The Hanged Man: Part 3: Samhain
Post #16: In which we meet a peddler and hear a story ...
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CHAPTER 8
Some weeks later Morfran looked for a place to spend the night. It had been a beautiful day and he’d come many miles. He was hungry and footsore. He came to a crossroad just at dusk. For a mile or so he’d been smelling wood smoke and thought perhaps he’d find company for the night. There at the crossroad stood a gaily painted wooden cart. A horse grazed peacefully and a man sat at his ease in front of a fire burning in a ring of stones.
As Morfran drew near the man sprang to his feet in a lithe movement and called out, “Come friend! Share my fire for the night!”
Morfran saw a dark-haired man wearing a long cloak, well past youth but with a lean, strong, graceful body. The cloak was decorated in swirling, flowing patterns like water. Raising its head, the horse pricked his ears, snorted and trotted to Morfran, inspecting him carefully, and then blowing a gusty warm breath down his collar. Morfran laughed and clapped it on a well-muscled chestnut shoulder.
“His name’s Gideon.”
“Gideon,” said Morfran, and then, “Thank you. I will, gladly.”
Gratefully, Morfran set down his bundle. He unstrapped his blankets and spread them in the rough grass by the fire, took from his pack a loaf of bread he’d bought that morning, a round of cheese and a skin of water.
“And I snared a rabbit!” said the peddler. “We’ll make a good meal together!”
Morfran made his way down to a stream for a cursory wash to take the road dust from his face and hands. He found oyster mushrooms growing on a willow trunk and gathered some to go with the rabbit. The first stars were coming out, and by the last daylight he gathered an armful of brush for the fire. The smell of roasting rabbit made his stomach rumble. The peddler cut up the cheese and Morfran tore a piece from the loaf, took a chunk of cheese and began to eat.
The peddler was called Dar. He was easy company, quiet but cheerful and friendly. Together they ate and drank, and for a time Morfran thought of nothing but the good food in front of him.
Dar made a tidy handful of rabbit bones and tossed them into a bush. He put more wood on the fire and rummaged in the cart for a couple of large potatoes, which he put in the coals to roast, and a handful of unfamiliar dried fruit.
“Figs and dates,” said the peddler, “from the East.”
They were sweetly sticky and delicious. Morfran eased off his boots, leaned against his bundle and felt warm, full of food and ready for talk.
“Thank you,” he said to the peddler, meaning thank you for the warm welcome, the meal and the restful companionship.
Dar laughed. “You’re welcome, friend! You were ready for a rest and a bite and I wanted a companion. Will you tell me something about yourself?”
Morfran knew food, drink, shelter and fire may be shared upon the road but the true coin of fellowship consisted of offering oneself. He found this exchange a joy and a delight. He felt enriched by other lives and experiences brushing against his and also found he drew closer and closer to himself. He often thought about Juliana’s story. He too received gifts from nearly everyone he met; gifts that helped him discover himself. If that was true, he reasoned, he himself gave gifts to others in the same way.
Once again, he told the story of Bala Lake, Creirwy’s death and the purpose of his journey. Dar proved a good listener, asking a question from time to time but mostly silent and receptive, watching Morfran in the firelight. Morfran suspected he’d be able to repeat everything he’d heard. When Morfran fell silent Dar neither commiserated nor remarked directly.
“Bala Lake,” he mused. “I’ll look out for this place. I’d like to see it. You’ve told your story with honesty and passion. I thank you for it. Now I’ll tell you a story. But first, some music!”
He brought from the cart a folded piece of black velvet and unwrapped a length of ivory or bone, pierced with holes, banded with silver and inlaid with glinting gems. He polished it lovingly with the velvet and put it to his lips.
Morfran shut his eyes. The fire’s warmth pushed gently against him. The piping seemed to retell his story in music. He saw Bald Tegid and Ceridwen and Creirwy’s joyous smile. He swam as a fish in Bala Lake, smooth, cold, graceful, the water dark and mysterious. He flew as a crow in blue air with sun warm on his black feathers, circling and floating above his home. He fished. He knelt in the garden with Ceridwen beside him. He stirred the cauldron, waiting for the day when the brew would be finished. He held the newly-born baby Ceridwen had pushed into the world, looking down at the red, wrinkled child, covered with birth slime, a radiant white light around his head. He felt tears in his throat, behind his eyelids. He thought of Juliana and let them fall down his cheeks, opening his eyes and finding the fire an orange blur. It made him think of the feather he carried with him from under Creirwy’s body. The notes died away. Morfran found himself on his feet, cheeks wet in cool night air, the fire’s warmth against his legs. He felt cold and vulnerable. He looked down at Dar.
“You’ve looked into my heart and found it all.”
“No,” said Dar. “You’ve spoken your truth and I’ve heard, that’s all.”
“Who are you?” asked Morfran.
Dar smiled. “I’m a traveler, like you. I talk to people. Sometimes I learn and sometimes I teach. I collect stories and give them where they’re needed.”
“You’re more than a peddler.”
“Yes, perhaps. I’m in search of authentic experience. Sometimes I meet someone like you, someone who reaches for truth and its expression. But more often people hide from truth. They refuse it, reject it or deny it, even in the privacy of their own thoughts.
“Why do we do that?” asked Morfran, thinking of both the little sparrow and Juliana.
“We? So, you understand this is a human thing we all fall into? Then you probably can answer that question yourself. We do it to protect ourselves or someone else from pain, don’t we? Or because we’re taught our experience is wrong or shameful. Or because we’re too proud to admit our faults.”
“But if we deny ourselves we never know who we are.”
“Yes,” said the peddler. “Denial is always destructive. That’s why I set my face against it. I do what I can to bring real experience into light.” He put his pipe to his lips and played a merry melody for a few moments. “Not everyone is delighted with my efforts, let me tell you!”
They laughed, the twisted, lean, dark young man with his serious grey far-seeing eyes and the peddler, also dark, face lined with weather and years and laughter. They might have been brothers. Morfran sat down, pulling the blanket around himself.
Dar lifted a potato out of the embers with his knife blade and Morfran accepted it on a fold of his blanket. Its warmth comforted.
“Here’s a tale I heard from a place of deep forest. People there speak of creatures of magic and power that spring from the dark hearts of the trees. They say in the fall of the year the Elf King rides, looking for playmates for his daughters. They call him the Erlkonig…
“The man looked up at the sky’s last light as the horse entered the forest shadows. He held the child, warmly wrapped, close in front of him. They’d stayed too late in town. He’d lingered too long against the friendly bar while the child played with a kitten in front of the fire. Now the way home through dark woods seemed long and night air struck chill. He turned up his collar and pulled his hat low, urging the horse on.
The child stayed silent but alert. The horse's ears pricked as though listening.
‘Father,’ the child said after a time, ‘Father, something follows!’
‘Nonsense, my son! Night falls and the forest is quiet. Soon we’ll be home with your mother. You’ll tell her about the kitten, eh?’ The child quieted but sat tense in the circle of his father's arm. They rode on.
‘Father, don’t you feel it? Something draws nearer!’
‘No, no, child. You must learn to control your imagination. Animals live in the forest, you know, and owls in the treetops. Nothing else is there.’
Once again, the child quieted, but as he turned his head his father saw his eyes gleam in the dark. The horse snorted, tossing its head, and the man gripped it more tightly with his legs. Wind rose from a murmur in the treetops to a breeze.
‘Father, look! There, between the trees! It shines like a pale light! Look! It’s a man on a horse with a crown on his head and a train behind him!’
‘That's enough, my son! You’re fanciful. There’s no one abroad tonight but ourselves. You see a wisp of fog. I tell you, all is well! Don’t you trust me?’
The child knew what he saw and was afraid, but knew his fear displeased his father. Once again, he fell silent and the horse picked its way down the dark path. Wind stirred the trees.
The horse suddenly shied violently to one side and began to tremble.
‘Father, he rides beside us! I see him so clear!’
The father tightened the reins and cursed softly. ‘Be quiet, child! See how you frighten the horse? Be calm! Be a little man! A man must give up these silly fears and fantasies! Lean against me and go to sleep!’
But the child heard another voice now, a thin voice, like a slim sharp blade in the dark. ‘Come, child, come away with me! My daughters sent me to bring them a new playmate. Come ride with the Erlkonig and you’ll possess everything you want, kittens and toys and sweetmeats. My daughters will sing to you, and dance, and tell you stories and rock you to sleep. You’ll be safe and never fear again. All will be easy and forgetful.’
‘Father, don’t you hear him speak to me? He’s the Erlkonig! He wants to take me away!’
The horse sweated and breathed hard. The father felt its desire to break into a panicked gallop. He held it in tightly.
‘Hush, child, hush! There’s no such thing as the Erlkonig! You hear branches rubbing together in the breeze and leaves whispering to one another …’
The horse let out a neigh like a scream and bolted. The father leaned over the horse's neck, clinging with all the strength in his legs and working his hands into the horse's mane. The child sheltered beneath him from whipping branches. The horse ran through the dark withered woods.
The child sobbed, ‘Father, Father, he’s reaching for me! Father, his hand is on me! Father, help me!’
‘No, he is not! No, he is not!’ The father gasped.
The horse broke out of trees into a field of stubble. Stars shone overhead. Lights burned in farmhouse windows. The horse came to a stop in the yard, head hanging in exhaustion and trembling. The man loosened his grip on the mane, ashamed of his shaking hands. His legs ached fiercely as he relaxed them. The child stayed silent in his warm wrappings. The door opened and the child's mother appeared with a lantern held high. A man came from an outbuilding and caught the reins, exclaiming in dismay at the horse’s exhausted condition. The man's wife welcomed him and he passed her the heavy burden of the child. ‘He fell asleep as we came through the forest, it was so quiet and dark.’
The man led the horse away, lame now on one leg. Warm light spilled out the open door. A smell of soup and new bread came to them. They were home.
The child's mother laid him on his bed and gently unwrapped the woolen shawl. His face appeared, stark and pale, set in a grimace of terror. The child was gone. The Erlkonig had stolen him away.”
They sat quietly for a few moments. Morfran added wood to the fire. The potato cooled, and he sliced into it with his knife.
“The child knew the truth,” he said.
“The father knew the truth,” said Dar. “But he wouldn’t admit it. The child knew the truth and spoke it. The horse knew the truth and tried to save them. But some essential part of the father had already been stolen—no one saved him, either, you see—and so he couldn’t respond, though he himself was a victim of the same danger.”
“I was lucky,” Morfran said, as though to himself.
Dar caught his meaning. “Yes,” he said. “You were. Ceridwen and Bald Tegid sound like people who live in truth. You were never told your experience or perception was wrong?”
“No,” said Morfran. “They always taught us to trust our experience, even if we couldn’t understand it. Especially when we couldn’t understand it!”
“Most children don’t learn that.” said the peddler. “Children want to please. It’s easy to silence a child. For a while they still know what they know, but if they can’t speak of it, after a time they too begin to deny what they feel. And so it goes.”
Noola rose, a thin slice. Morfran felt suddenly tired, yet reluctant to leave his talk with the peddler.
“I’m ready for sleep but I want to talk more with you,” he said.
Dar looked at him across the fire and smiled. “All ways are the same to me,” he said. “Shall I choose your way for a time, then?”
“I’d like that,” replied Morfran and his own rare smile warmed his face.
(This post was published with this essay.)