The Hanged Man: Part 7: Beltane
Post #69: In which two stories of attraction ...
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CHAPTER 27
BRUNO
Bruno didn’t see Rapunzel leave. He witnessed the other’s leave taking, the older woman with the thick knot of hair. He’d been pleased until he realized the younger woman, the one he resented the most with her short golden hair that seemed to mock him, stayed behind. To come so close to having his sweetheart to himself again and then be disappointed roused his already smoldering anger to sullen flame. This he took out on his mother and then his father, when even that hardened brute was moved to intervene on his wife’s behalf. His father still bore the marks of Bruno’s frustrated passion and rage, but the intruding slut stayed on. Perhaps she’d never leave. For several days Bruno stayed away from his observation post in sullen despair.
One day his compulsion again overran his intention and he found himself in the familiar tree overlooking the back of the house and a piece of orchard. Clothes belled out with the summer breeze on the line. A few minutes’ watching rewarded him with a glimpse of Juliana herself, tending the garden with her skirt tucked up above her knees. He watched all afternoon and never saw or heard a sign of the interloper. Juliana was quite alone.
He climbed down from his perch stiffly but filled with amazed hope. Perhaps they were alone again together.
In the following days, he spent hours at his post before allowing himself to believe it was true. After five days, he felt sure. Spurred by weeks of frustration, he made up his mind to approach her directly, claiming his right to be at her side and share her life before some other obstacle presented itself. He’d courted her long enough. It was time for her to accept him. He would contrive to meet her in the forest and speak.
He rose up in her path one evening as she made her way home with a basket over her arm. He expected a startled gasp or cry but she only paused, meeting his gaze calmly. Obscurely, he felt this put him at a disadvantage and he resented it. He forgot what he’d been going to say. They looked at one another.
She reached into her basket and handed him a neatly folded length of linen, tied with a narrow ribbon the color of blackberries. Automatically, he took it. A scent of lavender came from the linen.
“For your family,” she said. “This is all I can give you.” She stepped around him, melting away between trees.
Bruno was triumphant. She’d pledged herself to him! No words had been necessary. She accepted him.
Once in the privacy of his room, a drunken lean-to added to the side of the house, he clawed apart the folded linen. It trailed on the dirt floor. A bag of cheesecloth fell out of the folds. Fumbling, he untied it, and tiny dried lavender flowers spilled into his hand. Carelessly, he flung them away.
He couldn’t use such a thing. It occurred to him she meant him to sell it, buy himself something. Of course! She was showing him her worth. Not only would he own a beautiful wife, but she could earn money for him. Dimly, he recognized the quality of the linen. People paid money for cloth such as this. Clumsily, he wadded the linen into a semblance of the original neat folds.
On the next market day Bruno took the linen and confidently set it on the counter to pay for a purple velvet waistcoat, the kind of clothing an important man wore. The tradesman’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Dubiously, he shook out the cloth. It was smudged and smeared with dirt and the greasy soot that covered everything in and near the charcoal burner’s hovel. A print from Bruno’s boot showed plain where he’d inadvertently stepped on it.
The merchant snorted contemptuously, snatched the waistcoat out of Bruno’s hands and swept the linen off the counter onto the ground. Bruno defended himself hotly and loudly. The tradesman raised his own voice, calling him an ignorant lout. A crowd gathered, jeering and laughing.
Bruno slunk away, seething. She’d deliberately made a fool of him. He’d teach her! He’d show them all!
JULIANA
Juliana missed Rapunzel. She’d never before been so conscious of loneliness. The only visitor she’d ever had in the house by the river was Morfran, and he only for a day or two. Maria and Rapunzel had spent several weeks, and after Maria left Rapunzel had stayed a further three weeks. Now Juliana’s beloved place suddenly felt empty and hollow.
She told herself not to be a fool. The White Stag was nearby. She knew he watched over her. Ranger, the cat, was always somewhere about. Summer ripened around her and the long days weren’t long enough for the work to be done. It was a busy time in the village and market as well, and she needed to spend time at the loom. If any woman lived a full and useful life, it was her. She was independent, self-sufficient, and made a contribution to others, albeit secretly.
But all the while, underneath her brisk matter-of-fact thoughts and busy days, a grieving internal voice whispered she’d made a home and called it a life.
***
Juliana felt weary. It had been a good day. She carried money in her pocket. Everything had sold, not only her fine linen but strawberries and peas from the garden and a basket of eggs. She’d contrived to secretly leave a set of sheets on the doorstep of a newly wedded couple in the gloaming. She’d bought supplies for the loom and a meat pie for her supper.
She was opening her door when something warned her of danger, but before she could turn and look behind her or step into the safety of the house an arm encircled her upper chest with a crushing grip, knocking the air out of her lungs, and a knee in the small of her back propelled her into her peaceful house.
The door slammed shut behind her. Hanks of linen thread spilled across the floor and the meat pie landed upside down with a splat of brown gravy. Her sharp knife, her only weapon, fell with a small clatter among the linen, the sound lost in the greater sounds of their struggle.
Bruno took her shoulder in a bruising grip and forced her around. His face was dark red, congested. He let go of her so suddenly she staggered, pulled back his fist and hit her on the cheek. She fell sideways into a small table with a crash. He picked her up and shook her, like a terrier with a rat, snapping her neck painfully back and forth.
“…trusted you…” he said, spittle flying, “…you bitch! …laughed at me…teach you…respect…”
He punched her in the pit of the stomach and as she doubled over helplessly another blow came up under her chin. She fell backward and the sound of the back of her head hitting the floor reverberated through the bones of her skull, carrying her away, out of reach. She felt him tear away her skirt and force her knees apart from a distance and then darkness separated her from him and she was safe.
Bruno clambered to his feet and stood looking down at her body. He’d seen death before and recognized the broken doll look of it. Her pubic hair curled wetly, exposed and vulnerable, and his penis hardened again triumphantly. He’d shown her! She’d never mock him again! He’d never felt so powerful, so excited. At last he’d gotten what he deserved, after all these long months of teasing and torture. His flesh throbbed and he groaned with renewed lust. As he fell to his knees and took her again, he thought about all the women ahead.
He buried her hurriedly in a patch of bog where reeds grew. It was easy to dig a shallow grave. He wasn’t afraid someone would find her. She never had visitors, except for the two strangers, who had obviously left the area. Even if someone came across the house, who would wade around in a bog?
He rolled her into muddy ooze at the bottom of the grave and covered her carelessly with a few shovelfuls of heavy mud and broken reeds. He exulted. He was free! He’d leave this place now, tonight, and go out into the world. Next time he’d choose a younger woman, one with firm, rounded flesh and high breasts. He threw the shovel aside and stepped into the woods, making his way to the broken-down hut he’d called home all his life. If his parents were there, he’d give them something to remember him by before he left.
MIRMIR
“So that was Juliana,” said the Hanged Man. “Dar loved her, you know.”
Mirmir nodded without speaking.
“The White Stag should have saved her!” The Hanged Man scowled. “What a waste! What a world, when a monster like Bruno roams and destroys a woman like that!”
“Wissdom undersstandss the larger sstory,” said Mirmir. “Let die what— “
“Oh, shut up!” said the Hanged Man. “There’s no comfort in that! Easy for you to say when you’re not the one dying!”
“Ss! Ss! Ss!” Mirmir’s body shook with amusement, making the Hanged Man sway.
“Your breath stinks,” said the Hanged Man. “What have you been eating?”
“The white sswanss that sswim in the fountain,” said Mirmir, his smile sly.
“You have not. You’re terrified of the white swans, you fraud. Keep telling.”
“The tale iss told,” said Mirmir. “The White Stag stood in the river. Summer dusk crept among branch and leaf. Frogs shrilled. The house stood empty, door slightly ajar, giving the place an air of mild surprise. When the man threw aside the shovel and melted into the shadowed woods, the White Stag moved out of the river like a patch of mist and stood for a time on the grave, silent and watchful. The river flowed away with the last light of day and night dropped a kind, sheltering hand over garden and orchard, churned mud and broken reed bed.
The only one who noticed Juliana’s absence was Ranger. He crept in, hair bristled and green eyes wary. He sniffed at the floor where she’d fallen and licked up the remains of the meat pie. The hearth was cold, the door open. She wasn’t there. He left the empty house and began sleeping in the gardening shed.
The garden grew. The chickens, secure in their coop, ran out of food and water and died. The house stood peacefully in sun, moonlight and rain. A mouse came in and made a nest in a cushion. The loom stood waiting.
Juliana lay quiet in her muddy grave.”
ROSE RED
Rose Red didn’t leave the holy well. For two days and nights after her night with the fox and Rumpelstiltskin’s appearance, she did little more than sleep. She put the Dwarve’s story of her mother in the back of her mind and left it there. She gathered firewood, washed at the well and made herself a comfortable bed from the blankets Rumpelstiltskin had aired. She was asleep before light left the sky the first night, and slept until after sunrise next morning.
The second day she gathered more firewood, ate the rest of her food and took a long circular walk around her camp, absorbing the life of the forest. When she woke from her second night’s sleep, she felt ready to think again and make plans.
She wanted to stay where she was. She wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t ready to leave, that was all. It wasn’t time.
She’d seen and heard turkeys in the forest. She set a snare. Artemis had taught her to hunt with efficiency and mercy. Rose Red accepted the need to take life as well as protect it, understanding the necessity of balance. She didn’t possess a bow and arrows with which to hunt larger animals, but was able to snare and fish with materials at hand.
She snared a fat turkey hen, killed it with a skillful stroke of her knife, plucked it, dressed it and roasted it. It would take care of her food for some days. There were berries, mushrooms and edible plants in the forest.
As she worked, she held her mother’s story in her mind, not trying to come to any conclusion. She eventually identified a feeling of sadness.
For the first time, she felt the meaning of the words, “It’s not my fault.” She’d said it to Kunik and known it was true — for him. In the depths of her heart, though, she didn’t believe it was true for her. A persistent, gnawing, whining thing within her said it was her fault, all her fault. She’d failed because she wasn’t good enough.
That voice fell silent now. In its place were sadness and weariness. If it wasn’t her fault, she could stop trying so hard. She could stop punishing herself. She could rest and be free.
Rumpelstiltskin had talked of ‘less than’ and ‘more than.’ Was it possible all these years she’d been ‘more than’, not ‘less than’? Had her parents been so — what, exactly? Stupid? Blind? Uncaring? Had they deliberately cut her down, kept her small, ground away her sense of value? Or were they so broken and preoccupied with their own pain and survival they had no thought for her at all?
This made her angry. Why didn’t anyone take care of her? Why hadn’t they tried to heal for her sake? Why hadn’t she been able to help?
I sound like a child, she thought. There are no answers to questions like these. It was what it was. We each did what we could. Isn’t the real question where to go from here? I couldn’t help them but I can help myself. There are people who love me and believe in me.
She remembered her anger with Maria, and her pity. She remembered saying, “You wanted to be loved,” and Maria’s weeping.
She took a deep mental breath. If I’m ‘more than’, not ‘less than’, she thought, then I’m okay. I’m not unlovable or unforgiveable. I’m special in a good way. It might be harder to find friends and people who understand me, but it’s not because I’m ugly and bad. And some people do love me. Some people do want me.
“I’m staying here because I want him to come back,” she said aloud. She sat on a flat rock turning the spit on which the turkey roasted. Fat sizzled in the fire. Light faded out of the sky, revealing the first faint stars.
Yes. She wanted the fox to come back. She wanted to find the place they’d inhabited again. This time she’d know better how to be in the experience of her own passion. She remembered his tension, the way his legs trembled beneath her as she breathed in his scent in the dark. Perhaps he’d understand. Perhaps he was like her and they could help one another, hold one another together even as they strove to dissolve the boundaries between them.
She shifted, aware of warm, sticky flow between her legs and heaviness in her low belly.
Would he come back? He’d told her he’d watched her for a long time, but when she sent him away had he left altogether? Or was he watching her still? Rumpelstiltskin had told her to call him back, but how?
She ate her fill of turkey that night, carefully put away the meat and let the fire die down. She stood with her back to it, warming the back of her legs, and looked into the dark forest.
“Come back,” she called softly. “Please come back. I’m sorry I sent you away. I want…” She faltered. “I want another chance.”
She rolled herself in blankets, but it was a long time before she slept.
In the morning, she was still alone.
Her menstrual flow was nearly ended. She felt strong and well. She stood shivering in the cool morning, wiping her bare body with handfuls of dew-covered leaves and grass. Her nipples puckered and her arms bumped up in gooseflesh. The cool moisture excited her skin.
Smell but not touch, she thought. Smell but not touch. She ran the leaves in a long stroke from the inside of her wrist, up to the inside of her elbow, over her armpit and down the curves of her ribs, waist and hips. She made a careful pile of the leaves at her feet and pulled a handful of soft grass. With this she cleaned thoroughly between her legs, wiping away the night’s accumulation of bloody flow. The handful of grass joined the leaves. In this manner, she washed the rest of her body. Dressed again, she carefully collected the discarded leaves and grass and the pad of moss she had used the day before. It was splotched with blood and tissue.
She walked into the forest, moving in a straight line from the Holy Well of Artemis for half an hour. Then she turned and began to walk in a circle, keeping the well to her right and using the sun to navigate. Every few minutes she left a few blades of grass and leaves she’d washed with, and a pinch of the moss with her blood on it. She squatted next to the pile and released a few drops of urine, wiping with another handful of leaves and leaving that, too.
It was the kind of morning that begs to be touched. She let her fingers stray over trunk, branch, fern, earth, rocks, fungus and briar. Twice she stopped, took off her shoes and stood barefoot beneath a tree, eyes closed, palm against bark, feeling the wordless mystery of sunlight, water, soil, root and leaf.
She buried her face in clumps of ferns and flowers, ran her hands through bushes and leafy branches. She put her arms around trunks and rubbed her cheek on bark, fissured and smooth. She deliberately walked through wet undergrowth and thickets. She loosened the top of her tunic so she could cup her breasts, and her nipples felt as sensitive as her fingertips. The forest was alive and she swam in its scent and released her own in saliva, sweat, breath and blood and urine.
When her circuit around the camp was complete, she turned and walked straight toward the holy well.
Smell but not touch. Her fingers smelled of green growth and bark, of mushrooms and rich earth. She reached into her clothes and cupped her sex, ran her fingers lightly over her labia and then between. She felt slippery and moist. The scent of her roots mingled with the scent of forest on her fingers. She brushed them against tree trunks as she walked.
Come back, she thought. I want you. Come back.
When she returned to the spring she found, lying next to the fire ring, a bit of dark-splotched moss. It was wetted with a few drops of familiar musky urine.
(This post was published with Edition #69 of Weaving Webs and Turning Over Stones.)