A Tale from Cair Paravel: The Selkie

I have only seen a Selkie once.

I was seventeen, walking alone along the quiet, rock-strewn beach of a sleepy little English town. He was shirtless, sitting chest-deep in the water with his face to the sea, his hair black and ragged around his shoulders. Something about him, his stillness, his bareness even though the water was cold and the wind was blowing, the way he sat almost silhouetted against the coast and the rocks, caught my attention. I slowed to a stop, and putting aside my usual caution, slipped my camera from my coat pocket to snap a picture of him.

With the click of the camera he spun around to face me. I had taken him for a villager or tourist, or one of those wandering students who always seem to be backpacking around Europe like gypsies and camping under the stars. But I saw his face, saw his hipbones naked over the the top of the rock he clung to, saw the fierceness in the set of his shoulders and the wildness in his eyes and instantly I knew he was none of those things.

His gaze swept over me like a wave and then darted away to settle on the silvery-wet seal skill that lay on the rocks just a few feet away from me. I gazed at it almost stupidly, breathless, so numb with little-girl excitement that I could barely think. Then suddenly his eyes were boring into me, dark and wary and afraid. He stood frozen over the rock, motionless save for the damp swinging of his hair in the wind, and neither of us breathed.

I cannot say that for a moment I didn't consider stealing his skin. The thought of whisking him away with me to be my beautiful, sea-born husband was rather delightful. But I was not even old enough to leave home, and had little money. There was no way on earth I could ever support him, and even if I could, my home was far away, and mired between endless miles of land, without even the taste of ocean-water in the air. What kind of life would that be, I thought, trapped so far from the sea, so far from his home? And I knew then that to take his seal-skin would be to kill his spirit, and I knew I could never be so cruel

So I smiled instead, and took a few steps back. Immediately his face softened, his eyes bright with understanding, and at last we both let go of the breath we'd been holding. A wonderful grin of relief came over his face, and my heart skipped a beat. Then he turned away, sliding back into the sea until the waves came up over his arms. I turned away then, too, and moved down along the beach the way I had come. When I glanced back again a few minutes later he was gone, with nothing but fading ripples to show he had been there at all.

It was hours before I could bear to look at the photo I'd taken. I was filled with horrible dread, certain I would turn on my camera and find nothing but ocean, or at best a grainy Bigfoot-blur. But when at last I was brave enough to look, I found him just as he had been at that moment; twisting round to look at me, shoulders tensed, his face lost in the windy sweep of his hair.

Photo by http://hannahandlandon.blogspot.com/

The Forest

When I was little, barely more than a baby, we lived in a house in the woods. It is the first house I actually remember, and just the slightest scent of woodsmoke takes me back there. I can recall the first time I saw it, the way the trees blurred along the roadside as we drove, noticing the flowers and the manzanita trees and the wooden sign painted with rabbits.


I remember the days spent making mud pies while my parents cleared the land for our yard, cutting out weeds and bushes and emptying the litter that had been dumped there, and later, after the clearing was done, our morning walks down the lane, or into the woods, where a little pond hid behind the trees and we found the doors of a rabbit's house.


I wonder if it was that experience that left me so fascinated by forests, why they figure so heavilly in my stories and the landscape of my mind, why I cannot follow the paths in the grass, or watch the sunlight dancing over the bark and leaves, or stare down a dark corridor of trees and not feel that something is waiting there, that at any moment something utterly unearthly might pass across my sight.


Or maybe it was the books I read as a child. So many of the old stories, Greek, Scandinavian, English, Native American, all teem with images of the forest, of ancient trees and lost children, secret paths and woodland spirits. Or maybe it is neither of these, but some near-forgotten primeval memory carried in my blood.


Ancestors of mine came from all over Europe, and all had their tales of the woods. My French trapper great-grandfather lived and hunted in the deepest forests of North America, and the Souix Indians from whom I am descended believed one of the most beautiful sights in the world was the sun coming through the trees.


Or perhaps it is older even than that. Perhaps all humans hold this inborn sense of awe, this communal knowledge, an awareness deeper than instinct, that somewhere in that darkness, beneath those arching branches, there is something alive, some ancient eye watching, some great heart beating, some hidden hand shrouding its secrets behind the mist and dappled sunlight.

#1 by http://www.flickr.com/people/algo/
#2 by http://www.flickr.com/people/45142573@N04/
#3 by http://www.flickr.com/people/uesser/
#4 by http://www.flickr.com/people/nachosan/
#5 by me
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Once upon a time...

As a child Beauty and the Beast was one of my favorite movies. I watched it a thousand times or more.

The West Wing was one of those scenes that, young as I was, seared itself into my heart. Even before I could truly understand its depth, or what it was about it that moved me so much, I was fascinated.

Even now I cannot watch it without trembling inside.

A Tale from Cair Paravel: The Peasant's Tale

This is the first part of a Tale of Three Strands.

Many years ago, in a faraway country, there lay a beautiful valley, fruitful and pleasant and green as an emerald. On one side of it rose a great wall of mountains; on the other stretched an endless forest, so deep that none had ever seen the center of it. The valley soil was rich and fertile, fed by a clear, sweet river that poured down from the mountains when the snow melted each spring. The forest was thick with game, and its trees supplied the people with lumber for their homes and firewood to warm them through the long winters. During the summer sheep frolicked in the pastures, and in springtime the plum trees burst into flower, covering the landscape in clouds of pink and white petals. In that jeweled valley, among the streams and the soft green hills, there lived a peasant girl. It is with her that our story begins.

The girl lived with her parents on a little farm at the edge of the woods, where they raised goats and chickens and grew barley in the fields. Every morning she rose at dawn to gather milk and eggs for the family's breakfast. It was on one such morning, as she made her way from her family's cottage to the pen where they kept the goats, that the girl heard a sound stranger than any she could have imagined.

It was an eerie sound, high and ringing and reedy, like the whistle of the wind through a crack in the roof, or the sound a wet fingertip makes around the mouth of glass. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, echoing, filling her with wonder and sorrow until it seemed her heart would break. Then it faded as suddenly as it had come, and the world was quiet again, stirred only by twitters of birdsong.

She stood transfixed, her shawl pulled tight around her, searching in stunned silence for the source of the sound. The air was still; nothing moved but the slinking mist and the plum blossoms as they drifted aimlessly on the breeze. What had she heard? she wondered. What could make such an unearthly sound?

Suddenly it came again, and she bolted, her shawl slipping from her shoulders as she raced down the hillside. She almost stumbled, pelting down, down, over the sloping earth, the sound growing louder and clearer the closer she came to the woods. It died as she reached the forest, and as she came to a stop before the shadowed trees, suddenly all thoughts of it faded to a whisper in her mind. Before her now lay something far more astonishing.

Just beyond the trees, glimmering in the haze of falling petals, stood the most wondrous creature she had ever beheld. It had the body of a stag, yet instead of antlers a single, shimmering horn rose from its head, and while a deer would have been made of flesh and bone, this creature was formed from seamless, sparkling glass, its eyes as blue as sapphires in its crystalline face. It moved like a ghost through the fog, its footsteps ringing clear as bells in the stillness.

Her breath caught. "Unicorn," she whispered, and the word seemed to hang in the air like a spell as she spoke it. Trembling, she stared in disbelief at the glowing beast before her. It was then that she saw the arrow. It rose from the creature's flanks like a ragged thorn, dark against the paleness of its body. White blood trickled from the wound, dripping down its leg like watery milk. The unicorn raised its shining head and let out a long, whistling moan that made tears sting her eyes. It was the sound, the call that she had heard from the hilltop. The creature had been calling her. That was why she had come, why she was here. She had to help it. She stepped forward, slowly, carefully, afraid the unicorn would spring away. She could see its limbs tensing, its blue eyes growing wide. "Please don't run," she breathed. "I won't harm you."

The creature stood silent among the trees, its jewel eyes fixed on her. She took another step forward. She was shaking, every hair standing on end. At last, she stretched out her hand and touched her fingers to its glassy skin. It trembled at the touch, its sides heaving, but to her relief, it stayed, and when it grew calmer, she led it away from the forest, towards the hills. Slowly, slowly, they began to climb the winding path up to her mother and father's house. But the unicorn was too weak; it collapsed, letting out a cry that shook the hillsides. The girl scrambled to its side, trying desperately to help it to its feet, but to no avail. She ran back up the hill, calling for help, the unicorn's cries ringing behind her like wails. At last she reached the farm and found her father, and together they brought the injured creature safely into the house.

They laid it by the hearth, where it glowed like a molten ruby in the firelight, weeping tears that turned to pearls in their hands. Her mother tended its wounds as gently as she could, but the creature seemed so weak that they feared it would not live past sundown.

Hours passed and the girl never left the unicorn's side. Day slipped into evening and evening faded into night, but she would not be parted from it. Her mother brought her a blanket, and with the soft warmth of the fire on her face and the unicorn's gentle breathing for a lullaby, the girl soon slipped into quiet, dreamless slumber.

When she woke the next morning however, it was no longer a unicorn that lay beside her. It its place slept the most beautiful man she had ever seen. He was white as ivory, with golden lashes and hair like pale honey, so perfect that her heart skipped a beat. Beside him lay a crystal dagger, its silver hilt twisted with filigree and afire with gems. Glancing down at his leg, she saw that it was wrapped with her mother's bandages, the fabric stained red now instead of white. Was this the unicorn that had fallen asleep beside her last night?

With baited breath she reached out to touch him, half-convinced she was dreaming. He stirred, and blinking in the light, stared up at her with eyes as dark as sapphires, as blue as the unicorn's eyes had been. The girl fell back in alarm, but he caught her hand. "Don't be afraid," he said, and his voice was so soft and his face so kind that she began to calm a little. "I am a King's son," he told her. "For a year and a day I have been bound to wander as a unicorn, unable to return to my home and my people. But you have lifted the spell, and saved my life." And with that he bent down and kissed her hand.

Woken by the prince's voice, the girl's parents arrived. Seeing the unicorn gone and a young man in its place, her father and mother were astounded, and together they listened in silent wonder as the Prince told them his tale.

Photo by http://www.flickr.com/people/oliviasdjklfg/

The Unicorn Maiden

Although I was never one of those girls who went through a "horse stage", I've always had a special place in my heart for unicorns. I've been drawn to them for their beauty, for their fragility and rarity, but most of all for their purity. As Marianna Mayer said "the unicorn is the only fabulous beast that does not seem to have been conceived out of human fears. In even the earliest references he is fierce yet good, selfless yet solitary, but always mysteriously beautiful."

I watched The Last Unicorn this week. I found parts of it strange, and a bit childish, but overall it was entertaining, thought-provoking, and very beautiful. How true its moral, that in order to really live, to fully embrace the joys and wonders of life, you must also welcome sorrow and pain. You cannot love without letting yourself be hurt, but if you live your life without loving, than yours is a shallow, selfish exhistance, and not worthy of being called a life at all.

After finishing the movie, I was suddenly inspired to make a unicorn horn, or alicorn, for myself. I gathered together paper, silver trim, my glue gun and lots of glittery nail polish, and whipped one up that very evening. And here it is!

A Tale from Cair Paravel: Moonflowers

Once upon a time, deep in the forest, there was a cottage. The young girl who lived there was kind, but very shy, and chose to live alone, far from town and any of her neighbors. Some might have been desperately lonely there, with no friends or family for company, but the girl came to enjoy the seclusion. During the day she tended her garden, walking barefoot over the soft grass with the sun on her face and the sweet scent of flowers in the air. At night she would sit at her window and count the stars before falling asleep to the hum of crickets and birdsong.

However, there were days when isolation weighed on her like a stone and the silent emptiness of the house made her ache with loneliness. Yet the idea of reaching out to any of her distant neighbors seemed hopeless; she knew enough of them to see there would be very few kindred spirits among them, and, shy as she was, the thought of looking made her tremble.

And so she made the dolls.

Camille was the first, a delicate, pale doll who she dressed in lace and taffeta. Then came Valentine, the gentleman, dashing in crimson velvet and gold braid, and finally little Annette, wide-eyed, sweet-faced and innocent. The girl took her meals with the dolls, sitting them in chairs at the table and chatting to them as she ate; in the evenings she sat with them around the hearth, enjoying their company while she read or sewed, and when it was time for bed they slept on the window seat in her room, tucked comfortably among pillows and embroidered cushions. With them to talk to and spend time with the girl was rarely ever lonely, and she came to care for the dolls as if they were real people.

It was on the first day of summer that another figure entered the girl's life. That morning, as she was slowly brushing out her long hair, she happened to glance out the window. It was then that she saw the young man. Face down on the grass, his clothes and hair stained garnet with blood, he lay as still as a corpse in the sunlight. She rushed out of the house and into the garden and found him, though bruised and bleeding, still alive. Bringing him inside, she laid him on her bed, treating his wounds and washing the dirt from his skin.

Despite her care the young man remained unconscious, and she sat beside him all afternoon and into the night, afraid that he might never wake. For three days she kept constant vigil there, alert for the any sign of life. During those long hours, as he lay still and doll-like beside her, she began to talk to him, just as she would have Annette, Camille or Valentine. She told him about herself, of her life, of her shyness and loneliness, of her garden, her house, her dolls. Soon he became as familiar and dear to her as her three companions were.

At dawn on the fourth day he finally woke. The girl was delighted. She made him tea and hot soup and as he ate he told her his story. He was a tinker, making his living traveling from place to place, repairing pots and pans, sharpening blades and bringing the latest news from out of town. Thieves had attacked him on the road, robbed and beaten him and abandoned him in the woods. With the last of his strength he'd stumbled through the forest and at last had found her garden, only to collapse from exhaustion where she had found him.

During the following weeks the girl rarely left the tinker's side. As she had sat beside him those three days the girl had grown used him, and found that now she felt little of the fear she would have before. After so long in isolation having a real person to talk to was strange and wonderful, and she never tired of hearing his thoughts and feelings or stories of the places he'd been and the marvelous things he'd seen.

The young man had also lived a solitary life, with no family and no home to come back to each night, always moving, never staying in one place long enough to settle. He had grown lonely like that, though perhaps he hadn't realized it, and he found the company as delicious as she did. They spent their days around his bedside, telling each other of themselves and their lives, and he found he would have been happy to listen to her talk for ever. In the mornings when she went out to tend her garden he would move to the window to watch her, happy for just a glimpse of her.

As he grew stronger he began helping with housework and working on the garden with her, and as the weeks passed he grew well again. He could have left then and headed back down the road he'd started on and returned to his former lifestyle. Yet he stayed, unable to bear the thought of leaving her behind.

One day as the girl sat weeding in the garden he kneeled down beside her, holding a folded up handkerchief in his outstretched hands. Opening it she saw the seeds, and as he poured them into her hands he told her of the flowers that they would become. By day the buds stayed closed, wrapped up in their petals like pale sleepers, but at night they blossomed, opening wide to glow in the moonlight. He said he'd seen them years ago on his travels and, buying a pack of seeds, had promised himself that if he finally found a place to settle and make a home he would plant them there. He pressed the seeds into her hand, clasping it his own, and asked her to plant them for him. Then, leaning close, he whispered that he loved her and placed his kiss upon her trembling lips.

During the long days and weeks with him the girl had also fallen in love. But, afraid he would soon tire of such a simple and solitary life and leave, she had kept her feelings hidden, nursing her love in secret like a little flower. With his words it blossomed inside her until she thought she would burst with happiness and love. She sobbed into his shoulder in joy and relief, and he held her against him and tenderly kissed her tears away.

With her beloved beside her the girl no longer needed the dolls for company, but they were still her dear friends and she could not bear the thought of parting with them. Instead she moved them to a new home in a window seat overlooking the garden, and once a year, on the anniversary of the tinker's arrival, she dressed them in their best clothes and had a lovely dinner with them just as they had before.

Then when the moon was high she and her love would slip into the garden, walking bare foot, with the moonlight dappling spots of silver on their skin. The air still hung heavy with the fading fragrance of peonies, roses and lilies and above the stars glimmered like a string of pearls in the sky. Lit up like stars themselves in the dark, the girl and the tinker would meander slowly through the garden, fireflies floating in the air around them. It was then that the moonflowers, for that was what they were called, would bloom, unfurling to glow white and ethereal in the moonlight. Each evening the flowers blossomed anew, revealing their beauty again and again, and it seemed that every morning the love of the girl and the tinker blossomed again too, growing more and more beautiful with each dawn.

The End

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