The Apple and the Thorn

by Walter William Melnyk; Emma Restall Orr

  ~~~~~

  I had kissed her forehead and smiled, sharing with her all the certainty that I could afford, but the look in her eyes has stayed with me. Gwenlli does not question through a lack of trust, but she does not understand. That her feelings are shared by others on the islands of our sacred community only adds to my concern and, for a while, as Eos and I take the track through the southern meadows of summer grazing, I listen for guidance, my feet wakefully touching the land.

  We share few words on the journey. Stopping more often than I would wish, we now and then share a smile at how old limbs move so slowly, but I know that he stops for my sake and hides it to spare my pride. Where the track is muddy from the spring rains, he tries to help me, but he carries the basket in one hand and his staff in the other, and I smile and make my slow footsteps, singing to the land when my mind becomes distracted and my feet slip needlessly in the mud. On the stone wall that marks the edge of Henddol, we sit for a while and share some bread, watching the starlings chattering, and the grey tickits in the gorse. Half a dozen baby hares play in the grass, their bodies alive with the scents and sounds of the sloping meadow. Amidst the blackthorn, hazel and marsh willows, an alder stands tall and I lift a hand to show Eosaidh.

  “That’s where we’re heading, Eos.”

  He shields his eyes from the sun, now lifting through clear skies to our right.

  “And what’s there, Vivian?” His voice is washed with a blend of raw tenderness and affection.

  “A flat boat,” I smile. “We then make our way through the Bitter Marsh.”

  His face shows all that he is feeling, “You are tired. Do we need to do this, Vivi?”

  Again, he calls me Vivi.

  I wrap my cloak about me, “Let’s find the boat.”

  For a while he drove the boat, using the greased alder paddle and the strength of his body, but, with my heart so tender, each splash was a jolt upon those subtle bruises. Having crossed through open water, as we near the marsh again, I take the paddle from him despite his protestations, and turn the boat in the water so I am driving from the back. When at last he accepts, he too turns his body to watch the course that lies before us.

  Singing to the spirits, tears slide freely down my face, and I am grateful for the water’s soft and familiar embrace. The marsh sprites are curious, mischievous, tapping the sides of the boat, asking about Eos, who is he, who is he? and my songs play over the thick waters in reply. He says not a word, listening and watching, knowing that he’d not know how to make it through the tangle of paths alone, each as narrow as the boat, crisscrossing and hidden, disappearing through reeds and swamp weeds that whisper as we pass.

  At Y Gors Chwerw, I ask him to hold the boat still and he shudders, holding onto the reeds, turning to ask without words what is this awful place, and in the old language I murmur prayers to those who linger, souls caught in the slow water, trapped by the deep cleft in the earth beneath the marsh, spilling the bitterness of ancient bloodshed and the earth’s own grief like oil into the water. The songs of the dead rise around us as we move again through the dank and gloomy air and my voice rises with them until they are still. Eos shivers, his soul showing the anxiety his head hopes to hide. He sniffs, rubbing his nose on his sleeve, trying to be rid of the stench of rotting, and I paddle as silently as the water allows me, heading for the tall dead rushes.

  As we come close, he notices the bent willows and I smile with affection as his broad shoulders relax. Handing him the paddle, he digs into the earth beneath us, drawing the boat as far onto the shore as he can, then clambers out, dragging it up the mud. The three willows are ancient but, grown poorly in the bitter water, they are cracked and lean over upon each other, like sisterly crones, haggard and contriving malice.

  “Settle, spirits,” I whisper. “You know who I am.”

  Walking uphill into the forest, I am aware of Eos looking around with wide eyes, taking in the gnarled and twisted trees, dripping with lichens and mosses and ferns, none much taller than himself. A green woodpecker’s laughing call makes him jump and we exchange a smile.

  “It’s not far now.”

  It is heading down the other side of the hill that I stumble, my legs hopelessly tired. He drops his staff and takes my arm, stopping my fall, and it is in that closeness that he first spies the oak, its leafless spring canopy rising out of the gnarled and twisted forest. I lay my hand upon his, and point to the oak’s roots, “Look.”

  The gods are with us. The sun, not quite at its midday height, is not too high in the sky for the magic to be lost. From where we stand, the stone beneath the roots is glowing a perfect deep-water blue.

  “Come,” I whisper and, taking his arm, we walk to the edge.

  The sound of trickling water evokes his curiosity, and he takes a few steps ahead. Then I watch as his soul is filled by what he sees: naturally hewn by the flow of ancient water, the cauldron of rock, held by the embrace of the hillside, three feet deep and as broad. Opposite the flow, across the hole in the stone is the slab of blue glass crafted to fit, leaving enough space for the water to pour through beneath, trickling its way down the hill towards the marsh.

  I remember the first time I was brought here, by my grandmother. I was no more than ten summer’s old, yet I couldn’t believe that so much of my life had passed without me knowing such magic. As I watch Eos taking in its beauty, my pleasure is blessed again with the innocence of the child that I was.

  He turns to me, filled with questions.

  “Is this ... ” he struggles for words, “a temple to your goddess?”

  I smile for his words explain so much of his misunderstanding.

  “This is a gathering place of my gods, Eos.”

  Putting his staff and the basket on the ground, he looks down into the cauldron, the glass painting its walls such a rich blue, the water absolutely clear, sparkling silver and blue in the sunlight. Drifts of yellow buttercups shimmer in the grass around the edge and, above, the old oak stands like a warrior in his stillness. I walk to his side and look into his face, his forehead ridged with thought.

  “Not one goddess, Eosaidh.” And I show him each one, speaking the name in the old tongue and in the language we share: the earth who gives birth, the waters that flow, the sun that touches, and the wind that meets us here. I tell him of the ancestors who listen within the stones, holding the stories of every gathering, and the spirits of the trees who give the songs to the wind for those who would hear. And there are some I don’t speak of.

  And he listens, at times nodding and at times gazing at me, as if I am speaking of things he has never before understood, and he breathes in deeply.

  “May I?” he murmurs, not wishing to make a mistake and pay for disrespect.

  “Don’t touch the water inside the bowl, but otherwise, do as you will.”

  The bleeding ground above the oak, near the spring’s source, he will not approach, so well crafted are the spells that protect it. I can think of no other dishonour that he might do while within my sight and, as he walks around the bowl, scrambling down the hill to the base to see how the water flows out and into the stream, climbing up the other side, I watch him, feeling the trust that this requires in me, yet not sure what it will mean. He crouches on the grass, feeling the smoothness of the limestone beneath his fingers, and the shimmer of blue in the rock catches his eye.

  “There’s copper!”

  “A little,” I whisper.

  “That’s how it holds the colour so well!” He shakes his head, smiling broadly. “The water must have flowed strongly here for many aeons, yet how it was crafted into such a perfect shape . . . ” And wide-eyed, again he shakes his head, the miner in him absorbed and awake. And in his clumsily old limbs, I see too the young boy, eagerly learning his father’s trade, studying the rocks, seeking out treasure.

  “It is naturally made?”

  “So my people say.”

  I set myself down on the earth and lift the wooden box from the basket. N
oticing what I do, he stops to watch as, carefully, once again I unpack the cup of Enaid Las, laying it down on the short spring grass.

  “It was born here, Eos,” I say softly. “Not crafted here, but conceived here.” I feel him listening with every part of his soul, no longer smiling, but aching to hear every word that I can offer. “It is not the only cup of its kind, but each one is made for a special purpose, or passed on for good reason - not only in their conception, but the way they are made by the glass fferyllt in the lands of the Dobunni, then brought back to this sacred place, to be blessed and filled with power.”

  I reach to untie my boots and, awkwardly, he isn’t sure what to do. He turns away, gazing down into the water as I pull off my leggings, undoing the clasp of my cloak and letting it fall behind. I pick up the cup, holding its precious soul in my hands, and again he looks into my face, searching.

  “They never empty, Eos. For the soul of each cup is born through the songs of this ancient sacred place. The cup is ever filled, ever renewed. It holds within it the powers of regeneration,” I look into its depths, feeling the ageless grief. “It holds eternal life.”

  “Vivi . . . ”

  “Eos, let your soul come with me.”

  Lifting my robes, I slip down the smooth stone into the bowl. The ice cold water hits my feet, my legs, freezing my blood, and the patterns of my mind shift instantly. I look up at him but am unable to speak; his eyes are fixed upon me, asking a thousand questions. I turn away from him, Come. And closing my eyes, I release into the songs of the spirits that dance and rise up through me with such a glorious power, my soul suddenly filled with the music of their stories, tales from deep in the dark womb of the earth, sparkling in black water, surging up like a flood of life, until I am able to feel the gods themselves, like the sharpest blades of a thousand moments cutting through my mind. And with each breath I take, a new life is born. Life, such life, and the songs of the birthing water rise through me.

  And through the exhilaration, the ecstasy of such emptiness and fullness, I craft the words of my intent, bringing my mind to feel my fingertips pulsing around this cup, and within it I can feel every drop it has ever held. I reach into its essence to seek out memory, flying like a buzzard through the clouds of a gathering storm: the waters of a thousand sacred wells, the tender touch of seeking, the cold touch of waking, Roman wine shared, soft lips upon its rim, and love shared, such love in hope lifted to the gods of love, then lips cracked and bleeding, the cries of hope and freedom, all held so tight within this soul of blue glass. And when I open my eyes, the cup filled, lifted high in my hands, the water alive like a bright sun of blue, shimmering blue upon the deep lake of the heart, its light flooding out across the world, my own heart calls the songs of my people, my heart calls to Eos ...

  But he has stepped away. He is staring at me and in his eyes there is fear.

  I turn from him, quickly rolling over into myself, breathing deeply, pulling back my spirit, whispering my prayers until I can again find my body and a world that he might understand. Placing the cup on the grass, my hands shaking, though I struggle to lift myself out of the sacred water, he does not come to help me. I dry my feet and pull on my leggings, tying on my boots, wringing the water from the bottom of my robes.

  You silly old woman, I murmur, silly bloody old woman.

  When I look up, he is still staring at me.

  I clamber to my feet.

  “Come, let us go. They will be waiting for us at the willows.”

  “No,” he breathes in deeply. “Vivian . . . ”

  I watch his mind tumbling, seeking out words.

  For a moment we gaze at each other.

  “What did you see, Eos?”

  He walks to me and picks up the cup from the grass. For a glimmer of a moment it feels like any other drinking bowl. The Enaid Las is still within me, and though he is yet a few paces from me, as he holds it towards me, inviting me to place my hands around his upon its curved blue bowl, I feel his hands deep within me. Whispering a prayer to my goddess, I resist my desire to push him away,

  He feels you, my Lady, he is feeling your power . . .

  His hands are trembling, but he stands himself tall, his broad shoulders squared and strong, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “What did you see?” I murmur.

  “I saw an old man and an old woman drink together from the cup, Vivian.”

  I see the vision is still within him and he is breathing it to find strength, yet this is a man who does not have visions, and each word is taken like a footstep on thin ice. And each word touches me like snow melting into water.

  “Together they drank, and together ... they became young. As they drank, they were surrounded by a brilliant blue flame. It seemed to fill the entire grove. And as the light grew,” he breathes in deeply, “the two seemed to become one, though they remained always two, as though they danced around one another.” He takes another step towards me. “All around them there were countless people, shining as bright as the sun, singing the most beautiful song. Vivian, this cup holds more meaning than ever I might have dreamed.”

  We are so close, the cup between us, I feel no separation. I long to step away, to free myself from his need, his hands around the cup that is a part of my own soul.

  My Lady, must I bear this?

  Shades of the land are pulling at my robes, moving through my legs, spirits in the breeze, saying, What does he want, what does he want? I lift my hands and place them upon his, feeling the intensity between us grow, knowing that, just as I long to release myself, so I long too to dissolve myself, my eyes closed, my head falling back, and in perfect surrender, letting his mortal soul drink from mine.

  “Eos,” I whisper, “is this the mother you seek?”

  I hear his voice in my head, You are . . .

  He looks down., and I continue,

  “Eos, when the boy was here, your kin, all those summers ago, when you brought him to these islands, we knew he was coming. Many of the old ones had felt a seer drawing near. Some spoke of the waking of the crow god of our people, some believed it was a child who would emerge from the waters, bringing death. Some said he would bring life, a new river of life. When I saw the boy, your kin, I knew: he was the seer we had felt. In his eyes were the tears of the ancestors.”

  Our eyes meet. I am so aware of how close we are; the drum of his heart is in his breath. I move my fingers over his, feeling the roughness of his skin.

  “My people were not convinced. It was hard to accept that a young man from so far away could make such a difference. He was not a warrior of Roma, nor would he ever be, that was clear. Would he be a slave, used, tricked by the empire? My sisters agreed, this is what would be.” Again, I look into the tinner’s eyes, his beautiful face now lined with both questions and grief.

  “There was not time to gather a council,” I look out to the far waters and sigh. “It fell then to me to do what I must. Within those few days when you were here, staying in the village across the lake, I made sacrifice to the gods, calling for guidance. The vision was clear: the seer would become a Iuddic priest and with him would come death.”

  Eos closes his eyes, sorrow washing through his heart. “How strange that such a desire for peace would bring such violent death,” he says. “In the end he believed that through his death, the shalom of life would come.”

  “I know, he taught peace, Eosaidh. But what did he know, when he walked these wet shores? His home governed by the thugs of Roma, warlords who did not value the lives or the customs of his people. Your people. And, as Brythannic chiefs are doing now,” my gaze looks to the south east, “his own people surrendering to foreign rule and law, dishonouring their gods in return for promises of power and wealth. That’s all he knew, Eos. He longed for peace, to ease the weight of grief that was within him. But what did he know of peace then? As a boy, you brought him to me as a blade not yet fully tempered by the smith. And who was to be his smith? An angry warrior of Roma? An unthinking
or bitter teacher of your people? Another child dying of bloodwease or hunger?”

  An image of the boy shimmers in my mind, standing on the high tor of Bryn Ddraig on Ynys y Niwl, his arms lifted up into the wind, his palms open, breathing in with all the power of his hope.

  “All,” he had cried out, his voice thick with the accent of his own tongue. And he’d looked deep into my eyes. “All must change,” he’d whispered. And I’d looked around, over the rivers and marshes, the islands with their little settlements, the ridges of forest, but the reach of his arms had not even begun here, and their extent had stretched beyond my understanding of the world. And I had smiled with sadness, holding in my hands the softness of his face,

  “How do you know that what you want is best for the world?”

  His deep brown eyes had filled with such determination. Lifting his fist to his chest, breathing in deeply, the boy had said,

  “My father. He is here, the god of my people.” And in that moment I had seen him like a spirit of the wind, claiming a substance that he did not possess. Yet I saw too that, like a wind, his course could not be changed, and the scent of death was in that wind.

  Slipping his hands from beneath mine, Eos gives me the cup. He lifts a long black lock of my hair that has fallen over my face, bringing my mind back to the moment.

  “You gave him this cup?”

  “It was,” I pause, aware again of the trust I give, “it was crafted for my own son.”

  “You have a son?” He is shocked.

  “He was apprenticed, back then, to a druid of the Dobunni.”

  “And you gave the lad his cup?”

  I breathe in, hiding my grief, allowing my mind to reach around the cup. I had not expected to see it again, and to do so had not been necessary - until the flood of dying energy had again touched my soul, when Eos had stepped onto the shores of the sacred isle.