"Iron took the land," said Morgana. "Iron hated our gods and called them devils, nibbed out our true name to steal our strength. Iron called us Faerie, made us part of the dark beyond their fires. When tallfolk are bigger, when they have iron-magic and all the good valley land, where can the People go but under the hill?"

  Morgana raised her head to Merlin. "What does thee call it?"

  "Druith," said Merlin softly. "A fool."

  "And what must a see?"

  "Too far and too much, A god-king who must burn for his people."

  She flinched a little. "Cruel, even for tallfolk. Then know the way of things, Druith. All names go under the hill, stone before flint before bronze before iron, like waves on a shore."

  Then Merlin asked, "What one thing can you teach it, one lesson to mark it a true man and your own forever?"

  Her lips brushed across my cheek. "Poor Drurth. New green The Earth Is a Woman

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  leaf in a dry old world. Do know my own and what I'll teach thee."

  She kissed my mouth, a long kiss that pressed the magic and the memory into me. The scent of her was sweet in my nostrils, and there were tears in her eyes and on my cheek where hers pressed against it so that 1 couldn't tell were they her tears or mine, so mixed with the joy and sorrow of her magic. I felt my chest go suddenly hollow with a vast, soft ache, an empty space that had to be filled with Morgana. Then I was— Free!

  Loosed, i

  feel

  myself

  waking—

  unfettered, returning to true self inside Artos-tallfolk. My Prydn soul throws off its bonds like a frayed rope and thrusts Artos into the prison where he's kept me so long. Free, stretching out my arms to my brothers, who come out of the fog and lift me high on their shoulders like a prize to take me home under the hill.

  Just the four of us. My^Ticm-brothers, Nectan and Cunedag. Morgana and me, Druith. Ears sharp for danger above. We stay in the crannog under the stone circle while the Briton-men search for the Artos I've locked inside me and bidden be still. Sometimes at dusk we peep above ground. Redhair is still about, sniffing like a dog on a cold scent. Finally he goes away, and it's time to go home to theftiain.

  Nectan and Cunedag treat me well on our journey north. They tie me between the ponies only because the Artos in me is not yet to be trusted. Fettered, I have to run and stumble after them, but Morgana hovers close every step of the way, and anyway tallfolk feel less pain than humans or they wouldn't hurt others so carelessly. So the Prydn always thought, but it's not true. I suffered from the scrapes and dragging. My whole body was a lump of misery, and I know that, deep inside me, Artos bled and suffered too.

  Now and then we have to hide, but that's not hard. Tallfolk are big but stupid. When we vanish on the open moor, tallfolk forget a man can look like the moor. They forget the old lesson of hunting, that game will only see you if you move. If you're

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  The Earth Is a Woman

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  still as a stone, tallfolk will take you for a stone. And this is a difference between the People and tallfolk. With their iron-magic and their fine looms to make rich cloth, they've forgotten that Earth is their mother. No longer are they brothers to wolf and marten. It happened long ago, and this is how we tell it to our children.

  One day Earth went to her mate, Lugh Sky God, and said, "Man, our youngest child, is forgetting me. He's prideful and won't even speak to his brother animals. Do you go and give him a swift kick since he's grown too full of himself to listen to me."

  So Lugh called all of his children, the men, the fish, the birds and the animals, to stand before him, and he said to Man: "Now listen to your mother Earth."

  They tried, but had truly forgotten her language. Then Lugh said, "Speak to your brother animals." But all had forgotten how except a few of the smallest men, who were among Earth's favorites because she made them first. Only these were able to speak to their mother and brothers.

  The other man-children grew jealous. "What's so good about speaking to wolf and cat and bird when we're bigger and better in every way? We don't even call them brothers anymore."

  "Let it be so, then," Lugh decided.

  And Earth said, "Let it be so. They're not your brothers since you are no longer my children. Go be what you will, but only these small ones who remember me will be called true men, my Prydn, the first ones, the only men worthy of the name."

  The other children have been jealous ever since, maybe because they wish they'd kept the language of Earth, but Earth meant what she said. Tallfolk have a respect for the People, but they fear us, and it's hard to love what you fear.

  We never forget our bond with Earth and Lugh. Each year at Lughnassad, the story is told to the new children so that they remember their real parents and their true name.

  North, always north, with Morgana riding ahead now, looking for signs of our herd. We come on a small clan of the Taixali and approach with careful respect. They are friendly this time, though we can never count on it, and they leave shoes and harness for us to mend in exchange for the milk and meat we ask. I work all night for my swallow and mouthful. Still, it's good to be with the People again.

  Now Morgana points out to me some of our old crannogs, the earth houses we use and leave as our cattle move on. Scattered as they are, the People know where

  each lies. From a disguised opening, the tunnel will lead for yards under the earth to the main chamber which has a smoke hole of its own. Warm and comfortable for us, though tallfolk would be cramped. The whole is lined with stones carefully fitted together, and there's another opening where the cattle can be driven in when winter comes.

  The rath we carry with us, poles to be wedged into a base of loose stones around the crannog opening, wrapped with skins and the whole covered with turf so our house seems no more than a small hump on a bigger hill. The opening always faces away from the easiest paths. Whole tribes of tallfolk can wander through and never know they're in the middle of afliain unless we show ourselves. And if they swear we appear and disappear .-by magic, that helps keep them wary of us.

  Still, there are things that confuse me at first, words that seem strange. But Morgana, Cunedag and Nectan talk of the family— . for Prydn, nothing exists beyond it—and slowly I know. MOESS like remembering than learning, falling back rather than ing, so easily do I become one of them.

  Fhain is not owned land, as if a man could own the even a piece of it. Fhain is family, the way of things. AH owned by all, and its shape is four generations of daughters, their husbands and children. There are only three generations in our rath now because of many deaths and fewer births. There is the head of the family, old Gern-y-fhain Cradda and her last husband, Uredd.

  Then there's Dorelei, first daughter with one child living, one lost, and another due this coming Samhain. She has two husbands, Nectan and Bredei.

  Below Dorelei—and not near so peaceful—is second daughter Morgana, and her own husbands, Cunedag and Urgus. And me, Druith, who will be her happy third.

  Soon, let it be.

  Most important is Dorelei's little son Drost. He's what we and the cattle and the year-round hunt for a living are all about. If Dorelei bears another boy and Morgana a living girl, the daughter will take both brothers for husbands.

  They are our meaning and our future.

  A woman truly needs more than one husband. If one dies, there are more to give thefhain its next generation. With tallfolk, if a man has two or three wives, there's always dispute over property between the children—tallfolk say mine more than ours.

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  me more than us—and each greedy wife wants her son preferred. If the man dies, his wife may go off to another man or place, so the family is weakened. With us, all children are the heirs of the woman, all blood is traced through her, and all share alike. Our days move slow and sure as the grazing cattle, the sun divides in four the year that measures out our lives. In the summer raths or nestled a-winter in the warm crannog, we are one, we are the People, living as Lugh and Earth decreed. Sometimes our children and cattle die, but there is no other way for us. We wouldn't live in silly hut circles that any fool could come and steal from or burn. Nor, when Earth has put the herds for us to follow, would we insult her by scratching for more gifts under her skin. How could we harvest crops and follow the herds ail at once? We can't see any wisdom in the tallfolk way. It's lucky for them they breed so often. Else, with such a messy way of life, they wouldn't survive.

  It's late afternoon when we climb the last hill and snake round the rocks that hide the rath entrance. Still cool, but you can smeil the May-time coming.

  Then out to us pour all the ./Twin, Bredet and Urgus and sunny Dorelei hugging everyone, her son Drost chattering and climbing all over Nectan, peering shyly at me like another height to be conquered soon.

  I wink at him. He grins and hides behind Dorelei.

  We crowd into the rath in a fresh lather of kisses and greeting and the family smells are like braw flowers to me, hides and turf, dried gorse and cow-dung kindling, peat smoke, meat simmering in a broth of wild leeks and herbs.

  We gather about the fire in proper order: Cradda and Uredd in the high places, Dorelei on their left because of the coming child, her husbands next to her,

  then restless Morgana and hers, myself last. Little Drost toddles about taking from everyone's bowl. Nectan is his father, or thinks so, but he's only named as Dorelei's son.

  Well, now—in honor of our safe coming, a ewe has been butchered for the big pot. Not one of our own, but taken from die Venicone tribe. They owned it to us, anyway. Last summer, Cradda says, one of their women asked her to midwife her daughter of a boy-bairn. Cradda went to them, but the woman didn't trust her.

  "Hovered about as if I'd eat the bairn or steal it, and gave cold porridge in payment," Cradda tells us. "And this Brigid-The Earth Is a Woman

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  feast past, did a not come crying back to me, 'Oh Faerie Queen, the child of my child be feverish with bad color to a's muke. Do you make him well and take one ewe in payment.' "

  Well, Cradda took the child's birth string, which she had preserved, and greased it with fat and herbs and laid it close to the hearth to break the fever, while she gave the child a draft of gentle lavender and a poultice of the same grease mixed with beech fungus. Then, the fever broken, Cradda asked for her ewe. "Alas," says that woman of the sly Venicones, "they be all going to drop young soon, and we promised no lamb with the ewe. Wait till then."

  Well, the People are honest folk who take what's owed, nor more nor less—mostly. Cradda saw one ewe in the woman's fold no more ready to drop than a ram, and that night she freed it from slavery to such a dishonest mistress.

  The old ones dip first into the pot, then Dorelei, then we all help ourselves.

  There's no great notice paid me, though it's known I am Morgana's. With deep respect to Dorelei, I'm glad. There's a beauty in Morgana, strength as well as the wild and mournful sorrow all Prydn have, as if they heard some last, half-forgotten song. She's eighteen and her brown body is marked with bearing children to keep us strong. The look and the smell of her puts me on edge like a stag at rutting time, robs the hunger from my stomach and kindles it between my silly long legs.

  Little Drost likes me and takes from my bowl more than others. He squeals and wriggles and pretends to pull away when I wrestle and kiss him. I haven't spoken yet, it isn't time. But Morgana's eyes come to me again and again across the fire. The peat smoke curls up through the top opening. Summer is coming; tht/hain is happy.

  Cunedag begins the story of how they rescued me from the tallfolk. Many glances round the fire at Morgana, who pretends not to notice, but the edges of her mouth curl with a cool mischief.

  "There lies the great Briton-man, dead asleep with poor Druith caught inside."

  Cunedag rises from the circle and plays out what he's saying. I watch with Drost settled down and quiet against my chest.

  "Did wait till Redhair rode away, then sprinkled over a's nose the powder Morgana made. Then, oh so gentle, did H-i-ft." He staggered under the burden of Artos. "And carry the great lump of it under the hill of the fires."

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  Firtlord

  Cunedag wipes away pretend-sweat. "Ah-/tw! Did not know were so strong. If Gern-y-fhain needs whole barrows moved, let a put Cunedag and Nectan to it."

  Laughter around.the circle. Suddenly, Cunedag stretches out on tiptoe to show himself taller, lengthening his stride up and down the rath floor.

  "Then comes Redhair with a terrible fear: his chief is gone. A brings the Briton-men and the swords and horses, and the hill over us rumbles with their hoofs and anger. But did not care, because in the crannog, Druith wakes up to know us! Druith is free!"

  "Yah!" cries the whole fhain in triumph with a great clapping of hands.

  "Free but can't move, none of us. Did wait and wait and peep out only at dusk.

  Redhair be still there, the great long mile of him leaning on a stone, the iron sword swishing in his hand like the tail of a furied cat."

  Cunedag turns serious. "But a's crying silent tears, and his men stand about with long faces. A day passes and a day after that, Redhair striding back and forth up hill and down, sniffing for tracks to follow. The others ask him to leave: the chief is dead, they must go home. Aye, but it's gently said to Redhair, as a looks like to kill someone. So, did ride off from the hill of the fires, Redhair last and always looking back."

  Cunedag sits down and takes the bowl I filled again for him. He puts an arm over my shoulder. "Can see why Artos trusted him."

  Strange, since our word for tallfolk and not-to-be-trusted are the same, but he says it with no doubt. The fhain thinks about this. Nectan agrees; he's considered this, too.

  "True, have heard a can't feel pain or love, but . . ."

  Cradda spits a piece of gristle into the fire to hiss and sizzle like the bitter truth she speaks: "A's tallfolk." And that ends it. We know what they are, we go on eating. The sky dims a little outside the smoke hole, Drost dozes in my arms, and we feel close.

  There's barley beer to finish our feast. My tongue remembers it as mild stuff after the uisge Artos drowned me in. We pass the beer, sing a little, laugh much. Then Dorelei, in the middle of a story, starts to say a name. Just the first part of it, then she stops and in the sudden silence round the fire, she drops her eyes and whispers, "Forgive me, sister."

  Just a moment, then all are talking again, but Morgana makes too much of poking up the peat fire. It hurts me to see pain in The Earth Is a Woman

  63

  her. She has not Dorelei's peace, nor any child. Urgus speaks softly to her.

  She rises and leads him out of the rath.

  Everyone is curious about my Briton clothes, and they make a game of peeling me to examine how they're made. Cradda and Dorelei admire the close weaving of the wool trousers and how such softness can be worked into a cowhide jerkin.

  The heavy cloak goes to old Uredd to keep the night cold from his bones, but the rest of the clothes are too big for anyone, and I roll them in a bundle for a pillow while Dorelei fetches me a good sheepskin and girdle. Nectan threw away the iron dagger long before we came home. It would be unlucky for the ./torn. When Dorelei gives me the garments, I press my hands to her belly to show my love and respect, not only for her but the child-wealth she bears.

  She kisses me and laughs at the girdle that barely goes around me.

  "Too little girdle and too much thee." Oh, there's dear fun in Dorelei, and when she has me giggling, she tickles my ribs and presses my face to her stomach. "Be wasteful to be so big, Druith."

  In spring and summer, Lugh-sun never goes far under the rim of earth at night but glows there, lighting the duns and glens with a kind of magic twilight. To see it alone, to sit outside the rath and listen to our cattle settling for the night, brings peace to my soul, but to share it with someone would be better.

  At last, Morgana comes up from the glen, hand in hand with Urgus. She kisses him; he goes into the rath. Morgana comes to sit by me, and the light is clear enough to see the shine of sweat on her skin and even the little bruises and bite marks Urgus left. She was away a long time, and Urgus missed her, but seeing his marks on her fills me with so much wanting, I want to cry.

  "Did see thee many times on the Wall and riding with Redhair," Morgana says.

  "Dost remember his true name?"

  I try hard to remember. Faces and happenings float to the surface without meaning, bits of sleeping Artos. "Was a long time ago."

  She comes into my arms willingly enough, tiny, quivering with life, and I tell her how I hate being so big and ugly beside her.

  "Not ugly, Druith. Saw thee ride often, and stand and shake thy yellow head full of worries." Morgana laughs quiet and deep in her throat. "Many days."

  "And far from the rath. What did thee so close to Briton-men?"

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  Firelord

  Her hard little body presses against mine. She doesn't move, doesn't answer, but after a time she pulls away, eyes glistening in the twilight.

  "Be good to have thee here. Thee will be my husband soon."

  I try to pull her back down into the grass with me, but she won't. "Urgus needs me tonight. Have been away and do want him."

  I take her hand and plant it on my own need, but it does no good.

  "Be not—we can make no child-wealth, but Urgus loves me."

  "Thee's crying."

  "No."

  "What is it, Morgana?"

  "Be not!" She tears her hand from mine. "Urgus is waiting."

  She lay all night with Urgus. He's'a gentle husband and twice wakes her from troubled dreams when she cries in her sleep and calls a name.

  Three days to Bel-tein fire, the spring festival. Life stirs and wakes, the lambs and calves are born, there's green in the world again. Urgus and I go miles to the sparse forest east of our grazing where the old birch trees stand and climb them all to pluck from their tops the agaric, the tein-eigin that grows close to the sky. From this we wili kindle the Bel-tein fire. It will be a special time for me. Bredei has come by on his way from the scrap pit where we save our broken tools. Melted and recast, they'll make a new bronze knife to mark my cheeks with the ./Twin-sign. That done, the knife is mine to keep.

 

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