Alys Clare - Ashes of the Elements

‘Mistletoe,’ Josse murmured. No wonder the Forest People had taken the felling so seriously; mistletoe growing on oak was a rarity indeed, and now, in a very short time, they had lost two of those special trees. One had died, but the other had been deliberately felled. Purely to serve man’s greed.

‘There is something else,’ the Domina said. She turned away from the stream bank, paced a circle between the water and the dwelling, and then, as if having collected her thoughts, returned to address them once more.

‘You saw our most secret ceremony,’ she stated. ‘It is not for Outworlders.’

‘We had no malicious intent,’ the Abbess said. ‘We came into the forest because I was concerned for two of my — for two young women who are my responsibility. We came across your — your activities in the grove by pure mischance.’

The Domina stared at her. ‘No malicious intent,’ she repeated. ‘But yet you were witnesses to what it is forbidden for Outworlders to see.’

‘We did not-’ Josse began.

But the Abbess and the Domina were still locked in each other’s gaze; Josse, watching closely, had the sudden sensation that there was an invisible thread between them, a thread which, against all odds, meant that they understood one another. The Abbess said softly, ‘Domina, what was it for?’

And, with an almost imperceptible nod of acceptance, the Domina said, ‘Listen, and I will tell you.’

She drew herself up, arms by her sides, and stared out over the rushing water to the dark forest beyond. Then she began to speak.

‘We are few, we who live with and within the Great Forest,’ she said. ‘We move from place to place, here for a season, there for the next, always the same pattern down through the years. We take what the forest freely gives, but we do not abuse her bounty. We limit our numbers, so that the Great Mother is not overstretched in supporting us.’

She paused. Then the calm voice went on: ‘Under the bright night skies of summer, every two hundred moons, we assemble in the most ancient of the silver fruit groves for our sacred procreation ritual. A ripe virgin is chosen, who is the recipient of the seed of the tribe. If the Mother so decrees, the seed of the elders is successfully sown in the womb of the young woman, and, in time, the new child of the tribe is born.’ Briefly she closed her eyes, murmuring some soft invocation; it was as if the matters of which she spoke were so potent, so deeply ritualistic, that to describe them was both dangerous and exhausting.

But, gathering herself, the Domina went on.

‘If the procreation ritual results in a live birth and the child is male, he in turn is schooled in the mysteries, and, in time, takes his place as an elder of the tribe, to engender new life as he was himself engendered. If the child is female, she is sequestered from the tribe until, in her sixteenth year, she is led forth to be fertilised with the seed of the tribe.’

Josse, shaking his head in disbelief, could scarcely believe that here in this forest — its fringes only yards from Hawkenlye Abbey, only a few miles from roads, towns, villages — here in this forest, an ancient people still lived who worshipped the old goddesses and gods, whose lives were ruled by the moon and the sun. Who had not, it seemed, been touched by the least fingertip of late twelfth-century civilisation.

It was all but incredible.

He realised that the Abbess was speaking. Reverently, in the attitude of a supplicant, she was asking the Domina for permission to pose a question.

‘Ask,’ the Domina said.

‘The girl, last night,’ Abbess Helewise said. ‘She — Domina, she looked exactly like one of the girls in my care. One of the girls, indeed, about whom I have been so concerned.’ She smiled briefly. ‘Sufficiently concerned to trespass into your forest.’

The Domina, eyes still on the Abbess’s, gave a curt nod of understanding. Then she said, ‘Selene. The girl you saw in the grove is called Selene. She was born sixteen years ago, in the silver fruit glade, but in bringing her into the world, her mother left it.’ The echo of an old sorrow crossed the Domina’s face, darkening her countenance; the deep, far-seeing eyes were narrowed to ominous slits, and the full mouth became a stern, hard line. For an instant, Josse saw the dread power of the woman.

Then, staring once more at the Abbess, the Domina said, ‘The mother died because the birth was so hard. And the birth was so hard because she bore in her belly not one but two offspring. Two daughters, the one an exact copy of the other.’

Twins, Josse thought. Some poor woman of these primitive forest folk had carried twins. Multiple births, God knew, were difficult enough at the best of times. But out here, on the forest floor, no comforts, no warmth, not even a village midwife to help, what must the wretched woman have suffered?

He realised that the Domina was watching him. She said, ‘The mother had care, Outworlder. The best care. Do not imagine that she would have fared better out there in your world, some man’s chattel in one of your great houses.’

He dropped his head. ‘I apologise.’ Fool! he berated himself. First, for forgetting about this Domina’s skills with herbs and potions, which must surely far surpass those of some peasant midwife. And second, for overlooking her clear ability to read his thoughts.

‘Only one child was needed by the tribe,’ the Domina continued. ‘By our laws, if such an event occurs, the choice must be the elder child. Selene remained with us, Caliste was given away.’

‘Caliste!’ The Abbess breathed. ‘That is what she calls herself!’

The Domina looked mildly surprised. ‘Of course.’

‘But-’ Josse knew what the Abbess was thinking. Sure enough, she went on: ‘But how did she know? She was but a babe when she was lain on Alison Hurst’s doorstep! And they — Alison and Matt — named her Peg!’

‘Peg,’ the Domina repeated tonelessly.

‘I know, it’s not a very lovely name,’ the Abbess agreed, ‘especially when compared with the child’s real name. But they didn’t know the real name! And I cannot understand how the child did, either.’

‘She wore her name around her neck,’ the Domina said.

‘But-’ The Abbess frowned, then her brow cleared. ‘The piece of wood!’ she exclaimed. ‘Yes, I remember Alison Hurst showed it to me when Caliste wanted to come and join us.’ She turned to Josse. ‘The baby wore a leather thong round her neck, on which hung a pendant made of wood, carved with strange marks.’ Wonderingly she turned back to the Domina. ‘Was it some sort of code, which only Caliste understood?’ she asked softly.

‘It was our script,’ the Domina said.

‘How could she interpret it?’ Josse demanded. ‘She was only an infant when you left her with the Hursts, so where did she find the key to the code?’

The Domina was eyeing the Abbess. ‘You have manuscripts in your Abbey?’

‘Yes. We do.’

‘Tomes on natural lore?’

‘I — Yes!’ Excitedly, she went on, ‘I remember now! Peg — she was still called Peg, when she first came to us — particularly liked the tree lore manuscript!’ She turned her eyes up to the Domina. ‘And it was after she had discovered it that she asked to be known as Caliste.’

The Domina nodded, unsurprised. ‘She found the key to the script,’ she remarked, in a tone that seemed to say, naturally!

‘What did it look like?’ Josse asked. ‘The script?’ He had been thinking hard.

‘It was a series of notches, cut into the sides of the pendant,’ the Abbess told him.

‘Aye.’ He glanced up at the Domina. ‘The ogham alphabet.’

She shrugged. ‘Call it what you will. It is our way of recording the sounds of things.’