The Thorn and the Blossom: A Two-Sided Love Story

by Theodora Goss

  “Well, everyone needs some spoiling. And we’re glad to see you again, Mr. Davies and me. How’s your book going?”

  It was going better than she had expected. Fall semester had been difficult. Each time she’d taught Brendan’s Chaucer seminar, she’d gone home and cried, sitting on the bathroom floor or wrapped in a blanket on the front porch. Dr. Birnbaum had referred her to a psychiatrist in Richmond, a Dr. Singh, who had told her “Call me Indira” and who practiced holistic medicine. She’d said, “These hallucinations of yours—are they disrupting your life or is the disruption caused by your response to them? Lots of people claim to have seen spirits, Evelyn. It’s practically the national literature of Ireland. Some of them may be schizophrenic; we don’t know. But unless the hallucinations are disrupting how you function—unless you think the fairies want you to spy for the CIA—they’re not dangerous. You need to put them in perspective and go on with your life. If they are disruptive, we can put you back on the medication, as long as you promise to take no more than I prescribe. That last overdose could have caused serious problems. But maybe we should try management instead of medication for a while.”

  Evelyn had to laugh. “No, no one’s asked me to be a magical CIA operative … yet.” Dr. Birnbaum would probably have a fit, but Dr. Singh—Indira—was right. The hallucinations themselves had never actually hurt her. So she was crazy. Maybe she just had to accept that about herself, learn to deal with it. Move on.

  Spring semester had been better, but when the crocuses came up and the forsythia started blooming all over campus, she started feeling restless. She went to see Michael Fitch and said, “What if I didn’t publish my dissertation? What if I published something else instead?”

  “Like what?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and looking dubious.

  “Like another book of poetry.”

  “I don’t know, Evelyn. I’m not sure that’s what the tenure committee will be looking for.” She didn’t tell him what the tenure committee could do to itself, but she thought it, feeling exhilarated and frightened, knowing that for the first time since she’d gone to Oxford she was about to do not what anyone else expected of her, but what she, Evelyn Morgan, wanted.

  She Googled “Giant’s Head” and discovered that the inn was still there, still run by Mr. and Mrs. Davies. She called to make a reservation, then bought the plane ticket. This time she was going to Clews for more than a week—for at least a month, perhaps longer, as long as it would take her to write a book. She’d told Brendan that she was trying to write, and then what had happened? Nothing. She’d been so wrapped up in him, and then in his disappearance, that the notebook with The Lady of Shalott on the cover was still blank. But if she was going to write anywhere, it was in Clews. She had known that instinctively. And she’d been right.

  Evelyn drank her tea, spread marmalade on a scone, and looked down at the notebook. On the first day she had arrived in Clews, she’d sat down at the desk in her room and written TEN LIVES at the top of the first page. The notebook would eventually contain ten poems—she was working on the ninth. Each poem described one of Elowen’s lives: the first as queen of Cornwall, then each of the lives she had lived after that. In some she met Gawan again; in others she did not. But in each one she learned something; each one allowed her to become a more complete person. During her ninth life, Elowen was a school teacher in the American South during the civil rights marches. Her tenth life—well, Evelyn wasn’t yet sure what Elowen’s tenth life was going to be. Perhaps she would make her a college professor, give her aspects of Evelyn’s own life. That would be nicely self-referential, wouldn’t it?

  After tea, she always went for a walk. Where would she go today? She knew the perfect place. She ran down the stairs, just as she had so many years ago to meet Brendan Thorne. Sometimes she imagined what it would be like to see him at the bottom of the stairs, but she always put the thought out of her head. She had come to Clews not for Brendan, but for herself. She laughed at the thought of meeting herself at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Someone’s happy today,” said Mr. Davies.

  And he was right, she thought, walking up the main street, past the shops that sold knitting wool and antiques. The tobacco shop had been replaced by a store that sold computers and cell phones. And Thorne & Son—this was the only part of her walk that always caused her pain—had been replaced by a chain bookstore, with a café downstairs and the latest best sellers and magazines on the shelves. Today she stopped and looked in the front window, gazing at the people sitting in the café, drinking their fancy coffees. It was the tourist season, and Clews was much busier than it had been the first time she’d visited. She liked to talk about the tourists disparagingly with Mr. and Mrs. Davies, as though she were one of the locals.

  That man in the corner, hunched over his laptop, typing. His hair was cut short, but the back of his neck reminded her—that was how Brendan had looked, so often, when he was working late at night. She wondered what the man was typing with such concentration. Probably just e-mails.

  It was a beautiful day. She’d been up the hill many times now and didn’t need help making it to the top, to Gawan’s Court. The silence always surprised her. There was no sound of traffic, of buses pulling up and depositing tourists in front of the Norman church. Just birdsong.

  She sat on one of the fallen stones and looked at the sea sparkling in the sunlight. The ninth life would end sadly, with grief and loss. But the tenth life—perhaps that life would end well. Perhaps Elowen would find Gawan again. Sappy, yes. But then, real life was sometimes sappy. She always carried the notebook with her, in case she came up with ideas like this one. Now she pulled it out of her bag and jotted down, finally … Gawan?

  When fall came, she would try to find Brendan again. Perhaps he would have contacted the department; perhaps he would be teaching somewhere and would show up on a Google search. Somehow, she would find him. She had faith in that. In the meantime, she had her book, and the growing sense that she was finally becoming the person she should have been all along, the self she’d been looking for when she applied to the program at Oxford, decided on English literature instead of law school, smiled up at Brendan and told him that, yes, she would love to go out to dinner. Becoming Evelyn Morgan, or E. R. Morgan, or any of the selves she would be in the years to come.

  Today, sitting on the fallen stone, with the sun warming her shoulders and the sea sparkling in the distance, that was enough. She opened her notebook and jotted down, tenth life—not peace, but fulfillment.

  Brendan saw her before she saw him, a girl about his own age, wearing a gray cardigan, faded jeans, and sneakers. She had long auburn hair in a braid down her back, and she was standing in front of the antiques shop, looking into the window. He was trying to decide whether to approach her and say hello—he was usually shy around women, especially attractive ones, but she looked like a tourist and he could at least ask if she needed directions—when he saw her turn and walk toward the bookstore.

  He ducked into the alley between the bookstore and the pub, ran toward the garden, and entered through the back door, letting it shut behind him with a bang. He’d spent the entire morning in this room, which his father used as an office. A desk occupied one corner, but most of it was filled with books. There were books in shelves reaching to the ceiling, books on a large table where his father showed clients his oldest manuscripts, books in boxes on the floor. He was supposed to be cataloging those books and had gone through about half of them when the dust had become too much for him and he’d gone over to the pub for a pint of beer, which he’d drunk with a couple of the boys he’d gone to school with, here in Clews.

  They were fishermen now, like most of the men in Clews. He still felt he was one of them, but he knew that, when they spoke to him, they didn’t speak as freely as they did among themselves. He’d become too different, young Brendan Thorne who had gone off to Oxford and was now working toward a graduate degree in English literature. On the one ha
nd, they respected his learning and would refer questions to him—about politics, for example, which he knew almost nothing about. On the other hand, what sort of profession was that for a man, reading books? Not like going out to sea, risking your life every day to bring home the fish in nets, as their fathers and grandfathers had done before them. Most of them already had wives, and several had children on the way. When he was with them, he felt both at home and as though he were a stranger who’d come to this town—one of the summer visitors. Well, he was a summer visitor now, spending the school year at Oxford. It was always strange, coming back to the place where he’d grown up—the Anglican church, the main street and its shops, the harbor bustling with fishing boats. Farms still surrounded the town, because Clews had never grown. Unlike Pengarth, which had a big hotel and a historical museum displaying a gold ship that had been dug up on Pen Tor.

  He opened the office door, walked through, and said, “Were you looking for something specific?” It wasn’t a brilliant line, but it was the only one he could think of at the moment.

  She was holding a book that he knew—because that was the sort of thing he’d grown up knowing—was worth about fifty pounds. He could hear his father’s voice: Kindly place that book back on the shelf, young lady. Could see his frown above the spectacles he’d worn as long as Brendan remembered.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Here. I was just looking at it.”

  He couldn’t help grinning. She was an American, then. He’d always wanted to go to America. She had warm brown eyes and freckles—light ones—across her nose. She was even more attractive than he’d thought when he had seen her standing in the street. Strands of hair had escaped from her braid, and they curled around her face.

  “You’re allowed to look at the books, you know,” he said. “This is a bookstore.”

  She didn’t answer, and for a moment there was an awkward silence. “I gather you’re not from around here,” he said.

  She laughed. He liked her laugh: it was natural and friendly. That didn’t necessarily mean anything with girls. They could laugh for any reason or no reason at all. It didn’t mean they liked you or wanted to go to the pub for a pint with you. But he wanted to hear her laugh again, wanted to keep her standing there among the books.

  “What gave me away,” she said, “the accent?”

  “Yes, and I already know all the pretty girls in Clews. Where are you from, then?” He couldn’t believe he’d just said that. He never flirted with girls—at least, not successfully. And she had a look on her face, as though she couldn’t quite believe he’d said it, either. He thought American girls were used to getting compliments?

  “Boston. And, no, I don’t know any of the Celtics.”

  She turned as though to go. He wished he could think of something more interesting to say, so he could keep her talking. “Have you seen the town yet?” he asked. “I imagine you have, if you’ve been up the main road. There isn’t much more to it than that, except Gawan’s Court.”

  “Mrs. Davies mentioned—what is it called?”

  “So you’re staying at the Giant’s Head. Not that there’s anywhere else to stay in Clews.” The inn had been run by Mr. and Mrs. Davies for as long as he could remember. “Come on, then. It’s only a couple of miles. Are you up for a bit of a hike?”

  He had grown up playing on the hilltop, with its circle of standing stones. After he left for university, a team of archaeologists had dug there, hoping to find something like the gold ship that had been found on Pen Tor. They’d unearthed nothing, and he was glad. An archaeological find would have made Gawan’s Court less magical for him. He wanted it to stay what it was: the place where Gawan and Elowen had fought the giants.

  “What about the store?” she said. “Won’t you get in trouble for leaving?”

  “The store will take care of itself,” he said. His father would be furious if he found out. But how would he? He was in London at one of those book fairs. Brendan had spent his childhood at book fairs, estate auctions, bookstores all over Great Britain. They had taught him that he loved books, just not selling them. He would have to tell his father that—soon. “Anyway, I’m the son, of Thorne and Son. Brendan Thorne, at your service.”

  “Evelyn Morgan,” she said, holding out her hand. She had what he thought of as an American handshake, firm and direct.

  “Come on, then,” he said. “And you might want to button your cardigan. It’s windy up there.”

  “Up where?” she asked.

  “You’ll see!” He held the door open for her and locked it behind them.

  They walked up the main street, past the shops and then the houses, along the winding road he knew so well. By the time they reached the hill, he could tell she was getting tired. He had to help her up the last part of the path, where it was steepest. He was glad that it gave him an excuse to hold her hand.

  “You’d get used to it, if you grew up here,” he said.

  “Oh!” she said, looking around. She seemed impressed. This had been his favorite place as a boy. He still remembered the story his father had told him, about how the giant Magill had come to Cornwall with his son Magog, his daughter Morva, and the rest of his giant family. How they had destroyed the countryside, trampling crops, eating the cows and sheep, drinking from the rivers until they were almost dry. The Cornish knights had fought bravely, but they were always defeated. Either the giants would bludgeon them or Morva, who was a sorceress, would turn them into pigs. He still remembered laughing at the idea of a bunch of pigs running around in armor. Then Elowen, queen of Cornwall, had ridden to the court of King Arthur and asked the knights of the Round Table to fight the giants. Only Gawan, the bravest of them all, had volunteered.

  Evelyn was walking around, looking at the stones. Suddenly, she seemed to be standing in a halo of light. Brendan rubbed his eyes, but still he saw her standing there, the light all around her, as though it were a robe she was wearing, a crown on her head. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone.

  “There’s a legend about this place,” he said, wondering what had just happened.

  “Tell me,” she said, sitting on one of the fallen stones. He sat beside her and looked down toward Clews. From the hilltop, you could see all the way to the harbor. He glanced at her, but she looked like a perfectly ordinary, although remarkably pretty, girl.

  He told her about the giants, about Elowen riding to Arthur’s court and Gawan returning to Cornwall with her. About the suit of armor Elowen had given him, made of green metal shaped like leaves. It was magical and protected him from Morva’s sorcery. “Am I boring you?” he asked.

  “Not at all. I took a class on medieval literature at Oxford. We studied Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, but this story sounds different.” The way she said it, he could tell she thought he was a local boy, not someone who would ever be a graduate student at Oxford.

  He smiled. “Oxford, is it? Very impressive.” He had published an article on the similarities between Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Gawan’s story. “This story was written in Cornwall around the thirteenth century. It’s a sort of long poem in medieval Cornish.” Which he’d learned specifically so he could translate the story himself. “It was translated into English in the nineteenth century, but it’s still largely unknown outside this area. My dad used to tell it to me when I was a boy.”

  “So what happened? Did they win?”

  He told her the story as his father had told it to him each night before he fell asleep. “Oh, they won, all right. The giants gathered on this hill, surrounding Gawan and Elowen. Gawan fought bravely, but even he couldn’t conquer them alone. Finally, fearing that he would be defeated despite his magical armor, Elowen cast a spell. It was the strongest she had, and it turned the giants to stone. Then Gawan lopped off their heads. One is supposed to have landed in Clews, right where the Giant’s Head stands today. There’s a rock in the garden that Mrs. Davies claims is the giant’s head itself. But after lopping off all those stone heads, Gaw
an noticed that Elowen had collapsed. The spell had taken all her strength, and she lay dying. She promised him that they would be together again, that death could not defeat their love. But Morva had fallen in love with Gawan as well, and she was unaffected by Elowen’s magic. Upon seeing them pledging their love to each other, she shrieked with anger and cast her own curse: Elowen could not be with the man she loved for a thousand years. With her last breath, Elowen told Gawan that she would be with him again after the thousand years had passed:

  Have patience, love, and we shall meet again

  As surely as wild roses have their thorns

  For weary years eventually pass.”

  That was from the nineteenth-century translation by Ewan Tregillis, who had been the minister of the Anglican church in Pengarth. “It’s not a great translation,” he said. “Very Victorian.”

  For his article, Brendan hadn’t translated the entire poem. But he could—and should, he suddenly realized. For the past year he’d been wondering what to do for his doctoral thesis, whether he should expand his article into a book. But this idea—a new translation of The Tale of the Green Knight—was perfect.

  “That’s terrible! Not the translation, I mean. The idea. A thousand years!”

  “At least she’d know he truly loved her,” he said. Instantly, he regretted the words. She was going to think he was some sort of romantic sap.

  “I suppose. Still, who wants to wait around that long for a boyfriend?”

  Yes, he’d done it. Put himself into the romantic-sap category. “Come on,” he said. “I’m going to take you to the pub for some real Cornish cider.” There was nothing romantic or sappy about that.

  They descended the hill and walked to the pub together. Sitting in a dark booth, she told him about herself, growing up in Boston, going to Harvard. Her father was a lawyer; her mother seemed to spend most of her time attending board meetings and organizing charity events. And then she described her semester at Oxford.