The Emerald Swan

by Jane Feather

  Henry drew her down on­to a sto­ne bench, pul­ling her on­to his lap with hands both ro­ugh and yet cu­ri­o­usly ten­der. Ma­ude nuz­zled his be­ard, in­ha­ling the earthy scent of his ha­ir and skin. She tho­ught of Mi­ran­da-Mi­ran­da who knew all abo­ut this bu­si­ness of lo­ving and cle­arly fo­und it go­od. With a lit­tle sigh, she yi­el­ded to aro­usal, mo­ving her body aga­inst Henry's, awa­re of the hard rid­ge of flesh gro­wing be­ne­ath her thighs, awa­re of the he­at of his skin, the ur­gency of his to­uch, as his hands slip­ped in­si­de her bo­di­ce. Her bre­asts tin­g­led with de­light at the ca­ress of his warm palms, her nip­ples har­de­ning be­ne­ath his fin­gers. Ma­ude's last co­he­rent tho­ught was that her sis­ter had be­en ke­eping the­se de­lights to her­self for all too long, Henry ma­de a va­li­ant ef­fort to re­in him­self in, but Ma­ude's pas­si­ona­te res­pon­se was too much for con­t­rol. She fit­ted her body to his as easily and re­adily as if it was me­ant to be, thrus­ting asi­de her skirts with ca­re­less has­te. Amid the he­ated tan­g­le of limbs and skirts and pet­ti­co­ats the­ir bo­di­es fu­sed and Ma­ude's ini­ti­al cry was mo­re of sur­p­ri­se than pa­in. Ne­it­her of them no­ti­ced when the clasp on the ser­pen­ti­ne bra­ce­let bro­ke open, as Ma­ude ro­se and fell with the won­d­ro­us rhythm of lo­ving.

  "Do you think Henry knows?" Mi­ran­da as­ked as her sis­ter was bor­ne off by the king of Fran­ce to­ward the sec­lu­si­on of the ar­bor.

  "May­be," Ga­reth rep­li­ed. "But at the mo­ment, I co­uldn't gi­ve a damn. Co­me, we're go­ing ho­me."

  "J­ust le­aving, mi­lord!" Mi­ran­da ex­c­la­imed in mock hor­ror. "Just li­ke that!"

  "J­ust li­ke that," Ga­reth sa­id firmly. "We'll ta­ke a wherry and le­ave-the bar­ge for the ot­hers."

  "But what of Chip? He's wa­iting in the bar­ge."

  "You don't re­al­ly be­li­eve he won't find us?" Ga­reth's eyeb­rows ro­se in mock as­to­nis­h­ment. "As it hap­pens, I'm per­fectly re­sig­ned to his com­pany." He to­ok her hand and ta­king a le­af from Henry's bo­ok be­gan to walk swiftly to­ward the ri­ver.

  "For­tu­na­tely, Chip se­ems per­fectly re­sig­ned to you, mi­lord," Mi­ran­da sa­id swe­etly, han­ging back with a mis­c­hi­evo­us gle­am in her eye.

  "Oh, be­li­eve me, I'm awa­re of how for­tu­na­te that is. Now, march! I grow im­pa­ti­ent." Mi­ran­da chuc­k­led and mar­c­hed.

  A shaft of mo­on­light pi­er­cing the in­ter­wo­ven le­aves of the an­ci­ent oak in the now-de­ser­ted ar­bor ca­ught the glow of pe­arl, the glit­ter of gold, the lus­ter of eme­rald, amid the oak's moss-en­c­rus­ted ro­ots.

  In the Be­gin­ning…

  The al­c­he­mist wat­c­hed the li­qu­efi­ed gold swirl li­ke mer­cury in the flat iron skil­let. He til­ted the pan over the fla­mes of the he­arth and the pre­ci­o­us me­tal rol­led in on it­self to form a tu­be. He drew the pan off the fi­re and plun­ged it in­to the tub of wa­ter be­si­de his sto­ol. The wa­ter his­sed and bo­iled as if it wo­uld spit out the thing that it had en­gul­fed. When the al­c­he­mist ra­ised the pan the gold was so­li­dif­ying.

  He to­ok the pan to the tab­le and drop­ped the gold on­to its sur­fa­ce. A ray of sun­light fell thro­ugh the chim­ney ho­le in the ro­of of the wat­tle-and-da­ub hut and the gold glit­te­red. The al­c­he­mist to­ok up his to­ols: the fi­ne ne­ed­le, sharp as a dag­ger po­int, the flat fi­le. He be­gan to sha­pe the gold, using his fin­gers to be­gin with, and the ser­pen­ti­ne co­ils ap­pe­ared in ro­ugh form. Then with ne­ed­le and fi­le he cre­ated the ser­pent. Wit­hin each si­nu­o­us cur­ve he em­bed­ded a pe­arl and the li­ving gold, "to­ok the gem in­to it­self, har­de­ning aro­und it, en­c­lo­sing it with its sha­pe.

  The ser­pent's he­ad, its mo­uth, to­ok form be­ne­ath the al­c­he­mist's to­ols. He wor­ked deftly but qu­ickly, be­fo­re the gold co­uld har­den. And when the he­ad was for­med to his sa­tis­fac­ti­on, he to­ok the one pe­arl that was left… a gre­at, glo­wing, tran­s­lu­cent, li­ving gem… and in­ser­ted it in­to the ser­pent's mo­uth.

  Then the al­c­he­mist sur­ve­yed his work. Day had gi­ven way to night and the light of the eve­ning star now fil­led the chim­ney ho­le. He held the bra­ce­let in the palm of his hand. It was a gift of lo­ve. A gift worthy of Eve. A gift to bind a wo­man for eter­nity.

  So en­rap­tu­red was he, he didn't he­ar the sho­uts from be­yond the hut, the scre­ams from the be­ach. He was awa­re of not­hing un­til the first bur­ning brands we­re thrown thro­ugh the do­or­way. He ran from the con­f­lag­ra­ti­on. The Nor­se­men sur­ro­un­ded the vil­la­ge, the­ir lon­g­bo­ats pul­led up on the sand. Fla­mes le­aped in­to the sky. The scre­ams of wo­men, the we­eping of ba­bi­es, the mo­ans of the dying, fil­led his ears be­fo­re the ax bro­ught his own de­ath.

  The Nor­se­men left the vil­la­ge at day­b­re­ak, ta­king with them the spo­ils of the­ir ra­id. Wo­men, a few chil­d­ren, what ma­te­ri­al go­ods they had fo­und in this iso­la­ted vil­la­ge in An­g­lia. As they ro­wed away from de­vas­ta­ti­on, the fla­mes sub­si­ded, the vil­la­ge smol­de­red. Not­hing li­ved in the as­hes but the dull glim­mer of gold, the glow of pe­arl.

  The ser­pen­ti­ne bra­ce­let emer­ged un­to­uc­hed from the fla­mes of des­t­ruc­ti­on.

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  19/06/2008