White Lady, Red Heart

The ancient ones had a name for it. They called it the Dark Country, that hinterland of dream, the shadowed place between life and death, where few may walk and ever return. Yet some do, rejected by the Halls of Death, for some cursed reasons of their own, they slip back into the living lands; where confused and tormented by the alienation of their dead souls they burrow silently into muddy refuges, ever shunning the blessed daylight, to emerge viciously into the evening air, hungry to torment those whose hearts yet beat.

But they are not the only ones to come back. Some precious few, by means of sacred meditations and fierce pieties make a warrior’s pilgrimage to that place. And in the wordless dread space between living and dying they conquer their terrors and desires. Thus purged of earthly greeds and horrors they make their way home reborn and remade, hallowed heroes to defy the lost ones, and defend the living.

And this is a tale of one such hero, a sword against the vile pallid legions of night. A righteous fury of a man, handsome, taller than most, with flaming red hair to match his disposition. For yet he had forsworn personal gain, he had not abandoned his character, so stubborn and tenacious he remained, his energies committed to one goal: the destruction of the undead.

It was a strange but simple life. Carrying only the bare necessities, his sword, a mighty axe and his leather cloak, he would wander from place to place, seeking out those in need of his assistance. He had a little companion, a young lad, cruelly orphaned by an undead attack. Left with no family to nurture him, the only practical course had seemed to take the child with him on his travels. There was a fey look about his dark eyes, that had seen too much for one so young. Aleister suspected the child might well be chosen by the path he himself walked.

One summer’s eve, their journey found them approaching a small village settled upon fertile lands, with a sturdy river to support it. The cattle in the meadows grazed fat and contented. It should have been a happy place to dwell but it was not. The protection signs painted upon the doorways plainly indicated the threat of an old familiar horror, and showed this place held no sanctuary for the living. They took themselves to the green which lay at the heart of the place, where soon some shy faced maiden came blushing to offer them bread and beer in the fading dusk, and they waited as was their want for the local news. It was bad news; they were used to hearing it.

And so they were told of the troubles. A whole pack of the undead were tormenting the village of an evening. The people hid indoors each night, building the fires high, for the undead fear both the fierce blaze and its bright flames. Long had they prayed to the gods for one to come who would free them from this affliction, to banish the lost and bring back peace. Word travels faster than the raven amongst such rustic folk, and soon the village green was filled with voices as each sought to tell his or her own story of loss and sore distress.

Soon he had learned all he needed to know. All the talk wearied him for he was a man of action not speeches, and thus he bade then all good evening, having taken their blessings graciously for luck in the task ahead. Luck was never unappreciated with such an endeavour as this at hand. His sword was as sharp edged as his wits but he was not as young as he once had been, and sleeping in the damp grasses made his bones ache these days, so luck was a kindness he would take with gratitude.

At his request the villagers had before retiring built a large pile of kindling ready for the torch when he wished it. As night truly fell he nodded to the boy, who used to his ways duly lit and pushed it quickly to a burning pyre. Then they waited the child with torch in hand, Aleister toying with his axe. He preferred the sword but when faced with a number of adversaries he acknowledged the axe held some bloody advantage.

He had no need to seek out his enemy – they would soon come calling, for the heat in his veins and the scent of the boy’s youthfulness would drive the undead wild. They could not refrain from attacking. Wit was something lacking in the undead he had observed, and once a man had put aside his instinctive dread of their unnaturalness they seemed little more than clumsy marionettes, morbid puppets of some cruel incomprehensible fate. It was a kindness to lay them down to rest for their own sake as well as the living.

The night dwellers came stumbling into view, arms outstretched, nails grown into evil jagged talons, mouths opening and closing silently in a horrid parody of speech for the undead were ever deprived of words, their nature denied them that privilege. Aleister hoisted up his axe and stepped forward, he was not afraid, impatient to be done with it, but no fear ran in his veins. He was certain of his path in life, confident from his own mystical journeying that such a fate did not await his own flesh. For when his time came his soul would fly straight to the Halls of the Dead, the way had been shown to him, such was his glory and the light that glowed in his eyes in battle.

So gladly he went to his duty, to harry the small crowd before him. Once they had been mothers or fathers, fond lovers, good neighbours; now in their mud bespattered mildewed clothes they returned to wreak bitter havoc and misery amongst their own kindred. But he would not permit it, he danced amongst them with murderous zeal, and chopped and hatcheted, slashed and dismembered his way about them till certain none would rise up again. Several still crawled or waved their arms crazily, for beheading was the one true way to end their restless existence. He dealt with that task and then began to drag the corpses to the waiting pyre, the boy helping as much he could, considering his lesser stature.

When all the bodies were finally aflame, he and the boy sat down, dirty and sweating, to grin at one another. It was good to take ones rest with victory to warm the heart. As dawn rose villagers began creeping cautiously from their homes, timidly at first until the sight which greeted them brought forth a hail of glad cries, causing those who were yet hiding indoors to fling open their own doors and step out into the light.

The celebration began in earnest then. Great trestle tables were brought out for the coming feast. Music began and maidens with flower bedecked hair danced in circles with their sweethearts, on the very ground he had fought upon. He was invited to dance by giggling girls but was well satisfied to sit down with the village elders, to drink their mead, rest awhile and listen to their reminiscences. They did not expect him to say much which suited him, and he was near dozing off in the mid morning sunshine when an odd strand of conversation caught his attention. Two elderly fellows fairly in their cups were arguing over some matter. One raised his voice in anger and loudly grumbled.

“The man should be told of the White Lady who walks our woods. She is a creature of the darkness. She does not belong here, he must be told.”

The other hushed him saying, “Leave her be, she’s been here since my mother’s mother was a child. She does no harm, why ought we to trouble her peace?”

Aleister was intrigued, he had never heard in all his travels of an undead spirit which did not intend black murder and mischief; thus when the argumentative one left he approached his companion and confessed his interest in the matter. The old man shook his head and sighed, but he told his tale readily enough. The White Lady had walked the woods hereabouts for long years, unchanging, ever beautiful, pale in the moonlight, flowers woven in her long dark hair, patiently waiting.

“My mother was told by her own mother that the White Lady was a suicide, one who drowned on her wedding day when her lover did not come to claim her. Some say he was false, some say he died in battle far away. What is certain is she took her own life, and out of fear her kin took what steps they could to prevent her turning revenant. But when they cut the runes in her coffin to stop her rising, something went amiss. They brought her no peace and from that day she has walked the woods where once she was courted, a sad creature that causes no harm to any. Each spring from pity, the village maidens weave her a new white gown, so that if her lover ever comes to claim her she will be attired as a bride should be.”

Aleister’s curiosity was quite ablaze, he had already intended to rest up here for a few days. He decided to use the opportunity provided to visit the White lady himself and make his own judgement of her. A fair face did not always mean fine intentions and despite the old man’s words he still doubted the safety of leaving such as her at liberty. Having taken directions of where he might seek her, he went off thoughtfully to the bed he had been offered and slept dreamless till evening.

The woods were strange at night, pale white garlic flowers glowed in the moonlight, owls screeched as they made their kill, and branches cast bizarre moving shadows across his path. He was glad he had his sword for such a place almost promised evil, and he expected at any moment some monstrous creature to rise out of the gloom to test his valour.

Consequently he could not fail to be surprised when the White Lady at last made her appearance. She drifted through the trees like a holy dream, no more a threat than a lost child. She was more beautiful than the old man had described, but Aleister noted how her dress hem was edged with mud, how her feet were scarred by brambles. Truly she was no ghost but real as he. He went forward to confront her but was bemused when she passed straight by him without a glance. She sat herself down in a patch of moonlight and silently began weaving an ivy and myrtle garland. When satisfied with her work she cast off her old faded wreath and placed the new one upon her dark hair, rearranging her locks with an all too human gesture. Then up she rose again and would have removed had Aleister not then decided to speak.

“Can you not see me, lady? Will you not give your name?”

She started like a hare at this but did not flee. Instead she walked towards him and earnestly gazed into his eyes as if searching for the solution to some terrible curse. Her sorrow burned him like wildfire, for when she looked at him he felt every snow bound evening, every false spring and summer’s eve, each endless night she had spent frozen to the course of her ancient misery. And still she endured; the strength of her spirit had saved her from the ways of evil but could not deliver her from her bitter loneliness. It was unthinkable that he could not help her; it was unbearable to consider it.

Yet what might he do? His duty in truth was probably to cleave her head from her shoulders that very moment, but every feeling in his soul rebelled at the thought. The Thunder God had chosen him to strike down evil wherever he found it, not butcher helpless betrayed creatures. His reverie was broken when she took his hand in her own cold fingers. He did not comprehend her intent until she spun around and he realised she wanted them to dance together. There was no reason he could think of why he should not, and so clumsily and feeling quite foolish for he was long out of practice they twirled and circled, curtsied and bowed their way through the wood to a music he could not hear.

Her hair trailed across his neck and its scent of violets intoxicated his senses in a way he barely understood, for in choosing the way of the pure warrior he had forsworn such pleasures, at an age scarcely old enough to have been tried by the temptations of the flesh.

As dawn glimmered its promise through the foliage she bid him her silent adieu. Before departing she stroked his face, gentle as a butterfly and he knew in her own unspoken way she was asking him to free her. He watched her silhouette disappearing ghost like into the distance and returned to the village to discover how he might answer her need.

Aleister was as I have stated a man of action not speeches, daring deeds not subtlety. Thus it was, having yet formed no great plan he found himself outside the home of the old man who had first told him the tale of the White Lady, hoping to gain some assistance in his quest.

When he explained his intent, the aged fellow sat for some time and mulled over what he knew, until he offered this suggestion, tentatively, as if afraid Aleister would believe him a dolt for making it.

“It is in my thoughts she has waited all this time to marry her lover. I believe that if a man had the courage to wed her then she might find her peace and rest easy at last. But who would take the undead as a bride? ”

This seemed to Aleister a comment of profound wisdom, and he said as much, adding only this.

“When I took my vows to fight the undead I put aside all earthly attachments. Only by such a path can a man be freed of fear, but she is not a creature of the earth and I would break no oath were I to wed her. If I can bring her to the Rainbow Bridge it could only be an act of righteousness. My heart tells me so”

And so it was that very evening, that Aleister the Red went forth in a fine white shirt, his freshly combed flaming mane bedecked with the green ribbons which told the world a man was off to get him a wife. The old man had given him his own wedding finery, kept out of sentiment for three score years saying,

“These brought my marriage luck; perhaps they will aid you too.”

The dusk was falling as he approached the woods, and he felt a nervousness he had not felt since a youngster first learning his sword skills. This was an occasion he had never thought possible, and the circumstances of it were passing strange. He hardly knew what to think. Nevertheless as he walked through the fading light he recognised within himself a wild joy, a promise which flowered nameless until he chose to name it. He loved her, dead or living, living or dead: no matter why or how, he knew with complete utter clarity that his heart was hers and always would be.

And with that bright sure certainty he entered into the woods as a bridegroom in search of a bride. Waiting as she had waited, with hope in his heart but nervous as a cat, not knowing what answer might come. Night finally fell, and a wild thrush sang out its sweet blissful song, echoing the poetry of his soul.

It was a custom of his people that they compose their own wedding vows, a task he had never expected to be demanded of him. And yet here he was bathed in moonlight praying the fair goddess of love might give him inspiration in that very matter. For how might a man of the sword tell of his devotion without seeming an awkward fool?

It was only when the White Lady herself made her appearance that he realised he need only speak the truth, for what better weapon might a man have in a duel between Love and Undeath. And so his heart spoke these words to her, as it ever will

When the stars take flight

When the great wolf cries

When the One tree sickens

I deny that ought could

Shake my love for thee.

My heart is yours for all eternity.

It was the bravest risk he had ever taken. The silent moment thereafter seemed rather like days, as he waited for her response. And then she came to his side, and words became obsolete. They kissed and the breath left his body as one fallen in battle, but his stout heart feared not. He knew she would not harm him. When finally they broke apart he gasping drew the welcome air back into his lungs, and so did not immediately perceive the transformation which had occurred. Their kiss had imbued her with the essence of life and he looked on her in wonder, as she blushed like a mortal maid. And he saw in her then all that she might have been, all that she might have done, a woman who could have been a queen, who could have loved a man enough to raise children and grow grey for him, all these things he saw, these things that would never be.

She knew his mind, how could she not for they shared the same breath, and shook her head at his musings,

“The past is another country”, she chided; “and ‘tis but folly to regret one’s deeds.

I have been a long while waiting for this wedding, but you have come to me my dear one, and the wait is over. Surely the end of a tale has most consequence, the rest is only it’s unfolding. I have found the love I longed for at last, and my journey is almost at an end.”

It was his turn then to lose the gift of words, for passion choked his tongue. His vision blurred and he could not speak, only embrace her for the final time. There are those who claim a warrior would never weep, but they are fools or liars, for how could a man not shed salt tears to find and part with his beloved, all in the same soft summer’s eve. Yet it is in the manner that we face our most desperate griefs that a hero shows his true courage, in the valour of his soul and the honour of his heart.

Thus Aleister did not falter at this leave taking, rather he took the faith which sang in his veins, and with all the power he possessed he called out the Dark Country from where it dwelt in the shadows, brought it forth into the very place where they stood with hands entwined.

But there came a great light to pierce its darkness, a vast multi hued arc of iridescent colour that was the Rainbow Bridge, the path to journeys end. Its beauty shone out as a promise of welcome, an invitation that might not be denied. Aleister let go her hands and they gazed into each other’s eyes, at the very edge of farewell. She touched his hair as she turned away from him towards the light. Two steps she took on her pale little feet, and then he saw a white bird fly from her, her soul casting off its fetters. The dove winged its way homewards and he saw her body crumple like a flower, green ribbon still wrapped in her fingers.

He buried her in the woods she had tarried within for so many countless seasons and raised a stone cairn upon the mound, that no creature might disturb her rest. The tale soon spread about, as tales must, and the village maidens wept at the beauty of it, that the White Lady had finally met her match.

Aleister himself said little, and shed no further tears. In a scant few days he and the boy left the village behind them, for his duty bade him travel ever onwards in search of those had need of his skills. And so patiently he followed his path, doing what he must, knowing that when his time came and the fighting was done, he would find his love again, waiting in the Halls of the Dead and henceforth there would be no more partings forever.

LB

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