Skin (48 page)

Although he stood only paces away, Taliesin was frowning into the distance, unable
to see me. ‘I can hear you, my love. Why do you not cut?'

‘I cannot,' I said, beginning to weep. ‘The sword will not cut.'

‘Try again!' His voice rose in panic. ‘Ailia, do not fail me. You are my only chance.'

Over and over, I drove my weapon into the mist. Surely the force of my love would
pierce it? Each time it merely quivered and settled back to quietness. ‘No…' I gasped.
It could not be so. I threw the sword behind me onto the bank and pushed forward
with my bare hands, waist deep in the water. Perhaps, if I could touch him, I could
pull him through. ‘Taliesin,' I wept, clawing blindly into the vapour, ‘can you still
hear me?' But I knew, even as I pushed against it with all my strength, that the
skin between us would not be breached. The Mothers would not permit it.

Finally, my arms fell to my sides. I crawled from the water, where Neha waited for
me, and collapsed on the bank.

‘Ailia?' Taliesin called, fainter now. ‘Are you still there?'

I turned to face him. ‘I cannot cut you free.'

We both stared across the chasm, him unseeing, and me watching his face turn to stone.
The air clouded and he was gone.

My scream cleaved the sky. I grabbed my sword, hacking wildly at trunks, hewing leaves
from branches, stabbing the blade into the earth itself. ‘Damn you, Tara!' I screamed
at the forest, ‘Damn you, Steise! Damn you, Mothers! You have stolen my love.'

With Neha close at my heel, I walked back to the place where the river emerged from
the forest. The place where I first met him. Perhaps he would be able to walk one
last time as man. Before I had the Mothers' knowledge, he had come to me several
times in this way. Could it not happen again?

But even as I hoped for it, I knew in my Kendra's wisdom that he would not find form
here again as a man. The Mothers would not allow it. He had been the lure, the seed
that conceived me as Kendra. Now I was born, they had no need to release him, even
for an hour. The Mothers cared for my learning. They did not care for the longing
of my heart.

As we approached the place in the river where I first found him, I saw something
twitching in the grass on the bank. The moon was not long risen and I could not make
it out. But when I reached it, its form was clear. It was Taliesin caught in the
fish's shape. His scaled flank shimmered as he whipped back and forth in the hard
air. He had journeyed as fish and had leaped to the bank in search of me.

I dropped to my knees, touching his side, slick with its jelly coating that yearned
for the river. The vents in his flesh were fluttering as he struggled to draw air.
He needed the water.

‘Taliesin,' I murmured, ‘I am here.'

I slid my palms under him and lifted him up. For a moment, he lay still in my hands
and I felt his heart humming beneath his fragile skin.

I brought him to the water's edge, then lowered my face, pressing my lips to his
skin. ‘I am sorry,' I whispered. Then I crouched down and let him slide from my hands
back into the water.

I watched long after he had swum away.

Neha had been keeping her distance, sitting a few paces away, wary of the strange
smells of the water animal.

I called her to my side, took off my sandals, and sat down on the riverbank, letting
my feet trail in the flow.

Nearby a wolf howled. Ready to hunt.

By my command, hundreds had died.

How I longed to slip into the water, like Taliesin, and let it close slowly over
me.

I could not return to Caer Cad. Even if they allowed me to live I would not survive
among men who did not love the Mothers.

My sister was gone. She would endure. Her alone, I had protected.

Taliesin was held. I could not free him. But he lived.

There were no others living who were kin to me by blood, nor by love.

I was kin only to knowledge. That was all I possessed. All that I was.

Everything changes. Yet nothing is lost.

How I longed to return to the water.

There was a whimper beside me. Neha was guarding the gateway of the realms. Her ears
were petal-soft as I caressed them.

‘Do not worry,' I murmured. ‘I am not yet leaving.'

I chose to seek Taliesin where the forest forbade.

I chose to learn, though I had no skin.

I chose to slay he who violated my sister.

I was born by these acts.

And through them all I now understood, with deep-winter clarity, the meaning of skin.

That skin was an act of love. Love of the earth. Love of kin. And love of the truth.

No one would hold us to this love but ourselves. Not the Romans. Nor the Mothers.
For truth answered only to itself. And bestowed its light and protection on those
who chose to seek it.

What Heka had given me was only part of the truth. My soul had been shaped long before
by what I had loved: Cookmother, Neha, my tribelands. And Taliesin.

All these were my skin.

This was why the Mothers had chosen me. This was the new truth I revealed: that skin
was far greater than something simply given. It was something that must be grown,
understood, chosen and loved. Something that must be taught.

I did not know what shape this new truth would take in Albion's future. I knew skin
was needed for the hardworld to endure. And I knew that if I, as Kendra, was to teach
anything, it would be that no one could be denied learning.

No one could be denied skin.

It was Taliesin who had led me to knowledge. This was his gift to Albion. And he
was still imprisoned in the giving of it. I would live my life in honour of that
gift.

I was Ailia of Durotriga. Skin to the dog. Seventeen summers. Tall for my tribe and
strong. I had been a kitchen girl. A privileged servant. Now I was something other.

I pulled my feet from the water and strapped my sandals.

I would go to Caradog. I would offer him my knowledge. I would find a way to fight
for skin.

For Albion had needed a Kendra. It needed her yet.

I called Neha to my side and began to walk.

Author's Note

A
ILIA'S
STORY
IS
fictional, but her world is not. Caer Cad is Cadbury Castle, an ancient hillfort in South Cadbury, Somerset, the site of which
remains today. One can still see the remnants of undulating banks and ditches, now
covered in grass, which would once have protected this mighty tribal centre.

The characters and events relating to the Roman invasion are drawn from history;
the events preceding it, however, have been compressed to serve the purposes of fiction.
There were in fact two or three years between the death of tribal chieftain, Cunobelinus
and the Romans' landing in AD 43, although this is a period of only a few months
in
Skin
.

My ‘journeypeople' are, of course, the druids. Archaeology reveals almost nothing
of these mysterious philosophical and religious leaders, but many Roman historians
bear testament to Britain's deep reverence for their people of knowledge.

Acknowledgments

M
Y
DEEPEST
THANKS
and appreciation must go to Penny Hueston at Text Publishing who
has guided me through this endeavour with extraordinary grace and skill. Thank you
also to Michael Heyward, Alice Cottrell, Kirsty Wilson and Léa Antigny for their
work in promoting the book, and to Imogen Stubbs for her beautiful design.

The manuscript has benefited greatly from the expertise of archaeologist and author,
Francis Pryor, who generously read the whole thing and spent a very pleasant morning
with me touring Flag Fen in Peterborough, UK. His books,
Britain BC
,
Britain AD
and
Seahenge
were key sources of historical detail. All errors of fact are mine.

In understanding the elusive teacher/priests of ancient Britain I have drawn heavily
on the work of Peter Beresford Ellis, particularly
The Druids
, which led me to several
ancient texts. The riddles that Taliesin asks Ailia are taken from the ‘Wooing of
Ailbe', a medieval Irish manuscript. Instructions of Morann Mac Cairbre, recorded
in the
Book of Leinster
, inspired the speech Ailia uses to the rally the warriors.
Ailia's curse on the Romans at the end of the book is a reworking of Macha's curse
in the Irish saga ‘The Debility of the Ulstermen'.

The writings of James Cowan informed my knowledge of Australian totemic spirituality.
In particular his
Mysteries of the Dream-time
and
Aboriginal Dreaming
offered much
inspiration for several of the ‘lessons' that precede each chapter.

I am grateful to Writers Victoria for awarding me a Glenfern Fellowship in 2012,
and to the Australian Society of Authors and the Copyright Agency for Sue Gough's
fortifying mentorship in 2010.

The Australia Council's ArtStart grant provided funds for a much-needed space to
work. I have been housed by Mary Delahunty's delightful ‘Rosebank' property near
Lancefield and by ‘Duneira' at Mount Macedon. Thanks to the S.R.Stoneman Foundation
for allowing me to be Duneira's first writer in residence.

Heartfelt thanks to my teachers at RMIT: Sally Rippin, Clare Renner, Olga Lorenzo
and Toni Jordan. Your encouragement and knowledge were transformative.

To my fellow writers who have read my work patiently for many years, I owe a huge
debt of gratitude: Brooke Maggs, Michelle Deans, Richard Holt, Carla Fedi, Melinda
Dundas, Jo Horsburgh, Simon Mitchell, Melissa Keil, Jacinda Woodhead, Benjamin Laird,
Nean McKenzie, Lucy Stewart, Vivian Ullman, Anthony Holden, Jason Cotter, Damean
Posener, Suzanne Donisthorpe and Danielle Binks. And especially to Suzy Zail, who
has walked beside me unwaveringly.

I am indebted to Sarah Butler, who first took me to Glastonbury over twenty years
ago. We climbed the misty Tor at midwinter and the seed of
Skin
was sown.

Thank you to Lyn and Tim Nitschke, for caring for my children during the years of
writing and to Jane Mills for the same, as well as her reassurance and love.

And to Adam, Toby and Amaya: my earth, sun and moon.

Ilka Tampke

MOUNT
MACEDON
,
NOVEMBER
2014