Follow, oh follow, to Azmodel,
to the garden where roses bleed!
Hark to pipes of the last appel –
melody, threnody, break the spell –
vanquish the flame of the stars that fell –
call up the Night where the shadows dwell –
philomel, Caspiel, toll the knell –
too late to look back, too vain to foretell –
drink of the brine in the wishing-well –
dance in the footsteps of Jezebel
to the place where the demons feed!
And there she was, as he had known she would be – Bridie, his Bridie, dancing through the horde on feet that seemed hardly to touch the ground, her hair floating like vapour, her eyes alight with reflected fire. She was naked, and her white body was the only pure thing in the valley; it seemed to him she shone like a fallen star. And dancing with her was the village idiot, but he looked no longer foolish: horns branched from his hair and his face was a-gleam with wickedness. There was a wreath on her brow of flowers whose names O’Driscoll had once known: helleborine, witchfingers, old man’s deadnettle, forget-me-never. The rose-touched blossoms of maiden’s folly nestled in the hair between her thighs. He tried to reach her but the crowd came between them, surrounding him, sweeping him away – he saw the fool laughing, lifting her above him, above the whirl of the dance – saw her gazing down at her partner with an expression on her face he had never seen, never should see, not on her face, not his Bridie. Then she was falling, falling into his arms, and O’Driscoll was borne away on a spinning tide, carried like flotsam through the darkness, until at last the tumult abandoned him and he was cast like a drowned man upon another shore.
He awoke later, much later. The morning leaked faintly between the trees. He was lying on leaf mulch down in the hollow, beside the thicket with its empty arch. He rose slowly, like one who has had a fever, still sweating and dreaming in the aftermath, and wandered through the wood towards his home. Bridie was sleeping in the parlour where she had sat to wait up for him when she saw he was gone. There were tear-tracks on her cheek, for the fool had died in the night, and fading flowers in her hair, gathered for her by some village child. O’Driscoll stroked her face, very tenderly, not wishing to wake her. Then he wound her hair around her throat, and strangled her.
When he did not arrive at the forge the villagers came for him. They found him sitting there with Bridie in his arms. He would not speak for a long time. They hanged him, for what else could they do? But there was no satisfaction in it. On the last night he told the priest his story, and when he was dead, swinging from the oak-tree bough which creaked with the weight of him, the priest sent for the best carpenter in the county. Deep in the wood they set an arching lintel, a wooden door – a door without a wall, a portal going nowhere – and locked it with a key which the priest kept safe, binding it not with a spell but with a prayer, though in truth the priest did not know if prayer would be efficacious in such a case.
The years passed as years do, the decades became centuries, the woodland shrank to a coppice and the coppice was cut for firewood and houses grew where once there had been trees. The door was always locked, deep in a cellar now, and guardians kept the key, and other doors closed around it, and stairways and passages sprouted over it, and the djinn of Time yawned as the ages passed slowly by. The little lives of humans came and went, and with them were the stories, rumours, whispers of magic lands beyond the doors, glimpses of the past, visions of kingdoms that had never been. With rumour came fear, murmurs of things hiding in the dark, and enchantment that turned always to evil, so the house was untenanted, and the appointed guardian kept all intruders at bay, and in the end even curiosity was almost gone. The lost valley of Azmodel was forgotten, a thousand years forgotten, a tale penned only in the unread manuscript of a priest from long ago.
The world changed. Science and technology drove out superstition and magic. Folktale and fairytale were replaced by flickering screens and special effects and the cut-and-paste fantasies of a mechanical age. And one day a man came to the house, a man of the modern world with all its wisdom and knowledge, but the dreams of other days were in his eyes. The guardian welcomed him and gave him tea, as was the custom. Later, he gave him whisky. The modern world has many customs.
“The time has come,” the visitor said, “to talk of many things. Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, the fall of ancient kings. Of doors that are forever locked, and times when pigs had wings.”
And so they talked, and the man stayed in the ancient library a day, a week, a month, and read the fading manuscript which none had ever seen. Then he went to the guardian, and asked for the keys – the keys to the lands beyond the doors, and the one key, the oldest key, the key to the door which had stood unopened in an unused cellar for centuries beyond count.
“There are strange things in this house,” said the guardian. “I was appointed to keep watch so that nobody could enter, nobody could leave, nobody could be harmed. But who knows? It may all be rumour and fantasy. Fairyland has been locked and forgotten for a millennium and more.”
“Then there is nothing to fear,” said the visitor.
“True,” the guardian conceded. “Still… if the phantoms exist, behind the door, in some other place, some other reality the thickness of a molecule from our own, they may not be pleased to find their sanctuary invaded after so long. It is said none has ever entered here to leave unscathed.”
“It is said by whom?” asked the visitor.
“Rumour,” sighed the guardian. “Rumour has a lot to say for itself. Nothing substantiated, of course. Tell me, why would you risk this venture?”
“Because,” said the visitor. And that was all.
They finished the whisky and the guardian gave him the keys, the keys to the house and the one key, the key to the door that was lost. The man took them, and weighed them in his hand, the hand of science, and contemporary wisdom, but the desire of things forgotten still flickered in his gaze.
“All I ask,” said the guardian, “is that when you are done, whatever your condition – though you look in the eyes of dragon or demon, though you love a fairy woman and your heart is lost forever, though the phantom hordes of Azmodel dance with you till you drop – bring back the keys. I conjure you, as the saying goes, by all that is most dear and most dreadful, bring back the keys.”
“I will not take them out of the house,” said the visitor, and the guardian smiled a wry smile.
Then the man took the keys, and entered the house, and was gone.
A month went by, and another month, and still the guardian waited. He wondered if he would wait a century and more – for such guardians are long-lived – if the man would emerge at last white-haired, aged with horrors, or mysteriously young, spell-preserved, while all the world had gone on without him. But on Midsummer’s Eve the man returned, a man of the modern world, and gave the guardian back his keys. The man’s hair was not white, nor his face aged, and there was neither enchanted youth nor madness in his steady look. But the dreams of other days sat behind his eyes.
“So what did you see?” asked the guardian.
“This and that,” said the visitor, and he drank the tea he was offered. The customary tea. A bird that sang in the garden was only a bird, and a bee that buzzed on a flower had no human visage.
“Who are you,” the guardian said, “to enter the house, and leave, with no tale to tell, no shadow in your face, no gibbering saga of nightmare and delirium? Does the house stand empty now – have the phantoms fled – is my guardianship defunct?”
“No,” said the man. “Keep the keys. Let no one in. Your task is unchanged.”
And he held his teacup with a hand that did not shake.
“What did you seek there?” the guardian persisted, intrigued beyond curiosity. “What kind of a man are you, to cross the forbidden boundary, risking murder or madness, and return without a whitened hair, without an added line to your face?”
The visitor smiled. “I am a writer,” he said.
Come then, oh come to fair Azmodel –
to the garden where stories grow!
Hark to the call of the notes that swell
from pipesong and swansong and sleeping dell –
follow the dream to the doors of Hell,
rattle the knocker and shake the bell –
none to resist and none to compel –
rhapsody, tantivvy, crack the shell –
hatch the demon and catch the spell!
Dance in the footsteps of Tinkerbell
Down to the World Below!
Mountain Tea
Sandra Unerman
The three suitors met by chance at the inn and scowled at one another. One, Lord Pertinax, was middle-aged, strong and swarthy, the second, Sir Lambert was young, tall and fair-haired, and the third, Sir Rufus, was a red-head, ageless, smooth and thin. All were dressed in multi-coloured finery, with jewelled pins in their hats and ribbons on their sleeves. Their hair and beards were perfumed and their gloves were new. So they wasted no time trying to mislead one another about their purposes. They sat together over breakfast and Lord Pertinax said,
“Where are you off to?”
Sir Lambert smiled. “To the House with the Golden Pavement, to court the Lord Mayor’s daughter. And you?”
Lord Pertinax nodded and said,
“She will live in a castle newly built, if she marries me, and be lady over the finest farms and orchards in the west country.”
Sir Lambert said, “I have brought the trophies from seven tournaments to lay at her feet. If she marries me, we will ride from city to city and I will wear her colours whenever I set my spear in the rest.”
Sir Rufus said, “I’ve heard some strange rumours about the lady. Do you know how many suitors she has refused so far?”
Lord Pertinax said, “A dozen or so. But they say her father is anxious for her to marry. He wants a capable son-in-law to help him in his ventures.”
Sir Lambert said, “I heard thirty. But her father’s fortune is the greatest in the city and she is his only heir.”
“Then why doesn’t her father pick a husband for her?” Sir Rufus asked.
Sir Lambert laughed. “They say he promised his wife on her deathbed that their daughter should be free to make her own choice. And there were witnesses, who told the whole city, so he cannot go back on his word without damage to his reputation.”
Lord Pertinax tugged his beard. “But surely she will be guided by her father’s advice?”
“Not so far,” Sir Lambert said. “Or she would already be married. She has refused her father’s friends as well as his enemies.”
Sir Rufus asked, “And have you heard what happens to her suitors afterwards?”
The other two looked at one another and shook their heads.
“Neither have I. She will entertain no wooing from a man she has not met, they say.”
“That’s reasonable.” Sir Lambert looked at his reflection in a polished pewter tankard and tilted his hat. Sir Rufus said,
“Maybe. But I can find nobody who has spoken to one of the men she has sent away.”
Lord Pertinax shrugged. “I dare say they’ve slunk home in shame. Why should we care about them?”
“I hoped to learn from their mistakes.”
Lord Pertinax grinned. “If you care to wait, I’ll come back here and tell you what I can. Only if I’m disappointed, of course. I’m going there this morning.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Sir Lambert.
Sir Rufus shrugged. “Let’s go together.”
They arrived at the house and were left to wait in the hall, where they saw plenty to admire. The walls were hung with hunting tapestries, the ceiling was painted with fiery clouds and the floor was marble, inlaid with a labyrinth of golden lines.
Presently a boy led them past the grand staircase and ushered them through a door. They looked round in some surprise, for this room did not match the splendours they had seen so far. It was unadorned and dim, panelled with grey wood and furnished with a bare table and rough-hewn stools. The light came from a meagre fire in a low hearth, beside which a woman stood, waiting to be noticed.
They bowed to her.
“Where is the lady?” Lord Pertinax asked.
“We have come to seek her hand in marriage,” said Sir Lambert. Sir Rufus did not speak but he smiled at the woman. She was small and plain, her clothes drab and coarse, her hair scraped back into a bun.
“I will tell you about the lady,” she said. “Sit down and drink some tea while you listen.”
She poured for them and sat down herself. She looked from one face to another and round again while she talked.
“When I was a child, I was very timid. I used to be too frightened to move if a cat looked at me and I could not touch the melted stumps of old candles, for fear they would burst back into life and burn me.”
Lord Pertinax said, “But about the lady?”
“Drink your tea and you will hear.”
He grunted his impatience but did as he was told.
The woman said, “I was not afraid of the dark but of bright lights and sudden movement. And noise: crows squawking, dogs barking, men shouting.” She looked now at the fire and went on. “As I grew up, I began to feel safer. I walked in the garden and the grass did not cut me. I was given a pony to ride and so long as I was gentle with him, he was patient with me. I worked hard to learn my lessons, in music, languages and accounts, and my teachers were pleased with me.”
Sir Rufus shifted in his chair and drew in a breath. But the woman looked at him and he sipped at the tea. She said,
“It has a refreshing taste, doesn’t it? Not sweet but cleansing.”
All three men put their cups to their lips and she turned back to the fire.
“I began to trust nature and learning. But other children teased me or laughed at me behind my back. A boy danced with me all evening once. I thought he was kind but I found out afterwards he had lost a bet to make me speak more than three words at a time. So when I was old enough to dream of love, I grew more afraid than ever. I was bound to be courted for my fortune and my father’s influence and I did not know how to tell a true lover from a false one.”
The men looked at one another and frowned. The woman said,
“I never learned how to judge people but there are other ways of making the right choice. When my grandmother died, I inherited a necklace, a long chain of golden flowers set with pearls and amethysts. I took it to the witch who lives in the mountains and begged for her help.”
The woman closed her eyes. “I lied to my father. I told him I was going to visit my aunt in the country and went myself to find the witch. My maid was horrified when I confided my plan to her but she was more afraid of staying behind to face my father than of coming with me. We took three of my father’s men-at-arms as an escort and they found us a guide who knew the mountains.
“The journey was the hardest I have ever endured and I was not sure I would survive it. We travelled on foot and all the paths looked indistinguishable among the black rocks, while the scrawny trees seemed to hide fierce, hungry eyes that waited for us to falter.”
Lord Pertinax said, thoughtfully, “This tea has a tang of the mountains.”
The woman opened her eyes. “All the better to quench your thirst,” she said and she refilled their cups. “One night, as we huddled together in the shelter of a hollow tree, a white wolf came and grinned at us. It sat down on the path and when it howled, its companions answered from above and below. The men argued about whether to go out to attack the wolves at once, before they could gather their full force, or to wait for daylight. They had swords but my maid and I carried only small knives. I did not want the men to leave us but we could not lie there all night with nothing to do but to listen to the howling of the wolves. So we sang the loudest songs we knew, battle songs and marching songs. And we flourished our weapons in the
moonlight until the wolves went away.”
Sir Rufus said, “You had need of this tea then, to keep you from despair.”
“Not as much as I have needed it since,” the woman said. “We went as quickly as we could but the weather turned even more quickly towards winter as we climbed higher up. One day we saw a mountain hare which had frozen to the ground where it couched, high above us on the mountainside. We would not have spotted it but for its golden eyes and its red ears, which flapped as it struggled to get free. We had not eaten fresh meat for many days. Before I could stop him, the youngest of my father’s men called out,
“One for the pot,” and scrambled up the slope to seize the hare. It mewed and then went stiff as he drew near. But when he pulled it free of the stones, it kicked out with its hind legs. The youngster lost his balance and fell to his death but the hare ran free.”
Sir Lambert said, “It tastes of sorrow, this tea.”
“And of many other things.” The woman poured again. “See how many flavours you can find.”
“The guide led us well and the rest of us reached the witch’s cave in safety. She was rougher than I expected: a great, heavy woman wrapped in bundles of felt, with a face as pale and round as the full moon. She seemed more than half asleep and she did not want to let us in.
Legends: Stories in Honor of David Gemmell Page 22