The Green Lady and the King of Shadows

by Moyra Caldecott

  And then he felt he could bear the intensity of such a vision no longer and he leapt to his feet, looking around himself, hoping to see everything returned to what he had come to believe was ‘reality’.

  ‘I am Lukas!’ he shouted, thumping his fist on his chest. ‘And,’ stamping his foot, ‘this is the earth!’

  Something moved to the left and he spun round to find, to his embarrassment, that he was not alone. Behind him on the Tor stood a stranger, a tall man, taller than any he had ever seen before. Around him a black cloak floated like a mist. His gaze was penetrating and sardonic. His stance majestic.

  ‘So you are Lukas?’ he said with perceptible amusement. ‘And this,’ he said pointing downwards, ‘is the earth?’

  Lukas reddened.

  The man threw back his head and laughed. There was no mirth in the sound and Lukas felt no answering levity rising in himself. He shifted from foot to foot, wondering if he dare leave.

  Was that thunder he heard in the distance?

  He looked round to try to gauge how quickly he could get to the shelter of the trees and be out of sight, if the man decided to follow him.

  He took a step back and the man, still looking into his eyes, took a step forward.

  Lukas, remembering what he had been told about demons on the Tor, turned and fled, falling and sliding and slithering down the long slope to the forest. He forgot the spiral path, and broke his way through its ancient patterning, straight and sore to the base of the mount, and to the hermit’s hut.

  The red-bearded man was a stranger too, and yet Lukas felt him to be a friend. To his relief the small, stocky figure was working on his woodpile, swinging the axe as though he were a warrior in battle. He looked up at once when he heard Lukas call and stared at him in some surprise, slowly straightening his back.

  Breathlessly Lukas told him he had been to the top of the Tor. It seemed he need say no more. The hermit fetched a low stool from inside the hut and indicated that Lukas should sit. He then brought a pitcher of water, which to Lukas’ relief, he did not throw at him, but held carefully for him so that he could drink.

  Lukas was flushed and sweating, his legs and arms badly scratched from the forest thorns and twigs. He drank gratefully and when he had done the man brought a cloth and dipped it in the water so that he could wipe the blood and dirt from his cuts and scratches.

  ‘You saw something on the Tor?’ the man asked with more than ordinary interest, watching him carefully.

  ‘I saw someone,’ Lukas replied.

  ‘Who?’

  Lukas shook his head.

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Tall and dark and thin. He . . .’ Lukas paused. How little his description fitted the man!

  ‘He . . . what?’

  ‘He did nothing. But I felt afraid of him. I ran away. It seems foolish now.’

  ‘No, it was not foolish,’ the hermit said grimly. ‘You did the best thing. You were not ready for the encounter.’

  ‘Who was he?’ Lukas, now no longer afraid, was very curious.

  The hermit did not reply, but seemed to be deep in thought. Lukas waited for what seemed a long time and then could keep silent no longer.

  ‘What is his name?’ he demanded.

  The hermit looked at him, annoyed. ‘His name is of no importance,’ he said sharply. ‘You don’t ask me my name, and yet you ask me his?’

  ‘What is your name?’ Lukas said hastily. The man pursed his lips as though in two minds whether to reply or not.

  ‘My enemies call me “old firebrand”,’ he said at last. Lukas laughed outright, the name was so appropriate. And then he straightened his face.

  ‘Why do they call you that?’

  ‘Because I can’t abide fools,’ the hermit snapped, ‘and my fists have spoken for me on occasions when I ought to have used words.’

  Lukas could believe it.

  ‘What then do your friends call you?’

  ‘Collen,’ replied the hermit.

  ‘May I call you Collen?’

  ‘Brother Collen.’

  ‘Brother Collen,’ Lukas said politely. ‘Will you tell me the name of the man on the Tor?’

  ‘No,’ replied Collen.

  Lukas looked at the short, elderly man with the untidy red hair and the shaggy eyebrows which seemed to point in different directions. His eyes were small as hazel nuts and as bright as polished bronze. He could not help but like the man. He trusted him. If he would not tell him the name of the stranger on the Tor he must have good reason. He wondered if he should mention the woman in the tunnel, but he still could not bring himself to do so.

  ‘If I know the Brothers, they will be looking for you by now, and mighty annoyed not to find you. You must go,’ Collen said firmly.

  ‘May I come back?’ Lukas asked.

  ‘Would it stop you if I said “no”?’

  Lukas laughed. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Collen, ‘be off with you!’

  Lukas hurried off, but when he reached the turn of the path and he knew that he would not see the hut again that day, he swung round to wave. Brother Collen had the three legged stool in his hand and waved it at him.

  Lukas smiled. He had a warm feeling in his heart where before there had been a cold and frightened one. Collen was of the world to which he was accustomed.

  * * * *

  The Brothers were looking for him but not with the anger he expected. As soon as he appeared in the kitchen Brother Peter took him by the arm and led him out again, his face more troubled than angry. Lukas’ mind raced to think of an excuse for his long absence and had decided to tell him about his visit to the hermit, though not about his climbing the Tor, when he realized that Brother Peter was not accusing him of anything and not asking for an excuse.

  ‘What is it?’ Lukas asked, suddenly alarmed. They were moving towards the infirmary and Brother Peter’s face was anxious and sorrowful. ‘Matthew!’ thought Lukas. He was ashamed that he had been so obsessed with climbing the Tor that he had completely forgotten how ill Matthew was. It is true the monks had said that he could not have visitors, but Lukas knew they would have made an exception for him if he had insisted. Sin of omission! he told himself. So that is what that means! Now, it might be too late.

  ‘Matthew is very ill,’ Brother Peter was saying. ‘We think . . . we do not think that he will live much longer.’

  ‘But he is still alive?’

  ‘He has been asking for you continually. We couldn’t find you.’ Brother Peter for the first time shot Lukas a sharp look. Lukas could not have felt more guilty had he been before the Abbot on a charge of mortal sin.

  He put his head down and hurried forward. What could he say? That he was sorry? How inadequate that word seemed.

  * * * *

  The beds in the infirmary were larger than the bunks in the dormitory and Matthew looked very frail, a small hump in the middle of a sea of blankets, his eyes seemingly the biggest things about him. Lukas stood looking down at him and felt a lump come to his throat as he listened to the boy struggling for each rasping breath. But when Matthew opened his eyes it was as though the sight of Lukas transformed him. His whole face lit up.

  ‘What’s this?’ Lukas said gruffly. ‘I hear you have been pestering the brothers for me.’

  Matthew tried to say something, but was too weak. He appeared to be trying to get his hand out from under the bed-clothes. When he finally managed it Lukas could see that he was clutching the little piece of slate that Lukas had forgotten to retrieve since he had first put it under Matthew’s pillow.

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ Brother Andrew who had been in the room when they arrived, said. ‘He has had it in his hand ever since he came here and he won’t let anyone take it from him, nor anyone see it.’

  Lukas put out his hand and Matthew with relief let the little piece of slate go. Lukas looked up at Brother Andrew. Brother Peter was hovering at the door.

  ‘Could we have some
time to ourselves?’ he asked. The two monks instantly withdrew.

  ‘They . . . they’ve been saying all sorts of prayers about death,’ Matthew whispered.

  ‘Well, you can’t die yet,’ said Lukas firmly. ‘I need you.’

  ‘Need me?’ sighed Matthew and smiled such a beautiful proud smile that Lukas cursed himself for all the time he had wasted in not taking the boy into his confidence.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All sorts of strange things have been happening to me . . .’

  ‘I thought so,’ breathed Matthew. He looked at the piece of slate now in Lukas’ hand. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It means I have found a tunnel that goes right under the Tor. I didn’t want anyone else to know about it, but when I was going to explore it I thought I’d better leave a message where I’d be — in case — in case I didn’t return.’

  Matthew was listening eagerly. He was already beginning to look better. ‘I thought it was the orchard!’

  ‘The tunnel comes out in the forest almost on the side of the Tor through a hermit’s hut.’

  Matthew was hanging on his every word. Lukas sat on the edge of his bed and began to pour out everything that had happened — even his strange dreams. The sick boy took on new life as he listened. When Brother Andrew looked in a while later he was astonished to see how much better Matthew looked. He came in and stood beside Lukas.

  ‘We must not tire him . . .’

  ‘O, I’m not tired!’ cried Matthew, but the effort of saying that started him coughing again.

  Lukas stood up. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘You have to rest and get better.’

  ‘You’ll . . . cough . . . come back . . . cough . . . and tell . . .’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come back . . . and when you’re better I’ll take you to see Brother Collen.’

  Brother Andrew looked at him quickly at that, but said nothing. Later Lukas was called before the three Brothers, Peter, Owen and Andrew, and questioned about Brother Collen. Lukas told as much as he had told the Abbot. The three monks looked at each other.

  ‘It is indeed providential that you should have met him Lukas. He is known to have performed several healing miracles for our Lord.’

  Lukas was astonished. Brother Collen did not look like a saint, and as far as Lukas knew, only saints performed miracles. But if there was any chance of making Matthew better they must certainly take it. Brother Peter asked him if he would fetch the hermit in the morning.

  ‘Of course, but . . .’ Lukas paused. He was puzzled as to why they had not called on Brother Collen themselves for Matthew, and indeed why he had never heard any of them ever mention him before.

  ‘It is a long story Lukas,’ said Brother Peter reading his expression. ‘And it is not altogether a happy one. One day we will explain, but for the moment it would be better if you were the one who asked him to come to Matthew. But go now. Eat your supper. Pray for young Matthew. Sleep.’

  * * * *

  Lukas left, ate his supper, prayed for young Matthew and prepared himself for sleep.

  The dream he had that night had the same potent visionary quality that the others had had, but this time he was not in the tunnel, nor the cavern where the woman lay, nor the mysterious land beyond the crystal trees.

  He walked again the long and winding path that spiralled round the Tor. But this time the ridges seemed more definite, built up like walls of earth. They were not very high, but high enough to prevent his crossing over from one path to the other as easily as he had done the previous day.

  It did not seem strange to him that he now knew that the spiral had seven turns. In fact, every moment things were becoming more and more familiar to him as though he had been to this place under these conditions often before.

  He was part of a procession climbing the Tor along the special path. In his hand he held a bare branch. The forest trees around him were equally un-leafed.

  As the head of the procession turned to disappear behind the hill he saw that the young woman of his vision was leading it. Behind her flowed a cloak of shimmering green. Upon her head was a ring of silver. In her hand she also carried a branch.

  He wanted to hurry, to catch up with her, and to speak with her, but he could not. He was held back by a sense of awe, by a sense of what was fitting and what was not.

  He looked round for Brother Collen and the nameless man he had seen upon the Tor, wondering if they would be somewhere in the procession. But there was no sign of them. All were strangers and yet . . . and yet . . . he felt he knew them all.

  As he came to the last turn of the path before the summit he looked up and could see that the head of the column had already reached it. He could not see the young woman, as the people were forming a circle around the edges of the flat top of the Tor. He could just make out her bough held high as though she were standing in the centre of the circle.

  A heron winged slowly over him, a messenger from other worlds.

  Suddenly he seemed to remember, to know something about himself that made him gasp. He was not only Lukas who lived in the monastery, scrubbed pots and sang in the choir, he was someone else, someone with a strange name, Gwythyr, son of Greidyawl, and he had lived long, long ago, and in that other life he had been chosen to represent the Sun in ritual marriage with the Earth.

  All around him now the people were drawing aside and urging him to move forward. All eyes were upon him, all hands guiding him to the centre of the circle where the girl stood, the girl whose name was Creiddylad, the young and beautiful daughter of Lludd, chosen to represent the Earth.

  Above the Tor the sky arched immensely vast and blue. No cloud darkened the amazing clarity. And in that blue, directly above them, the white disc of the full moon stood like a bride. The bridegroom, the burning Sun, stood beside her.

  Gwythyr seemed to burn with the Sun’s light as he moved forward to stand before Creiddylad.

  Everything fell silent.

  Was it possible no birds sang? No one breathed?

  How — or why — Life came to be was an ancient mystery, but the people he found he was part of in those ancient times knew that it could not happen without the male and the female, the sun and the moon, the spirit and the flesh. But male sky god or female earth goddess were not enough. It was in their union that Life received its impetus.

  The girl began to turn, pivoting slowly on her bare heels, drawing him with her. Those around them began to do the same until, circle within circle, all were turning.

  It was then he felt her touch and a running line of fire seemed to spiral from it, burning the husks and stubble of his old self to clear the field for the new planting. With their limbs entwined they lay upon the earth and it was the pulse of the earth they matched with the rhythm of their love-making. No nectar could have been sweeter to a humming bird than that which flowed between them. A hundred, a thousand people could have been crowding round them but they saw nothing, felt nothing, but the enclosing warmth of each other and the thrill that ran through every part of them.

  The landscape was changing. All the scattered sheets of water were transformed into shimmering whirlpools of light, the marsh lands and reed beds, the dark trees of the forests — all seemed to have become spirals of energy. The slopes of the Tor were covered with white flowers like a bridal veil. Buds were visibly unfolding, branches pushing out new leaves. The young woman’s bough had become white with blossom, emitting a dazzling light that shot out across the country bringing rich abundance to everything it touched. His own bare branch was covered with fresh green leaves.

  He shivered with the beauty of it all and the sadness that he must at last withdraw from her. With a sigh he shut his eyes to rest them from the intensity of the light.

  When he opened them again, he opened them in the dormitory, and only the shadow of his shining experience was left, the memory of his ancient name already fading. For the rest of the night Lukas tossed and turned, and could not sleep. Red-eyed at dawn, he decided that when he went to Broth
er Collen he would tell him everything about the woman in the tunnel and about his visions. There must be an explanation. These were no ordinary dreams.

  7

  It was a bright day of sunshine and blue sky when Lukas set off to fetch Brother Collen, and he was feeling confident and happy. He believed Brother Collen would be able to help Matthew and it was a relief to have made the decision to share the burden of his secret. He had not been walking for long however when he knew that he had taken a wrong turning: the blackened trunk of a tree that had been struck by lightning and was lying across the rough track had not been there before. He looked at the weathered upended roots and knew that they had been exposed to the air for a long, long time.

  He felt suddenly cold, and when he looked up he found the sky was no longer blue. A chill breeze began to stir among the leaves.

  Annoyed with himself for his carelessness, he turned and tried to retrace his steps. It was not as easy as he thought it would be and he cursed himself for spending the time composing speeches in his head to make to Brother Collen when he should have been concentrating on finding his way. The track he was on twisted and turned torturously, branched frequently and gave him no clues as to which way to go.