Read Online Magdalen Rising by Elizabeth Cunningham - Free Book Online Page B

her. How could I not? And that intense identification prevented me from noticing that, though I became proficient in all of the warrior arts, I was not gifted. Which is another way of saying the practice of these arts gave me nothing back. No joy. No enjoyment.
    The only exercises I really relished were the ones that involved my voice. My battle cries were not only bloodcurdling; they curdled the goats’ milk. What’s more, the hens stopped laying. Soon I was not allowed to practice any more. I also excelled at the pre-combat verbal challenge and insult. I could go for an hour without stopping, while the mother I challenged stood snorting and puffing, trying to catch me pausing for breath so that she could jump in. These sessions were deeply satisfying to me, and I wonder if all mothers and adolescent daughters might not benefit from a ritual expression of aggression. We were all passionately angry during that time. But there was nothing cold or corrosive about this anger. It was fiery, the fire of the forge, of which Bride is also goddess. My mothers were sure enough testing my mettle.
    Although the ground rules were clear, and no serious injuries were sustained, there were plenty of cuts, bruises, and sprains. Here perhaps is a crucial difference between my mothers’ warrior tradition and others: they practiced the healing arts as well. If my days were spent in combat, my evenings passed in learning to clean and bandage wounds, make poultices and slings, mix salves and tonics. Except for words of instruction, there was little talk at night. We were all tired, especially me. Though I was young and resilient, I was always engaged in combat, while they took turns to fight me.
    And so I also learned, during those evenings, the power of silence and touch in healing deep hurt. Words had become part of our arsenal. At night we dispensed with them and rubbed liniments into each other’s sore muscles. Our hands remembered the bonds between us. As we tended each other, it was not uncommon for one or more of us to weep.
No one needed to ask why. The tears were there to wash the wounds, visible and invisible, and to make the hard places soft again.
    It was on such a night that I learned the purpose of the heat in my hands. I had more or less gotten used to its coming and going, accepting it as one more mysterious manifestation of puberty. Then, one evening, Fand was in a great deal of pain. Reeling from a blow from my sword, she’d fallen hard and landed on a sharp rock. Likely she’d cracked some ribs. Various ointments had been rubbed in as gently as possible, compresses had been applied, and everyone had a different opinion about which position would give her the most ease. Meanwhile, Fand was moaning and threatening to keep us awake all night.
    The mothers were beginning a debate about the most effective sedative to brew for her, when I felt the fire pouring through my crown and roaring into my hands. They burned so hot I could hardly believe they didn’t glow like the peat coals. I felt as though sparks, random and dangerous, were shooting into the room. Then, in a flash, it came to me: I needed to direct that fire. It wanted to go somewhere. It had a purpose.
    I approached Fand, and the other mothers, instantly alert, moved aside. Silently, I placed both hands on Fand’s rib cage. She gave a cry of surprise, then drew a deeper breath than she’d been able to take till then. Soon her breathing eased to a long, slow rhythm, and she rested somewhere between sleep and trance. As for me, eyes closed, I could see a river of brightness flowing into her, melting the hard crystals of pain, mending the bruised and broken place. As the fire found its rightful release, the agitation of excess energy turned to a sense of peace I’d never known before. All I had to do was remain open and let this force move through me. I held my hands still until the heat ebbed, and my hands cooled.
    When I let go of