Read Online 3 Great Historical Novels by Fay Weldon - Free Book Online
Authors: Fay Weldon
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offended.
Mamo clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘Keep what you write. You can read to me when you come home.’
‘I could.’ Rhia knew that she probably wouldn’t, and besides, she didn’t want her grandmother, or any ghost for that matter,waiting for her when she came home. She was finished with ghosts. Or so she had thought.
‘Good.’ Mamo sat down. ‘Now, I’ve a story.’
Mamo’s stories were drawn from some boundless ancestral hoard; tales that had been told and retold by generations of bards. Some had never even been written down; others weren’t entirely Irish and weren’t entirely Welsh, like Mamo herself. She professed to be descended from the Tuatha de Danaan , the tribe of the great goddess Anu and the preservers of her stories. Connor Mahoney had always left the room when Mamo talked about the Tuatha ; whenever she did, her grey eyes turned dark as granite.
‘There is a story about Rhiannon I haven’t told you; from after she fell in love with Pwyll and brought him to the Otherworld and after she was wrongly accused. After these things happened, she became the wife of Manannán, god of the sea.’
Rhia thought she knew all the stories of Rhiannon, her namesake who travelled between the world of the Others and the world of men. She knew that she rode a white mare and wore a purple cloak and that three magical birds always accompanied her. She knew that Rhiannon was, mysteriously, separate from but also part of Anu, and that her life was beset by troubles and betrayals because she had to become strong to do the work of the goddess.
She listened to Mamo’s story, but it was long and complicated and full of Gaelic names, and Rhia’s mind wandered. In only a few hours she would be leaving for London. Mamo had visited only once before, on the first night. She insisted Rhia go, and Rhia, just as adamantly, insisted that she would not. They had argued about it half the night. In the end Mamo said that it was her house and that she didn’t want Rhia in it. If Rhiadidn’t go, she said, she, Mamo, would stay. That did it. It was time, her grandmother said, for Rhia to undertake the night sea journey.
Brigit had been stunned by Rhia’s announcement that she would go to London after all, but she didn’t ask what had made her change her mind. Perhaps she didn’t want to know.
‘At least your mother agreed with me about your naming,’ Mamo was saying. Her father had wanted to name her Mary. ‘Goodness knows, she needs to stand up to him more,’ Mamo shook her head. ‘I didn’t raise her to be stupid.’
‘She isn’t stupid. She only thinks it’s respectful.’
‘Respectful!’ Mamo spat. ‘It is not respect to surrender, it is respectful to respect oneself and one’s spouse equally.’
Rhia did not want a lecture, or another tirade against her father. ‘Tell me the rest of the story of Rhiannon and Manannán,’ she said.
Epona stood as still as a statue and accepted an apple graciously while Rhia saddled her in the stable-yard in the half-light. Her soft grey ears were twitching as though the mare could hear the altered rhythm of Rhia’s heartbeat; as though she knew something was different.
Only the baker’s lamp was lit as they rode through the village and down to the sea. Thomas would be awake, though, and at his loom. The shale was glistening, the tide receding. The moon was new; a dim crescent, barely visible in the pearl grey sky. The sea sighed rhythmically. Rhia pressed her heels gently into Epona’s flank and the mare tossed her head and picked up her hooves. Rhia leaned lower over her neck and they moved as one until Epona was at a canter, her hooves rattling the shale like castanets. Rhia’s hood fell back. The air was sharp and salty and its damp clung to her hair. She closed her eyes for a moment.
The night sea journey.
The journey to the farthest shores of one’s fears. It was the sea itself that Rhia feared most.
The Kelly cottage was on the outskirts of
Mamo clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘Keep what you write. You can read to me when you come home.’
‘I could.’ Rhia knew that she probably wouldn’t, and besides, she didn’t want her grandmother, or any ghost for that matter,waiting for her when she came home. She was finished with ghosts. Or so she had thought.
‘Good.’ Mamo sat down. ‘Now, I’ve a story.’
Mamo’s stories were drawn from some boundless ancestral hoard; tales that had been told and retold by generations of bards. Some had never even been written down; others weren’t entirely Irish and weren’t entirely Welsh, like Mamo herself. She professed to be descended from the Tuatha de Danaan , the tribe of the great goddess Anu and the preservers of her stories. Connor Mahoney had always left the room when Mamo talked about the Tuatha ; whenever she did, her grey eyes turned dark as granite.
‘There is a story about Rhiannon I haven’t told you; from after she fell in love with Pwyll and brought him to the Otherworld and after she was wrongly accused. After these things happened, she became the wife of Manannán, god of the sea.’
Rhia thought she knew all the stories of Rhiannon, her namesake who travelled between the world of the Others and the world of men. She knew that she rode a white mare and wore a purple cloak and that three magical birds always accompanied her. She knew that Rhiannon was, mysteriously, separate from but also part of Anu, and that her life was beset by troubles and betrayals because she had to become strong to do the work of the goddess.
She listened to Mamo’s story, but it was long and complicated and full of Gaelic names, and Rhia’s mind wandered. In only a few hours she would be leaving for London. Mamo had visited only once before, on the first night. She insisted Rhia go, and Rhia, just as adamantly, insisted that she would not. They had argued about it half the night. In the end Mamo said that it was her house and that she didn’t want Rhia in it. If Rhiadidn’t go, she said, she, Mamo, would stay. That did it. It was time, her grandmother said, for Rhia to undertake the night sea journey.
Brigit had been stunned by Rhia’s announcement that she would go to London after all, but she didn’t ask what had made her change her mind. Perhaps she didn’t want to know.
‘At least your mother agreed with me about your naming,’ Mamo was saying. Her father had wanted to name her Mary. ‘Goodness knows, she needs to stand up to him more,’ Mamo shook her head. ‘I didn’t raise her to be stupid.’
‘She isn’t stupid. She only thinks it’s respectful.’
‘Respectful!’ Mamo spat. ‘It is not respect to surrender, it is respectful to respect oneself and one’s spouse equally.’
Rhia did not want a lecture, or another tirade against her father. ‘Tell me the rest of the story of Rhiannon and Manannán,’ she said.
Epona stood as still as a statue and accepted an apple graciously while Rhia saddled her in the stable-yard in the half-light. Her soft grey ears were twitching as though the mare could hear the altered rhythm of Rhia’s heartbeat; as though she knew something was different.
Only the baker’s lamp was lit as they rode through the village and down to the sea. Thomas would be awake, though, and at his loom. The shale was glistening, the tide receding. The moon was new; a dim crescent, barely visible in the pearl grey sky. The sea sighed rhythmically. Rhia pressed her heels gently into Epona’s flank and the mare tossed her head and picked up her hooves. Rhia leaned lower over her neck and they moved as one until Epona was at a canter, her hooves rattling the shale like castanets. Rhia’s hood fell back. The air was sharp and salty and its damp clung to her hair. She closed her eyes for a moment.
The night sea journey.
The journey to the farthest shores of one’s fears. It was the sea itself that Rhia feared most.
The Kelly cottage was on the outskirts of
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