Read Online I, Morgana by Felicity Pulman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Felicity Pulman
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cornflowers, representing the mantle of the Virgin’s cloak; yellow mullein or “Virgin Mary’s Candle’; “Our Lady’s shoes” that are actually columbines; “Our Lady’s gloves”, or foxgloves of folklore; purple “Madonna’s herb”, and many others. Each private herber has a turf bench for solitary rest and quiet contemplation, and is cut off from the main garden by a sheltering screen of fragrant Gallica roses, a symbol of divine love that scent the air with their sweet perfume.
On three sides of the square surrounding the garden, I establish a range of fruit trees, apples, pears, plums and cherries, that will give the beauty of their blossom in spring, shade in summer, fruit in autumn and sunlight through their bare branches in winter. On the fourth side I plant a variety of prickly bramble bushes and canes that will yield fruit such as blackberries and raspberries but that will also act as a barrier against intruders—and aid me in my quest. Winding pathways link one garden bed to another, and these are framed with a sturdy lattice over which grow clinging vines of honeysuckle and roses or grapes, providing shade and a sweet and juicy treat in summer.
The garden takes a while to establish, but the plants grow quickly and the sisters praise my efforts. They tell me how much they enjoy visiting it, how greatly they appreciate the beautiful flowers as well as all the plants that may be put to practical use. I know they make use of the quiet herbers for rest and as a welcome relief from the relentless presence of others. In fact they’re so pleased with me that they do not remark on my absence when I sometimes go missing. They cannot know that parts of the garden are hidden from their eyes. For, while I am laying out the garden, with the help of Merlin’s book I am also plotting secret ways to take me to a part of it that no one else will be able to find.
The first secret way I create takes me to the ancient spring that lies beneath the fountain at the heart of my garden. It was probably once a shrine to the old gods, but when the new abbey and priory were built it was turned into a fountain; I adapted this to my design, and to my purpose. I used my wands to cast spells and now, when I walk widdershins and recite the chant that I found in Merlin’s book of magic, I come to the ancient spring. I make offerings and, in reward, I sometimes catch tantalizing glimpses of the future—or perhaps it’s the past—when I look into the water’s rusty red depths. Voices speak words that sometimes resemble the language of the church, but there are others that I cannot understand at all.
On one occasion I see a young woman looking back at me: mouse-brown hair and a plain, rather solemn face. I look into her greenish-gold eyes, and see a mirror reflection of myself. “Who are you?” I whisper, trying to contain my excitement for I can’t help wondering if perhaps she is me, but in some Otherworld or at some time into the future.
“Morgan,” she answers. “Who are you?”
“My name is Morgana.”
“Morgana.” The word is echoed on a sigh as the vision fades.
I do not see her again. Instead, I hear a wailing chant that is beyond any words I know. The sound of it prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. There is danger here, a form of madness. I can sense it even if I do not understand it. By keeping still and quiet, I can feel in my heart the passion behind what’s being said, although there seems such a depth of hatred and rage, such a roaring and shouting, that I am shaken with terror and a deep sense of foreboding that this can only lead to the end of our world as we know it. I long to know more, and fear it too, but for full understanding I suspect I shall need patience and a great deal more time.
Perhaps this is the most important lesson I am learning during my time here in the priory. Patience, as I struggle to understand. Patience, as I try to see a way to fulfill my dreams.
My other secret
On three sides of the square surrounding the garden, I establish a range of fruit trees, apples, pears, plums and cherries, that will give the beauty of their blossom in spring, shade in summer, fruit in autumn and sunlight through their bare branches in winter. On the fourth side I plant a variety of prickly bramble bushes and canes that will yield fruit such as blackberries and raspberries but that will also act as a barrier against intruders—and aid me in my quest. Winding pathways link one garden bed to another, and these are framed with a sturdy lattice over which grow clinging vines of honeysuckle and roses or grapes, providing shade and a sweet and juicy treat in summer.
The garden takes a while to establish, but the plants grow quickly and the sisters praise my efforts. They tell me how much they enjoy visiting it, how greatly they appreciate the beautiful flowers as well as all the plants that may be put to practical use. I know they make use of the quiet herbers for rest and as a welcome relief from the relentless presence of others. In fact they’re so pleased with me that they do not remark on my absence when I sometimes go missing. They cannot know that parts of the garden are hidden from their eyes. For, while I am laying out the garden, with the help of Merlin’s book I am also plotting secret ways to take me to a part of it that no one else will be able to find.
The first secret way I create takes me to the ancient spring that lies beneath the fountain at the heart of my garden. It was probably once a shrine to the old gods, but when the new abbey and priory were built it was turned into a fountain; I adapted this to my design, and to my purpose. I used my wands to cast spells and now, when I walk widdershins and recite the chant that I found in Merlin’s book of magic, I come to the ancient spring. I make offerings and, in reward, I sometimes catch tantalizing glimpses of the future—or perhaps it’s the past—when I look into the water’s rusty red depths. Voices speak words that sometimes resemble the language of the church, but there are others that I cannot understand at all.
On one occasion I see a young woman looking back at me: mouse-brown hair and a plain, rather solemn face. I look into her greenish-gold eyes, and see a mirror reflection of myself. “Who are you?” I whisper, trying to contain my excitement for I can’t help wondering if perhaps she is me, but in some Otherworld or at some time into the future.
“Morgan,” she answers. “Who are you?”
“My name is Morgana.”
“Morgana.” The word is echoed on a sigh as the vision fades.
I do not see her again. Instead, I hear a wailing chant that is beyond any words I know. The sound of it prickles the hairs on the back of my neck. There is danger here, a form of madness. I can sense it even if I do not understand it. By keeping still and quiet, I can feel in my heart the passion behind what’s being said, although there seems such a depth of hatred and rage, such a roaring and shouting, that I am shaken with terror and a deep sense of foreboding that this can only lead to the end of our world as we know it. I long to know more, and fear it too, but for full understanding I suspect I shall need patience and a great deal more time.
Perhaps this is the most important lesson I am learning during my time here in the priory. Patience, as I struggle to understand. Patience, as I try to see a way to fulfill my dreams.
My other secret
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