The Hanged Man: Part 3: Samhain
Post #22: In which a young man is rescued from a frozen death ...
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They spent several days together. Morfran told his grandfather everything about his life at Bala Lake, Creirwy’s death, his journey, Dar, and Bluebeard’s castle. He showed Marceau the golden feathers and the key.
“The Firebird!” said Marceau, as Morfran carefully unwrapped the feathers.
“That’s what Dar said, too,” replied Morfran. “Have you seen it?”
“No. Few see the Firebird, though some spend their lives seeking it. It’s a creature of mystery and power. It’s said the Firebird can lead one to infinite treasure. And you’ve dreamed of it?”
“Many times.” Morfran described the long, sweeping tail, the jeweled wings, the dark, intelligent eyes. “In my dreams, I ask it to speak or show me why it comes, but it doesn’t stop or even look at me. It showed me the key before I left Bala Lake. I didn’t know what it meant then.”
“It comes to you, shows itself to you,” Marceau mused, running his fingers through the fringe of one of the feathers. “Remarkable. I wonder…”
“I don’t want to capture it, or be given infinite treasure,” said Morfran, smiling. “I’ve no need of treasure.”
“You’re sensible. I don’t know what would happen to one who sought power over such a sacred creature, but nothing good, I’m sure. I wasn’t thinking you’d seek it for those reasons, but perhaps it has some message for you. Have you thought about where you’ll go from here? Do you want to stay and make your home here in the sea with me and our people? Do you travel north to the island of your grandparents and seek your family there? Does your heart call out for Bala Lake and your old home?”
“I’m not sure,” said Morfran slowly. “I’ve not thought ahead, really.” He ran his thumb down the shaft of a feather, turning it slowly, watching the color, now red, now orange, now golden, with a hint of blue or green, like a fire burning low. “What about the key?”
“Yes, what about it? A key implies a lock.”
“One lock it opened is destroyed. But I think there’s another lock, somewhere ahead.”
“Let me make a proposition, Grandson. I have some ideas about where you might go next, but it doesn’t seem to me it’s necessary to hurry. Suppose, now you and I are acquainted, I take you with me into the sea to meet your mother’s people — your people — and explore our home. I’ve been selfish these last days, but I thought we both needed some time alone together. I’m not your only family, though, and there will be much joy at your coming, for we loved Melusine and we’ve never forgotten her. Maybe we can guide you to your next step, or at least help you think about your choices. Then, when it’s time and you’re ready, you can decide how to proceed and we’ll help you all we can.”
Morfran considered, feeling both shy and excited. “Will they mind that I’m not quite of them?” he asked.
“Others before Melusine have loved humans,” said Marceau. “Children of such unions are special, and very precious to us. Some are lost to us forever and spend their whole lives on land as humans, never knowing they’re part of our people. It’s a hard thing to bridge two worlds but those who find a way to do it possess great strength and bring gifts to both their tribes. You’re of us. They’ll recognize you and you’ll recognize them.”
So Morfran hid his bundle carefully in the cliff rocks and he and Marceau slid into the sea, swimming out together, diving and disappearing entirely from the world above the water.
Morfran never forgot those days. Uncles, aunts and cousins gave him a warm welcome. He spent days in talk and celebration, and more days exploring. For the first time, he heard fish singing at dawn as the sun rose. He accompanied Marceau to speak with the elders about the Firebird. He felt at home among these people. Here he looked like everyone else, lithe and lean, dark, small by human standards. He even met a young cousin with a twisted hip that gave his tail an odd kink. Morfran was certain if he shifted into human form he’d lurch and limp. He saw his mother’s green eyes and his own grey eyes in many faces. The sea revealed wonders and dangers, but he learned quickly. As time passed, though, he began to miss the land, the sky, the feeling of air in his lungs. He was a creature of both land and water, he realized, and to keep himself whole and healthy he’d need both homes.
After much thought and discussion, Morfran decided to seek the Firebird. It came from a vast Eastern wilderness and Morfran gathered there were merfolk of some kind associated with it, though the talk became vague and he’d the feeling of secrets. Marceau told him a powerful forest spirit kept company with the Firebird, but he either couldn’t or wouldn’t say more. “It’s a deep mystery and I don’t know more than that,” was all he’d say, “but I think your path lies to the northeast.”
So Morfran bid his newfound family farewell and he and his grandfather swam up into air and sunlight and stepped out of the sea on two legs. They spent a last night together and parted the next morning, which was cool and cloudy. As Morfran carefully climbed the stone stairs a last time to take the road that lay behind the cliffs, he heard Marceau drumming in the still air. Long after the sound of the breathing sea fell away, he heard the drumbeat, like his own heartbeat, and it comforted him.
CHAPTER 11
It was a long road. The merfolk told Morfran to travel east and for a time the way was easy, with frequent villages and farms. Harvest was in and winter approached. There were fewer travelers about. Morfran had always been quietly content with his own company, even preferring solitude to companionship in general, but now he felt lonely. In discovering kinship and family, he became aware of its absence in a new way. No longer did he understand himself as a man apart and alone. He possessed a tribe and roots, even if they were underwater roots. Now he left his family behind, going into the world to follow the sign of the golden feather. It was like a story, he thought. He didn’t know precisely what he searched for, but he trusted his way would become clear. For now, there was the lonely road, the changing landscape and much to think about.
He spent the nights under shelter when he could, even if just under a haystack. The farther east he traveled, the more sparsely populated he found the country, and the people, though not exactly unfriendly, weren’t welcoming. Colder weather and unending walking began to take a toll on his twisted hip and at night it ached fiercely, keeping him from sleep. His time with Marceau began to seem like a dream. The Firebird no longer flew through the night landscapes of his mind. He felt weary and dull and nearly always cold.
In this state of mind, he found himself, at the end of a long afternoon, in a forest of slim trees with white bark. Leaves fell, day waned, and he discovered no sign of human habitation. It was still, the trees watchful. White trunks crowded together in every direction as far as he could see. He felt no menace but the forest was aware of his presence and waited to see what he’d do. He could go no farther. He didn’t dare light a fire in such thick forest. He heaped together leaves, ate a bit of cold food, wrapped himself as warmly as he could and lay down, pulling leaves over him in another blanket against the cold.
He woke from a dream of the Firebird. It flew close to him and he reached out to stroke its warm feathers, but he couldn’t touch it. He opened his eyes and found himself lying in the midst of glowing trees, not golden but pale and unearthly. Noola rode high in a clear sky, and Cion curved close, bending over the forest, drenching the trees with light. It was cold. He pulled the arm he’d reached with in his dream back against his chest and slept again, trying to find the Firebird.
He awoke from a warm, deep sleep. Someone shook him. He didn’t want to wake. In sleep he’d felt so warm, so comfortable. Someone was trying to wake him into pain and discomfort. He shrugged away the hand that shook him, hunching his shoulder angrily. The shaking persisted. His face felt wet and cold. He opened his eyes. He wasn’t warm but cold…cold. His hip ached as though filled with broken glass. He lay on a slab of ice. Everything looked grey and white and the air was thick with snow. An old man crouched over him, shaking him, brushing snow out of his hair, trying to pull him up.
“All right,” said Morfran unsteadily. “Yes…I’m awake.” He pulled himself into a sitting position and let out an involuntary groan of pain. The old man pulled insistently at his arm, urging him to his feet. Morfran groped in the snowy leaves for blankets and bundle.
“My things…”
The old man’s grip on Morfran’s arm felt hard and bruising. With a mittened hand he took the bundle and blankets, tucked them under his own arm and lifted Morfran to his feet. A hood lined with grey fur hid most of his face but Morfran could see a snow-clotted beard. Morfran staggered, numb with cold. The other didn’t loosen his grip but turned, swinging Morfran with him, and began to walk through the trees. Two or three inches of snow lay on the ground and it was snowing hard. Morfran felt half blinded. White tree trunks and snow swirled together in front of his eyes. He could hardly stay on his feet, but he realized if he didn’t he’d lie down, go to sleep and freeze to death.
After a few minutes of walking, they came to a small log cabin. The door loomed up suddenly in dim light, and without the firm grip on his arm Morfran would have walked right into it. The door opened and Morfran stumbled over the threshold. It was dark inside, but warm. He smelled burning wood and other, less pleasant odors.
Morfran found himself on a stool next to an iron stove radiating heat. The old man lit a lamp, fed the stove, rummaged in a corner and produced a piece of old sacking. Without a word, he stripped off Morfran’s cloak and outer garments and then handed him the sacking. Morfran took it in hands that didn’t want to obey him and rubbed himself with the coarse thing.
It was agony. Warmth made his skin burn and tingle. Every bone in his body ached. His hands and fingers felt wooden and stiff. He rubbed fiercely at his scalp, drying his hair, feeling blood begin to course through his body again. The old man’s silence unnerved Morfran. He’d yet to speak a word. Morfran sat heavily back on the stool, holding his hands out to the stove’s warmth. The old man threw a blanket of what felt like wool across Morfran’s shoulders. It smelled as though it hadn’t been washed since it came off the sheep. An iron kettle on the stove sent up a jet of steam. The old man poured hot water into a crudely carved wooden cup, added a pinch of tea leaves and thrust it into Morfran’s hand.
“Drink,” he said.
Morfran looked into the cup, watching the tea leaves uncurl and begin to steep. The delicate smell of tea mingled with the blanket’s odor. He looked up at the old man.
“Thank you.”
“Drink,” said the other again.
He drank, comforting his hands with the cup’s warmth in between swallows. When he’d emptied the cup, the old man refilled it from the iron kettle and gave him a hunk of hard black bread, an onion and a piece of cured meat.
The onion made his eyes water and the bread was coarse. Morfran softened it in tea and gnawed at the meat. By the time he’d dealt with the food he was sipping his third cup of tea and beginning to sweat from his proximity to the stove. He swayed with weariness on the stool, though it was still morning, as far as he knew. His eyes wouldn’t stay open. He carefully set the wooden cup down on the rough plank floor lest he drop it. On the floor next to the stool lay a grey animal skin, and he clumsily let himself down onto it and fell at once into sleep.
He woke to the rhythmic familiar sound of steel sharpening on stone. Bald Tegid was sharpening tools and knives. But why was he doing it in Morfran’s room? And what was that terrible smell of unwashed wool? Morfran opened his eyes and found himself in the dim wooden hut. The old man sat at a table, sharpening an axe blade with a whetstone by lantern light. Morfran was warm, lying on the skin with a heavy blanket over him. He could see his own blankets and clothing hanging from pegs on the wall behind the stove, which glowed steadily.
The old man bent over his work. His head showed nearly bald, but his lower face was obscured in thick grey beard, unkempt and none too clean. He’d lost an eye and the empty socket looked shocking and stark, far too large for one eye. His hands were broad, callused and strong, nails short and ingrained with dirt. His clothing hung on him, baggy and shapeless. Thick socks covered his feet and reached halfway up his legs, and a piece of leather wound around his waist.
Morfran didn’t think he’d slept a long time. He judged it to be afternoon of the same day the old man had pulled him out of the snow. His body felt warm and familiar again, but his hip ached with an angry, hot pain. He stretched out his leg to ease it before trying to get to his feet.
The old man looked up when he stirred. He set down axe and whetstone, rose to his feet and extended a hand down to Morfran, hauling him up as though he were a child. Morfran caught his breath, head swimming, resting his weight on his good leg and clinging to the other’s arm. He was stiff. He found his balance and rubbed his hip.
“Thank you,” he said again. “Who are you?”
“Timor,” replied the other. “I cut the wood.”
“I’m Morfran.”
Timor nodded briefly and returned to his axe and stone. Morfran stepped out the door. The snow had stopped but the sky hung heavy and grey. The chill air felt damp, and trees were draped with a lace of snowflakes. The forest was still and silent. Still watching me, he thought.
He returned inside, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Timor put away his axe and hung the lantern on a peg. He filled the wooden cup again with hot water from the kettle, and also a bowl. He only has one cup, thought Morfran. One cup, one bowl, one plate and one knife, probably.
“You’re hurt?” Timor asked, gesturing to Morfran’s hip.
“No. It’s twisted.”
The old man raised an eyebrow.
Morfran put the cup down and exposed his hip, running his hand over the deformity. “I’ve walked for a long time and the cold makes it ache.”
“You’re tired,” said Timor.
“Yes. I’m tired.”
“Bathhouse.”
“There’s a bathhouse? Can we go there?”
“No. Too late today. We mustn’t be there after dark. Tomorrow.”
“Why can’t we use it after dark?”
“It’s forbidden,” the old man muttered, and turned away.
Morfran thought philosophically that he’d found warm shelter for the night, anyway, and perhaps a good wash the next day. He wasn’t dead in a drift of leaves and snow, and for that he was grateful. He knelt on the floor next to his damp bundle. He unknotted the cloth and set it aside, laying out his possessions. The feathers and jeweled key were wrapped carefully together in a piece of cloth. He unwrapped them and the feathers came into view, glowing with a warm light, brighter than the lantern. He heard Timor exclaim in what he took for fearful amazement behind him. He rose clumsily to his feet and turned with the feathers in his hand.
“It’s all right. These feathers glow…”
Timor’s eyes hooded. “Firebird!” he said.
“You’ve seen this bird?” asked Morfran quickly.
“No. It’s forbidden!” and the old man would say no more, turning his back on Morfran until the feathers were out of sight and the hut dim again.
A little of Morfran’s food remained. He took part of a loaf of bread, some withered but still sweet apples and a rind of cheese to the table to share. The clothing and blankets on the pegs behind the stove felt quite dry and he took them down and folded them neatly. He was going to need warmer clothes to wear if he stayed in this place for long. He looked carefully at the old man’s coat, hanging on its own peg. It was shapeless, like his other clothes, made of the same kind of animal hide as lay on the floor with the hairy side turned in for warmth. His mittens were of the same material.
“Timor,” said Morfran, showing him the mittens and pointing to the skin on the floor, “Is this wolf skin?”
“Yes,” said Timor. With a jerk of his head, he indicated a dark corner of the hut. Morfran found a pair of blankets clumsily sewn together and stuffed with leaves and bracken for a mattress, a couple of odoriferous thick wool blankets and a neat pile of wolf skins, well cured, grey hair thick and warm.
They ate together, drinking tea and gnawing at hard bread and tough meat. Timor wouldn’t eat the softer brown bread but seemed to enjoy the apples. After they ate, Timor left, the door opening onto a dark, damp night, and brought in an armful of wood. Morfran rose from the stool to help but the old man shook his head at him. Timor banked the stove and shut the draft. Morfran’s blankets were dry and warm and he looked forward to his wolf skin bed, ready again for sleep. Timor blew out the lantern and made his way to his own bed, settling himself with a rustling sound and almost at once beginning to snore.
Morfran lay quietly, thinking about the bathhouse, Timor’s reaction to the Firebird feathers and what he might be able to make from one or two wolf skins. Was this where he was supposed to be? He supposed it must be. He thought of Dar and his cheerful talk, Marceau and his wisdom. This wood cutter wasn’t going to exchange stories with him, but he’d saved his life. Who forbade use of the bathhouse after dark and talk of the Firebird?
He slept.
(This post was published with this essay.)