The Skull of the World by Kate Forsyth
How are ye yourself, lassie? Riordan Bowlegs asked with deep concern.
Aye, I be fine, she answered coolly.
I did no’ ken what it was like for ye, lassie. I be sorry …
What is done is done. Besides, Meghan always said only the maimed can mourn, only the lame can love. What are two fingers compared to the capacity to feel grief and joy? Despite all her best efforts, Isabeau was unable to inject any warmth into her voice.
Still, it be a hard road ye’ve travelled, my bairn. Riordan’s voice was troubled.
Isabeau tried to communicate some kind of reassurance and he must have understood, for she felt the mental equivalent of a comforting pat on the shoulder.
In our different ways we are all hurt by life, Red, he said. I am glad ye think the rewards are greater than the costs.
Isabeau moved her shoulders uneasily, not sure that she truthfully did, at least not all the time. The old bow-legged groom was thinking of his own childhood, though, and Isabeau was drawn irresistibly into his chain of thought-images. Isabeau saw a little dark room, smelling strongly of goat. The only light came from a fire glowing sullenly on the open hearth. A huge man with a mean face was beating a thin cowering woman. He smelt of whisky and sweat. The shadow of his arm rose and fell over Isabeau’s face. She was crouched beneath the table. He was a giant, towering over her. She could hear her own whimpers and feel her heart beating rapidly against her ribs. She was hungry, so hungry she was sick with it. The woman screamed and fell. China broke. Still that thick, burly giant’s arm rose and fell. The woman scrabbled away and he bent and seized her hair, shouting. Suddenly Isabeau could bear it no longer. She dashed out, caught hold of that immense arm, tried to drag it away. She loved that thin, cowed, battered woman, loved her intensely. The tree-trunk leg kicked her away. She was flung against the table, fell to the floor, crying. Then the giant loomed over her. His eyes were glaring. His face was purple with whisky and rage. The huge hard fist lifted, then descended like a hammer, again and again. The woman was crying, begging, trying to hold him back. The floor was filthy. Isabeau tasted dirt and blood, heard pain rushing in her ears like a hurricane. Some sort of darkness descended.
Isabeau came back to herself only slowly. The scene in the tiny cottage had been so vivid that she had completely lost all sense of herself. She said, rather shakily, Your father?
Aye, Riordan answered shortly and she remembered her own glad childhood, free and content and smelling always of summer.
I am glad ye remember it thus, Meghan said. For a moment they shared an image of a flower-strewn glade where thousands of butterflies dipped and soared, a small, red-haired child spinning among them, arms stretched wide.
Then Meghan took her back to her own childhood, showing Isabeau some happy scenes—playing chase-and-hide with her sister Mairead, cuddling up to her father while he told them stories of the First Coven, pulling a sleepy dormouse out of her pocket and feeding it nuts.
Then, with a surge of excitement and pride that quickened Isabeau’s pulse, the old sorceress remembered the day she had been given the Key of the Coven. Even now, so many years later, the memory was sword-sharp in Meghan’s mind – the cold snap of the air, the smell of woodsmoke and dying leaves, the tingle in her palm as her fingers closed over the talisman, the pride in her father’s rheumy eyes.
Meghan had been only thirty-six, the youngest sorceress ever to inherit the Key. Normally the Keybearer carried the Key until death, but Meghan’s father, Aedan Whitelock, had decided his work had been done with the creation of the Lodestar and the uniting of the land, and so had retired at the proud old age of sixty-nine. Giving the throne to one daughter and the Key to the other, Aedan Whitelock had gone to live with the Celestines until his death, thirty-three years later.
All this Isabeau knew in an instant as she shared the Keybearer’s memory. She looked down through Meghan’s eyes at the Key in her hand. Delicately wrought, it nestled within her palm, shaped in the sacred symbol of the Coven. The Key’s flat surfaces were inscribed with magical runes and symbols, and it was warm, as if it were a living being. Tingles were running up Meghan’s arm from where the metal touched her skin, and all her senses thrummed with its power, as if she held thunder and lightning captured within metal.
Slowly, in her memory, Meghan lifted the Key and hung it around her throat, so that the talisman hung between her breasts. The rhythm of her heart steadied until it seemed to thrum in tempo with the Key. Tears stung her eyes. Her breath caught. One hand came up and pressed the talisman hard against her body, at the place where her ribs sprang out, the centre of her breathing. Gazing up at her beloved father, she made a silent vow to carry the Key with all the wisdom and strength and compassion she could find within her. She would prove worthy of following in the footsteps of all the great Keybearers who had preceded her, she swore it with all of her being. Aedan smiled at her, well pleased, but Meghan had been unable to smile back, overawed and humbled by the power thrumming beneath her hand.
The thought-image faded and Isabeau slowly came back to a realisation of herself, tired and stiff, her throat parched. She opened her eyes and stretched, hearing bones in her back crack. She could not help glancing at Meghan, and at the Key that hung between her withered breasts. The longing to hold it to her own heart almost overwhelmed her. Slowly she raised her eyes and met Meghan’s, black as spilt ink and as inscrutable.
‘Isabeau has passed the Third Trial o’ Spirit, the challenge o’ clear-hearing,’ Daillas said, smiling at her wearily. ‘Feel the blood pumping through your veins, my bairn, feel the forces o’ life animate ye. Give thanks to Eà, mother and father o’ us all, for the eternal spark, and guidwish the forces o’ Spirit which guide and teach us, and give us life.’
Isabeau made the sign of Eà’s blessing, joy welling up through her, and all the witches smiled at her and repeated the gesture.
‘Now ye must show us once again how ye use all o’ the elemental powers,’ Daillas said. ‘At the end o’ your Second Tests ye made yourself a witch-dagger. Ye must do so again and pour into it all ye have learnt in your years as an apprentice. With this dagger ye will cut your witch’s staff, sign o’ full admittance into the Coven as a fully fledged witch, and ye will use it to cast your circle o’ power in the workings o’ spells. Take the silver o’ the earth’s begetting, forge it with fire and air, and cool it with water. Fit your blade into a handle o’ sacred hazel that ye have smoothed with your own hands. Speak over it the words of the Creed and pour your own energies into it, in the name o’ Eà o’ the green blood.’
Isabeau knew that a witch should always make her own tools and instruments because something made or used by another always held a residue of their powers and purpose, and so may not be in harmony with hers. Even more importantly, to forge her own witch-knife and whittle her own staff also meant that she would be fully engaged with the work, having poured much of herself into the making. So Isabeau had spent many hours with the palace blacksmith, watching him forge weapons for the soldiers and tools for the palace gardeners and carpenters. She had practised with the bellows and smithy hammers until her ears had rung and her hands had been pockmarked with burns from the flying sparks. She had observed the carpenters shaping wood and spent many idle hours whittling discarded lumps of wood until her hands had grown sure and strong. The apprentice’s knife she had forged at her Second Tests now looked childish and clumsy to her eyes and she was eager to put her newly honed skills to the task.
So Isabeau made her witch-dagger with great care, taking her time to make sure the task was done as well as possible. She forged the silver blade with two sharp edges, and inscribed upon it many runes of power. While it cooled in the chalice of water, she drew out her battered apprentice’s knife and cut the third finger of her right hand so that blood welled up, thick and dark. The witches believed a vein ran from this finger directly to the heart and so it was her own heart-blood that darkened the little knife’s blade. She smeared both sides of
Carefully she whittled the branch into the stylised shape of a dragon, its wings folded along its sides. She set a tiny dragoneye jewel to shine in its crowned head, and polished it all over with starwood oil so the wood glowed.
Isabeau then picked up her little apprentice’s knife, its hilt plain and stained with the marks of her fingers, its blade poorly made. She gave it a little caress, remembering the pride and excitement she had felt as she made it. She had lost it soon after, Lachlan stealing it from her the first time they had met. He had given it back to her many months later, when they had met again. It seemed to Isabeau the little knife still carried some of his life essence. After a moment she broke it in half and dropped the blade into the crucible where she had melted the silver for her witch-knife. Ceremoniously she threw the hazelwood hilt into the fire and used her powers to bring the flames leaping up around the crucible until it was white-hot. Slowly the metal within softened until it was like putty and she used her tools and her witch powers to spin it into a long silver thread.
Her fingers trembling a little with weariness and nerves, she fitted the narrow silver blade to the dragon hilt, binding it into place with the silver thread, and softly murmuring incantations of power over it. At last, many hours after she had started, Isabeau was finished. Her skill was not as great as her intention, but the dagger hilt could clearly be recognised as a resting dragon, the long tail curled around its curving hind-quarters, the bright blade gripped between all four claws.
Isabeau felt a deep thrill of pride run through her. She looked up to see the witches all smiling at her wearily. They had sat in complete stillness for all that time and she saw by their faces that they were as stiff and tired as she was. The shadows of the trees were long over the grass, the sun sinking down towards the western horizon.
‘Ye have passed your third Test o’ Powers, Isabeau the Apprentice Witch, with great skill,’ Daillas the Lame said. ‘We are glad indeed to welcome ye into the Coven o’ Witches.’
‘By the Creed o’ the Coven o’ Witches, ye must swear to speak only what is true in your heart, for ye must have courage in your beliefs. Ye must swear no’ to use the Power to ensorcel others, remembering all people must choose their own path. Ye must use the One Power in wisdom and thoughtfulness, with a kind heart, a fierce and canny mind, and steadfast courage. Do ye swear these things?’ Meghan said.
‘I swear. May my heart be kind, my mind fierce, my spirit brave.’ Isabeau spoke the ritual with a break in her voice, so tired and so happy she was close to tears.
‘May Eà shine her bright face upon ye,’ Arkening said and the others added their blessings and congratulations.
‘It is time for the Midsummer celebrations. Come and eat and be joyful. In the dawn ye must cut yourself a staff and say Eà’s blessing over it, and then shall your new life as Isabeau the Witch begin,’ Meghan said. ‘Congratulations, my bairn, I am proud indeed o’ ye.’
Painfully they all got to their feet, rubbing their limbs to aid the return of their circulation. As the other witches packed up their paraphernalia and doused the fire, Meghan held up a long robe of white linen for Isabeau to put on. Cut from the one length of cloth, it was made without any buttons, buckles, hooks or knots. It was growing cool under the huge old trees and Isabeau received it gladly, for this was the first sign of her new standing within the Coven. Apprentice no longer, but a fully accredited witch, and at the age of only twenty-two and a half. Despite all her efforts to maintain a proper humility, Isabeau could not help glowing with pride.
Although Lachlan and Iseult had travelled with their court to Rhyssmadill for the Summer Fair, held in Dùn Gorm each year, the witches were still throwing the traditional feast to celebrate Midsummer’s Eve. As Isabeau and her teachers walked slowly through the warm dusk, the gardens were beginning to fill with people dressed in their finest clothes. Nisses were busy garlanding the trees with flowers, and a little band of cluricauns were tuning their instruments on a stage erected before the rose garden.
In the square before the Tower of Two Moons a huge bonfire had been built which would be lit at sunset. Those who wished to be handfasted would leap the fire together, giving them a year to live together as man and wife before being married. Those who had been handfasted a year earlier and wished to build a life together would jump the fire a second time, sealing their marriage vows. Midsummer’s Eve was considered a time for loving and many a child was conceived on the night of the summer solstice.
Isabeau was so tired that it was an effort to keep her balance, but she stood for a while watching the dancers and mummers, and sampling some of the delicious spiced cakes. Children from the Theurgia were running everywhere, shrieking with excitement, and the older apprentices and witches were sitting under the trees or dancing. In her flowing white gown, with the new dagger hanging in its sheath at her waist, it was clear Isabeau had passed her Tests and so many came to grasp her hand and congratulate her. She smiled tiredly and thanked them, but would not stay for long. The one glass of goldensloe wine she drank made her head spin and so she made her weary way back to the tower and so to bed, sleep swooping down upon her like an owl upon a mouse.
Hand in hand, Lachlan and Iseult made their way through the dark garden, their way lit only by the light of the sinking moons. The tall spires of Rhyssmadill soared high into the sky, etched blackly against the starry sky. In the distance they could hear the faint sound of chatter and laughter, and the strumming of a guitar. A couple was entwined together under a tree, the woman’s bare leg gleaming white against the darkness of her clothes. With a smile at each other, Lachlan and Iseult passed by silently.
Through the branches they saw the flicker of flames. Only a few revellers still clustered around the bonfire, drinking and laughing and listening to the music. From the bushes they heard a little trill of laughter and smiled at each other again.
‘It is almost dawn,’ Lachlan said. ‘Our guests must be wondering what has happened to us. I hope none suspect we have been having secret meetings at midnight …’
‘It is Midsummer.’ Iseult smiled up at him. ‘No-one will be wondering.’
He caught her throat in his strong, brown hand and tilted her face up so he could kiss her. She felt the quickening of her pulse, and the same rise of urgent desire in him.
‘It is our wedding anniversary tonight,’ he said when he at last released her.
Iseult leant her head against his shoulder. ‘Aye, I ken.’
‘Have ye been happy these last five years, leannan?’
‘Ye ken I have.’
He shook his head, trying to read her face in the moonlight. ‘It is hard to ken what ye are thinking sometimes. All that Khan’cohban reserve o’ yours, it is impossible to break through at times. Are ye sure ye do no’ regret jumping the fire with me?’
‘Aye,’ she answered. ‘I’m sure.’
He cupped her face in his hands. ‘Ye do no’ sound sure,’ he said, only half joking. ‘Ye have never wished ye had chosen differently? Ye never long for the snows?’
‘I swore a sacred oath that I would never leave ye and I shall no’,’ she answered, drawing a little away from him.
‘That is no’ what I asked.’
She drew even further away, looking up at him seriously. ‘I miss the snows,’ she answered, ‘but ye ken that. What is it that ye are asking?’
He was scowling and she put up one hand to smooth his brow. He caught her hand and kissed it passionately. ‘Do ye love me?’ The words were spoken low and with difficulty.
She slid her arms about his neck and kissed him on the mouth. ‘Ye ken that I do,’ she whispered into his ear, kissing the soft flesh of his throat. As her mouth moved lower, to the curve of his collarbone, he gave a little sigh and cradled her i
‘Do ye remember that first night we made love?’ he whispered, slowly backing her under the shadow of a great tree. ‘In the forest, on the ground, among all the tree roots?’
She nodded and smiled against his skin.
He pressed her up against the rough bark of the tree trunk, his hands slowly undoing the laces of her gown. ‘I’ve rather missed the forest,’ he said huskily, sliding his mouth down her bare shoulder.
‘We have a nice soft bed up in the palace,’ she whispered, drawing him down with her onto the ground, ‘with pillows and blankets and curtains to close against prying eyes.’
‘But it be Midsummer,’ he mocked, the words coming slowly, in between kisses. ‘We canna make love in a bed like an auld married couple when it’s Midsummer Eve.’
Naked now, his warm, rough hands and silky-soft feathers gently stroking the whole length of her body, Iseult sighed and looked up at the dark fretwork of leaves against the silvery-blue moon.
‘There’s something to be said for Midsummer madness,’ she said.
Isabeau woke, her body arcing upwards instinctively. For a moment she was disorientated, the pattern of twigs and leaves against the moon etched sharply on her mind’s eye. The dark room with its smell of beeswax and old leather confused her, the slight weight of her sheet. She had been in the garden, making love under the Midsummer moons, silken feathers caressing her …
Understanding came. She lay back against her pillows, her skin hot, her heart beating too fast. Deep inside her she still felt the twisting coil of desire. Though she tried to calm her breathing, the ache and throb would not fade. At last she drank some water from the mug by her bed and dampened her sheet so she could dab it against her face, fever-hot, fever-dry. Buba hooted anxiously, sensing Isabeau’s distress, and crept close to comfort her. Isabeau could not bear the brush of the owl’s feathers against her skin and pushed her away abruptly.