The Tower: Part 3: Samhain
Post #18: In which disconnection and a command to appear...
(If you are a new subscriber, you might want to start at the beginning of the Webbd Wheel Series with The Hanged Man. If you would like to start at the beginning of The Tower, go here. If you prefer to read part 3 in its entirety, go here. For the next serial post, go here.)
EURYDICE
“I’ll go with you,” said Kunik.
They sat together on a bench under the rowan trees outside Rowan Gate. It was a raw, grey day and Eurydice huddled in her green wool cloak. She took Kunik’s broad hand and shook her head.
“No. You must stay here and help Maria look after everyone. You’re needed. I am the gatekeeper, and now the gate no longer opens …” She swallowed. “I must go and talk with the Norns. If anyone knows what’s happening, they will. The gate is my business. Please understand, Kunik!”
“I understand, but I don’t like you setting out alone with winter coming on. There must be someone we can send with you.”
Maria is needed here, as you are. Persephone is at the lighthouse with Rapunzel. Radulf is at sea or in Griffin Town. Ginger has hardly arrived back from the lighthouse. Rose Red can’t shirk her responsibility for Rowan Tree. Who else can we ask to undertake a long, uncertain journey this time of the year, especially with so much fear and confusion about what’s happening?”
“I’m going with you,” said a dry voice from behind them.
They both jumped. Eurydice dropped Kunik’s hand.
Heks regarded them calmly from inside her hood.
Eurydice had hardly spoken to Heks, hardly noticed her, if truth be told. She was the last person Eurydice would choose as a companion.
“Thank you,” she said warmly to Heks, “but I don’t need … Kunik covered her hand with his own and squeezed. He studied Heks’s face intently. Eurydice had seen him examine a chunk of wood or bone the same way as he searched for the shape within shape.
“You carry the eyes, don’t you? Maria’s sons’ and Radulf’s wolf and Rapunzel’s Alexander’s eyes? Do they guide you?” he asked.
Heks reached inside her cloak and extended her dry palm toward them, displaying a heap of marbles. “Yes,” she said, “and yes. They will take us to Yggdrasil, The Tree of Life. Eurydice is wise. We’ll consult with the Norns.” She returned Kunik’s searching look. “I’ll take care of her.”
Eurydice was amazed and irritated to see his face relax. He gave Heks his cheerful, bunch-cheeked grin. “Good. You’ve eased my mind considerably.” He turned to Eurydice. “How soon do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible,” said Heks before Eurydice could reply. “Tomorrow.”
Eurydice, feeling put out and stubborn, opened her mouth to object, then shut it. What was the point, after all, of putting it off? They desperately needed information.
“I’ll be ready,” she said, resigned.
VASILISA
“I’ve been worried about you,” said Vasilisa. “When the Rusalka realized the portal wasn’t working, I didn’t know what to think. Sofiya was calm; she said you’d find your way back in time, but I was surprised she didn’t go meet you.”
Morfran stretched his twisted leg out in front of the stove, which simmered with warmth in the cold autumn evening. Vasilisa thought he looked worn, with new lines of pain in his face. She wondered why he’d stopped to see her before reuniting with Sofiya.
Morfran looked around the hut that had once belonged to the woodcutter, Timor. Now Vasilisa’s cloak hung from a peg on the wall and she slept in the corner on a bed of boughs and skins. His hand curved around a wooden cup filled with hot broth, the same cup he’d used when Timor had pulled him from a snowbank and saved his life.
“This place feels like home, no matter who’s living here.”
She noticed his avoidance of the subject of Sofiya. The doll in her pocket stirred, and she sat back in her chair, deliberately relaxing her curiosity and concern, allowing peaceful acceptance to fill her mind and flow into the room. Her nephew would speak in his own time.
She felt glad she’d let him be as she watched him sip the broth and relax. When he spoke again his color looked better and his face less strained.
“Strange news from Marceau and the other sea kings. The water withdraws from the land, leaving bays and shorelines uncovered, and the tidal zones are dying. The merfolk don’t know what to think. Marceau reports fear and doubt on every side and the talk is that the land people seek to destroy or diminish the sea and its people.”
“But why? How?”
Morfran shook his head. “No one knows. Marceau doesn’t believe it. He suspects the land is also affected, and I think he’s right, as we know both Rowan Gate and the bathhouse portal have broken down. He thinks the problem is much bigger, in fact, than the land and the sea put together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever heard of a thing called Yrtym?”
“Yurtam?”
“Yrtym. Yrtym is matterenergytime. Marceau described it as a web, a kind of matrix in which life is embedded everywhere, even the stars. It’s largely invisible to us, but holds everything together, connects everything.”
“I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“Poseidon met with the sea kings and queens, a thing he’s never done before, and told them about it. He’s usually content to let each ruler do as they will with their area and people. He prefers spending his time racing Fasari and breeding sea wolves. Marceau had hardly ever spoken to him before.”
“I’ve heard he’s not much of a manager and the sea kings and queens do all the work.”
“Yes. He cares more about pleasure than power. Anyway, he told the merfolk something has gone wrong with the Yrtym. As it weakens, strange things are happening. Connections are breaking.”
He looked at the gently popping stove, his face bleak.
“Sofiya and I are taking some time apart. The Rusalka feel associating with humans might be part of what’s causing the disturbance to the portal. Some say it’s punishment for allowing a human male to watch them dance and enter the bathhouse, and for their friendship with Rowan Tree. Sofiya feels torn between her people and me. I thought it might ease the tension if I spent some time with Marceau.”
“I’m sorry,” said Vasilisa simply. He nodded without speaking.
“Do you think your trouble with the Rusalka is part of the problem with the Yrtym?”
“I don’t know. Maybe we’re too different. Maybe I made a mistake in mating with a being different than myself. Such relationships are often ill-fated. Look at my parents. Look at yours.”
“Yes.” Vasilisa’s mother had been human, her father, Marceau, of the merfolk. Morfran’s mother had been Marceau’s daughter, also of the merfolk, and his father half selchie, half human. His father had nearly destroyed his mother and Morfran before his death, and Vasilisa hadn’t known her true parentage until recently.
Vasilisa’s fiery skull, mounted on a stout stick jammed between floorboards, well away from the hut’s wooden walls, suddenly flared into brightness from its usual low light at night. At the same time a fist pounded on the door.
Morfran started to rise stiffly to his feet, but Vasilisa motioned him to remain seated, took the fiery skull’s pole in her left hand and picked up a sharp knife from the table standing near the corner of the hut used as a kitchen. She slipped the knife into her apron pocket and opened the door.
She could see no one. She extended the arm holding the stick under the skull to illuminate the front of the cabin.
“Be careful! I’m down here. It’s Rumpelstiltskin.”
She looked down with a gasp of surprise at the bundled figure. The top of his hooded head came to the level of her waist.
“Rumpelstiltskin!”
“It’s me. Can I come in?”
Vasilisa, amazed, stepped aside.
After fastening the door, Vasilisa jammed the fiery skull back into its place, noting it once again burned low, and turned to find Rumpelstiltskin still standing, making no effort to take off his cloak and hood. He made a somber figure, his face invisible behind a thick reddish-brown beard. He appeared uncertain, almost fearful, he who had always appeared so confident and strong, and it shook her.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” she heard the sharpness of fear in her voice and felt for her doll. It nestled into her palm and Vasilisa took a deep breath. Tonight everything seemed ominous.
“Perhaps you would rather not speak to me,” said Rumpelstiltskin gruffly.
Vasilisa knelt before the Dwarve. “What do you mean? Show me your face, old friend, and let me greet you from my heart.”
He reached up and twitched the hood off, revealing a jagged cut above his right eye and a plum-colored swollen cheek. Vasilisa leaned forward and pulled him into her arms, tears filling her eyes.
The Dwarve returned her embrace with his strong arms, making her ribs creak. She kissed him on his uninjured cheek and stood.
Morfran rinsed the wooden cup and ladled broth into it. As Vasilisa hung up Rumpelstiltskin’s bundle and cloak, he introduced himself to the Dwarve, whom he had seen in passing before at the Ostara ritual, handed him the cup and urged him to sit. Rumpelstiltskin declined the chair but made himself comfortable on a wolf skin on the floor and sipped the broth gratefully.
“Thank you. I’ve come a long way, and I’m tired and cold. I didn’t know where else to go, but I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“How could you cause trouble? I’m glad to see you, and you can stay as long as you want to.”
The Dwarve shook his head but didn’t speak again until he’d emptied the cup. Vasilisa, once again, sat back and consciously relaxed, wondering why she felt so tense this evening.
To give Rumpelstiltskin time and distract herself, Vasilisa told Morfran how she’d met him and some of his Dwarve brethren, giving a brief history of the Dwarves and the Dvorgs, as well as the friendship they’d shared with Rose Red, whom Morfran knew from Rowan Tree, and Jenny, whom Rumpelstiltskin had loved and who’d been murdered.
As she finished, Rumpelstiltskin picked up the narrative.
“After I left Jenny with Minerva in Griffin Town, I traveled to Woodale, where another young woman without family or guide needed me. She was living in an orphanage, and I befriended her. Medicines and herbs interested her, and I did everything I could to foster her love and understanding of natural plants and remedies. After a time, though, I realized the knowledge she most wanted was dark herbal magic; how to prepare poisons and control others, how to harm rather than help. I tried to turn her towards other paths, but she was determined.”
“She’d felt so powerless during her short life, she never again wanted to lose the upper hand with anyone. I didn’t want to see her throw away a peaceful, happy, useful life, so I persisted, but she in her turn was stubborn and gradually we became adversaries and she viewed me as another person who wanted to disempower her.”
The Dwarve looked down at his clasped hands, sorrow in his face.
“I failed,” he admitted. “I did more harm than good by staying, but during my time there word came to me of Jenny’s … of Jenny, and for a time I couldn’t think clearly about anything. Somehow, I thought I owed it to Jenny to go on trying to save Sarah from herself.”
“Anyway, I failed to see the people at the orphanage and in Woodale had begun to view me with suspicion. Sarah was indiscreet, and rumors that she was learning the black arts spread. Naturally, everyone assumed I was her teacher. I was a stranger there, and no one defended me. Sarah boasted of how much she was learning and encouraged people to think I was a powerful magician. It’s flat country there, and the local people knew little about Dwarves. I was different, not human, and therefore feared.”
“A rival of Sarah’s for a young man’s affection sickened and then died, and Sarah gloated openly, saying none should cross her if they knew what was good for them. She whispered in the ears of the town fathers that I had administered poison to the dead child, and they came for me with stones and torches.”
“My Gods,” muttered Vasilisa, appalled by the story. Unable to quietly contain her feelings, she strode to the door, wrenched it open and stepped outside, furious tears hot on her cheeks.
The birch wood smelled of wet rotting leaves and wood. Intermittent stars shone between clouds. The forest’s naked branches looked like lace against the dark sky. Vasilisa wiped her cheeks, feeling calmer under the trees. Behind her, the door gaped, showing the warm light of lantern and fiery skull. The stove burned so warm she knew the cool air would feel good in the little hut.
She found it hard to believe anything could go wrong with the inviolability of the night sky, the trees, the forest, the cycle of autumn. The possibility these could break down or disappear frightened her more than she wanted to admit. Seeing Rumpelstiltskin hurt, defensive, unsure of himself, was like seeing a boulder tremble, or a forest sink to its knees. How to go on living if such foundations could be shaken?
When she returned, she found Morfran bathing Rumpelstiltskin’s face with warm water and a cloth and telling him about Yrtym and what he’d learned from his grandfather, Marceau.
Vasilisa bandaged the cut above the Dwarve’s eye with a linen square, woven by the Rusalka, without interrupting their conversation.
When Morfran had finished and Vasilisa had thrown the bowl of blood-tinged water out the door, Rumpelstiltskin thanked them and said, “I must confess I feel better knowing what happened in Woodale might not be entirely due to my mishandling. Such a thing has not happened to me before, nor have I ever heard of a relationship between a young woman and a Dwarve breaking so violently. But if this Yrtym is what allows and nourishes connection and it’s breaking down, that explains much.”
“I feel the same,” said Morfran soberly. “In fact,” he said to Vasilisa, “I’m going home to talk with Sofiya. She and the Rusalka should hear this news, both from the sea and Woodale.”
“You’re welcome to return if you need to,” said Vasilisa, embracing and kissing him. “In any case, let’s talk again tomorrow. Rumpelstiltskin will stay here with me.”
Morfran bade the Dwarve good night and slipped out the door.
“Sofiya?” Rumpelstiltskin inquired as she turned back from barring the door.
“His mate,” she explained. “She’s a Rusalka, one of Baba Yaga’s handmaidens. He’s my nephew.”
“You have much to tell me,” said the Dwarve.
“Yes, but not tonight. It’s late, and I’ve heard enough revelations. You look worn out. Let’s get some food into you and then sleep. Tomorrow we’ll talk.”
***
Vasilisa and Rumpelstiltskin slept well into the following bitter grey day, she in her bed of boughs and he wrapped in wolf skins by the stove. They assembled a simple breakfast and as they finished Morfran appeared, looking rested and more like himself. He joined them in drinking a pot of tea, having brought with him a couple of cups, as he knew the hut was equipped with only one.
As the level in the teapot lowered and Vasilisa tidied away breakfast, they talked, Vasilisa and Rumpelstiltskin getting caught up with events since the Ostara ritual where they last had been together, and Morfran and Rumpelstiltskin getting to know one another. Each was fascinated by the other. Rumpelstiltskin knew almost nothing about the sea and Morfran knew nothing of the complicated history of the Dvorgs and Dwarves.
The morning wore away in talk, first at the table and then before the stove. As midday approached, Morfran said, “We’ve been summoned by Baba Yaga to appear two days from now for a Samhain ritual.”
“You and the Rusalka?” asked Vasilisa.
“Yes, and you and Rumpelstiltskin.”
Rumpelstiltskin grimaced.
“It’s not an invitation,” cautioned Morfran.
“The lady is not in the habit of issuing invitations,” said Rumpelstiltskin with some irritation.
Morfran snorted. “No. Also, we are to fast until then and use the bathhouse and plunge pool before we go. The ritual begins at dark in the birch circle. Vasilisa knows where it is. We are not to share the bathhouse with the Rusalka, but Sofiya said they’d be finished with it the morning of the ritual and we could use it in the afternoon.”
“Does the plunge pool still work? I mean … is it there?” asked Vasilisa.
“It’s there, it just doesn’t function as a portal at present.”
“I’ve never been in a bathhouse or a plunge pool,” said the Dwarve. “Sitting in hot water sounds wonderful, though.”
“It’s not hot water, my friend,” said Vasilisa, smiling at him. “It’s icy cold water. But the bathhouse is as hot as anyone could wish, don’t worry.”
“What kind of a ritual?” Rumpelstiltskin asked Morfran warily.
“She told the Rusalka it would be a Samhain ritual. That’s all I know.”
“Death? Endings? Bidding the light farewell? Letting die what must? Bringing in the Crone?” suggested Vasilisa. “Does she know about Yrtym and how connections are breaking down?”
Morfran shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Interesting that a representative of the sacred wild demands the presence of a Dwarve, a creature of rock, earth and underground; a member of the merfolk, a creature of the sea; and a half-human to the ritual,” Rumpelstiltskin pointed out.
“I wonder who else is coming,” said Vasilisa.
“Nothing and no one would surprise me,” said Morfran dryly.