A strange and perverse god, this god of love, thought Charis. Not at all like any of the other gods I have known. So unlike Bel, whose dual aspects of constancy and change demanded nothing but simple reverence and ritual-and not even that if one was not inclined. If he did not greatly heed or help his people, at least he made no pretense of caring for them either. He ignored all men equally, Mage and beggar alike.
But this Most High God insisted that he cared for his followers and asked-no, demanded-that men acknowledge him as sole supreme guardian, authority, and judge over all. Yet, he could be as silent and cold and distant and fickle as Cybel ever was.
Even so, Charis had promised to follow him, had been baptized into the Christian faith. Why?
Was it because she was restless, and tired of her restlessness, tired of searching, tired of the lonely, empty feeling that there was no longer any significance to her life? Was that it?
Like a bird trapped in a cow byre, throwing herself against dumb, unfeeling walls, Charis struggled to understand the unhappy welter of her thoughts and emotions, only to be met time and again with silence and indifference. Her questions went unanswered.
Very well, she had been attracted to this new god through his son, Jesu, who had lived as a man among men, teaching the ways of love, and pointing the way to a kingdom of peace and joy without end. That, at least, was worth Believing. But to what end?
Bel offered nothing so impossible, made no barren promises. Life and death were all the same to him. But not to this Jesu. If Charis understood Dafyd right, Jesu, who was himself truly God, sacrificed himself so that all might be reborn to live in his kingdom-a kingdom as remote and insubstantial as the love he promised to share with those who Believed and followed him.
“Only Believe,” Dafyd had told her. “He does not ask us to understand him, only to Believe in him. As it is written: ‘For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoever Believes in him will never die, but will have everlasting life.’ “
Only Believe! Only raise Atlantis from the depths-that would be easier, thought Charis in despair. How can I Believe in a god who has no image, yet claims all of creation for his province; who demands total and unstinging devotion, yet will not speak; who calls himself Father, yet refused to spare his only true Son.
Better to Believe in Bel or Lieu or Oester or the Mother Goddess or any of the multitude of gods and goddesses that men have worshiped through the ages. Better to Believe in nothing and no one at all… That conclusion had all the comfort of the tomb.
“God!” she cried in despair, her voice lost in the wind and rain that beat down upon the Tor. “God!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The cold rain squalls of the last days passed in the night and spring returned. Charis lay some moments in her bed, feeling light in body and spirit, and remembered that she had not eaten a bite the day before, nor the day before that. She was hungry but also felt unburdened, as if the weight of misery had dissolved in the night and melted away like the storm clouds. Although nothing had changed at all.
She was still unsure of her love for Taliesin, still unsure of her Belief in the new god, still very much alone, and still very restless. Her first thought was to rise, saddle her horse at once, and ride out into the hills-to ride and never stop riding, to lose herself in the brooding glory of green earth and deep sky.
Pausing for bread and cheese and a mouthful of wine on her way to the stables, she hurried through the courtyard and met Morgian, sulky and bristling with inarticulate menace. “I have no quarrel with you, Morgian,” Charis told her. “But let us have an understanding.”
“An understanding? How so, sister?” she asked slyly.
“About Taliesin. He has declared his love for me, and it is his wish that we should be married. Now I tell you in all honesty, I do not know if I love hire or not. I do not think that I do. Very likely we will never be married”
Morgian’s smile had much in it of the cat whose claws have just closed around the mouse. “So, you adm-”
“But,” Charis cut her off, “whether we are married or not I forbid you to interfere in our affairs.”
“If you do not love him, why do you care?” inquired Morgian.
The question went by Charis at the time. But later, as she let her gray horse have its head to plod along the brome-edged hilltrack, she found herself pondering the same question: Why do I care?
She turned the question over in her mind, listening to the slow clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the damp dirt. Is not love born of caring? In truth, are they not one and the same thing?
Lost in thought, she crested the hill and started down the other side, passing by a dense blackthorn thicket. A sharp, keening cry jarred her out of her trance. She jerked the reins and listened. A soft rustling sounded in the blackthorn just ahead.
Charis stepped from the saddle and walked to the thicket. Kneeling, she peered in among the tight-woven branches. It was too dark to see much, but something was there in the shadows. Carefully she bent back the top layers of leaves. The piercing scream split the air and the blackthorn shook with fury. Charis released the branch, but she had seen what lay within: a small hawk, trapped in the thorns.
She parted the leaves once more and slowly, slowly reached in. The bird struggled, tossing its head and kicking its legs, but its wings were pinned by the thorns and held fast.
“There, bright one,” Charis soothed, reaching her free hand toward the hawk. “Be still; I will not hurt you.”
The bird slashed at Charis’ fingers with its talons and beak. She withdrew the hand. “Shhh, easy now. I am your friend.” The hawk screamed again and struck out at her, its red-rimmed eye glaring proud defiance. Charis had no choice but to sit back on her heels until the rage had subsided.
In a few moments the hawk grew quiet again and Charis raised her hand toward it. Slowly, gently, she edged her fingers closer. The hawk let her fingertips brush its feathers and then it stabbed at her with its sharp beak. “Ow!” The beak grazed her forefinger.
This cat-and-mouse game continued for some time with the hawk repulsing each of Charis’ advances. But she persisted- talking to it, soothing it, willing it to respond to her concern.
“What am I going to do with you? I cannot leave you here like this… You will die,” she told the hawk. The bird screamed in reply but not so loudly as before, and Charis noticed that its thrashing was weaker as well.
“So,” she told it, “you have been here for some time. I thought so. The gale swept you into the thicket and here you are-you cannot free yourself and must have help. Now, be still and let me help you.” The bird stared at her with a round bright eye but did not struggle this time; it lay still and let her hand close around its body.
Gently she worked the wings free and pulled the hawk from its prison. Its wings and back were light gray, its underside a soft cream color blushing red; dark points like tiny daggers were scattered over its chest, back, wings, and head; there was a wide black band across its tail and the tips of each wing.
“There, you see?” she told it, holding it close and stroking it, her voice low, calming. “You are free. Now I will let you go-“
Charis walked a few paces from the thicket, turned into the breeze, and raised the bird in her hands. The hawk leapt free, struggled into the air and fell, one wing beating the air furiously, the other half-folded and limp. The bird struck the ground a short distance away. She ran to it.
“I am sorry, bright one! You are hurt. Let me see.” She stooped to pick it up again and the hawk slashed with its beak, catching Charis on the fleshy part of her hand between thumb and finger. “Ouch!” The nip was clean and the blood flowed instantly.