A Great and Terrible Beauty (Gemma Doyle #1)(32)
“Here we are.” Miss Moore’s deep, melodic voice bounces against the craggy bumps and smooth planes of the cave. “The pictographs are just over here, on this wall.”
She follows her light into a large, open area. We all bring our lanterns and the drawings come to startling life, a treasure revealed.
“Rather crude, aren’t they?” Ann says, examining a rough outline of a serpent. I think instantly of her tidy quilt with no wrinkles, no loose ends.
“They’re primitive, Ann. The people in these caves were drawing with whatever was available to them—sharp rocks, makeshift knives, a bit of clay paint or dye. Sometimes even blood.”
“How revolting!” It’s Pippa, of course. Even in the dark, I can practically feel her pert little nose wrinkling in distaste.
Felicity laughs and takes on the tone of a fashionable lady. “Darling, the Bryn-Joneses have just done the most marvelous thing in their parlor with human blood. We simply must have ours done straightaway!”
“I think it’s disgusting,” Pippa says, though I suspect she’s more put out by Felicity and me sharing a joke than any mention of blood.
“Blood was used for a sacred drawing, to pay tribute to a goddess whose influence was being sought. Here.” Miss Moore points to a faint red etching of what looks like a bow and arrow. “This is one for Diana, the Roman goddess of the moon and the hunt. She was a protector of girls. Of chastity.”
At this, Felicity gives me a sharp nudge in the ribs. We all cough and shuffle our feet to hide our embarrassment. Miss Moore soldiers on.
“The quite remarkable thing about this cave is that there are depictions of all sorts of goddesses here. It isn’t just the Pagan or Roman but the Norse, the Germanic, the Celtic. Most likely, this was a place known to travelers who heard they could practice their magic in safety here.”
“Magic?” Elizabeth asks. “They were witches?”
“Not as we’ve come to think of witches. They would have been mystics and healers, women who worked with herbs and delivered babies. But it would have made them suspect. Women who have power are always feared,” she says sadly. I wonder how Miss Moore came to be here, teaching us how to draw pretty pictures instead of living out in the world. She’s not unattractive. Her face is warm, her smile quick, and her figure slim. The brooch at her neck has several rubies in it, which suggests that she’s not without means.
“I think they are extraordinary,” Felicity says, moving her lantern closer to the wall. Her fingers trail over a rough silhouette of what appears to be a crow woman flanked by two other women who’ve been partially rubbed away by time.
“Ugh, that’s rather nasty,” Cecily says. Shadows flicker across her face, and for a moment, I can imagine what she’ll look like as an old woman—sort of pinched and thin with a large nose.
Miss Moore peers at the drawing. “That particular lady is probably related to the Morrigan.”
“The what?” Pippa asks, batting her lashes and smiling in a way that will undoubtedly make men promise the earth.
“The Morrigan. An ancient Celtic goddess of war and death. She was greatly feared. Some said she could be seen washing the clothes of those who were about to die in battle, and afterward, she flew across the battlefields, taking the skulls of the dead with her in her fury.”
Cecily shudders. “Why would anyone want to worship her?”
“Don’t you have any warrior spirit, Miss Temple?” Miss Moore asks.
Cecily is aghast. “I certainly hope not. How . . . unattractive.”
“What makes it so?”
“Well.” Cecily is clearly uncomfortable. “It’s like . . . being a man, isn’t it? A woman should never show anything so unseemly.”
“But without that spark of anger, without destruction, there can be no rebirth. The Morrigan was also associated with strength, independence, and fertility. She was the keeper of the soul till it could be regenerated. Or so they say.”
“Who are these women here?” Ann points a pudgy finger at the worn drawings.
“The Morrigan was a threefold goddess, often seen as a beautiful maiden, the great mother, and the bloodthirsty crone. She could change shape at will. Quite fascinating, really.”
Felicity regards Miss Moore coolly. “How did you come to know so much about goddesses and such, Miss Moore?”
Miss Moore leans her face in toward Felicity’s till they’re separated by only a breath or two. I think Felicity is really going to be raked over the coals for being so cheeky. Miss Moore speaks slowly, deliberately. “I know because I read.” She pulls back and stands, hands on hips, offering us a challenge. “May I suggest that you all read? And often. Believe me, it’s nice to have something to talk about other than the weather and the Queen’s health. Your mind is not a cage. It’s a garden. And it requires cultivating. Now, I think we’ve had enough of mythology. Let’s do some sketching, shall we?”
Dutifully, we take out our sketching pads and slender reeds of charcoal. Already Pippa is complaining that the cave is too hot for sketching. The truth is that she can’t draw. Not a whit. Everything she attempts ends up looking like a clump of gloomy rocks, and she’s not a good sport about it. Ann is tackling her project with her usual perfectionism, making small, careful strokes on the page. My charcoal flies across the pad, and when I’m finished, I’ve captured the smudgy likeness of the hunt goddess, spear in hand, a deer running ahead of her. It seems bare, so I add a few symbols of my own. Soon, the bottom of the page is filled with the moon-and-eye symbol of my mother’s necklace.