Daughter of the Sea

XXXII: Returned

By midday he noted in relief that the phenomena dwindled in frequency as the hills began to flatten, and gradually as the land sloped into gentle and grazed fields the oddities became very rare indeed. By early afternoon they had ceased altogether, a cessation he suspected coincided with his leaving the forbidden quarter and its unseen inhabitants well behind, though there had been no obvious boundary.

He walked until darkness fell, and was cheered by the sight of lights on the horizon; too far-off to be dwellings where he might beg a night's lodging but signs of habitation at least. He slept in the lee of a boulder in the summer warmth, and was up before dawn the next morning, keeping the pale light at his left hand. Passing within sight of the odd cluster of cottages or sprawling farmhouse, he kept to himself, though tempted to beg a day's bread; if he stopped anywhere in such remote locations where travelers were no doubt novelties, he would be obliged to tarry and explain himself. Better to tighten his belt and keep marching; his cottage held food stores, and Angharad was waiting for him.

Angharad. It could not be said that his step quickened automatically every time he thought of her, for she never left his mind, but when he pictured her there in the cove, waiting at his hut, his heart skipped a beat and his feet seemed to chase after it, for a moment, until he reminded himself sternly that the odds of her being present when he arrived there were very low. Still, he would see her soon. Soon. Had she really gone every day to look for him, as she had said? How it must be worrying her, his being gone so much longer than they had all anticipated. Suppose it had been even longer than a fortnight; he had only guessed by the moon, after all; suppose it had been a month, or a whole year, or...or a hundred years, as in the story, while he stood trapped in the netherworld of Pentre Gwyllion. He paled at the thought, feeling suddenly nauseous, stopped stock still and shook himself. No, it could not have been so long; for one thing, here he was, ill-groomed but apparently not significantly older than he had been when he'd gone in. And besides, the gwyllion would never have let him go on a bargain they knew could not be filled. And no matter how long it had been, there was nothing to do but go on.

He thought, as he marched, of what he had learned, the tapestry that had been woven for him; he shook it and spread it out within his mind, marveling at the story it told, fumbling for words to match its colors. It had felt like a living thing as the gwyllion had woven it, a creation that breathed and grew of its own accord, and he felt, with a pang, that it would be somehow paler upon his lips, and that he was an unworthy messenger of so much magic. But it played in his mind, a story worth the telling, a riddle worth the answer, and he wondered what they would do with it.

Evening fell, and a velvet night, and he walked on under the stars until the ground became rough, wishing he had a Pelydryn of his own to light the way. Exhausted, he slept on the flat turf and dreamed of the sea, a blue eternity, stretching from one end of the earth to the other, and a white ship upon it, shining like a pearl, with a dark-haired captain at its helm, a star bound to his brow.

He awoke to a grey mist that promised rain, and trotted southward as quickly as he could, waylaying a shepherd boy over the next hill to inquire how far he was from Abernant. The lad gaped in astonishment, but motioned south, stuttering something in the range of "two hours or so" once he came to the coast and followed it. Geraint thanked him and went on with renewed vigor. He was rewarded by the sky breaking upon him the moment he came in sight of the thin blue line of sea over the edge of land, and realized that before he found any shelter he would be as wet as he could possibly get anyway, so he might as well keep walking. Grumbling, he turned and followed the coastline, wishing he had the power to dry himself with a word. Or do anything magical at all, for that matter.

Dangerous thoughts lay in that direction, thoughts he had suppressed for days, but whether from hunger or weariness or cold rain or some combination of all of it he did not have the strength to resist them now, and they settled like a dark thundercloud over his spirit. He wondered, tortuously, about the faceless men who might, even now, be gathering at Caer Colur, vying for Angharad's hand. What great powers would they display, what mysterious wonders, what arts that made them eligible to stand beside her, officially sanctioned by law and tradition? And once she had been forced to choose one of them, sworn an oath, duty-bound, to another man...where did that leave him?