Читать книгу Mytherotica - Kerry Greenwood - Страница 6

His father was a smith, so he named his fourth and last son Dara, after the tough oak knots with which he fired his furnace when he smelted the precious metal, iron.

His mother died at his birth. Sometimes such sons are cherished as the last remembrance of their wife: not so Dara. His father gave him away to be fostered with a shepherd and bade his household never speak of him again.

But Dara made sheep nervous, and he crept into the forge to watch his father at work. At first he was not noticed. Then he was driven away with harsh words and blows. But, bruised, trembling, he always gathered courage and came back, as though dragged by the wise iron. And his brothers were not smiths. One was a famous hunter, one a famous bard, one a shaman and keeper of lore. None loved the iron as Dara did. So his father, grudgingly, allowed him into the forge and began to teach him the mysteries of his craft. This colour of flame - and only this - meant that the metal could be worked. Hotter, and it could not be beaten. Cooler, and it would fracture under the hammer. It must be doused after the seventh stroke, then heated again, and beaten, and doused again. Many blows Dara endured, and much abuse, for his father still did not love him. But he was eager to learn.

The woman whom his father had married after Dara’s mother had died disliked him, but he did not care. He wore the worst garments, he ate the food the pigs disdained. No gentle embrace had Dara, no kiss of friendship. He did not notice. His mind and soul were bent on the mastery of iron, and they called him Haearn-Dara, Iron Dara, and left him alone. He grew wiry and strong from work at the forge. When he was sixteen and it came time for his shaman journey, he was as alone as the standing stone which guarded the way to the village.

He sat with the other boys to be instructed. He must go forth, fasting, blindfolded for twenty paces, then go on for another seventy paces. He must lie down without shelter and drink the potion.

Then his spirit animal would come to him and reveal itself, because the beast would speak with human voice. He must then come back to the village and declare his beast. The shaman would tell him what it all meant.

Fasting was no great trial for Dara, though the others complained of hunger. He took the cup and walked as instructed, drank it dry and lay down on his back. The night was dark. He heard an owl hooting - was that his guardian? But the owl did not speak except in the manner of owls. He heard a badger grunt as it rumbled past him. Was that his guardian? But the badger did not pause for a greeting. Dara felt the weight of the world as it reeled beneath him. The sky streamed over him, stars moving and dancing. He thought that he heard music, faint and sweet, under the ground.

‘Greetings, Haearn-Dara,’ said a soft voice, close to his ear. He put out a hand and felt soft fur: a pricked nose, upright ears, long, bushy tail.

‘Llwynog,’ said Dara. ‘You are Fox!’

‘Not only Fox,’ said the fox, sliding under his hand so that he stroked the length of its back. ‘Iron-worker. I am the only one of my people who can bear the touch of iron.’

‘Are you not a beast? Are you not my guardian spirit?’ asked Dara, sitting up. The fox sighed and forced his hand up again, to run over its ears and scratch under its chin.

‘I have come to offer you a different life,’ said the fox, and transformed into a naked man with fox red hair and green eyes, pale in the starlight.

‘Why would I want a different life?’ asked Dara. His eyes were full of the beauty of the Fox. He had never seen the like.

‘They do not value you,’ the Fox told him. ‘We would cherish you. We would love you.’

‘What is love?’ asked Dara.

Fox drew him close and kissed him and Iron-Dara melted like ore in the furnace, even like the red iron ready to be poured. His body was on fire for the touch of the fox, and they stroked and slid and made love in the manner of men, in the starlight, in the darkness, until Dara cried aloud in astonishment and delight.

‘Thus,’ said the Fox. ‘Come with me?’

‘Where?’ asked Dara.

‘There,’ replied the fox. He made a gesture and a cave mouth gaped.

‘That is Annywn’s kingdom,’ said Dara. ‘You are Tylwyth Teg, an elf-man.’

‘I am,’ said the fox, ‘and we need a smith. The world is now full of iron, which is poison to us. We must have someone who can work it, and you are that man.’

‘Will you stay with me, in that dark place?’ asked Dara.

‘I will, and it is not dark, but full of light and music. I will lie every night in your arms until the rivers of Annwyn run dry, which is the end of the world.’

‘But you are a fox and an elf,’ said Dara, suddenly afraid. ‘How can I believe you?’

‘You must do as your heart tells you,’ sighed the fox, reverting to animal form and stretching first his front legs and then his back legs, ending with a flourish of tail. ‘I will come back here for three nights. After that - ‘ the animal shook his head. ‘Then I must wait a few more centuries for another such smith. Farewell,’ he said, and loped off into the darkness.

Dara fell asleep. When he woke the sun of afternoon was in his eyes and he plodded back to the village. The others were all there, proclaiming deer and bear and badger and eagle and otter: all the proper animals. Dara sat down at the shaman’s feet. At last the old man noticed him.

‘Dara? What came to you?’

‘A fox,’ he said. ‘Who was not just a fox.’

The shaman saw at once with his second sight that Dara had lain with the Tylwyth Teg, and cried out, scrambling to his feet.

‘Begone!’ he shouted. ‘Tainted! Death Marked! Cursed!’

‘Then I will take my due,’ grunted Dara. He walked back to the forge. His father struck at him. Dara batted the blow away. He was stronger now than his father, the smith. He gathered his own tools and a supply of iron nuggets, won by women from the bog. He took a loaf and a jug of ale and a blanket and walked away from the village he had lived in all of his life.

Stones were thrown after him. Only a few hit his bent back. He fell to his knees, got up, and went on.

When he came to the place where he thought he had met the fox, he sat down, wrapped his blanket around him, ate his bread and drank his ale until darkness fell. Then he sang into the dusk the song of Haearn-Dara.

‘Outcast Dara

Calls to his lover

Fox or Elf

Return to me!

Keep your promise!

I will forge for you

Beautiful knives

Gem-set brooches

Fine strong nails

If you will have me.

From the darkness came the Song of the Fox

Oh my iron-worker

I will love you

I will lie with you

Until the end of the world

If you will come with me

If you will take my hand.

Dara extended his calloused smith’s hand. He felt a clasp, and then was blinking in a great hall, hung with many lights. Music swelled around him.

‘You are home,’ said the Fox, and kissed him.

At the place where the gate of Annywn had opened grew two trees: an ash and an oak. Onn and Dara. They grew tall and strong. The people of the village avoided them. Anyone who strayed between heard strange music, the bark of a dog-fox, the strokes of a smith’s hammer, and enchanting, distant laughter.