Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [573]
“No, I will do it,” said Morgaine, and knelt to press the soft soil around the roots of the plant. As she rose, the girl said, “If you wish, Mother, I will promise to come here and say a prayer every Sunday for your kinswoman.”
For some absurd reason, Morgaine felt that tears were coming to her eyes. “Prayer is always a good thing. I am grateful to you, daughter.”
“And you, in your convent, wherever it may be, you must pray for us too,” said the girl simply, taking Morgaine’s hand as she rose. “Here, Mother, let me brush the dirt from your gown. Now you must come and see our chapel.”
For a moment Morgaine was inclined to protest. She had sworn when last she left Arthur’s court that she would never again enter any Christian church; but this girl was so much like one of her own young priestesses that she would not profane the name by which the girl knew her God. She let the girl lead her inside the church.
In that other world, she thought, that church where the ancient Christians worship must stand on this very spot; some holiness from Avalon must surely come through the worlds, through the mists . . . she did not kneel or cross herself, but she bent her head before the high altar of the church; and then the girl tugged gently at her hand.
“Come,” she said. “The high altar is of God and I am a little afraid here always . . . but you have not seen our chapel—the sisters’ chapel . . . come, Mother.”
Morgaine followed the young girl into the small side chapel. There were flowers here, armfuls of apple blossom, before a statue of a veiled woman crowned with a halo of light; and in her arms she bore a child. Morgaine drew a shaking breath and bowed her head before the Goddess.
The girl said, “Here we have the Mother of Christ, Mary the Sinless. God is so great and terrible I am always afraid before his altar, but here in the chapel of Mary, we who are her avowed virgins may come to her as our Mother, too. And look, here we have little statues of our saints, Mary who loved Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair, and Martha who cooked dinner for him and scolded her sister when she would not cook with her—I like to think of Jesus when he was a real man who would do something for his mother, when he changed the water into wine at that wedding, so she wouldn’t be unhappy because there wasn’t enough wine for everyone. And here is a very old statue that our bishop gave us, from his native country . . . one of their saints, her name is Brigid . . .”
Morgaine looked on the statue of Brigid, and she could feel the power coming from it in great waves that permeated the chapel. She bowed her head.
But Brigid is not a Christian saint, she thought, even if Patricius thinks so. That is the Goddess as she is worshipped in Ireland. And I know it, and even if they think otherwise, these women know the power of the Immortal. Exile her as they may, she will prevail. The Goddess will never withdraw herself from mankind.
And Morgaine bowed her head and whispered the first sincere prayer she had ever spoken in any Christian church.
“Why, look,” said the novice, as she brought her out of doors into the daylight, “we have one of the Holy Thorn here too, not the one you planted on your kinswoman’s grave.”
And I thought I could meddle in this? Morgaine thought. Surely, the holy thing had brought itself from Avalon, moving, as the hallows were withdrawn from Avalon, into the world of men where it was most needed. It would remain hidden in Avalon, but it would be shown here in the world as well. “Yes, you have the Holy Thorn, and in days to come, as long as this land shall last,