The rattle of rain on rock woke me.
Eyes yet closed, I felt rough rock under me. Shaking with chill, I wondered why I lay asleep on rock, with no blanket?
Then I remembered.
I thought, I lie in a moor cave with my love, my pearl of price. For his sake I have given all that I had, and now I have only him. I remembered our loving of the night before. And just now he kissed me! I smiled to remember that kiss.
I reached out a hand to touch him, wake him. We must be off, or the questing Square Table might yet find us.
My hand found him not.
I reached farther. As far as I could reach, I touched only cold rock. My eyes opened. Rock floor rose to meet rock ceiling. Gawain and his cloak were gone.
I said, “Love?” No answer. I felt myself alone.
Ech. He’s gone outside to piss.
Feeling like that myself, I sat up and looked for my dress. It lay bunched beside me, with the magic girdle. My knife was likely under the pile.
Thankfully I pulled on the dress, tied on the girdle, looked for my knife.
No knife.
Well, that knife was the only weapon/tool we had between us. Gawain must have taken it outside.
I got up and pulled on the cloak that had lain over me, scant protection from the night chill. I drew on my sandals. (I had not dared wear boots out to my bower last night. Someone would have noticed, for sure. Someone would have whispered, “Does Gwyneth go a-journey now, at night?”) Stooping under the cave roof, I went to the entrance. Rain fell, a cold curtain across the landscape. I peered out to where we had left the hobbled pony.
No pony.
So, he had hobbled away. He must have left hoofprints in the wet. We could trail him.
I looked for Gawain to loom up out of the rain, coming home to the cave. No Gawain.
Maybe…maybe the Square Table had found us. Killed Gawain. Taken the pony back home. Left me here for outlaws and Saxons to find.
I sneaked out into the rain, plastered myself against the cave wall, studied the moor. Birds called through rain. Crickets chirped. Unless there was someone on the hill above and behind the cave, no human life was to be found here. But the rain-drenched grass at my feet held Gawain’s boot prints, clear as in snow.
My pearl of price had walked from where I stood, not long ago. One pair of prints led away. None returned.
I followed the prints. Out from the cave I paused to look up at the hill above. Nothing. No one moved there. Hungry, hurting from our rock bed, I followed my love’s track to where it met the pony’s track. Here I found cropped grass and hoof marks, circling about; dung; and the end of Gawain’s track.
No boot print pressed grass beyond this point. But hoof marks led away directly south, a little heavier, deeper printed, moving faster than the pony would have by his own will.
Like an erect stone, like a chief’s grave marker, I stood unmoving in heavy rain.
Ach! My Demon cleared his throat in mine. His rusty voice croaked, Told you he wouldna’ wed.
Rage came into my feet first, as if from the cold ground. Rage rose up my legs, through belly to heart. Rage lodged there, with the Demon.
Foolishly, I had loved Gawain. More foolishly, I had trusted him. For Gawain I had sacrificed my Tribe, my Granny—even my Ynis!
Richly had I deserved this common fate, told in so many stories, sung at so many lonely hearths! And this agony, stabbing up from the Goddess’s earth, was only a beginning of agonies—a foretaste of divine revenge.
Let me out of this! I clapped hand to the knife in my girdle. No knife. Gawain had taken my life, my heart, my only weapon. I cried into the rain, “Never love again! Never again!”
Had I not loved I would be waking this morning in my bower, Gawain’s head on my breast, sentry owls hooting protectively in rainy shadows. I would be my Tribe’s darling May Queen, their next ruling witch. All that I had given up, as the foolish trader gave up all his jewels for one pearl.
If the Tribe takes me back after this, I will be the most faithful, most loyal witch they ever had.
Hah! The Tribe will nail your head to a sacred oak instead of Gawain’s!
I despaired. Let that be as the Gods will.
That decided, immediate problems made themselves felt. Grief and rage could no longer mask my hunger, dripping cold, and danger. What should I do?
I could wait in the cave till the Square Table found me. That could be a long wait, alone with my Demon, with death at the end.
South and north were not the only directions. I could walk west or east. Huge, the wet world spread itself before me.
Lawless men, by far more dangerous than wolves, haunted the moors. We knew something of them, and Gawain had told me more. And if I came through their midst to a strange village, of a strange tribe, there I would be a slave.
Let it be as the Gods willed. I turned north.
Home would be a long, long walk in soggy clothes, on an empty stomach. If only I could graze on thick wet grass and clover, like a pony!
I slouched up the cave hill. Rain slowed around me, and stopped, and I saw north ahead: rolling, flowery moor; rolling, rising mist.
Gawain had ridden these empty moors for days before he found our May Day feast. Now I knew how hungry, how desperate he was, that he had charged in among us without a cautious thought! He might have pulled his white Warrior away, back into the oak grove he knew not enough to fear. We would never have known.
Now I, too, charged to my death, one drenched step at a time.
Through banking mists, one white cloud advanced slowly toward me. I stopped, stretched, strained eyes to see. Was it the Square Table?
Nay. Not a mob of men and ponies; it was one being…a God? Nearer it moved…a giant white horse, like a giant white cloud.
Only one horse like that drew breath in our world: Gawain’s Warrior. He must have escaped unseen, even as Gawain and I escaped. But he was not wandering, grazing step by step. He was making straight toward me, at a steady walk.
Nearer he came, and I saw his rider. He saw me at the same moment, and waved.
Jaunty, cheerful, he rode up beside me and stretched down a hand. His wide green and violet aura shone steadily. Instantly, without a doubtful thought, I grasped his hand and struggled up Warrior’s summer-fattened side to perch behind him. Gratefully, I hugged his waist and leaned my wet cheek against his wet shoulder. He used the rein in a graceful, Gawain-taught gesture, and Warrior circled himself about and headed north.
“Who sent you, Merry?”
Over his shoulder: “Me. I sent me.”
Maybe…just maybe…the Square Table hadn’t yet noticed? “Are you the only one who…”
“Knows he ran out? Nah! Fellows runnin’ like grouse around the village! Women shakin’ out blankets in case he’s inside ’em. Turnin’ over iron kettles he could hide in. I left while the Square Table was catchin’ ponies to come after.” Laughter lurked in his dear voice.
“What about…”
“What about what?” Warrior paced steadily north toward a faint, new rainbow.
“Me. What about me, Merry?”
“You? They’re all in a mighty uproar rage about you, Gwyn.”
My arms tightened on his waist. I murmured into his dark hair, “The Gods willed it so.”
“Aye, the Gods must have willed it, or it wouldn’t have happened. Right?”
“Ah…aye. What I mean.”
“They could have stopped him dragging you off for a hostage, with nothing more than the clothes on you.”
I heaved a great sigh into his ear.
“Ech! Such bold disrespect for a May Queen, let alone a witch! Downright sacrilege. They’re all poppin’ an’ hissin’ like coals back there.”
I squeezed his waist, drew myself into his back.
Ech! My Demon cleared its throat. It sounded surprised, and not pleased—but ready to take advantage. Ech. You can yet get him back for us.
I would if I could!
&
nbsp; We got plan.
Riding in tired silence, I let Demon anger fill me, as a worm fills a pod. After a while I murmured, “Merry, I’ll get him!”
“How you goin’ to do that? He’s well gone.”
“For now. He’s gone for now. But I can get him back.”
“Ah! You have a plan?”
“I’m making one now.” We rode on for a bit. Then, “I’ll nail his head to an oak, Merry. You’ll see me do it. But first, I’ll break him.”
“Hah?”
“First I’ll break his pride.”
“Hah!”
“Aye, that stubborn pride he wears like armor. I’ll lay his armor in pieces on the ground!”
“You and me, Gwyn.” Merry said this over his shoulder seriously, with no hint of laughter.
“You! You’ll help me?”
“Anyhow I can.”
“Oh! Ooooh!” I hugged him savagely, exultantly.
“But I tell you something first.”
“Tell!”
“You want to watch that Demon.”
My arms froze at his waist. “Demon…”
“Aye,” he said, still serious. “I can see it.”
More than I could do! “What does it look like, Merry?”
“Ungood, Gwyn. Not a handsome fellow.”
I felt the Demon’s angry response within.
“Right now, I feel it,” said Merry. “Like fire at my back.”
“It will help us catch him.”
“Right enough. But don’t let it take you over. Own you.” Never had I heard Merry so serious!
“I’m strong, Merry.”
“I won’t love a Demon, understand. Won’t wed a Demon.”
“Once we get him back…break his pride…nail his head…we’ll be rid of the Demon.” An angrier response still.
“So may it be,” Merry said prayerfully.
Slowly we rode on toward the brightening rainbow.
That naked, scrawny woman in the mirror—she with the gray skin, gray eyes, gray aura—she is I.
I who was whole and hearty, quick to laugh; maybe not beautiful, but love-skilled; I who felt beautiful, and good, and one with the Goddess; I have come to this. Gawain brought me to this.
And not only me! My Tribe, which was strong and numerous, is now reduced. Most families around us have suffered as mine has. Granny’s death, probably the last death Gawain will bring about, is far from the only one!
Gawain moves behind my eyes, dark and lithe and proud. Proud!
What is he like now? Has he changed as I have? Is my revenge working on him?
We catch him!
In the mirror, my eyes open wide. Stop! Wait!
We give you healing, Gwyn. Prophecy.
Not now. Go away. The Goddess comes.
You be greater witch than Granny, Gwyn.
The Goddess comes.
Not with us here!
Go! Go! I turn you away. I reject you.
Ha-hey-ho!
Listen, Demon. Hear those drums? Those pipes?
You think we fear music?
Aye. You fear this Midsummer music.
The drums thump, Come!
I will go out there green-clad, flower-crowned, bearing my sheaf of young barley. Not I, but the Goddess in me, will go out to my eager, hopeful Tribe that waits for Her. I can take no evil spirit with me.
Eh! Try to get rid of us!
She will.
I say aloud:
“Come to us, Lady, Sun’s bright bride,
Come from moor and mountainside.
Come from water, come from air,
Come, with us Your life to share.”
I stretch to lift my green gown down from the roof. In Granny’s blotched mirror I watch it float down over my sad, sagging body. The gown hides my poverty, as winter snow hides the Goddess’s brown earth. My hair glows red. A hint of color creeps into my cheeks.
“Stay with us, Lady; grow the green grain!
Radiate sunshine, radiate rain.”
I take down my necklaces, bracelets, rings—all the sacred jewels Gawain thought I should have taken away that night. Now I understand why. If I had brought my jewels, would he have left me?
Why not? He took knife. Would take jewels.
No! No! Get away!
“Come to us, Lady, Sun’s bright bride!
Stay with us, Lady, in us abide.”
Slowly I fasten the emerald necklace, push the jade bracelets up my thin arms. They clank and fall off.
I could string them on a thong, use them as another necklace.
The drums thump, Come!
No time. Forget the bracelets. Forget the rings, which also fall off. Maybe after all, this is fitting, this bare severity, after the year we have had.
From the Demon, utter silence.
Quickly now, I redden lips and cheeks, darken brows.
“Come to me, Lady, live You in me.
Shine You in me, that mortals may see.”
Now at last, the magic girdle. I have not worn it since…Don’t think about that.
I take it down. It shines in my hands with its own green, gold-shot aura.
I wind it twice around me! And tie it. In the mirror I watch green and gold glow through my gray aura. As when you touch a rush-light to fire, and the tip flares…Light enters me. Fills me.
Fills whom? No one. There is no one here but Light.
Light crowns Herself with Her own flowers and takes up Her barley sheaf.
The drums thump, Come! Come! Come!
A walking golden torch, Light glides from the sad, dim hut, and turns toward Fair-Field.
Late in the morning, smoke still drifts up from the Midsummer Fire ashes.
Under tents and awnings all over Fair-Field, folk lie dead asleep. A woman carries water from the stream; another brings Midsummer coals to light a breakfast fire. A few children run the field with fewer, yipping dogs. Children and dogs are blessed famine survivors.
From the village, bearers carry a covered corpse on a bier. They avoid Fair-Field. Even now, festivities over, they lug their burden the long way around toward the distant Green Chapel, home of the dead.
Later I will deal with them, and with their burden.
Right now I sit just within the fringe of oak grove, across the stream from Fair-Field and a little above, with sleeping Dace in his basket, Merry, Merlin, and Merlin’s daughter Niviene.
I knew her for his daughter the moment I saw her small, dark face with his brows, and especially her fingers, even-lengthed like his. They lie idle, laced in her lap, while Merlin’s fingers stray restlessly over the strings of his harp, Enchanter.
Merlin did not introduce Niviene as his daughter, but as his “assistant mage.” They do not refer to their obvious relationship; so Merry and I do not either.
I have heard rumors of Niviene. She is almost as famous as Gawain’s witch mother, Morgause. Rumor says truly that she is the size of a twelve-year-old boy and dresses like one. Rumor exalts her powers but does not add that her violet aura has nearly the breadth of Merlin’s white one.
Warm and pink, Dace sleeps in his basket beside me. Merry sits easily against an oak and watches the rest of us with tired, smiling eyes. Bright on his breast glints the silver medallion—I gave him it last Midwinter—engraved with a Green Man’s head swallowing— or vomiting?—leafy vines.
As Merlin’s music ripples, his aura shimmers, sun-shot. Enchanter itself seems to shine with its own, eerie aura. Merlin remarks, “The whole ceremony was right. Very effective, despite difficulties. The joust was a new touch!”
“New as the Square Table.” Merry nods.
“I noticed stirrups on the ponies. You must have learned that on your journey.”
Merry says nothing.
“Too bad the wheel broke.”
Enchanter whispers. Merry and I are silent.
Merlin adds, “But that made for excitement! And it’s not necessarily a bad omen, taken together with all the rest. The Green Men
were most impressive!”
Merry’s habitual smile lurks.
“Especially the Dancing Trees.”
Merry cocks his head and grins.
“And look at your fields!” Merlin nods eastward at the oat, pea, and millet fields. “Knee-high already.”
“Aye.” Merry spits briefly to the side. “They were knee-high last year too. Now we cannot even offer you ale.”
“Have no fear.” Merlin strums more strongly. “Stars, birds, and standing stones predict a good harvest. And you have a good May pair. Who’s the girl?”
“Alva, from Spring-Field.”
“Fine, handsome King.”
Merry nods. “Willing.”
“A volunteer.”
“Right.”
“The best kind. Did you hear my new ballad about one of King Arthur’s Companions, who was once a May King?”
I startle. My eyes, which had been drifting closed, spring open. Merry snarls quietly. “How can a man have once been a May King?”
“This one was unwilling. Not a volunteer. He escaped.” Modestly offhand, Merlin adds, “The whole south now sings my ballad. I call it ‘Gawain, May King.’ ”
Merlin sits straighter, plants Enchanter more firmly on his knee, and sings.
“You northern knave, what do you here?
Ride your rough pony not so near!”
(“Remember, this is a southern song.”)
“We guard King Arthur’s portal, here.
Stand! Or you’ll maybe stop a spear…
That name again? Gawain?
Gawain!”
At the hated name, anger stirs like sickness in my deep belly. No longer smiling, Merry’s eyes meet mine. Easy, now. Give nothing away! For the rest of the song Merry looks east, I look west.
The song is long and insulting. (Merlin trusts us to understand bias, even against ourselves.) Untruly, it tells of Gawain’s escape by his own cunning and courage, and the trials and dangers of his journey home on a “rough pony” with only the knife in his sash. Looking away, I can hear Merry’s teeth grind. Fury churns my stomach.
At last the wretched song ends.
“Now bring the bowl about again!
Drink to the deeds of brave Gawain!”
That repeated name, repeated again, sickens me.
Merlin slaps a last resounding chord from Enchanter and beams at Merry and me. “But then, his escape brought a new, weird doom upon him.”
Gawain and Lady Green Page 10
