After the noble stonework of Avalon, the round daub-and-wattle huts of the monks on Inis Witrin seemed clumsy and mean. I drew down my veil to hide the crescent on my brow as we climbed the slope, and Con, the young Druid who had been assigned to escort me, moved forwards to take my arm. Nearly six weeks had passed since the Oracle rite, and Beltane was hard upon us. After the usual debate regarding the meaning of the oracle’s pronouncements, Arganax had sent out some of his young men to the Mendip Hills to see if any Roman fitting Heron’s description could be found, and we had had to wait for their reply.
“You will have to let me talk to them. These holy men are forbidden to speak with a female,” he said softly. The monks allowed us to keep the few horses belonging to Avalon in their pasture, in exchange for herbs and medicines. I wondered where they thought we came from.
“What, do they think I will tempt them to impurity?” I snorted derisively. “I will need to put on the guise of an ugly old woman when we meet the Roman. I might as well begin practising now.” My father had made sure his children learned good Latin—it was one of the reasons I had been chosen for the task of bringing the Roman to Avalon.
As the path curved around, I could see the round church, the lower ambulatory supporting a central tower, whose thatch shone golden in the sun. Con showed me a bench near the sanctuary where I could wait while he went off to see about the horses. It was a surprisingly peaceful place in which to sit, listening to the soft drone of chanting that came from within as I watched the meandering progress of a butterfly above the grass.
The singing in the church soared suddenly and I turned to listen. When I looked back, the butterfly had alighted on the outstretched hand of an old man. I blinked, wondering how he had come there without my seeing him, for the area all around the church was clear. The other brothers I had seen wore rough tunics woven from the undyed fleece, but the old man’s garment shone snowy white and the beard that covered his chest was as white as the wool.
“The blessing of the Most High be upon you, my sister,” he said softly. “And my thanks to Him for allowing me to speak with you once more.”
“What do you mean?” I stammered. “I have never seen you before!”
“Ah—” he sighed. “You do not remember…”
“Remember what?” Defiantly, I pushed back my veil. “You are a follower of the Christos, and I am a priestess of Avalon!”
He nodded. That is true—today. But in ages past we were both of the same order, in the land that now is sunk beneath the waves. Lives and lands pass away, but the Light of the Spirit shines still.”
My lips parted in shock. How could this monk know about the Mysteries? “What—” I stammered, struggling for focus. “Who are you?”
“My name in this place is Joseph. But it is not my name you should be asking, but your own.”
“I am called Eilan,” I answered swiftly, “and Helena…’
“Or Tiriki…” he answered, and I blinked, finding a strange familiarity in that name. “If you do not know who you are, how can you find your way?”
“I know where I am going—” With an effort I stopped myself from blurting out my mission, but it struck me that the old man already knew.
He shook his head and sighed. “Your spirit knows, but I fear that the flesh you wear now must walk a weary way before you understand. Remember: the symbol is nothing. It is the reality behind all symbols that is all.”
I was still no closer to comprehending who or what this old man might be, but I had training enough to know that what he said was true.
“Good father, what must I do?”
“Seek ever for the Light…” he answered, and with his words, the sunlight on his white robe grew blinding.