The Tower: Part 6: Ostara
Post #53: In which various poisons ...
(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. For the next serial post, go here.)
Artemis and Chattan led them up the hill to Rose Red’s little house. A hawthorn thicket grew a few yards away. The north side of the thicket was still wet, the ground soft from melting snow, and Chattan crouched, pointing at a track in the mud.
Rose Red noted the clear indentations of claws. The track was canine, as wide as Kunik’s broad hand.
“That’s a huge wolf,” she said in surprise. “I didn’t know there were wolves in the area.”
“Look,” said Chattan. “Here’s the other paw, see? It stood here and looked that way,” he indicated a line of sight between the trees going right to Rose Red’s house.
Rose Red felt a stab of fear, but controlled it. “Chattan, wolves don’t stalk and hunt humans unless there’s a famine. It was only curious. Have you looked around the animal pens? That’s what we need to worry about.”
“Why would it be so interested in this particular house?” asked Chattan. “You don’t keep chickens or rabbits or ducks up here, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then why does a wolf come to this spot at night to watch your house?”
“I don’t know. It’s strange. Wolves don’t hunt people when the forest is full of game! They avoid people.”
“Not this one.”
“Here’s another track,” Kunik called from under a nearby tree. “It’s not a wolf, though.”
The second track was even larger than the first, but without claw marks. “That’s feline,” said Rose Red to Artemis. “Don’t you think so?”
“I do,” said Artemis. “It’s a lynx, I believe.”
“So why is a lynx watching a wolf watching Rosie’s house in the middle of the night?” asked Maria. “Lynx and wolves don’t bother one another, do they?”
“Not usually,” said Artemis, “but I think there was a reason you felt threatened, Rosie. You weren’t making it up. These animals were here, close by, and it might be a good thing you didn’t make a light.”
“Thank the Gods you didn’t go out,” said Kunik.
“I felt too scared to get out of bed,” admitted Rose Red. “We’d better make sure the animal pens and sheds are strong.”
“Chattan and I will see to that,” said Kunik. “You look after yourself. Keep that knife on you, Rosie. Don’t wander off alone until we understand what’s going on. I don’t like this.”
“Take this, too, and keep it,” said Heks, handing the amber-eyed marble to Rose Red. “I think Radulf would want you to keep it. Perhaps it will guide you.”
“I’ll keep watch over things,” said Artemis, but Rose Red noticed she appeared less concerned than the others.
“It may be a silly idea,” said Maria, “but I have some aconite.”
“Do you?” asked Chattan with interest, while the others looked at one another blankly.
“What’s aconite?” Kunik asked.
“It’s an herb. It’s also called wolfsbane,” said Heks unexpectedly. “It’s a powerful poison. I suggest you apply it to that knife of yours.”
“Isn’t that a little … ?” asked Rose Red.
“Dramatic?” snapped Heks. “Not as dramatic as being torn apart by a … wolf.” She gave Chattan a long, speculative look before turning away and striding back down the hill, her back stiff with irritation.
“Why is she so annoyed?” asked Kunik.
Chattan chuckled. “Best do as she says,” he advised Rose Red. “It won’t hurt anything. You be careful of that poison, though,” he cautioned Maria. “Put it on the knife blade and sheath the knife. Don’t take it out unless you mean to use it.” His tawny gaze settled on Rose Red, who felt as though events were moving much too fast.
“Isn’t all this unnecessary?” she asked.
“No,” said Artemis firmly. “We’ll come see about the aconite,” she said to Maria, and took Rose Red’s arm.
SEREN
Clarissa’s sudden appearance thoroughly annoyed Seren. He hated surprises. She must be taught to never take him off guard again. He’d underestimated the power of his attraction for females, even one so young and gauche as Clarissa.
He felt satisfied he was the guest of the most important man in Rowan Tree. David was intelligent, literate and comparatively well educated, a man able to appreciate Seren’s reputation and talent. Clearly, David and his circle were the natural leaders of this struggling little community.
He’d been surprised to see one or two familiar faces. The fat woman with the ugly purplish black hair had been at Yggdrasil. She had a strange, unpronounceable name, Youris, or something like that. She, naturally enough, had been attracted to him, but he wasn’t interested in her type. He’d never liked fat people. He remembered how she had mocked his discomfort with the loathsome snake the three old bags at Yggdrasil kept as some kind of a pet.
He’d also seen an old woman who looked vaguely familiar, though he couldn’t remember where he’d run into her before. She’d stayed in the background, which was just as well. Old people were a bore. She knew her place, unlike that infernal nuisance, Gabriel, who waited around every corner, insisting on engaging him in endless and trivial conversation.
The place was a hotbed of gossip, of course. A cadre of middle-aged women spent their time caring for animals, spinning, weaving, dying, baking, churning and sewing, talking incessantly about personalities, relationships, secrets, rumors and speculating about what had happened, what was happening now, and what might happen in the future. All this he ignored, having neither time nor interest in such trivia.
They appeared conscious of their good fortune in his presence, however, and their undivided interest and attention was gratifying. Much of his material was beyond them, but he performed simple stories and old ballads and lullabies, sentimental stuff they enjoyed.
He had his eye on one or two young women with possibilities. One was a shy little beauty with curly black hair, but her short hair was a definite defect, and she was as wary as a doe with hardly a word to say for herself. She was called Rose Red, like a girl in a fairy tale. She appeared to spend her time on the fringes of the community and was some kind of authority on the land, animals and trees.
The other possessed long red hair and, appropriately enough, was called Ginger. She was evidently unattached, though she was by far the most beautiful young woman at Rowan Tree, lithe and graceful. Unfortunately, she lived with Maria, a weaver who fancied herself the community leader, as if a woman were capable of such a thing! Maria was middle-aged with a lot of silver in her dark hair, and he’d heard it whispered she was a witch. She tended the chickens and a large herb garden. She possessed some kind of unstated authority among certain community members.
Hard on the heels of Clarissa’s arrival had come a second unpleasant surprise. It appeared a group of women had stolen away and repaired the portal during some kind of private ritual. Clarissa herself had been the first to use the mended gate.
David felt both offended and hurt. The whole thing was clearly an underhanded attempt on Maria’s part, who undoubtedly led the group, to maintain her claim to power. Probably, the portal was not in fact repaired, but only worked by means of some kind of temporary and dangerous witchcraft.
The offense against David, however, was as nothing next to the insult to Seren himself. He, the greatest musician and poet, had traveled weary miles through the foulest weather imaginable at great cost and suffering to help these people, and before he had a chance to even gather his wits, renew his energy and make a plan, a bunch of secretive, jealous women scuttled out one night to perform who-knew-what kind of questionable magic as a deliberate act of contempt.
That Clarissa should be the one to prove at least a temporary fix of Rowan Gate was the crowning blow.
He hadn’t known about the fiasco at the portal until after he saw Clarissa, but he felt pleased by the way he’d handled their reunion. He’d been dignified, polite and cool, making her place clear to her and David, who looked on. He’d punished her appropriately for her presumption. He’d felt her hurt and embarrassment at his distance, and he hoped it taught her a lesson. After all, a good dog must learn discipline. It did not hurl itself into its master’s arms, willy-nilly.
The second part of the lesson would be to avoid her for a day or two. He would remain aloof, inaccessible and maintain an attitude of pained patience and endurance toward her.
In the meantime, he’d make a grand gesture to show he was above holding grudges. With David’s help, he planned a performance. He’d make them laugh, marvel, and weep at his brilliance. Perhaps the sound of his voice and music would be enough to keep the unnaturally mended portal open permanently, even somewhat at a remove. Who knew?
He arranged the largest community space available, the kitchen and gathering room, exactly to his liking. Lighting was important, as he knew the mesmerizing effect his fingers on the lyre strings created for the audience, especially the females. Also, it enabled everyone to see him clearly, and he could relish their admiration.
Seating must accommodate the whole community in such a way that nobody’s view was blocked. He himself preferred to stride and gesture, showing off his rich clothing and handsome looks. He enjoyed watching the audience’s eyes follow his every movement. It enhanced his performance.
He made it clear to David he wouldn’t tolerate children and babies unless they remained absolutely silent. He couldn’t bear interruptions. It broke the flow of his creativity and passion too painfully. Anyone too old and senile to stay awake must also be excluded.
The kitchen would be shut. Eating, drinking and clattering dishes were unacceptable distractions. The evening meal would take place early to ensure the kitchen was closed by the time of the performance.
The program took place on the evening of the day following Clarissa’s arrival. In a show of magnanimity, Seren directed David to call the performance a celebration of the portal’s repair. He would rise above the underhandedness of how the repair had occurred, ignore it as though it held no importance.
Seren, David, and a small group of others talked long into the night after Clarissa’s arrival, discussing ways and means of disempowering Maria and discouraging others from forming exclusive groups to perform dubious rituals. Seren maintained a dignified but pained silence, irritated that no one appeared to understand he bore the greatest insult. He spoke with eloquence about his intended contribution the following night, however, asking for their support and assuring them he would demonstrate the inclusivity and structure necessary to a healthy community.
Privately, he arranged for Rose Red, Ginger and Clarissa to sit in the first row of the audience. In this way he could savor the admiration and beauty of two women and the hurt adoration of the third. Perhaps they would even vie for his attentions. If Clarissa behaved herself, he might even allow a reconciliation after the performance as a kind of dessert. He deserved a treat after his recent disappointments.
He also intended to scatter David and his cronies throughout the audience to encourage the proper timing, quantity and quality of applause. His experience with simple, rural people had taught him they sometimes found an appreciative grunt homage enough for a story or song. It was important to demonstrate the correct way to honor such a creative offering, and people were like sheep. It only took one to suggest clapping, standing or cheering and the others followed.
He spent the day in seclusion. As he rehearsed, pacing back and forth in David’s guest room, he noted with satisfaction Clarissa remained in view most of the time. She appeared to be friendly with the lovely Ginger, and he observed her deep in conversation with the witch Maria, under whose influence she must not be allowed to fall. Something about Maria reminded him of Rapunzel.
Clarissa tried to look carefree and casual, but her frequent glances at David’s house betrayed her longing and confusion, which buoyed Seren’s confidence and rehearsal performance.
This would be a night to remember.
***
Seren sat on a stool, which he planned to set aside when he began, wearing a benign smile and watching the audience enter the community building and take seats. David and his friends acted as ushers. Rose Red arrived with a man Seren hadn’t seen before. He was average size but possessed unusually powerful hips and legs, and his eyes were a disconcerting tawny color. His strange looks were ugly and Seren wondered what such a beautiful girl saw in him. She resisted the direction to sit in the front row, but David insisted, smiling and indicating a chair with a good view, and she reluctantly seated herself after a half-hearted protest, her companion settling beside her.
Mingan, an acquaintance of David’s who was a newcomer to Rowan Tree, headed for the empty seat next to Rose Red but was forestalled by the fat, dark-haired woman, whatever her name was. She slid into the seat right under Mingan’s nose, ignoring his angry look, and spoke animatedly to Rose Red. Ginger took her place in the front row with the witch Maria, and Clarissa sat beside Ginger. Seren avoided her eyes.
The kitchen, as he’d requested, was dark and even blocked off with a few chairs. The lighting was perfect and a low fire burned in the fireplace behind him, which he thought outlined his form and movements flatteringly.
While the place filled and the audience rustled and murmured with anticipation, he sat as though alone, his gaze distant, his face serene. He imagined the white light he’d been born with shining around his head like a candle, drawing every eye. He waited a few minutes after the last straggler arrived, allowing anticipation to build.
When he judged the moment appropriate, he rose gracefully from his stool and set it aside. David came to the front and addressed the audience.
“We are honored to be hosting the greatest musician, poet, storyteller and singer who ever lived. Please join me in welcoming Seren to Rowan Tree, and prepare yourselves for an unforgettable night.” He stepped away, applauding, and the audience joined in enthusiastically.
Seren smiled modestly, dipped his head and picked up his lyre.
He carefully planned his performances. He liked to start with music rather than words, setting the evening’s magical tone with rippling notes and melodies. When the faces of the audience were smoothed, relaxed and dreaming, he added words, first with a song or two, and then a story. He chose the story of how his lyre came to him. He’d told it in outline to Clarissa, but not in fully embellished detail. He thought it a good starting place in his own legend, and he suspected many of the people here had never heard it and knew little about his extraordinary life.
Still cradling the lyre and occasionally adding its voice to the story, he began.
“Once upon a time, before the shining stars learned to sing enchantments, a child was born from a kingly silver star and carried in the sea’s womb.
Adrift in a coracle, wearing a crown of light, he was found by a fisherman. The fisherman and his wife kept the child and raised him. They named him Seren, which means ‘star’. They cared for him as best they could, but they were coarse, rough people and, little by little, the child’s crown of light tarnished and dimmed as he grew up.
With great fortitude, the boy Seren endured the squalor of goats and chickens and a beaten earth floor. His foster father was often away fishing and his foster mother spent her days caring for the livestock and house, and mending his father’s sea-soaked nets.
In spite of the ignorance and poverty in which he was raised, Seren began speaking before he was a year old, and making songs and poems before he was two. Word traveled of the precocious child, and teachers came. Seren learned so quickly it appeared he already knew everything they could teach and more, and only needed to be reminded.
Twelve years after he’d been found, Seren could earn in an evening more than his father did in a month’s fishing, making poems and songs and relating histories of families, kingdoms, battles and deeds. People said he might one day be the greatest bard who ever lived. He was handsome and self-possessed, confident in his gift. His fame spread and his presence was requested across the land, so he left his foster parents and went out into Webbd to begin a man’s life.
Some years before, another man in a far-away place, the son of the muse, Calliope, had also shown some talent in making music, but he allowed himself to be ensnared by a woman, who fatally weakened his creative essence. He was freed by her death, but by then it was too late and he clung to the memory of his destruction and foolishly knelt before Hades to beg for her life. In the end, he proved unable to rescue her from Hades and his talent and prospects, so bright in the beginning, were damaged beyond repair. His puny skill flickered and died, along with his life.
Calliope, in her maternal grief, set her son’s lyre in the heavens to mark his short life and unrealized potential. The lyre had been made by Hermes himself from a tortoise shell, and was imbued with sexual potency, longevity and wisdom.
As Seren grew to manhood and rumor of his enchanted words and music spread, the muse Euterpe, Calliope’s sister, recognized a talent greater than had ever come before and realized the true master of the lyre had not been its original owner after all. Certainly, it had failed to provide longevity. She did not wish to reawaken Calliope’s grief, so she surreptitiously removed the lyre from the heavens, substituting other stars in its place to hide its absence, and presented it to Seren.
The lyre leapt into his arms, recognizing its true owner, a worthy master at last, and the poet’s voice and fingers entwined sensuously with the strings. Ever since then Seren, a star fallen to earth with a tongue enchanted by the Gods and faeries, travels with his lyre. They say his words are starlight and sunlight; the sea, stones and trees whisper their stories to him, and he is the greatest bard who ever lived.”
Seren played a last melody, letting it slowly die away in the silent building. The listening faces were rapt. The fat woman with the unattractive hair next to Rose Red had tears on her cheeks and her dark eyes burned with emotion. Admiration, no doubt. He hoped she was not going to conceive some sort of embarrassing passion for him.
After a moment, someone began clapping, and a wave of applause and cheering washed through the room. Seren, displaying his lyre, smiled and bowed.
He was thirsty. He’d forgotten to ask for water to be provided. He frowned. It was inappropriate for him to walk into the kitchen and help himself. Clarissa, as though reading his mind, rose unobtrusively, skirted the crowd, and returned in a moment with a large cup of Rowan Tree’s excellent water. He accepted it and rewarded her with a smile. She smiled back and settled into her seat again without fuss or calling attention to herself. He approved. Perhaps she’d been chastened enough.
He drank, and then strummed the lyre and began the next story.