In the in-between times…
And at the in-between places
Where paths converge
A veil is parted
between the worlds
And one may enter
the Otherworld.
But use much caution
dear one!
For you have entered
the Faery Crossing
And none return
unchanged.
~unknown
Chapter 29
Geraint learned many things, within an hour.
Or was it the second hour, or fifth, or...never mind. One of the first things he learned was not to waste his stories on questions whose answers he did not really want.
The second thing was not to ask questions that could be answered in only one word, an opportunity the gwyllion seized upon, at first, every time he carelessly gave it to them. Upon the third occurrence, in exasperation, he had told them a tale neatly contained within a four-lined limerick, and laughed, with flimsy bravado, at their grumbling response. "An answer worth my story," he demanded, "or a story worth your answer." They gave him no more mere "yes's" or "no's" after that, for they hung upon his words by then, an audience as insatiable as they were difficult, and he dared not take their attention for granted.
He had little time to analyze the answers they gave him, though he marveled at them; if he took too long in beginning a new tale, in mulling over the bits of information he received, the shadows in the corners of his vision moved with impatient menace and the muttering voices grew belligerent. More than once he felt a brush of cold, stale air upon his face, as though someone's dying breath, long bottled, had been released beneath his ear. He shied away from it every time, startled, and then chided himself, reminded himself that they could do him no real harm — but their presence chilled him, and no amount of passing time served to erase his unease.
The foundations of the truth he sought took shape gradually, like a landscape appearing out of mist, solidifying here, melting away there, never revealed in entirety. Its implications shook him, but its form was elusive, and he groped forward like a blind creature, testing every new thought, daring to draw out his audience longer and longer each time before they demanded further sustenance.
His legs grew numb, and he paced to warm them, stumbling over the uneven ground. His back ached and his arms became heavy with gesturing, but his voice rang clear and even. Story after story. Question after question. They moved closer; he still could not see them but their presence pressed in, an invisible ring with him as the uncomfortable center. He wondered what they would do if he attempted to break through it.
He lost track of how many stories he had told them. From every corner of his memory he pulled legends of gods and heroes, love and loss, terror and grief, magic and mystery. They had their preferences. A particularly harrowing tale of a lone traveler, fairy-led to magical realms and lost for a century, only to crumble into dust upon returning to the world of mortals, set their whisperings rippling with something that sounded disturbingly like triumphant laughter. One of them interrupted, correcting a minor detail, and he stopped himself just in time from asking how it knew.
How it knew…
Of course it knew. He asked a question, got his answer, but his mind was already racing ahead, an idea forming like clay taking shape on a wheel. He tried it; told another well-known tale of an old man bewitched by the fae, deliberately mistaking an important point in a way that cast them as villains, and halted as their voices reached a fever pitch of indignation.
It was not so, one broke out above the chorus. The fool was granted treasure, and he spent it on ale and merriment instead of needful provisions. His humiliation was no more than he deserved.
Geraint swallowed a desire to smile, warily amused both at their sense of justice, and the results of his test. The gwyllion, it seemed, could not bear inaccuracy in a story they knew. "Ah, yes. Of course. As his good wife pointed out, when he returned home. And so the story ends." The creatures muttered in rather petulant satisfaction, and his thoughts flew, wary, devising. "Now, then. Why is the blood of Llyr forbidden to enter this place?"
He did not expect a straight or clear answer; he had already broached the topic in various ways and found them evasive. Dagrau Rhiannon, the voices sighed, a name that carried a charge like lightning, prickling at his scalp. The blood of Llyr would cleave the tomb. The gem must be protected.
"But I hold the gem here, a gift from your own people." He held up the pendant, swinging in the air; there was a growing suspicion in his mind, needing only confirmation.
That was neither question nor story, storyteller.
He sighed, a trifle irritably, and chanted out an old lay whose familiarity allowed him to put his mind elsewhere. Puzzling the pieces together, wondering if he dared follow the path that was laying itself before him, he stole a glance past the ring of stones. The world beyond it was lost in a grey haze that betrayed nothing of darkness or light, night or day; he was frozen in a netherworld, halfway between dream and reality. How long had he been here? How long could he afford to get his answers piecemeal?
The lay ended. A strange noise drew his attention past his own thoughts and he realized, with a jolt, that another tremor was underway. A stronger one, this time; a sudden jerk and he was thrown from his feet, tumbling to the ground and crouching helplessly as it shook beneath him. The gwyllion groaned aloud, their voices grinding like gravel, and somewhere within the chaos he thought the stones themselves cried out in anguish and outrage.
The shock faded and the ground stilled; Geraint raised himself, sensing the presence of the creatures around him as they crept back to their places in his audience; he felt oddly as though they were crawling toward him for comfort. There was unmistakable terror in their whispers, an overwhelming sense of hopeless dread.
"What binds you to this place?" he blurted out, and cursed his own carelessness; it was a wasted question, and he knew exhaustion was muddling his mind.
The gwyllion hissed like wind whistling through a stone wall. Doom, the answer came back, in a despairing moan. Doom, a sentence upon us; an alliance between our king and the House of Llyr, but not our will. And now Llyr bleeds; its foundations crumble, and its death will be ours, for we cannot leave.
Geraint stiffened in surprise. What could they have done to earn such a sentence? He pushed the thought away; he was probably happier for not knowing, yet perhaps the question had not been wasted after all. The air around him moved uneasily; they were unsettled, their attention scattered. Time was passing, and this was, perhaps, the best chance he would get.
He rose to his feet, gathered up his strength and all the force of his experience and skill, trusting, perhaps recklessly, in his own intuition. "Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg," Geraint announced. "I shall tell you the story of Llyr, of its past, and possibly, its future, and within it I shall tell your own story, of how you may be saved."
The voices were cut off by a complete, expectant silence; they said nothing for long minutes. His pulse pounded in his ears. He clutched Angharad's pendant in his fist and spoke. "Once," he said, "a king in a faraway land had a dream…"
Threads of story, spun from their answers, wove themselves into the tapestry he already knew, a history spread like a quilt upon the land at his feet. Empty holes gaped where loose ends unraveled; he left them hanging, dangling, tempting, and waited, tense, for his listeners to take the bait. They did. One voice, then another, contradicting, confirming, others rising in a chorus of agreement or a tangled snarl of argument, until he stepped in to smooth them out, to untangle the knots and weave in the finished threads.
He handed them a pattern and they returned it to him expanded, given breadth and height and depth until he was dazzled with its colors, breathless with anticipation at the next twist in the weave. He expected them to notice, any moment, that they were giving him answers freely, but they were caught up in the flow of story, their dread mutterings turning to silky murmurs like the far-off hum of music. Eventually he had the impression, not so much that he deceived them, but that he had set them free to do what they should have been doing all along; that he was no master of this weaving but merely one more thread, swept along upon the loom of their memories.
The tapestry glittered in his mind, threaded in fire-gold and watered-silver and a thousand other colors between, dark threads and light, sorrow and joy. Over all love and life strove against barrenness and death, and at the center three treasures were gained and lost, gifted and held, hidden, waiting. His heart raced and his mouth went dry. The image revealed left him without words, and he fell into silence without knowing it. The gwyllion continued to speak for minutes more, their voices trailing into laments.
It has all been for naught. The island burns, they wailed. The fires reach even our domain, these flames of darkness and death, and there is nowhere to escape them.
"What if there is?" he called out abruptly, and their sobbing ebbed. "If this story is true, and one of Llyr comes, and cleaves the tomb, and the gem—,"
Doom, they interrupted him. We must protect the gem.
"But you would be freed from your bondage here," he pointed out. "You would be released."
Silence. Their shock quivered in the air. A single voice sighed. None can release us, Storyteller, save a Daughter of Llyr. The alliance is with the Royal House.
"And if one were willing?"
A disturbed grumble arose, various voices in disagreement. He felt their communion slipping away, and caught quickly at the threads of the story. "And one day, a Daughter of Llyr, an heir of the Royal House, will come unto the sacred stones, to reward the faithful service of the gwyllion in their time of distress. She will declare their sentence fulfilled, and release them from their alliance, that she may enter unhindered to the place they guard, and do what she must to save her people." He paused, listened to his own breath ghosting into the dead silence. "Is that how this story will end, Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg?"
There was a hiss, mingled of doubt and excitement. The air currents brushed him constantly now, close, as though they stood around him in an eager crowd. It is a good story, murmured the voices, a good story, Storyteller.
There was a note of gloating satisfaction, almost a bizarre affection in their words that made the hair on his arms rise. Our centuries here, they whispered, would have seemed shorter, had you come sooner. You will stay what time remains. You will ease our burden and turn our thoughts from fear.
He took a step back, his heart sinking. "I cannot stay here. I must return to those who sent me to you."
The voices became almost gentle, low and coaxing as though speaking to a frightened child. There will be naught to return to. It is not your fight. You must stay with us, not-of-Llyr, until the last stone falls, and all will perish together. That will end the story.
Geraint glanced around frantically at the ground, wishing for the small dagger. These creatures could not directly harm him, thanks to the protections he bore. But could they force him to stay? "That was not our bargain. I prefer my ending."
You cannot make it so.
"I speak for the Princess Angharad," he cried, "daughter of Regat, daughter of Mererid, of the Royal House, who has the authority to free you."
The air stilled around him; the world held its breath. He counted the seconds in heartbeats.
This is a great claim for a storyteller.
"It is the truth," Geraint insisted. "You see I carry her emblem, entrusted with her gem."
You may have stolen it. The gems are sought, always, by thieves.
"Then look here." He yanked at his neckline, baring his breast. "I bear this mark from her own hand, branded by her love, for my heart is hers, and it was she who sent me here for your aid."
He sensed their movement, the weight of their scrutiny. Invisible, half-solid things brushed across the crescent shape at his breast like searching fingers. More mutterings and low moans; he could not tell if they were impressed, skeptical, or disappointed, and for a time none spoke to him, though they seemed to confer together. Finally, a whisper…how do you know she will do this thing?
He swallowed. "I do not. But I believe she will. I believe that she must, if your common enemy is to be thwarted in his designs. Let me return to her, so that I may share what you have revealed to me."
There was a doubtful buzzing, like disturbed bees. If she will not free us, then you must stay.
Geraint caught his breath, and cast about for another solution; they were all around him now, their whispers drowning out his thoughts, and he felt his strength draining, as though they fed on his very essence. They could not force him to stay, perhaps, but they could make it very difficult for him to leave, and again, he felt the urgency of passing time. "I will not put her in that position, nor can you force me to give you that which you desire, even if I stayed. But hear this. Whether she frees you or not, release me now and I….I will pledge you one day of every year, as long as I live, beginning a year and a day from now, as we count time in the mortal realm. Wherever I am, when that day comes, make a way for me and I will come to you, and you will have stories, from sunup to sundown, all your own. I swear it."
They rustled excitedly, but the whisper came back with some indignation. This is no arrangement. If she does not free us, the fires will burn, and we will perish with the island. Nothing will be here in a year and a day. A brief, thoughtful silence. Every full moon. Thirteen times in a year will you come. There was a hint of vindictive amusement in their voices. It is fitting, given the one you serve.
He looked at the gem in his hand, and a wry smile pulled at his mouth. "It is indeed fitting. Done. Every full moon."
A rush of wind swirled through the stone ring as though a whole fleet of invisible spirits of the air had taken wing. The gwyllion howled, a sound both mournful and victorious. Send her, storyteller. Llyr and not-of-Llyr. Free us.
"A bargain?" he persisted. "Swear to me that no harm will come to her, no deception or enchantment."
A bargain. You have our word.
As carven in stone, then. Whatever their capriciousness, the Fair Folk never broke their word. "How can she come?" he demanded. "Until you are freed, the treaty stands. Your terms made contact impossible."
There was a sound like a cackle. Clever, they said, so clever. Something glittered at his feet. Behold, Storyteller.
Geraint looked down. A battle horn lay upon the earth in front of his toes, a beautiful curve of carved and inlaid ivory, the mouthpiece molded silver. He crouched to retrieve it, cradled it admiringly in his hands. "What is it?"
A summons. She must blow it when she is ready to come to us, but only then, for it holds three calls and no more. We aid the one who blows the horn. A series of notes sounded in his mind, a short string of haunting melody. Remember it. The notes sounded again, and he hummed them, committed them to memory.
Geraint hung Angharad's pendant at his throat again and tied the horn to his belt. He stood straight, and turned slowly, staring at each stone in turn. The shapes at their bases glowed and wavered like marsh lights, as solid as he had yet seen them; he made out vague forms, humanlike but misshapen, limbs too long, torsos too small, ovoid heads without faces. His horror of them was tinged now with pity. They wanted their freedom, and it was a desire he knew well enough.
"Gwyllion of the Tylwyth Teg," he called, raising his arms to them, "I thank you for what you have told me."
The shapes wavered, the voices chanted. Full moon, Storyteller. A quavering of eerie amusement wove through the chorus. Next full moon.
He backed away, his neck prickling, until two stones rose on either side of him, dark shadows at the corners of his vision. Another step, and another, and he stood outside the ring, and turned from its gray-misted secrets to look about him.
Sunlight fell upon his shoulders like soft golden rain, from a sky the pale blue of midmorning. Cool air wafted from the hills, bearing the scent of heather blossom. Geraint took two steps before his knees buckled beneath him; he stumbled to the turf, and darkness claimed him.
When he opened his eyes again the light was the deep blue of early twilight, and he blinked in confusion, and rose to his hands and knees with a groan. He was thirstier than he ever remembered being in his life, and tore into his satchel for his water flask. Drained, it did no more than take the edge from his thirst, which served to make him realize he was also ravenously hungry. His eyes burned from dryness and he blinked rapidly, dug out what remained of his provisions, and ate it all with no thought of rationing. His head felt thick and dizzy; his hands were clumsy with weariness.
It was some time before he felt capable of struggling to his feet and beginning the slow descent from the hilltop. He did not look back at the stone ring; its presence behind him pressed upon him like a glare, and he would be happy never to see it again.
At the bottom of the first valley he dunked his head in the stream that ran there and drank deeply, throwing all thought of faerie-charmed waters to the winds. Let them take him if they wanted, as long as he could quench this thirst. Shaking his wet hair back, he leaned against a boulder and took careful stock of himself. He ached everywhere, the stiff ache of exhaustion, but was unmarked and unwounded, with one exception; he touched the burn at his chest and looked down in surprise. He felt no pain; the crescent mark was smooth and white, a scar fully healed. He frowned, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, and realized with a start that his chin was rough with growth that only many days could account for.
He sucked in a horrified gasp. How long had he been in the ring?
Geraint staggered to his feet and searched the sky, but there was no moon; it was yet not risen, or perhaps was blocked by the hills. He yanked up his satchel and labored as fast as he could up the next slope, bent almost double at times, clawing at the earth, pulling his way to the top. The light failed steadily; as he crested the summit of the next ridge, the pure white sliver of a waning crescent moon sliced the sky before him. He stared at it, trying to remember what he had seen the night before he entered Pentre Gwyllion. It had been…oh, of course, almost full, a thing he could hardly forget, after what Angharad had told him. And now crescent. Then he had been gone…good Llyr.
Nearly two weeks.
Two weeks is starting to feel like a very long time...
Not that I expect anything to change much at the end of them. I'm torn between wanting to escape into my fantasy worlds, and wondering if it's wasteful, somehow, to spend mental energy on them - though perhaps no worse than obsessively reading apocalyptic news stories that ramp up all my anxieties. Let's all support one another. I'll be here, creating what I can. If it's helping you, please let me know. For many, human connection is only happening online right now, and we all need it more than ever.
Stay safe, my friends.
