Of Battles and Choices
Even through the pouring rain and the dark night I can tell nothing has changed. The damp road beneath my feet is just the same wheel breaker full of rocks and muddy holes as it was the day I left, over ten years ago. The same meager barley crop, probably still infested with crows. The same old trees. The same low clouds pouring their waters over this mushy land.
As I tread the last curve I can see old man Trent’s hut almost before it becomes apparent. This has changed. Not much, but since old man Trent must have died some time ago, his decaying hut is even more crooked than before. Almost no roof is left. Someone ought to bring it down before it falls over the children that certainly play inside it.
The rain hardens as if in a desperate last attempt to keep me from reaching my destination, but even if I were to plunge in a lake I could not possibly get any more water in me.
Just some two or three hundred yards now. I can already hear the dog barking through the rain. It cannot be Titus, I am certain. The poor beast was already old when I left. But the bark is as deep as his, and it wouldn’t surprise me if one or several of his descendants were still around. I wonder what Eithne calls it. I wonder if he kept the tradition of calling our dogs after Roman Caesars. I smile remembering papa and another family tradition: hating the Romans.
“Why do we hate them, father?” I remember asking, me a very young boy.
“We used to hate them because they came. Then they left and we hated them for leaving. Then we started hating them for not coming back, and it has been so for some centuries now.”
That same line was passed from father to son for longer than anyone could remember. So was the tradition of giving pompous names to our dogs.
I hear a wagon coming. When it approaches I recognize Donnan, doing his best to to steer the heavy horse in the rain. There is someone with him, but I cannot make who that is through the hood over his face. The robe suggests a priest, though.
Donnan doesn’t stop and I doubt he recognizes me. They pass by me splashing mud and making noise. The wagon still leans to the left even after so long, and I can almost hear Donnan cursing under his breath the day he bought it from old man Trent.
Lightning bolts cross the night sky, and I can see the tree line behind Donnan and Eithne’s hut. There is smoke coming out of the chimney, and I hope there is something warm stirring in it. The dog is barking even more fiercely now, and I can see the door opening as I approach. I open the gate and immediately the door closes. I hear a thud behind it and smile. God bless you, Eithne. At this time of night, you cannot be too careful.
I lower my sack by the door and knock.
“Eithne, is that you?”
“Who is that out there? Go away or I will get my husband. He will sure not like having people call at this time of night.”
The voice is the same. The same commanding tone, with not even a hint of fear. She has always been so good at hiding her fear.
“It’s good to hear your voice, sister. I would have arrived earlier, but it has been raining for the past three days, and my pace lagged. But won’t you find it in your heart to have in your house a long lost brother, even if so late at night?”
Silence. Then, slowly, the sound of the bar being lifted from the door. The latch opens.
“Guirmean?” Her tone changes, but for the worse. She is tired, I can say, and displeased. Disappointment spreads through her face and body. She merely turns her back on me and goes, leaving the door open. This is as much welcome as I will get from her, that is certain.
I enter, but stay by the door. She goes to the fireplace and tends to the stew. She stirs it for some moments and then uses the long wooden spoon to lift the cauldron from the fire.
“Come and sit by the fire or you will catch your death.” She doesn’t look at me even as she pushes the chair closer to the fire. “Just leave your sack right there I don’t want you to wet the house any more than necessary.”
I cross the small room and sit by the fire. It feels good and very welcome after having being in the rain for so long.
She goes to the corner and fetches two bowls. She cleans them with her sleeve. With lazy movements she uses the wooden spoon to pour the stew on the bowls. One of the bowls is left in my hands as she passes by me in her slumped pace. “Eat”, she says, vanishing in the dark room in the back. I hear stirring about, and her muffled voice is very low, but the commanding tone is still there. The stew is thin, but tastes good, and I need the warmth. I sip it and wait, feeling the heat invade me from the fire and from the contents of the bowl.
Some moments pass and I have a chance to look around the hut. Very few things have changed, but I can tell that children are around by the small mess on the corner and by the heap of small rags. The candle on top of the table is all but gone, but all the spent wax has been taken away from around it. Close to the wall a small wax figure lays as if basking in the heat. Ceana’s toy, for sure.
Eithne comes from the room and sits by the table, as far away from me as possible. Her eyes pierce me as she starts.
“What are you doing here, Guirmean? Why have you come?”
“I came bec — “
“If Donnan comes back and finds you here he will kill you, you know.”
“I know. I won’t stay lon — “
“We starved, Guirmean, when you left.” She interrupts me, slowly letting the rage of a decade pour through her contained words. “I had to help Donnan in the field and in the forge.” She looks more sad than upset. “I lost the child I was carrying, and almost died. Old man Trent had to come and help Donnan, and of course he was too old to be able to stand the strain. He died of the effort, and for two years we went hungry. We all thought we were going to die, and since everybody in the village was in the same shape, nobody could offer any help.”
I know all of this, of course. I know I left in the middle of reaping, and that probably half the crop rotted in the field. I know I imposed a heavy burden on their shoulders by going away. But how could I have stayed?
“Why did you come back?”
I know she just wants me to start talking so she can keep on her litany.
“Ceana.”
I don’t say anything else. I don’t have to. She holds her silence and looks at her hands.
“She is dying you know”, she says, still looking down.
“I didn’t know, but I suspected.”
I can see she is crying. Even if not a single sob comes out of her mouth.
“Who told you?”
“The stories travel, sister. I heard it very far from here, on the Highlands. Even changed as the tale certainly was, I recognized the place and the name.”
She slowly raises her head and looks intensely at me again.
“You should. It was you who gave it to her.”
I put the bowl back on the table and pull my chair closer. I can see her despair. She is too tired even to protest. She just looks down again.
“You should leave. It is true about Donnan. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t curse your name. If he finds you here he will kill you.”
“He won’t be back for one hour or more, you know that. I couldn’t say for certain, but it looked like the priest beside him in the wagon. It will take him a long time to go to the village and come back.”
Her face is blank and her eyes drift away. She won’t plead, but she wants to do so.
“What do you want, Guirmean?”
“I can help, sister. Let me help her.”
“Nobody can help her now. We tried everything. Donnan promised one third of our next crop for the Church, and you just saw the priest leave, unable to help. She is in God’s hands now.” She laughs bitterly. “Father Rory recommended fasting. She hasn’t eaten almost anything for over a month and he recommends fasting and praying. Lot of good it will do her.” Her croaked laugh turns to silent to sobs.
“Let me try, sister. Let me at least talk to her.”
She looks down, in silence. She won’t stop me.
I rise from the chair and cross to the room. I lift the curtain and enter.
Ceana is lying on her bed, looking frail and sick. She doesn’t move her head to look at me. The candlelight makes her look even more like a ghost. She is just skin and bones.
I sit beside her, on the bed. She moves her eyes and just stares at me, blankly and without a word. I wonder if she recognizes me.
“Am I dead?” She asks, almost hopefully.
“No, Ceana, you are not dead. Don’t talk nonsense.”
“I am seeing my long dead uncle Gui. How come I am not dead?”
“You are seeing your old uncle, yes. But I am not dead, Ceana. I came to see you.”
She looks at me for some time and then just closes her eyes.
“Father said you died. I told him you didn’t, but he wouldn’t listen. I sat by the gate for a long time waiting for you to come back, and you never did. I knew you were alive somewhere, but I stopped saying it after Father hit me and told me it was a good thing you died.” She opens her eyes and stares at me again. “I started believing it after some time.”
She turns on her side, facing away from me.
“Just now, when I saw you, I was glad because I thought I was dead.”
She is crying now. I don’t know what to say. I want to hold her, but I know I have no right.
“I came because of you, love.”
She doesn’t answer. I can hear her tiny sobs.
“I can help you, Ceana.”
At this she stops. “Nobody can help me. I am damned.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she has me. Ever since the first time I saw her in the woods, I know she is here. In my dreams, in the house, everywhere. I feel her presence all the time. She draws me. Her cries scratch my ears, and I know she is coming for me.”
“No, child, that is not so. She can do nothing to you.”
She turns her head to me. She isn’t mad, just certain.
“You are wrong. She can. I saw her and recognized her for what she is. Mother doesn’t want me to say it, but a banshee is what she is. I saw her crying in the woods… floating… shining… an evil, dead thing. And she saw me, too. I ran, but all I did was bring her home with me. Now she won’t rest until she takes me with her.”
I heard this story far away from here. The story of the young girl who disturbed a banshee and brought misfortune upon her entire village. The way the tale was told changed wildly, but some variation of the name “Ceana” was almost always a constant, and the place was always the village west of the Stirling Castle. Some folks made it like an entire horde of evil spirits and ogres and witches and goblins were gathering to smite the whole place, and others even said Satan himself picked the village to launch his final attack, damning all the lands to Hell. The girl was described as a witch who could summon demons at will, and in some tales she even resisted being burned at the stake, walking from the flames unscathed.
But here was the truth: a small and frightened twelve years old child, scared halfway to death by an apparition. I have to help her.
“What do you want, Ceana? What do you really want?”
“I want it to end, Uncle Gui.”
I look deep into her eyes.
“And how do you want it to end?”
She just stares back at me. I know she is seeing other things and places, and not me, as she speaks.
“I want her to come and get me. I want to die and be done with. I want it to end.”
“Are you certain that is what you want?”
She contemplates me for an instant.
“What do you mean?”
“I am asking if that is really what you want, child. I am asking if, given the chance, wouldn’t you prefer to have this banshee of yours leave you alone and go away forever.”
“That won’t happen.” She just sinks on the bed again.
“I am not asking what will or will not happen, Ceana. I am asking if you would like that to happen. If you had a choice on the matter, what would it be?”
She looks at me again, but gazes away quickly.
“What good does it do to wish for something that won’t happen?”
It is my turn to resort to silence. I need her attention, and I can hear the plea in her voice. She is almost completely taken, and I need her to pay heed to my words. Lord help me get her back.
“Heart of mine, did your mother tell you what I did?”
She just stares at me, confounded.
“I left ten years ago because something happened when you were very young. Do you know what happened that made me want to leave? Have you any idea what would make me want to abandon you, of all people?”
“No.”
There is no way around it. I hope this works.
“We used to have Spring festivals in the village. People came from all over to visit. Whatever our folks put for sale would go, and minstrels came from different parts of the land to sing. It was a beautiful fair that began at the first day after the Spring rain and went on for two weeks.”
She doesn’t move, but I can sense she is paying attention. The attention I need to bring her out of it.
“The festival the year I left was no different. Only more people came, and more minstrels, and more merchants. Everywhere you looked there was song and dance. Troupes came and showed plays of stories of which we never heard, and everyone was happy. In the nights the best players and singers would climb on stage and play for us, and what beautiful songs they were.” I lean into her, and I can see her eyes widening as she listens. Her young head is fast imagining the scenes I describe, hopefully moving away from the doom that webs around her.
“It was the first night of the second week of the festival when they came.” My voice trembles ever so slightly as I recall those events, and Ceana picks up on it. She sits up to listen.
“We were waiting for a group of jugglers to set up their act when this huge light came from the woods behind the stage. Everyone saw it, and some folks went to the edge to try and see what had caused it. There was no sound and no smoke, so we knew it wasn’t lightning striking on the trees, and besides the night sky was clear and full of stars. For some time, nothing and no one moved — not in the darkness, not in the crowd. We waited a while, and just when people were returning, bidding the jugglers to get back on stage, they came out of the woods.
“There were five of them, four men and one woman. They dressed very differently than us, with brightly colored garments. The woman wore a long dress and sandals, and the men were strange looking boots. Two of them were carrying instruments. They all had long hair, but no beard, except for one of the man, who had hair on his upper lip.
“They came without a word and climbed on the stage. Everybody seemed to marvel at their appearance, and even if they came unannounced, nobody tried to stop them. The two men carrying instruments picked up a bench and brought it up, and then sat on it. The man with the hair on his lip was behind them just looking around. The other man and the woman came to the front. For a moment there was silence, and then the two men sitting started to play on their instruments.
“The rhythm was very different from the music we have in these parts, or in any other part that I have been. It started low and grew louder, but not much. The instruments sounded somewhat like our lutes, high notes on melodious strings.
“Then the man and the woman started singing this strange, and very dark, but very beautiful song. Their words were different and they spoke in a manner I had never heard. I never heard that dialect anywhere else, and yet we all could understand them,”
The Queen of Light took her bow, and then she turned to go,
The Prince of Peace embraced the gloom, and walked the night alone.
(Oh, dance in the dark of night,
Sing to the morning light.)
“The song spoke of queens and princes waging war. A terrible battle between light and dark. We were all entranced by it. The man’s voice was very beautiful, but resembled so much the voice of a woman. The woman’s voice sounded as if an entire village was singing along with the man.”
The Dark Lord rides in force tonight, and time will tell us all.
(Oh, throw down your plow and hoe,
Rest not to lock your homes.)
Side by side we wait the might of the darkest of them all.
“An impending sense of doom grew as they went on. I saw myself inside their song, running along with the armies, watching spears and arrows fly in the air. It was frightening and wonderful.”
I hear the horses’ thunder down in the valley below,
I’m waiting for the angels of Avalon, waiting for the eastern glow.
“The sensation of wonder, which in me prevailed, quickly started to wane from the crowd, and suddenly I started to hear murmurs. I tried to keep my attention on the song, but I could see that everyone was becoming agitated. ‘Who are these minstrels?’ they started to ask, and ‘what sacrilege is this they are singing about?’ someone else asked aloud, ‘who dares mention pagan Avalon in a Christian land?’ another voice cried.”
I have Ceana’s full attention now. While I tell my tale I feel that she is right there with me. I am reliving those terrible and beautiful moments, and she is constructing them in her head.
The apples of the valley hold the seeds of happiness,
The ground is rich from tender care, repay, do not forget,
(no, no.)
“The man’s voice ranged from a beautiful tone, to a low rasp, to a piercing cry resembling an animal, and every time he reached that tone people would shiver and wince. He and the woman would move and dance to the sound of their own music, and the two players were still fiercely plucking their strings. Nobody had ever heard anything like that. Unlike the others I found that sound to be marvelous, and wanted it never to end. I didn’t flinch even when cries arose claiming: ‘Bring the priest! Bring the priest!’ I probably could have done something, then, but I was drawn to their music, unable to do — or to will doing — anything else.”
Her eyes are wide open, and she is breathing heavily, swallowing my words and trembling with anticipation. Stay with me, Ceana, please. We will come out of this together.
(Dance in the dark of night, sing to the morning light.)
“While I was still under the spell of that moment, though, the people around me got really agitated, and screams of ‘heresy’ and ‘witchcraft’ could be heard. That is when I realized there was trouble. The yells grew louder and started to override the song. The singers and players kept on, even through the screams from the people watching, and the fifth man was laughing as if he was really enjoying that. I thought he was mad for doing such thing, while the folks got angrier and angrier.”
The apples turn to brown and black, the tyrant’s face is red.
(Oh the war is common cry,
Pick up your swords and fly.)
The sky is filled with good and bad that mortals never know.
“Someone yelled ‘The priest is coming! Father Kyle is here!’ and we all turned our heads to see. The song was louder than before, and I felt that to the strange minstrels we weren’t even there. Here was this crowd screaming at them, ready to tear them apart with their bare hands, and they were fast at their song, oblivious to everything and everyone around them. It was like watching baby birds chirping in the nest while hungry owls circled above, ready to dive and snatch them whole.”
Oh, well, the night is long the beads of time pass slow,
Tired eyes on the sunrise, waiting for the eastern glow.
The pain of war cannot exceed the woe of aftermath,
The drums will shake the castle wall; the ring wraiths ride in black.
Ride on!
“In the back Father Kyle led a procession, bearing his iron cross up in the air. Behind him, dozens of town’s folks came, but bearing pitchforks, clubs, long scythes and torches. They had lots of these, and they were passed around to the spectators closer to the stage. In an instant the minstrels were surrounded, and even if they wanted to escape, they wouldn’t have been able.”
She is frightened. I can see it in her eyes, and hear it in her breath. She is as entranced by my story as I was to witness all these occurrences over a decade ago.
(Sing as you raise your bow,
shoot straighter than before.)
No comfort has the fire at night that lights the face so cold.
(Oh dance in the dark of night,
Sing to the morning light.)
The magic runes are writ in gold to bring the balance back.
“At this moment I foresaw the horrible deeds that were to be done to those minstrels. I saw them for what they were: magical entities that came to our festival not to stir hate, but to bring us a beautiful — if utterly strange — song, about a battle of dark and light, of good and evil. They weren’t demons, and we were about to shred them to pieces. Everybody at the festival had gathered around the stage for that very purpose. Even other artists, jugglers, jokers and minstrels; even the barterers and fortune tellers; and every last one from our village was there. And the look in their faces was of hate and outrage.”
Bring it Back!
“With that cry from the singing minstrel, loud and piercing, everyone stepped back, waiting for something terrible to emerge from the stage. Nothing of that sort happened, but when we looked at the minstrels, they were glowing. It was as if a soft light — subtle and very beautiful — started to come from them. They were all smiling mysteriously, and the song proceeded.
“I finally came off the trance and jumped to the front, putting myself between the minstrels and the rabble. I tried to reason with them, screaming that there was no need for violence, that the minstrels meant no harm. The blacksmith and his son grabbed me and pulled me out of there, and being big as they were, there was nothing I could do. I kept screaming for them to stop, but they were already fast at throwing wood by the foot of the stage. ‘Burn the heretics! Purify their sins in the holy flames!’ screamed Father Kyle, and then one of the torches touched the dry wood, which started to burn fast.”
She pulls her hands to her mouth and kneels on the bed. I wonder why Eithne hasn’t burst through the curtains yet. It isn’t possible that she hasn’t heard me. She knows what I am doing, and she must be reliving that moment with her daughter. She was there too, my sister. And Donnan as well. I saw both of them brandishing their fists at the stage and screaming with the crowd. And they saw me too as I was dragged away.
At last the sun is shining, The clouds of blue roll by,
With flames from the dragon of darkness, the sunlight blinds his eyes.*
“The stage was on fire as they sang the last verses, but even while the flames rose and the smoke covered everything from view they kept on playing, stronger than ever. We couldn’t see them, but the strings and the voices were clear through the screams.
“The burning minstrels kept singing and playing, repeating the last three words of the song ‘Bring it back! Bring it back! Bring it back!’, and then something even more terrible happened: the flames got really high, and some of them spread to the nearby trees. From there they leaped to the tents and carts from the festival. The minstrels’ voices and instruments were ever so loud, they descended into this chant where they sounded like little more than animal cries. It was as if the fire was singing its own song, loudly celebrating its hunger while consuming the entire fair and everyone that stood in the way.
“Everybody ran as if fleeing from the mouth of Hell itself, and many of the older folks were trampled underfoot of the screaming mass of people. A few minutes later, the song had subsided, but the fire burned through the night, and we were able to put it out only by the faint light of the early morning. I helped as best as I could, but there wasn’t really much that we could do. We were able to put it out more because there was nothing left to burn than by our actions.”
I am panting as much as Ceana when I end the tale.
“What happened to the minstrels? Did they flee? Did they die?”
“Come morning we went to what was left from the stage. There was nothing there but charred wood and rope. We looked for their burnt corpses, but found nothing. We were able to account for everyone swallowed in the flames, but there was no trace of those five minstrels. They were never to be found.”
She is looking at me, waiting for more.
“I don’t understand, Uncle Gui. What happened? And why are you telling me his horrible story?”
“What happened, little niece, is that we never had a festival after that. I know because other travelers have told me so. I knew it was over, for it was certain that nobody would come the following year. And when I faced the village folks after that, I couldn’t bring myself to forgive them, to forgive us all for what we did. You see, I don’t believe those minstrels were heretics, or demons, or any sort of evil creatures. They came to show us something different, but very beautiful. And we destroyed them. I did it too, for I couldn’t stop our folks from committing that heinous crime. They, on the other hand, couldn’t forgive me for trying to save those minstrels. With every passing day and week, it became harder for me to bear their look. Every day I stayed, I reminded everybody of what we did. One day I decided I had enough — we all had enough — and left in shame, even when our family and the village needed me the most. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
“I understand what happened. But I still don’t know why you told me all that.”
“It is simple, love. That night we all witnessed something out of this world. Those minstrels were not from anywhere we know, and in these ten yeas I have heard rumors that similar events took place in other parts of this land. But just as our village doesn’t talk about what happened that night, other villages don’t also. We choose to leave that night behind, burying it from our sight. I often remember that song and try to hum it, because I believe it is something beautiful. Even to this day I choose to see those minstrels as angels, and not as demons. It is my choice, Ceana, and it makes me go on with my life. The rest of the village folk chose the opposite. They chose to repel those minstrels as being demons, and obliterated these said demons from their lives for good. You see?”
She is silent. She sits back on the bed and frowns.
“What I am trying to say, my dear child, is that you can choose too. Your banshee will take you with her, but only if you let her; only if you choose to go with her. If you want it to come, it will certainly come, but if you choose to see it as a sorry soul in search of help, you will pray for it and get on with your life. In these past few minutes you have already taken your mind off that poor spirit. I want you to see that. I beg you to make that choice, to eat your stew and get off that bed. Your mother and father need you, and it will break their hearts if you choose to stay in your stupor.”
She doesn’t say anything, and only stares for a long time. I let her be. After some minutes in silence, she looks at me. The thinnest of smiles. Sad, understanding. I hold my urge to hug her. I forfeited that right a long time ago, and she knows it.
She lowers her eyes, but she takes the bowl as I put it in her hands.
Eithne pulls the curtain and stands by the door. She has tears in her eyes and cheeks, but is otherwise dead serious. She doesn’t look at me.
I rise from the bed, and Ceana starts to eat her stew. Donnan will come back soon and I don’t want to see him.
I pass by Eithne and go to the door. None of us say goodbye, or any other word, for that matter.
Outside the rain has subsided a little.
I set foot on the soaked road, and a while later I look over at the woods, not stopping, praying for a light that I know I will never see again.
_______________
(*) If you haven't guessed already, these are the lyrics to Led Zeppelin's "The Battle of Evermore"
