Meditative

[Kikuyu_Black_Paws]

Did I do the right thing?

 

To this day I don’t think I’ll ever know the answer to that question. I may puzzle and puzzle over it, spend decades sitting beneath the rough, angular arches of Stonehenge trying to understand the rhyme and reason that lead me to this, but I don’t think I’ll ever come to a decision. For one the birds are too insistent—every need and desire, every warning and discovery must be crowed and twittered and shrieked to the heavens for all to know. It can get very loud, impossible to think with all that racket, screeching and chirruping and battering you round and round until everything sounds like nothing but birdsong morning, noon, and night. And then there’s the matter of privacy. Each tern and merlin and oriole must sit on my shoulder to tell me the news of the day, of who’s done what in the farmer’s barn, what pranks the faerie queen has played the king, what young man just pulled a sword from a stone.

 

Like that’s anything new.

 

 

He was just fifteen at the time. Hm. Fifteen year olds are all alike: wild, impetuous, rascally little colts with no control whatsoever or sense of good hygiene. I can’t imagine being fifteen…I don’t think I was ever fifteen myself. Look at these hands—so old, they look more like tree roots than anything human. But then how old am I? How long have I been sitting here, under this oak? Maybe I am part of the tree. Maybe blood has turned to sap, hair to leaves that brown and turn with the seasons. Perhaps my fingers are no longer fingers anymore; they certainly don’t feel like they’d remember how to hold a quill or a sword or a crust of bread. Branches and twigs they are now, most likely, roots that turn the soil and pick up stones as they stretch out for moisture. Maybe that’s why the birds won’t leave me alone—they think I’m a tree.

 

Hah, that’s a thought. I, the great wizard whose name used to be heralded from shore to shore and among all the British Isles, the one who put the king on his throne and his queen by his side—a tree. Why I used to talk with the trees instead of languish among them. I used to speak to water nymphs and bargain with stones and giants. My great scheme was the movement of the century. What a mess I made of it all, from time to time. That’s uncomfortable to remember, though...

 

 

I remember when she died. We were young, in love…she was the world to me. I had never, in all my years, seen anything more beautiful than her. She seemed to…glow…like sunlight, but she was too delicate, all made of moths’ wings and spiders’ webs. Something too fragile to live long in this brutal, hard world. We had four years together, maybe five—I can’t really remember anymore. We sat by the lake and read books to each other, and I would make her laugh with a spell or two. I loved her laugh. And when she would sing. She made all the blood and shadows of my past fade until they were nothing but a dirty stain at the back of my mind. When I kissed her, I felt like I could taste the sweet breath of the stars.

 

Her funeral was brief, but crowded. I was jealous and grief-stricken. If I had known the spell for it I would have magicked them all away, left myself and her burning pyre alone for the rest of time. Perhaps, if that had been possible, I would have thrown myself on the fire with her for one last kiss. But I barely saw any of the other grieving, weeping people, much less knew what to do with them. There was too much water, too much pain. Her life had been spring for me, and so her death was the harsh of winter, the fang of a bloody shadow moon, the broken howl of wolves in the ice. I can hear them now, screaming like I did with their heads thrown back, asking a single question with no answer, a single piercing note that rises up, up, up, quavers at the peak with a throat full of tears, pauses…then slides down into a low posture of defeat, fetal and broken. I lay in front of her grave for days, weeks, until the grasses hid me from sight and moss grew in my boots. I didn’t want to see the world anymore. I didn’t want to know people anymore. I did not want to be human anymore.

 

The wolves, actually, found me. It was winter: they dug my body from under five feet of snow and ice, and then they lay atop me for three days to warm my flesh. They must have heard my cry for help, even though I did not recognize it as such at the time. I have never seen such black fur since. It reminded me of Mabe’s hair…curse her jealous, plotting heart. When I woke I was more frost than man. I lived among them for a week or so, slowly regaining my strength and my comprehension of magic. When I could again speak in more than cries and snarls, they reminded me of the world. It was they who told me about the boy.

 

 

I have the sword, now—old and dusty, but as keen as ever. Excalibur never dulls with time; not like rusty old men with their heads full of leaves. I must have been at least a century old or more by the time I embedded it in the heart of the tree behind me. Oh, yes, that is what I did with it…I had forgotten until now. Perhaps that is why the leaves grow so green and the branches stretch so tall each year. This oak has the heart of a king. The heart of a lion. Ah, Excalibur; one day a young man will find the imprint of your blade in the wood and will pull you out, though you will be nigh impossible to remove. However, I will not be here to guide you and listen to the wolves tell of your exploits. My time of adventuring is over. Hunh…for young folk and lovers, adventuring is. I am neither. But I cannot stay here, under this tree. Time to be moving on soon; an age has passed and more in the world of men. Perhaps I’ll just rest a little longer and catch my breath. Guarding a tree for two-hundred years is serious business, and tiring. Just a moment more, and then I’ll be on my way.

 

 

Ah, Nimue…is that you? I can almost see you…you’re too far away. Why can’t I see you? Come closer, dear one; I am tired and weary of the world—take me away with you.

 

Nimue, is it truly you? You look beautiful, as beautiful as the day that I last saw you. You look like snowfall and doves or white flowers. Oh Nimue, I’m sorry, so sorry. I was not able to…I was not strong enough. No, no—mind not an old man’s tears. I can’t help them now. When you get old, there is much that you can no longer control. Even my magic has slipped slowly away from me. Too much time has passed between us. You will have to wait a little longer. Just a little longer, my love. I promise I won’t be long. I’ll be coming soon. I’m coming.