Morrigan's Dream

Chapter 15 - Morrigan's Dream -

.:Fair indeed is the bright world...Lovely too is the crystal foam which makes manes for the blue-green seahorses
that they play upon the silvery sands forever, born of a stormless sea...sunlight was as soft as moonlight, gentle as the fragrant air through which it shone. On earth, too much bright light may blind a man, but here, where the splendors of light are far greater, they might glow and gleam and sparkle, but never dazzle. Nothing here, Pwyll thought, could ever hurt.:
--Prince of Annwyn
.:For the space of a few breaths, there was silence, such silence as follows an avalance. Then Rhiannon said quietly,
'Perhaps it (corruption) has already come. Fair indeed is this world we have reached, this world where the sun never burns, the bee never stings. But the wisdom that won us this lovely home fails us. We who know no pain have forgotten pity. We look with scorn upon those who still struggle in the mud and blood of earth, as we once did. We have grown proud, and pride breeds corruption.':.
from: The Mabinogion
by:   Evangeline Walton
                               . . . .
San Francisco.
A new dawn, and an old house, greeted Emlyn. Oddly, she found herself not unduely discomfited by her new-found knowledge of the place...it seemed as it always was before she knew it's dubious history.
Descending the stairway, she heard Rosa's singing in the kitchen and Manuel chopping wood for the fires out back.
All was well with her world here in the 'City by the Bay', as Daryl had crooned...'
  Indeed, Em thought, there are certainly others I can live easily with, and Rosa and Manuel are proof of that.
 'Buenos dias, Rosa! Como estas? I haven't seen you in awhile!' Em greeted her with a friendly embrace.
  Rosa kissed Em's cheeks, 'Indeed! Manuel and I were beginning to wonder if we were the only ones living here!' She laughed and poured tea for them both.
'I brought us something, 'kava tea'' Em plunked down a jar upon the counter top. 'Have you heard of it?'
Rosa opened the jar lid and smelled, 'Ah! Si. I know this tea. Good for relaxation.' She nodded, adding the jar to their stores. 'There are rosemary rolls in the oven...' she offered.
'Perfect.' Em opened a book Jack had given her, a curious little fantasy written by an Englishman from the 20th century, a certain J.R.R. Tolkien, entitled, 'The Hobbit'. Em had begun reading the evening before and found she couldn't put it down...
 Rosa knew once her friend had her nose in a book, she would be lost for awhile. She quietly slipped buns on a plate with peach slices, leaving Emlyn to her breakfast while she whisked herself outdoors to confer with Manuel.
Time passed quickly, too quickly, Em found, as she at last came to a stopping point to her adventures in Hobbiton, and discovered the clock's hands had somehow gained the hour of twelve noon already, and then some. Time to 'get crackin'' as Aleister often said, (and rarely did); and Emlyn decided to head down to the library, on her day off!
  That took some courage.
                           . . . .
The summer fog was beginning to clear by now and as Emlyn entered the lobby she, by some miracle, managed to dodge the view of anyone known to her, (who might have her press-ganged into the galleys in back), and made it up to the second floor unnoticed.
Glancing through the card catalog, (Em had worked typing up many of these, and recognized some of 'hers'), she found the call numbers for 'Celtic Mythology' and located the books she wanted to research.
  After hearing all of this new information from Daryl, she felt compelled to check on his claims for any authenticity. It all had sounded so outlandish; the reported tales of the ancient Keltic gods/kings/heroes and their fabulous, other-worldly origins and deeds...surely it couldn't be as fantastic as Daryl had related...
...And yet, after some hours of research, Emlyn had to admit that these tales were even stranger than Daryl had intimated. Middle-earth had nothing on the Kelts of antiquity.
One could easily become lost. Indeed: 'Here: There Be Dragons.'
Emlyn's mindscape wandered down strange, wonderful and bizarre pathways. Each new discovery led to another. She at last found herself in a weird sort of limbo in between the Goddess and a very old Christian Mysticism, centered upon the Isle of the Druids;  Innis nan Druinich (the isle of Druidic hermits"), also known as Ì nam ban bòidheach ("the isle of beautiful women"), or Eilean Idhe -- "the isle of Iona"...
Em had been captivated by Iona, ever since she had had a spate of strange dreams which descended upon her all unlooked-for, one winter some years ago; one of which concerned Iona.
  She hadn't, in waking memory, ever known of the small island off the Scottish coast, but in her dream, apparently, she knew it well.
In her dream, she recalled coming to the front of a sanctuary with a large wooden door, and 'The Church of Iona' was the thought that came to her mind then. She did not remember much else about the dream, but she'd been left with the feeling that something of monumental import had occured to her there, something...transcendent.
After this dream, the research she had done then disclosed only that the sanctuary there was a monestary sacred to St. Columba.
Her dream, she later recalled, had something having to do with the name: 'MacKenna' or 'MacKinnon', perhaps. She was, she had dreamed, travelling...somewhere in Scotland, presumably, and someone asked her name...and she told them, 'MacKinnon'.
But, that was years ago, and even when she had been in England, she hadn't visited the Keltic countries, but had travelled about with the Captain through the British countryside. Now, she decided, she really had been rather remiss!
As she perused her books, she found more regarding Iona that truly gave her pregnant pause: "Aylett Sammes, in his work Britannia Antiqua Illustrata (1676), states that Scotland was supposed to be the "Original and Capital Seat" of the Druids"...this surprised her much, as she had previously considered such to be either in Wales or Ireland.
She knew the Welsh Druids, of which Merddyn and Taleisin had sprung, had been later driven out to Ireland due to the infighting amongst the Welsh lords back then: when she had researched her ancestor, Madoc, she learned that the king would not name a successor, but his sons had to claim the throne by right of victor over all others.  By many accounts, Madoc's father, Owen Glendower, Owain ab Gruffydd, or Owain Glyndyr, however he was known, was also known as a right SOB, although admitted by all to be fearsome in battle right enough. As is told in 'The War Song of Owen Glendower' written by Felecia Hemans sometime before the 1870s:
"Saw ye the blazing star?
The Heav'ns looked down on Freedom's war And lit her torch on high!
Bright on the Dragon crest It tells that glory's wing shall rest When warriors meet to die!
Let Earth's pale Tyrants read despair And vengeance in its flame;
Hail ye, my Bards, the omen fair Of Conquest and of Fame,
And swell the rushing mountain air With songs to Glyndyr's name!"

--Well, after all that, it was no wonder her Madoc sought refuge far from the fray...
But, back to Iona...it called to her now. And more and more, as she read on...
"The Coli Dei are also included in the spiritual line of descent from the builders of the Temple of Solomon, the line of the Essenes, the Gnostics, even the Manichaeans and the Ismailis. They were established at York in England, at Iona in Scotland, in Wales, and in Ireland; their favourite symbol was the dove, the feminine symbol of the Holy Spirit. In this context, it is not surprising to find Druidism intermingled with their tradition and the poems of Taliesin integrated to their corpus.
  'The epic of the Round Table and the Quest of the Holy Grail have likewise been interpreted as referring to the rites of the Coli Dei. It was, moreover, to the time of the Coli Dei that is assigned the formation of the Scottish knighthood whose seat is typified by the mysterious sanctuary of Kilwinning, under the shadow of Mount Heredom in the extreme north of Scotland."
Interesting...but not as stunning to Em as the following:
"...As the alchemist required a soror mystica, a mystical sister, to perform the opus, so, too, is Bride, who is the soul of the ancient Mysteries - She is the Virgin-Sophia, the Virgin of Light whom the Bards once met among the stars..."
Em read on: "...The spiritual role of Joseph of Arimathea embodies the spirit of the Age to come....His task is to pass it to the son of his son, through the ancestral spiritual bloodline to us, the Parsifals of our own time...as the compassionate man who dwells at the heart of the feminine world. This metaphor was to indicate the profound spiritual achievement now possible in the Aquarian Age, by which masculine and feminine spirits shall be reunified, raised to divinity. This is the Aquarian Grail....
  "This theme is reflected in Glastonbury's terrestrial motif depicting Aquarius. The Tor - symbol of masculine spirit, is mate to the Chalice Hill - symbol of feminine heart. The motif depicting the union of masculine and feminine spirits is echoed in the image that represents the Sign of Aquarius: a heavenly man pours water from a pitcher. The pitcher depicts the spiritual heart. It is another allegory for the Grail Chalice. Water symbolises the soul - or psychological femininity.
  'Thus in the Age of Aquarius, the heavenly man shall pour forth his feminine self to nourish the parching earth. The spirit shall descend and be expressed through the feminine paradigm of feeling and meaning....In these images are hidden secret reference to a sacred inner marriage referred to by alchemists as Conjunctio. And this is to be our spiritual achievement in the Age to come."
Emlyn closed up her books. She'd read enough for now, taken notes, and her head and spirit thrummed with the newly acquired elf-darts of illumination. She couldn't bear sitting inside suddenly...
As she trotted down to the lobby, she nearly reached the exit unnoticed, but a familiar voice now called to her, 'Em!'
Emlyn turned, pleased to see her young erstwhile apprentice, 'Sophie!' (After her studies, she nearly called her, 'Sophia'...and, as she hugged her wee friend, she remembered then that Sophia had been her own paternal grandmother's name...Sophia meant 'Wisdom' in ancient lore. Ah, back when women were allowed half the sky to uphold.)
'It's good to see you, Sophie. You look well!' Indeed Em noted that Sophie seemed rather 'sparkling' now; she had new clothes and boots and her hair done up. She seemed more of a young lady rather than the ragamuffin Em had once noticed playing banjo on the library steps.
'In part, thanks to you, Em,' Sophie looked shy now, 'And thanks to my wonderful tutors here! I'm working now, see?' She spread her arms out, indicating her new outfit. 'At the oyster house. It's on the docks, but quite respectable! Do a bit of shucking, but mostly serving. I even pocket the occasional tip--all legally, too!' She laughed and Em joined her, knowing Sophie had done a bit of pocket-picking in her early days.
'Still have your banjo, though?' Em hoped.
'Of course! And, I got new strings for it, too.' The two exited the library together and walked companionably to the trolley stop. 'Well, I'm off for work. Stop on by, Em, I'll be sure to find the fattest and freshest oysters just for you!'
Emlyn waved farewell to young Sophie from the trolley steps as it chugged back up the hill to home. Emlyn never tired of the view out across the bay as it was revealed bit by bit upon the canvas of her vision. She noticed then the small islands in the bay and wondered about that odd little island off from Scotland's coast in the cold north.
'Sophia, the Virgin of the Light...' Em said to herself, her mind wandering still among the winding bardic paths of history, and prophecy. So, a new feminine avatar, who would lead mankind back to the Garden, was the Good Neighbor who might usher in a new age. And this was the message of Iona. Curious.
Emlyn's foray into the library's tomes yielded a bounty of
riches indeed. Nearing home, she now felt impelled to seek further for perhaps more treasure hidden thereabouts.
                           . . . .
Emlyn entered Nob Hill House and thought at first that luck was with her: both Rosa and Manuel had gone out. Good; no witnesses to her plundering...
 ...However, hours of labor later turned up nothing but boring contracts, bills of sale, bookkeeping ledgers, receipts, old newspapers and assorted tiresome hodgepodge; her desideratum apparently still hidden in seclusion.   She'd just replaced the last box on yet another closet shelf when she heard commotion below and knew her housemates had returned.
  That was close!
'Rosa!' She called, heading downstairs, 'And Manuel! How goes your day? May I help with anything?'
'We've got it, Em, no problema...' Rosa hefted a net bag of produce onto the counter top. 'If you like, you could wash off these leeks, though! I feel like leek and potato soup tonight, what do you think?'
'Wonderful!' Emlyn set to scrubbing the Welsh staples and no small job: dirt had a way of avoiding the brush in leekleaves. 'I do love leek soup. By the way...Rosa, does Dar--er, Diego keep anything...away from the house, in storage, perhaps?'
'Ah, oh, yes, he does keep the shop you know, his antiques. I have seen it. I believe there is an attic to the building where he might store some things that are slow to 'move' as he puts it.'
Interesting... Em had never seen the shop. Madame Yvonna had said that it was near her place on Russian Hill. Em had to think on this awhile, clearly. But meanwhile...
Midsummer was approaching soon. She had other things to
concern herself with. More pressing things...
 The thought of getting out of town, and back into the countryside, perhaps to merry meet some fellow devotees of the wonders of nature, called now to Emlyn's senses and set her fancies dancing. She could rummage through musty dusty boxes anyday, but the summer came but once a year...
Time to get crackin'.
                          . . . .
Meanwhile, Yeats meant to either crack this case, or some heads.
 He had managed to track down Thelene; not easy, as she could make herself quite invisible when she wished, but
at last he ran her to ground, hiding in plain sight, as it were, at the Pillar Stone with it's green surrounding...
 '"The red mouth Badb will cry around the house,
   For bodies it will be solicitous.
   Pale Badb shall shriek
   Badb will be over the breasts of men..."'
Yeats chanted the lay of the War-Goddess, Badb the Royston and her sister the Morrigu, as he strode toward Thelene who stood pale as a statue, her features blanked into stone at his approach.
   '"...Come ant daunce wyt me in Irlaunde, Morrigan..."'
He stopped still now, beside her.
Thelene turned her statue's head away from him. Silence.
'Nothing to say to your old Yeats then?' He came about her, forcing himself upon her gaze.
'Our dancing days are over, Shane...' Thelene looked past him, unmoved. 'And how dare you compare me to a battle-crow, your precipitation is uncalled for and pains me greatly.'
'Tis a desperate game you play, Thelene.'
'It's NOT a game!' She rounded on him at last, 'No one plays at hurling here!' Thelene paused, gathering herself. 'Why must you come here now? This has little to do with you, Shane. This isn't your fight.'
'You admit to battle, then, Morrigan.' Yeats gave her such a look then as would freeze a lesser being.
'Not the first!' Her eyes were bright now, he saw, ah, he was thawing his Thelene at last. 'You know I am hardly unmarked by strife...and Axelis has been waging this enterprise for time out of mind...'
Now Yeats played the quiet man. For a heartbeat, at least, then: 'Axelis plans another immram-tuathal,' he informed her softly. 'And soon.'
 He expected her to start, to deny, to turn upon him with fiece repudiation. But no.
And that set him back on his heels, indeed. But then, he rallied and merely filed that information for later. So. His Thelene was thick with thieves and insurgents, and obviously had been for some time. And thoughout it all, Yeats had been conveniently kept out of the loop and played for a fool...
'What am I to you, Thelene? What have I ever been? Your pet
wolfhound who comes at your call?' Yeats turned from her, shaking his head, staring at his boots. 'Clearly, I'm nothing and no one.'
'Shane...' Thelene looked pained, and reached for him, 'I wanted only to protect you, and our plans are much too fraught with peril to risk disclosure to anyone! Even Anara does not know.'
That was news to Shane. However, it didn't make things any less painful. It would explain Daryl's proclaimed innocence
in certain matters, however; his connection was, in the main, with Anara. Yeats stood still as the Pillar Stone before his wandering lady.
 'In all my long memory,' Thelene began, 'I know not of such a confederacy as this! The Tuatha de have always best worked alone and apart, most especially the High Council.     This may be a first, a joint effort between Axelis' people and ours.  But, you see the inherent congeniality betwixt his folk and our own!--The Kelts!' 
  Her firey gaze rivited him. 'It seemed quite natural for me to act as liaison...but yes, Axelis has his own ideas of a new sort of immram-tuathal, and we, the League, believe its' time has come.'
Yeats looked upon her darkly, 'And the Others?'
Thelene shook her head. 'No. They have nothing to do with us, or Axelis, or the League. They figure in our plans not at all.'
Yeats glared at her, snorting.
'It is so!' She sighed then, 'Yes, it's true that some of the League consorted with the Others, in the beginning long and long ago! And, some were held by the Others against their will. Ah, I see that surprises you!' She nodded to him, 'Axelis' people are no friends to the Others! Quite the opposite, I assure you.'
Yeats slowly shook his head again. 'I wonder.'
'"You are the bows from which your living children are sent forth"' Thelene smiled at him finally, 'It is our duty, to protect our own. In this, we turn not from the road ahead.
It is clearly marked.'
'Marked with blood, Morrigu?'
Thelene regarded him, her features firm in resolve.'It is marked by need, which yearns for liberty and an end to slavery!' she declared, fierce as Boudicia in battle fever, 'It is marked by destiny.'
                         . . . .