out, but no sound came. My persecutor was shrieking, but I couldn’t follow the words. I closed my eyes as if I could block out the sound that made everything red and throbbing. Then someone was handling me, taking off the cold shackles, pulling me to my feet. Stars fell all around me like burning rain.
Somehow I have escaped them all. I don’t know where I am; it is dusk or dawn, half-light. I am on some sort of an island; three rivers wind away into the hills. No, they are roads. Or strands of light cast by a lantern. A whispering begins; at first I think it’s only the wind blowing dead leaves over the hard bare ground. Then I hear the words.
Tri-via, tri-via, tri-via
Three roads, three rivers, three worlds.
Leave a message on the post
Tell us where you choose to go.
Each way leads towards and away
from the others.
To the country of life
you can go, you can go.
To the country of death
you can go, you can go.
To the place between
to the crack in time
you can go, you can go.
Tri-via, tri-via, tri-via.
I look around for the singers of this strange song. All I see is a pillar.
Look look look
And I see that the pillar is a statue with three heads, each looking down one road. But I know these faces; it’s not a statue. This one is old Nona. There is Anna of Jerusalem whom I met in a dream, and the other is the Cailleach, grey as the rocks of Tir na mBan, the island of women, my home. They are all here, and yet they are not. They are guiding me, and I am alone.
To the country of life
you can go, you can go
to the country of death
you can go, you can go
to the place between
to the crack in time
you can go, you can go.
each road leads toward and away
from the others.
Find what you seek
seek what you find
go go go.
“I want the one that leads to him.”
My own voice startles me; the air shimmers with it.
“Come look, then,” the voices answer so softly now; it’s less than a whisper. It is my own breath. Now I am the three-headed one. I can see in all directions at once. At the same time, I can hone my vision. Each distinct road opens to me or I open to it. Each world has its own force, its own crosswind that propels me toward it.
The country of death is quiet. The light there does not come from the sky but from inside each thing—that huge boulder, that stand of copper beech, the stream winding, without sound, through the landscape. And the light comes from my father, too. He is there resting after his long, long time in the sea. I am curious. Now will he know me? Will he speak to me? His eyes are so bright in his fox face. He is looking at me. I try to take a step forward, but I can’t seem to move.
I look down and see someone’s brown, dusty, bare feet. Beautiful feet. When I look up, he is there, my beloved, standing before me. So this is the road! I guessed right the first time. He is holding his arms out straight from his sides, but not to reach for me and gather me into an embrace. He is blocking the way.
“Don’t touch me,” he says, his voice as gentle as the words are harsh.
The road to this world thins to a thread.
“Not yet,” he whispers, though I can’t see him anymore. “Not yet.”
The Otherworld opens to me. My true home, my birthright. Here there is always sound, wind and waves, women’s voices singing, loose lines of poetry flapping across the sky on cranes’ or ravens’ wings. Dwynwyn is here, the old witch from the druid isle, with whom I once changed shapes. She is putting something into her cooking pot. My mother is there combing light into hair or hair into light. And on the sandy shore, playing with pebbles, there is a small, fiery-headed child. Myself as a child? No. I suddenly know. She’s my daughter, my daughter. I will go back to the Otherworld, to Tir na mBan, the Land of Women. I will never, ever leave again.
Someone is crying.
Not my daughter who plays happily, oblivious of me.
I will stay here.
The weeping goes on.
No.
“Maeve.”
It’s his voice. With huge sorrow I know I can’t find him in the Otherworld.
“Come back.”
The country of life makes me weep. The stones here are so hard. They cut my feet. It takes so much time to walk this road. Yet I know the other worlds are here, too, at the edges of my vision. There is the silent stream that will cool my feet. There is sea spray shimmering gold around the island. But I am tired, and I hurt. Someone keeps crying.
Then, for an instant I am in a garden; the dew is cold; the earth smells spicy, sweet. Where am I? The joy is unbearable. Which world is this one? I want this one, no matter what it costs. This one.
And then he is with me.
“Don’t die, Red. Please don’t die.”
“Choose,” he says, and he is gone.
I wake in the country of life with Succula’s tears on my face.
