A Journey of the Heart (38 page)

"Oh."

"In the meantime," she said, "you could tell me a story."

In ancient days, the fairy folk were not, as they are now, estranged from humankind. It was not uncommon then for mortal children to see the fairies dancing in a field as they passed by. Even older folk, attending to their work, might look up and catch a glimpse of them, and some, returning home past the time they were expected, might give as their excuse that they had been invited to a fairy banquet and dared not refuse.

Still, in the ordinary course of things, the two peoples had little to do with one another. While humankind tilled their fields and tended their flocks, the fairy folk lived in the wild places, nourished by the Mother's bounty. She satisfied their thirst with water from her springs that sparkled like gemstones and gladdened the heart like wine. She provided for them food of every kind. Forest and meadow bore fruit for them, and the animals came to offer themselves, the forest deer, the trout and salmon, birds and their eggs, each in its season. For the fairy folk, each day was a day of ease, and the nights were given to music and the dance.

There was in those days a queen of the fairy folk whose heart chose a mortal man. Such things were not unheard of then. The hearts of fairies love as do the hearts of humankind, although their bodies neither join together nor bring forth new life, but for those who take a mortal lover, joy is brief, while grief is long, for mortal men must die, while the fairy folk do not.

For many years, years that for the fairies seemed to pass as swiftly as a summer afternoon, the fairy queen and her beloved lived together as one soul, but as it must happen, one day time overtook him, and he died.

Deeply the fairy queen mourned him, and no one could comfort her, for none of her own people understood her grief. The fairies' life of ease and pleasure went on unchanged, while her own happiness was now lost forever.

At last the fairy queen could bear her grief no longer. She left her home and wandered out into the wider world, where her path soon crossed that of an old woman, who knew her at once for a queen of the fairy folk.

"You are far from your home under the hill, o queen of fairies," the old woman said. "What brings you out among humankind?"

"Grief," the fairy queen replied. "I loved a mortal man, and he died."

"Ah," the old woman said. "I too loved a mortal man. He died, and has been dead these many years."

"How do you bear your grief?" the fairy queen asked her, and the old woman answered, "I found my grief impossible to bear until I remembered that I too will die, and when I do, my grief will end. Anything can be borne if one can see an end to it."

The fairy queen could not hope for death to release her. "Is there no other remedy for grief?" she asked.

"Perhaps there is," the old woman said. "If you would try it, come with me."

The old woman led the fairy queen to a cottage in a meadow a little distance from a village. By the window was a chair, and the old woman bade the fairy queen sit down. Then she took her own cloak from around her shoulders and laid it upon the shoulders of the fairy queen. She drew the hood over the fairy queen's golden hair, until all that could be seen of her was her lovely, ageless face and her shining, golden eyes.

"Stay and watch," said the old woman as she left her, "and learn that all bright things cast a shadow."

It was then high summer. The village children came to bathe in the stream that ran through the meadow. Their laughter reminded the fairy queen of the laughter that echoed through her own great hall. Farmers too passed by her cottage on their way to till their fields, and she heard them singing at their work. All around her in the meadow, birds taught their fledglings how to fly, squirrels gathered seeds and acorns, flowers bloomed and died. Then came the harvest, and the farmers sang new songs as they carried the sheaves home to the threshing floor.

The heart of the fairy queen grew sad when she saw the bright summer days begin to fade, but soon she was enchanted by the golden light of autumn, the bright colors of the trees, frost on the meadow. Leaves of red and gold rained down, and the children came again, to play in the fallen leaves.

One morning the fairy queen awoke to silence. She looked outside and saw the whole world white with snow. She who had never seen the winter wondered that anything still lived in that dark and silent world. The nights were longer than any she had ever known. The days were cold. Few of the villagers ventured out. She sometimes heard the children playing, although their mothers kept them close to home. Every day she watched at the window, and it seemed to her that nothing changed but the lacy patterns of the shadows of bare trees against the snow.

As the world slept, so too did the fairy queen fall into a sleep in which she dreamed back the past. When she awakened, she cried bitter tears for all that she had lost, until the fragrance of apple blossom and new grass drew her to the window, to look out at the springtime.

The meadow bloomed with crocuses and bluebells. Children came to pick the flowers. The farmers went out to sow their fields. A doe came to the stream to drink, her fawn beside her, and a young mother sat down in a patch of sunlight and bared her breast to nurse her child.

For the first time since she entered it, the fairy queen left the cottage. She breathed deep the air of springtime and sat down on her front step. All bright things cast a shadow, the old woman had said, and the fairy queen whispered to herself, the shadow too is beautiful. She was content, and those who passed by saw only an old woman sitting in the sunshine before her cottage door.

Winter's early dark had fallen. Inside the ruined cottage we were snug and safe. Both of us were in our shirtsleeves, and against my back I felt the warmth of Maara's body, the rise and fall of her breathing. Her arms held me as if nothing would persuade her to let me go. It was a long time before either of us spoke.

"Don't die," she said at last, and a tremor went through her body, as if a cold wind had blown through her bones.

I didn't know how to answer her. If she had been someone else, I might have made a joke of it, but I couldn't speak lightly of my own death to Maara, because she loved me.

"Supper's ready," she said.

We ate in silence, sitting side by side. Although I couldn't see her face, I felt her discontent. When we finished, she set the empty pot aside and sat staring into the fire. I waited for her to talk to me, but I didn't question her. I knew from experience that she would think about a story that puzzled her, sometimes for days, before asking me about it.

I smiled, remembering the question I had asked when I first heard that story. "Are the fairies real?" I asked my mother, and she replied, "Of course they are. As real as moonbeams."

"How did the fairy queen overcome her grief?" said Maara.

I thought for a minute before I said, "I think she learned to accept it."

"I can't." I heard in Maara's voice both desperation and defiance. I wondered if the story had taken her into the past and made her feel again some loss long forgotten, until she said, "I would like to keep this for a while."

Though my heart was glad to hear it, her words cast a dark shadow. It was the shadow of her own grief, which even now intruded on our happiness, as if loss always follows closely on the heels of love.

"For as long as I'm living, this is yours," I told her, "and I intend to live for a very long time."

She turned to me and smiled. "I believe you will."

My heart heard what she had left unsaid, that she believed she would not, or that something else would separate us.

I took her hand. "I don't intend to grow old without you."

Maara looked down at her hand in mine. She seemed puzzled, as if she wasn't quite sure what I wanted with it. Then she opened my fingers and brushed her fingertips across the palm of my hand. Her touch sent a shiver of pleasure through my body. My hand would have answered her in kind, but she let it go.

Before I could reach for her again, Maara stood up.

"I think these are dry," she said.

She took our cloaks down from where they hung and looked about her for the driest place to make our bed.

I needed to use the privy.

"I'll be right back," I said.

She nodded. "Don't go far."

The rain had stopped, and the moon was just rising. Its light, caught in the mist, hung around the cottage like a veil. I shivered a little in the cold air, although I found it pleasant after the stuffy warmth indoors. I took care not to stray too far from the cottage to relieve myself. The mist was treacherous.

Before I went back inside, I stood for a while by the tumbled wall. I wanted a few minutes to myself, to think about Maara and about the story I had told her. I had always accepted without question the lesson it taught, that things are as they are and as they should be, and that there is beauty in all of life, both the bright and the dark. But Maara had taken another lesson from it. Though I couldn't put it into words, acceptance of life as it is certainly had no part in it.

Suddenly Maara was behind me. Before I could turn around, she rested her hands lightly on my shoulders.

"I was worried," she said. She was so close to me that her breath tickled the back of my neck. I shivered.

"You're cold," she said.

I was a little, though the shiver that went through my body had nothing to do with the weather. As if to warm me, Maara's hands caressed my shoulders, and her touch did warm me, but it was desire that kept me from the cold. I wondered if she had intended to provoke it. Then she turned me around to face her. In the misty moonlight, her face seemed lit from within. I saw her desire in her eyes. I felt it in her touch. Her fingers brushed my cheek, but they didn't have to lift my mouth to hers. We met in an embrace that shattered the last barrier between us.

Her first kiss was fierce. After the shock of it, I felt her draw back. I waited for her, and she returned to me, more gently this time. Her kiss was a caress, but it tasted bittersweet. She tried to make me understand. Her meaning slipped into the darkest places in my heart and showed me my own fear. I clung to her, as if she could be my shield against it. It would be a long time before I understood that fear is only the dark face of love.

It was too late to go back, too late to undo the bonds I had made to hold her, when I knit my life to hers. Those bonds held me as well. Now I had no choice but to go forward. I might have locked my fear away in some dark corner of my heart, and by doing so I would have locked her out of it. Instead I forced the door and let her in. She met me there. She understood. Love turned again and showed me her bright face. We stood on the threshold of our cottage and kissed each other as if this were a homecoming.

She drew back and took my hand. "Come inside," she said.

We ducked through a ragged hole in the fallen thatch and picked our way through the ruins. This time our fire lit the way. She had already made our bed. I sat down, expecting her to join me, but first she knelt to build up the fire into a bright blaze.

I was impatient. "It's warm enough," I said.

She smiled at me. "I want the light."

Thinking she wanted to see my body, I loosened the ties of my shirt and began to pull it off over my head.

"Don't," she said. "You'll be too cold."

She came to the bed and sat down beside me. It was my face she wanted to see. With a touch of her fingertips on my cheek, she turned me to the light. I searched her eyes to discover her intentions. My desire for her had coiled into a tight knot in my belly. I thought that her desire might have faded, until she touched me. Her fingers trembled with it as they caressed my face. When her thumb brushed my lips, my own desire made me tremble, and the knot in my belly began to loosen. I closed my eyes. Her lips touched mine, but before I could return her kiss, they moved away. It was just enough. She wanted what I wanted. I smiled.

"What?" she whispered.

I opened my eyes. "What do you need from me?" I asked her.

"Lie down," she said.

I obeyed her, and she lay down beside me, taking care not to shield me from the light. She leaned up on one elbow and looked down at me, brushed my hair away from my face, let her fingertips drift over my brow and across my cheek. Her eyes moved from my face to the ties of my shirt, as her fingers loosened them a little more. She bent and kissed the exposed skin between my breasts. Then she laid her head down over my heart and was still.

For several minutes she lay like that, lost in her own dream, gone where I couldn't follow. I tangled my fingers in her hair, to bring her back to me. Her warm hand rested on my stomach, just above my belt, and under it the blood began to beat stronger in my belly. Surely she could feel it. She slipped her hand under my shirt, to caress the tender skin beneath my breast.

I had never felt a more intimate touch, because it was she who touched me.

She stretched her body out beside me and laid her head down next to mine. When I turned to her, she put her arms around me. With one arm she held me close, while her other hand caressed the bare skin of my back.

I lost myself for a time in the pleasure of her touch, but soon I understood that giving pleasure wasn't her intention. She touched me as if she had set herself the task of learning my body's secrets, not to find what gave me pleasure, but to discover things I might wish to conceal, to explore my boundaries and my defenses.

Perhaps she felt me hesitate, because her hold on my body loosened, and she drew away from me. Then I was glad for the firelight. In her face I saw a tenderness that reassured me. Whatever her intentions, she was the woman I knew and trusted.

Her thumb circled the orbit of my eye, pressed the skin below it, feeling for the bone beneath, traced the outline of my mouth, the line of my jaw, touching me more with curiosity than with desire. Again she slipped her hand under my shirt, to caress my belly and my breasts. Sometimes a certain touch would draw a response from me -- a sound, a change of breath, a movement of my body against hers -- and she would return there, again and again.