by Eolas Pellor

Haræm bent down and plucked the feather from the snow. Even in starlight, it was hard to miss a raven feather, black against the luminous white that blanketed Gwälen’s island. The tip of the quill was driven into the drift, and the vane stood upright from the glistening powder. As if all other things had faded from sight, Haræm’s eye was drawn to it.

Ravens do not moult under the Wolf Moon, which had not yet ended. There had been no struggle in the boughs of the apple tree to knock the pinion loose; snow clung there still. Nor had foot dinted the snow under the trees—no marks spoiled its pristine surface. However it came there, it was not by a human hand. Haræm pondered the matter.

“Who set this here, and why?” Haræm’s words made swirls of mist as she spoke to no one.

Ten steps on, she found another black feather, shimmering in the starlight. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but it wasn’t the cold night air slipping into the folds of her hood that made them rise. Haræm took the second feather into her hand and listened. There was no sound, except the faint enchanted whistle of the dancing lights high overhead—a hint of whatever the music was that made them leap and enfold themselves in the distant skies. All else was still.

Around a bend in the path, she found a third feather. It did not stand in the snow, as the first two had done; it was suspended in the air, and glowed faintly. Haræm debated in her heart if there was magic in the dark night.

“Perhaps it’s caught on a spiderweb,” she reasoned, so she dared to pluck it from the air. As her fingers touched it, the dancing lights in the sky vanished, and the first rays of dawn came over the distant hills in the east. Haræm tucked the raven feathers into her cloak. It was time to return to Gwälen’s tower.

“Three feathers,” she said to herself as she hastened back. She recited the old rhyme of lore:

One for sorrow.

Two for mirth.

Three for feasting.

Four for dearth.

Whoever sent her this message left their intent unclear, though. Ravens might not drop pinions without reason, still she puzzled over why Gwälen might feast, and with whom.

No sooner had she opened the door to the tower than she heard a voice speaking from the gloom within.

“Where have you been, girl?” Gwälen asked.

“Out walking, my lord, to clear my head,” Haræm answered. She slipped off her cloak, hung it on the peg, and went to the loom. The old man looked at her, his eyes glistening in the shadows, but he said nothing as she began to work.

The shuttle sped from side to side, weft between warp. She watched the pattern develop—threads of red, blue, black, and brown wove together. When the weaving was done the cloth would be cut free, but it seemed like Haræm herself would never be free of Gwälen’s loom. How many years had she been here? It was five winters, at least—no! Six. She’d been but ten when Gwälen brought her here.

In all that time, he’d made no move to touch Haræm, but it could not be long; even in her father’s hall, men took what men wanted, and only fear of consequences kept them at bay. Here, far from her family, he alone was lord; what consequence for Gwälen could there be?

The old man came and stood behind her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She tried to ignore it and keep the steady motion of heddles and shuttle going, so there would be no mistake in the cloth to pick out, but fear made it hard. Gwälen’s hand remained there for some time until at last he spoke.

“As soon as you finish this cloth, you will bend threads of white to the beam.” Haræm felt Gwälen’s hand press heavily on her shoulder before he continued. “You must weave the cloth for your wedding dress.” His words made her heart feel heavier than his hand.

“Yes, my lord,” Haræm answered, simply, but her mind raced. The message had been true: three feathers for a wedding feast. But white was no colour for a wedding, nor for any occasion to be happy; white was the colour of death. White was for shrouds, for winter. Eventually, Gwälen walked away, and she was left alone to weave as the cold and clear light of the winter sun slowly filled the room.

When her weaving was finished, she began to snip the threads, tying the loose ends together. That done, she unrolled the cloth from the beam, folded it, and set it to one side. She picked up a bobbin of white thread. It was smooth and tighter than the wool and tow linen she was used to weaving; Haræm ran it through her fingers a few times to test it. She shrugged. Fine thread it was, for an ill purpose.

Then she began to measure; Gwälen hadn’t told her how much cloth to weave, but five ells seemed more than enough. Back and forth she stretched the thread out between the pegs on the warping frame; as she did so, she repeated the counting rhyme under her breath:

One for sorrow.

Two for mirth.

Three for feasting.

Four for dearth.

Five costs silver.

Six brings gold.

Seven a secret,

Ne’er to be told.

Eight for wishes.

Nine to curse.

Ten for bounty.

Eleven, worse.

Twelve for something,

You must not miss.

Thirteen brings nought

But Death’s own kiss.

When she reached the end, she placed a plum stone into a bowl beside the frame. Then she counted backwards, from thirteen to one. The bowl held thirty plum stones, and she filled it twice, and then added thirteen more. Winding the thread back and forth was easy work but took time, and the sun had risen high in the cold sky before she was done. The thread measured, she tied it in bundles and cut it free.

Before she began to tie the warp to the loom, she fetched the three black feathers from her cloak, and bound them together with a red thread wound three times. She fastened them to a bronze pin in the middle of the loom’s cross head. As she wove, she looked at them from time to time; if Gwälen ever noticed it, he did not ask, not even when he came and stood behind her with his hands on her shoulders.

Spiralling vines and leaves—the tokens of life, intricate designs suitable to a wedding—she wove into the cloth. White on white they were hard to see, except in daylight, slowing her work. The Storm Moon came and went before her weaving was done.

When at last she was finished, Gwälen was nowhere to be seen, being out about his business. Haræm, knowing the wedding dress must now be sewn, tore the web into shreds in his absence, rather than obey her lord’s command. But that night, Gwälen saw the empty loom, though the cloth was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is the cloth you wove?” he asked her.

“There was a flaw in the thread,” Haræm told him.

“A flaw?” he scoffed. “What flaw could there be? It was the finest linen thread I could find, wet spun by maidens, from the finest flax.”

“Nonetheless,” she told him. “I had almost finished the cloth when a line of blood appeared and spread out from the middle to the cloth, and ruined it.”

“A curse on them who spun the thread, then,” Gwälen said. “I will go and fetch better, even if I must search from east to west to find it.” His words fell heavily on Haræm’s heart; her fate might not be so easily avoided.

The Ploughing Moon was a sennight from full when Gwälen brought her new white thread, and bade Haræm set about weaving her wedding cloth again. Throughout the Ploughing Moon she wove; the heddles rose and fell as she threw the shuttle from selvage to selvage, and the length of the cloth was wound onto the beam.

But each night, while Gwälen slept, Haræm quietly unpicked the weaving she had done in the daylight.

When the moon had waned to a sliver left in the sky, Gwälen came and stood behind her and slid his hands down her arms. Then he noticed there was little cloth, less than an ell, wound upon the beam.

“Why is the cloth not finished?” he asked her. “Each day, I see you weaving, but after a month there is little to show for it, and our wedding approaches.”

“This thread does not wish to be woven,” Haræm told him.

“What story is that?” he sneered. “Who has heard of thread refusing to be woven? It was the finest thread I could find, in all the land.”

“Nonetheless,” she told him. “You have seen me weave, and yet there is no cloth for a dress after a month of weaving.”

“A curse on them who spun the thread,” Gwälen said “I will go and fetch better, even if I must go to the land of the fay to find it.” Haræm pondered who might rescue her from his desires, for in his words, her doom lay heavy. Then memory stirred inside, and she spoke out.

“My lord, neither my mother, nor my brothers have consented to this match. How am I to wed then?” she asked. “Let me send messages to them, and bid them to attend the feast. Surely gossips will think ill if no one from my family comes.” She felt his hands cease caressing her arms, and a chill filled the room.

“Maleth, your eldest brother, was taken mad,” Gwälen spoke without any gentleness. “He slew the father and brother of Tairbhe, his betrothed, your mother and your uncle—all before he himself was slain. Tairbhe threw herself into the river from sadness.” The words settled heavily in her heart.

“But, my other brothers? I have four brothers more,” Haræm whispered.

“They are gone,” Gwälen said. “Missing. Fled, some say, from the madman. No man alive knows where they might be.” Was that true? Haræm doubted Gwälen’s words in her bones; there was no truth in him. He left her alone at that and, with a heavy soul, she went out to walk around the island.

Until this winter, Gwälen had never touched her, and she had hoped that all he wanted from her was her weaving. Now that idea seemed foolish; men like him, lords and princes, took what they pleased. Her father dead, her mother wed to his brother, Gwälen had stolen her away. Now, without even the protection of distant brothers she might summon, there was nothing left to keep Gwälen at bay. She was alone.

The spring breeze smelled fresh with a promise that seemed bitter to Haræm. The scent of tilled earth and green things came to her, and she listened as the birds sang, each mating pair rejoicing. She passed the apple trees where the buds were swelling, and came to the far side of the island. There was a little cove where reeds stood in the shallow water. She stood there, thinking of Tairbhe when she heard the rushing sound of wings. Five swans came flying overhead.

Every year since Gwälen had stolen her away, the swans had visited the cove. They were all cob swans: five males, like her lost brothers. In childish fancy, she had wondered if they might not be her kin, for each year they had come to her and never a mate did they bring. She watched as they flew around her three times; then they landed in the cove, swam to shore, and made a circle round her.

Haræm bent and, one by one, laid her hand on the head of each cob swan in turn. They suffered her touch, and she fed them corn from her hand.

“My otherworldly brothers,” Haræm said. “I know not why you visit me, a girl of flesh and blood, but it matters not, for I am in peril.” The heads of the cob swans nodded; at least they did not mock her fears. She looked around to make sure no one was near, then she continued.

“Gwälen, who has held me here as his captive, wishes to make me his wife. He has set me to weave the cloth for my wedding dress. Twice I have evaded him but cannot do so a third time, yet I will not wed the man who stole me away from my home and kin. You swans of Hy-Brasil must aid me.”

The cobs stood in a circle as if discussing matters while Haræm listened. Should anyone have come upon them, a strange parliament it would have seemed; no mortal would have understood what they said to each other, for they spoke no human tongue. At length, each swan pulled feathers from its breast, and laid them in Haræm’s hand—twelve downy feathers from each the five brothers. She understood what she was to do, and gathering them, she went back to Gwälen’s tower and her loom.

The next day, Gwälen brought her thread—white as snow, shimmering and polished, light as silk—which he had obtained from the fays She measured it and bent it to the loom as she had done twice before, then set to weaving. As the Budding Moon waned, day by day, ever more cloth was wound upon the beam.

Gwälen kept close watch on her, as if he harboured suspicion. Sometimes, as he stood behind Haræm as she wove, he slipped his hand down from her shoulders, into her dress and cupped one breast. Somehow, she did not shudder.

“Soon you’ll finish weaving, then you will sew your dress,” he told her one day, pulling at her nipple. Haræm wished to strike him, but she did not dare. Whenever he turned away again, she wove the swansdown, feather by feather, into the underside of the cloth. The fine thread, warp and weft, held them in place, and Gwälen knew nought about it.

“When will the bride-ale be ready?” she asked, another day, while he stood behind her.

“On the day of Erdiste.” Gwälen’s answer made her heart sink. “What better day for a man to wed his bride than the feast of the Inghean? Don’t worry, girl. Just a fortnight more, and you’ll be bedded.” His thick fingers gave her nipples a twist so that she gasped, then he left, chuckling. Haræm looked at the three raven feathers; she had been warned, she knew. Three were the feathers, three the months, and three her attempts to evade Gwälen—let only Erdiste the Maiden guard her maidenhead! She opened the purse in which she kept the swansdown; there were just six feathers left. She selected one, and began to weave it into the cloth.

The Hare Moon had just passed full when Gwälen brought women from the nearest villages to help her to sew her wedding dress. They worked diligently on the sleeves and the skirts, the hem and the train, and said not a word against Gwälen, their lord. Yet Haræm saw pity in their eyes as she sewed the bodice. When all was finished and she tried on the shimmering dress, Haræm thought that she looked more like one laid out for burial than a bride.

On the last night of the moon, Gwälen’s guests began to arrive. These lordlings came singly or in pairs and were much like himself: grasping, violent, carousers. The women who had sewn the dress were pressed into service in the kitchens and at table while the guests quaffed wine and beer like water, and ate every scrap of roast beef, venison, duck, goose, and capon laid before them. Gwälen’s eyes devoured Haræm as she served him meat and drink, for all she looked pale and wan.

The next night was the Dark of Moon, and the feasting and riotous celebration grew wilder. Fiddlers and harpers played until their strings broke; the poets recounted the old tales of betrayal, from Teantyr of the Seven Swords, to the tale of Sáeyel of the Hostages; each bard tried to outdo the other while Gwälen and his guests roared and applauded.

Long after midnight, when the music, carousing, and tumult ceased, and the men were all asleep, Haræm went into her room and lit a candle. She set it in the window, and said a prayer to Erdiste the Inghean as the sliver of the new Horse Moon rose over the island. Then she put on her dress, wrapped her cloak around her and, without a word, slipped silently from Gwälen’s tower and hall.

When he woke on the Day of Erdiste, Gwälen sent the women to conduct his bride to him, yet they came back without her. Swift his steps to Haræm’s chamber, yet too late and slow to find his bride. In wroth, he called for his hunting hounds, and set them on her scent. He mounted his great black horse and followed the harriers across the island. Their baying led him to the little cove on the far side of the island. Haræm’s shoes, her purse, and her cloak of blue were set carefully upon the grass; he could see the prints of her dainty feet in the dew, leading down to the water’s edge.

He saw no sign of Haræm, at first. The only thing he could see were five cob swans and a single pen swimming away, into the mist. Then he saw the dress, deep in the water, and he cursed. Before she vanished from his sight, Gwälen swore that the pen looked back at him, and laughed.