The Bitterbynde Trilogy (82 page)

‘Even more extraordinary was the fact that the old woman could only see all these marvels with her left eye. When she closed that eye and looked with her right, she saw everything as it had first appeared: the rough stone walls, the humble couch of rushes, the crude, unplaned furniture, and the floor of beaten dirt.

‘Prudently, she did not mention her acquired faculty of vision, but while she dwelled in the cave she kept her left eye open during her waking hours, although it was sometimes confusing, and she must repeatedly wink with the right—and in this fashion she came to acquire much information about the Faêran.

‘At length it came time for the midwife to go home. The tall stranger took her on horseback to her door, and once there he pushed into her hands a purse bulging with coins. Before she could thank him he was up on his horse and galloping away. Hurrying indoors she poured the money out on the kitchen table. A hill of gold gleamed before her eyes, and in great excitement she counted it. Soon she realised she had enough gold to keep herself and her husband in ease for the rest of their lives.

‘What with her wealth and her power of seeing through Faêran glamour, the old woman considered herself fortunate indeed. Wise enough to know that having the Sight and the gold would put her neighbours in awe of her and cultivate jealousy among them, she said nothing about it to anyone. Besides, it was well-known that the Faêran would be vexed if any kindness of theirs was revealed to all and sundry. She even concealed her faculty and her fortune from her husband, in case he should inadvertently betray the secrets.

‘Sometimes in Spring she would see the Faêran lords and ladies in the orchards, walking among the apple-blossom, or in Summer dancing within grassy rings under the night sky, and once she beheld a procession of lords and ladies on a Rade.'

‘A Rade?' interjected Rohain.

‘That is the term for a cavalcade of the Faêran, on their way to some entertainment, or else taking horse merely for the pleasure of the jaunt. The old woman would see them riding through the fields at dusk, with a gleam of light dancing over them more beautiful than sidereal radiance. Their long hair seemed threaded with the glint of stars and their steeds were the finest ever seen, with long sweeping tails and manes hung about with bells that the wind played on. A high hedge of hawthorn would have kept them from going through the cornfield, but they leaped over it like birds and galloped into a green hill beyond. In the morning she would go to look at the treaded corn, but never a hoof-mark was imprinted, nor a blade broken.

‘One day she happened to go earlier than usual to market, and as she went about her business amongst the booths and stalls she rounded a corner and came face-to-face with the tall stranger who had knocked at her door on that misty evening. Trying to cover her surprise, she put on a bold front and said, “Good morrow, sir. How fare Eilian and the bonny young boy?”

‘The stranger politely replied, with favourable tidings of his wife and child. Then he asked conversationally, “But with which eye do you see me?”

‘“With this one,” said the old woman, pointing to the left.

‘At that he laughed. Producing a bulrush, he put out her eye and was gone at once. She never saw any of the Faêran again.'

‘Fie!' exclaimed Rohain, sitting bolt upright. ‘Another severe and brutal punishment for a small fault. After all, the woman meant no harm—she merely rubbed her own eye, and that without forethought or malice! Why should she be blinded so painfully?'

‘Terrible was the revenge of the Faêran angered,' said Ercildoune. He swallowed a draught from his goblet.

‘The tale only serves to illustrate my point,' said the Duchess of Roxburgh.

Ercildoune laughed. ‘Alys views the Faêran race as through a black crystal,' he said. ‘To each his own thought. Mine is the opposite view.'

‘Ercildoune would discover benevolence in the Each Uisge himself,' rejoined the Duchess drily.

‘The girl Eilian must have thought well of the Faêran,' said Rohain.

‘That is likely,' replied the Duchess. ‘In the end, nonetheless, she was exiled from the Fair Realm for some minor transgression, and pined away to a miserable end.'

‘A harsh fate,' said Rohain presently.

‘But you must not judge without knowing all,' said the Bard. ‘That pining was not put on Eilian by the husband, or indeed by any of the Faêran—it was the inevitable effect of the Fair Realm on all mortals who entered it. No mortal could dwell for more than a short period within the Fair Realm and return to Aia without languishing thereafter, yearning ceaselessly to return, being filled with unutterable longing. The longer the stay, the fiercer the craving. This affliction was called the Langothe. Wilfred, bring more piment. Another story will illustrate.'

The lynx on the cushion stood up, yawned, disemboweled its bed, and settled again. Its master began another tale.

‘Perdret Olvath was a very pretty girl who lived in Luindorn. Being from a poor family, she made her living in service. It is said that she was a girl who liked to indulge in flights of fancy, or romance, as some would call it. Conscious of her own comeliness, she was also rather vain. Pretty women have a right to vanity, in this gentleman's humble opinion, but others would not agree. Perdret would take great care to dress herself as well as possible, in colourful, flattering clothes; she twined wildflowers in her hair and attracted the attention of all the young men, to the envy of the other lasses. She was also highly susceptible to flattery, and, being unsophisticated and without education, was unable to conceal this fact. If anyone praised her looks, her eyes would light up with pleasure.

‘Perdret having been without a situation for some time, her mother was anxious to see her employed. No positions were available in the local area, so she told her daughter that she must look further afield. The girl did not want to leave her village, but there was no choice. She packed her few meager possessions and set off.

‘She walked a long way, and everything seemed to be going well until she came to the crossroads on the downs, when she discovered that she knew not which road to take. She looked first one way and then another, until she felt mightily bewildered; should she choose some path at random or return home or stay where she was? Unable to decide, she sat down on a granite boulder and began in dreaming idleness to break off the fronds of ferns which grew in profusion all around. She had not sat long on this stone when, hearing a voice near her, she turned around and saw a handsome young man wearing a green silken coat covered with ornaments of gold.

‘“Good morrow, young maiden,” said he. “And what are you doing here?”

‘“I am looking for work,” said she.

‘“And what kind of work seek you, my pretty damsel?” said he with a charming smile.

‘“Any kind of work,” said she, quite dazzled. “I can turn my hand to many things.”

‘“Do you think you could look after a widower with one little boy?” asked the young man.

‘“I dote on children,” said Perdret. “And I am used to taking care of them.”

‘“I will hire you,” he said, “for a year and a day. But first, Perdret Olvath”—Perdret gaped in wonderment when she discovered the stranger knew her name, but he laughed. “Oh, I see, you thought I didn't know you, but do you think a young widower could pass through your village and not notice such a pretty lass? Besides,” he said, “I watched you one day combing your hair and gazing at your reflection in one of my ponds. You stole some of my perfumed violets to put in your lovely hair.”

‘Seduced by his winning ways, the girl was more than half inclined to accept his offer, but her mother had trained her to be careful. “Where do you live?” she asked.

‘“Not far from here,” said the young stranger. “Will you accept the place and come with me?”

‘“First, I would ask about wages.”

‘He told her that she could ask her own wages, whereupon visions of wealth and luxury rose before Perdret's eyes.

‘“But only if you come with me at once, without returning home,” he added. “I will send word to your mother.”

‘“But my clothes …” said Perdret.

‘“The clothes you have are all that will be necessary, and I'll put you in much finer raiment soon.”

“Well then,” Perdret said, “we are agreed!”

‘“Not yet,” said the stranger. “I have a way of my own, and you must swear my oath.”

‘A look of alarm spread across Perdret's face.

‘“You need not be afraid,” said the stranger very kindly. “I only ask that you kiss that fernleaf which you have in your hand and say, ‘For a year and a day I promise to stay.'”

‘“Is that all?” said Perdret, and she did so.

‘Without another word he turned and began to walk along the road leading eastward. Perdret followed him, but she thought it strange that her new master went in silence all the way. They walked on for a long time until Perdret grew weary and her feet began to ache. It seemed that she had been walking forever, and not a word spoken. The poor girl felt so exhausted and so dispirited that at last she began to cry. At the sound of her sobs, her new master turned around.

‘“Are you tired, Perdret? Sit down,” he said. Taking her by the hand, he led her to a mossy bank. Overwhelmed by this display of kindness, she burst out weeping. He allowed her to cry for a few minutes before he said, “Now I shall dry your eyes.”

‘Taking a sprig of leaves from the bank, he passed it swiftly across one of her eyes, then the other. Instantly her tears and all weariness vanished. Perdret realised she was walking again, but could not remember having left the bank.

‘Now, the way began to slope downwards. Green banks rose up on either side and the road passed swiftly underground. The girl was not a little apprehensive, but she had struck a bargain and was more frightened of going back than forward. After a time, her new master halted.

‘“We are almost there, Perdret,” he said. “But I see a tear glittering on your eyelid. No mortal tears may enter here.”

‘As before, he brushed her eyes with the leaves. They stepped forward and the tunnel opened out.

‘Before them spread a country such as Perdret had never before seen. Flowers of every hue covered the hills and valleys; the region appeared like a rich tapestry sewn with gems which glittered in a light as clear as that of the Summer sun, yet as mellow as moonlight. Rivers flowed, more lucid than any water she had ever seen on the granite hills. Waterfalls bounded down the hillsides, fountains danced in rainbows of brilliant droplets. Tall trees in belts and thickets bore both fruit and blossom at once. Ladies and gentlemen dressed in green and gold walked or sported, or reposed on banks of flowers, singing songs or telling stories. Indeed, it was a world more beautiful and exciting than words could describe.

‘Perdret's master took her to a stately mansion in which all the furniture was of pearl or ivory, inlaid with gold and silver and studded with emeralds. After passing through many rooms they came to one which was hung all over with snow-white lace, as fine as the finest cobweb, most beautifully worked with flowers. In the middle of this room stood a little cot made out of some beautiful seashell, which reflected so many colours that Perdret could scarcely bear to look at it. Sleeping in the cot was the sweetest little boy she had ever seen.

‘“This is your charge,” said the father. “You have nothing to do but wash him when he wakes, dress him and take him to walk in the garden, then put him to bed when he is tired. I am a lord in this land and I have my own reasons for wishing my boy to know something of human nature.”

‘Perdret began her duties and did them well and diligently. She loved the little boy and he appeared to love her, and the time passed away with astonishing swiftness. Strangely, she never thought of her mother—she never thought of her home at all. Dwelling in luxury and happiness, she never reckoned the passing of time.

‘But the period for which she had bound herself finally ended, and one day she woke up in her own bed in her mother's cottage. Everything seemed unfamiliar to her and she appeared unusually abstracted or foreign to all who saw her. She could evince no interest in meat or drink. At nights, instead of sleeping, she would go out under the stars and gaze up at them. Sometimes she would wander all night, barefoot, only to be found exhausted on her bed in the morning, unable to rise. She grew pale and thin and was hardly ever seen to smile. Numerous wise persons were called in to try to cure Perdret's ailment, and to all she told the same tale, about the Faêran lord, and the beautiful country and the baby. She being known for her fanciful turn of mind, some people said the girl was “gone clean daft” but at last an old carlin came to the cottage where Perdret lay on her bed.

‘“Now crook your arm, Perdret,” said the carlin. Perdret sat up and bent her arm, resting her hand on her hip.

‘“Now say, ‘I hope my arm may never come uncrooked if I have told ye a word of a lie.”'

‘“I hope my arm may never come uncrooked if I have told ye a word of a lie,” repeated Perdret.

‘“Uncrook your arm,” said the carlin.

‘Perdret stretched out her arm.

‘“It is the truth the girl is telling,” said the carlin. “She has been carried away by the Faêran to their country.”

‘“Will my daughter ever come right in her mind?” asked the mother.

‘“I can do nothing,” said the old woman, shaking her head. “Perhaps she will, in time.”

The Bard having finished his soliloquy, the Duchess added, ‘Anyway, it is told that Perdret did not get on very well in the world. She married, and never wanted for anything, but she was always discontented and unhappy, and she died young.'

‘Verily,' said the Bard, ‘some said she always pined after the Faêran widower. Others said she pined after the Fair Realm itself. No matter the reason, it was the Langothe that plagued her.'