LITMIR.BIZ

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branded at once. And when I tell my father about the disrespect you have shown me, you’ll be next.”

      I turned my head and saw the black-haired beauty pushing the aedile aside. I had the urge to vomit but was too weak to roll on my side, not to mention I was chained.

      “By your own account, domina, she belongs to Domitia Tertia who must claim ownership and make the accusation against her,” the aedile said wearily.

      “If we wait much longer, she’ll die unpunished.” My nemesis sulked.

      Death, I mused. Not a bad idea. And I was seized with a chill so violent my chains rattled.

      “Get her a blanket, fool!” snapped the priestess.

      If I hadn’t been debating the merits of dying in a puddle of my own piss or living to be flogged in the Forum, I might almost have felt sorry for the man caught between these two furious women. Then the third fury made her entrance.

      “Ah, Domitia Tertia.” The man sounded terribly relieved. “I am sorry to disturb you. Thank you for coming so promptly. Domina Paulina Claudii has identified this woman as your property. She believes her to be a runaway. We await your confirmation.”

      The three women stood over me. In my fevered state it looked to me as if they floated. Or maybe I floated, suspended, in suspense, as they deliberated over my fate. I could see it, held in their hands, a red thread, a crackle of green lightning. The malicious beauty tugged at it. The priestess held her end lightly and serenely. Domitia Tertia was in the middle. She held the thread taut.

      “Paulina Claudii is mistaken.” The thread snapped. “No woman of my house would make a public spectacle of herself.”

      She turned away, and I felt, to my horror, as if I had lost my last mother all over again, as if I were some exposed girl child Domitia had tossed back on the refuse heap. I tried to cry 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

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