O
lwynne drifted up from the dark dreamless void of her slumber, slowly becoming aware of herself again. Outside her window some bird was going crazy with joy at the prospect of another day. Olwynne wished it would shut up.
Another bird joined in, and then another. With her eyes still closed, Olwynne wondered idly if the birds‟ dawn chorus was some kind of rite demanded by their religion. Was the sun a god to them, a deity to be worshipped and placated? Did its sinking every night herald a time of terror and despair, a period of darkness and silence stalked by owl and cat and rat? Did they fear, huddling in their flimsy nests, that the sun would never rise again? This hosanna of rejoicing could be, then, a desperate plea for the sun not to abandon them as much as a shout of relief at the first paling of the night. Perhaps the birds believed that if they failed in their duty to sing the sun to life, it would be dreadful night forever.
Today was the first of May. Today the Coven would ring bells and blow whistles to welcome the dawn, and light a chain of bonfires across the land. All the people would dance and sing and feast, welcoming the coming of summer and the passing of winter, celebrating Eà of the green mantle, Eà the mother. There was as much fear as joy in these celebrations, Olwynne realized for the first time. Did they all not dread the cold and the darkness, the barren and the bleak? Did not every living creature—man or woman, beast or bird—did they not all long for love and
happiness and warmth and health?
Olwynne‟s eyes filled with tears. She flung her arm over her eyes and turned her face into the pillow, castigating herself once again for this dreary misery that dogged her every waking moment. More than a week had passed since she had walked the dream-road, yet Olwynne had not been able to throw off the effects of the sorcery sickness. A blackness lay over her spirits, a blight that drained her of all will and energy. She could find no desire to get up out of her bed, to rejoin her classes, to see her friends.
What’s the point?
she thought to herself. So she stayed in bed for most of the day, picking listlessly at her food, waking in the darkest hour of the night in sudden bouts of inexplicable terror, to pace her floor or stand staring out at the moonlit garden, twisting her hair in her fingers.
It was not nightmares that disturbed her repose. Olwynne‟s sleep was devoid of any dreams at all. Isabeau had placed a ward on her third eye. Every time Olwynne fell asleep, it was into a sensory void, a long period of blankness from which she woke feeling strangely dislocated. At first it had been a blessed relief, for Olwynne‟s fever had brought all sorts of terrible hallucinations and fancies to haunt her. But now, after so many days, the emptiness of her sleep was as ghastly as any of her dreams had ever been. Olwynne felt as if her waking life had been leached of all color and purpose and marvel. She did not wish to sleep; she did not wish to be awake. She seemed to hang in a no-man‟s-land between worlds, lacking the desire or the ability to cross back into her own world or to move forward into the land of dreams.
Isabeau was worried about her and kept the healers busy making bitter-tasting potions for her, and nettle tea, and soup rich with herbs and mushrooms. Iseult stroked her hair back from her brow and told her not to fear for her father‟s life, that she was watching over him as she had always done. Her father suggested a good meal of roast lamb and mulled ale, a solution Olwynne regarded with horror, while Owein tried to coax her out to visit the city inns or to attend a ball at the court. Nothing helped. The rest of Olwynne‟s life stretched out before her, grey and flat and featureless.
Not even to herself would Olwynne admit that Lewen was the primary cause of her
depression.
I’m just tired
, she told herself.
I’m worried about
Dai-dein.
I’m having trouble
recovering from the sorcery sickness. The fever has taken it out o’ me. I’ll feel better soon.
Yet often, as she lay in her bed, drifting in and out of sleep, her thoughts turned back to the previous summer, when she and Owein and Lewen had been the best of friends, and the days had been bright and golden and filled with laughter. They had ridden out and picnicked in the green woods together, Lewen whittling a lump of wood into something magical and beautiful while Olwynne made clover chains and Owein floated on his back, his freckled face turned up to the sun. They had read books together and argued over the laws of nature and the universe; they had danced together at balls, attended concerts and plays, and drunk ale together. If only she had known it was their last summer together. If only she had realized Lewen would be so stupid as to fall in love with a half-breed satyricorn girl whose hands reeked of murder. If only, if only, if only . . .
It seemed a lifetime ago. Now Olwynne hardly saw Lewen. If he was not at school or squiring at the royal court, he was at the prison, visiting his paramour. When he did come to see her, he was preoccupied or wanting to ask her advice on lawyers and court procedure, as if Olwynne knew anything about a murder case. Rhiannon, Rhiannon, Rhiannon—it was the only word she ever heard him say anymore. She was heartily sick of hearing it.
Olwynne threw back her bedclothes and got up, pacing the floor in her bare feet, heedless of the chill striking up from the stone floor. It was dark still. The birds singing their desperate chorale had not yet dragged the sun out of its night shell. She went and looked at her face in the mirror.
All she could see was a pale blob surrounded by a wild riot of hair. Using flint and tinder, as magic had been forbidden to her since the sorcery sickness, Olwynne lit her candles and placed them on either side of her mirror. They illuminated her long face, her skin marred with reddish freckles, her eyes very dark between their red lashes and hollowed underneath with violet shadows that began in the corner of her eye like the bruise of a thumbprint. Her nose was long and thin and had an arch in the center like a crag of stone. Her mouth was nicely shaped—she had to admit that—but it was pale and bloodless. And her hair! Orange as carrots, frizzy and wild, dry to the touch. Black, straight hair was all the rage now. If the satyricorn girl had been at court, she would have been feted for her beauty, her dreamy blue eyes, her milk-white skin, her night-black hair. No one would ever call Olwynne the Bonny or the Fair. She was called clever, quick, bright, and sometimes the Red, like her aunt had been.
Olwynne sighed. On an impulse she caught up her plaid and wrapped it about her shoulders and went out barefoot into the dim morning. All was quiet, though soon the witches would be rousing, ready to begin the Beltane rites. As soon as the sun rose over the horizon, the bonfire would be lit, and the chosen Green Man would carry his blazing torch out into the city, to light the hearth fires of the townsfolk. But for now, the only sound was the ridiculous clamor of the birds. No one would see Olwynne NicCuinn, daughter of the Rìgh, gathering the May dew like a common goose girl.
Of course, Olwynne did not truly believe that washing one‟s face in the May dew caused freckles and other blemishes to fade, or gave one that baffling glow of beauty that some girls had so effortlessly. Olwynne would have been mortified if anyone had seen her. Such country
superstitions were not the lot of banprionnsachan. If anyone had suggested she was capable of doing such a thing, she would have poured scorn on their head. Yet here she was, out dabbling in the May dew, and all for the love of a man who was in love with another. Olwynne felt angry, resentful tears in her eyes, but she did not turn back, slipping under the cover of the trees before bending her hand to sweep it through the icy, dew-silvered grass.
She rubbed the dew into her face, half laughing at herself, half-angry. Her skin tingled. She stood then, lifting her face to the silver sky, watching the stars fade away.
From deeper in the woods, a woman‟s voice rose in song.
“By a bank as I lay
Myself alone did muse, Hey ho!
Methinks I ken that lovely voice,
She sang before the day.
She sang, the winter’s past, Hey ho!
Down, derry down,
Down derry, down derry,
Down, derry down, derry down,
Derry down, down!’
Olwynne turned, utterly smitten. She had never heard such a gorgeous golden voice, filled with such joyous abandon. The sound of it raised all the hairs on her arms, and sent chills down her spine.
“The laird o’ spring’s sweet music,
The timid nightingale, Hey ho!
Full merrily and secretly
She sings in the thicket
Within her breast a thorn doth prick
To keep her off from sleep, Hey ho!
Down, derry down,
Down derry, down derry,
Down, derry down, derry down,
Derry down, down!
Waken therefore, young men,
All ye that lovers be, Hey ho!
This month of May, so fresh, so gay,
So fair by field and fen,
Hath flowered over each leafy den;
Great joy it is to see, Hey ho!
Down, derry down,
Down derry, down derry . . .’
Olwynne went running through the trees, ducking under branches and pulling aside leaves, eager to see who it was who sang so beautifully. She had heard that song sung many times before, but never with such warmth and joy. The woman‟s voice was unusually deep and rich, but as she sang the chorus her voice flowed up into the higher registers with an ease few could ever hope to match. Olwynne came from a family of singers. Her father had the same golden quality to his voice, and so did her eldest brother. She herself was counted a very pretty singer, and certainly music was one of the few indulgences Olwynne allowed herself. She was overcome by an urgent desire to hear more, and to know the woman who could sing with such technical purity and yet also with such heartfelt emotion.
Through the dark tangle of leaves and twigs, she saw a woman dressed all in black sitting on a fallen log, her face a pale oval lifted to the sky. As Olwynne hurried towards her, a twig cracked under her foot. At once the singer broke off mid-note, leaped up, and fled away into the garden.
Olwynne hurried after her, but it was no use, she had disappeared. Olwynne stood alone in the clearing, feeling acute disappointment. There were no clues as to who the singer had been, no footstep in the mud, no scrap of black cloth hanging from a stick. She could have been a figment of Olwynne‟s imagination. Yet, as Olwynne slowly turned and retraced her steps, she was humming “
Down, derry down, derry down”
under her breath.
Whistles sounded shrilly.
Black-clad students ran through the trees, blasting away the tranquillity of the dawn. A procession of witches, sorcerers, and faeries followed Isabeau the Keybearer along the avenue towards the palace, all wearing crowns of leaves and early spring flowers. The Keybearer carried a bouquet made up of the seven sacred woods in her hand, her owl blinking sleepily from her shoulder. A flock of nisses flew about her head, shrieking in excitement, while two tall tree-changers walked at her shoulders.
Olwynne stood under the trees and watched them walk past. Whether it was the freshness of the dew, the pleasure on the faces of the crowd, or an echo of that joyous voice she had heard singing in the dawn, Olwynne could not tell, but she was filled with a new sense of hope and happiness. Her lips curved upward in a smile for the first time in weeks. One of the crowd turned and smiled in response, then held out a narrow, long-fingered hand to her. Olwynne‟s smile deepened. She stepped forward and took the Celestine‟s hand, joining the procession.
You have been dwelling in a dark place
, Thunderlily said.
Aye
, Olwynne answered.
The shadow of it is still there, behind you.
Olwynne felt her spirits dip and made an effort to hold on to her newfound gladness.
But there is light breaking upon your face. That is good. Once you follow a road down into
darkness, it can be difficult to find your way out again.
Thunderlily, do the Celestines travel the dream-roads?
The Celestine bowed her snow-white head.
We may travel all roads. They are not always safe
though. Darkness overwhelms them. I cannot reach my mother even in dreams. I have been
sorely troubled, for it is not our nature to walk in silence and darkness, alone. I cannot see what
lies ahead of me, and my heart is uneasy.
Mine too
, Olwynne whispered.
I know. Yet when I saw you there, coming out of the forest, you were gilded with gladness. It was
like an enchantment laid upon you. It made the darkness behind you larger. My heart troubles
me. Who did you see, to cast this spell upon you?
A spell?
Olwynne was surprised.
It was no spell. I heard someone singing, that’s all. It was a
lovely song. And such a lovely morning.
It is a lovely morning
, the Celestine agreed.
And beauty is its own spell. Perhaps that is all it was.
I’m sure it was
, Olwynne said, but she felt troubled. She glanced at the Celestine with something approaching resentment. The Celestine knew, of course. She returned a look of regret and apology.
If it was true, it should not pass so quickly
, she said.
Who was this singer, that you saw in the
dawn?
I do no’ ken,
Olwynne answered sulkily.
She ran off afore I saw her face. It could’ve been a
student. She was dressed all in black.
There are many here that have magic in their voices
, the Celestine agreed.
There is so much
magic here, at the Tower of Two Moons, that it clouds my sight and makes it hard for me to trace
its sources. The air itself sings with it, and the earth thrums.