The Ravens’ Banquet (26 page)

I watched Christoph’s mouth gape as his neck craned upwards. He muttered an oath and shot me a wide-eyed glance. Rosemunde led us to the great oak itself where
Fraw Holt
stood in the cleft, alabaster white and unmoving.

“Is this your goddess, then?” said Christoph, gesturing with his head.

“Keep your silence!” said Rosemunde in that same hard voice we had first heard many days before.

Christoph smiled in derision but I saw his fist tighten around his sword grip just the same. And then all the Sisters fell to their knees, leaving Christoph and me standing bewildered. The Oma had entered the clearing in her slow shuffling fashion, cloaked in red and leaning upon a tall staff of wood, a sprout of greenery at its top. The crone made her advance to the tree while the rest did their reverence to her. Christoph took a few paces backwards as she approached. As he did so, I caught a glimpse of two Sisters who weren’t taking part. Lying on edge of the pool of firelight, these two bore their hunting bows at the ready. I began to grow fearful that this was not to protect them from me or Christoph, but rather for some darker purpose that would become apparent.

Rosemunde stepped forward to greet the Oma. She bowed her head and gently gathered up the wide sleeve of the old creature’s garment, pressing it to her lips. Oma’s long-fingered hand reached out and touched Rosemunde’s head. Then, the Oma turned and her voice carried forth across the clearing.

“Rise up, my daughters! Arise and prepare to give thanks for our blessings!”

And as the Sisters came to their feet, two moved forward to us bearing a clay jug and vessels. They poured out drink into the cups and offered them first to me and then to Christoph. I grasped the cup and looked to Rosemunde. She nodded to me in return, urging me to take my libation. Christoph looked hard at the Oma and shook his head. Rosemunde took the cup from my hand and drank from it. Then she did the same from Christoph’s.

“We drink to give thanks,” she said, proffering the cup again to me.

“You first, comrade,” said Christoph quietly.

I stared into her eyes. I could see the flames reflected in the green of her orbs. In my heart, I knew she was not lying and I would come to no harm. I placed the cup to my lips and drank. A bitter-tasting, weak ale slid down my throat. Christoph sniffed at his but then followed my example. The cups were taken and refilled and then all the rest took of the ale as the Oma sang in a creaking voice of the White Lady and her Bounty.

I watched her, her staff held aloft, the sprig of mistletoe shaking with her movements and slowly, I began to feel most queer. I felt warmer. My eyesight sharpened such that I thought I could see deep into the forest beyond the fire. And most strangely, my worry began to dissolve into the night. I turned to Christoph and watched as his hand slowly fell from his sword grip, his face softening as his scowl disappeared. And as the Oma sang, I became content with all my surroundings.

“The life of Summer is but short,” sang the crone, “and soon must the Green Man be sacrificed at the hand of the Winter King! For the good of the world, that life shall prosper, He dies and becomes corruption. But so shall He rise anew in the birth of Spring!”

I watched as the Sisters placed on Christoph a mask. It was a Death’s Head fashioned of tree bark and whitewashed to look like bone. That he suffered them to place this on his head amazed me. He stood there in front of the fire swiveling his head this way and that, looking rather confused with the ceremony that we now found ourselves reluctant participants in.

Rosemunde came forward to me. I watched her as she pulled my baldric from my shoulder and unbuttoned my doublet. More curious than frightened, I let her take the liberty. Then my shirt was pulled from me, her gentle assurances falling sweetly on my ears as her hands stroked my arms.

It was then that she noticed Anya’s amulet that hung about my neck. She reached up to grasp it and I gently gripped her hand to stop her.

“A soldier’s charm, nothing more,” I whispered to her.

She hesitated, and then withdrew her hand. “Whose art is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I lied.

“But it has kept you safe these many months?” she said. “Then I shall not affect its magic with my touch.” And she covered my hand with hers for a moment, pressing it, sending rays of warmth through my arm.

Then I felt more of the Sisters at my back, supporting me as my boots were tugged off in a trice. These were placed on the growing pile of my clothing. Rosemunde pulled me to the centre of the clearing in front of the fire, her Sisters impelling me from behind. She held my gaze like an enchantress, willing me that I should trust in her come what may. This I did as any remaining misgivings melted away. Again the pot of ale was passed and again I drank deeply of it as did Christoph.

From behind, I felt someone reach up over my head. Before I could raise my arm or turn round, a mask was dropped down on my face, a mask of verdant ivy woven and plaited as one might weave a garment. I reached up to touch it and Rosemunde gently placed her hands on my wrists.

“You are the Green King this night,
Rikard
,” she whispered, “– the Wood Man come among us. Be not afraid and let His Spirit fill you.”

My head was awhirl now and I felt as if I had drunken two hogsheads and not two cups. I could scarce find my own voice to object. From the eyeholes fashioned in this living mask I could see the Sisters gathering closer, smiles on their faces as they drifted into my view. Garlands of oak leaves settled upon my bare shoulders, tumbling down my chest to dangle at my thighs.

Rosemunde sank to her knees and undid the points of my breeches. As they dropped to my ankles, gentle hands from behind lifted each leg in turn to divest me of them entirely. I stood, clothed only in Adam’s suit, the fire warming my naked skin. I saw the Oma appear before me, her staff and arm raised high. She turned and I was pushed firmly to follow her as she walked around the fire three times. As I made each circuit, three times did I see Christoph, now the Winter King, his eyes large behind the grinning Death’s Head that he wore. The Sisters reached out as I walked and stumbled, touching my arms, my chest and my backside. They that had been as quiet and chaste as nuns these past weeks now capered about laughing or crying with exaltation. And I was their god come unto them.

The Oma stopped before the great oak and turned to me, her birch twig fingers stabbing out at the air. Her eyes had rolled up into her ancient skull as she spoke, her few blackened teeth showing as her lips moved, rapidly forming words.

“Spirit of the world and giver of life! Guardian of the Green Wood and all that dwell within! Come! Come and take the White Lady your wife that Spring may come to end the reign of Winter that soon falls upon us!”

Too soon had I thought, in horror, that the hag was She. But no sooner had the Oma uttered these words then she stepped to one side. In front of me stood Rosemunde, draped in white linen, so bright that my eyes ached, her wild tresses falling about her shoulders, her arms stretched out wide to receive me. I stood as if the greenery that enveloped me had taken root, immobile before her presence.

My ears rang such that all else was drowned out. The cries, the silver bells, the Oma’s chanting. All lost as I looked into Rosemunde’s face.

She slowly brought her arms together before her bosom and her hands grasped the mantle that covered her. She lifted this so that it fell from her back and to the ground at her feet. I drank in her nakedness from her full rounded breasts to her hips, to her dark merkin and her milk-white thighs. And though I was in the company of many, my manhood rose up at the sight of my heart’s desire. The ale I had partaken was no ordinary brew, of that I was certain if nothing else. It enflamed me and emboldened me and I cared not of the spectators that now closed in about me and Rosemunde. My heart pounded away in my chest (and had done so since the second cup of ale had reached my belly). My prick stood out hard as I reached for her and her for me.

We embraced and I gasped out as my manhood touched her thighs. I pulled her down upon the white mantle and delved her, she more than yielding to me, yea even pulling the garlands from my body. I raised an arm to tear the mask of the Green Man from off my face, but she stopped me with a grip that was firm.

“No! Leave it upon you!” And she held my head fast with both her hands, crushing the ivy to my face. I stared into her eyes and saw that the worry and age had disappeared from her face, now flushed rose red.

“Have me,” she said.

For a few moments, there was naught else in the world. Half in a dream, I took her as the Sisters cooed their encouragement to us. At last, she gasped out and I spent myself full. I sank down upon her, my ivy leaves covering her face.

“Get off of her!” came Christoph’s cry, half-strangled within his throat.

Enveloped in passion, I did not turn quickly enough toward him, fogged as I was by the drug-tainted ale. I heard the Sisters cry out and then I felt his boot take me full in the ribs sending me sprawling next to Rosemunde.

“Why should you have her!” he raged at me. “I’m the one who suffered her tongue and laboured the harder!” He had ripped off the Death’s Head to reveal his own visage even more terrible and contorted with hate. He swayed as he fumbled to draw his sword, falling back a few steps but then managing to yank it from its scabbard. He turned to Rosemunde as he steadied himself, his expression suddenly changing.

“Why, woman?” he pleaded. “Why him? I’m the better man and I can give you what you want! But you take this little shit instead!” He then turned to me with a growl. And he came on, ready to do me murder.

I pulled myself up into a crouch, ready to receive him, when I heard a mighty crack and Christoph’s head and shoulders slumped forward. The
Oma
brought her staff up again but Christoph was already on the ground and senseless.

I sat there blinking, not believing that he had wanted to take Rosemunde while trying to kill me at the same time.

The Oma nodded to me. “So shall The Winter King strike the Wood Man down once the Seed of Spring is sown!”

Rosemunde pulled the white mantle about her shoulders and I staggered to my feet. Christoph lay sprawled flat upon his face near to the fire.

“And also shall the Wood Man rise again!” the Oma said, extending her arm as I stood up. The Greenwood everlasting!”

It was as if she had foreseen Christoph’s actions before his rage burst forth, cozening him to play the part without even knowing it.

“Daughters!” she said turning to the others again, “Come to me now that we may share the unguent and so then see what others may not!”

And she gathered her red cloak behind her and hobbled to the far side of the fire, followed by her coven.

I stood over Rosemunde and offered my hands to raise her up. She looked up at me and took them in hers but then pulled me down to her. She kissed me full, warming me anew. But the spell had faded already. Christoph was still lying there and I feared he might come around again at any moment.

I was suddenly struck with a heavy self-consciousness. And hard on its heels came Guilt, bearing down like a charging boar to rip my belly. I pulled the green mask from my head and set it on the ground.

My hand cupped Rosemunde’s chin. “You know that I can’t stay here any longer. I do not belong to this place.”

Alarmed, she pushed herself up, shoving me to the side. “Say not such a thing. You have been welcomed here.”

“I must leave.”

“You
must
not!” she said, grasping and squeezing my hand hard. And only then did I understand that there was more to this demand than just her own wishes.

I arose again and stumbled over to my heap of clothing. Hurriedly I pulled my rig on and struggled to set my feet into my mud-caked boots. Setting my charm down into my damp shirt brought a memory of Anya back to me, and her words of warning.

But Rosemunde had followed me, not accepting my abandonment.

“Wait here!” she said, putting her palm to my chest even as I pulled on my doublet “You have not seen all that I promised. I’ll bring us the ointment.”

I didn’t understand what she spoke of and barely had time to rub my hand over my bruised side before she had returned to me bearing a small earthen vessel that sat in her palm.

She scraped a bit of the stuff out with three fingers, and in the light of the fire it looked like pig grease.

“Let me,” she said, her eyes bewitching me once again. “So you shall finally understand.” And her hand came towards my brow. I reached out and gently held her wrist. But she pushed past my half-hearted protest. “Let me, please.”

The sweet smelling unguent felt cold against my temple and quickly she stroked more upon the other side of my head. She held aloft my arm and rubbed yet more upon my wrist and then so too for my other hand.

“What salve is this?” I asked.

“Come with me to the others,” she said, “closer to the fire.”

The Sisters stood together, arms about one another. Some moaned, others sang softly to themselves. The
Oma
stood with them, swaying upon her staff, eyes shut tight and lips trembling.

“Sit here,” said Rosemunde to me, pushing me to sit upon the ground that I might watch the Sisters in their worship. Rosemunde knelt down next to me and pulled her white shift closer about her naked form. I had begun to feel cold, even though the fire was but a few steps away. My hands began to tremble and sweat poured from my armpits and forehead.

I reached out and grabbed her arm. “What have you done to me?”

She placed her hand over mine even as I tightened my grasp.

“Be not afraid,
Rikard!
”

“I’m growing cold.”

“It will pass. Let your mind’s eye guide you.”

I closed my eyes, listening to the droning voices of the witches. Slowly, I began to feel as if I were falling, like the very ground beneath me had come away from my feet. But this sensation changed after a time, and then it seemed that I was floating, free from Earthly bounds. The darkness that was before me began to fall away and bright light filled the air. I could see the forest in all its hidden beauty, the ancient and the new, the green and the grey, the mighty trunks reaching high to the heavens and their roots stretching deep down into the black soil to the bowels of the Earth. I was melting into my surroundings, becoming part of them, drifting through the canopy of green, high above the floor of the Wood. I held my arms out in front of me as I moved; warding boughs that gently gave way as I passed. My nostrils were filled with the pungent scent of moss and crushed leaves and my ears rang with sweet voices that sang of nothing I could comprehend.