My mind wandered. A voice spoke to me in the darkness, a woman’s voice, very clear and distinct: “Young lord?”
“Who speaks?” I demanded. “Are you the spirit of this place? Can you help me?”
“I am no more than a voice . . .”
“What place is this?”
“This is Liran, the Isle of Sleeps.”
“Are we alone? Is there no one else?”
“Only an apple tree,” said the voice, “and it is very stupid.”
“I will die here, cast away . . .”
“No,” said the voice, “you have been placed here by some magician. No one can die on Liran’s Isle. The spring will help to heal your wounds; it has magical properties. Who are you, young man, to warrant such care?”
“I am Yorath, Heir of Mel’Nir,” I said. “I am a prince, though I have hardly lived as one. I was a soldier. . . .”
“Tell me . . .”
I spoke of my life. The voice prompted me and laughed a little and sighed and wept as I did, telling of my life.
“You have done much for so young a man,” said the voice. “How will you go on?”
“I will change my life or I will die,” I said. “If I come off Liran’s Isle, I will not be a soldier. I will not be a prince, a ruler of Hylor. I will seek out some place far from the haunts of men and live there simply as I once lived in Nightwood as a boy.”
“Will you live alone?” asked the voice slyly.
“If need be,” I said. “The Owlwife, my true love, has forsaken me.”
“First, Yorath, you can help me,” said the voice. “I have waited long ages, but now the time has come. Help me, and I will reward you.”
“Spirit, I am very weak. How can I help you?”
“I am imprisoned here under a spell. You can set me free. I must change my nature.”
“I will help you if I can,” I said.
“I will trust you,” said the voice. “Here is your reward. I will tell you a secret, and you must tell it to no one light or dark or the way will be lost again from that moment. You say that you would live far from the haunts of men; then this is the path to take. You will be healed, and when you are strong again you must journey into the Chameln lands. You must go into the northern mountains beyond Last Lake and travel northwest along a wide frozen river that edges its way down into the distant White Ocean. Go to the place where this river bends around a black rock. From the top of this rock you will see to the south a place where three fire mountains stand; one has crumbled away and the two others are almost burnt out. Find your way over the fallen mountain and there it lies . . . lost Ystamar, the Vale of the Oak Trees.”
I felt at last a small stirring of my own spirit, a gleam of light in my darkness.
“I will do it!” I said. “Thank you, spirit. This is a rich reward.”
“I hope you come to it,” said the voice, “for now I will tell you the secret of Liran’s Isle. The spring will help you to sleep, it will heal your wounds, but it will cause you to forget all that you have told me: your friends, your heritage, even your name.”
I was very much afraid.
“This is a dreadful thing,” I whispered. “In the name of the Goddess . . . I must drink. I have already taken water from the spring. When will I forget?”
“Day by day,” said the voice, “from the present to the past. Names will go first. You stumbled over a name or two in your story.”
“Everyone does that . . . forgets names . . .”
“Who was that chronicler in Selkray, the one seeking for enlightenment?”
“I know the man you mean,” I said, “but I cannot quite . . .”
I saw his lean, dark face, I recalled our last meeting upon the watchtower of the villa, but the name had gone.
“I will go mad,” I said. “I will lose my soul!”
“No,” said the voice, “you will become very peaceful. And here is my second reward. I know how you can regain your memory. In the morning go to the apple tree behind the tower and strike down one of its magic fruit. Hide this away in your cloak. Tell no one you have it. When you have been taken from the Isle, you will one day find and eat the apple and you will remember.”
“But if what you say is true, I will forget all about the damned apple!”
“No one forgets to eat and drink,” said the voice. “You will eat the apple because you are hungry. It will keep fresh.”
“Spirit,” I said, “I do not doubt you, but I am puzzled. Prince Ross of Eildon was once on this island. Did he drink from the spring? Did you speak to him?”
“He was here seven years long,” said the voice, “but it was before my time. Perhaps he bewitched the spring. The Princes of Eildon put me under a spell . . .”
“You have done me a great service,” I said. “What must I do to set you free?”
“Go to the door of the tower,” continued the voice evenly, “break off a branch of the ash tree that is growing there and cast it into the sea.”
“Agreed,” I said, “but will you not tell me your name even if I forget it again?”
“I am called the Alraune.”
Then I saw that daylight was coming into the ruined tower. I was alone. Only the stunted black tree scraped against the stone in the morning wind.
My fever had lightened and many of my wounds were healing. I was still very weak and in pain. I heaved myself up, clinging to the basin of the spring and then to the wall of the tower. I came at last to the black tree.
“Alraune,” I whispered, “which branch shall it be?”
There was no answer, but the branches twisted about and one offered itself to my left hand. I took hold of it firmly and stripped it off downwards where it joined the trunk. There was a shriek of pain and, shuddering, I turned and threw the branch down clumsily into the receding tide upon the sand. The waves washed over it and drew it down into the water. All at once the branch was gone, and a woman stood there with the waves washing about her ankles. She was slender and pale, with long hair of a greenish yellow. She flung out her arms and danced on the sands, naked except for her long, wild hair.
“Farewell!” she cried. “Farewell, Yorath! Farewell to Liran’s Isle!”
Then she ran down into the sea waist deep, flung herself down into the cold grey water and swam off strongly to the northwest. I watched her until she was lost in the mist upon the surface of the sea.
When I turned back, I saw that the remains of the black tree had fallen down. I took it up and found that its roots had dried up, it was no more than a heavy, dead stick. I stripped off a few more branches, and using it as a crutch, I limped out and looked at the island. It was very small; the further shore was less than fifty paces behind the tower, and there in a patch of greener grass stood the apple tree. I limped painfully towards it, and as I came up it moved its branches. I stood on the thick grass and gazed up among the leaves.
“Mortal man,” whispered the apple tree, “I am the tree of wisdom . . .”
“Tree of wisdom,” I said, “where are your fruit? I cannot see them.”
“They are very precious,” said the tree.
“I do not think you have any fruit,” I said. “The birds have eaten it!”
“Birds!” said the apple tree shrilly. “Look, foolish mortal! Behold! On this branch here!”
I lifted up my ash staff and struck down an apple and caught it as it fell. It was firm and golden green. I sank it deep in the pocket of my cloak, a roomy inner pocket where I had kept battle plans. As I limped away, the apple tree still preened itself and said, “I am the tree of wisdom . . .”
I sat by the spring in the tower and had to drink a little. I tried to turn my mind away from the throbbing of my wounds. I felt a sudden chill as if hailstones were sliding down my back. I turned my head and saw that a part of the wall had become smooth and black, like a dark mirror. A point of light shone in the depths of this mirror and there appeared the figure of a man. He was smooth-faced and pale, with long dark-red hair
and a blue robe glowing with magic fire. I saw that the magician who had brought me to Liran’s Isle was Rosmer of Lien.
“General Yorath,” he said, his voice full of concern, “I heard your cry for help and had you brought to this island.”
“Master Rosmer, I owe you my life.”
“Highness,” he said earnestly, “I saw from the first that you bore the aura of the Duarings, the royal house of Mel’Nir. Lately I have discovered even more . . .”
“Master Rosmer,” I said, “I will not lie to you. I have reason to believe that I am the Heir of Mel’Nir, only true-born son of Prince Gol. Do you see this silver swan that I wear?”
He peered out of his mirror and gave a sigh.
“So it is true,” he said. “Hagnild Raiz has pulled off a master stroke. You are the child of the Lady Elvédegran, the youngest sister of my liege the Markgraf Kelen. You are not only the Heir of Mel’Nir, you may be the Heir of Lien.”
“How can this be?”
“The children of Queen Hedris and Queen Aravel, the consorts of the Daindru, the double rulers of the Chameln lands . . . they are barred from succession to Lien. You are not, poor fellow.”
“Master Rosmer, I beg you to bring me off this island.”
“A boat is already on its way, Highness, with as much wind as my magic can raise up to fill its sails. It will take several days. Rest and heal your wounds with water from the magic spring.”
“A magic spring?” I asked. “I hope it has no evil working!”
“None at all, Highness Yorath,” said Rosmer. “There is also food on the island.”
“Magic food?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “A sea chest of sailors’ provisions in the ruins of this tower. I will look in again.”
His image wavered in the dark mirror, and then he returned and said, “Highness Yorath, who attacked you last night?”
“Knaar of Val’Nur,” I said, “and some hired assassins. I seem to remember another man, a lord. It is all very cloudy.”
Rosmer smiled again and faded from view. I went into another part of the ruined tower and found the sea chest of sailors’ food. It was well-preserved but salty. After a meal of salt pork and black bread, I had to take another drink of the spring water.
Rosmer, the man in the mirror, came back now and then. I had been doing some fishing with tackle from the sea chest, and I had lit a small fire to cook the fish. I felt very peaceful.
“I think you have done a lot of soldiering,” he said cheerfully. “Can you tell me your rank?”
“Ensign,” I said. “I think I made ensign at that place in the east, the horse farm. Did I tell you of that time?”
“Yes, you did. And you came to the city in the west of Mel’Nir . . .”
“Yes, a fine place. I think it is called Krell, Krall . . . you know the place I mean. Good sir. I must tell you that I have wounds that will not heal . . . this one on my leg. I have been injured in some battle, and I need a healer.”
“You will come to one. I am sending a boat for you. In the meantime drink from the magic spring. It has healing properties.”
I slept deeply and had no dreams. I wandered all over the small island. When I came near to the green tree behind the tower, it drew up its branches and cried out, “Go back! Go back! I will not give you any!”
I could see no fruit on the tree.
A man appeared in a dark mirror. I asked him to tell me his name again, and he said it was Rosmer.
“Tell me,” he said, “What is your name?”
“Yorath, of course!”
“What land do I come from, Yorath?”
“I’m sorry, Master Rosmer, but I don’t know.”
“And what was your native land?”
“That’s easy,” I said. “I am a man of Mel’Nir.”
“What is the name of the old magic kingdom of the west?”
I shook my head.
“Do you remember a woman called Gundril Chawn?”
I was suddenly less peaceful. I felt a pain in my head.
“I feel that I should remember her,” I said. “I am sick. I am still in pain. Did you say something about a boat, Master Rosmer?”
When he had gone, I sat looking out at the sea and thought of the name Gundril Chawn and found myself weeping. A picture formed in my aching head: a bird with yellow eyes flew through a dark forest. I strove in vain to remember the name of this bird, of any bird.
“Young man!”
A man in a blue robe stared at me from a dark shining place on the wall of the tower.
“Young man, what is your name?”
“Sir, I cannot tell you. I have lost my memory.”
“Can you remember anything at all?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I am sure that once I lived in a dark wood, a forest, with a man and an old woman. I had a friend, and we climbed trees together.”
“Nothing else?”
“A woman. I think I loved a woman. I long to remember her.”
“Tush . . . the world is full of women,” said the man, smiling. “I have come to help you, my friend. My name is Rosmer . . . can you remember that?”
“I will try.”
“A boat is coming for you. Go out and wait on the beach.”
I did as I was told. I sat watching the sea, and presently I saw a ship with yellow sails that stood off the island. A boat was lowered with three men, and they brought it to the beach.
“Lord of Light,” said an ugly man in a sea cloak, “this fellow’s a monster! Hope he is quietened down.”
“Come now, friend,” said one of his companions. “Step into the boat. Master Rosmer—you know him, eh?—he bids us bring you off this island.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I limped down with the aid of my staff, wrapped my cloak about me and stepped into the boat.
My memory did not return, but once I began to drink the stale water aboard the caravel instead of that sweet, treacherous spring water on Liran’s Isle I was much more myself. I could learn the names of persons, places and things and not lose them from one day to the next. I lost the uncanny feeling of peace that I had experienced; I strove to recall more of my past.
The captain of the caravel, a man named Adrock, treated me well. He had the third mate, who acted as healer and barber, take a look at my leg wound.
“Nasty,” he said. “I can do no more than put a dressing on it, soldier. You must get it seen to when we make port.”
Straightaway when I was on board the ship, I began to dream again. I had two dreams. In one I roamed a forest, hunting, and came home to a brown house and sat down to supper with the man and the old woman. The second dream was puzzling. I came riding up to a bridge over a river, and at the other side of the bridge stood the cloaked figure of a woman. She called to me, called a name. At last I heard the name and tried it out. By the time the caravel reached Balamut and set sail inland for Balufir, I had a name for myself. I felt as sure as I could be that I was called Yorath.
The river Bal was a wide and placid river, not quite like the river in my dreams. I stood on the high bridge of the caravel with Captain Adrock and saw the snowy fields and white-roofed towns of the land of Lien. On the right bank there were fewer settlements; a watchtower rose up here and there above a manor house.
“That land is called Mel’Nir?” I asked.
“That’s right, lad.”
He gave me a strange look but all the sailors did this and some raised their voices whenever they spoke to me as if I were stupid or hard of hearing. I was becoming shrewd; I checked the name of Mel’Nir because I had heard the men calling me “the Melniro.”
“I think I am a man of Mel’Nir, Captain,” I said.
He laughed. “You are that, lad.” And he explained.
“The men of Mel’Nir are tall and strong and have your coloring,” he said. “Anyone would know you for a Melniro.”
We came in sight of the city of Balufir, spreading far and wide over the downs and
crowding down to its river harbor with a forest of ships’ masts. The caravel turned out of the main stream and sailed along a still, deep channel. Frosty sedges covered the banks; I stood with the captain again and he said, “In summer there are swans all over these pastures. Now they are flown to the Burnt Lands to escape the winter’s cold. Look there, we’re coming to it: there is Swangard.”
It was a building hard to describe even if one had not lost a few words. I wondered why it had a large moat with no less than four drawbridges and why it stood upon a flat plain or piece of parkland. It was all of white stone, but in this cold season it looked almost blue. It was a long, rather low building with fanciful towers on its four corners and, in the center, a taller tower.
“What is it?” I asked. “Would it be called a palace? A fortress?”
“To tell the truth,” said the captain, “folk around here call it ‘The Folly.’ A markgraf built it about two hundred years ago as a residence, shall we say, for his wife.”
“A residence?”
“She lived there,” said the Captain. “He kept her pent up because he was jealous. But he did not want to be too hard on the lady, so he prettied up the place, as you see.”
“Who lives here now?”
“Why it is a Hermitage of the Brothers, the servants of Inokoi, Lord of Light, bless his name.”
The caravel dropped anchor. I bade farewell to the captain, and in the dusk of a winter’s day I got down into the ship’s boat again and was rowed to a jetty. A pair of soldiers in bright blue livery bearing the emblem of a silver swan were waiting beside two brothers in brown robes. When I had clambered ashore, they led me up to a third man who stood apart. He wore a pointed black hood, edged with white, and a long black tabard, embroidered in silver, over his brown robe. As we came up to him, the brothers kept plucking me by the cloak and whispering, “You must kneel, you must bow the knee, it is the Harbinger . . . it is the Brother Harbinger . . .”
I saw that this was an older man, with a long, set face.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I said, “I cannot kneel. My leg is injured.”
He looked up at me with an expression of cool interest.
“What is your name?” he asked sharply. “Do you know your name?”
Yorath the Wolf Page 14