Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine

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      ‘You’ve got to give it back.’ Cathy stared at the brooch, awed. ‘Think of its value. The insurance. What if you lost it!’

      They had gone back with her to collect a pre-publication copy of her book each, duly signed by the author, and the draft of the play. As Viv moved the box backwards and forwards in the sunlight to reflect its colours, Pat reached for it with a gasp of delight. For a few seconds she gazed at it, then she took off the box’s lid.

      ‘Don’t touch –’ Viv was too late. It was already lying in Pat’s palm.

      ‘Why not?’ Pat looked up curiously.

      ‘One should wear gloves.’ Viv shrugged. Who was she to talk? She shuddered.

      Pat was staring down at it, frowning, studying it intently. After a moment she shivered and tipped it back into its box. ‘You know, that’s got a really nasty vibe,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that odd, for something so lovely.’ She handed it back to Viv with a grimace. ‘Cathy’s right, you should give it back to the horrid professor.’

      And now they had gone and the brooch was back in its drawer and Viv was alone.

      The voice was there, just outside her range of hearing. She found herself whispering out loud again. ‘This way madness lies.’

      Schizophrenia. Spiritualism. Necromancy? In spite of herself she glanced round the room. Was Carta there, lurking in the shadows? She grimaced. The voice had told her everything which had made her work come alive. Those were the bits her publisher had liked; the bits Maddie liked. Those were the bits they all wanted more of. Natural. Lively. Real.

      Too real.

      Viv groaned out loud as a sudden wave of total terror flooded through her. ‘Carta?’ Her mouth was dry. ‘Are you there?’ The room was silent. She glanced up at the mirror which hung above her desk but the only reflection there was hers.

      Then she heard it, the voice from the past, echoing in her head.

       Vivienne?

      She couldn’t ignore it. She wanted to know what it had to tell her. What Cartimandua had to tell her. Surely just to listen once more would not be dangerous?

      The path to the cave was wet, the limestone steps slippery with moss. Carta walked slowly down it, the heavy wool of her skirt soaked as she brushed through the overhanging ferns. The roar of water in her ears was deafening. Here, where the river tumbled over the cliff the water dissipated into rainbows before plunging into the dark pool at the foot of the rocks. She often came here. It was a sacred place, a place where the goddess of the hill spoke to her. Where she brought her hopes and fears. And her dreams.

      The gods were everywhere, but here in this dark place between earth and water, hidden from the sky, she felt close to them. So close she could communicate especially with her own tutelary spirit, Vivienne. She had been puzzled by the name. Ninian was a name she knew, but this female daughter of the gods was a stranger. Perhaps a goddess who had come with the Roman or Gaulish merchants who from time to time travelled the trade routes up the River Humbte from the coast, or perhaps one who had arrived from the west with the trading ships from Erin. Hers was a voice which reached Carta from beyond the mists which separated the world of the spirits from the world of men and women.

      Pulling her cloak more tightly round her shoulders, she ducked through the curtain of ferns and grasses into the darkness. The offerings she had left before the small carved figurine had gone. The lamp had long ago blown out. Reaching into her bag she brought out fresh offerings to the spirits that dwelt in the cave. Be they gods or little people, animals or birds, it was right that they be rewarded and thanked for allowing her to use this place.

      The small hollow horn in her bag, carefully stoppered with a plug of wax, contained oil for the lamp. She lit it quickly and easily, sparking dried moss and holding it to the lamp’s wick, and then she sat down silently, eyes closed, to wait for the clear thoughts she sought.

      The sound of running water faded as the silence deepened and at last she began to speak. There was much to tell. Much to ask of the goddess of the hill.

      The decision had at last been made. She was to be sent as fosterling to the house of the king of the Votadini. Such arrangements were usual. Her brothers too would leave the house they knew to live with other family groups or tribes. Thus were alliances made; friendships between boys which hardened as they grew into warriors, and matches between girls and young men which would be sealed by marriage as a man or his father or mother chose the wives who would expand and ensure a dynasty. She was happy with this. It was part of her destiny. Companions would go with her on the journey north : Mellia and Mairghread, the daughter of her mother’s best friend, who was the same age as she was and with them two slaves, Pacata and Éabha, who had looked after her since she was a baby and with whom she had formed a close friendship. Best of all her youngest brother, Bran, was part of the group as, with horses and carts and wagons full of possessions and gifts the procession left her father’s dun at dawn, winding its way down the great hill on a spring morning, blessed and escorted by the Druid, Eochaid, who in a moment of gentleness had saved her bitch Catia. The bitch and both pups, already grown, followed at her pony’s heels. Behind her, her mother and father and the people of the whole community had turned out to wave them farewell. Her mother, normally so strong, so determined, was crying softly. She had given her daughter a string of sacred beads to wear around her neck and keep her safe. Her father had pressed a lucky charm into her hand. Her only worry was that Venutios, alone of the children, was to remain, foster son to her father, to be trained by him as a warrior without her or her brothers there to keep an eye on him. The thought did not trouble her for long. There was too much to think about in the new exciting days ahead.

      Spring had thrown a gentle mantle of green across the bleak hills and stark winter trees. Lulled by the rattle of the carts, the squeak and creak of harness and the warm familiar smell of oxen and horses she looked around her eagerly, exhilarated by the idea of the coming adventure.

      Beside her Mellia was sobbing quietly as she rode. Carta glanced across at her companion with a flash of irritation, her own momentary sadness already forgotten. ‘You’ll see your mother again, Mellia. Do cheer yourself up. Look what a glorious day we have to start our journey. And think where we are going. СКАЧАТЬ