Ardchoille
09-04-2005, 16:25
This thread gives background information on Findhorn's candidate in the thread In Harem's Way.
The tap on the door beat a rhythm Mother Mirrim had been hearing for more than 20 years.
“You’ll come in, a Mhairi?” she invited.
Incoming was Myfanwy Mhairi Ap Hwyl, a bright brown sparrow of a girl a deal shorter than her name. But to Mirrim she was heart-high, and knew it.
“I’ll be off, then, Mother, if I can just have your signature; and your blessing, of course,” she said, hugging as much of the Abbess as she could get her arms around.
“You’ll have neither until we’ve discussed this,” said the Abbess, keeping one arm for her fledgling but using the other to wave a thick sheaf of papers.
“But, Mother Mirrim, we’ve discussed and discussed it. You have, my mother has, the Bursar has, for all I know even the Mayor and the Guildsmen have discussed it! Any more discussion and I’ll be two weeks late, instead of only one!”
But Mirrim would have her way, and Myfanwy bit her tongue and bore it, for she knew it was but a last loving flourish of authority from a woman who was more loath to give her up than her own mother was. So they covered all the ground again – “your mother says to see if there’s any good voices out there” was the instruction from the choirmistress, and Myfanwy promised she would, for wasn't the choirmistress her birth mother, Glennys? And, "Look out for trade opportunities," was surely the contribution of the Bursar, Brother Rhys, though what trade of Findhorn's he could expect with such an advanced nation as the Sultanate Myfanwy couldn't imagine.
"So," Mirrim said finally, "it's off on your Quest, now. I expect this is where I should give you a ring that will let you speak the language of the beasts, or tell you who your Real Father is, or ..."
"I've a fair notion who my Real Father is," smiled Myfanwy. "Haven't I stood next to his son and looked at us in the mirror? Twins we could be, Ianto Hughes and I."
"And I've a fair notion that Ianto didn't see it," said Mother Mirrim, "and I've also a fair notion that that has a bit to do with this venture of yours."
Myfanwy couldn't deny it. She'd noticed Ianto's increased attention to her opinions when she spoke out against the conservatism of the Guilds. It was her ideas he admired, not herself; but he'd likely realise that a lot sooner if she was out of the way. Life was complicated enough for a young lad without his getting a crush on his half-sister.
"There's another thing, a Mhairi," said Mirrim. "On Findhorn, people like us are the Children of the Goddess, and maybe a bit spoiled, always knowing we're treasured. But in other places, we're called bastards, and scorned."
Poor Mirrim, though Myfanwy. It had gone deep, the rejection the Abbess had felt 30 years ago when she found out how the Old Blood of the region's capital viewed her kind. But things were truly different today. Much hope of convincing Mirrim, though.
"Mother, dear heart, they're all too sophisticated -- or too canny -- these days to say or do anything that looks like religious intolerance," she assured the older woman. "And the celebrations at the four great days are religious, so to scorn the children who result is to scorn the Goddess, and I'll sue 'em hell, west and crooked if anyone dares look at me sideways on that account."
"Children ..." said Mirrim, sighing. "Your implant is up to date, isn't it, dear?"
"Safe for a year," said Myfanwy, smugly. "That will give me long enough to see if it's the kind of society I'd like to leave children to. I know what I'm getting into. I accept that, if I have children while I'm in the harem, they're Vastivan. But you know I won't conceive unless I want to; at least that's one good thing left over from the Old Times."
Mirrim went to speak; shut her mouth firmly; began again, and again stopped. Myfanway had never seen her decisive superior so troubled. Suddenly, "The Old Times?" Mirrim said, her voice uneven. "The times when we lost the Lost Colony? Myfanwy, they're not lost any more. They've come back. In a way, that makes me glad you're going."
To a less cherished child, that would have been hard hearing. But Myfanwy knew she was loved. It was clear Mirrim wanted her safe, out of the way, protected. From what?
"You see, they've come back with magic. Full use of magic. Everything we thought had died out. And of course, if they can do it, we can. We're still the same blood."
Myfanwy could never remember what she'd said then. Mirrim, her mainstay, her logical spiritual mentor, actually believed all this? She had a vague idea she'd gone along with it all, promised to avoid telepaths, magic and strong liquor (sure!), to stay on her guard ...
And then she was being swept into the helicopter, shouting unheard farewells to the anonymous robed figures below, conveyed over the choppy seas to the mainland and -- if she were accepted -- a new life as a member of a Sultan's harem.
With her old life a millstone hanging from her neck, the talents and advantages that had buoyed her in her search for adventure transformed now into fears and uncertainties.
The tap on the door beat a rhythm Mother Mirrim had been hearing for more than 20 years.
“You’ll come in, a Mhairi?” she invited.
Incoming was Myfanwy Mhairi Ap Hwyl, a bright brown sparrow of a girl a deal shorter than her name. But to Mirrim she was heart-high, and knew it.
“I’ll be off, then, Mother, if I can just have your signature; and your blessing, of course,” she said, hugging as much of the Abbess as she could get her arms around.
“You’ll have neither until we’ve discussed this,” said the Abbess, keeping one arm for her fledgling but using the other to wave a thick sheaf of papers.
“But, Mother Mirrim, we’ve discussed and discussed it. You have, my mother has, the Bursar has, for all I know even the Mayor and the Guildsmen have discussed it! Any more discussion and I’ll be two weeks late, instead of only one!”
But Mirrim would have her way, and Myfanwy bit her tongue and bore it, for she knew it was but a last loving flourish of authority from a woman who was more loath to give her up than her own mother was. So they covered all the ground again – “your mother says to see if there’s any good voices out there” was the instruction from the choirmistress, and Myfanwy promised she would, for wasn't the choirmistress her birth mother, Glennys? And, "Look out for trade opportunities," was surely the contribution of the Bursar, Brother Rhys, though what trade of Findhorn's he could expect with such an advanced nation as the Sultanate Myfanwy couldn't imagine.
"So," Mirrim said finally, "it's off on your Quest, now. I expect this is where I should give you a ring that will let you speak the language of the beasts, or tell you who your Real Father is, or ..."
"I've a fair notion who my Real Father is," smiled Myfanwy. "Haven't I stood next to his son and looked at us in the mirror? Twins we could be, Ianto Hughes and I."
"And I've a fair notion that Ianto didn't see it," said Mother Mirrim, "and I've also a fair notion that that has a bit to do with this venture of yours."
Myfanwy couldn't deny it. She'd noticed Ianto's increased attention to her opinions when she spoke out against the conservatism of the Guilds. It was her ideas he admired, not herself; but he'd likely realise that a lot sooner if she was out of the way. Life was complicated enough for a young lad without his getting a crush on his half-sister.
"There's another thing, a Mhairi," said Mirrim. "On Findhorn, people like us are the Children of the Goddess, and maybe a bit spoiled, always knowing we're treasured. But in other places, we're called bastards, and scorned."
Poor Mirrim, though Myfanwy. It had gone deep, the rejection the Abbess had felt 30 years ago when she found out how the Old Blood of the region's capital viewed her kind. But things were truly different today. Much hope of convincing Mirrim, though.
"Mother, dear heart, they're all too sophisticated -- or too canny -- these days to say or do anything that looks like religious intolerance," she assured the older woman. "And the celebrations at the four great days are religious, so to scorn the children who result is to scorn the Goddess, and I'll sue 'em hell, west and crooked if anyone dares look at me sideways on that account."
"Children ..." said Mirrim, sighing. "Your implant is up to date, isn't it, dear?"
"Safe for a year," said Myfanwy, smugly. "That will give me long enough to see if it's the kind of society I'd like to leave children to. I know what I'm getting into. I accept that, if I have children while I'm in the harem, they're Vastivan. But you know I won't conceive unless I want to; at least that's one good thing left over from the Old Times."
Mirrim went to speak; shut her mouth firmly; began again, and again stopped. Myfanway had never seen her decisive superior so troubled. Suddenly, "The Old Times?" Mirrim said, her voice uneven. "The times when we lost the Lost Colony? Myfanwy, they're not lost any more. They've come back. In a way, that makes me glad you're going."
To a less cherished child, that would have been hard hearing. But Myfanwy knew she was loved. It was clear Mirrim wanted her safe, out of the way, protected. From what?
"You see, they've come back with magic. Full use of magic. Everything we thought had died out. And of course, if they can do it, we can. We're still the same blood."
Myfanwy could never remember what she'd said then. Mirrim, her mainstay, her logical spiritual mentor, actually believed all this? She had a vague idea she'd gone along with it all, promised to avoid telepaths, magic and strong liquor (sure!), to stay on her guard ...
And then she was being swept into the helicopter, shouting unheard farewells to the anonymous robed figures below, conveyed over the choppy seas to the mainland and -- if she were accepted -- a new life as a member of a Sultan's harem.
With her old life a millstone hanging from her neck, the talents and advantages that had buoyed her in her search for adventure transformed now into fears and uncertainties.