Swallowing Darkness - Laurell K. Hamilton [62]
There was a tree beside me on top of the hill, a huge spreading oak. Part of the tree had the first green leaves of spring, another had bigger leaves with the tiny green beginnings of acorns, then the leaves of late summer with the acorns green but much larger, then the brilliance of autumn and the brown acorns ready to be picked, all the way to a section that was winter-bare with only a few acorns and a few dried brown leaves clinging to the branches. I stared up at the dark lace of branches and knew they were not dead, but only resting. When I’d first seen the tree it had been dead and lifeless; now it was what it was meant to be.
I touched the bark of the tree, and it had that deep, thrumming energy that old trees have. It was as if if you listened hard enough you could hear it, but not with your ears. You heard it with your hands, or your face where you pressed it against the cool roughness of the bark. You felt the life of the tree beating against your body as you pressed yourself to its hard sides. It was like a slow, deep heartbeat that started as the tree, then you realized that it was the earth itself, as if the planet had a heartbeat of its own.
For a moment I felt the turn of the planet, and held on to the tree as if it were my anchor to so much reality. Then I was back on the hilltop, and I could no longer feel the pulse of the earth. It had been an amazing gift to sense the hum and flow of the planet itself, but I was mortal, and we are not meant to hear planets’ heartbeats. We can have glimpses of the divine, but to live with such knowledge every moment takes holy men or mad men, or both.
I smelled roses before I turned to find the cloaked figure of the Goddess. She hid her face from me always, so that I got only glimpses of her hands, or a line of mouth, and every glimpse was different, as if she went back and forth in age, color, everything. She was the Goddess, she was every woman, the ideal of what it is to be female. Looking at that tall cloaked figure, I realized that she was like the heartbeat of the planet. You couldn’t see her too clearly, or hold her too starkly in your mind, not without becoming too holy to live, or too mad to function. The touch of Deity is a wondrous thing, but it carries weight.
“If this place had died it would not have been just faerie that died, Meredith.” Her voice was like the glimpses of her body, many voices melding into one another so you would never be able to tell what Her voice was, not exactly.
“You mean reality is tied to this place too?” I asked.
“And is this not real?” She asked.
“Yes, it is real, but it is not reality. It is neither faerie nor the mortal world.”
She nodded, and I got a glimpse of a smile, as if I’d said something smart. It made me smile to see Her smile. It was as if your mother had smiled at you when you were very small, and you smile back because her smile is everything to you, and all is right with the world when she smiles at you. For me as a child, it had been my father’s smile and Gran’s.
The sorrow hit me like a blow through my heart. Revenge and the wild hunt had put the grief aside, but it was there, waiting for me. You cannot hide from grief, only postpone when it will find you.
“I cannot stop my people from choosing to do harm.”
“You helped me save Doyle and Mistral. Why couldn’t we save Gran?”
“That is a child’s question, Meredith.”
“No, Goddess, it is a human question. Once I wanted to be sidhe more than anything else, but it is my human blood, my brownie blood, that gives me strength.”
“Do you believe that I would be able to come to you like this if you were not the daughter of Essus?”
“No, but if I was not also the granddaughter