Gawain and Lady Green (6 page)

Quickly he glanced around the firelit crowd for a slightly stooped, white-haired figure bearing a harp like a shield on his shoulder. Maybe talking with the white-bearded druid no one talked with?

No. No Merlin, anywhere.

Later, fellows of the Square Table upended a great red wheel. They lit torches from the Midsummer Fire and poked them into holes in the center. Then with shouting and drum-rolls they beat the flaring wheel like a huge hoop toward the river. God save whoever got in its way!

The crowd screamed joyful excitement. When the wheel crashed into the river, men leaped like hares and threw their children in the air. Old fellows waved canes, young girls loosened gowns.

Thirsty Gawain quaffed ale from Lady Green’s bottle. He told her, “All this reminds me of something. As if I’d been here before.”

She arched surprised eyebrows. “They don’t celebrate Midsummer at Arthur’s Dun?”

“Not like this.” He seemed to remember that all this dizzy noise was meant to encourage the sun. But Christians knew that only God ruled the sun. “Peasants do something like this.” Gawain was not sure what exactly they did.

Lady Green took back her bottle and stored it under her gown. “Now it’s time to jump the fire.”

“What!”

Lady Green grasped his hand. “It’s low enough. Over here. Come on, they’re all waiting for us to lead.”

Hand in hand, Gawain and Lady Green ran at the low line of fire and jumped. It seemed to Gawain that he jumped straight into dying flame. But Lady Green’s hand lifted him. His feet found cool earth again.

The yokels roared approval. Turning, Gawain saw young couples running and leaping where they had run and leaped.

Lady Green squeezed his hand. “Now we go.”

“Go?” That now familiar ale-fuzz muffled thought.

“To the grove. Now, while they’re all watching the jumps.”

“The grove? But that’s where…” That’s where the dancing trees had gone. He had no wish to meet one of those.

“That’s where we work our magic, May King.” She drew him away, out of the crowd.

Groping into grove darkness, Gawain asked Lady Green, “Where was Merlin? I was…were…I watched for Merlin…”

“Why?”

“Had something to tell him. Ask him. He weren’t…wasn’t there.”

She laughed. “Merlin is not the sun, Gawain. He does not come and go at sacred times. He’s only human.”

“Think he’ll come later?”

“He’ll come when he wants to, May King.”

“Gawain, girl. Gawain.”

“I meant to say Gawain. Dear Gawain.”

Granny saw into my heart. To warn me, she told us her sad story, how long ago she loved her May King. Gods! She loves him still. Love lit her old eyes as she spoke of him.

I heard her. But already by then I couldn’t help myself.

Look at him, Gwyneth! Sit up here beside him and look upon those straight, brave brows, those feeling, firm lips, sleep-slacked now. Who could look without love?

Such a brave child he is!

And I. Am I not brave too?

New sunlight steals down through oak leaves and through my thinning thatch. Mist curls past and into my open bower door. Something moves in the mist. I grasp Gawain’s shoulder and cling. Heart beats a small drum-roll. Body-eyes see only mist.

Spirit, unfold yourself! Rise into your own space, see in your own light.

Frightened Spirit folds and curls itself low in my stomach. Something moves nearer in mist.

Under my stiff-frozen hand Gawain’s shoulder turns cold. I cannot lift my hand, or draw frozen breath to cry, “Gawain, defend me!” Which how could he do? I sit here encased in ice, entirely alone.

A voice not my own speaks inside my head. It creaks and stumbles, as Gawain’s voice did when he first came to us out of the grove. He told me he had not spoken in days. Likewise this voice speaks not often, nor easily. Inside my head it clears throat, licks lips. It says,
Give to us, Gwyneth. We pay.

A good thing I need not speak aloud! Ice closes my throat.

What do you pay?

What you want?

I want…I want power.

Aha. Power. What power you got now, Gwyneth?

You know. You know all.

Not all. Tell

I have…I see ghosts. Auras.

Don’t see us!

No. I don’t see you yet.

Wanna see?

Ah. Ech. No. I think I need not see you.

Wise Gwyneth. You got prophecy?

I read the future in stones.

Nah, naaah! Prophecy in heart. Look. See. Know.

I don’t do that.

You will.

What?

You give us ours. We pay prophecy.

Gawain stirs under my hand. I glance down at him. He rolls his head toward me, his eyelashes strive to lift—long black eyelashes, lovely as a girl’s.

That one. Give us that one, Gwyneth.

Why do they ask and bargain?
What choice have I?

Bitterly,
Always choice.

Always choice…when I thought I had none…

Gawain’s mouth drops open as in horror. His dear gray eyes startle wide, then narrow and droop. His ruddy face grays, then greens; Gawain’s dear head seems severed from its sturdy neck.

You give. We pay. Your choice.

Eyes on Gawain’s dead face, I strive to move. With huge effort I lift my hand from his shoulder, reach out behind me, grasp my green silk girdle. It burns my hand.

Hah! No need. We go.

I draw the warm, protecting girdle about my waist.

Your choice, Gwyneth.

The voice dies away out of my head. Empty, innocent mist curls past and into my open bower door. The girdle’s warmth spreads through me, from stomach to breasts, down arms and legs. Gawain’s face turns from green to gray to ruddy. Under closed lids, life fills out his eyes.

Prophecy. They pay prophecy.

Choice. I have choice.

Ale mug at hand, Gawain rested in Old Lady Granny’s hut. Light rain splattered the thatch close above him. Then it paused. Rain had come and gone, heavy and light, all this cool, sleepy day. Gawain had passed the morning in Men’s House, telling Round Table tales to the fascinated Square Table. Now toward evening he stretched out alone on Lady Granny’s floor mats, embroidered down cushions propping up head and shoulders. He drank and dreamed.

“May Queen, that’s me,” a child’s harsh voice declared close behind his head, just outside. “Gimme them flowers.”

“Aaaah!” another child disagreed. “Maevis. I vote for Maevis.”

“We don’t vote,” the first voice decided. “I’m May Queen. And May King, that’s…”

“Alvie! Eddy! Hearny!” Children squealed. A dog barked— Granny’s friendly old Brindle.

Gawain’s heavy eyes opened. Had he dreamed? He stared up into the arched branches that roofed Granny’s hut. From the highest arch swung pots, brushes, small tools for various tasks—mysteries to Gawain—and clean ceremonial garments. Three long green gowns hung up there, with loops of green jewelry and strings… and strings…and strings of true-gold rings.

Gawain’s eye rested thoughtfully on dim-shining bracelets and strung rings. He had not been dreaming. Just outside the thatch behind him real children played a real game. Rain could not confine them indoors.

The first, imperious voice said, “May King’s Brucie.”

Protests. “Too little. Too ugly. Too dumb.”

“Ech!
You
don’t want to be May King, do you?”

Mumbles.

“So. Gimme that there crown. Let me put this on you, Brucie…”

Brucie squawked. Gawain imagined the smallest boy outside squirming as the flower crown descended. He gave a small remembering squirm himself.

Brindle barked. Gawain could almost see his tail swing.

“Music!” the bully demanded. And music commenced—what sounded like a broken-pot drum, several quavering reed pipes, and children whistling.

Gawain sat up, dizzy. (More and more often he woke up dizzy.) He drained the mug beside him.

“This here’s the maypole. Come on, Brucie. We lead.” One by
one, dancing children quit whistling. The reed pipes and drum kept up a fairly lilting rhythm.

Gawain rose to his knees, stretched, yawned. Tried the mug again. Not a drop left in it.

“Ynis, let’s stop. That’s plenty there. We gotta breathe.”

Ynis! Gawain should have known that determined, unchildish voice!

But he had never seen Ynis play with other children. He had thought they rejected her company, as he would like to do himself. Here she was, not only playing but commanding the play, and the others caved in before her like peasants before a queen.

“Oh, very well.” The ragged music ceased. “We can’t do Midsummer. So it’s Summerend now. Get the scythe, Con.”

Scythe? Gawain let the mug fall. With both hands he laid hold of the thatch beside him and pulled apart a peephole.

Just outside, green-clad, flower-crowned Ynis pointed commandingly to Granny’s chopping block. Two quite big boys laid hold of little flower-crowned Brucie. They plunked him down on his knees in a puddle beside the block.

Brucie wailed. Brindle swung his tail and whined. The gang of children stood around panting.

Here through their midst came Con, white-robed like a druid in a man’s worn-out tunic. In both hands he held a scythe. A real scythe.

“Wait!” Ynis stopped Con in his tracks with a raised palm. “You want oak leaves on that scythe.”

“Oak leaves!” Con growled and swung the scythe carelessly. Children close by jumped aside.

That was a real scythe. Sharp. Oak leaves or no. Brucie wailed from the chopping block where the big boys held his head down. Brindle lifted his head and howled.

Gawain saw himself the only adult in sight. With an effort he gathered his wits. Stood up. Pushed aside the leather-hinged door and glared down at the children. “In the name of holy Christ and Mary, what do you think you’re doing?”

Small wet faces gaped up at him. Even Ynis betrayed surprise.

“Con, you better get that scythe back before it’s missed. Run. Scat, you. All of you.” Gawain waved at the gang as Lady Granny would wave at flocking chickens.

Squawking children scattered. An older girl ran the sobbing Brucie away. His wet flower crown dripped, abandoned, on the chopping block.

“Except you.” In two strides Gawain grabbed Ynis’s wrist. Reed-thin, it seemed to crumble in his fist. He shifted his hold to the shoulder of her drenched green tunic. Confused Brindle growled, then wagged.

“God’s teeth, Girl! What evil game do you play?”

She raised a calm face to him. Her flower crown never slipped. Like her ma, she knew how to fasten it, even in wet hair. “May Day. We was just playin’ May Day.”

“May Day with a scythe?” He shook her.

“Couldn’t do Midsummer. You need a fire for Midsummer.”

“So?”

“So it’s rainin’.”

He shook her more fiercely. “The scythe?”

“So we skipped to Summerend.”

Summerend. Summerend?

“Listen, you Girl. You don’t play with real scythes.”

“Brucie wouldn’t get hurt. Con’s his brother.”

“Hah! A lot you know about brothers!” Quick, broken memories of his own brothers flashed across Gawain’s mind. “Next May Day game, pretend a scythe.”

She sighed.

Dizzy, mazed, he stared down into her quiet eyes. “Pretend a Midsummer Fire too.” No telling what these wild brats might do!

“Have to,” she agreed. Her flower crown nodded. “If it rains.”

And now came real rain, hard into her upturned face.