Meldryn Remembers

I think I am ready to remember again. For more years than I wish to count, I have tried to forget the woods, the world, and my brother. A time has come now where memories are all that remains of Malcolm. So, I must honor what remains, though the pain is still fresh. My memories will certainly not be his only legacy, but it is the clearest picture of his life that I can muster, and so I must try, if I can. Perhaps it is best to take it down in writing, while it is still present. I want to remember now.

It was a soggy day in mid-winter that I was last able to see him. There was no snow on the ground. Only black mud and decaying leaves. It was not the sort of white solstice that I want to remember- no, it was grey, and our boots were soaked through with freezing mud where the residual snow had melted. At the time, we would have called ourselves young men, but my mind now tells me that we were barely more than boys.

Why we were in the wood on such a cold and damp day I cannot remember. I would like to attribute it to some kind of fate, though it seems lazy, for I simply have no other memory of why we walked a murky path through the wood. Perhaps it was to escape the sickness and sallowness of our village, where an outbreak of yellow-cough could be prevailed upon by no medicine our healers knew. Out in the woodland it was easier to forget the recent deaths. The birches were like glowing pewter in the pale light, diffused by cloudy, grizzled skies.

We followed a set of hoof-prints belonging to a herd of elk, larger than we had ever seen. Rather, I followed a set of hoof-prints. I saw the track; Malcolm saw the trail. He marveled at every little sight, picking up trampled saplings and resting fallen nests back in their roosts. I only saw the hoof-prints. There were several stags, and numerous cows, and one very small calf.

“Why should there be a calf so small at this time of year?” I pondered aloud.

“We have seen much stranger things than a calf in winter in these woods,” said Malcolm, holding the smallest of bird nests in the palm of his hand. “How could a hummingbird make a nest so small and delicate?”

“Because that is what it does,” said I, seeing no reason to question or marvel at what was ordinary.

We continued on our way, he marveling, I analyzing, until we reached a half-open glade and thought to rest. Our breath fogged up the air, though our pipes were not yet lit. Had it not been so cold, and had the tree branches not been so bare, I would never have seen a figure peering at us through the undergrowth.

A cloud of its breath gave it away. My eyes followed its body up, from its broad hooves to its grey eyes. A tall stag, so white that it was nearly invisible, stood between the tree trunks. His antlers seemed to meld into the branches of the undergrowth, and his nostrils flared to emit pensive puffs of smoke. He was eerily still, in a way only wild things can be.

“Malcolm,” I whispered, my face growing colder. I could not speak further to grasp his attention, however, before the stag suddenly arched his neck and bellowed with enough ferocity to make me lose my footing. The bugle whistled through the trees like an otherworldly war-whistle, and mist poured from his open maw. Both Malcolm and I fell from our crouched positions, and then the bull wheeled upon his hind legs. He belted through the underbrush so that it clattered behind him like so many wind-chimes.

As he disappeared into the thicket, I bounded to my feet, calling for Malcolm to follow. He was slighter than I, and slower, but obeyed and charged after me, however bewildered he was. It was not his mission to capture the stag. No, he seemed glad only to have seen the thing, but he would not leave my side all the same as I ran. By the time we tired, with no further sight of the stag, we did not know where in the forest we had come to. We had never seen those trees before, nor the water we came upon.

There was a pool nestled between the trees, a vibrant, clear blue against the half-frozen, muddy banks. Our exhaustion left no room for questions, and we rushed to kneel beside the pool. The brightness of the water, and the absence of a stream to feed it, meant that it was fed from a spring and was safe to drink.Unthinking, we cupped our hands and bent over the banks to slake our thirst. At the time, I only thought of my fatigue, assuming the water tasted so sweet and clear because of our thirstiness. I often wonder how it might taste now, if I knew what it was that I drank. Perhaps that is the nature of the pool. It is only ever found by accident, and only ever by those who cannot know the extent of its powers.

In the startlingly blue waters our faces were reflected back to us, broken up by the ripples we caused. Above them, however, a new figure was mirrored by the pool water. Being less distractible than Malcolm, my eyes rose first, water still dripping from my hands.

The figure I beheld was tall. Both man-like and somehow otherwise. In meeting his gaze, I was both startled and awestruck. He was not like the huntsmen from my village, or the men from beyond the forest. Not haggard and old, but not young, either- his eyes were like the winter forest, ancient and grey. He was clad in silver robes, and a circlet of pale branches. His face was as young as a fairy’s, yet his features were strong and austere, and his pale hair flowed long and fine over his shoulders.

“Malcolm,” I whispered, and after a moment my brother looked upward as well. His eyes grew wide, and I could not tell if they had been there before, but other figures seemed to have materialized through the fine, wintry mist. They joined the first, men and women with the same old and young faces, their garb muted shades that faded into the colors of the wood.

“Oh,” stuttered Malcolm, his mouth ajar and his breath freezing in clouds.

Looking over the number of them, I could imagine that there were more than the dozen visible to me. If they were fairies, then it would not do to startle them, and so I remained still.Fairies demanded good speech, and respectful speech.

“Forgive us,” said I, scanning over the faces of the tall, willowy figures. They were pale and strong, like birch-trees standing all in a row. “I didn’t know that we were intrudingg…”

The man, his crown glinting as he angled his head, replied, “If we were to keep count of your people’s intrusions, there would be no peace in these woodlands.” His tone was lower, more sonorous than his lean appearance might have indicated, but more musical as well. “You have asked for forgiveness, however, and it will not be withheld. What are your names?”

“Meldryn,” said I, quickly, before glancing toward my brother.

Malcolm was in the midst of one of his odd spells, however. Some days he simply did not seem to understand when gravity was required. He did not have the skill of prioritizing matters, for instead of beholding this Woodland Lord and answering his question, his eyes were elsewhere. I could never understand why he would be looking on the other folk, instead of who was speaking to him. In Malcolm’s mind, there was no concept of importance or hierarchy or composure. I would not be able to accept this foible of his for many years to come.

“I- ah- Malcolm,” I answered for him. “His name is Malcolm, and he is my brother, mi’lord.”

In one of the folks’ arms was a bundle, which began to gurgle and stir. At its protests, the woman bent over, settling the thing on the forest floor. Its bindle fell away, exposing a mop of pale hair upon a round, fair head. A child, and one that easily took up Malcolm’s fascination. He liked the innocent and natural things of the wood, and paid no mind to Woodland Lord as I did.

“I mean no offense, mi’lord,” I said, looking back to the silvery figure upon the opposite bank of the pool. “But, might I ask- who are you?”

Owlishly, the man looked over us, his languid movements like those of a wild animal. This obscured a well-hidden fierceness that I thought might emerge at any time. He was like a bow, long and slender and strung.

“There is no word in your tongue for what I am,” said he. “My people are the servants, the guardians, and the children of the Woodland. For lack of a fairer term to describe my burden, I am their King.”

Enraptured, I did not stir my gaze from the Woodland King, considering his cryptic words even as a little splash erupted from the other side of the pool. From the corner of my eye I could see Malcolm jump up from his crouched position, and leap into the pond.

I started, wheeling to face where Malcolm had been and finding him paddling now in the middle of the clear pool. Though the water did not freeze in the icy air, frost began to form in Malcolm’s dripping hair the moment he emerged.

Speechless, I surveyed the scene in shock. Though Malcolm was unpredictable and flighty, I could see no reason for him to take a dip in the midst of one of the dampest, coldest winters that either of us could remember. I could see no reason because I had not been looking in the correct places.

One of the Woodland Folk leaned over the bank, and as Malcolm paddled nearer to her, he lifted up a small, dripping parcel out of the water. I had only been looking upon the King. All the while, Malcolm had watched the little girl, as she toddled across the forest floor and into the pool.

He crawled out of the pond again, and the nursemaid gave him a cloak to warm himself. Oddly, he did not seem bothered by the cold any more. I cast a questioning look in his direction, but he only smiled deliriously.

The Woodland King’s fine brows knit together as he surveyed the child, restored again to the arms of the nursemaid. His long hand brushed across her wet hair as she hiccoughed and gurgled, luckily unharmed by her swim. After ascertaining her wellbeing, the King turned again, with renewed purpose in his old eyes.

“Tell me again where you hail from,” said he.

While Malcolm huddled in his cloak, appearing sleepy and distracted, I told the King of our little village. A small outpost, where there was sickness and poverty and fear. Where beasts and wild men could sweep through and take what they desired from those weaker than they.

As I spoke, the King nodded his chin. “There are greater threats than these in the woods,” replied he. “Ones which my people withhold from your sight, without the knowledge of your kind. Dangers that you would not so easily understand. Do you know this pool from which you drank?”

My least favorite words at that time were ‘I don’t know,’ and so instead of speaking, I shook my head.

The King’s eyes seemed to know my thoughts, and he blinked slowly. “The pool is a part of the forest. One delving deep into the magic and life of the woodland. Like a wound, it bleeds life.” The reflection of the swirling waters painted silvery shapes over his skin. “It cannot give you the gifts to aid your people, but can provide you the life to use what gifts you have.”

Lined formed on my brow as I scowled. “What gifts?” I asked. For I had seen my friends and relatives pass through illness and death, powerless. What did I have to save them?

“Life I cannot give, but gifts are within my power,” said the King, kneeling over the pool. The silvery cast of the waters intensified as he lowered his hand into their depths, and drew out, in turn, three tablets. Pewter, and yet also stone, and yet also shaped after the form of the bark of trees. The waters beaded offthem to reveal letters in a tongue that I could not speak then.

“Come,” said the King, and I tentatively rose. He rested these tablets in my arms, heavier than I had anticipated. “No creature intending to harm you can cross the border that this will create. These tablets, and your knowledge, will prevent your people from living in fear.”

Gravely, I looked at the silvery tablets, unsure of how they could stop a beast. How could tablets assuage fear? How could knowledge cast it out?

The King gestured Malcolm nearer with his hand, and he fumbled to his feet. The little girl turned her head to watch him as he moved, her round eyes grey like dove’s wings.

A tremor occurred in the tree eaves, like a forceful sough of wind in the canopy. Initially I believed the figure that floated down to us to be a falling branch, but its wings spread, with a low, mourning cry. The black-eyed owl landed upon the King’s shoulder, fanning his feathers and angling his head toward Malcolm.

“Aramis has been my companion for many years, and he will guide you in the ways of healing,” said the King, extending his arm until the owl raised his wings again. He fluttered lightly down onto Malcolm’s head, shedding several downy feathers in the process. “His wisdom, and your heart, will prevent your people from living in sickness.”

“Oh,” said Malcolm, looking up to the owl and greeting him with a nod. “Thank you.”

Being young, and still foolish, I scowled again. What was the use of magic or knowledge when there was healing? What use was I if the most important gift was given to Malcolm?

“But why?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

The King turned his chin, looking over me with quiet perception.

“Why not two healers?” asked I, looking to the ground. “Why only one? Why not me?”

“Meldryn,” said Malcolm, in the sort of supplicating, consoling tone that he had when he was concerned for me. I had always hated that tone.

“I do not believe that your heart is ready to hear my reasoning,” said the King, his voice not reprimanding, but cautionary.

“What is it?” I demanded.

Patiently, the King regarded me, and Malcolm remained very quiet. “You have the mind of a leader and teacher, but you do not have the heart to be a healer,” said he. “The capacity is not in you. It can be taught, but not by me. Only time can give you what your brother has already learned.”

I fell silent, because I could not believe that he could know my mind better than I did. After this, only Malcolm spoke.

“Will we see you again?” asked he, gently stroking the pale chest of Aramis the owl.

“You shall,” said the King, turning slightly. “When the woods permit it, and if there is great need. If your heart will remain open to it, you will find your way back again.”

The tall figure of the Woodland King bent slightly to take the woodland-child from the nursemaid, and he turned his back to us. With the same suddenness of his appearing, he was gone, and I hoped not to see him again for many years to come.

On our journey home, Malcolm chattered away to the owl, to me, about all the sorts of things that I had not taken note of from our exchange with the Woodland King. The further we traveled from the pool, the more I began to regard it all as a dream- one that had weighted my arms down with strange tablets. Yet Malcolm did not feel the diminishing of the magic. If anything, it became more real to him the longer that time wore on.

“-taller than any man I have ever seen, and why should there be only one child? So many men and women, at least twenty I thought, though I never could seem to count them all- one child? Only one? Why, Aramis, you must have the answers to all of my questions. To be sure, you are certainly an older owl than I am-”

“Can you not stop your prattle?” I said, my patience having worn thin. My eyes trailed the damp forest floor, where the black mud clung to my boots.

“I’m just so excited, brother,” said Malcolm, unable to prevent a stupid smile on his face. There was a feather delicately balancing on his ear, which I swept away in irritation.

“For what?” I asked. “To be given the better gifts? To be given something worthwhile?”

“I-” began Malcolm, his smile dissipating slightly. “I think the King knows better than I do what sort of gifts we need.”

“How could he? He doesn’t know you, nor me,” I muttered. I did not know at the time how strong my anger and jealousy had grown, and how very small my heart had become because of it. “He doesn’t know how distractible and stupid you can be!”

There was a beat of silence, and Aramis’ black eyes blinked. “Meldryn,” said Malcolm, again in that tone of his. The glee was beginning to flee from his eyes.

“Don’t start that with me,” I growled. “I don’t want to see him, or you, again.”

Turning away, I stormed off, down another path from the one we had been taking together.

“Oh, you don’t mean that!” cried Malcolm, beginning to follow me, as he always did.

“I do!” I barked. Wheeling back on him, I pointed an accusatory finger to his chest. “Never again. I don’t want to see you everagain!”

Little did I know how long forever would be. Or how wishes that were spoken aloud could come to fruition. I did not see him again, not until the waters of the pool had extended our lives far longer than those of any of our friends or family. Malcolm’s heart grew greater with each passing century, fueled by his care for others and his wisdom in knowing that his gift had not been a burden at all.

Under the weight of my resentment and anger, I became shriveled and cold. The years drew on aimlessly, and I could not stand the presence of any who asked about my past, or where I had come from. I stopped remembering what became before the pool, but could not forget what had come after.

My brother is gone now, as is the Woodland King in his wisdom and foresight. Some live now that knew of Malcolm, and some even believe still in the legend of the ancient Woodland King. Remembering now is more painful than it might have been if I had chosen to do so years ago. If I had chosen to forgive my brother in centuries past, the bitterness would not have been so deep.

I choose now to remember Malcolm’s legacy. When I see the feathers of a great, black-eyed owl fall from the canopy, I remember. When I see a white doe in the glen, her grey eyes perceiving, I remember. When I hear children laugh and play and forgive one another, in the safety and wellness provided by the gifts of the Woodland Folk, I remember.

I think I am ready to forgive again, and to live for what years remain in the heritage that my brother left behind.