The Hanged Man: Part 8: Lithia

Post #77: In which family and forgiveness ...

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They waited, but not with impatience. Vasilisa was a good companion, as self-contained in her way as Radulf was in his. Initiation had made them intimate, in spite of the fact they knew little about one another.

“Maybe everyone should meet and exchange their deepest secrets before anything else,” said Vasilisa, as they talked by the evening fire.

“It does create a close connection,” Radulf agreed.

“I suppose when someone knows the worst about us and doesn’t turn away, we trust them quickly. I usually hate for anyone to see my foot, but I don’t mind you a bit.”

Radulf put a piece of driftwood on the fire.

“All of you at initiation know me better than any of my old friends or family. I’m at once glad and appalled. It’s so good to be seen and known, and so uncomfortably exposed at the same time.”

“I know,” she said, chin in hand, looking into the flames.

“I met a woman after initiation called Maria. It was the same with her. She was weeping along a river at dusk and we wound up telling each other our truest stories. It made me feel close to her, even though we parted the next day.”

“Maybe it’s the easiest way to be in the world,” said Vasilisa. “No pretense. No secrets. Just real.”

“Maybe. I don’t know if everyone can do it, though,” said Radulf, thinking of Artyom.

“You mean Artyom.”

“Yes,” said Radulf, apologetic, “but not only him. How many people can bear to have their deepest shame exposed?”

“It might be done more gently than Baba Yaga did it,” said Vasilisa dryly, “and we survived.”

“True.” Radulf stiffened and lifted his head.

“What is it?” asked Vasilisa.

“Shh. Listen.” He held up a hand to quiet her.

A low sound of singing came from the surf, a familiar melody, soothing, like a lullaby. It was a sound out of Radulf’s memories.

Vasilisa stood and slid a hand into her apron pocket for a moment. Radulf knew she touched her doll. She pressed his shoulder briefly with her other hand and walked forward to stand next to the fiery skull, which glared out over the dark sea.

Image by Craig Bak from Pixabay

“Marceau?” she called into the night. “Is it you?”

A gruff voice came back. “I’m Marceau.”

“Will you come out to us? Can you?” she asked tentatively. “We … we’re waiting for you.”

A figure walked out of the surf.

***

Radulf, resolving to give the other two a chance to make friends, busied himself in building up the fire. Somewhat to his surprise, Marceau accepted the offer of soup, and Radulf heated this, along with water for hot drinks. As he moved around the camp, he listened as Vasilisa nervously introduced herself without mentioning their possible kinship. Every few minutes she reached in her pocket to touch the doll.

The being who’d come out of the sea was enough to make anyone nervous, though Radulf had the advantage of being used to Irvin. This merman’s face was marked by many years of experience and grief, although Radulf sensed a deep serenity. Grief hadn’t embittered, merely seasoned. His grizzled hair hung in long ropes, caught neatly in a thong behind his head. He wasn’t large but his body was roped in muscle. Scars tattooed his skin. A gold ring like Irvin’s glinted in one ear as he turned his head in the firelight. He had the weathered, enduring look of an old twisted tree, Radulf thought.

They looked intently at each other, the young woman and the old merman. Vasilisa smiled into the strange grey eyes, like sky and water on a cloudy day, and he returned the smile. Radulf caught his breath at the fleeting resemblance in line of jaw and eye socket. It flashed like a lighthouse in the dark and then was gone again. It was enough for him to be certain they were kin.

He searched for a resemblance to Marella, but her features had blurred in his memory. It made him ashamed, knowing now how she’d loved him. Her young, unshaped beauty hadn’t outlived her, just a lingering feeling of sweet presence and devotion, reproaching him with its generosity.

He handed a bowl of soup to Marceau, and a mug of tea to Vasilisa, sweet, the way she liked it. She smiled in thanks. She looked more relaxed now. The food and hot drink eased the tension still further, but Radulf wondered if Vasilisa wanted help starting. He glanced at her and Marceau intercepted the look.

“Odin brought me word you wanted to talk with me,” he said, setting down the bowl. “He knows I visit this part of the coast and he said you’d wait for me here.”

“He said this was a place of beginnings and endings for you,” said Vasilisa.

“Yes. It’s a story. Would you like to hear? It would honor my memory.”

Radulf laid more wood on the fire, remembering the circle of telling and listening at the initiation. Awkwardness and fear fell away from him. Stories would show the way. He sat cross-legged in the sand.

“I had the pieces of this story from the two in it,” said Marceau. “It’s not a story about me, except my absence contributed, I think. When I had all the pieces, I took them back to my people and gave them the story, so we’d all remember we do not imprison one another. Other lives are possible. It’s not wrong to seek a different life, if that’s where heart and desire lead. We sea kings allow freedom. The love of family and tribe doesn’t diminish with absence and distance. So, I’ll give you the story the way we give it to our young people. We call it ‘Clytie and the Sun.’”

“Clytie drifted in the throbbing sea. The people of the sea moved about her, quicksilver flash, languorous dance and steady crawl. She knew the dolphins’ muscular joy and the whales’ vast intent. She listened to the fish singing in praise at dawn and moonrise. She watched beauty and terror, life and death, a thousand stories within the sea’s embrace. Wonder, questions, all she saw and heard and felt, struggled within her.

She tried to talk about light with those in eternal dark, but they weren’t interested.

She tried to talk about depths where light never came, but those in the top layers of sea shuddered and turned away.

She tried to swim with laughing dolphins as they played, but they never stayed.

She wanted to know about the deep call of faraway places, distant stars, wheeling seasons, but the whales had no time for her.

The sea and its creatures moved about her, restless, never silent, but it was too vast. The sea didn’t hear her own song, didn’t stop for her, didn’t notice her. It cared nothing for its own mystery and beauty. It was self-sufficient, remote. She was alone.

Clytie, drifting, exploring, searching, discovered the shore. Here was something new. As she ventured out onto rocks and sand, she discovered stillness. Breezes whispered over her. Spray and sometimes rain splashed her. The sea vibrated with sound and power in her ears, but she lay in stillness out of water.

And then there was the sun.

She discovered warmth.

Stillness and warmth.

And then, one day, the sun spoke to her.

‘My name is Yr. I wish I could know about your world. Would you tell me something about it? It’s hidden from me and often I’ve wondered…’

Clytie stretched out on a rock, feeling waves lap at her tail where it trailed over the edge. Painfully, hesitantly, she began to tell him, and as she spoke, he smiled down at her, touching her with warm, gentle fingers. Salt dried on the scales of her tail, leaving a white crust. Her hair dried, golden, glinting in sunlight. She shut her eyes, gave her throat and breasts to Yr, felt herself open, soft and sweet.

And so it began. Day after day, Yr came. She emptied out her heart to him until she felt light enough to rise into the sky and float among clouds. She surrendered herself to the sea at dusk, drifting with currents and tides, looking down into the world below her, colors, shapes, scenes like jewels. These she took and spread before Yr. Together they considered every question she’d ever asked in her heart.

Then Yr began to speak of land. He told of vast mountains, of deserts, of plains and forests. He spoke of beauty and terror, life and death, the unfolding of a thousand stories. Each night when he slipped out of Clytie’s sight, he looked down at the world spread out below him, colors, shapes, scenes like jewels. These he took and laid before Clytie. Together they considered every question he’d ever asked in his heart.

One day, Clytie left the sea for the last time. She flung herself out of a wave onto a sandy beach and made her way up the beach beyond reach of the sea. She found a hollow of grass protected by a scatter of rocks. She lay in the hollow.

Yr touched her with his warm fingers, kissing her in farewell as he slid down behind the sky’s rim.

Clytie lay in the night, drinking dew and listening dreamily to the sea’s breathing.

Yr rose and kissed her. She turned her face toward him, relaxed in his warm embrace, her hair golden about her.

Nine days later, Clytie turned her face toward Yr as he rose. The hair he’d so loved lay thick and yellow about her face. Green and gold she was, rooted lovingly in solid earth beneath Yr. Now she told him about the life of roots, the worlds lying beneath the land he saw. Clytie had become the first sunflower.

Clytie and Yr covered the land with the golden fruit of their sharing. Their family made its way across every land and look out at every sea. Their constancy built a bridge that connects root and wave.

Clytie and the sun.

Clytie and the sun.”

Image by Jessica Joh from Pixabay

Vasilisa was crying. Radulf could see streaks of moisture on her cheeks gleaming in the firelight. She smiled at Marceau, tears sliding down her face. Marceau touched her cheek with a gentle finger, tracing a wet path.

“Why are you crying, ‘Lisa?” he asked.

She leaned forward into his embrace and wept against his chest while he held her and stroked her hair.

The old man closed his eyes and Radulf saw tears on his face too, and felt a lump in his own throat.

***

Vasilisa’s mother had vacationed with her family by the sea when she was a young woman. She’d been a woman of strength, brave and with a streak of mysticism. She hadn’t seen the sea before, but fell in love with its wild beauty and spent hours in solitary exploration of the threshold between land and water while her parents read together, walked in the town, listened to music and sat snugly indoors listening to wind and waves.

Marceau had always been interested in humans and liked to watch the town. The young woman caught his eye. One day he spoke to her.

“Her family rented a house for a month,” said Marceau. “We spent as much time together as we could. We knew it wasn’t forever. After she left, I thought of her often with great affection, and hoped she’d find a good man, make a family, perhaps one day come again to the sea, or even live near it, as she loved it so. It never occurred to me there might be consequences to our brief time together.

“She did marry,” said Vasilisa. “She married a woodcutter. He worked hard for us and was often away. We were poor but they loved one another, and me. I was the only child.”

She reached out and took Marceau’s hand. “She died when I was ten years old.”

New grief settled into lines already drawn on his face. He wrapped his fingers around her hand. “Tell me.”

“She started to feel tired all the time. She grew weaker and weaker and one day she couldn’t get out of bed. I was old enough to take over the housework. There wasn’t anything we could do for her. She wasn’t in pain, exactly, just weak and tired. We were with her when she died. She gave me this.”

Vasilisa reached into her pocket and put the doll in his hand. Radulf was surprised. He’d never see the doll himself, though he knew she carried it and understood it guided her in some way. It was dressed as Vasilisa herself was, in a black skirt, white apron and vest embroidered with colored threads.

“She told me to keep it with me always, that it was her gift to me. She said it would guide me but I should keep it secret.”

“And has it — she — guided you?”

“Yes, through many events and over many miles. She helped me find Odin — and you.”

Marceau turned the doll over in his hands, pressing his fingers against the body. “What’s inside her?”

“Inside her?”

He looked up at her and smiled. “You didn’t know? Here, press here.” He placed her finger on the doll’s trunk. “Feel that hard lump?”

“Yes! I never felt that before. I always touch her gently, or hold her in the palm of my hand.”

“I think I know what this is,” said Marceau. “Your mother was fascinated by sea lore. Our legends say coral is mermaid blood and pearls and sea glass mermaid tears. I used to bring her gifts so she could take something of our time together with her when she went. Did you find such things after she died?”

“No,” said Vasilisa. “There was nothing like that among her possessions.”

“Because she put them here for you,” said Marceau, handing the doll back to her. “It was all she had of me, besides you, of course. Perhaps she wanted you to know who your father was. Or perhaps she wanted you to carry the power of blood and tears with you always.”

Vasilisa turned the doll gently in her hands, smoothing her thumbs over the gaily embroidered vest and the white apron.

“You were with me all the time,” she said, looking into Marceau’s grey eyes.

“We’ve both been with you all the time,” he replied. “Love is never lost. It just transforms.”

Radulf had been listening to Vasilisa and Marceau talk, tending the fire and watching their faces in the flickering light. He felt glad for Vasilisa. Marceau was a kind man, tender and wise. Radulf wasn’t so afraid to tell him about Marella as he had been.

“Marceau?” he said.

The merman turned to him at once. “You’ve been patient with us,” he said. “Thank you for your friendship toward my daughter. I hope it will extend to me, also.”

“Of course,” said Radulf, liking him more and more. “But — I have something to tell you, too.”

Vasilisa tucked the doll back into her apron pocket and reached out a reassuring hand to Radulf. “It will be all right,” she said.

Marceau’s eyebrow rose in inquiry as he looked from one to the other.

Radulf swallowed. “You’ve told us about Clytie and now you know Vasilisa is also your daughter. We know Morfran’s mother was another daughter.”

Marceau smiled. “A grandson I didn’t know I had and now a daughter! I’m blessed to find you both.”

“Were there other daughters?” asked Radulf.

“There were,” said Marceau, and the joy left his face. “The youngest of my girls was called Marella. She never knew her mother at all, and to my lasting regret, she knew little of me, either. In those days, I was caught up in my grief and turned to other concerns, leaving my daughters in the care of my mother. It didn’t occur to me how much they needed their father until it was too late. Marella was lost. Like Clytie and Morfran’s mother, Melusine, Marella left the sea for love. I don’t know what happened to her, here in your world. Her sisters told me she died at sea some time later. They watched her dive off a ship into the waves at dawn and she became sea foam, but I didn’t want to believe it. I suppose I’ll never know what happened.”

“I know what happened,” said Radulf simply. “I’ve come to tell you.”

Radulf told the story clearly and without drama, sparing neither himself nor Marella, pausing now and then to run his fingers through his hair and grope for words.

Wolf-raven image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay

“…and then I left,” finished Radulf. “I left my wife without a word, and my family, and went out into the world. I’ve been traveling ever since, trying to forget and remember at the same time, trying to understand and hating myself. When I finally heard the story of who Marella was and where she came from, I realized she died because of me. Soon after, I knew I had to come home and try to make amends. I’ve done that now, as best I can. I never thought I might have a chance to speak to her people, though. I met Vasilisa again and she told me about you and I thought I should tell you. I thought you might want to know what had happened. So, I asked her if I could wait with her and speak to you.”

“How did it go for you, making amends?” asked Marceau. Radulf looked at his clasped hands between his knees.

“My father and my wife are dead. Marella is, of course, gone. My mother…well, my mother declines to forgive me.” Radulf looked up and met Marceau’s gaze. “But she did listen to my explanation and she knows I came home to do what I could to make it right. That was the important thing.”

“What will you do now?” asked Marceau.

“I don’t know. For some reason, I didn’t want to leave here, though I wasn’t sure why I stayed. Then I met Vasilisa and I thought I needed to speak with you. Now that I’ve done that, I’m ready to leave. I suppose I’ll go out into the world again and see what turns up.”

“I see.” Marceau turned his gaze to the fire for a few minutes, considering. “You say,” he said thoughtfully, “you heard the story about what really happened from someone. Who told you?”

“Baba Yaga,” said Vasilisa. “She told us at an initiation ritual this spring. Morfran was there, too. She was the Sea Witch.”

“Ah!” said Marceau. “Of course.” He shook his head. “I should have seen that myself. Baba Yaga is a hard teacher. And you two went through an initiation with her?”

They nodded, remembering.

“I salute your courage, children. And your wisdom. Baba Yaga doesn’t waste time with weaklings and fools. My poor Marella!”

Marceau looked into Radulf’s face, tears gleaming on his cheeks. “Radulf, Marella’s death is as much my fault as yours. I was absent in her life. I might have taught her, guided her, been a friend to her in many ways, but I was busy with my own concerns. Can you forgive me?”

Radulf stared at him. “Me forgive you? I ask for your forgiveness, Marceau. I was careless and blind.”

“You were as lost and lonely as she was,” said Marceau. “Neither you nor I can go back and make the story different, Radulf. It’s done. Even had we made different choices, Marella might not. It’s not useful to dwell on what might have been. We have regrets, naturally, but we both learned. If we’d known how to do things differently then, we would have.”

“I never thought of blaming anyone but myself,” said Radulf.

“Forgiveness is an interesting idea,” said Marceau. “Everyone talks of forgiving those who wrong you, but that’s the least important part of it.”

Radulf thought of Maria. “Can we forgive ourselves?” he said in a low voice, asking no one in particular.

“Yes. Do we choose to forgive ourselves? That’s the tricky part. If we withhold forgiveness, we destroy any learning or understanding that might be born out of difficult situations. I’ve made many mistakes in my years. I’ve tried to learn from them. You’re not to blame for Marella’s death. On the contrary, you gave her joy in the last months of her life and because of you she learned what love truly is and behaved accordingly. I’m proud of her — and you.”

Radulf felt tears slide down his cheeks and into his beard. He let them fall, recognizing the sudden relief of a heavy burden carried so long its weight had been invisible to him. He reached out a hand and Marceau met it with his own hard, scarred one and clasped it tightly.