Where the Path Leads – Chapter 32
Ancient One
She gasped, whirling to face Simon Poyntz. In the pale blue phosphorescence from the lake, he stood less than an arm’s length away, his eyes steely.
“NO!” she cried. But he grabbed the cypress staff from her and shoved her backwards into the lake.
The plunge into the shockingly cold water seemed to suck the breath right out of her. The glowing creatures scattered, sparkling even brighter, and time slowed to a stop as she descended ever farther downwards, feeling no bottom, just continuing down, down, down. The brightly lit blue surface appeared farther and farther away. Her mind suddenly rejected this–the cold and the distance–and she began to flail her arms and kick with her feet. Slowly, ever so slowly she rose until she swam again through the glittering blue. Just one thought screamed in her mind. Air!
The pressure in her chest made her feel ready to explode when she finally broke through the surface, taking a tremendous gasp of air. But her nemesis was waiting and barely did her head clear the surface when he shoved her back under. This couldn’t be happening, her mind told her. Her story absolutely could not end here. She kept coming back up, frantic for air, struggling frantically with her hands to reach something solid, but he pushed her under again, and again, and again.
Once she surfaced to a snapshot of background movement that flashed through her line of vision. Was it someone who could help? Please! Let someone HELP! She couldn’t call out with her mouth full of water. The last time he pushed her under, there were scuffling sounds nearby, but they were muted, far away, and her arms and legs now felt as heavy as stones, and her brain began to buzz. The rock ledge of the pool was within her grasp for a second and she scrabbled for a handhold, but it fell away and she slipped under again. The phosphorescent blue on the surface finally faded as she drifted back down into the darkness. Was it the darkness of the pool, or some deeper darkness within herself? As she was sinking, the dark enclosed her like a warm blanket, like a baby must feel in the womb. Inexplicably, she felt peaceful and ceased her struggling, resting suspended in the depths for she knew not how long, perhaps a long time, perhaps no time at all. By imperceptible degrees, the cocoon of darkness began to lighten, the blackness and gloom morphing into grayness, then to a soft light, then to an intense brightness which amazed her.
She became aware of a primal sensation, one of the first movements she had experienced upon birth–rocking. Gentle rocking, such as a mother gives a child. Then, in the blinding brightness, bathed in an unearthly glow, appeared an ancient woman, her browned face a map of lines, skin sagging from her neck, her twig-like body looking as if at any moment it might dissolve like dust into thin air. Yet she seemed familiar to Emily. All her attention was riveted on what the old crone held in her frail arms–the emaciated form of a person, eyes sunken into her gaunt face, her bony arms hanging lifeless.
Stunned, she realized it was Sophia. Emily was overcome with sadness.
With a cramped, gnarled hand the ancient hag gently pushed back a lock of Sophia’s hair. The tenderness of the gesture bespoke infinite love, love without reason, love that came from the beginning, even before birth.
As the old woman held Sophia in her arms, rocking, Emily noticed for the first time her friend’s hair. What had been salt and pepper when she used to wear it in a bun at the nape of her neck now appeared a loose mass of golden brown waves, like that of a younger Sophia. Entranced, she saw one of Sophia’s careworn hands, which hung down lifelessly, grow smooth, and the lines around her eyes and mouth disappear, her slender frame shrinking, becoming smaller as the crone tenderly rocked. Now Sophia was again young with luminous hair framing her childish face in soft curls and tendrilling over her shoulders. The ancient one gathered up a still-dangling arm and held Sophia even closer in an embrace that Emily could almost feel, until finally the figure that remained cradled was a delicate baby girl.
When the crone stopped rocking, Emily gazed at the sleeping infant, barely discerning the features of Sophia.
The ancient one looked up straight at Emily, her watery dark eyes filled with both infinite sadness and profound joy.
Emily didn’t understand. How could joy and rebirth exist alongside cruelty and suffering?
Don’t ask what suffering means, the crone’s look seemed to imply. Take joy in life.
But Sophia hadn’t deserved her fate.
The ancient one cradled the baby. Forgiveness, she implied, is part of life.
But forgiveness is hard, Emily thought. Besides, it felt like her anger helped keep the memory of Sophia alive. Why should she forgive those who had caused her friend’s death? Could she even forgive herself for her part in it? Hadn’t she unintentionally started it all?
Even as she had these thoughts, the lake’s deep stillness was transformed by wave after wave, rocking over and around and through her. Buffeted about, Emily grew afraid, but the crone only rocked harder, as if to say, your thoughts and actions are like these waves, rippling out and affecting others in ways you often can’t foresee.
But the idea of forgiveness helped her find her way back to peace. Forgiveness made even the thought of suffering bearable. When she stopped blaming, stopped resisting what had happened, she felt soothed. Her heart lifted, so did her body. The waves carried her to the top of the lake, and the next thing she knew, strong hands were lifting her from the water, pulling her out onto the rock ledge where she lay weak and unmoving, choking up water, gasping for air. But still alive.
Rolling onto her side, she retched up water. Someone leaned over her. The ancient one? No. Arthur’s kind face appeared above her, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. He was saying something, but her ears must still have been filled with water. Finally, the movement of his lips and the sound of words came together, registering in her brain.
“Are you all right? How do you feel?”
He reached down and tenderly moved a strand of hair from her face. As he did, he gently pulled something out of her hair–the owl feather, wet but still intact.
Dazed, she sat up from the puddle of water where she lay, but dizziness made her lie back down.
“Rest,” Arthur commanded. “We’ll go back when you’re ready.” He sat down next to her.
She inhaled deeply, promising never again to take breathing for granted, the air filling up her lungs, feeling good and cold and clean.
Emily held on to the image she’d seen in the pool as if it were a precious jewel. Had it been just a figment of her oxygen-deprived brain? But Sophia’s death, so apparently meaningless and tragic, had been transformed, and she clung to that image for consolation.
In a little while, when she was able to stand, Arthur helped her back to where they were camped, allowing her to lean on his arm while he negotiated their way through the stalagmites with the cypress staff. A grim-faced Simon, also sporting cuts and abrasions, sat by the small fire. Silently hostile, he looked up at them, then returned to idly poking the fire.
Arthur lit a rushlight and took a loaf of bread out of Simon’s saddlebag, breaking off some for her and for himself, before handing the rest to Simon. They sat down by the struggling flames.
“Simon,” Arthur said simply, with quiet authority.
Simon looked up, lips tight, brows furrowed. When at last he spoke, his voice was flat. “My lord and master obliges me to offer humble apologies,” he said to Emily, “though I was merely obeying orders.”
What could she say? His apology was forced, but the crone had just urged her towards forgiveness. She bowed her head, with no energy left for hatred.
“I . . . forgive you.” The words almost stuck in her throat, but she heard them coming out of her mouth and knew that love was the greater power, maybe the only power.
“We’ll see about those orders when we return,” Arthur said curtly, then added, almost as an aside, “if he’s still there.” They both knew whom he meant. “The forester’s gone to the mouth of the cave to see if it’s safe to leave,” he told her, offering her a drink from the wineskin,
It warmed her all the way down and made her realize how exhausted she was. She glanced over at Simon. She had put her hatred aside but suspected he had not. Going to sleep left her vulnerable.
Arthur understood. “Don’t worry. I’ll be here,” he said.
At that moment she loved him more than ever.
