Ancestors Of Avalon - Ancestors of Avalon Part 13
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Ancestors of Avalon Part 13

"But what is the answer?" the younger girl asked.

Timul was smiling broadly now. "The answer, my child, is yes. That is the Mystery. All the gods are one god, and all the goddesses are one goddess, and there is one initiator. Surely, even in the Temple of Light, they taught you that. . . ."

"Of course!" said Elara. "Buta"I was always given to understand that it meant we should seek past forms and images to that which lies beyond them all."

"The essence of the gods is beyond our comprehension, except for those moments when the spirit takes wingsa"" Timul looked from one girl to the other.

Elara bowed her head, remembering a moment in her childhood when she had stood watching the sun sink into the sea, straining for something she felt just beyond her grasp. And then, at the moment of greatest splendor, the door had suddenly opened, and for a moment she had felt as though she were one with the sky and the earth. Cleta also nodded, and Elara wondered what memory had come into her mind.

"But we still make statuesa"" Cleta brought them back to awareness of the present once more.

"We do, because we are in mortal bodies surrounded by physical forms. The Deep Mind speaks a language that uses symbols, not words. No amount of talking about the Goddess can communicate as much as one lovely image."

"That still does not answer my question about Caratra," Cleta said stubbornly.

"I was wandering, wasn't I?" Timul shook her head. "Forgive me. The women here are true daughters of the Goddess, but except for Lodreimi, they do not have the training to discuss theology."

"Caratra," Elara repeated, with a sidelong grin for Cleta.

"It is all a matter of levels, you see," Timul replied. "At the highest level, there is only One, unmanifest, ungendered, all-encompassing, self-sufficient. But when there is only Being, there is no action."

"And that is why we speak of God and Goddess," said Cleta. "That much I know. The One becomes Two, and the Two interact to bring spirit into manifestation. The female force awakens the male, he impregnates her, and she gives birth to the world. . . ."

"In each land the gods are different. Some peoples have only a few gods while others worship many. In the Sea Kingdoms, we worshipped four," continued Timul.

"Nar-Inabi, Lord of the Sea and the Stars, to whom we prayed to bring us through the dark night when Ahtarrath fell," whispered Elara.

"And Manoah, Lord of Day, whom we honor in the Temple of Light," Cleta agreed.

"But also Four-Faced Banur, who both preserves and destroys, and Ni-Terat, who is the earth and the Dark Mother of All," Elara said.

"In Atlantis all we saw of the earth were islands, and so Ni-Terat remained veiled." Timul reached down to touch the packed earth floor in reverence. "Here," she said, straightening, "it is otherwise. This place is also an island, but so great that if you go inland you can travel for days with neither sight nor sound of the sea. And so we remember another story. In the Temple of the Goddess it is said that the Age of the Goddess is coming, but this is not something we speak of with outsiders, for too many of them would see any diminution of the primacy of Manoah as a rebellion against the Light itself. . . ."

"What does that have to do with the Temple that the priests are going to build?" asked Cleta, setting down her tea.

Timul's face grew darker. "I hope very little. The Goddess needs no temples of stone. Indeed, She may be honored more fitly in a garden or a holy grove. The cult of the Great Mother flourished in this land long ago, and there are still some among the natives who can rightly be called priestesses. It is my hope to find them and build on that ancient allegiance . . . It will not matter what the priesthood does then."

Elara lowered her eyes to her bowl and took another sip of tea. And if it does come to a serious conflict of interest, she asked herself, where will my loyalties lie?

Still deep in thought, she followed the archpriestess through the door that led into the shrine.

The space was all in darkness, save for a single lamp flickering upon the altar. When her eyes became accustomed to the masses of shadow, Elara observed that the walls were frescoed with images that seemed to move in the subtly shifting light.

"The four powers we honor are a little different here," whispered Timul. "Beholda""

On the eastern wall the Goddess was pictured as a maiden dancing among flowers. The southern wall bore a mural of Caratra as Mother, enthroned with a laughing child upon her knee and all the fruits of the earth around her. In the west was the familiar representation of Ni-Terat, veiled with grey mystery, crowned with stars; but the north wall set Elara's heart to pounding, for there the Goddess was shown standing with sword in hand, and her face was a skull.

Elara shut her eyes, unable to bear that implacable regard.

"The Maiden, the Mother, and the Wisewoman are the faces of the Goddess that all women know," said Timul quietly. "We honor Caratra as the source of life, but we who are priestesses must accept and revere both of Ni-Terat's faces as well, for it is through Her judgment that we will pass in order to be reborn."

It is true, thought Elara, eyes still closed. I can still feel the Goddess looking at me. But even as that awareness passed through her mind she felt the power that surrounded her changing, warming, holding her like the arms of her mother.

"Now you understand," came a thought that was not her own. "But do not be afraid, for in darkness and in light, I am here."

Nine.

To those who had relished the sultry noon-tides of an Ahtarran summer, the light of the new land seemed always less gold than silver, just as, for a true Atlantean, the warmest of these northern waters would always evoke a shiver. But none could have denied that a change had come, bringing the marshlands to ever more vibrant life. The refugees welcomed every lengthening minute of light. Even if the sky would never achieve the deep turquoise blue that had crowned Atlantis, still no meadow of the old world could have matched the vivid green of these hills.

For Tiriki, the luxuriant growth seemed one with her own fertility. As the hawthorn bloomed in the copses and primroses opened their glowing petals beneath the trees, her own body rounded and her face grew rosy in the sun. With the fruits of the woodland she ripened, the child within her growing with a vigor unknown in her previous pregnancies, and she gave thanks to Caratra the Nurturer.

The coming of Micail's child renewed her hope, and new hopes were sparked in the acolytes as well. Tiriki's child became their link to the future, their talisman of survival. They found excuses to visit her, and gossiped among themselves over every tiny change. Iriel bubbled and cooed and fretted; Elis cooked and cleaned for Tiriki at the slightest opportunity; and Damisa became like a solicitous shadow, except when she was annoyed. Tiriki accepted it all with good gracea"indeed, she would have been completely happya"only sometimes in the night she woke weeping, because Micail, who should have shared her joy, was lost, and she knew she must bear and raise the child alone.

There was a spot on the bank where willow trees made a whispering enclosure by the rushing river. It had become a retreat where the senior clergy could gather; warm sunlight still fell dappled through the leaves, strong enough to sparkle in Alyssa's grizzled hair.

"One is lost . . . one is found . . . many tread the sacred round . . . from the hill unto the plain . . . and two will be one once again . . ." The seeress's voice trailed to silence, and she smiled, eyes focused on nothing. Chedan watched her, wondering whether this time there would be some significance to her meanderings.

With an effort, he kept his features serene as he gestured to Liala to fill the seeress's bowl with tea. Oracles, the mage reminded himself, were problematic enough when delivered in a properly prepared setting, in response to specific questions. But although in the months since their arrival, the Omphalos Stone, wrapped in silk and enclosed in its own shelter of stone near the hut Alyssa and Liala shared, had been quiescent, Alyssa had begun to drift in and out of the prophetic state without warning, as if she had been uprooted not only from Ahtarrath but from ordinary reality.

The scent of mint and lemongrass filled the air as Liala poured tea from an earthenware beaker into four carven beechwood bowls.

"It is just as I was saying. . . ." Tiriki paused to accept a bowl of her own. "We must never forget that our lives are not only our own. Before, there were always the rules of the Temple to guide us. Now it is our own feet that create the path, and we must be prepared to see them falter from time to time." She paused again, and Chedan knew she was thinking about Maleara, the older Blue Robe priestess, who had attempted to hang herself the night before.

"I believe Malaera has not completely lost her way," Tiriki continued, "although we will have to keep watch on her for a while. She is confused and heartsick, and who among us has not felt something similar? Worse, she suffers from aching joints, so there is little for her to do that does not cause her actual pain."

"I don't like to say it," Liala muttered, "but the biggest actual pain around here is her. We've all lost our friends and family! Does she have to gloom about it all the time?"

"Evidently so," said Chedan calmly. "Perhaps she is moved by the gods, to remind us that not everyone will easily let go of their lost loves and hopes. I am told Malaera is one who has never concealed her emotions. Who are we to require that she do so now?"

"I think her despair will pass," Tiriki repeated. "More than most, maybe, she seems to understand that our mission here demands more of us than simple survival . . ." She cast an uneasy glance at Alyssa, but the seeress seemed absorbed in savoring the pleasant scent of her tea.

"If we are to establish the new Temple, it must be soon," Tiriki continued, "or in a generation, two at most, our children will be absorbed into the local population, and our purpose lost. I have not become an oracle, but I have read enough history to know that it has happened before."

Chedan nodded. "The first generation of shipwreck survivors remember that their ancestors came from beyond the ocean; a century on, their grandchildren often say the ocean is their ancestor, and make offerings to it."

"Hah," snorted Liala. "I'm less concerned about the future than what is going on right now. I am grateful that so many of us were saved, but I could wish male and female priests had arrived in more equal numbers. There's you and all of us, and Kalaran and all those girls. Don't you think we are more than a little out of balance here?"

"What you say is so." Tiriki sounded faintly surprised. "I really had not felt it as a problem before now. The energy of the Tor itself is so very balanceda""

"A single rising peak," Alyssa crooned, her face half turned from them, "an earthly spark, guarding three springs and six caves, and so many more hearts. Shining, shining, shining, shining. Never mind the dark."

Wind ruffled the willows; branches lashed for a moment, then settled. No one spoke. The mage stared at his tea bowl, fingering the tiny seashell carvings that banded its sides. Liala is right again, he thought. Tiriki has simply not allowed herself to consider the problem, because then she would have to think about Micail. She and I may work as high priest and priestess, but we cannot generate the kind of energy that she and Micaila"Or maybe it is not her preoccupation but my own that is at fault?

A sharp sound on the edge of hearing caught his attention. Framed by willow leaves, a merlin hung in the silvery air. . . . There had long been a rage for falcons among the noble houses, but Chedan had never particularly noticed them. Now he seemed always to know when a hawk or an owl was nearby. Perhaps it was a promise, a reminder of what was beyond.

Liala was still speaking. "If our priestesses are to have mates and continue our tradition, we may have to recruit priests from among the others. For instance, there's Reidela"I think he has potentiala""

"Especially with Damisa!" Alyssa, suddenly quite normal again, loosed an unappealing snort of laughter. "You've seen how he looks at her?"

"And how she does not look at him in response?" Tiriki interjected briskly. "I agree that we will need to do something eventually, but . . ."

"I'm a priestess of the Mother, not one of you adepts. We Blue Robes seek to celebrate the body, not transcend it!" Liala grinned. "I don't like the sailors much, but I'm getting a lot less picky. I've even started eyeing the marsh folk men."

Chedan looked at her, suddenly aware that there was a womanly body inside that blue robe. There was a time when he would not have been this surprised at her comment. Had the struggle to survive distracted him, or was he simply getting old?

"I understand what you are saying," Tiriki continued, "and I agree, but mating between cultures or castes can be risky."

"They cannot be too different," said Liala. "Taret is a priestess of the Great Mother, even as we are."

"They do not seem to have many ceremonies," Chedan interjected. "These people live lightly on the land, and they have been at peace for some time. Those the gods have satisfied," he concluded, "often seem to want little else."

"Do not ask the wrong question," Alyssa interrupted, her strange eyes gone colorless and flat.

Chedan turned, wondering what byway of the mind she had strayed into now.

Alyssa continued, "You build channels for raindrops but make no provision for the sea. There are powers here that must be addressed. There are names to learn. And what of the other power, the one you claim to serve and preserve? What of the Omphalos Stone?"

Into the shocked silence came the cry of a falcon, darting and twisting through the air, bent on unseen prey.

Chedan grimaced. It had been the worst of errors to think the Grey Robe useless. Her control over her gift might be degenerating, but even in madness, Alyssa could still remind them of truths they ignored at their peril.

As the nights became colder and longer, the last of the shelters was finished, and though the dwellings were something less than grand, they were no longer damp or drafty. An enthusiastic start was even made on a proper meeting hall, but little work could be done in the cold rain. It was a hard life. Yet if sometimes the freezing mist never seemed to lift, their summer's foraging had left them with sufficient, if not very interesting, stores of food.

On the eve of the winter solstice, with a fresh storm front blowing in from the sea, Tiriki was in her hut, putting on another tunic to counter the chill, when she heard a sharp outcry.

"Damisa? What is it?" she called out. "Is something wrong?"

"Not wrong," came the answer. "Wonderful!"

Tiriki wrapped another shawl around her shoulders, then moved to the doorway, unwinding the thongs that held its hide curtain tightly closed.

"Oh, just look!" Damisa whispered, and Tiriki caught her breath.

A brisk wind was blowing, and the dark trees tossed a ragged net of branches toward charcoal and pearl-grey clouds layered with every astonishing combination of lavender and pink and rose. She had seen such a riot of colors in her mother's garden, but only in this strange new land were the heavens filled with such heart-stopping magnificence . . . "Wings of storm," she murmured, half aloud, "wings of marvel."

Moment by moment the sky-blaze deepened, until every cloud was a scarlet shimmering of phantom fire . . . and for a moment, Tiriki thought she saw the final flames of Ahtarrath rising again from the sea. She drew closer to Damisa, whose fair skin seemed to have borrowed some new radiance from the dying of the sun.

The Sun only lends stewardship to Lord Nar-Inabi, Shaper of the Sea and the Stars of the Night, Tiriki told herself, reprising the catechism she had learned as a child, and though in winter Banur the Destroyer briefly takes the throne, the Four-Faced One is also the Preserver, and his wintry reign prepares the path for the miracle of Ni-Terat, Dark Mother of All, who brings forth Caratra the Nurturer, ever and ever again.

Still shivering, but curiously heartened, Tiriki tucked in the ends of her shawl and watched the sunset colors darken until the merest traces of purple remained. The last banner of the light diminished to a swordpoint of incandescent orange, then faded to crimson, dimmed, and disappeared.

"The Lord of the Day has turned His face from the earth," Tiriki announced to the group that had gathered alongside her. "Have ye put out every hearth fire?" At home, on the eve of the winter solstice all fires would have been extinguished at noon, but here common sense had prevailed, and Chedan determined that tradition actually forbade flames upon the hearths only during the ceremony itself.

The Atlanteans shuffled and stamped their feet uneasily. Tonight would be cold and dark beyond anything they had known; not even Chedan Arados had ever wintered in these northerly isles. Worse, the storm clouds cut them off from the stars. Even Manoah's messenger, the moon, would not appear. Only the star of Caratra, glowing on the horizon, gave hope that life and light might remain in the world.

The winter solstice ritual they were about to celebrate had never before seemed so necessary. In this bleak environment, it was hard to trust the ancient certainties; and while reason and tradition both told Tiriki that even when she could not see them, the constellations never ceased shining, in her heart, some atavistic spirit trembled, whispering that if her prayers failed, this night would never end.

At the center of the stone circle atop the Tor, Chedan was making his own preparations for the solstice ritual. Since their arrival, every member of the priests' caste had, of course, maintained the daily disciplines of salutation and meditation. But in all that time, this was the first true Working that they had attempted.

Since midmorning he and Kalaran had labored to build a small square altar and consecrate it with water and with oil and, after that, to gather kindling for the sacred fire. Throughout this time of preparation, Chedan had been troubled by memories that disturbed his concentration.

With his aching back turned toward the east, the mage donned the glittering wide-eyed mask of Nar-Inabi and intoned the Opening, unheard by any but his acolyte and the gods. In the same moment there arose from the Tor's lower slopes the holy music of flutes and drums, as the priests and priestesses began to climb the path newly cut through the woods. Many voices rang out, mingling in the darka"

"The sky is cold, the year is old,

As the Wheel turns.

The Earth is bare which once bloomed fair,

And the Wheel turns."

Tiriki was first to enter the sacred space, the golden cap of her guardianship gleaming above her brow; even more remarkable was the bulge of her belly as her pregnancy neared its term. Her pregnancy, Chedan knew, had actually increased her power, but in her condition it would have been dangerous to allow her to take the role of the priestess in this ceremony.

He fixed his eyes upon the next entrant, Liala, in the grizzled mask of Ni-Terat. Chedan smiled beneath his own mask. She was an experienced priestess, solid, dependable. Chedan trusted that she would be able to handle an erratic influx of power.

"By frozen streams we harbor dreams,

While the Wheel turns.