Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [265]
And indeed the boggy places were gone—there were trees around her, and the path was firm underfoot, and she had not come to the priests’ kitchen garden and outbuildings either. She should now be in the field behind the House of Maidens, leading into the orchard; now she must think of what she would say when she was found here, of the words she would speak to prove to the folk of Avalon that she had the right to be here. Or did she? Somehow it seemed that it was a little less dark; perhaps the moon was rising—it was three or four days after the full, soon there would be light enough to find her way. It was not to be looked for that every tree and bush should be the same as when she had dwelt here and known every step of every path. Morgaine clung to her horse’s bridle, suddenly afraid of losing her way on the once-familiar paths.
No, it was actually growing brighter, she could see the bushes and trees quite plainly now. If the moon was rising, why could she not see it above the trees? Had she somehow gotten turned round, while she was walking with her eyes half-closed, treading out the path that led through the mists and between the worlds? If only she might see some familiar landmark! There were no clouds now—she could see the sky and even the mists had gone, but she could make out no star.
Perhaps she had been away too long from such things? She could see no sign of rising moon, though it should have been long since in the sky. . . .
And then it was as if cold water flooded down her back and set her blood to moving like ice inside her. That day when she had gone to seek roots and herbs, when she would have cast forth the child within her . . . had she wandered again into that enchanted country which was neither the world of Britain nor the secret world where the magic of the Druids had taken Avalon, but that older, darker country where there was neither star nor sun . . . ?
She bade her beating heart to still itself; she gripped the horse’s bridle and leaned against the warm, sweaty flank, feeling the solidity of muscle and bone, hearing the soft snorting breaths real and definite under her cheek. Surely if she stood still for a little and took thought, she would find her way. . . . But fear was rising in her.
I cannot go back. I cannot go back to Avalon, I am not worthy, I cannot make my way through the mists. . . . On the day of the ordeal of initiation she had felt this for a moment, but she had firmly put her fear aside.
But I was younger then and innocent. Never then had I betrayed the Goddess or the secret teachings, never had I betrayed life. . . .
Morgaine fought to control the rising tides of panic. Fear was the worst thing. Fear would put her at the mercy of whatever misfortune came. Even the wild beasts could smell fear on your body and would come and attack, while they would flee from the courageous. This was why the bravest man could run among the deer with safety, so long as fear was not smelled on his skin . . . was this, she wondered, why they smeared their bodies with the acrid blue dye of woad, because it covered the smell of fear? Perhaps the truly brave man or woman was the one whose mind made no pictures of what might happen if things went awry.
There was nothing here to harm her, even if it might be that she had strayed into the fairy country. Once before she had found herself there, but the woman who had mocked her had offered no harm or threat. They were older even than the Druids, but they too lived by the will and rule of the Goddess in