Hosts of Rebecca

by Alexander Cordell

  The way she looked, then, the way she smiled, her mouth reaching for kissing.

  How can a man know the heart of a woman. Frigid to freeze one minute, the flash in the mould the next.

  “Mari,” I whispered.

  As a mirage she was in the faint blue light, to be snatched at and lost in the parched desert of my longing. In the years of waiting I had been denied her, and now she was against me she still seemed a part of my dreaming; that the ghost of her would fade to the opening eyes. Yet the arms I held now were tensed and strong; no visions these arms; no mirage the eyes that lowered to the kiss, and her breathing no sighing of some distant wind. Sudden the tumult between us, as if the night had exploded in brilliance, leaving blackness that enveloped us, obliterating all save its gusty breath. Once she opened her eyes and looked at me with the look I have seen in the eyes of things trapped and shrinking to the grip of the iron jaw.

  “Jethro!” she said, just once.

  And I kissed her to silence, hearing nothing, reasoning nothing as the wall went down, thundering in the breast. Great is a man then with the shout of the Unborn thrusting within him, strident, demanding as the falcon’s cry; leaping to heights of power and beauty, denying the kiss as breath snatches breath in a perfumed fire; this, the song of the honeyed middle, the quenchless song, the chord that leaps from the fountain of life, that chains the singer and sung as one, and, chaining, transcends them as one, in joy.

  I kissed her, and her cheek was wet.

  “Mari,” I said.

  A nightbird sang in the troubled light. Wave-thump I heard, the wind of the Burrows and blackness came as the moon fainted; gave him a glance above her head, and hated him. Generations of this and still he was virginal. But the stars still shone as if approving, with Orion beaming silver and Venus still waving at her latticed window her lamp that brought out Mars.

  “Mari. …”

  And she wept.

  Something shrieked from the woods of the Reach and branches snapped in the clattering panic of wings, then all was stillness save for the sobbing restrictions of her breast, and she turned away her face as I bent to kiss her again. Three of us lying in sand, I knew; not one.

  “Mari!” I said, and pulled her against me, forcing her to face me. “It is me, Jethro. It is Jethro who is loving you. Iestyn is dead.”

  She stared at me, then closed her eyes again and her lips trembled to the inward breath.

  “My woman now,” I said. “The past is past.”

  I knelt as she sat up, head turned away, fingers working in a frenzy, straightening, tidying: brush away sand, straighten the lace; then flew to her hair, smoothing, patting and there’s a damned mess. Strange, these women.

  “All over the place,” I said.

  “O, no! Is it?”

  “Through a hedge backwards, then over the haystack,” I said.

  “And that Morfydd with eyes for a lynx,” she said. “Hairpins, see. That is the trouble,” and she went round on all fours, feeling and patting.

  Never looked for hairpins in sand before. Please God I never do it again.

  Like sea-urchins, the pair of us then; going in circles, holding up seaweed and shells, and excuse me, please, there’s one behind you, sweeping and smoothing half an acre. We were yards apart when Mari smiled. As a prowling dog I saw that smile. Then she put her hands to her face and laughed. God was wise when He invented sense of humour. As baying hounds we knelt, laughing, pealing it to the sky, then I rose and leaped the distance between us and gripped her waist and bent, kissing her. Her hair was down now, waving to her waist. Beautiful the kiss, joyful the reunion.

  “O, Jethro, I love you, love youl” she said.

  I did not answer, having loved so long.

  Two of us went home, and no Iestyn.

  Should not tell of it really, too secret to tell; too hot the fire of that week when Tomos stayed at Cae White and kept Mam occupied. Night after night, come in from shift at Ponty, strip to the bare and wash the body clean, then down to the kitchen for the evening meal with secret glances over the table at Mari; the raised eyebrow of the evening question, the narrowed promise in her eyes for reply. Easy, too, with Morfydd out courting with Willie O’Hara; no prowling eyes, no listening ears.

  “Think I’ll go out, Mam.”

  Only too pleased to be rid of me, the pair of them, for it is only right that courting couples like Mam and Tomos wanted to be alone. And they made no complaints when Mari went for her summer night strolls, either … summer night strolls down to the estuary where I lay waiting.

  “Jethro, you there?”

  And the sound of her voice set my heart leaping.

  Too secret to tell of the summer lovering; of the unbridled passion of our kisses, lying in sand. Rebecca and her burnings were forgotten in the newfound fire of possession. No blaze of ricks or tollgates invaded this mating, no eyes save the eyes of ghosts watched our kisses snatched in the roll of the breakers. As primaeval beings we were, diving together from rocks into the warm sea of moonlight, splashing demented in the surf, laughing, joyful, naked and unashamed, echoing the laughter of distant lovers on this same sand a thousand years before. Beautiful this new Mari in the shroud of her long, dark hair, resisting no more: and I would have the tongue of those who call it hateful, denouncing as obscene the purity of our love-making, making that which is noble into a thing satanic; twisting the beauty of God’s present to lovers by darkened minds and crippled words. Three days before Tomos was due to leave Cae White we lay together, Mari and me, in our haven of rocks.

  “And Jonathon?” she said.

  “Jonathon is mine,” I answered.

  “You will love him, too, Jethro?”

  “As my own son,” I said.

  “Time was you were jealous, mind.”

  I laughed, remembering. “That time has passed, Mari. The three of us it is from now on. Nothing will come between us now, nothing,” and even as I said it the face of Grandfer seemed to rise before me in some strange trick of moonlight. Clear as living that face, toothless, goat-bearded, grinning as he grinned on the night he told me of his Bronwen. I shut my eyes and lowered my head to the sand.

  “Jethro,” Mari whispered, but I scarcely heard her.

  ‘With Cae White as your Eden and your brother’s wife for a lover, the fingers of Cain shall reach up from the dust, and seek you …’

  Years, it seemed, since Grandfer died yet I heard his words again like yesterday; saw the face of my brother then, square and strong, unravaged by the blood and screams of the Westgate, yet Iestyn was smiling.

  “Jethro, is it sad with you?” Mari now, turning on her elbow, brushing the water from her face, smoothing back her wet hair.

  “No,” I said, and rose and left her, going to the outcrop of the haven where the sea was cresting silver to the breakers. Warm the night, but I was shivering.

  ‘For she bore my child and then she vanished, went down to the river for the shame of it, in the place where we loved. And they found her three weeks later on the reaches of Laugharne … with mud in her mouth and her eyes taken by gulls …’

  Grandfer now, whispering again, words I had long forgotten; whispering in the rocks, but a trumpet of sound. I swung as Mari approached, fearing she would hear it.

  “Jethro, for God’s sake, what is the matter?” she said, arms out.

  Leaned against the rocks and looked. This, my brother’s wife, naked as me; beautiful this woman, the wife of Iestyn.

  “Mari!” I took her against me, kissing her face, but she fought herself free and pushed me away, staring, eyes wild.

  “Jethro, what is wrong?”

  I could not face her.

  “Iestyn, is it?” she said, cold.

  I nodded.

  Strange that the Father with His one great eye Who has in His face the weight of the moon can suffer His children to know contemplation; stopping the lover’s words in the mouth, turning joy to fear by the cold light of Reason.

  “Sorry
now, is it?” she whispered, frightened. I held her, but the night was between us.

  “Mari, you will never leave me?”

  She shook her head. “Jethro, listen. Iestyn is dead. You told me that but for years I have known it. I loved him as you, mind, do not forget it. Dead. And even if he is alive we cannot go back. …”

  “Now I will say it, Mari. Listen, you will hear me. Iestyn is dead – there is only the two of us, you and me, Mari and Jethro.”

  “And Jonathon,” she said.

  “Aye, and Jonathon. Dress now, quick, or Mam will have babies.”

  “Rather Mam than me,” she said.

  CHAPTER 23

  JUST THREE days more I had my mother before Tomos Traherne hooked her away.

  Fully-fledged minister now, was Tomos, a man with his hand in God’s and in love with His people, preaching His goodness; a man with a chapel of his own and a little stone manse. Rising in the world, we Mortymers, and I was proud. So pretty Mam looked as Tomos led her out to the trap that Sunday; as a young girl going for marriage; dressed in her chapel black with starched white frills at her wrists and throat and well pulled in at the waist; hair in a bun, the temples streaked with grey. Wished I was marrying her so she would not go away.

  Half the county was out on the road; Biddy Flannigan to the front, as usual, wheezing and dabbing with a little lace handkerchief, for she loved my mam as a sister. Toby and Mrs Maudlin, the long and the short of it, the Parcybrains who were new neighbours down at Tarn; Tom the Faith, too, give him credit, though Waldo Bailiff was absent, and Polly Scandal knew why. I was out in the barn grooming Randy when Polly looked over the top of the door.

  “There’s a fine big man that Mr Traherne, isn’t it?” said she, horse teeth shining. “Lucky, she is, mind, marrying the cloth, and Tom the Faith that miserable, you seen him, Jethro Mortymer?”

  “Leave Tom be, Polly. At least he is here,” and I went on brushing.

  “But not Waldo Bailiff, I’ll be bound.”

  I grunted.

  “You heard about Waldo?”

  I had heard but I was not telling Polly.

  “Bound to happen sooner or later, mind – couldn’t go on. And Tom the Faith standing up to his neck in the mere last night praying for his soul with the Lord slipping in ice-bags. Eh, it’s a scandal!”

  “No proof about Waldo Bailiff,” I said. “You get on, Polly.”

  “No proof, is it? One arm round Gipsy May and another round Betsi, and poor little Gipsy outraged.”

  “Not before time.”

  “Waldo’s child, nevertheless, and Waldo and Betsi have sent her on her way – back up to Cardie to her gipsy tribe, and crossed her palm with silver to shift her. Better things crawl from holes than that man Waldo Bailiff, says my mam.”

  “Your mam’s right,” I said.

  “Isn’t decent, mind. Isn’t proper, not in a religious county. Leave him to Rebecca, is it? Leave him to the women, my mam says, they will see to him – they will give him Waldo Bailiff.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, wiping away sweat, and pushed her aside as Mari ran up.

  “Jethro, for heaven’s sake!” she cried. “Tomos is ready for off.”

  “I have said goodbye once, Mari.”

  “And you will say it again. O, Jethro, you are not even dressed!” Pouting now, beautiful as summer, hands outspread as she eyed me. “Just come as you are, then, but come you must, for Mam is asking. Do not spoil her day.”

  I dreaded it, not trusting myself. I had hoped to hide and not be missed.

  The trap was out on the road now with the crowd standing about it and Mam and Tomos already up in front and the little brown pony itching to get going. Backslapping and laughter from some, tears from others, though Morfydd, I noticed, was dry-eyed and pale, preferring her weeping at night. Willie O’Hara was standing beside her, fair-haired and handsome. Knew how to pick her men, this one, though I did not trust him. Old Uncle Silas was other side of her, teetering on his ploughing corns, wizened face turned up at her, begging for a smile. Abel Flannigan was there; Elias the Shop come down from Kidwelly; even Justin Slaughterer – eying Mari, I noticed. Got the size of Justin now; take him with one hand if he got within a foot of her, and he knew it. Everybody chattering and making conversation in that dreaded moment before the parting, and a silence fell upon us as my mother looked down.

  “Jethro,” she said.

  Me, Jethro Mortymer, the last man left.

  “Now, now,” whispered Morfydd as I went slowly past her. I mounted the trap and Mam opened her arms to me.

  Is there a face as beautiful as a mother’s before her goodbye? The narrowing of the eyes before the kiss, the gasp before the miles divide. And the frail thing you hold in strength is the body from whence you sprung; the breast against you is the breast you fisted and suckled. No tongue will charm like this, or scold: she who gave life: one becoming two. I kissed her, screwing up my fist. Better this purity than two becoming one. …

  “Watch for Morfydd, Jethro?”

  I nodded against her.

  “And Mari. Be a good boy, now. Decent, remember.”

  I closed my eyes. She knew.

  “Yes, Mam.”

  And she, the stronger, pushed me off.

  “Go now,” she said.

  I pushed a path through their forest of arms and shouldered my way to the rail behind the shippon. Head bowed, I gripped it, listening to the hooves of the pony beating on the road to Carmarthen.

  CHAPTER 24

  WE DID the gates proud under the leadership of Flannigan; got two down and in flames and heading for the third. If Tom Rhayader had coolness Flannigan had dash and he led us headlong down the main street of the town, galloping wraiths with a thunder of hoofbeats – all sixty of us that night and mounted, more on foot. Caught a glimpse of wizened faces at windows, heard the screaming of a frightened child. Curtains were going over, doors being bolted, windows slamming to the galloping Rebeccas. Powder-guns raised we clattered down the cobbles past the Black Lion to the end of the town and wheeled, Randy sitting back on his haunches, pawing the air at the obstructing gate.

  “Down with it, down with it!” roared Flannigan, dismounting, and men fell to the task with the hatchets going up and the powder-guns crashing. I saw Matthew Luke John again, well to the front, ramming his powder-gun, shouting with joy, and he swung it to the window of the tollhouse as I was spitting on my hands to swing an axe at the bar. A window came open and out popped a head, weeping, protesting, begging for life.

  “Leave the house!” cried Flannigan. “No time for the house, get the gate – just heard the dragoons are two miles off. By God, we will finish the job we started.”

  “Out sentries!” yelled a man, and the outriders wheeled and galloped up the road. Men were working like things gone mad, cursing, bringing down the hatchets, splinters of timber flying in all directions. Spitting on my hands I took a fresh grip on my axe, bringing it down. Joyful it is to feel the bite of steel into something you hate. Over your head with the shaft, open the shoulders and hear it whistling, slide up the left hand to join the right and the muscles of the back arch and tighten to the biting thump, high rise the splinters. These the hateful things that represent government, these the bleeding things that starve.

  “Down, down!” yelled Flannigan, up on his horse, petticoat streaming, the hooves prancing. “Down, down, my daughters, work like demons, every second counts. Splinter it, carve it. Up beacons! Who the hell has the tinder? Fire, man, fire!”

  And the tinderman knelt and the torch came up, circling in the darkness before the wreckage. caught alight. But I was looking past him to the road through the town where a single horseman in shrouds was coming headlong, hooves sparking, shouting, waving.

  “Leave the tollhouse!” yelled Flannigan. “A few minutes are left – who says we try for Tom Rhayader? Who says we free the old Rebecca? He must be somewhere in the town!” Bellows and cheers at this with Toby Maudlin doing an Irish jig on the
cobbles with the flames leaping up behind him and the men going mad with thoughts of Rhayader.

  “No time!” I yelled at Flannigan, and dragged at his stirrup. “Look, the sentry!” Justin Slaughterer it was, coming straight at us like a man possessed, full gallop, and the daughters parted to let him through. Waving a scarf was justin, bawling his head off, skidding to a stop.

  “Out of it, Flannigan. Everybody out of it. Dragoons!”

  We went like saints after satans, scrambling on horses, slipping, cursing, with hooves clattering and skidding on the cobbles, turbans coming off, axes dropping. Made a dive at Randy and went clean over him and he gave me a look to kill as I snatched at his rein to steady him. The men on foot were going helterskelter, running for the cover of the woods, crashing through undergrowth, hanging on to stirrups, belly-flopping over the hedgerows head first, yelling dragoons. Bastards these dragoons if they got you cornered; sabres out, slashing, thrusting – dead men first, prisoners after, it was said – up in front of the magistrates at first light, down to Carmarthen gaol by breakfast and in Botany Bay for dinner. Trained men, these. We didn’t stand a chance with them and they knew it. Spreadeagled on Randy I was fighting for a stirrup as they came down the street of the town. Heard the windows coming up now, saw white faces popping out in the blaze of the tollgate. Reckon I was the last one left then, for as I wheeled Randy away I saw them clearly, no more than a hundred yards off, coming four abreast, sabres out and flashing in the red light; heard their hoarse shouts as I got my heels into Randy and went like the wind towards Laugharne. I knew I was the wrong side of the estuary but I had no option. The woods and open fields were my only chance. Give it to Randy. Perhaps he expected to die under torture at the hooves of the dragoon stallions, for he set down his flanks and went like a whippet with me hanging on. Leaping a hedge we took to the fields now, hooves thumping dully on the rich red earth, but I reined him at the edge of a wood and we stood in the shadows, watching, listening. Evil is the feel of eyes when you are hunted; every twig stirring to snap the head round, every tree whispering. Strange was that rest, lonely as the grave, with Randy standing there sweating and shining in the sudden, cursed moonlight and breathing for something to be heard ten miles. He snorted as I wheeled him and took him into the wood. God knows where the others had got to, never been so lonely before. The wood was eerie, shafting moonlight, with the overhanging branches snatching to bring me off. Thicker now, so I got off and walked, gripping Randy’s head, hushing him quiet. Had to get east of the town, I knew it – would have to swim the river somewhere, but Randy liked a swim to cool him down. South first to get clear of the town, then east before the river got too broad. On, on, standing square to the swinging smack of branches, plunging knee deep in peaty places, scrambling out on all fours with Randy making the worst of it, wallowing and rearing and rolling his eyes at me for the outrage. Lost, I checked him and looked through the pattern of branches above. Brilliant were the stars though the moon was hiding, thank God, and the billowing clouds were going like hammer for the rim of the sky. The wind rose, buffeting and whining in the wood, sweeping up leaves in clouds and scraping his violins in the high rook tops that waved demented. Never been alone in such woods before, and now the panic of the dragoons had died dryness came with the cooling sweat. Things on legs I do not fear, upright or crawling; but horror comes to me in the face in the tree that smiles, the grotesque branches that clutch and hold too long, the whispers of things that should be dead. Through the wood now and I mounted and galloped towards Whitehill, with Randy taking the hedges in his stride, dying for his head and the barn at Cae White. Reaching the road just short of the Taf I reined him, approaching slowly for fear of a patrol, but the road was deserted. Crossing it at a canter, we went into the undergrowth again and down to the bank of the river, and, as if awaiting me, the moon came out. Darkness one moment, bright as day the next and I cursed it as Randy waded in, forelegs feeling for the plunge. Icy the water that rose to my knees and Randy was steaming as something afire and snorting and tossing. For days now the river had been in flood and it carried us downstream towards the estuary. Scrambling out on a sandy bed we struck out again for the open country and the upper reaches of the Tywi at Llangain. Randy was drooping a bit by now so I turned him to a tiny wood, entered it, dismounted and tethered him. And as I stood there light flared behind me and the pistol ball carved the bole of the tree a foot above my head. Went flat, squirming for cover, eyes peering, heart thumping, and Randy flung up his head and neighed with shock. One in the belly to quieten him as I went back on elbows and knees deeper into the wood.