and shrugged, bewildered. “Him. The one with the singing staff.” She pointed away into the darkness. Olwynne turned and saw a man standing with his back to her, a long way away. He was draped in some long black cloak. She took a step towards him, then another. Each step seemed to take her leagues across the sky. Now he was standing just before her. She saw his cloak was made of feathers. He held a tall staff between his hands. Crowning the staff was a round white orb. Light twisted in its heart. Faint music of indescribable beauty lilted and fell.

“Dai?”
she whispered.
“Dai-dein?”

He turned to her gravely, looking at her with hollow eyes. Horror crept over her. Olwynne knew without a doubt that her father was dead. She tried to seize him but Ghislaine was still there beside her, holding her fast. She struggled to be free, but the sorceress would not let her go. All she could manage was to reach out one despairing hand. It brushed through him, touching only icy-cold air.

“No!” she cried. He seemed to shiver and dissolve like ice crystals before her, leaving only a plume of snow that trailed away in the wind. Olwynne leaped after him, jerking Ghislaine after her.

D
own they fell, plummeting through freezing darkness. Ghislaine was clutching her hand so hard it was numb with pain. Olwynne tumbled head over heels helplessly. She had never been so afraid. Suddenly she saw, shining faintly in the abyss, a delicate thread. Again she flung out her free hand. Somehow she caught it.

They swung gently back and forth in the darkness, buffeted by needle-sharp winds. Distance howled in their ears. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, they began to rise, the line of spider silk drawing them ever higher.

“Thank ye, thank ye,” Olwynne whispered.

They came again to clouds and water. It was hard to tell if it was rain, or river, or sea. There was ground beneath their feet, boggy and unstable. Olwynne could hardly see through the mist or rain or sea spray. She tried to say, “My father,” but her grief choked her.

“Walk on,” Ghislaine urged. “We must find out how, when, why. Walk on.”

Olwynne walked on. She came through a door into the palace banquet hall. Couples danced, minstrels played their instruments, candles shone among flowers. Olwynne‟s father sat at the high table beside her mother, his black head bent over her curly red one. They shone with happiness.

Donncan was dancing with Bronwen, who wore a wreath of flowers on her head. Her dress

belled out around her as she spun, shimmering like moonlight. People jostled everywhere, drinking, eating, gossiping, all dressed in gorgeous silks and satins and glittering jewels.

Everywhere Olwynne looked she saw laughing faces. She grew frantic, seeing nothing to help her.

“Walk on,” Ghislaine whispered.

So Olwynne moved forward into the crowd. Through the twirling mass of people she saw

someone in the shadows, a woman. Where all else was bright and gay, she was grey and still, watching. Olwynne walked slowly towards her, dread rising up in her throat like vomit. She realized mist was swirling up from the floor, dragging at her feet. She and Ghislaine struggled on, the mist now breast high and smelling like an open grave.

At last they came up close to the woman, who stood in shadow. The candlelit banquet hall seemed very far away, and the sounds came distorted, as if through water. With a jerk of her heart Olwynne saw two faces, two spirits, one inside the other like water inside a glass jug. With eyes inside eyes, mouth inside mouth, hand inside hand, intent inside intent, it was hard to see who she was. Just as Olwynne felt she almost knew her, the other face pressed out and took over, and the insight was lost.

She saw the hand lift to the mouth, saw something dark and fierce fly out, straight across the dance floor and into Lachlan‟s throat. He jerked and slapped at his skin, as if at a stinging fly.

His face grew livid. He stood and swayed and tried to cry out. Then he fell. The floor beneath him dissolved into darkness, and he fell away into it, his wings folding up about his face. Away he fell, into the abyss, and all that was left was one small black feather, floating in an eddy of air.

Olwynne felt tears on her face, or rain. The scene slipped away from her, as if she stood on a boat on a slowly moving river. Mist surrounded her. Her whole body was numb with cold. The arm that Ghislaine hung on to ached fiercely. She would have liked to slip her hand free, to be released from that heavy weight, but she was too tired, too miserable. She began to long to wake up, to leave this dreadful nightmare behind her.

“No‟ yet,” Ghislaine said. “We may walk each dream-road only once. We must walk on.”

Olwynne shook her head. Her arms and legs were stiff and heavy as logs.

“Walk on,” Ghislaine urged.

Olwynne tried, but her body would not obey her. She wanted to lie down in the boat and let it take her down the river into sleep.

“Ye must no‟ fall asleep in your dreams,” Ghislaine commanded. “Olwynne! Rouse yourself!

Walk on.”

Olwynne tried. After a moment her foot moved, just a fraction of an inch. Her next step was a little larger. She felt excruciatingly painful pins and needles creeping up her muscles, and froze still, pressing her feet hard against the ground.

“Walk on!” Ghislaine cried, and Olwynne did. She was stumbling through icy mud and water, matted with reeds, obscured with mist, but she was walking.

“Good lass,” Ghislaine said, heartfelt relief in her voice. “Just keep on walking.”

“Where to?” Olwynne asked, hearing the despair in her voice.

Ghislaine hesitated. “I dinna ken,” she answered at last, very low. “This is a dark road ye walk, lass. I canna see my way.”

“Which way am I meant to go?” Olwynne cried out loud. “Help me! Which way?”

“What do ye wish to see?” Ghislaine asked. Her voice sounded strange, as if she spoke in a windy ravine. Her hand was icy cold. “Or, more important, what are ye afraid to see?”

At once there was another door before them. It was the color of blood and had a knocker in the shape of a skull, with eyes that glowed. Olwynne dared not raise her hand to push it open. Her limbs were trembling. She looked at Ghislaine, wanting reassurance. To her horror she did not hold hands with the sorceress anymore but with a small skeleton dressed in a long white nightgown. The skeleton turned hollow eye sockets to her, saying in that thin, echoing voice, “So cold. So cold.”

Olwynne screamed and tried desperately to wrench her hand away. The skeleton clung on with unnatural strength. Olwynne felt as if it was crushing all the bones of her hand. “Help me,” it whispered. “Help me.”

“Ghislaine!” Olwynne screamed.

At once the sorceress was beside her, looking at her with startled eyes. “What is it? What‟s wrong?”