The Apple and the Thorn

by Walter William Melnyk; Emma Restall Orr

  No longer the laughing youth who walked the Mendydd with me in the spring sunshine, whose strong, rippling muscles shone with sweat and tin as he learned the mines, he stood before us as he lifted the cup. Even then I was moved by its blue luster, and wondered at its power, though I had no idea of its origin. His face was lined with worry, but in his eyes was the deep peace of knowledge and conviction. This is as if it were my life's blood, poured out for you and for all, for your forgiveness. He drank from the cup, and passed it to the Magdalene. As she drank, she turned her eyes to him, large and brimming with tears. And he returned her look with a tenderness beyond words. She passed the cup to Joachim, and he to Jacob, and then to Petros, and then to me. The cup did not contain life; it was life itself. The wine was rich and warm as it went down.

  Even now, at the far end of the world, I can feel the new life that spread through my heart, and mind, and soul. Even now, in the dim light of my hut, the blue glass glows gently. But I see there is a chip in the rim, and a fine crack most of the way through the stem. The cup is returning to the elements on its own. I may as well become part of that returning. I watch from a distance, strangely detached, as my old hands wrap the precious treasure and close the lid one last time.

  The soul of this cup sang of life rising out of death, because that was his path. Now, Eos, now it is time for you to sing of life. Yes, Vivi. Yes, I know. I emerge from the hut, staff in one hand, acacia box in the other. Silently, Vivian rises and gently touches my face. Gwenlli leads us into the valley between Wirrheal and the tor, Vivian following and then me, as the pathway leaves the meadow and enters the wood.

  We make the mile long journey to the Red Spring in silence, immersed in our separate thoughts. Can she feel my eyes upon her as she walks ahead of me? I am certain of it. I find myself thinking about the son she mentioned, for whom the cup was first made. I marvel at the way such unconnected people are in fact so closely connected one to another, across the wide stretches of the world. And I wonder when it will be Vivi's time to sing of life again.

  We cross the lower brook which carries the waters from the springs across the meadow to the marshes. In an ash high above a blackbird sings his evening song, the rich melody ringing in the treetops. The sun disappears below the low rounded Hill of Apples to our left as we enter the deep cleft of the valley and turn uphill. The waters in the brook seem to answer the birdsong in the trees, harmonies dancing with each other and echoing off the hillsides. We reach the place where the waters of the White Spring from the tor join the waters of the Red. Vivian stops for a moment, stoops to the earth and dips her hand into the place where the waters join. She sips from her palm and, turning, offers some to me also. Then she touches her wet fingers to my forehead, making some sort of sign. Quietly, we move on up the hill to where the old yews tower above a stone wellhead.

  We hand our staffs to Gwenlli, who stands holding them together, the yew and the thorn that once nearly came to blows. And, together, Vivian and I kneel before the ancient well. The overspill and the rocks in the brook below are covered with bright orange-red, though the water itself is crystal clear. In the early May evening this water from the deep earth gives a chill to the steep valley and is almost painful to the touch. But it is the pain of life. For a time we kneel in silence, listening to the waters, our own breathing, the beating of our hearts. A raven drops from the yew and lands on Vivian's shoulder. She speaks to it softly in the old tongue, and it gently nuzzles her cheek before flying off. The red of the spring bed reminds me of the lad's blood at his death, but then the same red would have been part of his birth, also.

  Vivian turns and looks at me. The time has come. I trust this will end the grief that has held me all these years, to rebirth it as tender memory. I open the old box and remove the cup.

  "Leave it wrapped in the linen, Eos," Vivian says.

  As if sharing the wonder of a newborn child, I gently pass the tiny bundle to her. For a moment it seems to be a child, our child, that I pass tenderly to its mother. It is the changing time of dusk, and the air hangs heavily over the spring. It seems that the great yews bend down over the wellhead, over Vivian and the child. But the light is fading quickly. There is a mist about the wellhead making it hard to see. She cradles the cup within the linen cloth, in her arms, clutching it to her breast, lifting it to her heart. And then I can no longer see it. It seems as though Vivian herself is wrapped in white linen.

  She dips her fingers in the well water, singing a sad and haunting song in the old tongue. Before my eyes she seems to blend with the yews, sometimes old and bent, sometimes young and wrapped in swaddling cloths, barely apparent in the strange mist, singing, ever singing. With both hands she reaches down into the well, and her song changes as if she is calling, calling to someone or something unseen and perhaps unknowable to me. The clear waters of the spring darken to red. Not the red-orange of their iron ore, but the deep, claret red of new blood. The mist about her shines with its own light so that I can barely see her within, can only hear the song of drawing forth. Then there is the sound of many waters, and it seems as though Vivian rises from the well itself, drenched with water and blood, her song as the birth cry of an infant, and she stands over the well. The mists roll and swirl about her, the scent of yew grows strong in the air, the last light of day fades, and tiny lights like stars shimmer throughout the grove.

  But as I look, it is simply Vivian, kneeling, holding the linen bundle before her as if receiving it from the well. The song has become a wailing, screeching through the air, the mists twisting and howling, the bolts of Taranis hurtling from darkened skies. With a shrill cry she raises the bundle over her head, a great lightning flash freezing all in place at the top of the arc as thunder crashes and an infant cries out in the fear of birth. For an instant time stands still. Then, with a final cry, she drops her arms and smashes the cup against the rocks.

  For a moment, it is our child lying broken and bleeding on the ground. Vivian is silent. I cry out to her, but I do not know what I am saying. Then she turns to me, and the mist fades, and the yews draw back, and I see a darkness in her soul, Morrigan, the one who soldiers call the Washer at the Ford. In her tortured face, I see death itself, and my heart beaks. I cannot bear it, so I lower my eyes to the ground. The little bundle is silent, unmoving. But it is not the size of a child; it is the broken cup. When again I look to her face within the hood of her cloak, it is Vivian.

  She closes her eyes for a moment, facing me, tears running down her cheeks as they are mine. She hands me the bundle and says, silently, in my mind, Release him.

  Gwenlli is behind her and helps her rise to her feet. I can see the movement is very hard. The rite has taken a great deal out of her. Her hands are shaking, but her face is set with strength. She steps, clearly in pain, to where I am still kneeling, looking up at her. She bends down to me and kisses me with deep tenderness, covering my mouth with hers, sharing her breath. I am overwhelmed with the nearness of her scent, and the tenderness of her lips. Release him, she says again, without a sound. And she leaves.

  I sit back on my heels, and then move my legs under me so I am sitting cross-legged on the ground, holding the bundle of broken glass. All is silent except for the singing of the water, and the night creatures of spring. And it is dark, fully dark. I do not know what I have seen. Certainly a glamour hid most of its meaning from me. By the stars, nearly half the night has gone. I feel as though I have been a father, lost a child, and become an ancestor within these moments. Looking at the broken bundle on my lap, now barely visible in the light of the rising moon, I know finally that the lad has gone. I let out a deep, heartfelt sigh, and at last I know that I can let him go on this earth, that he may be reborn in my own soul.

  Slowly, I unwrap the linen. There are the small shards of blue glass, no longer a cup, yet still glowing softly in the moonlight. There is a tear in the corner of my eye, but it is a tear of life, not of sorrow. For the last time in my life, I fold the linen over the beautiful blue gl
ass. This time, I tie the corners in a knot, making the bundle secure. Slowly I bend over the lip of the well. I can see the hint of my face reflected in the dark waters, and the stars behind me. Gently, I lower the bundle until it touches the water of the Red Spring. Yeetgadal v'yeetkadash sh'mey rabbah I intone, may His great Name grow exalted and sanctified, b'reekh hoo L'eylah meen kohl beerkhatah v'sheeratah. Blessed is He beyond any blessing and song. I let go, releasing him, and slowly, achingly, lovingly slowly, he sinks into the waters of the well, gently fades from my view, and is gone from this world.

  For an eternity I sit by the well, until the darkness begins to fade and the hint of first-light appears in the east. A flutter above me catches my eye and I look up to see Vivian's raven. She has been watching all through the night. With a rustle of feathers she lifts onto her great black wings, flying up and out of the valley, bringing word to Vivian that it is done, that the cup has returned to the elements. It is done.

  Chapter Nine

  The Ancient Fire

  (Vivian)

  “He wishes to see you, my Lady.”

  Fianna’s face reveals nothing. She is trained well in the island’s craft and, in my unwillingness to hear her fully, I don’t look into her soul to see what she is feeling. Instead my eyes move over the quiet hum of activity, half a dozen women absorbed in their tasks as the feast is prepared. Around them in the soft sunshine are bowls of roots and grains, dried plums, and baskets of young greens, the first of our own growing. A gathering outside the old storehouse is sewing robes, one of the older girls stitching feathers onto a length of cloth, a young child playing quietly with feathers still in the basket, carefully ensuring none escape into the breeze.

  I smile.

  Sianed looks up from her work and sees me. She is a skilled priestess and I watch her strength and calm as she approaches and bows with respect. I reach out a hand and we touch, feeling the earth beneath us, sharing a silent prayer of thanksgiving. She smiles, and murmurs silently, Yes, my Lady, it will be a feast worthy of our ancestors.

  And those who come after us.

  She nods.

  Her daughter appears beside us. She must now be fifteen summers; there is laughter in her eyes, and the soft glow of thorn blossoms in her cheeks. She bows, “My Lady,” and looks to her mother for affirmation which Sianed gives with the slightest movement. The girl’s words are like bubbles from a clear-water spring. “My Lady, my brother has traded for us at the market of Trigentes, and we have dried vine berries from Gaul for the festival, and persica from lands even farther away.”

  Apologetic, Sianed speaks her words into sound. “My Lady, I was not sure it was wise, but my son was so pleased to find the fruits.”

  I nod, I like this as little as you do, but this is how it will be in our children’s world, and I bow acceptance, “Thank him for me.” I touch the child’s shoulder and feel her life in my hand: it is like the warmth of a hearth fire newly lit in the morning.

  “Thank you, my Lady,” the child says. “He has also given us a small bag of what he called ‘armenasca’.”

  Her mother continues, “I believe he could not have used only what I gave him - he must have traded with some of his own people’s stores from Penn Brey. With respect, he offers them as a gift to you, my Lady.”

  “We shall have a wonderful feast,” I say softly.

  As I turn to move away, I see Seren’s eyes. She is the oldest member of our community, Fianna’s aunt. With gnarled and slow fingers, she sifts through the heap of dried beans on the cloth in front of her. Listen, she says, and returns to her beans as Fianna appears again at my side. This time her face does not hide her feelings.

  “My Lady, you have barely seen him since the rite.”

  “There is much to be done,” I say.

  “Not here, my Lady, there is nothing you need do here.” Of course, she is right. I have spent enough time with those involved in the morrow’s ritual, and my presence is not needed here, where others have responsibilities. Seren’s voice murmurs in my soul and I look into her eyes. She is a handful of years old than I, a teacher to the children most of her life and a herbwise whose art was sought after throughout the islands. Our eyes meet for a moment. Are you afraid? she murmurs, and returns to sorting the pile of brown beans.

  Fianna’s face expresses sadness.

  “The rite tore his heart open, my Lady.”

  I seek her soul for what he has told her, but find nothing. If he has said nothing to this gentle soul, so rich and full with the songs of motherhood, I realize he has spoken to nobody of what happened at y Ffynnon Goch. Over the past six days, we have seen each other only in passing, across meadows, between roundhouses, busy with our own tasks. I have eased my heart by believing he will forgive my distance, being fully aware of the great deal of work that must be done for the festival we hold at the whitethorn moon. But I know I am fooling myself. What am I afraid of?

  Seren’s voice echoes my own, Are you ashamed of what you feel? She does not look up at me and I ignore her words. But Fianna I cannot ignore.

  “Please,” she whispers. “He is hurting now.”

  ~~~~~

  As I step beneath the canopy, with a hand I reach up to touch the flush of new leaves on the lowest branches of oak. The forest is so alive, washed with a translucent green, each tree and shrub stretching out with soft twigs of growth that sing to the sky gods, calling out to the sun.

  And in the soft light beneath the now thickening canopy, my heart is lifted by the scent and sight of the bluebells. A sea of flowers, they are as deep a blue as these early summer skies before dawn, and around them and beneath them the curiosity and celebration of so many countless creatures, exploring and searching, scurrying and listening. And in every glade touched by sunlight the whitethorn is in blossom. I breathe in deeply the rise of all these beautiful songs, yet strangely it all now seems like a memory, a life and a world that I used to be a part of.

  Using my staff to balance and guide me on, I make my way to the pool and, pondering my tiredness, I sit down on the fallen log that has been my seat for a dozen cycles. Before me, the water is perfectly still. Its surface shimmers into ripples where a fallen leaf moves across its gloss, but the watercreepers and tiny flies leave no mark. The rich cream weight of the elder’s blossom hangs over the water, reflected in its darkness. I hold my head in my hands, and in the peace of my solitude I let the tears come. And they come.

  Yet I am not alone. For with my tears come my grandmothers, their grandmothers, and those before them, and as silently I sob, my tears falling into the water, their spirits move in the wind, their voices whispering the songs of grief, their tears joining mine in the waters of this forest pool, waters which will sink into the earth, flowing out into the seas, to fall upon the land as rain and be raised in the cups of ritual, to be supped as cool blessings and again to fall as tears of grief. And the trees listen to our song and the wind carries it through the mists of time, each tear drawing from me the pain of my people, each tear allowing me to feel the depths of my body.

  And I am not alone. His step cracks a fallen twig in the way that only a outlander can. I look up. He is some way from me, but I see him cringe, concerned he has disturbed me, and I gaze into his soul, wondering which spirits have brought him to find me. As he comes closer, I see his face becomes increasingly lined with worry. He strides with big feet around the pool towards me, sinking to his knees before me, looking into my eyes.

  “Vivi, you are crying!”

  I don’t pull away. He takes my hands in his, searching my face for signs. For a while I seek out words, but none come through the waters of my soul that I can lift into sound. In fact, to my surprise, the tears keep falling.

  “What has happened, my love?” his voice trembles with urgency. But the words are hard to understand. What has happened? In the grove here, held by my people, I have held their grief. Where would I begin to explain what has happened? It is but life that has happened. I feel as if the lake of my
soul has been transported into the midst of a wide open sea, and I am losing my ability to delineate the edges of me. I look into his eyes. I want to say, I am flowing out into the sea, but know that this is not the answer to his question. He stops a tear with a finger, his rough skin upon the wrinkles of my cheek.

  “What has upset you, Vivi? Can you tell me, can you share this burden, Vivi? I can’t bear to see you cry.”

  And I lift a hand to touch his face, smoothing the snaggles of hair from his eyes that now water in love and empathy. Oh Eos, how I wish I could draw you into my soul and show you what I see. And though he does not hear my words, I know that he feels them, for he lowers his head onto my knees and he sobs. And my grandmothers watch as I hold his soul, and he reaches into mine, not quite able to find me.

  When words do find their sound, I am surprised at what I say.

  “It was my son’s cup.”

  He lifts his head and looks into my face, wiping tears roughly from his cheek. “Yes.”

  “He was about the same age,” I murmur, and in his eyes I see the realization sliding into his awareness, his expression changing from sadness to dread.

  “No, Vivi ... ”

  “He left the island, as boys do, with fourteen summers behind him, to apprentice with a druid, a wise man and an accomplished priest. No doubt you would have heard his name in the settlements on the Mendydd.” But I have not the energy to say it aloud. I gaze out into the forest, the spirits of my grandmothers still around me. “He was to return, one summer festival, when he had gained his druid staff. I was to give him his soul cup.” I look into Eosaidh’s eyes. “But I gave it away.”