The Hanged Man: Part 3: Samhain
Post #13: In which a youth embarks on manhood ...
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Creirwy hadn’t been expected back for three days, so it wasn’t until five days later that Morfran found her body. He was alone. He and Ceridwen had searched from the air for two days for some sign of Creirwy. Ceridwen wheeled away in the shape of a sharp-sighted hawk while he, in his favorite crow shape, flew low over the hills. The gleam of her hair revealed her. The golden color didn’t belong to autumn’s duns and heathers.
She lay in a hollow in a fold of hills. A nearby ring of stones on blackened earth showed signs of recent fire. She lay in a ring of poisonous false parasol mushrooms, easily recognizable by their flattened whitish caps and brown scales. Her clothing was thrown aside and her skin was dry and leathery, intact but empty, it seemed, of anything but bone. Animals and birds had not disturbed it. He stood looking down at her, feeling nothing. His face was cold.
Disconnected thoughts drifted in his mind like an old tattered cobweb in an air current. He couldn’t look away from the thing on the ground. It wasn’t Creirwy. It couldn’t be Creirwy. Creirwy was life, and the shape lying in the bracken was without life. Where had she gone, then? Was this cast-off remnant a joke, or a trick? It was cruel. Who had defiled the familiar hills of his home with such a twisted ruse? He had a dislocating sense of sinister and unfamiliar influences at work in the world.
Evil. His mind lingered on the word. It reminded him of something recently seen, recently discovered.
He tore his eyes away from the body and raised them to the surrounding hills, turning slowly on the spot. He began the familiar, comforting ritual of allowing his vision to blur and breathed in the scent of earth and the autumn tapestry of plants. He opened his mind until he could hear the scratch of insect steps, wing beats of birds high above in the sky, the many-voiced wind, the far away silvery song of stars.
Without haste, without effort, he saw the glowing campfire under an enormous starry night sky. Blankets and sheepskins lay on a springy patch of heather. He smelled roasting mutton. He heard laughter, rich, warm. Creirwy’s laugh. A woman’s laugh.
He saw a shadow darker than night, a shadow concealed within flesh and bone and blood. It was made of voracious, lustful hunger salivating and groaning with desire, but not for flesh. It wasn’t akin to the woman’s radiant laughing invitation. No, this was a predator of… something rosy and warm, luscious as a ripe nectarine, glowing in the sun…No! Not life, but light! Light! It craved innocence and light!
The jolt of understanding brought him back, nauseated and sweating, and he fell to his knees next to Creirwy’s body. He knew a fleeting moment of relief that she hadn’t been violated physically, but cold horror at the spiritual violation that had occurred—and it was his fault. He’d known a monster with a blue beard hunted in the hills near Bala Lake, and he’d said nothing. He’d seen the disturbance in Creirwy’s flickering light, but hadn’t been alert enough to find out more, to warn his parents, to put the pieces together and discover the truth.
Somehow, Creirwy had met this thing, formed a relationship with it, and hidden it from all of them. Somehow, Creirwy had grown up, become a young woman with desires and thoughts and dreams. She’d become a woman with a private life and the power to make choices on her own. And he’d missed it. He, with his clear sight, had failed to see what was right in front of him. In his arrogance, in his self-sufficient mastery, he’d thought of her as nothing but a helpless child, loving and pretty, but not…not…not a whole person like him!
He put his face in his hands and wept.
Her gilt hair moved in the breeze when he picked her up in his arms. She looked like a broken-jointed doll, a leather sack of bones. He found a golden feather where she’d been lying, a beautiful, perfect thing a foot long. He’d never seen or imagined any bird of that color or size. The feather glowed and immediately reminded him of Creirwy herself, not the cast-away bundle of skin and bones in his arms, but Creirwy in life, laughing, loving, vital. He shrank from touching the feather in case it burned his flesh, but it didn’t. It lay in his palm, weightless and shining. Somehow it comforted him and he carefully tucked it inside his shirt against his chest before setting out for Bala Lake with his sister’s body cradled in his arms.
They buried her on the crest of a low hill overlooking the lake. Bald Tegid laid a great flat stone over her grave to protect it. In his mind, Morfran saw the grave covered with herbs and flowers and a tree in a froth of white spring blossom at its head, but that was a sight of the future. Now there was only a flat stone, disturbed earth, heather in its fall foliage and a bleak autumn breeze whispering over the hills and shores of Bala Lake.
As the year withdrew into darkness, so did the family. In years past, winter ushered in a welcome time of rest after the harvest season, when the family gathered before the fire with story and song and talk. Morfran and Bald Tegid mended nets, repaired shoes and tools, unsnarled fishing line, sharpened hooks and knives, whittled and wove baskets from lake reeds. Creirwy and Ceridwen led the singing and games, but Bald Tegid had always been the storyteller, and they fell silent while he spun the magic of his tales. The women mended, darned, knit and sat at loom and spinning wheel during the long evenings.
Now Morfran and Bald Tegid sat silent, hands idle. A light had gone out of the house and their hearts. Morfran couldn’t comfort himself or his parents, and each retreated into a solitary bitter place.
Ceridwen spent hours at her loom, as though the orderliness of warp and weft soothed her. Her hands moved automatically while she hid behind her downcast eyes, withdrawn so far into herself even Morfran couldn’t easily follow. Sometimes he observed her hands falter on the shuttle and tears fell on the cloth. He didn’t know where his own grief began and hers ended. They wove inextricably together like the cloth on the loom.
Morfran hadn’t known grief before. It wasn’t a sharp pain but a dull, heavy feeling clogging his brain and his senses. He’d learned to move lightly between observation, intuition and knowledge, without effort or doubt, secure in connection seen only from the corner of his eye. Ceridwen and Bald Tegid had taught him to trust what he observed and heard and trust in a greater pattern in which everything belonged and made sense, even if beyond his ability to see clearly. This was Morfran’s first experience of looking over his shoulder at the past and knowing—knowing—he’d seen, yet not seen. He’d known, yet not known. He might have been able to intervene, to save her, if he’d only paid more attention. If he’d only connected her radiant joy with the strange feeling that her spirit wavered and the solitary bluebearded walker! He might have gone with her that day and his presence might have changed it all.
He remembered, over and over, watching her walk away, the graceful, joyful way she moved, the beautiful clear day around her. He remembered the knife’s handle in his hand, the smell of lake and fresh caught fish, silver scales, a pile of entrails. And all the time she walked, alone and unprotected, towards her death!
For the first time, it occurred to him seeing clearly was not enough. Making connections and seeing a pattern was not enough. Choosing what to do about what he saw was perhaps the most important thing of all. In the days following Creirwy’s death Morfran felt the loss of his own self-confidence. He rejected his clear sight, tearing at himself, hurting himself with his failure, his ignorance, his inexperience.
Morfran revealed to his foster parents what he knew of the man with the blue beard one evening in front of the fire. Bald Tegid, somber but gentle, told him none might have been able to interfere with Creirwy’s bitter destiny. For good or for ill she’d followed her own path to its end. If she’d felt love for the man with the blue beard, maybe nothing could have saved her. Ceridwen, weeping afresh, agreed, and Morfran took some comfort.
As though Morfran’s revelation bridged their isolation, Ceridwen, face drawn and eyes red rimmed, confessed that she was pregnant, and she believed the child she bore was some form of Gwion. For the first time, she told them what had happened as she chased Gwion away from Bala Lake.
“He turned into a crow, and I chased him as a hawk. I was gaining on him, and he was exhausted. He looked down and spied a pile of wheat in the valley below us. He hurled himself down and changed into a grain of wheat, thinking to hide in the pile. I turned myself into a black hen and scratched and pecked until I found him and swallowed him whole.”
“So, you thought he was gone.” said Morfran.
“Yes. I thought I’d killed him, once and for all, and I was glad at first,” said Ceridwen. “But now I keep remembering him as he was when he came to us, poor child, and that mischievous smile of his. When he took the first three drops of the brew, all I felt was rage and disappointment, but now I think deep forces were at work, and somehow Gwion was meant to drink the brew all along. I wanted to destroy him, but in trying to do so I’ve become a vessel for his rebirth.”
Bald Tegid took her hand. “It makes me feel better,” he said quietly. “It’s as though a new child balances the loss of Creirwy.”
“Perhaps,” said Ceridwen, looking down at their clasped hands. “If I must be a vessel to right my wrong, I’ll be the best one I can, but I can’t keep the child. I’ve consulted guides and oracles, and they’ve seen the child reborn from the sea when his time comes, so after the birth I’ll entrust him to Mother Ocean.”
Winter came, and ice formed on Bala Lake. The family rose in the morning and saw to animals, fire, food, daily chores. Tasks and needs of the household kept them suspended in a routine and directed their steps.
Now and then Bald Tegid departed to hunt for fresh meat. Ceridwen and Morfran sat up one night in the stable and helped their mare bring new life into the world. For a moment, watching the wet little creature try to make use of its impossibly long and spindly legs, Morfran smiled, surprised to feel his face stretch in such an unfamiliar way.
All his life Morfran had dreamed with great richness and clarity while he slept. In his dreams, he shape-shifted into new forms, found insight and guidance. He’d learned to hold a question or problem in his mind while he relaxed into sleep and often woke with new understanding.
During the winter following Creirwy’s death his dreams became more enigmatic, more shadowed and compelling than ever before. He dreamed, again and again, of a magnificent bird clothed in feathers of gold, orange and red. It flew through his darkest dreams like a beam of light, so he felt terror and hope at the same time. It didn’t speak to him or linger, though his dreaming self called after it, imploring for a message or a gesture. He hadn’t shown his parents the feather he’d found under Creirwy’s body, but kept it carefully and spent hours holding it, marveling at its color, running his fingers over it. It could only be from the bird in his dreams, but he didn’t know what it meant. He only knew he connected it with Creirwy’s joy and beauty and some feeling of hope. The bird flying through his dreams must have been near her when she died and he hoped with all his heart this meant she hadn’t died alone while the terrible voracious shadow devoured her.
He thought a great deal about his birth mother. He could form no mental image of her and he longed to know what she’d looked like, the sound of her voice, even just the color of her hair! Ceridwen remembered what she could, but her time with Morfran’s mother was brief and she’d been dying. Her death made a greater impression on Ceridwen than any physical characteristics. That, and Ceridwen’s intuition that she held something back, even in her last days, kept some important part of herself hidden and secret to the end. Ceridwen did remember she’d come from a southern seacoast. It was the only piece of identifying information he possessed.
Winter walked slowly through hills about Bala Lake. Wind blew in snow and then blew it away again. Sometimes the sun shone so that the clear, clean air and snow were blinding. The lake slept under ice. Nights grew longer and longer and then, imperceptibly, began to shorten.
One night, Morfran woke from a dream of the golden bird. In one of its clawed feet it held a key, glowing red, as though set with rubies. He woke suddenly, as though an urgent hand touched him. What happened to the man with the blue beard? In the dullness of grief, he’d thought only of the moments of Creirwy’s murder. Now, for the first time, he thought about the days and weeks and now months afterward. Where had the murderer gone? Where did he come from? And how could Morfran find him? With the question, he realized he intended to find him, to find him and destroy him. Even now, did he hunt another such as Creirwy? And then, he thought to himself, then perhaps I’ll search for my mother’s people. For my family.
At last spring approached, advancing and retreating, advancing and retreating. After a long stretch of weather too harsh to travel in, the household needed supplies, and Morfran volunteered to set out for the nearest village. Ceridwen readied herbs and salves, syrups for coughs, teas and a bundle of loomed cloth. Laden with these and a list of needed supplies, Morfran set out one cold clear day.
He stopped along the way at crofts and farms, exchanging news, providing what he could from his bundles and bags. In exchange for a meal and a warm fireside he helped with chores and animals. Everywhere he traveled he found sorrow for Creirwy’s death. He and his parents hadn’t revealed details and people assumed she’d died of an illness. They were rough spoken but they’d loved her and Morfran received their sympathy gratefully. At each hearth and table he brought up the past summer, knowing strangers were noticed and remarked upon in remote places.
In the village, they were glad to see him. Many spoke with him about Creirwy, remembering with grief her bright smile and laughter, inquiring anxiously how they did at Bala Lake. He emptied out his bags and bundles and then packed them up again with supplies. He drank cider and ale in front of a roaring fire in the inn, surrounded by farmers, shepherds and craftsmen. He casually asked a question or two and then sat listening carefully to the talk, looking into the fire.
On the fourth day, he woke and smelled snow in the wind. It was time to go back to Bala Lake. He packed up and took his leave, settling into his lurching gait that nonetheless ate up the miles. He thought about what he’d learned. Southern mountains! Again and again he’d heard talk of the handsome stranger from the southern mountains. And his mother came from the southern seacoast, too. In the spring, he resolved, I’ll go South.
In early spring, Bald Tegid turned over the ground around Creirwy’s grave and planted a garden, edged with stones and heather. Gradually, he began traveling again, checking on his people and lands, helping repair and build here and there as needed.
Ceridwen gathered supple goatskins and left the loom, sitting in the evenings sewing the skins together with heavy thread and then applying layer on layer of pitch, speaking words of power. A coracle took shape. She and Morfran chose the softest, thickest lamb skins and two rabbit skins, and these she laid out in the gentle spring sunshine to sweeten over lavender and rosemary bushes that were beginning to green back into life.
Morfran told his parents of his plans to leave Bala Lake and travel south in search of both Creirwy’s killer and his family. Somewhat to his surprise, they were supportive, blessing his journey and his need. Their acceptance and love made it all the harder for him to leave, but he knew it was the right thing to do. He’d outgrown his life at Bala Lake.
So Morfran made ready to leave, and watched as Bald Tegid regained zest and some of his healthy color, traveling here and there and coming home with stories and news. Morfran did all he could to lighten Ceridwen’s work, planting the garden, cleaning out the stable, catching and drying a great store of fish, and helping clean and air the house, hanging bedding and rugs on the line and scouring kitchen and storeroom. As soon as the child was born and he knew Ceridwen was safe he’d leave.
The child came one night after a short and easy labor. Bald Tegid and Morfran were with her, and as it was Morfran’s first birth, they taught him how to support the mother and catch the child as it slid into the world. It was a boy. He held the bloody child in his arms with awe. This, then was the beginning. Once, his own mother brought him into life in this same way.
A white light shone around the baby’s head. Neither Ceridwen nor Bald Tegid had ever seen such a thing, but clearly this child was special and Ceridwen played some part in a greater story not yet told.
Ceridwen recovered quickly, suckling the babe and resting while Bald Tegid and Morfran did the work of household and garden and brought her tea and honey, the first cheeses, bread and soup made of fat fish and spring greens. The child throve and Ceridwen was up and around within a week.
One spring day of soft mist she set out alone in the early morning and crossed the hills to the sea, the child wrapped in rabbit skins and a bundle of the coracle, sail and lamb skins under her arm. She returned well after moonrise, the hem of her dress and cloak stiff and damp with saltwater. She kissed Morfran and held him close for a moment, and then went into Bald Tegid’s arms like a child. Murmuring, he steered her into their room, leaving Morfran feeling oddly left out. But he’d seen peace in her face and knew she’d found the strength to do what she thought right.
(This post was published with this essay.)