“Branwen…”
“Love me, Morholt.”
I tried to be gentle. I tried to be considerate. I tried to be Tristan, King Mark and all the uncomplicated knights of Tintagel rolled into one. From the mass of desires whirling inside me, I kept only one: I wanted her to forget, forget about everything. I tried to make her believe, if only for as long as I held her in my arms, that there was only me. I tried. Believe me.
In vain.
Or so it seemed to me.
* * *
Not a sign of sails. The sea…
The sea has the colour of Branwen’s eyes.
I pace the room like a wolf in a cage. My heart is pounding as if it wanted to shatter my ribs. Something is squeezing my chest, my throat, something strange, something that’s sitting inside me. I hurl myself on the bed. To hell with it. I close my eyes and see the golden sparks. I can smell the scent of apples. Branwen. The scent of falcon’s feathers as it sits on my glove when I return from hunting. The golden sparks. I see her face. I see the curve of her cheek, the small perky nose. The roundness of her arm. I see her… I carry her…
I carry her on the inner skin of my eye-lids.
* * *
“Morholt?”
“You are not asleep?”
“No, I can’t… The sea…”
“I’m with you, Branwen.”
“For how long? How much time have we got left?”
“Branwen…”
“Tomorrow… Tomorrow the ship from Tintagel will be here.”
“How do you know?”
“I simply do.”
Silence.
“Morholt?”
“Yes, Branwen?”
“We are bound together. Tied to this wheel of torture, sucked into the whirl. Chained. Tomorrow, here in Carhaing, the chain will break. I knew that the moment I saw you on the beach. When I realised that you were alive. When I realised I was alive too. But we do not live for each other, not any more. We are merely a tiny part in the fates of Tristan of Lionesse and Iseult of the Golden Hair from the Emerald Isle. Here, in the castle of Carhaing, we found each other only to lose each other. The only thing that binds us together is a legend about love, which is not our legend. In which we play a role we cannot understand. A legend which perhaps won’t even mention our roles, or it will warp and falsify them, will put into our mouths words we never said, will ascribe to us deeds we never did. We do not exist, Morholt. There is only a legend which is about to end.”
“No, Branwen,” I said, trying to make my voice sound hard, determined and full of conviction. “You mustn’t say that. It is sorrow, nothing else, that makes you say these words. True, Tristan of Lionesse is dying and even if Iseult of the Golden Hair is on the ship sailing from Tintagel, I’m afraid she may be too late. And even though I, too, am saddened by this, I shall never agree that the only thing that binds us together is the legend. I’ll never agree with this, Branwen, lying next to you, holding you in my arms. At this moment, it’s Tristan who doesn’t exist for me, the legend, the castle of Carhaing. There is only the two of us.”
“I too hold you in my arms, Morholt. Or so it seems to me. But I do know that we don’t exist. There is only the legend. What will become of us? What will happen tomorrow? What decision will we have to make? What will become of us?”
“Fate will decide. An accident. This entire legend to which we so stubbornly return is a result of an accident. A series of accidents. If it weren’t for blind fate there would be no legend. Then, in Dun Laoghaire, just think… Branwen, if it weren’t for blind fate… it could have been him, not I…”
I stopped, frightened by the sudden thought, horrified by the words pressing onto my lips.
“Morholt,” whispered Branwen. “Fate’s done with us all there was to do. The rest cannot be the result of an accident. We are beyond the rule of accident. What is ending, is ending for both of us. It’s possible…”
“What, Branwen?”
“That perhaps then, in Dun Laoghaire…”
“Branwen!”
“… that your wound was mortal? Perhaps… I drowned in the bay?”
“Branwen! But we are alive!”
“Are you sure? Where had we come from to find ourselves on that beach, you and me, at the same time? Do you remember? Don’t you think it possible we were brought by the rudderless boat? That very same boat which one day brought Tristan to the mouth of the river Liffey? The boat from Avalon, looming out of the mist, filled with the scent of apples? The boat we were told to get into for the legend cannot end without us, without our participation? For it is us, no one else, who are to end this legend? And when we end it, we shall return to the shore, the rudderless boat will wait for us, and we will have to get into it and drift away, and be swallowed by the mist. Morholt?”
“We are alive, Branwen.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m touching you, Branwen. You exist. Lying in my arms. You are beautiful, warm, you have a smooth skin. You smell like my falcon sitting on my glove when I return from hunting, while the rain is rustling in the birch leaves. You are, Branwen.”
“I am touching you, Morholt. You exist. You are warm and your heart is beating just as strong. You smell of salt. You are.”
“And so… we are alive, Branwen.”
She smiled. I didn’t see it. I felt that smile pressed into my arm.
* * *
Later, deep in the night, lying still with my arm numb from the weight of her head, careful not to break her shallow sleep, I listened to the roaring of the sea.
For the first time in my life this sound, dull and monotonous like a toothache, made me feel uneasy, irritated me, kept me awake. I was afraid. I was afraid of the sea. I, an Irishman, brought up on a seashore, from birth familiar with the sound of the surf.
Later still, in my sleep, I saw a boat with a high, upturned stem and a mast adorned with garlands. The rudderless boat, tossed on the waves. I could smell the scent of apples.
* * *
“Good Lady Branwen…” the page was gasping for breath. “Lady Iseult asks you to come to Sir Tristan’s chamber. You and Sir Morholt of Ulster. Please hurry, m’lady.”
“What happened? Has Tristan…?”
“No, it’s not that. But…”
“Speak, boy.”
“The ship from Tintagel… Sir Caherdin is coming back. There was a messenger from the cape. It can be seen…”
“What colour are the sails?”
“It’s impossible to say. The ship is too far, beyond the cape.”
The sun came out.
* * *
When we entered, Iseult of the White Hands was standing with her back to the half-open window, which threw off flashes of light from the little panes of glass fitted in little lead frames. She was radiating an unnatural, turbid, deflected light. Tristan, his face glossy with sweat, was breathing irregularly, with difficulty. His eyes were closed.
Iseult looked at us. Her face was drawn, disfigured by two deep furrows etched by pain on both sides of her mouth.
“He is barely conscious,” she said. “He is delirious.”
Branwen pointed to the window:
“The ship…”
“It’s too far, Branwen. It’s hardly passed the cape. It’s too far…”
Branwen looked at Tristan and sighed. I knew what she thought.
No, I didn’t.
I heard it.
Believe me or not, I heard their thoughts. Branwen’s thoughts, anxious and full of fear, like waves frothing among the shore’s rocks. The thoughts of Iseult, soft, trembling, fluttering like a bird held in the hand. The thoughts of Tristan, loose and torn, like wisps of mist.
“We are all at your side, Tristan,” thought Iseult. “Branwen of Cornwall who is the Lady of Algae. Morholt of Ulster, who is Decision. And I, who loves you, Tristan. I who love you more and more with every minute that passes and takes you away from me, that takes you away no matter what colour are the sails of the
ship approaching the shores of Brittany. Tristan…”
“Iseult,” thought Tristan. “Iseult. Why aren’t they looking out of the window? Why are they looking at me? Why aren’t they telling me what colour the sails are? I must know it, I must, otherwise…”
“He will fall asleep,” thought Branwen. “He will fall asleep and he will never wake up. He has reached a point as far from the luminous surface as it is from the green algae covering the sea bed. The point where one stops struggling. From that point there is only peace.”
“Tristan,” thought Iseult. “Now I know I was happy with you. Despite everything. Despite all the time you have been with me and thought only about her. Despite you rarely calling me by my name. You always called me ‘my lady’. You’ve tried so hard not to hurt me. You were trying so hard, putting so much effort into it that it was your very trying that hurt me most. Yet I was happy. You’ve given me happiness. You’ve given me the golden sparks flickering under my eyelids. Tristan…”
Branwen was looking out through the window. At the ship appearing slowly from behind the land’s edge. “Hurry up,” she thought. “Hurry up, Caherdin. Sharp to the wind. No matter what colour, turn your sail sharp to the wind, Caherdin. Hail, Caherdin, welcome, we need your help. Save us, Caherdin…”
But the wind, which for the last three days had been blowing, freezing us and lashing us with rain, now abated. The sun came out.
“All of them,” thought Tristan. “All of them. Iseult of the White Hands, Branwen, Morholt… And now I… Iseult, my Iseult… What colour are the sails of this ship?… What colour…?”
“We are like blades of grass that stick to the cloak’s hem when one’s walking through a meadow,” thought Iseult. “We are those blades of grass on your cloak, Tristan. In a moment you’ll brush off your cloak and we shall be free… borne away by the wind. Do not make me look at those sails, Tristan, my husband. I beg you, don’t.”
“I wish,” thought Tristan, “I wish I could have met you earlier. Why did Fate bring me to Ireland? Armorica is closer to Lionesse… I could have met you earlier… I wish I had loved you… I wish… What colour are the sails of the ship? I wish… I wish I could give you love, my lady. My good lady Iseult of the White Hands… But I can’t… I can’t…”
Branwen turned her face to the tapestries, her shoulders shaking with sobs. She too must have heard.
I took her in my arms. On all the Lir’s Tritons! I cursed my bear-like clumsiness, my wooden hands, my cragged fingertips catching on the silk like tiny fishhooks. But Branwen, falling into my arms, had filled everything out, put everything right, rounding off all the sharp edges like a wave washing over a sandy beach trampled by horses’ hooves. Suddenly, I felt we were one person. I knew I couldn’t lose her. Ever.
Above her head, pressed onto my chest, I saw the window. The sea. And the ship.
“You can give me love, Tristan,” thought Iseult. “Please give it to me, before I lose you. Only once. I need it very much. Don’t make me look at the sails of this ship. Don’t ask me what colour they are. Don’t force me to play a role in a legend, a role which I don’t want to play.”
“I can’t,” thought Tristan. “I can’t. Iseult, my golden-haired Iseult… My Iseult…”
“It’s not my name,” thought Iseult. “It’s not my name.”
“It’s not my name!” she shouted.
Tristan opened his eyes, looked around, his head rolling on the pillows.
“My lady…” he whispered. “Branwen… Morholt…”
“We are here, all of us,” answered Iseult very quietly.
“No,” thought Tristan. “Iseult is not here. So… it’s as if there was no one here.”
“My lady…”
“Don’t make me…”
“My lady… Please…”
“Don’t make me look at the sails, Tristan. Don’t force me to tell you…”
“Please…” His body tensed. “I beg you…”
And then he said it. Differently. Branwen shuddered in my arms.
“Iseult.”
She smiled.
“I wanted to change the course of a legend,” she said very quietly. “What a mad idea. Legends cannot be changed. Nothing can be changed. Well, almost nothing…”
She stopped, looked at me, at Branwen, both still embracing and standing next to the tapestry of the apple tree of Avalon. She smiled. I knew I would never forget that smile.
Slowly, very slowly, she walked up to the window. Standing inside it, she stretched her hands up to its pointed arch.
“Iseult,” groaned Tristan. “What… what colour…”
“They are white,” she said. “White, Tristan. They are white as snow. Farewell.”
She turned around. Without looking at him, without looking at anybody, she left the room. The moment she left I stopped hearing her thoughts. All I could hear was the roaring of the sea.
“White!” shouted Tristan. “Iseult! My Golden Hair! At last…”
The voice died in his throat like the flickering flame of an oil-lamp. Branwen screamed. I ran to his bed. Tristan’s lips moved lightly. He was trying to raise himself. I held him up and gently forced him to lie back on the pillows.
“Iseult,” he whispered. “Iseult. Iseult…”
“Lie still, Tristan. Do not try to get up.”
He smiled. By Lugh, I knew I would never be able to forget that smile.
“Iseult… I have to see it…”
“Lie still, Tristan…”
“… the sails…”
Branwen, standing in the window where a moment ago stood Iseult of the White Hands, sobbed loudly.
“Morholt!” she cried. “The ship…”
“I know. Branwen…”
She turned.
“He is dead.”
“What?”
“Tristan has died. This very moment. This is the end, Branwen.”
I looked through the window. The ship was closer than before. But still too far. Much too far to tell the colour of its sails.
* * *
I met them in the big hall, the one where we were greeted by Iseult of the White Hands. In the hall where I offered her my sword and my life, whatever it might have meant.
I was looking for Iseult and the chaplain. Instead I found them.
There were four of them.
A Welsh druid named Hwyrddyddwg, a sly old man, told me once that a man’s intentions, no matter how cleverly disguised, will be always betrayed by two things: his eyes and his hands. I looked closely at the eyes, then at the hands of the knights standing in the great hall.
“My name is Marjadoc,” said the tallest of them. He had a coat of arms on his tunic – two black boars’ heads, crested with silver, against a blue-red field. “And these are honourable knights – Sir Gwydolwyn, Sir Anoeth and Sir Deheu of Opwen. We come from Cornwall as envoys to Sir Tristan of Lionesse. Take us to him, sir.”
“You’ve come too late,” I said.
“Who are you, sir?” winced Marjadoc. “I do not know you.”
At that moment Branwen came in. Marjadoc’s face twitched, anger and hatred creeping out on it like two writhing snakes.
“Marjadoc.”
“Branwen.”
“Gwydolwyn. Anoeth. Deheu. I thought I would never see you again. They told me Tristan and Corvenal put you out of your misery in the Wood of Moren.”
Marjadoc smiled nastily.
“Inscrutable is Fate. I never thought I would see you again either. Especially here. But never mind, take us to Tristan. The matter is of utmost urgency.”
“Why such a hurry?”
“Take us to Tristan,” repeated Marjadoc angrily. “We have business with him. Not with his servants. Nor with the panderess of the Queen of Cornwall.”
“Whence have you come, Marjadoc?”
“From Tintagel, as I said.”
“Interesting,” smiled Branwen, “for the ship has not yet reached the shore. But it’s nearly there. Do you wish
me to tell you what sails it is sailing under?”
Marjadoc’s eyes didn’t change for a second. I realised he had known. I understood everything. The light I saw at the end of the black tunnel was growing brighter.
“Leave this place,” barked Marjadoc, putting his hand on the sword. “Leave the castle. Immediately.”
“How have you got here?” asked the smiling Branwen. “Have you, by any chance, come on the rudderless boat? With the black, tattered rag for a sail? With the wolf’s skull nailed to the high, upturned stem? Why have you come here? Who sent you?”
“Get out of the way, Branwen. Do not cross us or you’ll be sorry.”
Branwen’s face was calm. But this time it was not the calm of resignation and helplessness, the chill of despair and indifference. This time it was the calm of an unshaken, iron will. No, I mustn’t lose her. Not for any price.
Any? And what about the legend?
I could smell the scent of apples.
“You have strange eyes, Marjadoc,” said Branwen suddenly. “Eyes which are not used to daylight.”
“Get out of our way.”
“No. I won’t get out of your way, Marjadoc. First you will answer my question. The question is: why?”
Marjadoc didn’t move. He was looking at me.
“There will be no legend about great love,” he said and I knew it was not him who was talking. “Such a legend would be unwanted and harmful. The tomb made of beryl and the hawthorn bush growing from it and spreading itself over the tomb made of chalcedony would be a senseless folly. We do not want tombs like that. We do not want the story of Tristan and Iseult to take root in people’s minds, to become an ideal and an example for them. We do not wish that it should repeat itself. We won’t have young people saying: ‘We are like Tristan and Iseult’. Ever. Anywhere.”
Branwen was silent.
“We cannot allow something like the love of these two to cloud minds destined for higher things. To weaken arms whose purpose is to crush and kill. To soften the spirit of those who are meant to hold power with iron tongs. And above all, Branwen, we shall not allow what has bound Tristan and Iseult to pass into legend as an imperishable love that dares all dangers and makes light of hardships, binding the lovers even after their death. That is why Iseult of Cornwall has to die far away from here, bringing into the world another descendant of King Mark, as befits a queen. As for Tristan, if he has already gone to rot before we reached him, he must be laid at the bottom of the sea, with a stone tied to his neck. Or burn. Yes, that would be best. And the castle of Carhaing should go up in flames with him. And soon, before the ship from Tintagel sails into the bay. Instead of a tomb of beryl – a heap of stinking, smouldering rubble. Instead of a beautiful legend – an ugly truth. The truth about selfish infatuation, about stepping over dead bodies, about trampling the feelings of other people and the harm done to them. Branwen? Do you really want to stop us, us the Knights of Truth? I repeat: get out of our way. We have nothing against you. We do not want to kill you. There is no need. You have played your role, a rather contemptible one, and now you can go. Go back to the shore, where they are waiting for you. You too, Sir… What is your name?”
The Malady and Other Stories: An Andrzej Sapkowski Sampler Page 4