The Bitterbynde Trilogy (204 page)

But the Faêran placed Ashalind upon an eldritch horse the colour of purity, whose bridle glittered with little bells like chains of frozen snowdrops. Accompanied by Oswyn and Meganwy on two sorrel steeds, she was led beneath trellises festooned with vines and heavy with bunches of purple grapes. As the wind's strength began to ebb, twenty-one Faêran ladies joined the cavalcade, dressed in gowns of emerald tissue and mounted on grey steeds. Their voices rang out, combining in fantastic harmonies. Seelie waterhorses gambolled at the fringes of the pageant and, from distant bells, clear chimes pealed out joyously.

The wedding hour was approaching.

Winter is hard on warm-blooded creatures in Erith. It can be dismal and ugly also, when leaden plates seem to batten down the sky, when ice turns to slush, and when dead sparrows lie frozen beneath thorn-hedges. Even in the land of mortals, however, the exquisiteness of Winter's incarnation in the Fair Realm can sometimes be glimpsed; a stand of stately evergreens, their canting foliage heaped with a milky lather; a sunlight morning alight with winking frost-prisms; a window pane patterned with a filigree of icy ferns … The loveliness of Winter was concentrated and magnified a thousandfold in Faêrie.

The steeds of the three companions set them down in a rolling, snow-mantled landscape. At their backs soared the black fretwork trees of the Autumnal woodland. Before them, a frozen wonderland.

Lambent daylight, clear and diffuse, seemed to emanate from ground and sky; from everywhere rather than from any particular source. Sugar-cones of spruce, pine, and fir scattered themselves across the scenery, every needle hoarfrost-powdered, as stiff as starched tinsel. Willows gushed like frosted fountains, their tumbling withies daintily etched in sable and ivory and shades of twilight. Flutes and pan-pipes made haunting music. As Ashalind and her friends stood barefoot and warm in the whipped-meringue drifts, the Faêran bestowed the final wedding garments.

The ornamentations of Erith echo Faêran adornments to the same extent that a painted portrait echoes its living subject. For Angavar's bride there were no jewels of bloodless stone mimicking the brightness of stars; nor any needlework representations of nature's ephemerae. The Faêran robed Ashalind in a gathered gown of actual snowflakes-made-watered-satin, attached to a train several yards long. The entire glistening confection was appliquéd with lacework of orb spiderwebs—each filament exquisitely rimed. The skirts were ruched with imperishable sea-foam and inviolable frost-flowers, and embroidered with living rosebuds that would never wilt. Instead of seed pearls or diamonds, sparkling constellations of ice crystals the size of tears picked out the contours of the bodice. Upon her head they placed a shimmering veil, not of gauze or tulle, but sheets of real mist, translucent, streaming to her ankles, rippling as she moved.

Then aerial flocks of larks and nightingales came thronging, carrying sprigs in their beaks. The Faêran bridesmaids wove these sprays together, and crowned Ashalind with a circlet of tiny white rosebuds, dew-glinting. The bridal bouquet came to Ashalind borne by a blizzard of doves; a collection of perfect snowy flowers tied up with ribbons—rosebuds, gypsophila, and gardenias; stephanotis, jasmine and wisteria. Living butterflies flitted in and out amongst the blossoms, whose stems trailed to her feet.

She saw herself mirrored in an ice sheet; her own image in a glimmering haze, all silver and vestal white with a hint of gold, and it came to her abruptly, finally—‘I am his bride!'

A vanilla-scented cloud lifted up Ashalind and her companions, and carried them through the air. When their feet touched the snow once more, they found themselves among a vast concourse of the Faêran. As ever, their voices musical, modulated, fell like flower-petals on water, ringing like birdsong in the morning. They spoke in a language Ashalind now understood; a tongue as smooth as polished silver, as rich as the jewel-hoards of dragons. Some wore scarlet and gold and amber, like leaping flames, some were clad in green and silver like moonlight on leaves, some in soft grey like curling smoke. Others amongst them appeared to be as naked as needles, graced only with the beauty of their comely forms and their flowing hair, which was threaded with jewels and flowers …

‘I am truly to be the Queen of the Faêran!' Ashalind whispered to herself.

But it was all too much to comprehend.

Oswyn and Meganwy arranged the snowflakes-made-watered-satin train of Ashalind's gown, spreading and smoothing it. Ashalind kissed her friends, whispering, ‘I am glad you are with me!' and indeed she was, for her heart was pounding at thrice its normal rate. She was grateful for the knowledge that her two staunch friends stood by.

The crowds of Faêran parted, creating a wide aisle in front of Angavar's bride. To a flourish of trumpets, composed for the occasion, she walked down the long passageway. The length of this parade was unguessable, but in Faêrie anything was possible. It might have been twelve yards or twelve miles or twelve hundred miles long for all she could tell. Time passed in a twinkling and she felt neither hunger nor cold; indeed she was not sure what she felt; she might have been numb. Faêran lords and ladies smiled at her from either side as she passed. They were interspersed with wights of every description and every persuasion; the good, bad, ugly, the mischievous and the tricksy, the comely and the bizarre. Of them, Ashalind was scarcely aware. Near the end of the promenade her father waited, and Rhys, and Pryderi, and all the folk from Erith, but the beating of wings caught her eye and she descried again the looming chevron of darkness; midnight in corvine form. The disturbing seed within her burst into full-blown fright. She forced herself to move on.

Winter is a bride.

Her snowy landscapes, veiled in mist and glittering with frost-jewels, are the epitome of chaste loveliness. Ashalind's wedding was at the heart of Winter, snow-covered and soaring, glittering with splendour, bright with light-splintered droplets. Effortlessly she walked on, until there, waiting for her, was Angavar, and all fear fled. His hair, glossy black as a raven's wing, tumbled nearly to his waist; a cloud of soft darkness, a cascade of shadow. He was almost too beautiful to look at.

It seemed to Ashalind that he and she were alone together at Winter's core, though she understood that all of Faêrie was watching. Ashalind was so struck by his presence that she thought herself in a fever; her heart so full it was on the point of exploding, pounding painfully, as if hammering to get out of her chest, her joy so terrible she hardly knew whether it was happiness or torment. The knowledge that she would soon be his wife was almost too intoxicating to withstand. He smiled at her and she thought she might melt through the snow.

But a storm of black plumage blustered in her ears, and, terrified that even now she might lose him she raised her face to her beloved and whispered, ‘He is here, Morragan-as-Raven.'

‘I know,
caileagh faoileag,'
Angavar said softly, taking her hand and pressing it to his heart. ‘He can do no harm.'

He gestured, and she looked up to see the numinous coal-black bird watching from on high. ‘Nothing can sunder us,' said Angavar. ‘I will marry thee.' And as soon as she heard those words her fears finally left her forever.

The rings were forged in view of the guests as the wedding ceremony took place. A fire as red as rubies sprang in the snow; beside it, an anvil where Giovhnu the Faêran Mastersmith plied hammer and tongs. Rhys na Pendran diligently worked the bellows. While Ashalind and Angavar made their vows to one another, Lord Giovhnu melted precious metals and poured them into a mold, then cooled the rings in snow and inscribed them with certain mottos.

It was not Leodogran's part to give his daughter away, for she was hers to give, not his. It was his part, however, and a part in which he rejoiced, to carry the newly-forged rings on a cushion of almond silk to the Lady Nimriel of the Lake, who offered them in turn to bride and groom.

Angavar pushed Ashalind's ring onto her finger while uttering the last words of the vows, then she did likewise. He bent his head and fiercely kissed her mouth. Dizzy with euphoria, she was barely aware of a stupendous roar, as of thousands of birds in unison taking off from some vast stretch of marshland. When the lovers drew apart, Morragan-as-Raven was nowhere to be seen.

And that is how Ashalind married her true love.

Conch shells and golden trumpets and silver bells broadcast exultant fanfares. Rejoicing broke out over the entire Fair Realm, and the revelries began. Subsequently there could only be ecstasy, and surely it must have been endless, for how could the love and the vows of one such as the Faêran King fail to bestow immortality? Happiness so great can scarcely be imagined, let alone described.

It was set down in the annals of Erith that when the Gates of Faêrie were Closed for the second time they were never opened again. Some storytellers, however, added a fanciful twist.

And they were right.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The fairies … all set great store by golden hair in mortals. A golden-haired child was in far more danger of being stolen than a dark one. It was often a golden-haired girl who was allured away to be the fairy bride … sometimes, too, the fairies adopted girls of especial beauty, and above all golden-haired, as their special charges; and when they could not protect them they avenged their wrongs.

A D
ICTIONARY OF
F
AIRIES
,
K
ATHARINE
B
RIGGS

‘Ellum do grieve …'
The chorus of a traditional Somerset folk song collected by Ruth Tongue in
Forgotten Folk Tales of the English Counties,
Routledge & Kegan Paul, London, 1970.

‘I walk with the owl …':
Quoted from ‘The Life of Robin Goodfellow', a seventeenth-century pamphlet republished by J. O. Halliwell-Phillips in
Illustrations of the Fairy Mythology of the Midsummer Night's Dream,
Shakespeare Society, London, 1845.

Finoderee:
‘[I can] clear a daymath in an hour and want nothing better than a crockful of bithag afterwards.'

‘Cap for the head, alas poor head!' etc …

‘… [He whisks] horseloads of stone and wrack about the countryside like a little giant …'

‘… [he folds in] wild goats, purrs and hares along with the sheep.'

The quotations above, and the inspiration for Finodoree's tale, are from Walter Gill's
A Second Manx Scrapbook
Arrowsmith, London, 1932; also from anecdotes told by Train in his Account of Man and quoted by Keightley in
The Fairy Mythology, Illustrative of the Romance and Superstition of Various Countries,
Bohn Library, London, 1850.

The poem ‘The Nimble Mower' is translated from ‘Yn Folder Gastey', a traditional song about Finoderee, or Fenodoree as he is sometimes known. The translation, by Walter Gill, is quoted from
A Second Manx Scrapbook,
Arrowsmith, London, 1932. This poem can be viewed on the Internet at
http://www.dartthornton.com

The Burry Man:
Inspired by an actual ceremony that takes place in South Queensferry, West Lothian in the United Kingdom, every year on the second Friday in August.

Beating the Bounds:
Inspired by an ancient custom once an integral part of daily life in Britain, which still flourishes to this day at occasions such as the Sheriff's Ride at Lichfield, Staffordshire, and at other places, including Berwick-upon-Tweed; Morpeth, Northumberland; Laugharne, Carmarthenshire, and Richmond, North Yorkshire.

The Pumpkin Scrambler:
Also inspired by a colourful British custom that survives from olden times.

‘If Ye Call Me Imp or Elf …':
Adapted from
Popular Rhymes of Scotland
by Robert Chambers, W & R Chambers, Edinburgh, 1870.

The Shock:
‘… a thing with a donkey's head and a smooth velvet hide …'

‘… seized lthe thing], it turned suddenly around, snapped at [his] hand and vanished.'

The quotes are from
County Folk-Lore,
Volume 1, Gloucestershire. E. S. Hartland (ed), 1892, Folklore Society County Publications. The episode of the Shock is inspired by this book.

Gentle Annie:
Inspired by a description in
A Dictionary of Fairies,
Katharine Briggs. Penguin Books, 1976.

It:
Inspired by
Shetland Traditional Lore,
Jessie Saxby, Norwood Editions, 1974.

Bawming the Thorn:
No resemblance to the actual ritual as performed every year in the English village of Appleton Thorn is intended, other than the adorning of the tree.

Burning the Boatman:
Inspired by ‘Burning Bartle' (not intended to portray the custom as performed annually in West Witton, North Yorkshire, England). The chant, as given here, is derived from the ancient version, still sung during the performance of this living tradition:

‘At Penhill crags he tore his rags,

At Hunter's Thorn he blew his horn,

At Capplebank Stee he had the misfortune to brak' his knee,

At Grassgill Beck he brak' his neck,

At Wadham's End he couldn't fend,

At Grassgill End we'll make his end,

Shout, boys, shout!'

The Hooden Horse:
Inspired by the many hobby horse ceremonies and customs still practised in the United Kingdom.

The Bullbeggar:
Inspired by
County Folk Lore,
Vol VIII, collected and published by Ruth Tongue.

The place names in Chapter 3:
Drawn from the English countryside; for example, ‘By Kingsdale Beck we go,' said Arrowsmith, ‘and past Churnmilk Hole. By Frostrow and Shaking Moss, and Hollybush Spout.'

The Wood-Goblins:
Inspired by Christina Rosetti's magnificent poem ‘The Goblin Market', 1862.

The Coillduine:
Inspired by the imagery of early twentieth-century clairvoyant Geoffrey Hodson, in
Fairies at Work and Play,
The Theosophical Publishing House, Wheaton, Ill., USA.