The voices are calling us, Me and you, Telling us not to break the connection, To follow the stars In their endless search Of the moon, cold and distant, And yet beautiful, To see the truth That lies hidden deep within, To hold on, and never change the route, Like we once did. Like Ophelia, in a dress all wet, And flowers in my hair, I reach out for your hand, And you, You reach out for mine, Still afraid and not believing, The rain dripping from your hair, And your skin smells Of autumn, pain and myrrh, You walk through the mist, Cutting the shade Like a knife cuts the air, The rain washes your face, And it seems you are crying…
Where are those who swore they loved me, When the storm gathers its clouds and the lightning comes to pierce the past? Where are those who swore their loyalty for hundreds of times, When the world leaves me by night, becoming one dark shadow on the wall? Where are those whom I loved too much to bear? Where are they, all of them, those gallant knights, those truthful companions? Gone, long gone, and never coming back, Gone, long gone, buried in the ashed snow of memories, Long gone…and never remembering their vows. And where am I, the one who was loved so much, Where am I, who loved too much? Here, still here, lying in the cold grave Of pain, misery and rejection, Lost love and disdain, pity and scorn… Where am I, who was happy once, Believing the lies?… Here, still here, haunting the others To avenge my broken heart. A corpse bride. Never too much alive, But ever distant, Knowing too much not to care, Seeing too much not to notice, Hearing to much not to be heard, Feeling…nothing, inspiring it in the others.
The room is dimly lit and smells of spruces, spices and ancient books. In the flickering candlelight, tall bookshelves seem more distant than they perhaps are, and a dark wooden table is before me. A tall, hooded figure stands there, beckoning me.
‘Come closer. I have been expecting you ‘
The voice is soft, quiet and somber. It reminds me of the oak groves, tall blades of grass, wind on sea and crackling of wood in the fireplace. It is melodious, this voice, and it has both honey and blackthorn in it, and some strange power, too. You wouldn’t be able to defy it, or refuse its owner. This voice could break you in one minute and revive you the next. Such voices are not made to be forgotten, misheard, unobeyed. Such voices are not made on earth, they come from a different world. These are the voices of kings, rulers and magicians, shapeshifters maybe – and definitely warriors. Poets, prophets, no less.
I have heard many a voice before, but none could rival the voice I hear now. The figure comes forth, and in the golden candlelight its face seems to shimmer, when the hood is drawn back. This face is sharply shaped, clean shaven, its features clear and otherworldly. The eyes – hooded, shadowed, greenish-gray, of that particular kind of multicoloredness in them – they seem violet, blue, green, black, golden – all at once, and oh, they do see through me.
‘My lord’ I mutter, freezing in front of him, for it is indeed Gwyn ap Nudd, the mighty prince of the Underworld, the leader of the Wild hunt, the king of Plant Annwfn, or the Fairy folk. And, as far as i am concerned, he doesn’t come for talks. He comes for teaching, and his lessons are not for the fainthearted, cowardly or doubtful. His lessons are those of magic, wisdom and truth, however uncomfortable or tough it might be. His lessons are harsh, his lessons are at best…serious, if not severe. And that is the teacher who chose me – and no complaints on that, to be sure.
‘Look here’ he says, pointing at the table.’What do you see?’
A wooden tray full of ripe ruby red apples, and delicious grapes, full of juice, and so fragrant that my head spins. In this darkened room this tray glows with life, light and sensuality, if this definition can even be put to use here. Gwyn knows this, and his lips curl into an understanding smile.
‘You like it, don’t you? Make your choice then, pick a fruit and enjoy yourself. It won’t harm you ‘.
Hesitantly, my fingers reach for the apple, and Gwyn’s welcoming smile disappears, his glance hardens. It is not menacing in any way, but foreboding. Does that mean I am wrong? Perhaps I should have opted for grapes, instead? Trembling, I touch the grapes – silky,smooth, so alluring – and somehow… too perfect. Gwyn’s face is unreadable, like a statue’s, his eyes cold. What is wrong with all that, after all?
‘Have you chosen anything yet?’ Gwyn demands, ‘Or is anything wrong,my lady?’
He has never called me that before, so the words sound scornful, sarcastic even. Judging by his face, it was meant as a snub, not chivalry.
‘Show me’ I say, judging this to be the best thing to do. Gwyn smiles.
‘Finally’
His hand passes over the fruit and I gasp – the apples are all rotten, worms crawling from the inside, the odor is revolting. The grapes lose their luxurious silkiness and turn to glass, just to become mere mudballs.
‘Everything the human mind sees, is but an illusion. That is the curse of the mortals, not the riches or pride. Illusion rules your world, illusion keeps you yearning for more. Illusion is everything the mortal world possesses, and it will never diminish, for you all crave for beauty where there can be none, and you look for it where the truth is unbearable. You create an illusion of life to convince yourselves in your own worth, and when it crumbles, you mourn it with passion that surpasses the passion for living itself. Tell me, my lady, when did the humanity change the reason for folly?’
I have no answer. He is right, and he knows it.
‘Where the blind rules the chariot, the chariot falls apart. Where the pretty things are more of value than the truth, however ghastly it may be, the world condemns itself. Listen to me, for I will not repeat it again. Look through the veils of illusion, strive to distinguish the truth no matter what. The mortal sight is weak, it is easily fooled by each and every traveling illusionist, each baffoon its value, and each one is always willing to use it for his own good, his own profit. Do not trust your eyes lightly, trust your heart. The heart is blind to the mortal glitter, the heart knows not how to lie. The eyes will betray you, but the heart will never let you down, as long as you trust it. Take the gift of the apples and grapes, and use it well. Taste what is too alluring to be true, and feel the difference between the real thing and what is posing for reality. Never forget the lesson of apples and grapes, for it will serve you at all times’.
The room darkens and is relit again, and the fruits are perfect – just like before. But I dare not touch them, for the lesson of Gwyn ap Nudd is within me. The very first lesson of many, and the most revealing one.
Funny enough this year’s Christmas eve is the first one without any rush to it. All the times before were hectic, lonely or too painful, chaotic or lacking in magic – and this one is much calmer. Perhaps, it is due to my second pregnancy or just the general slowing down, but somehow the magic is palpable, audible, – as it was somewhere in my childhood.
And suddenly I get a little tingling thought that Christmas is not at the least about decorating or even presents, or preparing the dinner, house or kids for the celebrations. Suddenly it’s all about dreams, hopes and all the stuff you can call non-magical, mundane even. But this non-magical stuff is what makes the days before Christmas and those that are to come, more wondrous than all the decorating, all the outer things, that make up the big picture.
And that’s what bring good old Dickens to mind, and you realize that the old chap was right after all – Christmas is a humble, yet glorious time- and it’s all about feeling hopeful, refreshed and full of hidden dreams. Christmas is much more than a date with Santa- or even a big rendezvous with Jesus – it is a moment when we meet ourselves, face to face, masks off, ambitions aside, and are free to explore the world we create – albeit for a fortnight, and it’s up to us what’s it gonna be.
The lesson of Christmas, as I see it, is in creating something new. From scratch. From a blueprint or a quick sketch, with words or deeds, or both – the medium doesn’t matter. What matters is the result. And the result will be magical- for it is the gift we all get – a gift that stays forever – if we’re wise enough to appreciate it and put it to use.
I am blinded with tears while writing this, and God knows whether I am in a right state to get to the end of the line. The good doctor has just been in, and left a broken man, for the worst fears of ours are now a reality. No hope, as the old man attested, exists for my poor suffering wife to get any better. Oh I wish I could be in her place, I wish I could have done anything to ease this martydom she has been enduring for years – but I have no power over the matter, and if she dies – and this she will, as the doctor said most confidently – I shall be a mere corpse of a man, for life is nothing without her.
Side by side, together we grew – and I never saw a child as lively, as bright and as charming as her – and everyone was certain to fall in love with that angel, with her sparkling violet eyes, and her raven curls. So much like me, when I was a child, Muddy keeps telling me. So much like dear Eddy – but dear Eddy could not compare in all his gloom and melancholy, to this fae child, so full of life. God, she was life itself, where I could only pass for the pale copy of death. To me, she was everything, for in her I had every single blaze of light, every single spark of life, in all its vibrant colors, that I lacked in myself.
‘Several months’, he said, ‘several months – and not a day more, not a second more. Two or three, perhaps, he told me, struggling not to look at me, a wreck of a human being. I would not dare give her more, Eddy. She is young, but the illness has taken the best of her. She battled it for years, but even the youngest and the strongest succumb to the inevitability of death. You of all people should know that, having written all those stories. Your wife is two steps away from death, and it is you who keeps her on the threshold.’
‘Would you rather I let go?’ I asked him, and he backed away, shocked by my hoarse voice. ‘ Would you rather have me…what would you have me do?’
The room was spinning before me, blinding me – and I collapsed on the floor. Five nights without sleep proved to be my undoing, for I have watched over my darling angel restlessly, trying to comfort her with all the meager means I had. And now he tells me there is no hope?..
‘ Eddy, you need rest’ he told me, feeling my pulse ‘ This isn’t healthy, my boy. And I most certainly do not like your breathing. Here, drink this – a cough mixture, ma’m ‘ he added quickly, seeing my aunt’s worried expression. ‘ Just herbs, don’t you worry. But it’s so cold upstairs, and I am afraid your son in law has caught a slight chill’.
Reassured, my aunt left the room to care about Virginia upstairs, and when the door closed behind her, the doctor turned to me, his face stern and concerned.
‘Is this your way of caring for yourself, young man?’ he asked’ Or have you decided to follow your own stories and die prematurely? Oh Eddy, I have expected a greater deal of conscience and wisdom from you. How many nights have you passed with her?’
‘ Last five I do recall, ‘ I answered, ‘ Yet my aunt thinks otherwise. But doctor, how can I stay behind? She is all I have”
‘Let me put it like this. Plainly, so you will understand. Her condition is critical. I would be surprised if she lived longer than two months. The damage is irreparable, and it is done. Whereas you… I believe you have excacerbated your condition deliberately. I have seen wine bottles upstairs, and there are too many even for an invalid, who is perpetually cold and needs something to get some sleep. But, Eddy, laudanum, wine and spending the nights in such close proximity to a consumptive person…are you doing this on purpose?’
‘I doubt that. But I have to strength and will to live. None, believe me, And when she is gone…it will be too much to bear’.
‘Hear me now. If you carry on like this, you will follow her in a year. Maybe two, if you cut the wine short, and find solace in something else. But your breathing, and your overall state is the state of extreme exhaustion. And i have no restorative to prescribe. You are killing yourself, Mr. Poe, and may God help you if that is your choice’.
With these words he left, leaving me speechless and frozen in a sudden insight I was not prepared to face. He was right, and I had no objections. I was ready to follow her. ‘
The transformation was painful, yet that word alone does not describe the terrible stages I went through, neither can it paint the picture of those abominable hours and minutes of pain, excruciating my whole being, echoing in each and every corner of my skin; and even the marrow in my very bones cried out in anguish, torment and absolute inhumanity of the condition I was in. How it all began, I now remember not, yet in my soul there is a deep void filled with shards and rags of former memories of mine, most of which I cannot even trace to their original source. Is it the illness, its aftermath, or the side effect of the medications I’ve been prescribed, or is it a game played inquisitively by my mind, played with such cunning grace and deceitfulness, that no human being professing itself a doctor, will ever be able to discern it from the actual symptom of an unknown yet dreaded ailment?.. Get thee gone, memory, flow in another direction and let me abide by my own laws, my own ideas. Get thee gone; get back into the recess, from whence you came to haunt me. Torment me no longer and leave my universe which is already broken and is crumbling into pieces before my very eyes this instant as I am writing these words. Who would have thought – would my exquisite mother, a woman of rarest beauty and wit, or my father- a distinguished scholar and artist, a man of great mind and spirit- have thought that their only son would ever fall in his own eyes, sink so low? Would they marvel at this epic damnation, or would they curse their prodigal son who had attempted to break through the transparent walls of bookish knowledge? Would any of them come to my aid now, when I no longer bear any resemblance to the boy they’ve raised to be a musical, philosophical and artistic genius, the golden boy of their midday slumber, the child of beauty itself, the child of late summer winds and swiftly falling rains? Would the images of old come to their minds to torture them? That I do not know; they are both long dead. It has been twenty years since they abandoned me, and fifteen since the day I first traversed to the other, darker side of existence. No doubt you have heard many a tale similar to mine, yet I cannot grant that. Surely, you will find some familiar parallels here, to the things you’ve read or heard, or seen before, but that is the way of the world, one of its multiform, subtle ways which are unknown to human race. My story is that of a person who…but let me share it first, so you can easily deduce my personal history yourself. Pity me not in the end, as I knew long before I had plunged into that abyss, that I would perish and be gone, and there is no regret in my soul, but only a softly stinging bitterness and shame that is no louder or bolder than a whisper amidst the nightfall. The reasons I will not mention here, but in due time you will see them, all revealed and opened before your eyes, as I see them now. Let me not tarry no longer; it is time to begin what I have been longing to tell for years. For ages. Let me not keep you, for in my agitation I keep no track of time, and it can finish me off when it pleases with no warning or sign. Let me not keep you therein; the door into my madness is thrust open, as is the gate of my life – blessed be he who dares enter, for Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.
Let me sleep beside you and break the hearts of those who once crushed mine. In the heat of the morning, under your wing- Be merciful, be kind, sweet death – precious life is not precious anymore. Let me sleep beside you, give me that last minute, give me just a moment So I could finally open up and tell you To what unbearable tortures and pains You have subjected me in leaving. Excruciating, pointless and poignant Are the days without your voice. You slip away. Again, as a lover whose visits are forbidden. You slip away. What is left but to burn, slowly as a weakened candle? What is left but to face the nights Sleepless and senseless, Beneath the moonless, starless – every one burned out you see – sky, Beneath the smile twinkling up there. Look at you – you’re in heaven. And where does it leave me?.. Down below. As deep as deep can be. Slipping away, lightly, You glance back never to return Leaving me. Again.
Cú Chulainn, Cú Chulainn… Yonder lies he, sleeping after a long way home. Cú Chulainn, Cú Chulainn… His eyes of forest green closed, And the flames dancing in his hair in the dusky light… Cu chulainn, Cu chulainn … Let me touch you. Let me feel the fire within you. Cu chulainn, Cu chulainn… Let me marvel at the flames Dancing in your hair. Cu chulainn, Cu chulainn.. No mortal can resist you, No goddess can tempt you. No passion can trouble you In your sleep tonight.
Cu chulainn, Cu chulainn, No price is high enough And nothing I wouldn’t give To touch the flames Dancing in your hair…
Cu chulainn, Cu chulainn. .. No goddess is good enough To tempt you- Yet I will try.
Cu chulainn, Cu chulainn… Thrice have you refused me, Thrice I begged, Thrice I came to you unarmed.
Cu chulainn, Cu chulainn… Death awaits you, For I have washed your armor At the fort tonight.
Cu chulainn, Cu chulainn… I will make you mine- If not in life, in death- For nothing is more precious
Into the Unknown 