The Green Man by Kate Sedley Page B

path.’
    â€˜You say your mother had the “sight”?’ It was Davey’s turn to speak. ‘You inherited your gift from a woman?’
    â€˜My mother was generally acknowledged to be a woman,’ I replied with heavy sarcasm. ‘And I don’t claim that what I have is a gift. It’s merely my mind clearing itself by way of dreams.’
    â€˜It’s a gift,’ Davey repeated obstinately, ‘inherited through a female.’ He nodded at the other two. ‘I was right. He belongs to the old world as well as this one.’
    â€˜What old world?’ I demanded, playing innocent.
    But by the pricking of my thumbs, I had already guessed the answer. He meant the pre-Christian world; the world of faerie; the pagan world of our ancestors, who worshipped the gods of the trees, the goddesses of the lake, the inhabitants of the hollow hills. I felt the sweat suddenly stand out on my brow. I glanced anxiously around me to make sure that we could not possibly be overheard.
    But all our neighbours were too busy talking themselves hoarse to pay any attention to us. We might as well have been alone, in the middle of a field or on an island. Nevertheless, this was dangerously heretical talk and I made an effort to change the subject. Before I could even form a thought, however, let alone actually say anything, Donald forestalled me.
    â€˜This is why we are interested in your time at Glastonbury. They say entrance to the Otherworld lies beneath the Tor. Do you know of anyone who has ever found it?’
    One of my faults – one of my many, should I say? – is that I can never forbear airing my knowledge (when I have any to air, that is). It was the same now. Although I knew full well that we were on perilously forbidden ground, I couldn’t help saying, ‘Beneath the Tor is supposed to be the home of Gwyn-ap-Nud, son of Nud, the Wind God, and lord of the Wild Hunt. Also occasionally known as Avallach, the Fisher King.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Look, such talk is not only dangerous but foolish, so just let’s …’
    â€˜Have you ever been there?’ Donald interrupted ruthlessly.
    â€˜Or your mother, perhaps?’ Davey added. ‘Has she? In the old times it would have been the goddess of the lake who ruled. It would be her handmaidens, even today, who have the power which is handed down from generation to generation to enter the Otherworld.’
    â€˜This is becoming nonsensical,’ I snarled. ‘My mother died many years ago, but in any case, I never asked her such a foolish question. Mind you,’ I couldn’t restrain myself from adding, ‘there is a legend that a holy man, named Collen, once found his way inside the hill, guided by a beautiful girl.’
    â€˜Like Thomas the Rhymer,’ Davey said eagerly, and the others nodded, even James Petrie, who had so far contributed nothing except a puzzled frown as he tried to follow a conversation that was largely unintelligible to him. But he obviously recognized the name of this Thomas the Rhymer. He said something in rapid Scots to the other three.
    I asked, ‘Who’s Thomas the Rhymer?’ and then immediately regretted the question. I was only prolonging a discussion that would be better terminated as soon as possible. Indeed, I half rose to my feet, preparatory to lifting one leg over the bench, but curiosity got the better of me and I sat down again.
    Davey slid me a sidelong glance of triumph. ‘In Scotland, the Eildon Hills are said to conceal the entrance to the Otherworld. Thomas was led inside by the Queen of Elfland, herself. The Otherworld, unlike our Christian one, acknowledges women to be the equal of men and accords them equal importance.’
    â€˜Why was he called the Rhymer?’ I asked rather stupidly.
    Murdo gave a superior smile, while Donald looked down his nose. Davey gave a little crow of laughter.
    â€˜Because he made rhymes, of