White Flame of Ealga
By David Murphy
He checked what simmered in his pot for fear of not remembering. Two quarter moons it had taken him to find it in a dark, moist glade between giant oaks. Confident that he could unearth more, he laid his back against the bark and let the sunset wash him with rays more mystical than the greatest druids could know. In the morning, when the effect had worn off and the world was again a mundane thing, the idea came to him that he should share his new-found pleasure--but only after serious experimentation.
Six days of warm, wet summer was enough. He found plenty to fill his baskets and had more than enough to experiment with. The druids were wrong to dry it out and pound it into powder. A touch of cookery was needed. Gronaun discovered that peaty lake water was more conducive to mind-distortion than the clear emissions of virgin springs. Age and condition were important, as was temperature and time of immersion. Simmering, rather than boiling, brought out the flavour and the magic more effectively than raw chewing or smoking. Even the aromatic tendrils from the fire found their way into the pot. Bark of birch added a woodiness to render the magic complete. Armed with this knowledge, Gronaun left his improvised hunting-lodge and returned to the Kingdom of Ealga.
Word spread. Soon mushrooms simmered, cauldrons of them, everywhere--at least everywhere the druids would allow. Renowned for the kindness of his heart, Gronaun now became famous for his woodland discovery. Palisaded settlements and stone forts opened their gates to him. Swineherds and old crones, soothsayers and courtesans, bards and cobblers, all raised their horns of drink. Chieftains offered him white-breasted steeds, whelps of mastiffs, and, most valuable of all, cattle. The King himself offered the greatest prizes. Land and maidens.
"It is not an easy thing for a young man without land to maintain himself," the King said royally, "unless that young man is a warrior, which you clearly are not."
Though well-born, Gronaun held no claim of land to his name--until that moment.
"You make no objection to my offer of land for you to graze your cattle," said the King, the glazed patina of woodglade magic in his eyes. "Yet you refuse my offer of a maiden to grace your bed. Why?"
Gronaun shrugged. "I am not ready for women... Yet."
The King's smile shone through his silver-bristled face. He nodded sagely.
"A wise decision, from a man wise before his years."
Gronaun had always preferred the compliant flora of the natural world to the challenging nature of the female persona. When the King suggested that he invite fertility to his land by spending a night spilling seed into a virgin, he almost ran from the palace. The King stood, chuckling on the battlements, as Gronaun rode out, barely able to contain himself from breaking into a gallop for fear a maiden might give chase. The royal druid stared also, less than amused that a man could turn his back on such time-honoured customs as de-flowering a virgin. News spread of Gronaun's decision to tempt infertility to his land. Neither nobles nor peasants took it seriously. "Let him be," they shrugged. "Is he not a whimsical man, given to strange pursuits like studying plants rather than serving as a warrior? Have we not a lot to be grateful to him for?"
The druids held council. Bad enough that Gronaun brought the magic of mushrooms to the masses, now he ignored sacred customs. They hatched a plot to damage his reputation by sending him a twelve-year old boy whom they had instructed in certain practices. Gronaun ignored his advances, preferring instead to instruct his new-found friend in the art of plant grafting. When the boy returned, he had no words to speak except praise, which he spoke willingly to all who would listen. Frustrated by this, aware that Gronaun was popular everywhere, the druids decided to let him live on his generous patch. "Now that he has his own land to obsess with," said the King's druid, "he probably will do us no further harm."
"Aye," said the others, nodding sagely.
Some nodded more from hope than sagacity.
So it was that Gronaun occupied himself with his new-found land. Time spent planting fitted him like a suit of armour, making his body strong as oak. The measured pace of growth, the unvarying flush of seasons, reflected his even-tempered nature. With passing time, his mind grew like a frond of ferns reaching out, touching all the stalks of his personality, encouraging them to mature. His heart, always soft, expanded like a watermelon ready to be picked. The shyness of his youth dropped from him like petals in the wind. Sometimes, when it was spring, he wondered if he had been wise to depart so hastily from the palace the day the King had offered him a virgin. Maybe women were a challenge worth considering after all. He shrugged his shoulders and continued to tend his land as eagerly as a lover.
The passing seasons connived with him to create a garden that became a legend. In it grew all the flowers of Ealga. Lilies so big they overlapped the ponds. Ferns so tall they dwarfed the trees. Buttercups so small they could not be seen by the eyes of falcons. His garden attracted bees that made the sweetest honey. Birds nested, their singing beyond beauty itself. Bards sang for him, too. The length of the Kingdom they travelled, and the width of it, spreading the news with their poems and ballads. Beyond Ealga they sailed, crossing the treacherous Sea that Gives Birth to the Sun until they reached the Land of Mountains where a well-born daughter heard of Gronaun's garden and determined to visit it.
She went sailing across the sea, much against her father's advice. Stubborn as the deepest root, she knew she had to go. With a name that meant Face of Flowers, she felt pre-destined to seek out this magical gardener. Gronaun had never gone walking abroad, and had rarely left his garden. Though many a maiden would have lain down on the grass with him, he had few female visitors because of his reputation for being wary of them. Unused to seeing beautiful women, he was not prepared for the vision that stood at the far end of his herbal field that fatefully hot day. The raw power of her beauty seared his mind like the hot metal of a forge. She illuminated him like the sun's rays shafting the darkest chamber at solstice-time. She lit up all his inner secrets: the chamber of his heart, the chamber of his soul, the chamber of his mind. He even felt her seeping into that innermost chamber where secret stirrings and desires had remained in darkness for too long.
"What's your name?" he asked softly.
"I am from the land beyond the Sea where the Sun Sleeps. My name is Blodauwedd. You may call me Blodau. My name means Face of Flowers."
Gronaun sighed almost reverentially. No flower had ever looked so beautiful. He knew then that he had been waiting all his life for this moment. Standing before him was the stem of all incantations, summation of all that was truthful, wondrous, divine. With a smile, he recalled his hasty departure when the King had offered him a maiden. There would be no running now. The vision before him was prettier than all the maidens of the Kingdom of Ealga, and all the maidens of the cantrefs in the Land of Mountains. He could feel himself getting weak-kneed and knew it was not from weeding. Her beauty twisted and turned every sinew of him. He longed to take her in his arms that very moment, but his garden had taught him that the best things come with nourishment.
In the long hours that followed, he showed her his life's work. The fields where cattle grazed on the greenest grass were only a small part of his personal kingdom. He took her to the waterfalls where aquatic vines climbed through the glittering flow. She was amazed to see them break through cascading water and sparkle at the sky. He showed her all the flowers known to Ealga--and some from further afield. Though Blodau was aptly named, nothing in the garden could rival her beauty. Gronaun could not resist telling her that as he took her hand, which she let him do though they were in the darkest wood. She asked him plenty, he answered all. He even told her his greatest secret--how his garden could assimilate dead matter and thrive upon it.
"Isn't that what all gardens do?" she shrugged.
"Yes," he smiled. "But my garden does it more."
He took her to the meadows where butterflies flitted like a thousand tiny kites. This was the place that meant most to him, he said.
They were standing by a stream in the full rays of the sun. Her forehead glistened from too much walking, too much heat. He watched her dip a dainty square of lace into the water. He took it gently and dabbed its coolness upon her, pressing his fingers slowly along her forehead, then down one cheek, then the other. She was so close she overflowed his eyes. When his fingers came to soothe her lips he felt her kiss them gently, her heart tender as it filled with the same love that had filled him hours before. The thoughts that had often come into his mind, especially in spring-time when spurts of growth were all around, came to his mind again. Except now they were in his mind all at once, overwhelming him with a wave of desire. Gronaun could wait no more. He pulled her to him. She embraced him hard. They lay in the meadow's long grass and gave themselves to each other with no thought for the innocence of songbirds overhead, nor for the prying eyes of a druidic spy hiding in the bushes at the other side of the stream.
With the passing of the summer their love grew stronger. Two moons later Blodau knew she was with child, so they arranged for marriage. Her father sailed from the Land of Mountains, and was impressed to see a King at his own daughter's wedding. He was amazed to see how his prospective son-by-marriage could attract such a huge throng. At least five hundred souls, he reckoned, stood on a massive lawn. According to Blodau, that was only a fraction of Gronaun's land, both in quantity and beauty. The King spoke at length, making many references to fertility rituals, not all of them to do with land. At the end of his address, the King put all joking aside and solemnly announced that he regarded Gronaun almost as his own son. Given that Gronaun could produce such miracles with land and the things that grew from it, he added that he might install him as his successor because he himself was growing old and had engendered no male issue.
"He is our Champion!" the King announced.
From the crowd there rose a mighty hurrah. Even Blodau's father joined in the cheering. Looking around, he could see that the crowd had swelled. Must be six hundred here now, he thought, watching his daughter walk hand in hand with Gronaun.
The royal druid knew the exact attendance. It was five hundred and seventy-two. He had the crowd counted by those loyal to him, and to his beliefs. For him, the number was frightening. What made the prospect dimmer was the King's announcement.
"We cannot have Gronaun rule us!" said the druids in conclave. "He treats us with disdain, and would strip us of our magic in front of the masses!"
"Aye!" they muttered in unison, hearts heavy with foreboding until they saw the gleam in the royal druid's eye. Then their gloom lifted. They knew he had a plan.
For Gronaun, winter's onset heralded no gloom. This was to be his season of greatest joy, surpassing even those magical days when, as part of the hunting-lodge exile demanded of most young men, he had perfected his technique of extracting enchantment from mushrooms. It also surpassed the many years tending his garden, and the acclamation this toiling on the land had brought. Even his wedding day paled compared to seeing his wife grow large with child. Their love grew, too. With the passing of the solstice they renewed their vows to stay together forever, and looked forward to the lengthening days which promised their own first-born.
To Gronaun, Blodau was the tenderest shoot, the most medicinal herb. Her loveliness was like his garden at spring-time equinox. A thing of raw beauty, some of it showing, much of it hidden. There for him to nurture, to bring forth with a touch of affection to dazzle in the summer sun. Much of Blodau's beauty was in her face and in her body--the most graceful of all nature's gifts. Other men saw this, too. Sometimes, with womenfolk and children in tow, they came to catch a glimpse of the man who would be Champion now that the King was growing feeble. Gronaun watched some of them cast their eyes over his wife. He saw how even in her ripened state, despite their own wives standing beside them, men's eyes would gape like mouths to betray their lust. Women stared, too--so did children in wonderment at what Blodau might give birth to--a wise leader, a great athlete, a boundless warrior, a prince of untold prowess who would lead his people to a benign future.
In the howling gales of early spring, Blodau screamed with pain as her time grew near. The King sent his maids to deliver what the druids had foretold these past moons. A monster would be born, they said. Grotesque yet pitiable, it would live only to curl up and die--but not without taking its mother with it. So it was that Blodau emptied of blood, the best efforts of the King's maids failed to stem the haemorrhage, so ruptured was she by the birth-passage of a creature made hideous by malign spells and maledictions. Her monstrous baby had been deformed not by magic, but by poisons secreted in her food by one of Gronaun's own garden-keepers, a man in tune with the thoughts of the royal druid.
Alarmed by her shrieks, Gronaun ran to the birthing bed, a sea of crimson in a chamber filled with terror-stricken maids. He tried to stem her flow with his own hand, but most of the blood had gushed from her in the violent discharge that had belched forth her ghastly child. Whimpering now, ashen-faced from the draining of so much blood, Blodau barely had strength to move. Gronaun took her in his arms, his grief mixing with the helplessness of all the King's maids. He pulled her to him, resting his head on hers. Through a tear-stained veil he saw his child: eyeless, sexless, lifeless; no maid near it as it curled up on the chamber floor. He felt Blodau heave one last sigh. "No!" he pleaded, but she grew limp and heavy like a felled willow. He wailed then into the night, tortuous screams that carried all the way across the Kingdom to where they were heard by a dying King and all his druids.
Within the waxing of a moon a new King was installed, a dogsbody of the druidic order. Gronaun's name was like blood-stained mud: who wanted a Champion who could father only mother-eating monsters? Exaggeration spread by druids kept people away from the garden. Not that anyone had stayed since that woefully ill-conceived night when maids shrieked and monsters curled up to die. All had fled by dawn: the King's maids frightened by the terror of awful birth and death, Gronaun's garden workers scared by whispering druids who arrived upon the scene with uncanny speed, and no little delight.
The sun rubbed its rays against a cloak of mist with barely a hint of breaking through. Pale as the morning around him, Gronaun carried Blodau to the meadow where butterflies had once flitted like tiny kites. His favourite place, and hers. The temple where they first made love became a tomb as down to the stream he carried her, stumbling, to where, long ago, she had dipped laced cloth in sparkling water. The stream was mournful now, a trough of green winter rain. Gronaun's tears would have doubled its flow, if they had fallen in. Had it been summer the water would have grown silent. Butterflies would have folded their wings in prayer. This dull day held no noise, no butterflies. No songbirds hovered overhead.
Gronaun laid Blodau on the bank of the stream and gazed at her, his eyes bleeding one last horn-full of tears. Then with ragged breath he ran through the gardens to the birthing chamber. Though their child had been born dead, and a monster at that, it was still their flesh and blood. Nostrils curling from the stench, he bent to pick up the foul creature from the chamber floor. It was not the child's fault, he told himself, that it had been born so grotesque. Carrying it before him like a warped offering, he staggered back to the stream. He laid it, in all its day-lit monstrosity, its druidic-induced deformity, alongside its beautiful mother.
When he had clawed out a pit of roughly the right size, he pulled Blodau and her child into their final bed. A grave hewn of purest earth--the resting place of life and death, the scattering dust of hopes and dreams, the end of all that ever was. He scooped in earth around them with blood-stained hands, never once thinking that he had no strength left from all the weeping, all the carrying, all the digging. The grave soon filled on his side. He leaned across her breasts to draw in soil, but his heart, which had always been strong, decided to go to sleep before it broke. He fell upon her with eyes still open, his last breath giving her cold neck one final lick of warmth. They came then, out of season, out of nowhere, a thousand tiny butterflies to lay upon him, and her, like tiny garments of brocaded silk. Had a druidic spy been watching, he might have seen a lepidopterous shroud, rigid, motionless. Birds came, too. Their song was sorrowful first. Not for long. The sun broke through in the afternoon, illuminating spores that floated about in the air. The butterflies lifted their shroud to let the spores in. Wind blew, in small circles, accurate and powerful like miniature maelstroms, until it had lifted and deposited enough earth upon Gronaun, upon Blodau, to cover them and insulate them for the night to come.
Night lasted a whole season long. The meadow became a focal point for the creatures of the garden. Mighty oaks leaned toward it, striving to protect the sacred grave it contained. Birds built their nests in sight of it and looked toward it when they sang. Bark borers lined up their tunnels, as if aiming from a distance. Squirrels scurried away from the mound. Wild boars grunted around it. Ants stepped politely over its earth. The spores vegetated within and took root, utilising the whole of the inside, thriving on it, rendering a perfect shape to harden into a quiescent mass. The mother galleries laid their eggs. The eggs gelled within the chrysalis. When the time came a great silence descended on the garden and on the Kingdom. Then the mound cracked open.
In all the fables of the Red Branch; in all the Books of Takings, or Invasions; in the manuscripts so painstakingly transcribed by monks in monasteries--tales of White Knights and Indarba--never did anything resemble what came out of the meadow that bright summer's day. For every wave that broke upon the Sea that Gives Birth to the Sun, for every story in the Land of Mountains redacted from the branches of the Mabinogion, from the White Book or the Red, nothing compared to the creature that flew over the land that blessed, messianic time. Nobles, peasants, druids--especially druids--quaked when they saw it. At once legend, at once divine, christened White Flame because of its colour and shape, it instantly seared its place into the history books of Ealga.
According to lore, it hovered briefly overhead to look down upon the druids. The legend, passed on to countless generations of listeners, is that somewhere within its vast consciousness, part human, part god-like, it considered crushing the druids with one flap of its wings. But that would have been vengeful and petty, and White Flame was far too mighty for that.
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