The Bear and the Ivy Lady

by Sarah Head

  He bade me take off my shoes and we sat, crosslegged on cushions, eating with only a spoon and our fingers.

  When I complimented his skills, he waved them away, but his eyes twinkled. For dessert he brought out syllabub in tall glasses topped with candied angelica and violet flowers, their petals so richly dark against the pale cream, the golden centres shining.

  As we finished the last mouthful, the deeply golden rays of the sun began to change colour.

  Come,” he said, holding out his hands and pulling me to my feet. “It’s time to bid the sun farewell.”

  We stood leaning against the garden gate, breathing in the scent of honeysuckle. Beyond the fields, the village slept, while on the top of the hills, the huge ball of molten red sank inexorably towards the treetops. We watched in silence as the sun rested for a long moment on the horizon then slowly slipped beyond until only a glittering crescent remained.

  Then the sun was gone for another day, leaving me aching for lost light. I was mesmerised by the inevitable descent, suddenly conscious of the warmth of Artur’s body behind me and the gentle weight of his arms around my waist.

  I let out a long sigh, consciously letting myself relax against him. A soft breeze ruffled my skirt, bringing the chimes of the nearby stable clock upon the air.

  Nine o’clock,” he said, his voice warm against my ear, “still time for you to walk home in the light, should you wish to go.”

  And if I stay?”

  It will always be your choice, Clara. Your presence pleases me a great deal, but if you stay, you will change.

  Spending time with me always changes others.”

  I turned so I could see his face. “I would not have come here without accepting such a possibility.” I felt a hunger rise inside me as I lifted my face to his and closed my eyes.

  His first kiss was feather light, as if a leaf had brushed against my lips and tumbled away in the breeze. My eyes fluttered open to find him watching me. The second kiss placed his lips on mine—firm, secure—like his arms encircling me.

  Then the fire began.

  The first touch of his tongue poured molten heat into my core. I did not want to breathe. I only wanted to be devoured; to become part of him, to know his touch, his taste, his scent until it overwhelmed me.

  As he broke the kiss, I was left gasping for air, only his arms preventing me from collapsing on the ground.

  Come,” he said, guiding me back into the house.

  When the moon is full, I will take you to bathe in her light and be transformed, but first you need a softer light to shine.”

  He sat me in a chair beside the fireplace before shutting both halves of the stable door and lighting six huge pillar candles around the room. As I watched the soft flames flicker, Artur brought me another glass of iced nettle infusion, and stood over me until I finished every drop.

  He took the glass from me, placed it on the mantelpiece, and drew me to my feet with both hands.

  Tell me what you wish, Clara.”

  There was no hesitation in my voice. “To know you.”

  He brought my hands in turn to his lips, kissing the backs in soft acceptance, then to the fastenings of his shirt.

  With trembling fingers, I released the buttons one by one, placing my hand on his chest as each new area of skin was revealed. My fingers encountered soft, black hair, curling in thick profusion to echo his shoulder length locks. As I pushed the shirt off his shoulders, his bare, muscular arms relaxed by his side, each one covered with the same, black hair, rising and falling to my fingers’ touch.

  Once more, his hands caught mine and brought them to his belt buckle. I looked up at him, a question on my lips, but he merely smiled and nodded. This was not the first time I had seen a man unclothed, but Artur’s scent and overwhelming presence made my fingers tremble like a young girl’s. I felt his hands on mine, steadying them, then he drew me to him and held me close, so close, all I could breathe was his scent and it steadied me.

  This time, the belt pushed smoothly through the buckle and slid down to the floor. His moleskin trousers soon followed. When I reached for his waist, thinking to hook my fingers under a further garment, there was nothing there. My questing palm met only soft, fur-lined skin, supple and smooth, powered by unyielding muscle underneath.

  He was beautiful, standing there in the flickering candlelight.

  I took a step back, wanting to drink in the wonder of the sight before me. All I wanted was to touch and savour each part of him—to smell and nuzzle and taste until I knew him as well as I knew myself.

  He did not let me stand for long. His hands were busy with my clothing, stroking, smoothing, unfastening until I found myself in his arms entwined upon the sofa; fingers touching, skin sliding, tongues tasting, my senses awash with him.

  There may have been words softly murmured in my ear, or sounds from throats drowning in new emotions, but I cannot remember them. It was scents I remember: the smell of human sweat, of garden toil, of soil, and grass, and open air. The scent of honeysuckle wafting in through open windows. A scent I could not identify, but which reminded me of ancient bark crushed between my fingers.

  Then as our joining progressed, it was not scents I recall, but colours bursting upon my mind: greens and deep browns, oranges, reds, and paler greens. I’d seen colours before at the height of passion, but never such as these, such depth, such texture, exploding into sight like soundless fireworks drenching me with feelings, turning my body into rays of light dancing around the room and disappearing into the heavens above.

  As I lay within his arms, purring my gratitude, he bent his head to drop soft kisses once more upon my skin.

  Is this enough for you?” he asked, his lips against my fingertips, “or would you have more?”

  My eyelids flickered open and I saw him watching me.

  Is there more?” I could not think of anything to delight my senses as much as what he had already given me.

  Artur nodded, his eyes half closed as his fingers stroked my skin. There was no part of me he did not know.

  Will you trust me?” he asked.

  I could tell it was no ordinary question. This was my turning point. If I agreed, I could not turn back. If I denied him, there would be no second chance. It was my choice.

  I trust you.”

  My words hung in the air for long seconds. Artur stood up, holding out his hand to me. I put my palm in his, feeling small and insignificant within his strong grasp.

  He led me out of the house into moonlit fields. We walked through growing grass, through sleeping flocks of sheep, beside a family of deer, all without disturbance. My feet felt no moisture from the dew, no stones, no thistles, no nettle stings, yet I knew they were there, hidden within the grasses.

  Down the hill we went until we reached the small grove of trees beside the spring. I could hear water dancing into the brook, following its ancient path towards the valley stream.

  Once more, Artur took me in his arms. This time it was his tongue which explored me, searching into every crevice, every hidden, secret place. Wherever his tongue touched, a stem of ivy grew, weaving its way inside me until I was covered in green leaves and dappled shoots.

  Embrace me!”

  With my last vestiges of human strength, I flung myself around Artur’s body, feeling his soft, warm skin slowly transform into the cold, gnarled hardness of an ancient hawthorn tree. Strong, ivy roots burrowed into the ground at the base of his trunk, peripheral roots clinging to his bark and eventually forcing their way inside. He and I were joined in a way I would never have imagined possible.

  It was spring. I was aware of days growing longer.

  Winds blew around us with a promise of warmth, their power diminishing. We basked in the sun’s strengthening rays. I sensed new, juvenile leaves with their characteristic palmshapes unfurling along the length of my climbing stems, turning their bright green surface towards the sun.

  These new leaves shone with youthful vibrancy while more ma
ture leaves grew a new shape, losing their lobes and thickening, forming a huge green mat which hung from the hawthorn tree’s branches. I knew there was no need to worry about predators. Nothing came to eat my leaves or gnaw on my branches. I could feel the poisons in my leaves forming a wall of protection around me. I was safe. Nothing could move me from my chosen place.

  I noticed fresh green leaves of the hawthorn growing amongst my own. I felt how the tree leaned over, burdened by my weight as well as his. Soon the air was filled with the sweet scent of his pink tinged blossom, white petals blazoned across the coolness of his shade, deep red stamens jutting out to brush their pollen against any visiting bumblebees.

  I breathed through each leaf surface; oxygen from the air entering my cells as waste carbon dioxide diffused outwards.

  In every green surface the alternate process continued—photosynthesis, the great gathering of carbon dioxide and water using the sun’s rays to transform the elements into simple sugars, releasing oxygen back into the atmosphere.

  I felt sugars being transported along my xylem and phloem, to be stored in each cell and used to feed upon as need arose.

  The year continued to turn. As his blossoms faded, so did each seed begin to swell on the edge of every slender stem. Elder trees near us produced huge, white flowering beacons amongst their green leaves while wild roses bore delicate pink petals amongst their thorns. We all basked in summer heat, as seeds swelled and grew to maturity.

  In fields nearby, grasses and flowering plants shed their seeds, long stems mown and laid to dry in the heat. Machines and people came to bind the hay together, carrying it away to feed animals in leaner times. Barley and wheat ripened to a glittering gold, their heads drooping as the seeds ripened. Soon they, too, were harvested and taken from the fields, the gold turning to brown with autumn ploughing.

  Daylight shortened now. Around us, berries were beacons of red in the sunshine. Hips and hawes vying to see which could glow a brighter red. Birds came to feed from the hawthorn’s branches, carefully pulling off the berries and eating them until the leaves turned russet, then brown, before dropping onto the earth below, leaving bare twigs around which my ivy stems swirled and gripped more tightly.

  As Earth began to turn away from the sun, other plants withered and died. Now was my time to blossom.

  Green-tinged yellow flowers appeared on my mature branches, opening their umbels to foraging insects, rewarding each one with tiny sips of sugar-rich nectar. I opened my heart to all bees and other insects still flying or crawling around in the shorter autumn days.

  All too soon, bitter wind and rain blew across the hawthorn tree making me shiver in the cold and wet. I would not lose my colour, no matter what strength the sun. During the shortest, days my berries ripened into rich, black balls.

  Once more birds came to feed. I felt their satisfaction as they plucked the berry, dropping it into their gizzard so their tiny crops grew thick and fat with my nourishment.

  It made me smile inwardly to think they were doing my business for me. Once the flesh was ripped from the seed, it would pass through the bird in another place, a new piece of soil. My children would grow and prosper without me. Ivy would continue.

  The world turned again. Rain turned to snow, ice, fog, and back to rain. Fields were ploughed and planted or lay flooded in valleys. Gradually water receded, light extended, and new leaves and shoots began to unfurl once more.

  I knew I had lived as a tree around a tree for a whole turn of the wheel. I knew warmth and cold, movement and stillness, light and dark, richness and scarcity.

  I also knew my presence was killing the hawthorn tree. Slowly, but surely, I covered more of him, my weight forcing him down towards the ground, my leaves covering his so less blossom formed, less berries ripened. He had given himself to me.

  It was the bear’s roars I heard first, echoing around the valley as he ran down the hill towards the trees. I felt his long claws ripping my stems from the tree trunk, pulling my fronds away and off, leaving them hanging in the air. Each slash of his paws severed another link to my roots. If they all went, I would die.

  Time to come back, Clara.” I heard Beren’s voice underneath me, and suddenly I was dropping through the branches into his waiting arms, coughing and gasping as ivy left my lungs and eyes, allowing human senses to return.

  Beren held me close, wrapping my naked body in the coarse weave of his spring cloak. He carried me over to a clearing and set me down by a warm fire, feeding me sips of water and gruel until my strength returned.

  It was a long time before I could use my voice.

  Words had lost their meaning, but one day, I heard the creaking of branches in the wind and began to sing—a haunting sound of leaf and branch, of bud and flower and berry, of tree and root and life and death.

  Beren told me later it was then he knew I would recover.

  No one noticed my absence. It was as if my altered state existed only in my own mind. When I visited the Long Barn, it lay derelict as it always was. A windswept path led from the stable door to the outer doorway into the field. The cherished garden was covered in young trees, their seeds brought in by the wind. Only the stone walls remained. Each entrance was guarded by elder trees, their understory by seed bearing nettles draped in goosegrass—each step rewarded by smarting stings. There was a price to pay for coming here.

  Leaning against the ancient, sun-warmed stones, I felt their strength and shelter against the unexpected storms of life. In gratitude I gathered elderflowers and rose petals to drench myself in their scent—a constant reminder of my precious learning—knowing nature from the inside out.

  Where bramble began my story, so wild rose brings it to a close. Both plants travel where they will, no matter what lies in their path. Both protect themselves with thorns to stab and rip the unwary passerby, but I have no need of such violence.

  In the joy of the wildwood, my journey continues.

  About the Author

  Sarah J Head is an accomplished writer and herbalist specializing in fantasy tales set in the heart of English countryside. Spending over twenty summers in Cornwall visiting ancient sites, has given her a deep understanding of myths and legends from long ago. Brought up in the Cotswolds on a small arable farm, educated in Warwick and Birmingham, Sarah now goes all over England telling stories which help people to cope with various life events. She writes novels, short stories, poetry and articles which reflect her experiences and opinions. Sarah has travelled widely, living in New Zealand, California and Canada, but always returns to her Warwickshire roots, where her family has lived for the past 600 years.

  Visit her on the web at:

  http://mercianmuse.blogspot.com

  Also available by Sarah at loveyoudivine:

  The Strongest Magick

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