The Way Between the Worlds Page 3

  ‘Although Cordeilla was still only a tiny baby –’ I picked up my tale –‘nevertheless she grieved for her twin and would not be comforted, until Essa wrapped her up in her dead sister’s blanket and laid her on the spot where Feithfailge lay buried. A change came over Cordeilla, and it was said by the Wise Women that she absorbed her dead sister’s essence from out of the ground, thus comforting herself; ever after, Cordeilla was both twins, the dead Feithfailge and the living Cordeilla, and it was said that she lived her life for both of them.’

  Little Leir opened his mouth to say something – probably to ask a question, for these matters would be hard for a child to understand – but my father put his hand softly on his son’s head and gently shushed him. ‘Lassair is bard tonight,’ I heard him whisper, ‘and not the sister who you treat with the familiarity of family.’

  My father recognized the role I had adopted, then. But he was the son of one of one of the greatest bards of recent times, so he would.

  ‘Cordeilla was the Weaver of Spells,’ I went on, ‘and her son Beretun became a cunning man of wide renown, whose pupil Yorath fell in love with him, for all that he was more than twenty years older, and she wed him and was ever after known as Yorath the Young Wife. Their second son Ailsi was twice wed. His first wife was Alainma the Lovely, and she was as beautiful as any of her northern ancestors, with long golden hair, eyes light blue like the dawn sky and a loving smile that she bestowed on all those that she loved. She gave birth to a child, but it died, and Alainma died with it. Ailsi’s grief was terrible, and he lived alone for twenty-one years, rejecting every appeal by his family for him to abandon his solitude and go back to live among his kin.’

  Again, I saw Haward hug Zarina close to him. I saw the glint of tears on her face. My tale was sad, I knew, but so were all the old stories. Death was always close, as it always will be.

  ‘Ailsi grew thin and bitter in his solitude, and his family gave up trying to help him, for all they got for their pains was a curse and a harsh cry of leave me alone! His sister Alma stopped arranging for comely and suitable women to pass by his lonely house, for he was not to be tempted out of his sorrow, no matter how fair, rich or shapely the woman. And then one day Alma had an idea: supposing she could somehow make Ailsi laugh, might that not break the icy tomb in which he had sealed himself?

  ‘Now Alma had a new friend, an heiress of considerable means who, orphaned and alone, had recently moved into the village. Her name was Livilda, she was tall and gauche, she had a face like an amiable horse and she only had one leg.’

  There was a giggle, swiftly stifled, from Leir, as presumably he imagined what a horse-faced woman with one leg would look like.

  ‘But Livilda had a great gift: she could make people laugh. Alma’s life had not been without sorrow and, as she grew old, she suffered greatly from pains in her joints, but Livilda could always cheer her up. She would imitate one of the village characters or she would recount some small happening in her day’s round, often making herself the butt of her humour, ridiculing all her defects from her protuberant eyes and her long nose to her single leg.’

  I could hear Leir wriggling, and I knew the question he was burning to ask. ‘I expect,’ I said, ‘you’re all wondering what happened to the other leg? Well, I’ll tell you: Livilda was sitting in church one day when she was a little girl and there was a great tremor in the earth, so violent that the church walls began to crack. Everyone rushed outside, and only just in time, for the cracks grew wider and wider and, before everyone’s horrified eyes, the walls began to sway and huge stones tumbled to the ground. Now Livilda had been naughty and disobeyed her mother; she had a new kitten and she had smuggled it into church with her, hidden in her pocket. Now, horrified, she realized the kitten had escaped. With no thought for herself, she raced back inside the church, found the kitten crouched in a corner and swept it up. She was almost outside again when a huge stone fell on her, trapping her leg and crushing it beyond repair. The village healer gave her a sedative and sent her to sleep, and when Livilda woke up, she had one leg and a neat stump.’

  A very soft voice – Leir’s, I thought – whispered, ‘What happened to the kitten?’

  ‘Both Livilda and the kitten made a good recovery,’ I went on. ‘Now, to return to Ailsi, Alma decided to take Livilda to meet her lonely brother. At first he tried to bar the door to them, but he caught sight of Livilda doing her impression of a heron, standing on one leg and darting its beak into the water after fish, and something very strange happened, something that he hadn’t experienced for twenty-one years: he began to laugh. To begin with, it sounded like the creaking of an old door that needs its hinges oiled, but then, as he began to remember what laughter felt like, the sounds became free and joyful. He ran outside, caught hold of his loyal sister with one hand and grasped Livilda’s shoulder with the other. “You look like a horse and you move like a deformed chicken,” he said to her, “but you have just worked a miracle. You are many years younger than me, for I am an old man now, and you probably have a husband; if not, will you consider marrying me?” ’

  I looked round at my audience. Six pairs of eyes were fixed on me and, behind them, I saw the small, upright figure of my granny, siting in mid-air in the place where her little cot used to stand. She gave me a nod of encouragement and mouthed, go on, then! Don’t keep them in suspense!

  I gave her a grateful look and said, ‘Livilda had never been called a worker of miracles before and it rather tickled her fancy, so she told Ailsi she didn’t have a husband and would marry him, adding that, because he was indeed so old, they’d better not waste any time. They were married within a month and, to put the crown on their unexpected happiness, Livilda gave birth to three healthy children, all with the right number of legs.’

  I paused. Tempting as it was to go on with Livilda’s tale – she’s always been one of my favourite ancestors – there was another strand to the tapestry of our history that I wanted to finish with. ‘Now I will return,’ I said, altering my tone so as to sound less frivolous, ‘to Luanmaisi, most powerful of Wise Women, who was sister to Alma and Ailsi. She walked with the spirits –’ there was a soft exclamation from Zarina – ‘and they taught her their ways, taking her between the worlds to encounter beings of other realms. It is the great mystery of our bloodline that we know not how, when or where she died, although it was said among the wise that she left this world and did not return. What is known is that she disappeared into the mists of the fenland one autumn day, just after the equinox celebrations, and that later she bore a daughter, Lassair the Sorceress, child of the Fire and the Air.’ Like me, I thought, but I did not say it aloud. ‘We do not know what became of Lassair either, for her thread of the tale is shrouded in mystery and we do not even know who fathered her. It was, however, strongly believed,’ I added, lowering my voice to a whisper, ‘that she was half-aelven.’ There was another gasp; in fact, several gasps. I glanced across at Granny’s corner and she shook her head, mouthing: enough, now. Always leave them wanting more.

  Thanking her with a small bow, I straightened up, looked round my audience and said, ‘As to what might have happened to Lassair the Sorceress, and what did happen to the children of her uncle Ailsi and his one-legged wife . . . I shall tell you another time.’

  There was a gratifying chorus of groans and one or two comments pleading for more, but I shook my head. I saw Granny silently clap her hands, smiling her approval, and then she gently faded away.

  All in all, I thought that my foray into storytelling hadn’t gone too badly.

  THREE

  I slept surprisingly well, waking only after everyone had left for the day’s work to find my mother busy kneading bread, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and the strong muscles of her forearms working hard. It was only when I was fully awake that I realized I hadn’t dreamed. Or, if I had, I’d forgotten. Perhaps the spirit who was trying so hard to attract my attention appreciated that I was already doing my best.

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nbsp; My mother looked up from her bread-making and gave me a loving smile. ‘It’s good to see you back in your old home,’ she remarked. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make up a bed for you in your old spot, but as you’ll have seen, Haward and Zarina sleep there now.’

  I was lying in the space once occupied by Granny’s little cot. No wonder I’d slept soundly and dreamlessly; she’d been looking after me. I sent her my silent thanks, and for an instant seemed to see her wrinkled old face with its deep, dark eyes smiling benignly at me.

  ‘Zarina looks well,’ I said, getting up and wriggling into my gown, then bending down to roll up my bedding. Floor space was always limited in our house, and I found it hard to believe I’d slept through the family rising, eating their swift breakfast and setting out for work. I must have been exhausted.

  ‘Yes, she does,’ my mother agreed, and I turned my thoughts back to my sister-in-law. ‘Edild has kept an eye on her, but in truth the girl’s so healthy and strong that there’s really no need.’

  I paused in folding up my blanket, remembering the vivid sense of a new life that I felt emanating from the bump in Zarina’s belly. A little boy, a healthy child, who would grow well and be a joy to his family . . .

  ‘Enough daydreaming, Lassair, and please get out of my way – I’m busy, even if you’re not.’ My mother’s voice cut across the pleasant vision of a small boy with his mother’s dark looks and his father’s sweet nature, and I felt her elbow dig me, quite hard, in the ribs. With a smile, I tucked the bedding away beneath my parents’ bed and asked her what I could do to help.

  The morning flew by. I enjoyed working with my mother; we were very well used to each other’s ways and performed a multitude of tasks with barely a word. It did me good to have her strong presence. She is a big, broad, fair woman, and being with her tends to ground you and root your feet in the good earth. Since I’m both water- and earth-lacking, perhaps being with my mother provides the firm earth element I do not have. By noon, I was feeling invigorated and ready to proceed with my mission.

  My father was working right out by the open water that day, too far for him to return for the midday meal, and he had taken both Squeak and Leir with him. Haward was out on the strips of land that the family work up on the drier ground behind the village, and he, too, had taken his noon meal with him. Zarina still worked for her crusty old washerwoman, and she alone came home to eat with my mother and me.

  All the time I’d been going about the day’s jobs with my mother, I’d been thinking who could have sent me those summoning words. I seemed to have run through everyone in my family, so it was time to think about my friends. Having helped my mother clear away the meal, I left her having a well-earned but brief rest and went through the village to my friend Sibert’s house.

  There was nobody at home.

  I thought I knew where Sibert would be. Unless it was one of his days for working for Lord Gilbert, lord of our manor, he would be out on his family’s strips close by the road that leads to Thetford. I took the short cut over the higher ground, pausing to pay my respects to the ancient oak tree that stands up there, and, among the many people working away on the land, soon spotted a familiar figure.

  ‘I heard you were home,’ Sibert greeted me as I approached. He hadn’t even turned round.

  All of a sudden I felt convinced that it was Sibert who had called out to me for help. We have been close at times over the years; once I saved his life, and, later he’d returned the favour. I know his deepest secret, and I have never told a soul. Mind you, that is largely due to my fear of what his uncle Hrype would do to me if I did; Hrype is not actually Sibert’s uncle but his father, and that is the secret. I understand that Sibert doesn’t want to talk to me about this, and I respect that, much as I’m burning to know how he feels. I think the fact that I restrain my curiosity is one of the reasons Sibert likes me.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked, moving round to face him as he worked down the long row of onions, pulling up endless weeds. The bank that bordered the strip was just behind me, and I sat down on it.

  ‘All right,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘I’ll be glad to see the last of these bloody onions.’

  For the second time that day, I pushed back my sleeves, fastened my hair under my coif and set about lending a hand. ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She’s all right too.’

  ‘Hrype?’ I never know whether to refer to him as your uncle or your father, so I usually call him by his name.

  ‘Hrype’s away, so I have no idea.’ Sibert straightened up and fixed me with a glare. ‘What’s all this about?’

  I thought briefly. I decided there was no harm in telling him and so I did.

  ‘A summoning voice?’ he repeated, smiling. ‘That sounds dramatic. Are you sure it’s calling on you for help? Maybe it’s got the wrong person and it’s after old Gurdyman. He’d be a lot more use to anyone than you.’

  ‘If you’re going to insult my admittedly limited powers to do anyone any good,’ I said calmly, ‘you can finish the onion bed by yourself.’

  He straightened up, a hand to the small of his back, and grinned at me. ‘Only joking. I know you’re a fearsome magician these days, as well as a brilliant healer.’

  I was used to his teasing. We went back to our weeding. ‘So Hrype’s away?’ I said after a while.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘When’s he coming back?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  This was going to be hard. I weeded on for some time and then said, ‘Sibert, I know we’ve been making light of this voice I’ve been hearing, but it’s actually quite important. I’d like to talk to Hrype, so if you have any clue as to where he is, I’d love to know.’

  He stopped weeding. Bending down to look into my face, he said quietly, ‘It is important, isn’t it? I can see it in your expression.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I agreed. We were both standing upright now, eyes on each other’s.

  Sibert said, ‘I don’t know for sure, because my – because Hrype does not confide in me.’ There was pain beneath the abrupt words, and it told me much about my friend’s relationship with the strange, difficult man who fathered him. ‘But I overheard him speaking to my mother, and he said there’s someone who concerns him – a priest, I think. My guess is that he’s gone to find out more about the man.’

  ‘Concerns him?’ It seemed a rather general term. ‘What does that mean, exactly?’

  ‘Exactly, I couldn’t say.’ Sibert’s tone was angry. ‘They thought I was asleep, and in any case they were muttering. Mother said did he – Hrype – really have to go, because she’s always fearful and nervous when he’s absent, and he said yes he did, because—’ Sibert frowned. ‘I thought he said, because this man who I think is a priest is a threat and very powerful.’

  I thought about that. Hrype is a cunning man, full of magic, full of a very special sort of force. Had he meant this priest was a threat because of the religion he represented, which in the eyes of many – especially its own clergy – stands firm in its opposition to the old ways? It seemed very likely.

  Could it be, then, that it was Hrype who needed me? That, faced with the problem of a zealous priest determined to route out the last vestiges of the old ways, Hrype had summoned me to help him? For a few delicious moments I almost let myself believe it. Then reality struck me like a shower of rain in the face, and I returned to earth.

  Still, this talk of a very powerful priest was the first lead I had uncovered. I was determined to follow it up. ‘Do you think your mother would know where Hrype is?’ I asked tentatively.

  Sibert had gone back to his onions. ‘Why not stop pestering me and go and ask her?’

  As I hurried back to the village, I hoped I would find that Froya had returned. Also that she’d be prepared to tell me where Hrype had gone; Froya is a very distant figure, and with her there is always the feeling that she is so busy fighting off her inner demons that there
is little of her left over for anyone else. I do not suppose for a moment that she is easy to live with, and I admire Hrype for his loyalty to her, especially when he loves another woman so deeply. (His relationship with my aunt Edild is another secret that I keep to myself.)

  In the end I never got as far as tapping on Froya’s door, so I didn’t find out if she was there. As I clambered down the bank that leads off the higher ground and on to the track through the village, I heard my mother calling out to me.

  She was far from calm and serene now. Her cap was awry; her face was red and full of anguish. She ran up to me, grabbed my hands in both of hers and said, ‘Oh, thank God you’re here! Where have you been? Have you heard?’

  ‘I was out on the upland talking to Sibert,’ I replied, feeling my heart thump with alarm. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  My big, brave mother seemed to sag, and for a moment I supported her not inconsiderable weight. Then she forced herself to stand upright and said, ‘There’s word that a nun has been found murdered. A knife to her throat, they say, or possibly she was strangled.’ She frowned, then shook her head violently. ‘Oh, I don’t know – the story is confused.’

  A nun. I felt very cold.

  ‘Who brought the news?’ I demanded. It could all be just an ugly rumour, a salacious tale to relieve the boredom of country life.

  ‘The peddler from over March way – he’s brought a consignment of pins and we’ve all been crowding round him; I haven’t seen a package of pins since last autumn. Oh, oh –’ my mother’s eyes filled with tears – ‘and I never got mine! I forgot all about them when he told us!’

  I put my arms round her. I already knew, but I thought I should ask anyway.

  ‘He’s from March,’ I repeated. ‘That means he’d have journeyed past—’ I hesitated. Perhaps if I didn’t put it into words, it wouldn’t be true.