Marion Bradley - The Mists of Avalon

Gwenhwyfar chuckled. "True. He has a tongue near as waspish as your own, and no sweet temper-his wife will need more patience than the saintly Brigid, and you, Morgaine, are ever ready with a sharp answer."

"And besides, if she should marry, she would have to spin for her household," Meleas said. "As usual, Morgaine is shirking her share of the spinning!" Her own spindle began to twirl again, and the reel sank slowly toward the floor.

Morgaine shrugged. "It is true I had rather card wool, but there is no more to card," she said, and reluctantly took up the drop spindle.

"You are the best spinner among us, though," said Gwenhwyfar. "Your thread is always even and never breaks. Mine breaks if one looks at"

"I have always been neat-handed. Perhaps I am simply tired of spinning, since my mother taught me when I was so young," Morgaine conceded, and began, reluctantly, to turn the thread in her fingers.

True-she hated spinning and shirked it when she could ... twisting, turning the thread in her fingers, willing her body to stillness with only her fingers twisting as the reel turned and turned, sinking to the floor . .. down and then up, twist and twist between her hands ... all too easy it was to sink into trance. The women were gossiping over the little affairs of the day, Meleas and her morning sickness, a woman who had come from Lot's court with scandalous tales of Lot's lechery ... I could tell them much if I would, not even his wife's niece escaped his lecherous hands.... It took me all my thought and sharp tongue to keep out of his bed; he cares not, maiden or matron, duchess or dairy maid, so it wears a skirt ... twist the thread, twist again, watch the spindle turning, turning. Gwydion must be a great boy by now, three years old, ready for a toy sword and wooden knights such as she had made for Gareth, instead of pet kittens and knucklebones. She remembered Arthur's weight on her lap when she was a little girl here at Caerleon in Uther's court ... how fortunate it was that Gwydion did not resemble his father; a small replica of Arthur at Lot's court would have made tongues wag indeed. Soon or late, someone would still put together reel and spindle and spin the right thread to the answer ... . Morgaine jerked her head up angrily. It was all too easy to fall into trance at the spinning, but she must do her share, there must be thread to weave this winter, and the ladies were making a cloth for banquets ... . Cai was not the only man under fifty in the castle; there was Kevin the Bard, who had come here with news from the Summer Country ... how slowly the spindle moved toward the floor ... twist, twist the thread, as if her fingers had life of their own, apart from her own life .. even in Avalon she had hated to spin ... in Avalon among the priestesses she had tried to take more than her share of the work among the dye pots, to avoid the hated spinning, which sent her mind roaming as her fingers moved ... as the thread turned, it was like the spiral dance along the Tor, round and round, as the world turned round the sun in the sky, though ignorant folk thought it was the other way ... . Things were not always as they seemed, it might be that the reel went round the thread, as the thread went round itself over and over, spinning like a serpent ... like a dragon in the sky... if she were a man and could ride out with the Caerleon legion, at least she need not sit and spin, spin, spin, round and round ... but even

the Caerleon legion went round the Saxons, and the Saxons went round them, round and round, as the blood went round in their veins, red blood flooding, flooding ... spilling over the hearth-

Morgaine heard her own shriek only after it had shattered the silence in the room. She dropped the spindle, which rolled away into the blood which flooded crimson, spilling, spurting over the hearth ... .

"Morgaine! Sister, did you prick your hand on the reel? What ails you?"

"Blood on the hearth-" Morgaine stammered. "See, there, there, just before the King's high seat, slain there like a slaughtered sheep before the King ... "

Elame shook her; dizzied, Morgaine passed her hand before her eyes. There was no blood, only the slow crawl of the afternoon sun.

"Sister, what did you see?" asked Gwenhwyfar gently.

Mother Goddess! It has happened again! Morgaine tried to steady her breathing. "Nothing, nothing ... I must have fallen asleep and dreamed for a moment."

"Didn't you see anything?" Calla, the fat wife of the steward, peered avidly at Morgaine. Morgaine remembered the last time, more than a year ago, when she had gone into trance over her spinning and foreseen that Cai's favorite horse had broken its leg in the stables and must have its throat cut. She said impatiently, "No, nothing but a dream-I dreamed last night of eating goose and I have not tasted it since Easter! Must every dream be a portent?"

"If you are going to prophesy, Morgaine," teased Elaine, "you should tell us something sensible, like, when will the men be home so we may have the wine warmed, or whether Meleas is making swaddling bands for a girl or a boy, or when the Queen will get pregnant!"

"Shut up, you beast," hissed Calla, for Gwenhwyfar's eyes had filled with tears. Morgaine's head was splitting with the aftermath of unsought trance; it seemed that little lights were crawling before her eyes, pale shining worms of color that would grow and spread over her whole field of vision. She knew she should let it pass, but even as that knowledge crossed her mind, she exploded, "I am so weary of that old jest! I am no village wise-woman, to meddle with birth charms and love potions and foretellings and spells. I am a priestess, not a witch!"

"Come, come," Meleas said peacefully. "Let Morgaine be. This sun is enough to make anyone see things that are not there; even if she did see blood spilt on the hearth, it is just as like that some lack-witted serving-man will overset a half-roasted joint here, and the red gravy spill down! Will you drink, lady?" She went to the bucket of water, dipped the ladle and held it out, and Morgaine drank thirstily. "I never heard that most prophecy came to aught-one might as well ask her when Elaine's father will finally catch and slay that dragon he goes off to pursue, in and out of season."

Predictably, the diversion worked. Calla jested, "If there was ever a dragon at all, and he was not merely seeking an excuse to go abroad from home when he was weary of the hearth!"

"If I were a man, and wedded to Pellinore's lady," Alienor said, "I might well prefer the company of a dragon I could not find, to the company of one in my bed."

"Tell me, Elaine," asked Meleas, "is there truly a dragon, or does your father follow it because it is simpler than seeing to his cows? Men need not sit and spin when there is war, but when there is peace, they may grow weary of the fowlyard and the pastures, I suppose."

"I have never seen the dragon," Elaine said. "God forbid. But something takes the cows from time to time, and once I did see a great slime trail in the fields, and smell the stench; and a cow lay there quite eaten away, and covered with a foul slime. Not the work of a wolf, that, nor even a glutton."

"Cows vanishing," jeered Calla. "The fairy folk are not, I suppose, too good Christians to steal a cow now and then, when the deer are not to be found."

"And speaking of cows," Gwenhwyfar said firmly, "I think I must ask Cai whether there is a sheep or a kid for slaughter. We need meat. Should the men come home this night or tomorrow, we cannot feed them all on porridge and buttered bread! And even the butter is beginning to fail in this heat. Come with me, Morgaine. I would that your Sight could tell me when we shall have rain! All of you, clear the thread and wool from the benches here, and put the work away. Elaine, child, take my embroidery work to my chamber and see that nothing spots it."