Mordred's Water (a reposted story)

[ It was pointed out to me that the original title of this was misleading and may have put off the sort of critiquing writers I had tried to solicit. So here it is reposted and retitled. I promise that this is simply to attract some constructive criticism so I may improve my work, and not a shameless attempt at point whoring, so if you have already viewed this before please accept my apologies, but hey, if that is an unintended result then I ain't going to cry about it :-) ]

 

There is a place where some people go when they want to be alone, where you can sit and see no other person. The west wind carries the scent of the trees, and on the east you can breathe the salt of the sea. It is a perfect place so sit and think, and when I go there, I do so to remember something that happened many years ago in a place not so very different, yet a world away.

--

At a time so far past that there is no measure for it, there was a harbour village called Wetherel. It was not large; no more than three score families lived there. At the far end of the village lived a fisherman called Basal and his wife, Abetha. They had many children, and the oldest of these was the girl Jemima.
Since Jemima was the eldest daughter, it was her job to help keep the house in order, to tend the garden and to buy from the market those things they could not grow or make for themselves. She watched over the younger children by day and served the adults at night. This was what her parents had set for her to do, the way it had always been and all she had ever known.
Until, that is,  the day of the storm.

It stained the horizon black. The fishermen did not leave when they saw those black clouds, not even the bravest or most foolhardy who should have been lost to the sea many times before. Nobody spoke much, and everyone looked out to the east, waiting. Jemima, as was expected, kept the children indoors and let them play in the loft. She kept the men folk full of food and drink. She kept the fire hot and the ale cold and, like everyone else, she kept an eye on the weather.
Just before the light disappeared behind the hills, they saw the ship beyond the harbour. It was making for land as fast as it could, the fury of the storm behind it. Even the hardest of the men crossed themselves as the storm engulfed it and it disappeared from sight. And then the storm hit the village, and it was as if the fury of Hades itself had risen up to greet them. The wind screamed about the houses and the rain pelted so hard it could have made the stones bleed. Jemima and her family hid in the cellar and prayed that they once again would see the light of day.

The next day everyone emerged from where they had hidden. There was plenty to be done but all anyone could think of was the ship. There was pitifully little to tell anyone what had happened. A few pieces of shattered wood, a strip of sail, and although Jemima was not the only one scouring the beach that day, many gave up before too long. However she kept looking.

A form, half buried in the sand, caught her eye. It could have been driftwood or a rock but for the fact that she saw it move, just once. She ran over to take a look.

The man she had found was not yet dead, but he was not far from it either. His skin was blue. She yelled and yelled until her throat was raw and eventually others came running. Soon there was an anxious crowd and a clamour of voices.
'Who is he?'
'Blowed if I can tell.'
'Is there anyone else?'
'Still alive? He has the luck of the Gods with him, this one!'
They brought him into Jemima's house, and the healer was called for.
Unfortunately, the sea had soured his wounds, and the healer was subdued as he examined the man. 'Ah he is in a bad way.' he mumbled. 'I don't think he will survive. He will become fevered soon, and he is already very weak.'
It was well into the night when the healer finally left. When Jemima finally showed him out, only her parents remained awake.
'How is he?' her father asked gruffly.
'Bad.' Jemima sighed 'But he will be alright.' She tried to put as much hope into her voice as she could.
Her father grunted. Jemima knew him well enough to know he was upset. All men of the sea were sensitive to its cruelty.
'Well, he is obviously going to be here for a while.' her mother said. 'As it seems he is in your room, you will have to sleep with the younger children. We will move your things tomorrow.'

Jemima abandoned her usual chores after that, and stayed for as long as she could by the young sailor's side. As the healer had predicted, the fever set in and for a long time he was delirious. His pain broke her heart, but there was nothing she could do except keep him cool. The days passed like small eternities, and more than once the healer pronounced him all but gone. But Jemima refused to give in. With a stubbornness that surprised her parents and herself, she stayed by his side.

Then the fever broke. One morning his eyes were open and he was looking at her. She cried out in surprise. 'Mama!'
Abetha came into the room and gave a startled little shout.
'Where am I?' the young man asked.
'You are in Wetherel.' her mother replied, feeling his brow. 'Your ship was caught in the storm. Do you remember?'
He closed his eyes and groaned.
'Go get the healer, Jemima.' her mother commanded. 'He should look at the poor lad now that he's awake.'
The healer hummed and hahhed his way through the examination, and pronounced him safe. 'Miraculous. You did good work girl.' and he patted Jemima on the shoulder.
When he had gone, she peeked into the room. The young sailor was near to sleep. His skin had lost its pallor and was now almost bronze in the firelight. He looked at her and smiled, and his sad grey eyes sparkled. She tiptoed over and sat on the edge of the bed. 'The healer told me all that has gone on.' he said in a soft, tired voice that was barely above a whisper. 'It seems I have a lot to thank you for.'
Jemima blushed and looked away. 'It was nothing.' she replied. All of a sudden she was uncomfortable.
'On the contrary,' he continued, very seriously 'it was everything. Thank you.' He took her hand in his. He was still weak, but he felt as if he would never ever let go. With a shock, Jemima realised that she did not really want him to.
'Tell me, what is your name?' she said, trying to change the subject.
He smiled, and the warmth of suns was in his smile. 'My name is Christian.'
'My name is Jemima.'
'Thank you Jemima.' he replied. Then Christian laid back and his eyes closed in sleep, still holding her hand. Jemima just sat there, looking at him. When she finally let go and stood up to leave she saw her mother by the door, her expression unreadable.

In the days that followed, Jemima was very busy. Her usual chores had been ignored for far too long. After all, Christian was out of danger now, and did not need to be fussed over so. Jemima found herself doing more and more chores away from the house, and from Christian, and whenever her mother found her idle, there was always something else she could do. She began to suspect that they were keeping her away deliberately. Jemima did not pursue it though. She knew better than that; they were her parents, and were to be obeyed. That was the way it had always been.
But that did not stop her from sneaking in to see him whenever she could. Nothing could have stopped her from doing that. He was healing well, and before long he was out of his sickbed, and soon after that he was able to leave the house. Her father was pleased with that: it gave him an excuse to take Christian with him to the pier and the boats whenever he could.
However, whenever Jemima did manage to see him, she knew that his smile was genuine, and whenever they were able to be together and alone. She knew what was happening, and she was happier than she had ever been. Let the village talk, let them look with cool glances. She was truly happy. And that evening when they walked alone along the beach, when he had circled her with his arms, Jemima knew that she was in love.
The next time she saw her mother, she was alarmed at her troubled look. Something was afoot. They were alone in the house, and her mother sat her down.
'There is something you should know Jemima. The whole village is talking about you and Christian.'
'So? Let them.'
'It is not good, my girl.' her mother reproved 'He is from the cities, he is not comfortable here, and he will not stay. You know that. There is a ship sailing here bound for the north in a few days. Christian will be on board. It is time he went home.'
'No!' Jemima cried.
'Yes Jemima.' her mother said firmly, 'He was ill, but he is better now. You healed him, and that was a wonderful thing, and he is very grateful. But that is all. Did you think he would stay? I'm afraid not Jemima. This place is too small for him and...' she paused before finishing, choosing her words carefully 'you two are far too close. It is time to say your goodbyes and be done with it. He is not the one for you Jemima, and you would do well to remember that.'
She fled the room weeping. How could her mother say that to her? But deep down, she knew why the words had hurt. She feared that they might be true.
Jemima did not talk to Christian after that. It broke her heart to do it, but she was heartbroken already, and she had no choice. Her mother was right as always, and that was the end of the matter. All she could do was cry herself to sleep at night, and wait for the pain to fade.

There was a forest in the hills behind Wetherel, although nobody paid much attention to it. All the children knew the stories about that forest; how it swallowed children whole, and so they never ventured anywhere near. As for the adults, well they were fisher folk; their concerns were for the sea. What use did they have for a forest? So it was that no one ever went there, and right then that made it the perfect place for Jemima to be. She had no use for the company of others, for their looks and their talk. The forest air was cool and damp and smelled of earth and leaves. It was as good a place as any to think. So she completed her chores as quickly as she could so she could lose herself among the trees.
As she wandered about however, she came across a path. It was not much of a path, true. The plants almost completely covered it, and the spaces between the stones were slippery with mud. But it was a path, in a place where none should ever have been, and it just begged to be followed.
There was no logic to where it went, up and down the hills, around and around the trees; wherever it seemed fancy chose to lead it. For over an hour Jemima continued like that it until, abruptly, it came to an end in a large clearing.
'Oh, wonderful. Now what?' she said to herself.
There was nothing else in the clearing except a large low rock, dead in the centre. She wandered over and brushed away the moss, and saw that something was carved into its face. It was rough and worn and clogged up with dirt, but Jemima could just, only just, make out what it said.

    This Way  ->

It pointed at the thickest part of the surrounding forest. Puzzled, and more than a little curious, she pushed her way into the bushes and trees. It was hard work, and she was sure that she was getting nowhere when a gnarled old tree trunk loomed out from the brush, and on it was gouged the same thing:

    <- This Way   

Well, she had come so far that she could not turn back now, so she kept on going. Only after she had slipped and fallen on the rough ground for about the fourth time did she realise that what she was doing was completely ridiculous and that she had no idea where she was. She was starting to get worried when finally the trees parted to reveal what was possibly the most beautiful place she had ever seen. It was a narrow valley, little more than a cleft in the hillside, with a sparkling waterfall that spilled into a brook of the sweetest, clearest water she had ever seen. The sun shone warmly on her shoulders, and the plants and trees that covered the slopes were clothed in full blossom, filling her eyes with colour and her nostrils with perfume. It was far too perfect to be real, yet she was certain that she was not in a dream. She numbly stumbled along the bank of the stream when her foot caught on another rock.

       Over
    <- There

In the valley wall, curtained by a lacework of moss, was a low cave mouth. Jemima bent down and clambered inside. The air was cool and refreshing, and somewhere deep inside there echoed a slow drip of water. More curiously however, there was a flickering light further ahead.
She tiptoed over the litter on the floor. As she drew closer the light grew clearer, and she could make out a small room. The walls were formed from the living rock, and here and there someone had managed to lash shelves onto them. They were filled with books and scrolls and bottles and jars. The floor was cluttered with pieces of broken furniture and old, dirty cushions. And in the middle of all this mess, his back turned to her, was a dwarfed, slightly hunchbacked figure. He was poring over an open book on the only unbroken thing in the place: a large, old table.
Jemima froze, too startled to move or speak. But before she could decide what to do next, the figure spoke.
'So you finally got here. Took your time didn't you?'
The voice was old and gruff and rusty, too deep to come from such a little figure. Despite the words, there was no malice in what was said. 'Well come in, come in. You'll catch your death standing the draft like that.'
Jemima was not about to disobey. As she did so the figure turned around. He was a startlingly ugly little fellow. His body was not so much small as stunted, and his limbs seemed as gnarled as old tree roots. His face was tanned and wind burned, and was dominated by a large red blob of a nose on which his glasses perched precariously. His hair was iron grey and matted with moss and twigs it and continued down his face into a beard that was really not more than stubble. Despite all this, there was a serenity to his expression, and a sharp intelligence in the flash of his eyes.
'My, my. You are a one aren't you? Been crying?'
Jemima blushed and wiped the dampness from her cheeks. She had quite forgotten by now the reason she had gone to the forest in the first place.
'Have a seat.' the dwarf said, pointing to a mound of grubby cushions against one wall. Jemima, who was used to obeying instructions without question, did as she was told.
He thumped shut the book he had been reading and a cloud of dust erupted from the table. He sneezed mightily. 'I've got to clean this place some day.' he muttered to himself. Then he came over to the cushions and slumped down opposite her. 'Well then, first things first.' he rumbled 'I suppose you had better tell me your name.'
'S-sorry?' Jemima's mind was still a whirl.
'Your name. You do have one I take it?'
'Oh. Oh yes, of course.' she did not know where her manners had gone. 'I'm Jemima.' she stammered.
'Jemima. Nice name.' he thrust his hand out at her 'My name's Mordred.'
She took his hand in hers. His skin was rough and chapped like old iron, and none too clean, but there was an enormous strength in his hand, and a great gentleness as well. 'Mordred.' she replied absently.
'Not as pretty as Jemima, I'll grant you.' Mordred observed, his voice rusty, 'But it’s served me well enough for more years than I care to recall. Now then Jemima. What exactly is it that I can do for you.'
'I'm sorry?' Jemima could feel a blush rising again to her cheeks. She hated being this flustered.
'Oh no. Not "sorry" again.' He groaned, 'I thought we'd got over that part. Hang on a moment.'
He got up and stumped over to a kettle. From it he poured a large cup of some sort of steaming brew. It smelled foul. 'Drink this.' he told her.
She was still unsure, but he seemed so certain that she did so. It could not possibly taste as bad as it smelled. She was right - it was worse. As soon as it passed her lips however, her head cleared and she could think straight again.
'Feeling better now?' he asked. She nodded. 'Good.' he rumbled 'There's nothing worse than holding a conversation with someone who can only say one word. It goes absolutely nowhere.' He sat back down again. 'Back to where we were. Now that you have found me young lady, what is it you want?'
Now Jemima did not exactly know what he meant. 'You must be mistaken, Mr Mordred. I was not looking for you. I just followed the path. There isn't anything I want.'
The little man smiled. 'Let me tell you something my girl. I may be many things, but I'm never mistaken. Believe me, you were looking for me. You would never have even seen the path or the signs if you hadn't been. And, if you were looking for me, then something is troubling you.'
'How can you know that?' she didn't mean to sound rude. She regretted it as soon as she said it.
But Mordred took no exception. He just shrugged. 'Its what I do.' he replied, 'Now tell me all.'
Jemima lowered her gaze. 'Its nothing, really. I'm just being silly.'
'Oh.' Mordred chuckled. 'It's about love.'
She blushed again, furiously. 'What makes you say that?'
He smiled. 'Talk of silliness generally involves love. Been that way for as long as I can remember.'
'Well, it doesn't matter anyway.' Jemima replied. 'He's leaving soon, and that will be the end of the matter.'
Mordred was watching her intently, one eyebrow cocked above the rim of his glasses. 'Hmmm. I'm guessing he wants you too. But for some reason you can't be together, and you don't know what to do about that.'
'There's nothing I can do.' she could feel her eyes start to sting with tears again.
'Come now Jemima. That is never true. No one is ever as helpless as they may think.'
'But my parents have decided. The whole village has decided.' Jemima replied. 'What do I know? I'm just one person.'
Mordred snorted. 'So? Just being one person doesn't make you wrong, just as being part of a group doesn't make you right.'
Her tears were hot on her face now, but she did not care. 'Even if I am right, what can I do?'
'You can do anything you want. Let's look at this again. Everyone in your village is making him leave. Fine, then why don't you go with him?'
Jemima was shocked at that. First she was shocked that anyone could suggest it. Then she was shocked that she had not considered it herself. 'But that is where I have grown up. It is where my family is. I could never do that…'
'What do you think? You are old enough now to know the difference between right and wrong and strong enough to choose between them and when you can do that you are your own person. It happens sooner to some people and later to others, but it happens to everyone at some time.'
'I just don't know.' Jemima replied. 'It's such a big decision. I'm not big enough to make one like that yet.'
'Well I think you are.' Mordred replied 'But then I'm a dwarf. Everyone looks big to me.'
He sat looking at her for a long time. Jemima felt as if he was looking right through her. Then he got up and went to a shelf. 'I'll tell you what to do - partly.' he announced. He rummaged about, and withdrew a stone flask. It was dusty, and the stopper had been in the neck for so long that it seemed joined to the stone. 'This is something I've been saving for a long time. It is very special. Very powerful.'
'What is it?' Jemima asked.
'Mordred frowned. 'Well I don't really know that it has a name.' he rumbled 'It was made long, long ago by someone who did not have much use for names. Still, it must be called something I guess...' he screwed up his face into a caricature of intense thought. 'I'll call it a Potion of Rightness.' He shrugged. 'It's as good a name as any other. Anyway, I'm giving it to you.' he thrust the flask into her hand. 'Take it back with you. Wait until the very last moment that you can, and then when you need to make a decision, drink from the flask. Then whatever you choose will be the right choice.'
Jemima stared at the flask. 'Are you sure? It seems an awful lot to ask from a potion.'
Mordred smiled. 'Sure as I am of anything. Trust me.' He got up again and felt around on the desk for something. With a sigh of satisfaction produced a dirty old pipe and then, with a casual flick of his fingers, a small yellow flame appeared from nowhere, in the air before him. 'I've been waiting for this all day.' he said, drawing on his pipe until great clouds of blue smoke gouted from its bowl. 'Do you want to try?' he held the pipe out to her. She just shook her head, too surprised speak. 'Very well,' he replied 'but you don't know what you're missing.’ Then just as though he was putting out a match, he pinched out the flame and returned to his cushions, pipe in one hand and book in the other. Suddenly he seemed totally uninterested in her presence. 'I've enjoyed your companionship Jemima, but if I were you I'd leave fairly soon.' he said, by then lost his reading. 'It'll be dark before long and believe me, this forest is no place to be wandering around in with only the moonlight for company.'
She got up and left, holding on tightly to the flask. In next to no time she was back in the village, and she hid the flask in the bottom of the woodpile next to the house. She finished her evening chores and went to bed early, talking to no one.

The next day dawned fine and clear. It was the day the ship was to arrive. It could already be seen coming around the headland. Christian was awake, outside with his few things packed into a bag. Her parents were there, as indeed were the village elders, the fishermen, the stall keepers, their wives and their children. They were there to wish him well of course, but Jemima knew they also wanted to make sure that he did, indeed, leave.

Jemima wandered about the empty village. She looked at every house, every stall, and every plot of land. It had been the only place she had known her entire life, her comfort and her security, but now the ship was drawing near the pier and the time had come to make her decision. She went to the woodpile and retrieved the flask. With trembling hands, she worked the stopper loose and held it to her lips. The liquid inside was cold and clear and tasteless. She drank it all and closed her eyes, waiting.

Nothing happened.

It was so unfair. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. Then suddenly there was a voice behind her.
'Well then?' Mordred was there, perched on top of the woodpile.
'Nothing is happening.' she said.
'Of course not.' his tone was slightly scolding 'Did I say anything would happen? All I said was that whatever choice you made it would be the right one. You still have to make the choice.'
'But I thought it would help. Its still no easier.'
'Nothing is easy Jemima. Nothing worthwhile anyway.'
'Oh dear.' she said. The ship was docking now. She could hear the noise at the pier.
'Decide, Jemima.' Mordred urged quietly.

No matter what, someone was going to suffer, either her parents or Christian. If she stayed, then she would never see Christian again, and that hurt. Yet if she left, her parents would be so angry and upset. Who should she choose?
Then as she struggled, it came to her. If she went with Christian, she did not know what would happen, but at least she would be with him and for the time being at least, she would be happy. If Christian left and she stayed, she would be so desperately sad. Mordred had been right. She was old enough. She wanted to be with Christian and if that meant leaving Wetherel, then so be it.
Mordred grinned, and from behind the woodpile he drew out a bag. In it were her things, packed and ready.
'How did you...' Jemima asked.
'Just in case. Come on, we have to get you to the ship.'

No sooner had she picked up the bag then her mother and father appeared on the path. Her mother's face went like stone when she saw the bag in her hand. Her father looked as dark as a thundercloud.
'Where do you think you are going?' he bellowed.
Jemima stood firm. Her decision was made. The potion had made it the right one. No matter what they did, she would not be diverted. 'I'm going to be with Christian.' she declared 'You are sending him away, so I am going with him.'
'What!' her father stood over her, and the ground fairly shook with the sound of his voice. 'You get back in the house right now!'
'No.' she replied ' I'm going with Christian.'
'You are not!'
'Yes she is.' Mordred stepped out from behind her. His voice was harder and rustier that it had been before, and he stood between her and her parents.
They both went white. 'You...' her mother breathed. She swallowed twice before she could continue. 'Is this your doing?'
'Oh come now Abetha.' his voice was scathing 'You know better than that. The girl has made her decision and she chooses to stick by it. If you wish to stop her,' and here his voice dropped to a threatening rumble 'you will have to deal with me.'
Her father retreated a couple of steps. Jemima was amazed. She had never seen her father step back from anyone before. 'This is not right.' he mumbled 'She cannot go.'
'Yes she can.' Mordred said 'When have you known me do something wrong?'
They looked away. There were tears in their eyes, but they were not going to stop her. However Jemima could not leave just like that. 'Please.' she said 'Don't be angry with me. I have to be with him. But I will be back, I promise. I love you both.'
She embraced her mother, and cried with her. Then she hugged her father harder than she had ever hugged him before. 'Make sure you come back.' he murmured, his voice thick with tears 'We will always be here for you. We love you too.'

As she ran towards the pier, Mordred was still by her side. 'You know my parents.' she asked 'How is that?'
'Come now.' he retorted gently. 'Did you think you were the only person who has ever come to me? I will probably help everyone you will ever know at one time or another. Its what I do.'
'They've never mentioned it before.'
'And neither will you.' Mordred replied 'No one ever does. It suits me that way.'
Christian was still there on the pier, along with most of the village. She brushed past the others, and as Mordred was still with her, nobody interfered. All she could see was Christian's surprised expression. She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him full on the lips.
'What on earth is happening?' he stammered.
'I'm coming with you.' she answered him. 'Now get us onto the ship before anyone tries to stop us.'
'I don't understand. What about your parents?'
'It's very simple. I made my decision. I want to be with you. You do want me to come. Don't you.'
'Do I? Of course I do!'
'Good. Then get me on board before I change my mind.'

--

Jemima did return to Wetherel. She and Christian settled down there several years after they had left in fact, not a dozen houses away from where she had grown up. They had many children, all good and strong, who themselves grew up into important people who travelled far and did wonderful things.

Jemima and Christian visited the forest more than once, and not only to talk of their troubles, which were few. On one of these visits I told Jemima the truth about the potion. You see, it was not magic, at least not of the conventional type, and certainly not mine. It was only water from the stream. Jemima had not needed magic, just a little help.
I liked to count them as my friends. They lived to a good age, I don't doubt that they are still together, and still as happy as that day they sailed away.

Soon after they had gone I moved from the forest, and I've lived in many places and in many forms since then. People still seek me out, those who need me and know where to look, but I now find myself with more idle hours, and I know that my time, too, is coming to an end. So now I go to a restful place to remember and tell my stories to the wind.

It's just what I do.

 

Author Pat M

Copyright Pat M 1992

[ P.S. Greg, I'm still working on that water theme. ]