Sarra
If Sarra was going to choose one moment in her life to recall, it would have begun with the smell of smoke. Her whole life seemed to be lit by flames- sometimes the warm, distant flicker where life begins, sometimes the growing inferno where it ends. Looking back at her life was difficult- a brief breath of being, shrouded in the ash of forgotten mortality. It was something that her husband couldn't understand. Or perhaps he wouldn't. Human memories are designed to smoulder, not to blaze for all eternity. An immortal would burn through a lifetime of memories in a moment and not stop to see where the ashes landed. Sarra did. It was often unexpected; the creeping bitterness of smoke in the evening, the sound of crackling timber, and suddenly her myriad of days were mortal again. In the smell of smoke there was the first breath of life, and in the brightness of the flames lurked the shadows of death. The irony made her smile.
The memory of fire was confused. There were two separate fires, years apart, and yet they mingled in her memory. The first was lit by laughter, a series of blazes in the dry summer fields, framed by the dancing shadows of men and women who sang and held each other closely. There were large fires in the middle of the clearing, where some of the old men had brought rough ale and cider and were toasting the gods merrily, glad to celebrate a rite that no longer had any meaning for them. The couples that danced around these fires were the bold, the lucky ones. The ones who were happily married, who were already blessed with children. The light caught the ribbons in their clothes and their hair, small sparks dancing in the wind and lighting in the folds of their clothes. The men wore headdresses made from animal horn, looking strangely elegant in the flickering light. They drank in the billowing smoke like the richest wine, sensing the goddess in the rich headiness of her perfume.
The fires further down the hill were smaller, quieter. There danced the shy, the hopeful, those who leapt over the embers with eyes full of the starving hope that breaks hearts. The night was a strange mixture of heedless joy and immeasurable pain. Sarra remembered asking her mother once why it should be so- why do some people cry when they're dancing? The woman had looked away, her own eyes filled with the ash of loss. Life was bittersweet, she said. A child wouldn't understand it.
We're all children of the gods. Sarra had replied with unusual clarity. She wished she hadn't. The light in her mother's voice seemed to fade each Beltane, until even the tears dried in her eyes. Perhaps, thought Sarra, she can't understand it either.
She was certainly feeling sorry for herself that night; she remembered the knot in her stomach as clearly as the smell. Children weren't supposed to see the rites, but of course they always did. The games that the adults made for them, to tire them out in the day, only made them excited and restless. They tried to lie down in the hot woollen sheets and sleep, but Sleep seemed far away. In the hills the music played, and they followed it irresistibly each year. They hid in the woods, and of course the adults knew they were there, but this was a night when children were invisible. These were farm children, and the couples who thought themselves hidden in the woods showed them nothing that interested them... but the dancing and the fires seemed dark and forbidding and full of wonder to their eyes. They would watch until dawn, and sneak away.
Sarra thought about this, sighing from where she sat in her new dress. Last year she had been with them, laughing and telling stories about the gods they had imagined flitting through the trees with eyes of gold and voices of thunder. But last year seemed far away, and here she was, dressed in an ill-fitting dress that nipped her wrists, head aching from the tightly tied ribbons, bored out of her mind. She was now a woman, and had a place at the rites... even though she looked at the spot-nosed men her own age with the same open dislike that they looked at her. There were maybe ten of them, teenagers from all the villages at their first adult rite, looking at each other with embarrassment or open hostility and blushing furiously whenever one of the dancers invited them to the circle. It was horrible, and after an hour of it Sarra decided she'd had enough. The goddess had probably Seen Her Face, or whatever she was supposed to do to welcome new moths to this stupid flame. The smoke stung her eyes, and without saying a word to any of the others she simply stood up and left.
The smell of smoke clung to the horrible dress, and with horror the girl realised that she'd have to wash the smudges of ash from it in the morning. What had possessed her ma to make her a white dress? It would never clean, and then she'd get the blame of course. A child would be better at cleaning, without the other chores that adults are rewarded with, but then a child would never be wearing something made by loving hands over so many years that she'd completely grown out of it. She rubbed at one of the marks ruefully, wondering if she could convince her ma that she'd dyed it grey.
"Don't you know how to dance?" Someone said- a man. Sarra span around and tried to glare at him, but had to squint instead. He stood between her and the fire, a silhouette that melted into the shadows of the trees around him. She shaded her eyes with one hand and used the other to point at the fire.
"Dancing's over there. You're lost." Her voice was matter-of-fact, the steady tones of the respected healer she was becoming. Usually the voice worked- most men would at least look around, slowed by the alcohol in their minds, and that would give her time to slip away. But this one laughed instead.
"Can't dance without a partner, can I?"
"You won't find one here." Sarra's voice was still strong, but a shred of unease crept into it. This man's voice wasn't familiar- and it certainly wasn't the soft slurring of a drunk who'd stumbled into the woods by mistake. The thought of running away raced through her mind for a split second and she dismissed it. If she was going to judge this man on his voice, she thought, then she might as well give him credit for sounding kind, and funny, and maybe a bit shy. He hadn't made any move towards her, so she smiled to make her words less harsh. "I don't like dancing."
"I think you might," he moved as if to step forward and then hesitated. The way he moved was strange- the soft, soothing motion of the hunters who charmed the deer into stillness. It was a talent, they said, to think like the herd. To be able to be calm, and reassuring, and give no hint of danger until the very instant when your arrow strikes the heart of your target. Many men moved like that, but she'd never seen one who made it look so natural. Most of them looked guilty as they tiptoed around their homes. This one looked like he was trying to sooth the forest itself.
"My name is... is Warren." He hesitated, and then stepped aside so that he was lit by the fire. Sarra relaxed when she saw his face- it seemed familiar, although she couldn't remember where she'd seen him before. He looked her own age, but he could have been older- his eyes showed the hardness that was the mark that life left on the village folk. For all that, they were kind. She looked at him, and for an instant their eyes met. Sarra caught her breath without realising it- a glimpse of something burning beneath the kind shyness stole air from her lungs- and just as quickly the moment was gone. She looked down as if to straighten her skirt, and then smiled back at him.
"I'm Sarra. And you're right, I do like dancing really. Just... not because everyone else is. You know?"
He frowned and glanced back at the fires, as if seeing them for the first time. "I guess that people are blessed for more than just where they put their feet, but tonight is a night for dancing. Even the gods dance in the solstice."
She giggled, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. "Imagine Mithros trying to pull that shield around with him in a circle dance!"
He looked around at the sound of her laughter, his own lips twitching. "I imagine he drops it a lot, and curses."
"Gods don't curse. Who would they swear by?" She said, still laughing. He shrugged and sat down on a fallen tree, his eyes glittering.
"I don't know. Frogs? Ponies? Kings?"
"By horse's mane!" She suggested, sitting next to him. "By willow's trunk!"
They sat together for hours, joking and talking and laughing unheard over the crackle of the fire and the music that became more dissonant as the night drew on. If Sarra had been thinking of anything in this time she couldn't remember it- she remembered that she was having fun, and she was glad to have made a new friend. By the time the moon was above them they were teasing each other like old friends. She noticed that his shyness had slipped away, but he still didn't meet her eyes for more than a moment without looking away. It was as if he was afraid she'd see something there that he wanted to hide. The thought didn't trouble her- in such a close community as the village, if you had a secret you kept it to yourself. Stories spread like wildfire. Many people kept their thoughts to themselves. But he seemed quite honest and open about himself- he was a hunter, as she'd thought- and she found that she was being frank with him, too. When the wind changed and thick oily smoke poured into their path, he took her hand as if it was the easiest thing in the world, and they walked hand in hand like lovers. Even though they'd said less to each other than a few thousand words, they settled into a companionable silence as they walked. The sound of music and laughter faded behind them, but the thick smell of smoke seemed to follow, drifting around them like a cloak. With the new wind came the voice of the mountains, a cold note in the air that sang around them. Sarra shivered and looked around.
"I'll have to go home soon," She said, her voice resigned. "It's getting cold."
"You're cold?" He looked around again- the same gesture as he'd made before, as if he wasn't aware that the real world was happening around him. For a moment he raised his head like one of the woodland animals, almost sniffing the changed wind to test it, and then he relaxed and smiled. "Yes, it is getting cold."
"Glad you agree," the girl muttered, stamping her feet to warm them up. She saw a glimpse of a mischievous grin, and was suddenly swept into Warren's warm arms. She yelped- more from surprise than anything else- and Warren smiled.
"You owe me a dance, remember? And not a dance because everyone dances tonight, but a dance to keep you warm." He relaxed his arms slightly and rested one hand on her waist, and with relief she realised he really did mean to dance- one of the simple, repetitive folk dances that you can talk to. Without any music playing it seemed strange to follow his steps, but the man danced with an assurance that was easy to mimic. It was almost like someone was playing a reed flute that was too quiet to actually hear, but undeniably there. If she listened, she half imagined she could hear what he was dancing to...
"It's the music the forest sings," he said seriously. "The sounds of the rivers, and the leaves in the breeze, and even the worms twisting under the ground."
"Do they make a sound?" She asked, her voice light because she believed- hoped? - that he was joking. He smiled and nodded, watching her stained skirts whirl around her when she spun around.
"Everything makes a sound. But in the solstice, they sing. It's beautiful. I wish you could hear it."
Years later, when the music was common to her ears, Sarra still couldn't fit it into her memory. The beauty that he spoke about was different to her innocent ears, but that was the first time she could really remember listening to the world around her. From that moment on, her memory was full of sounds- the rustle of cloth as they danced, the gentle whisper of soft leather shoes on the dust, and above all the steady breaths that marked the beat. It was almost like a trance- a dance so utterly unlike the careless sprawling of the townsfolk that she could hardly recognise it. One dance became another, and another, and she knew all the steps without knowing a single one of the dances. And yet the world was still utterly silent to her, a place of movement wreathed in the scent of smoke and the blue glow of the moonlight.
Without thinking, almost without realising she was doing it, Sarra stopped dancing and simply stood still, safe in the warm sheltering arms of her partner, eyes half closed. It was like dreaming, like reaching through the slowness of sleep, but when she reached up and kissed him she was as awake as she'd ever been. She knew he was a god. She didn't know how she knew, but suddenly her eyes were able to see him for what he really was. He responded to her kiss in the silent spell they'd woven together, gently and warmly, not the blazing sunlight of his kin but the quiet love of the friend she'd grown close to in such a short time.
Every child speaks of the myths of gods, and declares what they would do if the gods ever spoke to them. The boys speak of valour and honour, and proving themselves with trials and strength. When they are older they might speak of the smith gods or the fisher gods, and how they will excel in their trade. The girls whisper of meeting the goddess, and being granted a boon. These are all things that come true. But when the children whisper stories of love, of women swept away by gods disguised as swans, or men overcome with the beauty of a goddess, it is with scorn. Normal people do not act in that way. You might be blessed in your work or your strength, but never in your love. Things like that just don't happen. People don't just fall in love with beauty. They're just silly stories to tell over a fire.
Of course, none of this crossed Sarra's mind in her smoke-scented dream. But as a goddess, she would have explained. The gods are capable of emotion, of love, just as mortals are. And imagine how much more a god can love us than even a mother, or a husband! A god doesn't just see you, or hear your voice, he sees your heart and he's known it since the day it was formed. When you hear these stories of people being swept away, they didn't decide in that second that they should do it. They were shown in that second the years where they've been loved, where someone hears their heart in a way that they thought was impossible. It's impossible to see that second of comprehension and not love them in return. Surrounded by the perfume of smoke and the sound of the wind in the trees, caressed by the caring moonlight, Sarra and Weiryn saw into each other's eyes, and this time neither of them looked away. The shaded light in the god's eyes was matched now by the light in Sarra's own, and they danced together... not because everyone else was doing it, but because they loved each other.
The second smoke stained memory was one that Sarra kept close to her heart, although she never spoke of either to anyone other than her daughter. And even then, she guarded her memories closely. She was wise enough to know that Daine would have memories of her own to cherish, and loving enough to know that the story would only cause her pain.
She knew that Daine wondered if she'd had some awareness of what would happen that day, but she couldn't think how to answer. She'd been woken up that day by the smell of smoke- sharper and richer than she could ever remember it being, save for that one night. She snapped out of her dreams frantically, her heart racing, but the memory faded with the scent and it was only the stove, crackling merrily in the centre of the room. Her daughter apologised for waking her up- she'd meant to do her chores and leave early, since she'd been asked to do work in the next village. Sarra blinked and nodded and agreed and stared at the stove. Her head spun slightly, and she wondered if she was ill. Then the feeling was gone, and all that she was left with was a slight feeling of unease. When Daine had left that morning, the dogs calling after her in the unsettling way that they always had, Sarra told her to stay the night in the next village. Even if there was nothing wrong here, it wouldn't hurt her to mix with people from another village for a few hours. The people in their own village looked at her strangely enough, with her dark hair and unsettling eyes.
The bitter scent built and faded throughout the day, as if small fires were breaking out and dying all around her. She even tried to witch the stove to stop it from smoking at one point, so frustrated by the strangeness of it all. But when the cottages in the village were set alight, she didn't realise it was a real fire until the bandits were at her door. And by then, it was too late to listen to the warning.
The scent of smoke built around her, and when she raised her hands it was like reaching through the depths of sleep...
... a warm hand took her icy one and held it tightly, the calm movements of a hunter calling the deer to him.
"I'm cold." She said, hearing her heartbeat echo in her ears even in the smothering stillness of the smoke. She couldn't see his face, his smile, but she could feel the love in his eyes when he answered her. His hand was warm, so warm, and the ice in her veins seemed to thaw for a brief moment.
"I know. But you'll be home soon," not a voice, not a sound that has to break through smoke, but over her own catching breath she could hear the strength of his, breathing for her in the acrid air. She smiled, and the brief moments of pain and the memory of what they had done to her faded. Lulled by the warmth of his touch and the richness of solstice smoke, she listened to her heartbeat until it was silent, and then she could hear the forest sing.
