Words of His

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The woman led him away out of the courtyard and into the streets and alleys of the village. She sang again the winter song but quietly, to herself, not intending anyone but the two of them to hear it.

Wals did not sing with her. He understood from Manueline that any kind of familiarity with the old woman would be a dangerous thing, so he let himself be taken through the village, taking the song into himself, unable to express it as he usually did, making a counterpoint to the tune that came to him. So the old woman's song sank deep into him; he could not keep it out and he could not respond to it, so all he could do was to take it in. The song became a persistent theme in his mind that took him over, becoming all he could hear until it swallowed him whole.

For the time that the old woman led him, Wals ceased to exist as an individual. He became unaware of himself and the world around him, the only thing present to him was the song that consumed him, eating him up as they walked, as their feet followed the paths on which they walked, leading Wals out of the village and into the dark fields of winter. The old woman shifted her grip to his hand, shifting her position at the same time so she truly led him with Wals walking behind her. She led him out across the fields. They walked through fields of cut barley and rye with the remains of bean plants left among the rows.

The old woman led him along a path that wound its way between fields until they came to a hut, a small, solid, stone structure with a stout wooden door. She still sang as she stooped to the door, lifting the latch and then stood back, looking out across the fields, standing completely still, nothing about her moving other than the quiet song of her voice.

Wals did not even think of what he was doing or consider the implications; he was too eaten up by the song for such things. He approached the door, bending over, going through the door. The old woman closed the door behind him, latching it closed.

Wals circled round like an animal on the straw that covered the floor. He lay down. There was just room enough for him to stretch out to his full length. He sensed rather than heard the old woman sitting down, her back against the door. She continued to sing the winter song and Wals lost himself in it again; listening to it until there was nothing of himself left to listen with; he was completely taken up by the song. Even if the old woman stopped, it would make no difference. The song was in his mind and now it needed no one to sing it in order for him to hear it.

On the third day, the women would sing to him again though no one would see him until the ninth day when they came and opened the door. On the fourth day the children would come and sing, on the fifth the young women, on the sixth the old women. The young men would not be trusted near him till the seventh day. On the eighth day, the old woman would sing to him on her own again, spending much of the day outside the hut. The night of the eighth day, he would be alone, alone before they came for him on the ninth day to lead him out into the fields.

On the eighth night Manueline came, out of the rhythm of the song, her voice an urgent whisper at the door. "Wals, Wals, can you hear me?" She was desperately afraid of touching the door so she called to him, hoping he would answer, giving her hope and that out of that hope she could summon the courage to touch the door. She called to him for a long time but he did not answer and she grew more and more afraid.

She sat against the door and sang the courtyard song to him, hoping that in it he would find a remembrance of her. She didn't even get as far as the hearth before she gave up, recognizing it was no good. He would weave the winter's song around the courtyard song and the two together would only fix the winter's song all the more firmly in his mind.

She sat up, moving away from the door and turning towards it. She reached out one trembling hand, touching just the planks of the door. She could not look but turned her eyes away as her hand moved towards the latch. She heard the latch rattle in its housing as her hand took hold of it and pressed against it; pressing against the wood, listening to the sounds of the winter's night, dreading what lay beyond the door.

Manueline was unsure what she was afraid of, whether it was what she would find inside, something close to death, maybe even death itself, or whether she was afraid of the winter's song and what it meant to break it. She knew that last fear was ingrained deeply in her but the two fears were so strong in her mind that she was unable to distinguish between them and she was overwhelmed by fear the same way that Wals was overwhelmed by the song.

The fears played a counterpoint in her mind that left her dazed and unable to see the connection between one thing and another; unable to trace the consequences of what happened around her or of what she herself did.

Manueline did nothing, she was incapable of doing anything, but the latch lifted, she gave up contact with it and the door swung open on its own, just bumping a little against her knees where she knelt before it. She shuffled back, trying to avoid contact with the door and it swung open the rest of the way, revealing some sense of the darkness that lay within.

There was no light other than the light given by the stars. Darkness seemed to come out of the door, flowing out of the door along with a stench of death that overwhelmed Manueline making her retch and heave, taking a corner of the blanket she had wrapped round her shoulders and holding it over her nose and mouth.

She called to him again, "Wals, please come out, come to me." There was no answering movement from within. She couldn't hear anything through the roaring in her ears and she crouched down huddling her head into her shoulders trying to cover her ears and her face at the same time. She was overcome by the combination of the smell of death and the sound of her own fear; the blood pounded in her ears, leaving her sightless and blinded.

Then something in her remembered him by the fountain as she first met him and she remembered who he said he was though she had only laughed at the time; she whispered, "BB, please, help me." She couldn't tell whether he responded immediately or whether it took a long time, but she eventually realized that he was singing. Singing as he had sung when she first met him by the fountain.

Weep no more, ...
Sorrow calls no time that 's gone:
Violets pluck'd, ... nor grow again.
... look cheerfully;
Fate's hid ... eyes cannot see.
Joys as winged dreams fly fast,
Why should sadness longer last?
...
Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no more

Manueline almost thought it was her own memory and not his voice that she heard. Whether the memory called forth the voice or the other way round, she didn't know. All the same she heard it and he sang in a broken, cracked voice, a garbled version of the song she remembered, garbled because he was singing it in her own language, the language of the courtyard and singing the melody, not the counter melody.

Manueline heard it in all its strangeness, strange in that he sang in another language, strange in that he sang the melody. Strangest of all, that he sang it out of the mouth of death, a song of consolation and hope; a song meant to bring her joy and free her from sorrow; a promise for the future; a promise he brought to her out of the world of the dead as a gift for her and her alone.

Manueline took hope and strength from his voice. She stood and bent over, going through the door until she came to him lying on the floor. He was cold and she found it difficult to touch him. She took his hand and lifted his arm, bringing some small measure of movement and life to him. Manueline was taken with a sudden sense of urgency and she pulled at him urging him to move.

He crawled to her, crawled with her out of the door and the darkness inside. He was naked, unable to lift his head. She wrapped a blanket round him and urged him to stand bending over and trying to pull him to his feet. She could tell the effort she was making hindered him as much as it helped. Still she tried, finally wrapping her arms round his chest and pulling him upright on his knees.

Still she urged him on, whispering to him as her fear returned. The door remained open and menacing behind them, ready to swallow them both up, urging them both inside. She could feel how it pulled at him and now began to pull at her as well. Again, she begged him using the name he had given himself.

She wished she had some words of his language to use as it seemed anything from the courtyard drew them back to the door. Anything she said in her own language only served as a reminder of where he had been and how he got where they were. Manueline used his name. It gave him strength, or at least enabled him to stand, and the two of them staggered off in the direction of the river, skirting the village and its alleys and passages, all leading back to the life they now abandoned and the courtyard that they left behind.

Manueline had a plan, admittedly a vague and fragile plan. It came to her, listening to some talk around the courtyard. The courtyard was a very subdued place, subdued but expectant; everyone in it aware of what was happening out in the fields, the coming of winter, where they were in the nine days.

There were periodic bursts of conversation, often concerned with some aspect of the ritual around the beginning of the winter or the turning of the year. At one point one of the men said, "The woman of the forest hasn't taken any offerings all this year. Some say she's left the forest for good and we might as well stop leaving anything."

The old woman looked at him disdainfully, "What do you know of the comings and goings of the woman of the forest? Do you choose not to make an offering?" She just sat and stared at him for a while not allowing him to look away until he trembled and tried to speak but clearly could not, the old woman would not let him, she held up her hand in a gesture of negation and dismissal.

He began to blink, his eyes started to water, she let him go, looking away, not saying anything more, there was nothing more that need to be said. Everyone in the courtyard knew the observances of the forest would continue as they always had done, no one would turn from that path. Manueline watching and listening realized there was another world. It was a world she thought of as being dangerous and forbidden but possibly it might represent an escape for Wals; a place where he might go and survive.

Each step cost Manueline more than she believed she could pay. Each step took her deeper into something from which she could not escape. Opening the door had been the beginning, even touching the door, she was lost, leaving the courtyard was an irrevocable step but still it tore at her.

What she was doing to herself, what she had done to Wals and what she was doing to the courtyard and the community in which she used to live, seemed to be tearing her skin off as she staggered with Wals along the paths between the fields. She would have made off directly across the fields but she was afraid that would leave too obvious a trail. She knew the people of the courtyard would soon discover where they had gone.

Whether they would pursue them or not she was not sure but she dreaded it worse than death itself. She felt that having to confront them again, having to confront them with Wals beside her and face what they would make of him and her together would be more than she could bear. The experience alone would kill her quite apart from what they might do to her, or force Wals to see, or force her to do to him. Nothing could be worse.

The possibility of it left her almost paralyzed, almost unable to move. Manueline could feel the paralysis creep into both of them and she resorted to his given name again. Begging him to help her, begging him to support her, even though he could barely stand; she was practically carrying him when they finally came to the edge of the fields on the south side of the village and the break in the landscape as the ground sloped away down towards the river.

To follow this thread in the story go to: Some Other Course

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