Daughters of Fire. Barbara Erskine
the wail of a child. Far above, a gull gave a long drawn out raucous peel of laughter. The sound was drowned out as someone turned on the radio and pop music echoed round the close.
With a sigh she turned back into the room.
III
Seating herself on the rocking chair, Pat leaned back and crossed her legs. She scanned Viv’s face. ‘Are you OK after last night?’
Viv nodded. ‘Did Tash or Pete say anything else about what happened?’
Pat shook her head. ‘They didn’t say anything about it to me. I don’t think Tasha was making it up.’
‘No.’
There was a moment’s silence. It was Pat who spoke first. ‘I dreamed about Medb again last night,’ she said at last.
Viv paled. ‘But how could you? You don’t know anything about Medb,’ she whispered.
‘Apparently, I do.’ Pat leaned over towards her bag, groped for her cigarettes, then changed her mind. ‘So, where does she fit in?’
‘She doesn’t.’ Viv stood up. ‘I told you. She has no part in the play at all.’
‘Are you sure?’ Pat frowned. ‘Who the hell is she, then?’
‘She’s –’ Viv broke off with a deep sigh. ‘I don’t know. That’s the point. Maybe I’ve dreamed about her as well, but whoever, whatever she is, Pat, she is not in the play. She has no part in history. This is a drama documentary with the emphasis on documentary. We can guess some bits –’ she paused with a wry inner smile, ‘– but most of it is fact. Not fiction. There is no room for extraneous characters and sub-plots. Maddie made that clear. You said so yourself.’
‘Fair enough.’ Pat didn’t sound convinced but she let it ride. ‘So, let’s make a start.’ She reached into her bag for her notepad.
Medb.
The name seemed to hang in the air between them.
‘Your first scene is good, as I said.’ Pat said thoughtfully. ‘But I think we need more narrative to introduce the subject before we launch into too much action. To anchor the scene.’
Vivienne
Viv tensed. The voice was in the room.
Vivienne. Tell me what to do.
Pat was flipping through the first few pages of the manuscript. She gave no sign that she had heard anything out of the ordinary. ‘Here. From this point we want the voice of the narrator.’ She marked the page and held it out. Viv didn’t move.
‘Viv?’ Pat stared at her.
‘Did you hear it?’
‘What?’ Pat put the pile of manuscript down on her knee.
‘The voice.’ Viv closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘No, of course you didn’t. It was in my head. I’m sorry.’
Pat studied her face. ‘What sort of voice?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t describe it. A woman. No. No, it was nothing. Probably a gull. You hear them a lot up here.’
‘Then it wasn’t in your head.’
Viv returned her gaze steadily. ‘No.’ It wasn’t Medb. She wanted to shout the words out loud.
It wasn’t. It was Carta. She needs me.
She gave a watery grin. ‘Sorry. Last night. Whatever it was, it spooked me a bit. I didn’t sleep very well.’
‘Do you want to put this off –’ Pat gestured at the sheets of paper on her knee.
‘No. No, I want to get it finished as soon as possible.’ Viv sighed.
Think about the play.
Bring Cartimandua’s voice alive. Allow her to speak for herself.
Fact.
Not fiction.
Concentrate. Think about what Pat was saying. Walking over to her desk she picked up a pad and pencil and returning to her chair she sat down and began to doodle on the paper.
By the time Pat left at about five Viv had a pounding headache.
‘Same time tomorrow?’ Pat slung her bag on her shoulder.
Viv nodded. All she wanted was to be alone.
Shutting the door behind her she took a deep breath, closing her eyes, pressing her fingers against her throbbing temples. The phone rang and she sat listening as the answering machine clicked on. ‘Viv? It’s Steve. I just wanted to make sure you were OK. Ring me if you want to.’ He paused, giving her a chance to respond, then hung up.
She didn’t move.
The room was very still.
Vivienne
Carta was there, waiting.
Vivienne
I have brought offerings. Help me, Vivienne. Tell me what to do.
All Viv needed to do was to ask what had happened and the story would unfold; a story unknown to history. The story about which she already knew more than any other person alive.
Or guessed.
Or imagined.
Fiction.
Not fact.
Can’t be fact.
Wrapping her arms around herself she shivered violently. Push her away, Viv. That is what you should do. You are sick. Hearing voices. Mad.
Vivienne, receive my gifts.
I have brought you milk and honey. Help me!
‘Go away!’ Viv cried out loud. ‘Please, go away. Leave me alone!’
She paced round the room a couple of times.
But she wanted to know what was happening. She wanted to know so badly. Would it really do any harm? As long as she kept a firm grip on reality. As long as she knew this was a day dream.
Fiction.
Not fact.
IV
Carta was standing looking down into the grave, tears pouring down her face. How was she going to live without her friend? How could she live with the guilt of knowing that Mellia had been killed because of her? She had never felt more alone.
As Carta’s friend Mellia had been given a formal ceremony and interred with her broken spindle, her comb and mirror, her favourite strings of beads and bangles and a flagon of mead. With her went prayers and exhortations to the gods to guide her to the land of the ever young.
Now it was over, as they stood around the grave in one final moment of silence after the eulogies ended, Carta raised her eyes to those of the woman who was watching her across the freshly piled soil. Medb of the White Hands was smiling.
In her private bedchamber, one of many portioned off with wattle screens inside the wall of the women’s house Carta set up a new little shrine. Her belongings were comparatively few. Beside the bed box filled with softly scented, tightly packed heather, topped with linen sheets and soft beautifully cured fur covers, there were two chests containing her personal possessions. Her