Taliesin

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The cold rain squalls of the last days passed in the night and spring returned. Charis lay some moments in her bed, feeling light in body and spirit, and remembered that she had not eaten a bite the day before, nor the day before that. She was hungry but also felt unburdened, as if the weight of misery had dissolved in the night and melted away like the storm clouds. Although nothing had changed at all.

She was still unsure of her love for Taliesin, still unsure of her Belief in the new god, still very much alone, and still very restless. Her first thought was to rise, saddle her horse at once, and ride out into the hills-to ride and never stop riding, to lose herself in the brooding glory of green earth and deep sky.

Pausing for bread and cheese and a mouthful of wine on her way to the stables, she hurried through the courtyard and met Morgian, sulky and bristling with inarticulate menace. “I have no quarrel with you, Morgian,” Charis told her. “But let us have an understanding.”

“An understanding? How so, sister?” she asked slyly.

“About Taliesin. He has declared his love for me, and it is his wish that we should be married. Now I tell you in all honesty, I do not know if I love hire or not. I do not think that I do. Very likely we will never be married”

Morgian’s smile had much in it of the cat whose claws have just closed around the mouse. “So, you adm-”

“But,” Charis cut her off, “whether we are married or not I forbid you to interfere in our affairs.”

“If you do not love him, why do you care?” inquired Morgian.

The question went by Charis at the time. But later, as she let her gray horse have its head to plod along the brome-edged hilltrack, she found herself pondering the same question: Why do I care?

She turned the question over in her mind, listening to the slow clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the damp dirt. Is not love born of caring? In truth, are they not one and the same thing?

Lost in thought, she crested the hill and started down the other side, passing by a dense blackthorn thicket. A sharp, keening cry jarred her out of her trance. She jerked the reins and listened. A soft rustling sounded in the blackthorn just ahead.

Charis stepped from the saddle and walked to the thicket. Kneeling, she peered in among the tight-woven branches. It was too dark to see much, but something was there in the shadows. Carefully she bent back the top layers of leaves. The piercing scream split the air and the blackthorn shook with fury. Charis released the branch, but she had seen what lay within: a small hawk, trapped in the thorns.

She parted the leaves once more and slowly, slowly reached in. The bird struggled, tossing its head and kicking its legs, but its wings were pinned by the thorns and held fast.

“There, bright one,” Charis soothed, reaching her free hand toward the hawk. “Be still; I will not hurt you.”

The bird slashed at Charis’ fingers with its talons and beak. She withdrew the hand. “Shhh, easy now. I am your friend.” The hawk screamed again and struck out at her, its red-rimmed eye glaring proud defiance. Charis had no choice but to sit back on her heels until the rage had subsided.

In a few moments the hawk grew quiet again and Charis raised her hand toward it. Slowly, gently, she edged her fingers closer. The hawk let her fingertips brush its feathers and then it stabbed at her with its sharp beak. “Ow!” The beak grazed her forefinger.

This cat-and-mouse game continued for some time with the hawk repulsing each of Charis’ advances. But she persisted- talking to it, soothing it, willing it to respond to her concern.

“What am I going to do with you? I cannot leave you here like this… You will die,” she told the hawk. The bird screamed in reply but not so loudly as before, and Charis noticed that its thrashing was weaker as well.

“So,” she told it, “you have been here for some time. I thought so. The gale swept you into the thicket and here you are-you cannot free yourself and must have help. Now, be still and let me help you.” The bird stared at her with a round bright eye but did not struggle this time; it lay still and let her hand close around its body.

Gently she worked the wings free and pulled the hawk from its prison. Its wings and back were light gray, its underside a soft cream color blushing red; dark points like tiny daggers were scattered over its chest, back, wings, and head; there was a wide black band across its tail and the tips of each wing.

“There, you see?” she told it, holding it close and stroking it, her voice low, calming. “You are free. Now I will let you go-“

Charis walked a few paces from the thicket, turned into the breeze, and raised the bird in her hands. The hawk leapt free, struggled into the air and fell, one wing beating the air furiously, the other half-folded and limp. The bird struck the ground a short distance away. She ran to it.

“I am sorry, bright one! You are hurt. Let me see.” She stooped to pick it up again and the hawk slashed with its beak, catching Charis on the fleshy part of her hand between thumb and finger. “Ouch!” The nip was clean and the blood flowed instantly.

“Not a very grateful bird, are you?” she said, raising her injured hand to her mouth. “How can I help you if you will not let me?”

The hawk gave the keening cry again and struggled forward, hobbling through the tall grass, its injured wing dragging uselessly along.

“Where will you run to?” Charis called after it. “Look at you. You are hurt and weak from hunger. You cannot hunt to feed yourself; you cannot even fly. There is no one else to save you. You will die out here, bright one.”

It ran as far as it could go, but the effort proved too much and it stopped, looking back at her, head low, panting through its open beak.

Charis ran to it and stood over it. “Will you let me help you?” The hawk, exhausted, lowered its head and flopped forward in the grass. Charis gently gathered it up and the hawk, too weak to struggle any more, allowed itself to be handled. It closed its eyes and settled into the crook of her arm.

Upon reaching the palace, Charis took the hawk directly to her room and put it on her bed. She went in search of Lile and found her in the herb garden on her hands and knees, pushing seeds into a patch of wet ground.

“Lile,” said Charis, “I have found an injured bird. Would you come see it, please?”

“An injured bird?” Lile wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “You cannot heal birds. You should have left it where it was,” she said and went back to her digging.

“It would have died,” explained Charis.

“Yes, that is what happens. Most wild things cannot be healed, birds among them. They die.”

“It is not that kind of bird,” replied Charis. “It is a hawk. I think its wing is broken; it cannot fly.”

“A hawk?” Lile appeared interested and then shrugged. “Still, I can do nothing for it.”

“Oh, at least come and see it,” insisted Charis. “I doubt if it is badly hurt-just the wing. And it is weak from hunger.”

Lile rubbed her hands on her yellow mantle and got up. “Very well, I will look at your hawk. But you must promise that if there is nothing to be done you will have it killed directly. It is not right to let a creature suffer needlessly.”

“I promise,” agreed Charis. “Come; it is in my room.” They hurried off together.

Lile settled on the edge of the bed and studied the hawk carefully. It made no move when she reached to touch it and even allowed her to examine its damaged wing without resisting. “The wing is broken,” she said. “This little merlin has flown its last, I fear.”

“No!” Charis protested in alarm. “You can heal it, surely. Please, Lile, you must try.”

Lile sighed and frowned at the gray-feathered lump skeptically. “Well, I will do what can be done. But I do not hold much hope for the bird. Even if you can keep it alive, it will likely never fly again-which is hardly a kindness.” She left the room, saying, “I will bring my things. Meanwhile, go and instruct the stableboys to catch a mouse or two but not to kill them. From now on we will want as many rats and mice, alive, as they can catch. And bring a bowl of fresh water.”

Charis did as she was told and returned as Lile was binding the wing with linen strips. There were feather clippings scattered on the bed, and the hawk’s head was wrapped in a linen band. “What have you done?” demanded Charis.

Without looking up, Lile explained, “I covered the bird’s head so that he would not struggle. The pinions had to be clipped so that he will not try to fly before the wing is healed. I have joined the broken bones as well as I could and have bound the wing. Now if we can keep the creature fed and quiet, he may be saved.” She sat back and viewed her handiwork. “That is as much as anyone can do. The rest is up to the bird.”

Charis sat down and began stroking the hawk’s head. “Thank you, Lile. He will recover,” she said with conviction. “I will see to it.”

“Perhaps,” said Lile, unconvinced. She began gathering up her bandages and utensils. “We will see.”

A few days later Taliesin returned to Ynys Witrin. He skirted the Tor and rode directly to the shrine. Dafyd met him at the spring, where he tied his horse and walked with him up the hill. “It is good to see you, Taliesin. Will you eat with us? We were just about to break bread.”

They sat down together and Collen brought out bowls with boiled rabbit and onions and fresh-baked bread. They prayed and began eating and Taliesin told about coming to the land Avallach had given them. “There is a ruined caer on a high hill which can defend the land as far as a man can see. It is an excellent stronghold in the center of fine woodlands and fields. Any king would be fortunate to have it, but it has not been inhabited for many years and there is much to be done-shelters to raise, fields to clear, livestock to tend, and a thousand other tasks large and small to make the holding secure.”

Dafyd noticed that the young man’s eyes kept straying toward the Tor in the distance and so tried to ease his mind by talking on about how the shrine would appear when finished and how the worship there would soon begin.

Taliesin did not hear a word, so Dafyd said at last, “But you did not come to hear me prattle on about the shrine. If you want word of Charis, you must ask her yourself. We have not seen the lady.”

Taliesin shook his head glumly and told Dafyd what had taken place the night Avallach had visited the Cymry camp, “So you see,” he concluded, “the matter is unresolved between us, and I am not welcome in the Fisher King’s palace or I would go myself.”

“Yes, I see,” said Dafyd. “Would it help if I were to bear a message to her?”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Dafyd dipped his hand into the bowl for another loaf, took it, and tore it. “Well then, let us finish eating and I will go.”

Taliesin jumped up and pulled the priest by the arm. “Eat when you return.”

“Oh, very well,” the priest agreed. “I am going. Lend me your horse and I will be that much quicker away and that much sooner back.”

They walked back down the hill and Dafyd mounted the black, saying, “What message shall I bring her?”

“Tell her I will wait for her in the orchard Below the Tor. She is to meet me there.”

Dafyd rode to the Tor across the earthen causeway and up the steep, winding track to the palace gate. He was admitted without ceremony and entered the courtyard, where he dismounted and stood looking around for a moment. Yet again he was impressed with the grandeur that surrounded him-so unlike anything he had ever seen before, even in Constantinople.

He could see why Avallach’s people were called Fair Folk by their Briton neighbors: everything about them was strange and splendid-as if indeed they had come from another world. Perhaps the tales of the Westerlands were true; perhaps, as whispered by the hill folk, Avallach was the Faery King from the Isle of the Ever Living. Stranger things were possible.

This was not the first time Dafyd had entertained these thoughts. But the feeling behind them-that in setting foot on the Tor he was stepping into a world apart-that feeling was stronger now than at any time he could remember.

It would, he reflected as he contemplated the graceful stonework of the palace, take very little convincing to Believe that there was strong magic behind all he saw.

And yet, he knew Avallach and knew him to be a mortal man-had been befriended by him, had shared meat and drink with him, had slept under his roof, had baptized him in the lake that lapped at the grassy feet of the Tor. And although he and Collen had momentarily mistaken Charis for a vision of the Holy Mary-the recollection made him smile-it was a perfectly logical error, one anyone might make under the circumstances: they were tired and hungry from their long journey, apt to see anything; and besides, one rarely encounters such beauty in the world. Certainly they were not expecting to find anyone, let alone one so fair, guarding the shrine. The mistake was most natural.

Upon reaching the portico, he became aware of eyes watching him. He stopped and waited. Out of the shadows stepped the maid Morgian, hands folded before her, a demure smile touching her lips. He returned the smile but felt a watery chill strike through him.

“You are come to see Charis,” Morgian said, still smiling.

“Yes. Tell me, if you know, is she in her chamber?”

“She is. She has been expecting you this day.”

Dafyd’s eyebrows knitted in surprise. “How so? Until a short while ago I had no thought to come at all.”

Morgian inclined her head slightly, as if listening to someone standing beside her. “So you say.”

“Will you take me to her?” Dafyd gestured at the great brazen door which stood open. Morgian looked to the doorway but made no move toward it.

“You have come about Taliesin.”

“In truth I have.”

Morgian’s face clouded and she advanced slowly toward the priest. A thin tendril of fear snaked out and touched Dafyd’s heart. “She does not love Taliesin,” Morgian told him, her voice low and threatening.

“She told you this?” Dafyd had the sudden and inexplicable urge to flee.

“She has told everyone-even the singer himself, but he will not listen. She told him she would not come. He waits in vain.”

“I would like to see Charis now.”

Morgian nodded gravely. “Then you had better follow me.” She started toward the door, took a few steps, and then hesitated. “Perhaps I can help the singer.”

“Perhaps,” replied Dafyd, “but I will speak with Charis first and then we will see.”