The Rites

         

         The little hairs on the back of Brian’s neck frizzled and he knew:  he was being watched – again.  Ignoring both his unseen watcher and the shivers from what he found as discomforting as an icicle dripping down his neck, he dutifully planted the three acorns around the fresh, raw wound of an oak stump, mumbling the required words as he did so. 

         Then, having preformed the necessary rites, he began the arduous task of dragging the trimmed tree trunk along the narrow, winding deer-paths and out of the ancient forest.  Blood-red streaks lined the sky before, at last, he pulled the massive tree into the little clearing in front of the tiny cottage.  Sinking onto the trunk, he wiped the sweat from his face and breathed in the soft, mossy fragrance of evening in the woods. 

         He watched the last veins of light dissipate before he entered his home, stooping to allow his lofty frame to fit beneath the stone lintel.  The only light in the one room came from the embers of the banked fire in the hearth.  Dried herbs and smoked meats hung from the low rafters, filling the room with a rich, warm, earthy scent.  Aside from a raised bed covered in a blanket of course wool occupying the far corner of the room, beneath a small, shuttered window the dim interior was empty except for a trestle table - bleached white from scrubbing, a pair of crude rush seat chairs and a chest beside the bed. 

         Brian took a splinter of wood from the cracked cup on the mantle, lit it from the smoldering ashes and touched it to the wick in the simple oil lamp.  A flickering, dim light filled the room with shadows, as he stoked the fire and added more wood.  Once the flames crackled in the hearth, he picked up a bucket, went back out into the clearing and drew up fresh water.  Then he carried it inside, slouched down onto one of the chairs and pulled off his boots.  They made two dull thuds as he dropped them on the hard earth floor.  He sighed, wiggling his toes in pleasure before he stood up, pour some of the water in a basin on the table and washed the dirt and weariness from his face.  Then he sat there, wondering who it was that watched him as he worked in the woods.

         The rattling pot lid brought him back to the moment, and picking up a spoon and bowl, both carved from wood, he went to the fire, ladled out some of the stew he’d made a few days earlier and returned to the table.  The remaining bread was dry, but when he dipped it into the stew it softened enough for him to eat it. 

         Groaning, he realized that if he was to have anything more than oatmeal for breakfast, let alone something to eat as he worked, he’d need to make bread before he could sleep.  Perhaps he should pay more attention to those giggling girls in the village – choose one as a wife.  Then she could bake the bread and fetch the water and make the stew.  So, he would be able to just harvest oak and make barrels.  That and honor the trees, and of course, plant the acorns.

*    *    *    *    *

         As tired as he was, he wasn’t able to sleep that night.  He’d started his bread dough, placed it in a large wooden bowl and covered it with a clean rag before he stretched out on his bed.  Yet, sleep eluded him.  His thoughts returned to those unseen eyes piercing his soul – not just today, but every time he ventured into the ancient forest. 

         His earliest memory was of his grandfather taking him into the woods, following the paths left by deer and foxes, to find a suitable tree.  ‘Suitable’ was defined as a tree of good growth, healthy and straight; but also infringing on one of the primordial oaks.  Those great, noble giants needed to be revered, respected and protected.  So the old man would chop the ‘suitable’ tree, making sure it’s felling caused as little damage to the surrounding woods as possible, and then plant three tiny acorns around the stump.  The ‘tree-tenders’ needed to see them honor the trees – the reverent safeguarding of an ancient one, the sacrifice of a mature one and the respectful planting of new life around it.

         Brian had often asked his grandfather just who these ‘tree-tenders’ were; but, either the old man did not know, or would not tell him. So, over the years, he’d formed his own theory.  For, every now and again, a stranger would appear at the edge of the village for the briefest of time.  The same person never reappeared, but they all looked as though they were related.

         Soft-spoken and gentle, they were all tall, lithe and willowy; their skin was pale – almost opalescent and their eyes were sparkling emeralds.  Their long, flowing hair gleamed, as if it radiated moonlight and they all dressed in a strange, almost chameleon-like fabric that allowed them to melt into their surroundings.  He’d noticed how they seemed to materialize in times of trouble:  in times of famine, they brought wholesome bread; and in times of sickness, they brought medicinal herbs.  But once the crisis passed, they again evaporated into the mist.

         Every now and again, as he roamed his beloved forest, he’d catch sight – or at least, thought he had – of one of ‘them’.  When the inevitable tingle signaled he was being watched, he’d look up and see the faintest figure in the shadows.  It always happened as he planted the acorns.  They seemed to observe the ritual, smile with approval and then step back into oblivion.  Later, when Brian searched the spot where he’d seen his phantom, but he found no snapped twig or crushed blade of grass.  Still, he was sure he hadn’t imagined it.

*    *    *    *    *

         Brian hummed happily as he worked.  He liked being a cooper.  He loved the feel of the wood beneath his fingers.  He took pride in what he crafted:  not just barrels, but in the casks and buckets and tubs that everyone required in their daily lives. 

Then, in the winter, there was time for his true passion – carving.  Usually, he made spoons, bowls and cups, but every now and then a scrap of wood ‘spoke’ to him and he let his fingers follow his imagination.  Those moments produced plates shaped like leaves, the birds and animals that roamed his forest and even the occasional toy.

         As days grew longer, the piles of treasures in his barrow grew also, and he looked forward first market day.  The forest began to glisten green and the glens were filled with the new songs of baby birds.  But in the background, Brian heard another song – a sad, poignant one that ripped at his heart. 

         Snow still stubbornly remained in the shadows when, just at dusk, he heard this new voice – louder and clearer than ever before.  He followed the sound, and found the source – a platinum goddess with emerald eyes.  She stood beside one of the huge, ancient oaks, weeping as she sang.  He looked at the scorched crack marring the trunk the tree and knew that a lightning strike had killed the tree.  It would take time for the giant to succumb, but it was dying and his wood nymph mourned it already.

         Even when he stepped from the shadows of trees, she didn’t appear to notice him.  And as he moved closer he saw how ill she looked.  To his horror, as her song came to an end, she sank beside the ancient oak in a swoon.  Without stopping to think, Brian scooped her into his arms and hurried through the woods to his cottage. 

         It wasn’t until he placed her onto his simple bed that he noticed her feather-lightness,  her ashy, blue-white skin, or her dry and cracking lips.  Fetching fresh water, he went a cloth, wrung it out and wiped her face.  Then he lifted her upright and helped her sip water.  She let out a soft groan, before she appeared to pass into an almost peaceful sleep. 

         He sat by her through the night.  So he was beside her when her eyelids fluttered open, and she murmured, “You . . .”

         “Be still.  You need to rest.”

She looked from him to her surroundings and asked, “You brought me to your home?”

         “Of course,” he told her, “Did you think I’d leave you to die in the forest?”

         “You should have.  I was to keep vigil with the ancient one until we both passed on to the next world.  Now, I’m an outcast.”

         “I honor the trees too, but the tree’s time does not mean it’s your time to die,” he told her in anger.  However, when he saw her expression, he softened, adding, “You are no outcast, but you are ill.  I’m sure you know what will heal you.  Tell me.”

         Shaking her head, she answered, “Only one of my kind could reach what I need.”

         “Tell me,” he repeated.

         “At the top of the dying tree, high up in the uppermost branches, is a flower.  It is the soul of the tree.  A tisane made from it will allow me to live.”  Struggling to sit up, she touched his arm and insisted, “But no man can reach such heights.”

Her touched shot through him like fire.  Rising to his feet, he promised, “I will.”  Then he left her.

         He found the tree easily, but it was so big around, it was impossible for him to climb it.  But the oak beside it was young enough for him to scramble up.  He scaled the smaller tree until the branches bent and creaked beneath his weight.  Then, without thinking, he leapt into the network of upper branches of the mighty, ailing oak. 

         It was then that he stopped, and dizzily looked down.  He panted – from both exertion and fear – for several minutes.  Then he thought of the beautiful creature languishing in his bed and continued onward and upward.  The wind picked up.  He felt as though the heavens were conspiring to keep him from reaching his goal. 

         But he persisted and he prevailed.  There, at the top of the tree, was a beautiful crimson flower.  He plucked it, thrust it into his shirt and began the arduous journey to the ground.  He scrambled down to where he needed to jump to the smaller tree, but fear gripped him. 

         He took a great gulp of air, spread his arms out as if he expected to fly and made the leap.  But the branch snapped beneath his weight, and he clambered to find a safe hold.  The wind blew harder, the tree groaned and he remained motionless, praying the limb would hold.  After a moment, he moved slowly and steadily downward. 

         He clutched the flower against his breast and sighed.  He was almost there – the ground was only fifteen or twenty feet more to go before his feet would, once again, be on the ground.  And then a mother bird startled him, he lost both his footing and his hold, and he plummeted to the forest-floor.

         It was dark when he woke.  He tasted blood in his mouth, agonizing pain exploded through his body with every breath and his leg throbbed.  Somehow, he struggled to his feet and then fought his way through the darkness, back to his house.

         It was with great effort that he stooped to enter the tiny cottage.  Then, finding the pail empty, he forced himself back outside to endure the excruciating pain caused as he drew water up from the well.  He returned to the fireside, set some water on the hob to boil, and pulled the crushed flower from his shirt.  He macerated the blossom in the bottom of a large cup, poured the simmering water on it and left it to steep. 

         He washed the blood from his face and smoothed his hair, before he took the tisane to his patient, lifted her by her shoulders and coaxed her to drink the ruby-red brew.  He lowered her back onto the bed, shoved the cup onto the table and then, coughing up blood, sank down to the floor as blackness surrounded him.

*    *    *    *    *

         He awoke to her softly crooning to him.  He went to sit up, groaned in agony and relented as she whispered in his ear, “You saved me, but at what cost?  You’ve broken several ribs.  You’re bleeding inside.  I don’t have the knowledge or skill to heal you.”  She stroked the hair from his forehead, kissed his cheek and added, “But there is a way you can go on.”

         Once again, he struggled to sit, but he coughed up blood and realized he was, indeed, dying, but managed to ask, “Who are you?”

         “You know who my people are.  I’m one of those your grandfather called ‘tree-tenders’.”

         “Yes, but what is your name?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

         “They call me Eleanor.”  She poured more boiling water over the dredges of scarlet flower in the cup, brought it to his lips and urged him.  “Drink this.  It will ease your pain and help.”

         He gulped the scalding liquid, and then asked, “Help?  I thought you said you couldn’t mend me.”

         “I can’t.  But the flower will give you strength for what must be done.”

         “I don’t understand . . .” he began, but she stopped his mouth with a kiss.  All he could think of is how soft those lips felt against his, as a fire spread through him.  He reached out to her and she yielded.           The pain subsided, as his desire grew.  But, it wasn’t until she went to unfasten his britches that he realized what she intended to do – what she had meant. 

         Tender fingers explored him, as Eleanor continued to coo into his ear and kiss him.  The conflict within him was worse than his physical pain.  “Wait!” he insisted, “You said that you would be an outcast because you didn’t die with the tree.  Who will take care of you?”

         “The aura of goodness instilled here by you and your grandfather will protect us; and the forest will provide for us.”

         “Us . . . ?”

         “Not you and me, my love.  I’m sorry, but I truly cannot heal you.  All I can do is keep you alive.”  Her kisses grew more insistent, as her hands moved over his body until she found what she sought.  He was hard and filled with a new ache; an ache that only she could stifle.

         She pulled away and stood up, untied the strand that gathered her gown about her neck, and allowed the gossamer fabric to slip down from her body before, with sensuous movements, she moved back to him.  Then, pulling him to his feet, she entwined herself around him, and with undulating movements, encouraged him to take her.

         He tried to resist her, but her moon-glow skin beckoned to him; and those two cherry rosebuds taunted him.  His blood boiled with desire and he gave in to her.  He wished his hands weren’t calloused and scarred from working.  He wanted to caress her with an equally gentle touch. 

         But she didn’t seem to notice the roughness of his skin.  In fact, she seemed to revel in his touches.  She pulled him closer, and boldly stroked him.  He realized she was leading him over so she would have her back against the wall, and even as tall as she was, he was forced to cup his hands around her buttocks and lift her up, so he could enter her.

         She let out a soft moan as he moved within her.  He had never felt such exquisite joy and kissed her hard as his climax approached.  Why hadn’t he found her sooner?  Why had she not come to him?  Thoughts filled his head, sensations flowed from his soul, and he reveled – in those last moments of his life – in the absolute joy of that had been his life.

         He looked into Eleanor’s eyes, thrust deep inside of her and spilled his seed.  He felt her own shuddering climax, as she cried out to him, “You will always be with us.”  An odd feeling passed through him, he looked down and it seemed that light emanated from his body and she smiled a comforting smile at him . . .

         Then he was gone.  Or was he?  He could see Eleanor; hear her softly weeping, but she didn’t seem able to see or hear him.  It was then he became aware that he was a part of her, of the cottage, of the forest itself, and he took comfort in it.

         He kept vigil all year – through the verdant summer, the rich fall and the solemn winter, until, as the new year opened, Eleanor gave birth to three beautiful sons.

         Once again, the ancient rites had been observed.



 

Word count: 2850