The Hanged Man: Part 3: Samhain
Post #17: In which strangers become friends ...
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The next morning, they broke camp together. In daylight, Morfran saw letters painted on the side of the cart. “Come and be welcome. Go and be free. Harm shall not enter.” Dar buckled Gideon into the cart shafts. The morning was still cool, the sun just beginning to warm the treetops. Dar’s cloak was a marvelous thing in daylight. It looked black in firelight but in fact was a rich, dark purple. It was sewn with beads and small gems. Morfran saw sinuous embroidered shapes of fish and birds, stars and planets, waves and spirals. On the shoulder of the cloak was sewn a large golden feather. Even in sunlight it seemed to glow. Morfran stared.
“Your cloak…”
“Yes,” said Dar. It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it? It was made for me when I was born.”
Morfran reached for his bundle and found the golden feather he’d found under Creirwy’s body. He silently handed it to the peddler.
“Ah!” Dar ran it through his fingers. “Yes. It’s the same. Where did you get this?”
“It lay under my sister’s body when I picked her up. I dream about a bird with a trailing tail and jeweled wings with feathers like that. Where did that one on your cloak come from?”
“The Firebird…” said the peddler, as though to himself.
“The Firebird?”
“Yes. It’s a creature out of the Northeastern Forest. They say it can lead you to a priceless treasure but none can capture it and few ever see it. Some say it’s only a story, a myth.”
“Then where did the feathers come from?” asked Morfran, smiling.
“I don’t know where mine came from, or how it came to be sewn into my cloak,” said Dar. “I think many stories are sewn into this cloak. Some are mine and some belong to others. I’ve always thought the feather looks odd because it doesn’t go with the rest of the embroidery and decoration. It’s the only golden thing. And why is it placed over the back of my shoulder, as though it dreams of being a wing? How do you think yours came to be under your sister’s body?”
“I don’t know,” said Morfran. “But I wouldn’t be parted from it. It’s somehow like an echo of her spirit. It wants to speak to me but I can’t quite hear…or understand. It comforts me to think something so beautiful was near her when she was murdered. In my dreams, the creature who wears these feathers is beautiful…and joyous.” Morfran tucked it inside his shirt, against his skin, and they spoke no more of it.
That evening Dar emptied a bag of velvet brocade on the dry grass near the fire ring. The contents spilled out, clicking together.
“Marbles!” said Morfran in surprise.
“Our talk of the Firebird’s treasure made me think of them,” said Dar. “I began to carry them for sale, but I got interested and now I enjoy them just for themselves and have my own collection.”
Morfran stirred the marbles with his finger. Some were dull, not quite perfectly round, obviously made of clay. Most were shiny and smooth. He was surprised to find they were different sizes, some as large as a small bird’s egg, others the size of his fingertip, and every variation in between. He picked up a smooth one, tinted light green. A tiny black tree was painted on it, delicate as an eyelash.
“That’s a porcelain from the Far East,” said Dar. “But these are the best. Look at this one.”
Morfran looked into the marble and saw flakes of copper and gold in a sphere of champagne color.
“That’s a Lutz. And here’s an onionskin—see the streaks?”
Fascinated, Morfran looked at one after another, amazed at Dar’s knowledge of the history and language of marbles.
“Do you want to learn a game? There’s picking plums, black snakes, ducks in the pond—“
“Ducks in the pond,” said Morfran.
After that they played frequently when they could contrive a flat surface, Dar astounding Morfran with his skill.
They were happy companions, both of a quiet contemplative nature and content with silence, though each found much of interest in the other and conversation wasn’t difficult. Dar proved an able guide, being familiar with roads and towns all the way to the coast and beyond. The horse made nothing of Morfran’s slight added weight to the cart and he was glad to sit and rest, although at times he walked just for the pleasure of movement.
One warm, sleepy afternoon, as they moved dreamily through miles of farmland and fields, Morfran told Dar about his meeting with the little sparrow called Cassandra and recounted her story.
“She touched me,” said Morfran. “She was so damaged. She seemed to see truth but she also seemed half mad. I couldn’t understand a lot of what she said.”
“The paradox of truth,” said the peddler, “is how simple and at the same time how difficult it can be.”
This made Morfran think of Juliana and he told the story of Waiting Woman. Dar listened with interest and then amusement. He sat in the sun with the reins held loosely in his hands, his face falling into lines of laughter.
“It was you!” Morfran said, realizing. “Now I remember she described your cloak!”
“It was, but I had another name then! Go on, I want to hear how it ended for her!”
Morfran told the rest of the story and a little of his night with her as well. “Yes, I remember her beauty,” said Dar. “I’m glad she decided to stop waiting. She wasted herself. You gave her a great gift.”
“I gave her a gift?” said Morfran, amazed. “She gave to me!”
“You came along, a young, attractive man, and wanted her. You saw her beauty. You desired her and gave her the gift of your desire. That means everything to a woman! Don’t forget—she half believes she’s unlovable because the man she was with failed to value her!”
Morfran thought about this in silence, looking out across a field of high, thick barley, golden in afternoon sun.
They found a place to stop and peacefully went about caring for Gideon and making a fire. Not until they’d eaten and the sky was dark did they exchange words again.
***
The next morning dawned overcast and cool. Morfran walked beside the cart. “Soon,” said Dar, “we part ways. You’ll go east and south and I think I’ll head north and west. I want to see some of the places you’ve told me about. Before that, though, let’s speak of your errands.”
“Well,” said Morfran slowly, “I’d planned to find this man with the blue beard and then try to find out something about my mother. All I really know is they both may have come from the south. As I travel in that direction, I hope there’ll be further guidance of some kind.”
“Do you seek the blue bearded one to kill him?” asked Dar bluntly.
“I suppose I do—or did. But now I’m not so sure.” He frowned, looking down at his feet. “I told myself he must be stopped so others don’t share Creirwy’s fate, but to kill him in anger, for revenge…it won’t bring her back. I feel hatred… and I’m ashamed. I don’t know what to do with it. Will killing him soothe it or merely feed it? Perhaps it’s right he should be killed—a service to the world. If I don’t kill because my hatred seems wrong, perhaps that’s a mistake. But if I kill in hatred, can that be right? I don’t know if I can kill in cold blood.” He looked up into Dar’s face, troubled. “How do we know what’s right?”
“You feel you must go and find him?”
“Oh, yes,” said Morfran, looking ahead. The road wound through an orchard, trees calm and quiet in the grey day. “Yes. I must find him.” His face hardened and for a moment he looked much older.
“Seek him then,” said Dar. “If you find him, perhaps the next thing will be clear to you. But now I’ll tell you another story, unfinished, made of rags and tatters of rumor and gossip.
“A castle stands in the remote high mountains of the south. People say a rich and powerful mystic lives there, a handsome, lusty man in search of a wife. I haven’t spoken to many who’ve seen this man, but talk of him is everywhere. I know a widow with three daughters who lives in the countryside there. I try to travel to them every now and then to ease their isolation for an hour, exchange news, and provide household needs and such small luxuries as women appreciate. This man began to court all three daughters at once.
At first the mother felt pleased, and hoped one of the girls would make a fine marriage. They’re not in strict want but are by no means wealthy, and the man was clearly cultured and possessed great resources. He had a stable of horses and hounds and several times took the whole family out for a day of riding. After a time, however, the mother and two of the daughters began to feel uneasy. Something about this man, the mother said, didn’t seem quite right. His manners were beautiful. He was generous and witty and treated them with respect and kindness, but she was more and more uncomfortable. In sunlight, his black hair looked blue, and sometimes by the end of the day it seemed to her a blue shadow crept across his face in certain kinds of light. She laughed at herself and admitted her imagination ran away with her. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful or speak ill of such a rich and powerful man, but she became less interested in marrying one of her daughters to him. The two older girls also expressed some reluctance. They were unable to be specific about what troubled them, but they began to avoid spending time with him.
The youngest sister, however, was seduced by his charm and wealth and found him quite wonderful. She said her mother was being ridiculous; he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen, and if his hair did look blue in the sun—what of it? It made him even more exotic and special!
In the end, he proposed to the youngest sister. She accepted, feeling she had made a fine match. They married and he took her to live with him in his mountain castle.
One day, not long after the wedding, her sisters received word their brother-in-law had business elsewhere and would be away for a time. They were invited to come and stay with their sister while he traveled so she wouldn’t be lonely.
The sisters gladly accepted, relieved he wouldn’t be there and excited about the prospect of staying in the castle they’d heard so much about.
When the girls arrived, they found their youngest sister in fine spirits and as excited as a child to show them her new home. She told them the servants were theirs to command and they could explore the whole castle, as her husband had entrusted his keys to her in his absence.
The sisters made a game of exploring the castle, which stood four stories high and contained many hundreds of doors. Taking the heavy ring of keys, they found a key for every door and in this way discovered room after room filled with treasure and marvels. After a long time, they worked their way down to the cellar storerooms, exploring each room in turn until they came at last to a corridor that appeared to end in a blank wall.
The young wife looked around a corner and found a small door they hadn’t yet opened. They turned the handle but the door was locked. The only key they hadn’t used was small one with scrollwork on its top. This key the mystic had asked his wife not to use, saying it unlocked the door to a private room he didn’t wish to be disturbed. But her sisters pleaded and cajoled, saying he need never know they’d unlocked the room, and what a shame it would be to see every bit of the castle but this last chamber. Giving in, the youngest sister fit the key with the scrollwork into the lock and opened the door.
The room was so dark nothing could be seen, and smelled of wet iron. One of the sisters lit a candle.
The floor of the room was slippery and slimed with blood. Along one wall hung headless bodies of women, their fine clothes and shoes covered with gore. Heaped in a far corner they found a pile of heads.
They slammed the door shut, turned the key in the lock and fled up the stairs.
The young wife looked down at the key clutched in her hand and saw drops of blood oozing--”
Morfran gave a sudden exclamation. He put a hand on Dar’s arm. “But I’ve dreamed of that key! The Firebird held it in its claw! It looked as though it was jeweled with rubies.”
Dar raised an eyebrow. “I see. Interesting.”
“The young wife looked down at the key clutched in her hand and saw drops of blood oozing from it. She rubbed it with her skirt, but she couldn’t wipe the blood away. Each sister in turn tried to clean it, but it wouldn’t come clean.
She hid the key in her pocket and they sought the kitchen. When they got there, the skirt of the young wife’s gown was stained, for the key in her pocket wept drops of blood. They scoured the key with ashes from the oven, laid cobweb on it, and laid it in the stove to sear it with heat. Still, it continued to weep blood.
‘Oh, what shall I do?’ the young wife wailed.
‘You must hide it away,’ counseled her sisters. ‘Hide it away, and he’ll never notice one small key is gone from his ring. Pretend you never saw the inside of that room. All will be well.’ The older sisters, in haste and fear, packed their possessions and departed.
They didn’t tell their mother what happened. A few days later they heard the mystic had returned home. After that they heard nothing.”
Dar sighed. “Days passed and then weeks and one day I turned up. Winter approached and I was heading out of the mountains but I wanted to be sure they had everything they needed and all was well. They gave me a meal and told me about the youngest sister’s marriage. Later the two sisters came out to my cart, ostensibly to search for a certain color of ribbon, and told me about the room and the key.
I reassured them as best I could, though I feared the worst. That evening I set out for the castle.
It is indeed magnificent, set in a sheltered cup with high peaks around it. It rises four stories with ramparts on top that must give a mighty view. There are fine stables and outbuildings and I observed many servants moving to and fro. I saw nothing of the mystic, nor of his young wife. I stopped a servant and inquired if I might show my wares to the master and mistress of the place. He said the master was gone from home and the mistress too, but would say no more. I could do nothing more without making myself an object of suspicion, so I left and returned to the family. Taking the daughters aside, I told them what I’d found and counseled them to lay the whole story before their mother and seek help in the nearest village.
Then I continued on my way. I haven’t traveled that way again and I don’t know what, if anything, has happened. It would take an army of brave men to storm the castle and I doubt the word of a widow and two unmarried girls would be enough to muster such a company. The youngest sister’s absence is easily explained with the excuse of traveling with her husband. There’s nothing to prove she isn’t doing so, after all.”
They spoke no more. Morfran turned over what he’d heard. Towards evening the sky cleared and the sun shone for a few minutes before setting. When they stopped for the night, Morfran unbuckled Gideon and rubbed him down with a coarse sack. He gave him grain in a rough wooden bowl, standing and holding it while the horse ate, dribbling warm gobbets of half chewed oats and corn. The grinding rhythm of Gideon’s jaws and familiar smell of warm hide and dust in his nose brought memories of Bala Lake close. He wondered what Bald Tegid and Ceridwen were doing this evening. He thought of Bald Tegid’s love of justice. He remembered Ceridwen’s quiet wisdom and her ability to accept what came.
The horse finished the grain. He quested with soft lips around the bottom of the bowl and then thrust his hard head into Morfran’s chest. Morfran smiled and ran his hand down the broad forehead, around the velvety nostrils and smooth cheek.
Behind him, sitting by the newly lit fire, Dar began to play his pipe.
Gideon, having drunk from a nearby stream, cropped peacefully on the grass. Wood smoke was in Morfran’s nose. Clouds burned away with the late sun and the sky darkened to a deep somber blue with one or two bright stars beginning to show themselves. Insects sang in the grass and Morfran thought of Juliana’s riverbank and garden. He tipped his face up to the sky, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath of cool, wood-scented air. He felt powerfully, vividly alive. He imagined his bones and ligaments loosening and his skin like an old threadbare piece of cloth that lets light through. He lifted his arms, released his breath and flew up into the darkening sky as an owl.
It seemed to Morfran Dar’s silvery notes lifted him, whispered in his feathers and bones. He soared into the sky, nearly invisible in the gloaming, impossibly graceful. Far below he spied the campfire’s flame, the dark shadows of trees, the thin thread of road they’d traveled. Circling, he looked down on the sleeping orchards they’d passed through as they talked.
Somewhere, not too far ahead, was the southern coast. He circled northwest. Bala Lake lay weeks behind him in the mountains, and evening seeped among the reeds on the lakeshore. The animals were stabled and fed and watered by now. Creirwy’s grave lay in the quiet summer evening. Perhaps late flowers still bloomed there. Ceridwen’s garden would be harvested and resting. A sense of safety and peace filled him. Creirwy slept, beyond danger now. All was well at home. It occurred to him for the first time that the living bear a heavier burden than the dead.
He soared over treetops, beating strong, silent wings. Cautiously, as though touching the place where a dreadful wound had been, he searched his feelings. Sad, he thought immediately. I’m sad. I wish things could be different. But even as the thought came, he knew he was too small, too limited to see greater patterns at work. Again, he thought of Ceridwen and the Cauldron of Inspiration and Knowledge, remembering her anger and bitterness. In memory, he smelled metallic blood and fluids of birth and felt new life cradled in his hands. Perhaps wishing life was different was to miss the opportunity of finding grace in life as it was.
He flew over a field sown with grain. He swooped lower and lower, hunting among the stems and stalks. The grain smelled thick and earthy in the cooling air. The heads rippled and moved beneath his wing beats, as though the field were a giant creature with furred golden flanks lying at rest under the dark sky.
He asked himself, Do I feel hate? His mind clenched like a fist. If he did feel it, he didn’t want to know. Hate was childish and destructive. It wasn’t reasonable. He flew up from the field back into the sky.
Now many stars burned, bright and dim. A thread of Dar’s piping followed him. He flew in clean cool air, free and wild, and felt it moving in his feathers, his owl heart beating, his owl senses alive and alert. Slowly, he unclenched his mind, allowed it to fall open, to loosen, to relax. If he carried hate he would know it, after all.
Words came into his mind. “This cannot be! This cannot be!” Strong words, passionate words, giant words of justice that Bald Tegid himself might thunder. Morfran felt a cold, fierce anger, a determination to protect, to right wrong, to destroy what must be destroyed so others could live. He found himself flying along a boundary between field and forest. His keen vision noted movement in the grass and he swooped, clawed talons beneath him, and struck hard, fiercely. He felt the small warm furred thing, felt its life leave it, perched on a tree branch and devoured it with his sharp beak, blood, bones, fur and flesh.
(This post was published with this essay.)