"Chapter IV-A Storm Seen in the Mind´s Eye" by James P-W

Chapter Four

A Storm Seen in the Mind’s Eye

By the time Tristan reached his house, there was nothing that could be done to save it. He stopped dead in his tracks, winded from his sprint through mud, rain, and night. Aghast, he stood transfixed by the sight of his last possession in the world burning away into the night. Dancing, crackling flames reflected in the puddles on the ground, making it seem like the whole world was on fire. The reflections of the inferno rippled as raindrops fell into the hundreds of watery mirrors.  

The roof was leaning inwards dangerously, and sure enough, within a few moments the beams, cracking and groaning, had collapsed inwards, sending myriad sparks swirling up into the sky. The sturdy chinked slate walls which Bran had been so proud of soon followed suit. Tristan stood there helpless, unable to do anything but watch in silent horror.

Tristan felt on the cusp of madness as he watched his life burn away. Fire, the demon that consumed, had claimed his entire past. The fires of the Rift War had taken his father, his last kin, and now his last possession in the world. Tristan felt like the most wretched person to walk the earth – without warning he burst out laughing hysterically at the cruel irony. The spirits surely shared his mirth, amused at the cruel jape they had played on him.

All the sudden his tears of hilarity turned into tears of anguish, and he collapsed in the mud. That was how Gaerith, Eryc, and Dryfan found him; wretched and sodden like a drowned rat, surrounded by the reflections of the dancing fire, wracked by sobs. He couldn’t reign in his public catharsis, no more than he could stop the fire devouring his house, until at last both ran their courses. The rain had finally ceased. He wanted to curl up into a ball.

He felt strong hands grip him gently. Eryc’s hands, he registered blankly. They lifted him to his feet as a deep voice murmured to him encouragingly, and he stood there unsteadily, surrounded by sympathetic eyes. Somehow, without Tristan realizing it, day had broken and the storm clouds had fled. Most of the village had come, and they had gathered around him in a circle, some of them stretching out to give him a reassuring pat or to offer sympathetic words that blended into a droning buzz. A few of them bore boughs of ash and were praying the Old Tongue, as if that could somehow bring back his life.

Like a lost one he wandered stumbling through the villagers, ignoring their comforting words as he wove through them, until he reached the ruins of his house. Stones were strewn everywhere, and half-burnt, still-smoking beams protruded slanting out of the ground, leaning on each other at crazy angles, as if some giant in the sky had dropped a handful of them. He picked his way carefully but steadily through the ashy labyrinth, stopped here and there to examine a charred object in the rubble, sad wrecks of what had been wholes.

Three blackened pots. A miraculously intact boot but not its brother. Half of a melted candlestick.

He continued his search, though he knew not what he was looking for, climbing over the ruins. Perpetual hisses and sudden cracks surrounded him. The smell of smoke still hung heavy in the air and invaded his nostrils.

“He’s going the hurt himself,” warned the old widow, Carys Ellya, as loose stones underfoot slid out from beneath him. He caught his balance.

“Hush,” replied Eryc gently. “He needs this.”

He at last reached the spot where the hearth and chimney had been. The smooth river stones which Bran had spent so long in gathering and stacking were scattered across the ground, blackened. Part of him maintained that as he’d left nothing burning in the house, the fire wasn’t his fault; another part whispered poison into his ear as his eyes sadly beheld the ruined stones of the hearth. You were trusted with Bran’s last possession and you destroyed it…

Something off to the left caught his eye. A long object stuck out of a pile of smoldering embers. It was a sword hilt.

Tristan walked towards it slowly, afraid to blink in case it disappeared. At long last he reached it and stretched out his hand to draw it slowly from the ashes and the embers. The half of the blade that had been buried in the embers was smoking and glowing, so he plunged the tip into the dirt to avoid burning himself with it.

He gave the pile of embers a swift kick, unearthing the dragonstone shard and a lump of silver that must have been his father’s brooch. The leather thong the stone had been tied to had long since been burned into ash and nothingness, and the brooch was lumpy and half-melted. He kicked both objects onto the ground, bent down, and blew the burning embers off them.

Keeping the heat of the sword blade in mind, Tristan hesitantly poked the midnight black pendant, expected to get burnt. To his surprise, the dragonstone was as cold as a rock that had just been plucked from a stream. He picked it up, tossed it a few times in his palm to assure himself of its coolness, and then dropped it into his pocket. It felt heavy for something so small.

He swiftly bent down again and tried to pick up the silver brooch in the same manner, but upon touching it drew back his fingers, cursing. The lump of metal was as hot as the sword blade had been. He hastily stuck his throbbing fingertips into his mouth. Blisters were already warming.

With the toe of his scuffed boot Tristan pushed dirt over the lump of silver, covering it, before he turned, unsheathed the still-glowing sword from the dirt, and began climbing out of wreckage. It was a lot harder with the heavy blade in hand.

“Mark my words, that lad is definitely going to hurt himself,” muttered Carys to nobody in particular. 

He eventually emerged from the ruins unscathed. Nobody said a word. He stood in front of them, a man separate from their cluster, as though awaiting judgment.

Perhaps deterred by the burning sword in his hand and the wild look in his eyes, the villagers began to turn and start back to the town, one by one, until only Dryfan, Gaerith, and Eryc remained. Eryc approached him cautiously, as one would a feral beast. Finally he spoke. “Come, my boy,” he said comfortingly, his arms open. “Come with me.” Tristan dropped the fiery blade into the mud and let Eryc’s arms envelop him protectively. So this is what it feels like to have a father, thought Tristan. He wanted to ask if anybody had seen Gelert, but he was afraid to.  

One the way back to the village Eryc tried to make normal conversation about the weather and such, but nobody was thinking of the there and then. Tristan did what he had become so good at lately – he brooded, sinking deep into the dark swirling currents that were his thoughts. Gaerith had assumed a pensive air, and Dryfan seemed unsure of how to handle the situation.

They reached the Aysmere house a short time later. “Go inside, Tristan,” said Eryc, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “And you too, Gaerith. Clean yourselves up.” Tristan and Gaerith entered the house, leaving Dryfan and Eryc talking outside in hushed voices.

Mistress Aysmere swooped down protectively upon them the moment they entered and hugged them both tightly, mud and all. She said nothing to Tristan, but the pain in her eyes meant more than words ever could. Tristan appreciated her silence; he didn’t want sympathy any more than he wanted to talk about it. The wound was still fresh, still raw. Probing it now would be too painful, and so he shut his pain behind a locked door in his mind to be mulled over later.

But not now.   

Tristan washed his face and hands with a small chunk of soup in the washbasin before gratefully accepting the slice of warm bread slathered in butter and honey from Mistress Aysmere. It filled a hole in his stomach he hadn’t realized had been there.

“Tristan,” called Master Aysmere from the loft. “Come here, lad,” Tristan sucked a finger clean of the sticky clover honey and started up the stairs. He could hear the rustling of cloth.

Eryc was folding up clothes. Tunics, breeches, socks, and underclothes all were stacked neatly on the wooden floor. A feeling of confusion stirred in Tristan, with a bit of unease mixed in as well, as Eryc began putting the clothes inside a saddlebag.

“Here, lad, put on some dry clothing,” he said, tossing him a clean tunic and breeches. “Your cloak looks to be dry enough. Come downstairs when you’re ready, and bring the pack with you.”

“Where are you going, Master Aysmere?” asked Tristan, puzzled.

“Not me, lad. You and Dryfan.” With that, Eryc disappeared down the stairs, leaving Tristan bewildered and alone. He changed into the dry clothing, making sure to remove the cold dragonstone shard from the pocket of his old breeches and put it into the replacements.

The clothes had to have been Gaerith’s – the dry tunic he donned was a little big on the shoulders and the breeches too wide on the legs. Nevertheless, it was a good sight better than muddy clothes.

Tristan hefted the saddlebag and walked downstairs, where Eryc had all a matter of things scattered on the table. Upon seeing Tristan he dropped a full waterskin, a sheath-knife with a handle of elk horn, a small ball of twine, a whetstone, and a baldric into his hands. Tristan put on the baldric, tightened the girth straps significantly, slung the waterskin over the saddlebag, and put the rest in the pack.

“The Cunning One and I are leaving?” he inquired.

“Yes, lad,” said Eryc, and fitted a leather quiver of slim arrows to the baldric Tristan had just put on. “Now keep silent for a moment. You can ask Dryfan questions once you’re on the road.”

Tristan knew better than to press the matter, and was too exhausted to do so anyway, but he highly doubted that Dryfan would be susceptible to talking. The Cunning One was as good at dealing with people as Alen Culhwch was at pretending to be ill.

No sooner had they finished packing than a bell began ringing. Deep and powerful, the sound vibrating profoundly inside of Tristan, making him feel shivery and more than a little uncomfortable. He wished the sound would stop. “The Summoning Bell,” muttered Eryc distractedly. “I haven’t heard that rung in many years. Come, lad. Let us hear what the Cunning One has seen.”

Tristan, Eryc, and Gaerith exited the house, joined by Mistress Aysmere and a covey of young children.

Outside all the village people were moving in a slow river towards the village center. Low, hushed whispering filled the air like bees humming as the village-people conversed confusedly. Some of the older ones, Tristan noted, looked slightly uneasy.  

When they reached the square several dozen people had already gathered around the ancient oak tree planted there. Dryfan was standing under the old tree, looking as haggard and tired as ever. He wore the same gray cloak as ever, though he hefted a carved staff as tall as he was in his left hand and a stout traveling belt encircled his narrow waist, holding up numerous pouches.

As the minutes passed, the whole village gathered, even the farmers who lived the farthest away from the town center. Alen Culhwch was limping and leaning heavily on a wooden crutch, an expression of stoic resistance to unfathomable pain imprinted upon his warty features. Master Aysmere gave an obvious cough, and the dishonest swine-herder favored him with a sour look.  

Finally Dryfan raised his arms to the sky, and the small crowd of six-score or so people gathered there quieted immediately. “Beloved friends,” the Cunning One started in a booming voice that belied his blade-slender body and narrow shoulders. “Dark visions cloud my thoughts, and the winds of time blow across the lands. I see the fear and confusion in your eyes at hearing the Summoning Bell. The last time you heard it was during the Rift Wars, when armies advanced upon our homes, brigands ravaged the lands, and disease and poverty were rampant. ‘Where, now, is the enemy?’ you may be asking yourselves. ‘I see no armies, and war is yet to break out.’ ” He paused, and the entire town square was plunged into absolute silence. All the village-people seemed to be holding their breath. Women clutched children closer to them as a cold wind rose up, stirring the leaves of the oak tree to rustle a deathly whisper.  

“My friends, a foe is already in our midst. Unseen, he slithers about stealthily, sowing the seeds of distrust, fear, and loss.” Here the Cunning One’s eyes settled on Tristan, who felt supremely uncomfortable. “The men on the Kindred who recently favored us with a visit are but harbingers of the unrest that boils in the South.

 “I have seen many things in my mind’s eyes. What once was, is, and what will be, already was. Fate weaves with a free mind and iron hand, so the old tales tell us, and who are we mortals, mere splinters in a raging ocean, to fiddle with the weavings of time? Signs, my friends, abound in the fire, water, earth, and air all around us. The world is sick, darkness is upon us, and change is coming. The storm that brews will engulf the whole Known World, even our peaceful lands in the far-flung corner of the world.

“We Bregonians are as stout as the yew bows we carry, and will weather on like sturdy boats through a sea in the throes of a winter storm. Like stoic stone sentinels we will endure what is to come. And we must, or else be chewed alive by the fiery teeth of the world. We dwell now upon the crossroads of ages; at the intersection of the stars.     

“I am leaving this very day to travel to the lower lands to look with vision unclouded into the eyes of the world, to answer our questions, and to question answers. My traveling companion is Tristan Aegir, who has endured more than most men thrice his age and possesses both the insight of youth and the knowledge of loss. The title of Cunning One I pass to the worthy Master Eryc Aysmere, who will tend to the affairs of the village while I am away.” Finally he blessed them in the Old Tongue. “Stay vigilant of heart and strong of mind, and may the light shine brightly upon your souls.”

            And with that, the crowd began dispersing, chattering excitedly to each other. For the second time today Tristan remained while the others left. So that’s that? He asked sardonically. I’m just supposed to pack up and leave without any say in it?

            Dryfan stepped out from under the sacred oak and approached him. Tristan watched him coming with slightly narrowed eyes. As though he could read Tristan’s thoughts, Dryfan said, “Lucky is the man for whom duty and desire are the same face of a coin, Tristan.”  

            Tristan said nothing, but turned resolutely on heel and started towards the Aysmere’s house, leaving the silent Cunning One at his back. This isn’t a duty; it’s a whim on his part. Dryfan didn’t try to stop him.

Inside he found Gaerith arguing with Mistress Aysmere. “I’m a man grown now, mother. Father was not that much older than me when he left, and he was alone besides!”

“Boy or not, Gaerith, it’s too dangerous out there for you. Let Tristan and the Cunning One sort things out for themselves!”

“So it’s all right for Tristan to risk his life? If Bran was alive he never would have let him leave!” Gaerith shot back.

“Bran-” Suddenly they both noticed Tristan standing in the doorway and they broke off the conversation, Mistress Aysmere hurrying off to the fireplace to tend to the food cooking there. There was an awkward pause.

“It’s all right to mention Bran, you know,” said Tristan.

Just then Eryc came in, holding a bundle in his arms. “Follow me to the workshop, if you will,” he told them. The spark of vitality seemed to have left his eyes once again, and worry creased his brow. They did as he had bid them, Tristan shutting the door behind him.

“Father, I-” started Gaerith stubbornly, but his father cut him off.

“I will let you go for two reasons. For one, it’s past time you saw the wretched world for what it is. Secondly, the Cunning One agreed that another hand skilled with the bow would not go amiss in these times.” He threw the blanket-wrapped bundle onto a table and unwound it. Inside were two swords, which Tristan recognized as his own and Eryc’s from his journeys.

Master Aysmere handed Tristan his father’s sword. It had been cleaned and a new sheath of plain leather had been found for it. “This is a tool of war, lad, and not a toy. I expect you to clean and sharpen it after every use, and I hope never again to hear of you leaving it in the mud. Owe it the respect it deserves.” Tristan nodded and belted it on the baldric that already held his quiver.     

Eryc held up the second blade and handed it to his son. “There are times when the longbow is useless, and it is at these times that you should resort to this blade. A foolish young man once bought it as a prize for his journey. An older man – wiser by far, I should hope – now gives it to you as a man’s weapon. That foolish young man never had to use this sword, and gods-willing, neither will you.” Gaerith held the sword reverently before hanging it from his belt as Eryc picked two finished longbows from the wall-rack. “I should think you know how – and when – to use these. They’re a little stiffer than you may be used to, but if it comes down to needing to fight you’ll want all the power you can get. Practice every day with them to get used to the extra pull.” He took a deep breath and adopted a weak smile that didn’t quite reach the crow-feet creases of worry at the corners of his eyes.  

“I could tell you everything to do, or not to do, but you have enough common sense to steer clear of trouble, I should hope. Just remember that the world is much bigger and complicated than sheep-fields and villages. Don’t get entangled in anything you can’t handle.

“I’m proud of you both. Now share this last meal with family and friends, and don’t do anything to make my dear wife cry…Oh, and Tristan?”

“Yes?”

Master Aysmere’s voice took on a harder edge. “Dryfan is an elder, better, and a Cunning One besides. Regardless of what he may say or do, you will show him the utmost respect and do as he tells you. The same goes for you, Gaerith. There is much more to that man than meets the eye, and though he may not seem like it, he holds enough knowledge for any three men.” Both boys nodded and turned back to walk to the dinner table.

It was a strained meal, though Eryc tried to distract everybody with another one of his stories, and Mistress Aysmere had outdone her usual feasts with a thick lamb stew and a blackberry and rhubarb crumble with cream. Even the children could sense the tension; for once Kendall was quiet, Walterr and Emrys had stopped bickering, and Aerona hadn’t smiled at him once all dinner. Eryc’s a good man, reflected Tristan as he watched the big man trying in vain to cheer up his family. A good man, with a big heart. Dryfan chose his replacement wisely.

Finally the supper was over, and Tristan and Gaerith stood up, their chairs scraping in harmony upon the wooden floor. Eryc stood as well after wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Right, lads, it’s time to be off. I expect the Cunning One will be ready for you both.”

Indeed, Dryfan was waiting outside the stone house with a slightly impatient look on his face. In one hand he held his walking staff, and in the hand gripped the reins of three horses. The first horse was Dryfan’s own black gelding, Draigoch. The other two were sturdy dun mares that Tristan recognized as Alen Calwed’s. All three were loaded with panniers, and Gaerith and Tristan strapped their saddlebag packs on as well before mounting the horses.
            “Does she have a name?” asked Tristan as he stroked his horse’s mane.

“Kayla,” responded the Cunning One, and held up a bandage-wrapped hand. “And I’d be careful with that one; she nipped me not a moment ago.”

Perhaps that was just you, thought Tristan, more than a little self-satisfied, as Kayla nuzzled his palm affectionately. Gaerith’s horse, which was named Rowena, seemed less happy with her charge than was Kayla. Ears laid down flat, she was tossing her head nervously and stamping her hooves. Tristan grinned at his friend, who returned it nervously.

Dryfan mounted his horse smoothly with spryness that belief his age, and Tristan noted a sword hilt poking from the bundles loaded onto Draigoch’s back. Eryc’s words floated into Tristan’s head. There is more to that man than meets the eye…

“Right,” said the Cunning One briskly. “There’s no sense in tarrying. We’ve got a good two hours of sunlight left and I intend to make good use of them.” Already the light of early evening was making shadows begin to stretch across the ground.

“Well, farewell,” said Tristan stiffly to Master Aysmere. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

“Don’t even mention it, lad. It’s the least I could do,” said Eryc, a bit gruffly. Tristan noticed with a start a tear glittering in the corner of the bowyer’s eye, but ignored it and waved to the entire Aysmere family, who had gathered outside to wish them well. Aerona smiled at him, and for once he returned it warmly. She blushed. Mistress Aysmere was smiling through tears at Gaerith and him.  

Dryfan cleared his throat and resolutely started his steed forward. Gaerith and Tristan nudged their horses to follow him, and Gaerith’s family followed on foot, still calling out well-wishes and farewells. The crowd had grown to several more people, and still more were emerging from their houses – by the time they reached the road, practically the whole village had gathered to see them off, much to Dryfan’s chagrin. Several were throwing flowers at the voyagers. Tristan felt like a hero out of a story.

The road passed the ruins of Tristan’s house, and his smile wilted. Determinedly, he set his jaw firm and kept his eyes on the winding road ahead.

All the sudden, above the cheerful banter and chatter of the village-people Tristan heard a familiar bark. His heart leapt into his mouth and he reined Kayla in to a stop. Could it possibly be…? For a few moments all he could hear was the villagers talking.

His heart sank. He decided it must have been his imagination playing tricks on him, when suddenly barking rang out again. “Gelert?” he whispered, and looked with teary eyes to the heather and gorse thickets off to his right. The crowd had heard it too, and was looking excitedly in that direction as well.

Out of the heath bounded Gelert, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and his tail wagging madly. Tristan leapt off Kayla and ran to meet his sheepdog, falling to the ground to tickle him and laugh like a boy. Gelert was muddied, and on his left side his fur had been singed down to the skin, but otherwise he looked unharmed. Gods be praised, thought Tristan exultingly. I haven’t lost everything after all.

The excited crowd gathered around, talking excitedly. Some babbled about miracles, while still others offered up blessings in the Old Tongue. Tristan straightened up, a broad smile stretched across his face, and whistled to Gelert as he remounted Kayla. “Come on, boy.”

Gelert trotted happily over, and gave a playful snap at the hindquarters of Kayla, who bolted forward, whinnying nervously, and almost ran over Alen Culhwch. The swine-herder’s mysterious sickness and injured leg were both forgotten in a second as he leapt nimbly out of the way, much to the amusement of the village-people. After that Gelert trotted along at Kayla’s side without misbehaving, though he did sneak pleased, sly looks at the horse once in a while. 

Tristan, Gaerith, and Dryfan were a good half league out of their village, and the sun had only thrice its height left to the horizon, before the villagers began turning back. “Farewell!” they cried. “Return with good tales!”

With the sun at his back, his dog at his side, a heart full of adventure and excitement, and the whole village waving good-bye, it was easy for Tristan to forget the woes of today and Dryfan’s dire words about the brewing storm. Was that all only just today? He asked himself in wonderment. It feels like lifetimes ago. He found it strange that he could go from being so melancholy to in such high spirits in so short a time.

Tristan gave a final look behind him as the road dipped down a hill before him, and for a moment a tinge of homesickness marred his cheerfulness. I’ve never been farther away from home than I am right now, he realized. And I’ve never been without these friends.

Alen Calwed, Gleirio Aryanrhod the innkeeper, Murrigam the blacksmith apprentice, deceptive Alen Culhwch, Dafed Celyn the teller of tall tales, Carys Ellya the cynical widow, Gwyn Aneirien, the Aysmere family, and all the other villagers who stood in the road, silhouetted by the sun behind them, had been beside him from the day of his birth, as had his name-tree, the holy oak in the village center, the Wobbly Wheel Inn, and his beloved Charn Wood. He was leaving it all behind for the first time in his life…

            He reminded himself of the vow he had at Bran’s funeral pyre. I’m a man now, he said himself firmly and turned away resolutely from the villagers. He didn’t look back.  

The road of hard-packed, stone-strewn dirt passed beside the ancient burial mounds of the village, which stood as silent reminders of the mortality of all men. Then it threaded through thickets of bracken fern and around rolling foothills, but the horses sure-footedly splashed through shallow streams and over loose scree. Riding a horse to places unknown, with a sword on his hip and a quiver of arrows slung over his back, Tristan felt a true adventurer. In his mind’s eye he was the heroic Pryderi the Brave, staring the unknown in the teeth and bravely plunging forward. He found a flower thrown by one of the villagers on his saddle, and he plucked it up and placed it in his dark curls over his ear, a cheeky smile on his face.

They stopped for the night as the sun began to set, and had another supper of a hare that, bursting out from under a hathersage bush upon hearing the sound of trampling hooves, had been taken down by a well-aimed arrow from Gaerith. They found a small copse of small ash trees and set up their blankets for the night.

Gaerith and Tristan let Dryfan take the first watch so as to not break up his sleep, and lay down, exhausted. Gelert finished gnawing the thigh-bone of the hare before he, too, settled himself contently, snuggling down between Gaerith and Tristan. Warmed by the fire and with a full belly, Tristan felt quite content and more than a little sleepy. Slumber fell quickly and heavily.

Some time later he awoke with a start from a nameless fear, sweat drenching him. Panting, he tried to remember what had troubled him in his sleep, but failed. Around him the night was ghostly silently. The wind whispered in the trees and Gelert twitched and whimpered faintly in his sleep, as dogs are apt to do.

Tristan slipped out from under his warm blankets. The fire was dying and a lively breeze had picked up, so he wrapped his fleece cloak around him and stepped barefoot into the night. Shafts of milky moonlight broke through the cover of ash branches in scattered patches, patterning the ground like an evanescent patchwork quilt of milky white. Padding quietly over the underbrush, Tristan made his way out of the small coppice and into the open. It was utterly silent on the hilltop, save for the wind whistling forlornly over the empty, moon-illuminated hills rolling out around him in all directions.

 Dryfan was seated on the ground, leaning back onto a lichen-covered boulder. Haunted eyes gazed silently at the thousands of stars strewn across the cloudless night sky. Tristan was reminded of the old legend of the making of the stars in which a wise wizard took the diamonds of a greedy king and threw them into the sky, so that the king could always see but never touch.

Something about the look in the Cunning One’s eyes made Tristan feel intrusive, like a rude spectator of a man’s private brooding. Silently he slipped back into the trees and settled to the ground, pretending to be asleep until Dryfan tread softly back from his watch to shake him awake.

Wordlessly Tristan rose and padded back out onto the hilltop, rubbing tiredness from his eyes and feigning a yawn. He sat himself upon the boulder looking out into the empty openness. Not a soul was about, not even a fox or a bird.

Above Tristan’s favorite constellation, the Hunter, whose south-pointing arrows had been the friend of so many travelers, smiled benevolently down upon him. He felt the kindly light of the silent guardian from above settle upon his shoulders as softly as snow, like a mantle of moth-wings, and he smiled back towards the sky. For the first time in a while, he smiled, glad to be alive.