Where the Path Leads – Chapter 26

The Gigelorum

When Arthur finished his story, Emily didn’t know what to say. Even in the shadowy firelight he looked downcast, his head bowed, shoulders slumped.

          Her parents’ plans to separate had shaken her badly, but at least there wasn’t a third person involved, especially someone as awful as the Seneschal. Her face grew warm just from the memory of how he had struck her. For a while they sat without talking, each lost in thought. Finally he seemed to remember she was there.

         “Is it true, Emilia, what I heard about you stirring the laborers to revolt?”

         “No,” she said, horrified.

         “Did you tell Isaac and Cyril they owned their land and needn’t be subject to my father?”

         “Well . . . I may have said something like that,” she stammered, “but Arthur, you must admit, the laborers are treated terribly. They’re forced to work all their lives, yet have so little to show for it, while others have far too much.”  She didn’t mention names.

         He said he had often considered how unfair life seemed and could only understand his own good fortune as an accident of fate, the way one person was born handsome and another, ugly. It had been ordained so. To suggest that things could be any other way was, well, revolutionary. “So, you’ve come here to the forest to hide?”

         “No,” she said, offended this time by the implication that she was a criminal.

         “She may be doing many things here in Blackwood forest, but hiding is definitely not one of them,” came a soft, clear voice beside them in the dark, making them both jump to their feet. 

         Neither had heard Annamund approach. How did she manage to move so silently in the forest with all the dried leaves on the ground? Didn’t she realize it was rude to sneak up on people?

         “I see you’ve found company, Emilia, and gotten the fire you wished for,” Annamund said.

         Arthur swept off his hat, bowing in her direction.  “At your service, Madam.  I am . . . .”

         “Arthur, second son of Baron Longsword, brother of Edmund, the unfortunate,” she said

         Emily thought it was tactless to mention Edmund like that.

         “Do you . . . know me, and my brother?” he asked, confused.

         “Not directly,” she said, slipping down onto the ground beside the fire as gracefully as one might slide into an easy chair. “My name is Annamund, and I tried to warn you the day of the hunt.”

           Emily resented her intruding on their conversation, but when Annamund handed her some apples, she started eating. The first crunch was sweet, and the juice dribbled down her chin. Somehow, she was comforted.

         Annamund handed one to Arthur as well. 

         He was recalling the day of the hunt, when he and the forester had been trying to find where the deer was bedded down in order to “unharbor” it, or make it leave its hiding place and start running. They had passed an old hollow tree, and out of the corner of his eye Arthur had seen someone sheltered inside it. A woman. And near the same tree, a black dog. The forester had said the dog was an omen of death, but he had dismissed it as a superstition. For some reason, he had thought the woman might be. . . Emilia.

         “You thought I was her?” said Annamund, amused, as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. “Truly, we’re nothing alike.”

         He looked curiously at this woman who seemed to intuit his thoughts.

          Emily paused mid-bite. She knew when she had been insulted. Just for that, she wouldn’t mention Arthur’s stores of food to the Mistress of the Creatures. Let her go without a little longer, but her ear began bothering her so much that she gave the rest of the apple to Big Ben and rubbed it furiously.

         “Emilia, tell Arthur why you’re here, so he doesn’t think you’re running away.”

         She hated mentioning the Seneschal, especially after what Arthur had told her, but eventually the story must come out. So she told him that Brutus had threatened her life and Sophia’s. Her only chance to undo the trouble she’d caused was to bring back to the Seneschal a branch of the cypress tree that grew near the abyss.  She shook her head, wiping apple juice from her face with the back of her sleeve. “It seems a strange thing to want, but there it is.”

         They were quiet for a while, the fire crackling, an owl hooting softly nearby. Emily wondered if it was Athena.

         “First, the stone, now the cypress branch. What is Brutus up to? Besides ruining my family,” he puzzled.

         “I will tell you this, Arthur Longsword,” she said, and when she used his name it sounded like a caress. “He’s a man with dark intentions who brooks no restraint. He is not above using black magic to achieve his goals.” The firelight reflected in her gentle brown eyes.

         Emily recalled Thea saying the same thing about the Seneschal. Was it common knowledge?

         The company was silent for a while, then Arthur unexpectedly declared he would accompany them to the abyss. “It’s a dangerous place,” he said gravely, “where two women should not go alone.”

         As they prepared to sleep, Emily was secretly thrilled to have Arthur with them on this dangerous foray. But that knowledge didn’t prevent her from having more bad dreams that night. She was falling. Nearby, someone was offering her help, holding out a hand, but just as she reached to take it, the hand would disappear and she had that awful feeling of being surrounded by empty air with nothing to grab hold of. She must have cried out because she awoke to Annamund and Arthur both leaning over her.

         “Hush.  Hush,” Annamund commanded. 

         “Are you unwell?” Arthur asked with concern.

         “Uh . . . just . . . dreaming.”

         “Well, keep your dreams quiet, or your noise will draw unwelcome visitors,” Annamund said. “Then you’ll have reason to be afraid.”

         Annamund sounded curt, but not angry. However, even in the grayness of dawn Emily could see her rubbing her ear. What did it mean? And why were they so snappish towards each other?

         As the trip began in earnest, Arthur would often be puzzled by the two women, finding them united in their goal of getting to the abyss, but disagreeing on just about everything else. To Annamund, Emily was ignorant of the forest and how best to get along there. To Emily, Annamund was demanding, and inconsiderate of her sprained ankle. There was no denying Annamund’s knowledge of the forest: her sense of direction, her ability to discern the time, to find water, her intuition about where there might be mushrooms growing—near a stream bank. One day she led them to an apple tree by simply following a deer trail. 

         What Emily found most galling, though, was the other’s natural beauty, the way her long, dark hair ruffled in the breeze, only to fall effortlessly back into waves around her shoulders, framing her face; the color in her cheeks brought out by walking in the cold. Yet she never appeared to feel the exertion, never broke a sweat. While having Arthur with them meant they no longer had to worry as much about finding food, just his presence seemed to exacerbate their friction, each vying for his attention.  He was referee, judge, and prize all in one.

         As they made their way farther north, the trees grew bare, the last few leaves fluttering down in the weak autumn light. Arthur led Albion while Emily rode, resting her still-swollen ankle. However, that allowed Annamund and him to walk on the ground, slightly ahead, and they spoke to each other in soft tones. She could never quite hear all of what they were saying and was deeply suspicious that they were talking about her.                    

         Occasionally, Annamund would turn her expressive brown eyes and rosy cheeks towards him, favoring him with a beguiling smile. When he offered Annamund a turn to ride, she shook her head and stroked the big grey’s neck.

         “I can’t in good conscience add to the poor creature’s load.”

         Arthur demurred, saying horses were made to be ridden.

         Emily protested that she was not burdening Albion.

         “The first horses were wild and unencumbered,” Annamund replied. “Mortals have decided what their purpose is, as with most animals, and it serves their convenience.”  When Arthur persisted saying she must be weary, she merely shook her dark waves of hair, insisting she wasn’t tired and that while Albion might carry the infirm, she was whole and in no need of assistance.

         Emily didn’t say anything but fumed for the rest of the afternoon over being called “infirm” and considered a burden. 

         Later, when she was on foot, walking ahead of Annamund, she conveniently forgot to hold a thorny branch out of the way, letting it spring back to strike Annamund across the face, leaving a raw, angry scratch on her smooth cheek.

         Their journey toward the abyss kept them climbing, and any sign of a visible path disappeared. Only Annamund seemed to know where she was going. They began to encounter more blow downs—corpses of massive, fallen trees. Traveling became slower; they had to pick their way. Athough Big Ben nosed under branches and around tree trunks, Albion had the most difficulty. Finally, Arthur decided to let the horse go. He shouldered the saddle bags and pointed the animal towards home. After slapping him on the rump, Arthur watched for a long time as Albion disappeared, then he with his head bowed and his shoulders sagging. Now, no one had any rest from walking.

          Emily looked forward to the warmth of the small fire they had each night. One evening at the gloaming, while Arthur dug a fire pit in the frost-hardened ground, Annamund announced they needed water and handed Emily the water skin.

         “I’m getting firewood,” Emily said.

         “I’ll get that. You get water.”

         She wondered why Annamund thought she was in charge and looked to Arthur to arbitrate, but he carefully avoided looking at either of them, choosing instead to concentrate on banking the edges of the fire pit with rocks. Her ankle throbbed mercilessly.

         “I don’t know where to get any water,” she shot back. “Besides, I’m tired.”

         “Fine. You get firewood and I’ll find water,” Annamund said, striding to where the pack lay and snatching up the empty water skin.

         She hated Annamund’s matter-of-fact attitude. On second thought, collecting firewood scratched up her arms and they were already crosshatched from the brush, so she in turn snatched the water skin from Annamund.

         “No. I’ll get it.” She would prove something to this other woman, she thought, limping away.

         “Do you want me to suggest where to look?”

         She didn’t want that know-it-all even to talk to her.

         “I might have some idea,” Annamund said.  “After all, I’ve only lived here in Blackwood forest for . . . .”  Annamund broke off mid sentence.   

         Emily had stopped to look at her as did Arthur who now asked with studied nonchalance, “How long have you lived here, Lady?” When she hesitated before answering, he turned to continue scraping dirt from the fire pit, but he was most certainly listening for her answer.

         “Long enough,” she answered tersely.

         He stood from his digging and rubbed his hands together to get off the dirt. “I sense you don’t measure time as we do.”

         Annamund was faerie folk. They had both guessed that, which is why she never grew tired or hungry or cold. It was so unfair.

         “That’s true,” Annamund conceded softly.

         “Perhaps that’s why you seem wise beyond your years, especially for one so fair.”

         When he said that, jealousy stabbed Emily. She should have known he was attracted to Annamund. Without speaking, she turned and ran down the hill they had just climbed, tears blurring her vision. She ignored someone calling her name and, after a few moments, couldn’t hear it anyway, so loud was the buzzing in her ear.

         Halfway down the hill she tripped on a rock hidden by the dead leaves and rolled the rest of the way down, through briars and over rocks before ending up at the bottom, bruised in body and spirit. As she lay there miserably, contemplating trudging back up, a movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. Wearily, she sat up and waited. Starting to get up, she sensed it again and turned quickly to see something gliding through the treetops. Anxiety squeezed her heart; still, peering into the darkening branches, she hobbled towards where she’d seen it.

         Far above her was the glimmering white breast of the great horned owl Athena, Annamund’s friend. Thrilled, she thought how impressed her companions would be that the owl had returned to her, but even as she thought it, Athena flew farther away in the fading light.

         “No!” she called.  “Come back.” 

         Following the bird, limping after it as fast as her ankle would permit, she went farther down onto a sort of bench in the hillside and found a small pool glinting in the last rays of the sun. Elated at finding water, she knelt beside it, watching dark ripples as she filled the water skin, then the surface returning to smooth reflectiveness, like a window onto the night. Briefly, Athena’s reflection appeared in the water as she glided overhead. Emily saw her own reflection in the pool, then she yelped with amazement. Instead of herself, someone else’s image appeared, someone gaunt, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Gasping, she realized it was Sophia.

         Then the image in the dark glassy pool spoke.

         Emilia, I’ve been so concerned for you. I asked Annamund to help you, but instead you two engage in petty rivalries.

         Emily hung her head. “I . . . can’t seem to help it.”

         Indeed, you can’t. You’re not spiteful and jealous by nature. It’s the mischief of the pixies.

         “What have they got to do with it?”  She thought she had left them well behind.

         Do you recall sleeping poorly several nights back, after Annamund rescued you from the pit? Having strange dreams? Thinking you heard someone when the leaves rustled?

         She nodded.

         Well, you did hear someone. You were not yet out of the center of the forest, the area claimed by the pixies, and Oberon was angry at your escape, bent on revenging himself. While you were asleep, his pixies placed gigelorum in your ear, and Annamund’s too.

         She was horrified, and her ear began to tingle and itch as Sophia spoke. “What is it?” she cried.

         They are tiny creatures so small no eye can see them. Gigelorum nest in your ear and drive you to worse and worse misdeeds, until those afflicted have been known to commit heinous crimes.

         She groaned, clutching the affected ear and feeling sick.

         Be brave, Emilia. You and Annamund haven’t been affected long, but already you’re driven to ever-increasing anger, jealousy, and strife. Oberon was hoping to sabotage your journey this way.

         As she listened, her ear began to itch worse than ever and she rubbed it violently. “Sophia, help me! I can’t bear it!”

         As if mirroring the tumult within her, the pool’s glass-like surface began to churn and froth in a startling display of turbulence until, from its center, a great gush of water suddenly shot up into the air like a geyser, bathing her face in mist. To her amazement, a watery, transparent likeness of Sophia stood before her.

         Peace, child.  Sophia’s image, voice, and presence were stronger now, and this had the effect of a cool hand laid tenderly across the cheek of a fevered child. 

         “How do I get rid of it?” she begged, holding a hand over her tormented ear, the knowledge of a physical cause making it seem even worse.

         Again Sophia’s voice slid soothingly into her consciousness, like the weft thread slipped into the warp, meshing the fabric of advice. 

         The speed of the cure depends on you, Emilia. Because the work of the gigelorum is to create discord and ill will, they are destroyed, in both of you, by an act of pure love.

         For a moment, it was enough just to hear Sophia’s voice and words, but as their meaning became clear, Emily drew back. 

         “Who am I supposed to love?” Surely she didn’t mean that arrogant, know-it-all faerie.

         Yes, Emilia. Her. Sophia answered her thoughts.

         “No, I can’t, Sophia. Anyone but her,” she wailed. “Surely I could do an act of love for someone else. It doesn’t have to be her, does it?” Then, without waiting for an answer, “You don’t know how she’s been to me, calling me a complainer, telling me I don’t know how to get along in the forest. She can’t stand me because I know how to read and . . . ,” she wouldn’t even go into the whole thing about Arthur, how she liked him first but Annamund had set out to take him for herself. 

         Suddenly she could hear how her whole tirade sounded, trite and self-centered, all self justifying. Her anger and resentment deflated and she looked down, shamefaced.

         The crystalline image of Sophia had receded back into the pool which, however, still bubbled and frothed.  A voice–was it Sophia’s?–now inside her head told her that an act of pure love wasn’t outrageous. Rather, it was healing, like these waters.

         This is the pool of potentiality, Emilia. Anything can happen through love. Put your injured ankle into the water.

         The evening had grown cold and it was completely dark now, but she sat down again beside the pool, peeling off her stockings. Gingerly, she dipped her big toe into the water and gasped with surprise and pleasure. It was warm. Putting both legs in up to the knee, the warm water bubbled around her skin and she tried to relax into the idea that she must love someone she couldn’t stand.