The Wood of Ydren

by Zona Gale

THE WOOD OF YDREN

 

By Zona Gale

 

THOUGH the sun was warm on the golden-gray meadow slope, it was not there that the little shepherdess loved to lead her flock. The crests of the hills were swimming in soft light, and breaths from flowered orchards yielded their way over the hills, but it was not there either that she lay in the long mornings. For it is the great green lowlands of Wales that are richest with early Spring magic, and it was in a magic lowland, hill-cradled, that Llorien fed her white flock in Spring.

Llorien was of woman's years, but her face was like the very early flowers. When flowers have not yet seen the sun-bow of a whole day from white east to red west, their little faces are not really alive; it is only after they have borne light, and have been with dew and stars, and have endured a night, that they understand the human eyes that look upon them. And little Llorien's face was like the very early flowers.

For years she had lived alone with old Glaunt, her father. Glaunt was a shepherd, and his image remained always in the hearts of those who had once looked upon him. He was a great, black-browed, black-bearded man with falling black hair. He spoke but little, perhaps because he was an old man, and it had all been said. He went among the gray hills, and stood black among his flocks, his shepherd's cloak blowing about his shoulders. All the country-side knew him, and responded gladly to his silent greeting. Many of the wool-combers and sheep-shearers feared him, as children fear the silence. But old Gervyl, who lived near the fens, and who brewed strange distillations for the ailing sheep, knew that he loved the little four-petaled “silverskins” that grew in the marsh, and she would send her boy to him across the early fields with a night's birth of them, or, it might be, with but a single silver stem to be drawn in his wide hat. Old Gervyl and her boy and little Llorien were the only ones who did not fear Glaunt, and they, too, loved to wear the strange little silver flowers.

Down in the lowland where Llorien fed her flock, the meadow was like a great green hall. On three sides, pleasant hills budded from the earth, and bore sweet odors which were neither of bloom nor of wind. Sometimes idle, white clouds rested on the curved summits of the hills like airy altars; and, when the evening star first burned above them—a silver priest come among his vessels—little Llorien led home her flock. This she was always unwilling to do, for the long, warm hours in the field were her delight. All day, she lay deep in the scented grass, facing the south where gloomed a purple wood—the Wood of Ydren. And it was because she feared and loved the Wood of Ydren that she spent her days upon its threshold.

A great violet cave of trees it was, miles deep, and, for aught Llorien knew, pathless. It was true that Cynan, son of a tradesman of Glastonbury, had told her that he had come through the wood with his father, carrying a load of leather to Caer, but Cynan was not to be believed. She remembered scornfully how he had assured her that no flowers bloomed in the wood. No flowers in the Wood of Ydren! Liorien would as soon have believed that there were no fairies with harps making the music of the wind.

What it was that drew her to the wood's edge day by day, she could not have told. Near her father's cot was a little wood where trim, familiar flowers grew, pretending to be wild, but these could not deceive Llorien. She knew them every one—thistle-wort, witch-wort, glove-buds and little nodding spirilis. Beyond this domestic little wood was a meadow, and in this meadow grew sweet-smelling grasses, and, on clear mornings, one might see, through a blue cleft in the hills, the spires of Glastonbury; but here Llorien never spent an hour. Past her father's flock she went, and straight to the lowland at the edge of the Wood of Ydren. Perhaps something wonderful would happen there that day. Only yesterday she had fancied that she heard the faint fluting of a horn; and once she had been sure that she caught the flutter of a silver sleeve.

One morning Llorien rose with a happy heart and her mind filled with a dream. Not that her mind was ever seriously filled with anything but dreams, but she usually wove them while she woke, and this was a dream of sleep. When she had made breakfast for her father, she took a little skin of milk, and a basket of reeds, filled with goat's cheese and bread and berries, and she set off across the grass for the lowland, singing as she went, so that any little night people, left by chance in the meadow, might hear her in time, and escape. And the song she sang was one that had come to her in her dream—a dream in which strange silver faces had looked at her from the purple cave of trees, chanting:

“We are they who have gathered an aspen flower
And have kissed it to red.
We are they who are snaring a silver bird
From its border bed.

“Lay the red blossom upon her red mouth,
Follow the silver bird far to the south,
But drink of the days of the Ydren Wood
No more till the flower be dead.”

The three hills echoed her song pleasantly, the sheep scattered, bleating, over the wide, smiling field, and Llorien, venturing so near the wood that she could see the delicate shadows on the moss, sat down to wait.

 

Ronald Edgar always became an immediate part of any picture in which he found himself. Perhaps this was because he was young, and his heart sang within him, and because he lived every moment as if it were an unreal, painted moment, and not at all a part of the life that was some time to begin for him. He was, you will see, a poet. And he came out of the Wood of Ydren that morning into the lowland where white Spring was rioting and the little shepherdess was watching her flock, looking quite as if he had been painted in place by some kind god. As for Llorien, watching him breathlessly, she had always known that the wood must some day yield her something wonderful; and that it had come now was no miracle. It was simply as if she were dreaming a dream a little more real than her other dreams. Who shall say, therefore, that little Llorien, too, was not a poet?

Llorien's little red bodice and plaid kirtle and white sleeves, and the straying sheep against the sunny gray meadow, pleased Ronald's eyes. He smiled for the sake of the beauty of it all, and he raised his face and came forward smiling—a slim, gray figure with fair, uncovered head. Llorien thought of him always afterward with his face uplifted.

“Is there no pale shepherdess left in Lesbos?” he quoted, under his breath. And aloud he said:

“Good morning, little shepherdess. I saw a white thrush in the wood just now!”

Llorien regarded him gravely. He had spoken in her own tongue.

“That thrush is my friend,” said Llorien, simply. “Every day I feed him goat's cheese and crumbs from my basket.”

Ronald strolled nearer.

“But why do you not take him home,” he asked, “in that 'little hand-prison of woven reeds'?”

Llorien looked at him in surprise. “You must be one of the wicked wood-gods, after all,” she said. “I thought, when I first saw you, that you were a beautiful, good one.”

Ronald laughed delightedly, and threw himself on the grass beside her. Alas, his face was too beautiful to be a god's, but Llorien did not know.

“I will be a good god,” he promised, “if you will let me stay a little while. Can you tell me the name of that wood?”

“We call it the Wood of Ydren,” said Llorien.

“The Wood of Ydren, the Wood of Ydren,” repeated Ronald, luxuriously, “the Wood of Ydren.”

Llorien leaned forward. “What do you call it?” she asked, eagerly; “you and the other wood-gods?”

“Oh,” said Ronald, “we call it the Wood of the Dark Star. You see,” he went on, idly, “I am the god of the Dark Star.”

“Well,” said Llorien, “I am the Lady Silverskins—because of these flowers that my father loves. You may call me that, if you like.”

Ronald watched her with an amused smile. She was very lovely, and it delighted him to find her so alive to his bits of fancy and so serious about her own. A little shepherdess, with her head singing with his own dreams! A little living girl, with a fancy wild as a fairy's and an accidental loveliness besides!

Llorien sighed, contentedly. It was wonderful to have some one near who did not talk of sheep-shearing at every breath, like Cynan. It was wonderful to have some one near who was not always silent, like her father, or lamenting, like old Gervyl. Why, this strange wood-god, with his face uplifted and his tongue sweet with names musical, was her kin, nearer to her than her austere cousins in Glastonbury, nearer than Glaunt himself! Llorien did not understand, but she was very happy.

“Tell me about your friends,” said Ronald.

Llorien began at once. “There is the white thrush,” she said, “he is first. Then there is old Gervyl, and she tells me about the countries where all the fairies are dead, and it makes me cry. There is her boy, whose brain has got wrong—but he knows where the greenest little eggs are, and he never breaks them. And there is Cynan, who takes a long time to eat, and shakes the table when he laughs. If Cynan were to come here now, he would not see you. He wouldn't see anything but how fat the sheep are. Those are all my friends.”

Ronald drew nearer and watched her breathlessly.

“And the wood-gods?” he said. “Surely you know other wood-gods, Lady Silverskins?”

“No, I don't,” she said; “and yet I never really think of anything else, either. But I have never met any god but you.”

Ronald drew a deep breath.

“O Lady Silverskins!” he said, “O Lady Silverskins!”

He shared her little luncheon that day, and added to it a flagon of thin wine and some fruit. All the day while the sun was high, and until the shadows slanted, they talked together. She found for him strange little flowers hidden in the grass, and he taught her to hear half-notes of birds, and to see far colors that she had not dreamed. He lay on the grass and sang to her—strange beautiful words in a strange tongue, so that she wept and “knew not wherefore.” He repeated long, soft poems in her own language, wherein was some joy which she could not unravel. And, when the twilight fell, he walked beside her across the thick grass, trodden by the little beating hoofs before them, and the three hills upheld a white scimiter of moon—the sword of silver flame that always hangs over the gate of every Eden.

“Now I must give you three things,” said the little shepherdess, “or you will not be able to find me again.”

She bent to gather a spray of witch-wort by a great stone.

“This,” she said, “and the ribbon in my hair—and what else?”

“This,” said Ronald.

She raised her face quite simply for his kiss.

“It doesn't matter,” she said, shyly, “'because not a bit of all this is really happening.”

Ronald watched her little figure glimmer into the dusk.

“Wonderful little child,” he said, “how she knows! She knows!”

The Wood of Ydren was sweet with singing birds and singing leaves and early slanting sun, the next morning when Ronald brushed his way through the mile of dew that lay between his Glastonbury inn and the lowland meadow. He was early—earlier than Llorien, and he had a capful of brown and pink witch-wort by the time she came over the hill, surrounded by her white sheep.

“You are real, after all,” he cried, joyously, hastening to her, “or you would not have come again!”

She smiled, and sat down on a great Druid temple-stone, and beckoned him beside her.

“It is strange of you, Wood-God,” she said, “always to talk about things being real. What difference can that make? We are both here.”

Ronald shook his head, a little wistfully.

“It is not enough,” he said, as a man will say.

Llorien stretched her slim, brown little arms up to the blue with a childish gesture.

“I love the whole world,” she cried, “and everything in it. I don't care whether it is real or not.”

The man shook his head.

“It is not enough,” he said again.

It was delicious to watch Llorien through the long mornings. Sometimes she sang to him softly, with her eyes shut; sometimes she braided her hair in the sun; sometimes, to her faint, sweet little piping, she kept time with her slim, brown arms, wound with flowers; when the fancy seized her, she put leaves in her hair, and danced for him on the Druid stone. And in the warmth of Ronald's presence and sympathy, her rich, waiting soul answered as a harp to the wind—aye, as a harp to the human hand that loves it. And all his store of fancy and affectionate understanding of beautiful things, Ronald poured out to her. Lore of all strange people, beautiful words and even radiant facts he told her, and bit by bit he taught her her own wonder. Her ignorance about things that were his own spiritual breath touched Ronald strangely. That she had actually never known this name, or that marvelous music, or some poem that was to him a quality of the universe, like the stars, appealed powerfully to him, and made him wonder the more that she had come to know true things so truly without their interposition.

“Suppose,” he said to her one day, “that we were to see Arthur come pacing from the wood on a black charger, with Guinevere beside him, the sun on the silver trappings and on her gold hair. What would we do?”

She looked at him with wide eyes.

“Tell me about them,” she said, simply; and Ronald found, almost with tears, that she had lived in Arthur's own land, in sight of the spires of Glastonbury, and did not know his name. And, while he told her of the knights, and how, though Arthur had been buried at Avalon, where her sheep came from, his body was inhumed at Glastonbury, and how Guinevere's long hair of plaited gold was found untouched by death—a black shadow loomed near, and Llorien turned with a cry to see her father watching them. When he heard what Ronald was telling her, Glaunt nodded in silence and walked away.

“I wonder whether father could see you, Wood-God,” said Lilorien, childishly; “can anybody see you but me?”

Ronald looked after the black figure of Glaunt, having the austerity and distinction of an old Norman king.He noted the little silver wild flower tucked in his hat.

“I think he can,” said Ronald, nodding, “yes, I think that your father would see.”

“Old Gervyl can see you,” said Llorien, “she has come often to the wall and looked across. But she talks with fairies. She is not afraid. Only Cynan could not see you.”

“Who is Cynan?” asked Ronald, curiously. “You speak often of him; who is he?”

Llorien regarded him, gravely.

“I am going to marry Cynan some day soon,” she answered.

“Going to marry Cynan?” repeated Ronald, dully.

“Yes,” said Llorien, “after you have gone away, Wood-God.”

“But if I don't go away!” cried Ronald.

“You will,” answered Llorien, tranquilly, “wood-gods never stay.”

Ronald looked away at the hills, and the meadow suddenly lost its wonder and was dull and sordid.

“Will you be happy?” he asked, at length.

“I used to wonder that, too, when I first loved you,” said Llorien, “but I always knew that you must go away. And I must live.”

“You love me!” cried Ronald.

“Why, yes,” said Llorien, in surprise, “haven't we said so?”

“Yes,” said Ronald, “yes, I suppose we have. But it isn't true if you can marry Cynan.”

Llorien laughed.

“Oh, yes, it is,” she cried; “you are only a wood-god. Nearly every woman, old Gervyl says, loves some wood-god best—but she is married happily, for all that.”

Ronald looked at her with frightened eyes.

“Little child,” he cried, “how did you know that?”

“You will always be my wood-god,” Llorien went on, “but I shall marry Cynan and never see you. And he could not see you if he were to stand here now.”

Ronald looked into her eerie little face, and down, down into her deep eyes. She was so fragilely lovely, so delicately made, so exquisitely alive. Why, here was his wonder, his joy—the marvel for which he had sought to and fro on the earth, and despaired of ever finding! What of her crudities! He had not been there to form her. But now he would be, now he would be! Whatever this mysterious knowledge might be that was binding them together as no other ties can bind, she also had the knowledge. And he could not lose her. He bent swiftly and gathered her in his arms.

“Llorien,” he cried, his lips upon her mouth, “Llorien! Don't let us lose each other. Oh, little child, don't let us lose each other! Don't let them take you away!”

She was still for a moment, and her face close to his was radiant. She was still, and she was happy; but she knew—wise little shepherdess who had found things out alone—she knew that what they dreamed must never be.

“Wood-God! Wood-God!” she sobbed then, clinging to him, “why didn't they make you just a man for me to love—yes, even a man like Cynan. At last I know—I know! And I wish you had been like Cynan!”

“But I am a man!” cried Ronald, “and I love you, Llorien, and I want to be always with you, and with no one else in the world.”

She drew away from him, smiling through her tears.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “you are not real. You must go back to the other gods. I'm not Llorien to you. I'm only Lady Silverskins. Good-bye, Wood-God.”

“Little child! little child!” he cried, holding out his arms.

“Good-bye, Wood-God,” she said again.

Ronald went blindly through the Wood of Ydren, back to the inn in Glastonbury. And, alone in the wood, he was as miserable as he had ever been in his light, beautiful life.

“Good God!” he cried, “to think that I must lose the joy from my life because that wonderful little child chances to have been a shepherdess and cannot understand that I am real. But, ah, how she understands everything else in the world! I shall love her all my life, and no one else.”

To the Glastonbury inn that night there came a letter for Ronald Edgar, in exquisite little writing, like veins on the paper. Ronald read it, and, as he read, he felt an infinite longing for peace and order and a place to rest. He remembered the hand that had traced the letter—how strong and alive it was, how eager to serve him, how it had rested on his hair. As he sat there in the half-light of the little inn room, he looked in the eyes of the far-away woman who had written, and he knew in what loneliness she was waiting for him. He remembered her little housewifely care, her tenderness, her long-suffering—how long and in what anguish!—and a great yearning came over him for just the dear presence of her love—the love that loved him because she must, because she knew no other way. He held out his arms in the dark like a tired child.

“Little mother,” he cried, “come and take me away!”

 

So Ronald went back to the white cliffs and the white villas of his own land, and the woman was waiting for him, all joy and all tenderness. And there he made a home for her, and he lived through happy years, watching her about her little duties, watching a certain exquisite fashion she had of lowering her head as she talked, loving the peace and the care and the quiet of his life with her. And if sometimes he dreamed alone on the white terrace at evening, it was not of Llorien, though it was of the life that they shared—the life of which the tender little woman within doors knew no more than she knew of the real wonder of the man whom she loved with her whole loyal heart.

“Have you ever loved any one else, beloved, as you love me?” she would ask, a little wistfully when she was feeling, but could not fathom, his exquisite aloofness.

“Now see, dear—see,” he would say, “a dream or two I may have had—but I must have my foolish dreams. But they were wild dreams, after all, while our dream is all peace. No, I have never loved any one but you.”

Then she was content. He had answered in a tongue strange to her, but she could read the light in his eyes, and she was content. And to himself he said:

“Yes, they were wild dreams, after all. Here is rest. It is better so.”

 

Near the lowland on the edge of the Wood of Ydren lived Llorien and Cynan. In the evenings when the sheep were in the fold, the two would sit outside their door, and warm winds coming over the hills would bring to Llorien sound of a late bird-note or tinkle of a far sheep-bell, or odor of the sweets of the air. Llorien would sit near the door so that she might hear the sleepy stir of little Cedell or Edval within, and her hands were heavy in her lap from their long day's toil. Drowsing on the bench near by, his pipe fallen from his lips, would lie Cynan. Sometimes he would start and arch his brows sleepily as he looked at her.

“What did you say?” he would ask, thickly.

“Nothing,” Llorien would answer.

“What do you see over there?” he would persist, fretfully. And Llorien, her eyes turned always toward the purple cave of trees, would answer:

“Nothing.”

For no far, faint horn ever came from the Wood of Ydren now, and she never thought to catch the flutter of a silver sleeve.

Sometimes Cynan, pausing on his way to his tobacco-bag, would lay his hand heavily on her shoulder, and ask:

“Is anything the matter? Are you worrying over the lambs? Is anything the matter?”

And Llorien, suffering the caress, would answer:

“Nothing.”

Old Glaunt, leaning against the riven tree near the cot, looked on and was silent, but he remembered the old days, and sometimes he smote his forehead, and wondered. Old Gervyl, toiling across the wold with her short skirt filled with silver skins, looked on, too, and remembered the days when she watched by the wall, but she wondered aloud:

“Will the wood-god never come back?” she would ask.

“Aye,” Llorien would answer, “perhaps he is here all the time, and I am like Cynan—and cannot see him. But I think the wood-god is dead. It is better so.”

But a wise man, who learned the story as he walked one day in the Wood of Ydren, could not be certain.

“The Wood of Ydren,” he repeated, lingering lovingly over the name, “the wood-god, and Lady Silverskins, and the Wood of Ydren. These things are strange and terrible. But, tell me, why is it better so?”