Beyond the Gyre

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

HollyKatkin du Chesne Benet, common-law wife of Huw Adaryi, mother of Gwenn, Tristan, Poppy and Gwillam, felt every minute of her fifty-two years of age. She stared at her image, reflected back in wavy imperfection by a tarnished silver hand mirror. The mirror was magical — a gift from her Kymatre,[1] Neirin Mare. It had once been able to reveal the worlds between. But now it showed only Katkin’s lined face and thereby the inevitable passage of time. There was nothing magical in that.

She tugged at her unruly curls, and noted that silver now mingled with the chestnut of her hair. A year had passed since she had last peered at herself in the mirror — a year since she had cared for the way she looked.

Huw stood in the doorway. “Hurry, my Queen. I know you don’t want to miss this trip to the fishing shoals off Everruthe. Gunnar and Poppy are at the dock, ready to board. I have stowed our gear in the hold. We must go now, before the tide turns.”

Katkin sighed and rolled her eyes, since she knew Huw could not see her. Then she turned her face towards him, and assumed a pained expression. “I am sorry, Huw. My head is feeling loathsome today. I guess I have the megrim. But I will be ready in a moment.” Then, because she knew what his reaction would be, she added, “I am sure I can manage if I take some laudanum.”

He sat beside her, his face a picture of concern. “Are you unwell? Why did you not say? I will tell Gunnar that he must go without us. There is no need to use the lilies of the field.[2]“

Katkin patted his hand. “Don’t be silly. Why should both of us stay? I can lie here in bed with the curtains drawn. By the time you return I will be feeling fine again.”

“I don’t think I ought to...”

She broke in, perhaps a little too firmly. “I said go, and I meant it. With you to help Lut and Gunnar with the nets they will be able to fill the hold of the Able Drake in no time. We need the fish to dry for winter stores, and now is the best time to get them.”

“All right,” he agreed, with genuine reluctance. “I hope you will soon be better, Queen of my heart.” His dark eyes gazed lovingly into hers, and Katkin felt an all too familiar jab of guilt. She had tried and tried, for the last sixteen years, to love him, as he loved her. Every day she struggled — except this one. The day of the summer solstice.

Huw left the room, with a last fond backwards glance. Smiling now, she slipped the ring from her finger, and buried it beneath the bedclothes.

* * * *

Katkin watched with the spyglass from the top of Bird’s Hill, as the boat bobbed up and down on the waves. Gunnar and his two sons, Lut and Jakob, were aboard, as well as Poppy, Katkin’s adopted daughter. Her other daughter, Gwenn, and her granddaughter Myrie were at their house, Asavale, on the other end of the island. Gwillam, Poppy’s little brother, would be there too; he never went anywhere without Myrie. But they would be busy getting the drying racks ready for the expected haul of fish. No one would miss Katkin, or think to look for her, for many hours. Only Kadya, Gwenn’s husband, might be sitting by idly, but he was blind, and therefore no threat to her secrecy.

The sun rode high in the sky when she left the hill and walked across the wide plateau that occupied much of the island of Asaruthe. Over one arm she carried a woven willow basket. Her free hand smoothed the cream-colored linen of the new dress she had smocked and sewn. The material had come from Minbeorg. It had taken her all winter to embroider the yoke with an intricate motif of red roses and holly leaves.

Huw had admired it after she finished, saying, “Each year, you make yourself a new dress more ornate than the last, my Queen. But you have no one but us to show them off to. What is your purpose in this?”

Katkin had shrugged, saying she enjoyed the task and the pleasure of wearing the finished garment. Which was true enough, in its way.

A line of verdant holly trees camouflaged the cave opening. They loomed ahead of her, deep green in the sun, the berries glinting like many sharp red eyes. She stopped for a moment, looking about in all directions. The tumbled circle of rocks was deserted, save for a pair of black-backed gulls, and a dark-feathered juvenile. All watched her nervously, and then flew away, with mournful echoing cries.

Katkin squatted down and pushed her way through the thick foliage of the hollies. A thorn caught the skin of her upper arm, leaving a bloody scratch she did not feel. The shadowy land behind the trees hid a slender opening between two house-sized boulders. She sucked in her breath and squeezed through.

Though the mouth of the cave looked dark, a natural skylight, created by a fissure in the curving ceiling of the tunnel, provided enough pallid illumination to steer her steps towards the central chamber. There the fissure widened into a hole, which filled the hollow with shafts of bright golden radiance — enslaved sunlight, made to worship and warm this most sacred of spaces. Katkin stood for a moment, at ease, but filled with anticipation. Soon the sun would shine through the crack, and then...

She knelt, smiling, and unpacked the contents of the bag. A farl of oat bread, fresh-baked, and a stoppered jug of elderberry wine she placed on a flat rock that served as a table. Katkin hummed an old folk tune as she added a small crock of butter, and a pot of cowberry jam. Two plates and two earthenware goblets completed the setting. She frowned as she remembered the words to the song:

My love has gone for a soldier,

My soldier has gone for a love,

She is a beauty in satin,

With skin as smooth as a glove.

She stared for a moment at the wrinkled brown skin on the backs of her hands, seeing age spots where none had been last year. Sighing, she stood and checked the position of the sun, and then moved to the back of the cave, where a palliasse lay on the ground. The straw was damp and a little disheveled, so Katkin drew it together in a tidy stack. She reached into her pocket and retrieved a handful of dried rose petals and lavender buds. Carefully, she scattered them on top of the straw and then threw a quilt on top. Her hands came together, and nervous fingers sought to twist the ring on the third finger of her left hand. But she did not find it. Not on the day of the solstice.

She moved to a shadowed corner of the cave, and her makeshift shrine. Katkin spent her first winter on Asaruthe carving a tiny rough-hewn statue of the winged goddess. She had ruined many pieces of the soft cliff stone before she made a pleasing likeness. Huw offered his help, of course, but she had refused him.

Now Lalluna stood proudly on her pedestal, surrounded by bunches of dried flowers and foliage. Katkin returned to the basket and retrieved a fresh bouquet, composed of harebell and buttercup flowers that she had picked on her way across the meadow. She knelt and placed the flowers at the foot of the pedestal.

“Please let him come, my Lady. Please...”

Katkin had repeated this prayer sixteen times in the past sixteen years and in all that time Lalluna had failed her only once. She listened to the silence — it sounded like the soft breaths of a sleeping child. Satisfied, she stood and then moved to the center of the cavern, her heart beating in anticipation and fear.

The sun swung across the sky, until its celestial voyage took it over the hole in the cavern roof. She could feel its heat burning the top of her head, and she closed her eyes while raising her face upwards. The sun filled her vision with red — the color of heat, the color of passion. And then he came and laid her fears to rest.

Fyn stepped out of the sunlight, but his spun gold hair, so like Gwenn’s, continued to shine, even in the shadows. Katkin crossed the cave, savoring the moment — that blessed moment of reunion. When she reached him, he took her into his arms and held her tightly. As always, they did not converse, though it had been a year since they last met.

But his kisses spoke of need, and hers of bitter loneliness.

His fingers found the fastenings on her dress and undid them, one by one. Katkin caught one of Fyn’s hands in her own as he covered her freckled shoulders with kisses. Hurriedly, hungrily, she tugged at his shirt, and he removed it. Katkin noticed a new scar, thin and still angry-red, crossing his lean abdomen. She did not ask him about it.

He spoke for the first time as he unfastened his sword belt and dropped it to the ground. “Shall we, Katrione?”

“Yes, Tomas, we shall,” she replied, with a smile. He smiled back, bemused at her stubborn use of his old name. Tomas de Vigny he had been, once in another life — before he became Amaranthine. But Katkin would have no part of that.

She led him to the palliasse, then stretched herself upon it and looked up at Tomas. He had left the land of the living at age twenty-four, and now remained frozen in time, immortal, but not immune to hurts. His body looked youthful still, strong and supple, but inside he was old, far older than she, ravaged by battle, loss and fatigue. It made the apparent difference in their ages a little easier to bear, knowing that.

She raised her hand and he dropped gracefully beside her on the quilt. Katkin shivered in expectation of what she knew would follow. He was, and always had been, the most skilled and satisfying of all her lovers. She cast herself adrift in the warm sea of his attentions, feeling the caress of his hands and mouth everywhere with intense pleasure.

“Tomas,” she whispered. “Come to me. I am more than ready...”

The first time was always over too soon, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that they had four or five hours to spend together in the pleasurable search for satisfaction. Tomas rolled away from her, and rested on his back, and she passed the time by tracing every scar on his skin with her tongue, feeling his shivers of delight. Soon, he found her mouth with his own and kissed her roughly, then drew her on top of his body.

“Your turn,” he sighed, and closed his eyes as she sank down and wrapped him in loving warmth.

Katkin wanted to hold on to the moment — to him — for as long as she could, so she took her time, letting the passion build, until they both ached for deliverance. The sun beat upon them, filling the cavern with golden light, and it felt as though the Gods had thrown wide the door to heaven. Katkin had only to close her eyes to imagine she rose on tongues of flame.

Fyn clutched at her, wordlessly begging for more. His hips thrust in time with hers, faster and faster, until the maelstrom of climax and release took them both.

After a time, when she had kissed the sweat and the tears from his eyelids, Katkin stood and stretched. Fyn lay on the quilt, watching her. “You are beautiful. Never more so than when your hair is wild, and your cheeks are still colored with passion, my lady.”

She laughed at this, but it had a bitter ring. “And when I am old enough to be your grandmother, will you still think so, Tomas?” He stood and took her in his arms.

“You are unwise to disparage the turn of the seasons. Those of us who are so unfortunate to live outside of time cherish it. You are not the impetuous girl who once wetted an arrogant fool of a Captain with a jug of cold water. But to me, you remain just as lovely.”

Unhurriedly, they threw on some clothes against the chill breeze that entered the cave through the fissure. The sun had passed behind a cloud. Fyn crossed the sandy floor and admired the table. “Cowberry? My favorite.” Katkin joined him, and they sat together, sipping the wine and sharing a meal.

Katkin asked first, as she always did, about Lalluna, the goddess she had once served so devotedly. “When I saw you last, you said she had gone away. Do you know where she is now, Tomas?”