The Water of the Wondrous Isles by William Morris (love letters to the dead txt) 📗

said to myself that needs must I rage and slay, and that were worser amongst my friends than mine unfriends.  What then? that business came to an end; though all the ill men were not slain, but all were driven away from the parts of Greenford; and sooth to say they durst not come anywhere nigh where they heard of me.  Then became each day like every other, and the thought of my hope and my despair ate mine heart out, and I was of no avail unto any.  Now it so happened, amidst my many battles and chases, I had hunted the bands of the Red Hold into the northwest marches of the woodland; and I noted that even they, howsoever hard bestead, and the worst of men to boot, would scarce at the first be driven into the thickets thereof, though at last, whether or no they have made covenant with the devils, there I know not, they have betaken them to the depths of the wood and have borne off women from the dwellings and got children on them, and are like to breed an evil folk.  That then I noted that this Evilshaw was a dwelling loathed and desert, and little like it was that any would meddle with me there.  Three years had worn since I was cast away at the Castle of the Quest by her that loved me, who must needs sacrifice both her and me to the busy devil of folly; and I also deemed that if I sought for her I should not find her; and yet more forsooth, that if I found her she would be as hard unto me as when she fled from me.  And as for me, I was gotten hard and crabbed, and no man, if his heart would let him, would have aught to say to me.  So I gat me away from the Red Hold, as I had from the Castle of the Quest, and I gave out that I would enter into religion, and forbade any man to follow me.  Neither did any desire it.  First of all I set me down at the very outskirts of the woodland, and raised me a bower there, rude and ill-shapen.  Few folk came anigh me, and yet some few, charcoal-burners, and hunters of the edges of the wood, and suchlike.  These deemed me a holy man, whereas I was but surly.  Somewhat also they feared me, whereas in some of their huntings or goings and comings after prey I had put forth all my strength, eked out by the lore of knighthood, which was strange to them.  One man there was of them who was fashioned of the minstrel craft by nature, and who forgathered with me specially, till we became friends, and he was a solace to me, with his tales and his songs of a rougher people than I had been wont to deal with.  But when I had been in that place for two years he died of a sickness, and I was left lonely, and my soreness of heart fell upon me till I scarce knew what next I should do.  So I fared away yet deeper into the wildwood, taking with me the harp which my friend had given me before he died.  It was summer, and I wandered about ever deeper into the wood, until belike I had scarce been able to win out of it if I had tried.  At last, when the autumn came, I built myself again some sort of a bower in a clearing of the wood wherein was water, and the resort of plenteous venison.

What befell next?  My mind is not over-clear concerning it all, for I was now becoming more of a beast than a man.  But this I know, that some men of the bands whom I had chased happened on me.  They knew me not for their old foeman, but of their kind it was to torment and slay any man whom they might lightly overcome.  Yet was not the battle so over-light but that I slew and hurt divers of them ere they got me under and stripped me and bound my hands and tormented me, after the manner that the devils shall do with them when they shall go to their reward.  Yet somehow I lived, though they deemed me dead, and I crawled away thence when they were gone; and somehow I was healed of my body, but I was confused of my wit thereafter, and now can call to mind but little of what befell me as I strayed from place to place, save that I remember I was hapless and heart-sore ever: and also meseemeth that I saw visions at whiles, and those who had been in my life before these things, their images would come before me to mock me as I sat singing whiles and whiles playing the string-play (for my harp I bore ever with me); and whiles I bewailed me, and called for help on them that would not or might not help me.  And now I may not even tell the years of my abiding in the desert, how many they be.  But I pray thee let us on more swiftly yet.

Said the wood-wife: Thou hast told me but little of thy life, Black Squire, but it is enough maybe; and I see that thou mayst not tell me more because thou hast thy mind set on what may betide thee when this day is over.  But thou must know that thou hast come into the wood of Evilshaw, wherein, besides those savage men who quelled thee and their like, there be uncouth things no few, and wights that be not of the race of Adam; wherefore no great marvel is it that thou sawest visions, and images of them that were not by thee.  Yea, said he, but one vision had I that confused and overcame me more than all others, and meseemeth that came to me not long ago.  For first I saw the shape of her that my soul desireth ever, and it wept and lamented for me; and then for a little I seemed as if I were coming forth from my confusion of wit; when lo! there issued from the thicket another image of my beloved and blamed me and threatened me.  God wot good cause there was of the blame.  But tell me, mother, since thou callest thyself wise, what may this portend?

The wood-wife laughed: Since I am wise, said she, I will foretell thee good days.  And now we will talk no more of thee or thy love or thy sorrow, but since thou wilt so fiercely devour the way, I will tell thee a tale or two of this wood and its wights to save us from over-much weariness.

So did she, talking and telling as they went; and she went on a pace before him, and howsoever long or hardly he might stride he might not overgo her.  And so fast they went, that they were within a little way of the Oak of Tryst a good while before the sun had set, though they had set out from the cave three hours after the hour when Birdalone and the wood-wife had left the House under the Wood on the yesterday.  They had come to a steep rock that rose up from a water’s side, and the wood-wife bade stay, whether Arthur would or no, and she made him eat and drink, bringing the victual and wine from out of a cleft in the said rock.  And she held him there till the night was come and there was a glimmer of the rising moon in the east, and he was ill at ease and restless; but still she held him there till the moon rose high and shone upon them, and the shadows of the oak-boughs lay black all around.

Then she bade him arise, and let him on to the Oak of Tryst, yea and somewhat beyond it toward the great water.  Then she spake to him: Black Squire, I am now come home, and will lead thee no further; I was deeming that we should have slept in the wood a good way from this, and then would I have brought thee on thy way to-morrow morning; but the eagerness of thine heart hath made thy feet so speedy, that we be here somewhat rathe, and yet I am not ill-pleased therewith.  Then she turned him about and said: Look down the bent and tell me what thou seest.  He said: I see the boles of goodly trees, and betwixt them the gleaming of a great water.  She said: Go thitherward then while the moon is yet at her brightest, and thou shalt presently come to wide meads lying along the water, and a stream running through them.  Enter then into the meads and look about thee, and thou shalt see a little house (there is none other nigh) standing just across the said stream; go up thither boldly and crave guesting from whomsoever thou shalt find there, and maybe things shall go after thy mind.  More than this I may not do for thee.  Farewell then, and if thou wilt thou mayst meet me again; that is to say, that which is verily me: but it is like that this shape which hath been striding on with thee daylong thou shalt not see any more.

He looked on her wondering, for she seemed to grow goodly and stately before his eyes.  But even as he stretched forth his hand to take hers, she turned about suddenly and fared into the wood out of his sight, wending full as swiftly as might have been looked for.  Then he drew his sword and turned his face from the wood, and went down toward the water.

p. 500CHAPTER XXVII.  SIR ARTHUR COMETH TO THE HOUSE UNDER THE WOOD.

So came Arthur into the meadows, and went eagerly but warily over the dewy grass.  And here and there a cow rose before him and went bundling down the mead a little way, and the owls cried out from behind him, and a fox barked from the thicket’s edge.  Then he found himself on the stream-side, and he stayed and looked from side to side, and lo! on the other side of the stream a little house that looked familiar to him as a yeoman’s dwelling in the builded lands, and the thatch thereon shone under the moon and its windows were yellow with candle-light; and so homely it seemed to him, that he thrust his sword into the sheath and lightly crossed the brook, and came to the door and laid his hand upon the latch and lifted it and shoved the door, and all was open before him.

His eyes, coming from the night, dazzled with the bright light of the candles, but he saw a fair woman rising up in her place, and he said: May a traveller in the woodland be welcome here to-night, dealing with all in all honour?

But the woman came toward him holding out her two hands, and ere he could cry out that he knew her, she had thrown herself upon him, and had cast her arms about him and was kissing his face, and murmuring: O welcome indeed! welcome, welcome, and welcome!  And so sore did his past grief and his desire move him, that he was weak before her, and held down his hands and let her do.  And both those were breathless with wonder and joy and longing; and they stood aloof a little in a while and looked on each other, she with heaving bosom and streaming eyes, and he with arms stretched forth and lips that strove with his heart’s words and might not utter them; but once more she gave herself to him, and he took her in his arms strongly now, so that she was frail and weak before him, and he laid his cheek to her cheek and his lips to her lips, and kissed her eyes and her shoulders and murmured over her.  And then again they stood apart, and she took him by the hand and led him to the settle, and set him down by her, and herself by him; and a while they said nought.  Then she spake as one who had come to herself and was calm, though her heart was aflame for love: Tell me, love, when thine hand was on the latch didst thou look to find me here in this house? for thine hand it was that waked me; I heard not thy foot before the threshold, for I was weary and slumbering.  Alas! that I lost the sound of thy feet!  He spake, and his voice sounded false unto him, as if it came from another’s mouth: I wot not; the woman that led me nearby seemed to bid me hope.  Then he said: Nay,