The Tower: Part 5: Imbolc
Post #46: In which visitors from air and storm ...
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The storm raged about the lighthouse for two days, creating a strange intimacy inside the curving stone walls. Johan, fed and rested, declared himself perfectly well and healthy and took over the care of the wood stove, even braving the weather to split kindling and carry wood in from a shed outside the tower.
The loss of an arm didn’t appear to trouble him. He was deft and able in everything he did, using his wing as a modified arm.
The crows appeared quite at home, curious, mischievous and sarcastic. They demonstrated no desire to leave the shelter of the lighthouse, though both Rapunzel and Johan opened the door for them at intervals, offering freedom.
Rapunzel, by nature reticent, was happy to listen as Johan told her about his brothers and sister, Elsa, and their stepmother’s machinations, resulting in him becoming one-armed and being able to take a black swan’s shape. He had traveled widely, often accompanied and guided by his friends the crows. He’d found the sea withdrawn from the land in many places, and from the air he’d observed whole sections of dead or dying forests.
He hadn’t heard of Yrtym and listened attentively while Rapunzel told him of the breakdown of connection everywhere, including portals and within formerly peaceful communities.
“We fear for Yggdrasil’s health, the Tree of Life. Even the stars in the night sky are affected. Certain constellations have disappeared altogether.”
“And all this is because of the Yrtym?” Johan asked in wonder.
“We think so.”
“It’s hard to imagine something big enough to connect the stars, the sea, the trees and the underground, yet invisible.”
“Yes. As though Life’s architect is nameless and faceless.”
“And you think actively and intentionally repairing connection is the answer?”
“We hope so. It appears to me those who live between or on the thresholds between one world and another are our best hope. Rather like yourself, in fact.”
“You mean between a swan and a man?”
“Yes, but more than that. You’re a creature of the water, the air and the land. You represent a three-way elemental connection, as well as a bridge between swans and humans. Your viewpoint and understanding about different ways of living are necessarily broad.”
“What about you?”
“I came to this place to gather information about what’s happening. I possess certain powers, and from here I can watch and listen to the night sky, the sea and the land. News comes to me from far-away places, and I pass it on.”
“Like a spider in a web,” said Johan, grinning.
“Just like that,” agreed Rapunzel, and changed into her ugly woman face.
Johan gasped and flinched back. “Gods!”
Rapunzel giggled. A crow alighted on her knee, looking intently into her face with first one eye and then the other.
Johan laughed and Rapunzel joined in.
“Caw!” croaked the crow. “Caw! Caw!”
The other crows took up the call, and for a moment all was bedlam.
Johan, laughing helplessly, covered his ears. ‘Shut up!” he bellowed to the crows.
Rapunzel changed back into her own face, which each crow examined suspiciously in turn while she and Johan laughed until they ached.
“It’s your turn to talk,” said Johan, his face flushed with mirth. “I’m not saying another word until you tell me how you do that.”
They sat up late by the fire, Rapunzel telling the story of her encounter with Baba Yaga and her subsequent brief marriage. When Rapunzel climbed to the top of the lighthouse to check on the light, she found the wind dropping and the storm dying.
The next morning dawned clear, still and cold. A thin, hard crust of snow coated the seaward side of the lighthouse, outbuildings, and cliffs. When Rapunzel climbed the tower to put the light out for the first time in two days and three nights, Johan and the crows accompanied her. The crows hopped onto the platform’s narrow railing, stretched their wings, cawed hoarsely and launched themselves into the pale, storm-scoured sky.
“Thank you,” said Johan, taking her hand. “I believe you saved my life.”
“I’m glad I was here,” said Rapunzel. “Where will you go now?”
“Inland. You’ve made me curious about Yggdrasil. I think I’d like to see it for myself.”
“Safe travels,” said Rapunzel. She stepped back and watched as Johan’s form dwindled and became covered with black feathers. The swan stretched out its neck proudly, spread its wings and, somewhat clumsily, flew up and joined the circling crows. Rapunzel waved and watched them out of sight.
A series of long grey days followed. Rapunzel faithfully lit the lighthouse when the sun set and extinguished it when dim morning crept toward the tower from the sea. One night she awoke to tapping on her window, barely audible over the wind’s moan. It was Ash and Beatrice, shivering with cold and fatigue. They roosted thankfully in a quiet corner and slept without moving for the rest of that night and the following day, while Rapunzel fretted with impatience. When at last they had wakened, eaten and drunk, they told Rapunzel about the Imbolc dance and fertility ritual, the new Sacred Consort’s appearance, and the marble game between Poseidon and Baba Yaga.
Rapunzel wiped tears of laughter from her cheeks. Ash’s mimicry of Baba Yaga and Poseidon had been devastating.
“…and then Poseidon, Marceau, Morfran and Clarissa went through the bathhouse portal to see Sedna,” Ash wound up, “and we came here.”
“You forgot to tell her about your part in the fertility ritual,” said Beatrice slyly.
Ash became very busy grooming his flanks. “Nothing to tell,” he mumbled.
“One of the Rusalka takes the form of a bat,” Beatrice said to Rapunzel. “Her name is Izolda. She propositioned Ash.”
“I see,” said Rapunzel, amused.
“If you’re quite finished,” said Ash crossly. Deftly, he combed Beatrice out of his chest fur and onto the floor beneath the handy stone ledge he’d been hanging from and flitted up the curving stairs and out of sight.
Beatrice squeaked with laughter.
“I didn’t know he was so sensitive,” Rapunzel said, chuckling.
“I can’t wait to tell Mirmir,” said Beatrice.
When Ash and Beatrice were well-fed and rested, they departed for Yggdrasil, promising to watch for Johan along the way. After some discussion, they decided flying overland was safer than going through the lighthouse cellar into Dvorgdom. If the portal under Yggdrasil was shut, they would be unable to reach the Norns easily.
They left from the top of the lighthouse and Rapunzel stood a long time in the cold night. The Phoenix constellation glowed and pulsed, orange and red stars outlining wings and a long trailing tail. It made Rapunzel think of the Firebird, and the Firebird led to thoughts of Dar and Radulf’s letter. Was the Firebird abroad this night on Webbd, or did it rest in its place in the night sky, waiting for the right time to lead someone to their treasure?
As she gazed, the familiar violet blue light moved among the stars outlining Phoenix. Rapunzel stretched out an arm and spread her fingers, and the light caressed her fingertips and outlined her hand, her wrist and her arm. Rapunzel clenched her fist around the light and brought it to her breast. The violet light lingered among Phoenix’s orange and red stars, but when she opened her hand, it was gone, leaving only the pale skin of her hand and arm.
It was late and cold. Rapunzel went in.
SLATE
Slate paused at the entrance to Offrir Cave. It was filled with Dvorgs. Determined to find out for himself the truth about the rumored mining accident, he’d traveled farther through Dvorgdom than ever before. The straydle names were queer and unfamiliar: Papaya, Coconut and Breadfruit. Still, the Dvorgs went about their familiar work with tools in hand, dour and, for the most part, unfriendly. These were proper Dvorgs, not freaks. He’d heard a whisper, however, of a gathering, an unusual event for Dvorgs. At once, he suspected some ridiculous superstitious ritual involving Pele, and he resolved to disrupt it if he could. Doggedly, leaving small blobs of chewed and splintered sunflower shells behind him as he plodded through the tunnels, he followed a gruff word or two from those willing to give direction.
He heard voices ahead and sensed an open space. Stepping through a stone archway, he found himself looking down on a hollow cavern filled with people. A strange smell hung in the air, a tang of something familiar he couldn’t quite name. The atmosphere was thick and warm, hard to breathe. A fire burned on the cavern’s floor, a healthy fire, full of leaping flames, yet the cavern was not filled with smoke. He looked up and saw a terrible, gaping hole in the stone above it, realizing at the same time the tang in the heavy air was like salt. Above the murmur of voices, a huge, soft booming vibrated in the rock.
Rage choked him. Whose twisted work was this? Dvorgs gathering together around a fire, close enough to the aboveground world to actually see it and breathe its vile stench! He felt polluted, defiled. Never before had he been so close to the treacherous aboveground. He longed to turn and reenter the tunnel, walk swiftly away and down into the good, clean rock where he belonged, but he knew he must face and defeat any threat to his people.
Resolute, he stepped down into the cavern and began making his way through the throng to the center and the fire. He stamped on toes, jostling and shoving, forcing his way through the dense crowd. Curses and blows followed him, but he paid no attention. With a last jab of his elbow into someone’s ribs, he reached the center and stood in the ring closest the fire.
Among the flames and burning wood, another sign they were far too close to the aboveground world, black fire salamanders crawled, blotched with yellow and orange, their black eyes shining. A stranger stood atop a boulder near the fire.
He was not a Dvorg. No Dvorg would dress in such outlandish clothing of leather and woven cloth dyed horrible colors of green with touches of orange. His ugly face was brown and weathered, and he wore at his side a hatchet instead of a proper hammer and chisel. This was a Dwarve, a freak, one of those betrayers of race, and he spoke to the Dvorgs with force and authority, as though he belonged there, as though he was somebody!
With all the contempt he could muster, Slate spat a mouthful of sharp splintered sunflower shells into the fire. The stranger paused and looked into his eyes before continuing.
“The trouble is not here alone. Above, life sickens, unravels, and connections are broken. I’ve heard the straydles are producing fewer young, and you know of the recent catastrophic cave-in. Dozens of Dvorgs were killed. So it is above in the seas, on the land and even in the sky. Food is harder to grow, and more expensive, and you’ve noticed supplies are becoming difficult to obtain. The Tree of Life itself, whose roots hold our world together and whose branches hold up the cosmos, weakens.”
“That’s a lie!” Slate burst out. “By Pele, that’s a lie!” Rage boiled through him. He waved his hammer, making those around him back away. He faced the intruder over the ghastly fire. “We be stone and rock! We have nothin’ to do with sea, land, or sky! We have no need of ‘em! Trees! Pah!” He spat again, making the fire sizzle. “Only the stone! Stone above all!”
A couple of voices took up the familiar words, which Slate had been spreading far and wide for years. “Only the stone. Stone above all.” Gratified, Slate began shouting the chant to encourage others to join in, stamping his feet in rhythm.
“Without the trees, the Dvorgs will die,” said the stranger. He did not shout, or even raise his voice, but his words cut through the rumble of the crowd. His lined face looked serious, even sad, and Slate felt pleased. “Each straydle forms in tree roots. If the trees die, so will the roots. The trees are dying in great numbers, and the largest, which the abovegrounders call Mother Trees—”
“No mothers here!” roared Slate. “No tuls! Lies! Lies and heresy! Don’t listen to him! We be the foundation of life, powerful as rock, endurin’ as stone! We be strong because we be male, all male, with no tuls! We be pure! We be righteous! We shall inherit all! Go back, liar. Yuh dunna belong here. Yur not one of us. Go back to your tulish trees, and yur sky and yur land and die with ‘em!”
As he spoke, Slate exulted. If what the stranger (whom he realized must surely be the Dwarve Rumpelstiltskin) said was true, perhaps the aboveground world would die, was even now dying, and the Dvorgs would become Webbd’s masters, undisputed and uncontaminated. He had long toyed with the idea of regaining the riches and power of Hades, which was surely stolen from the Dvorgs long ago. Perhaps now was the time!
His words met with some response, but not as much as he’d hoped for. The crowd showed no inclination to become a mob and either kill or drive the outsider away. His heart swelled to see raised fists and hear cheers, but others in the crowd hushed their neighbors, their expressions glum and worried.
“If you won’t believe me, there’s nothing I can do,” said Rumpelstiltskin. “Time will tell. Whatever you think of me, I was born in a straydle, just like you. I was raised among you. I was apprenticed and made my own tools. I chose to go aboveground and work there, but I am a Dvorg, and I do not want to see my people end. Think about this: if the aboveground dies, what will you eat and drink? How will you get supplies? If the trees die and the straydles with them, how will new generations be born? If the abovegrounders die, you will have no more work to do and none who value your skill and craft. All your gems won’t buy rubble.”
Slate grudgingly admitted his tone and demeanor were convincing. He sensed doubt in the crowd around him.
“No more!” he cried. “No more lies! We have work to do. This sickly air is confusin yuh, poisonin yur wits! Return to our tunnels and mines, caves and caverns, where yuh belong. Let Gobs take care of themselves. They have nothin we need.” His voice rose as he turned to make his way back through the crowd. “Only the stone! The stone above all!”
He felt relieved when others took up the chant, and a number of Dvorgs followed him, the tramp of their many feet emphasizing the words. “Only the stone! The stone above all!” He led them out of the cavern and steadily down until the tainted air was cleared from his nose and lungs and they were once again in the rock’s sterile embrace. Gradually, his followers turned down shafts and tunnels on either side until he walked alone again.
ASH
Ash and Beatrice watched from their hiding place on a shadowed rock shelf overlooking Offrir Cave as most of the Dvorgs exited. Some, perhaps half, departed with Slate, chanting and marching. Others slipped away singly or in small groups, and Ash suspected these were not entirely convinced by Slate’s rhetoric or Rumpelstiltskin’s eloquence. A group remained, less than a quarter, Ash estimated, of the original crowd.
“I intend to make an offering to Pele, Earth-Shaper,” said Rumpelstiltskin to the remaining Dvorgs. “It’s been a long time since I last honored her. Will you join me?”
“They say Pele is a lie,” said one of the Dvorgs gruffly. “They say sals invented her to steal our gems and gold.”
“Who says?” asked Rumpelstiltskin.
“Everyone. No one. The rocks whisper it.”
“What good are gems and gold to the salamanders? Why should they steal from the Dvorgs?” Rumpelstiltskin looked from one bearded face to another. “Have any of you seen the secret storehouse of the sals, stuffed with the offerings of thousands of generations of Dvorgs?”
“The bats say Pele is angry.” Another Dvorg spoke up. “They told someone she caused the cave-in.”
“How do we know Pele is real? I never seen her,” A Dvorg with a thick reddish beard demanded. “Slate is right, we want no tuls. Why give offerins and respect to a tul we’ve never seen?”
“Who made the rocks, then?” inquired Rumpelstiltskin. “Who made the mountains and shaped the land? From whence came the granite, the marble and the schist?”
The Dvorgs shuffled their feet uneasily, but none answered.
Rumpelstiltskin jumped from his perch on the boulder and opened his bundle. On a large, flat rock, he draped a piece of fine silk, gossamer light, in a shade of orange that outshone the fire’s flames. “Minerva wove this in her workshop. She’s the finest weaver on Webbd.”
On the scarf, Rumpelstiltskin placed a red brocade pouch tied with golden string, three gold coins, an engraved flask and two thick green stems, tied together. From behind a scatter of rocks against a wall, he produced a bouquet of flowers, white, orange, yellow and red. The stems dripped with water. These he laid carefully beside the flat rock so as not to wet the scarf.
“What’s in the flask?” Beatrice whispered to Ash.
“Brandy,” he replied. “It’s Pele’s favorite tipple. And tobacco in the red pouch.”
“And the green stems?”
“Sugarcane. Ssshhh!”
From some deep pocket, Rumpelstiltskin produced a stone the size of a large marble. He held it up in the firelight between his thumb and forefinger and it flashed with color, orange, red, blue and green. The watching Dvorgs murmured in appreciation.
“I never seen such a fine fire opal,” one said.
Rumpelstiltskin’s lips quirked in a wry smile. He knelt and displayed the gem to the nearest fire salamander. “Does this offering please you?”
The salamander looked up, nodding its head, wide mouth stretched in what looked like a smile.
One of the Dvorgs snorted in derision or amusement, Ash couldn’t tell which.
Beatrice giggled. “That little creature is no thief of treasure. These Dvorgs aren’t very bright, to believe such nonsense.”
Rumpelstiltskin set the fire opal on the scarf and stood with bowed head.
“Pele, Earth-Shaper, Mother of Rocks,” he said in a carrying voice. “I am your son, Rumpelstiltskin. I lay before you these humble offerings, that you may know your ancient power and wisdom are not forgotten. You shelter our lives, our bodies and our craft. Because of you, there is life, both under and above ground. Because of you, there is treasure.”
The Dvorgs glanced at one another uneasily as he spoke, but by the time he finished they, too, had bowed their heads.
“Honor and respect,” said Rumpelstiltskin.
“Honor and respect,” the Dvorgs mumbled in response.
“Honor and respect.”
“Honor and respect.”
The Dvorgs raised their heads, as though the simple ritual was ended, but Rumpelstiltskin continued with bowed head, “Pele, Great Mother, I come from Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, and its guardians, the three Norns. I come from Odin, He of the Wind and the Wild Hunt. I come from Baba Yaga, Mother of Witches, to speak with you. Grant me the grace of your presence, for Webbd needs you.”
One of the watching Dvorgs shook his head. “Foolish. She willna come. Hope she doesna come.” He turned and walked away, the others following, though the last one looked back once, rather wistfully, Ash thought, at the fire and flat rock covered with offerings, before disappearing into the shadows guarding the cavern’s entrance.