Children of the May (Children of the May Book 1)

Chapter Twenty-Seven: At the Bottom of the Pool

I knew I should go back and tell the others what had happened. I knew that I should warn them about the thing that was pretending to be Margaret of the Marsh. But I could not summon the courage to face them.

That Margaret-thing had made a fool of me; it had made me angry with my friends, tried to isolate me. It had made me ignore Palomina and avoid going to help Palomides. I felt horribly ashamed, too guilty to do the right thing.

I wandered in the bare part of the forest we had first explored, on the day Piers was attacked by the Questing Beast. My hands stole unripe strawberries and sharp blackberries from the bushes we had eaten from on that first day. I followed the stream along to where the beast had attacked us, before it had decided that the chicken-scented sailor looked like a better meal. I was so concerned with trying to block terrible thoughts from my mind that it took me a long while to realise where my feet were leading me.

The stream split from the fast-flowing river about a mile further on. I followed the river upstream, making my way through the increasingly dense forest until I reached the shadow path, and then went on to the waterfall. The day was bloodying with sunset. Without thinking much about what I was doing, I removed my clothes and stepped into the pool below the waterfall. The water was colder than summer.

I swam towards the fall itself, my teeth chattering. I could feel nothing else with me in the water, and I knew with certainty that no waking thing was present anywhere in the river.

I dived towards the blackness at the bottom of the pool: the deepest place, where the waterfall had done its hardest work drilling the stone. I heard only the water moving around my ears as I pulled myself deeper.

The black water was heavy on top of me when I touched the smooth stone at the bottom. There was no silt to press between my toes. I put my bare feet down, and looked towards the tiny dot of red sky high above my head. My feet settled into the centre of the island, and then I heard it and felt it: I connected with the island itself. The island’s memory was slow and gorgeous, to experience connection with it was to realise just how short all human lives are – LIVES ARE –

They arrive, and as soon as they break my mist I feel what I am. I become aware of how little I have been through these endless ages. Before now I was a mere creature of instinct; the arrival of these three reveals how lonely I have been. I long for their company. They are so different from the creatures that live on my skin, who engage in nothing but the long cycles of life and death, ungrateful and unaware of the balance I provide for them.

These three teach me who I am – they bring my name with them. It is Avalon. I am the fortunate isle. I never knew that before.

These poor new creatures, so self-aware and beautiful. So frightened and hopeful; they bring me fear and hope. And words, they bring me words. They teach me so much about myself, though even the oldest of them has lived only since the birth of man. I have been since the dawn of the world.

There they stand. The wizard-man, his staff topped with the ram’s skull. Merlin. The woman of games and tricks and ambition. Bertilak. The girl of purity and faith. Hilda. Even she, who has lived less than a butterfly’s life compared to me, brings with her such riches of experience. She abandoned her people for an unseen god.

I know now that there are creatures in the world who can be as clever as the world, and that makes me so very glad. How bored I have been, how lonely these millions of years. How have I never realised this before? Why did I never give myself words? If I had, then perhaps I could have protected myself; because two of these are here to kill me: to crush and squeeze my power from my rocks, to destroy this new awareness I have only just gained.