 CHAPTER XVIII. OF THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAIN. It was now about two hours afternoon, and a broad band of sunlight lay upon the grass of the veil below Goldmane's feet. He went likely down the scree, and strode forward over the level grass toward the doomering, his helm and war-gear glittering bright in the sun. He must needs go through the doomering to come to the hall, and as he stepped out from behind the last of the big upright stones, he saw a woman, standing on the threshold of the hall door, which was but some score of paces from him, and knew her at once for the friend. She was clad like himself in a green kirtle, gaily embroidered, and fitting close to her body, and had no gown or cloak over it. She had a golden fillet on her head beset with blue mountain stones, and her hair hung loose behind her. Her beauty was so exceeding that so far beyond all memory of her that his mind had held, that once more fear of her fell upon face of God, and he stood still with beating heart till she should speak to him. But she came forward swiftly with both her hands held out, smiling and happy-faced, and looking very kindly on him, and she took his hands and said to him, Now, welcome, Goldmane, welcome face of God, and twice welcome art thou and threefold. Lo, this is the day that thou hast asked for, art thou happy in it? He lifted her hands to his lips, and kissed them timorously, but said naught, and there with all, sure-foot came running forth from the hall, and felt her bounding round about them, barking noisily after the manner of dogs who have met their masters again, and still she held his hands and beheld him kindly. Then she called the hound to her, and patted him on the neck and quieted him, and then turned to face of God, and laughed happily, and said, I did not bid thee whole thy peace, yet thou sayest naught. Is it well with thee? Ye, he said, are more than well. Thou seemest to me a goodly warrior, she said. Has thou met any foremane yesterday or this morning? Nay, said he, none hindered me. Thou hast made the ways easy to me. She said soberly, such as I might do, I did. But we may not wield everything, for our foes are many, and I feared for thee. But come thou into our house, which is ours, and far more ours, than the booth before the pine-wood. She took his hand again, and led him toward the door, but face of God looked up, and above the lintel he saw carved on the dark stone, that image of the wolf, even as he had seen it carved on wood-gray's tie-beam, and therewith such thoughts came into his mind that he stopped to look, pressing the friend's hand hard as though bidding her note it. The stone wherein the image was carved was darker than the other building-stones, and might be called black. The jaws of the wood-beast were open and gaping, and had been painted with cinnabar. But wind and weather had worn away the most of the colour, spake the friend. So it is, thou beholdest the token of the God and Father of our Fathers, that telleth the tale of so many days, that the days which now pass by us, be to them, put as the drop in the sea of waters. Thou beholdest the sign of our sorrow, the memory of our wrong, yet it is also the token of our hope, maybe it shall lead thee far. Wither, said he, but she answered not, a great while, and he looked at her as she stood aghazing on the image, and saw how the tears stole out of her eyes, and ran her down her cheeks. Then again came the thought to him of wood-gray's hall, and the women of the kindred standing before the wolf, and singing of him, and though there was little comeliness in them, when she was so exceeding beautyous, he could not but deem that they were akin to her. But after a while, she wiped the tears from her face, and turned to him, and said, My friend, the wolf shall lead thee no wither, but where I also shall be, whatsoever peril or grief may beset the road, or lurk at the ending thereof, thou shall be no thrall to labour while I look on. His heart swelled within him as she spoke, and he was at point to beseech her love that moment. But now her face had grown gay and bright again, and she said, while he was gathering words to speak with all, Come in, gold man, come into our house, for I have many things to say to thee. And moreover, thou art so hushed, and so fearsome in thy mail, that I think thou yet deemest me to be a white of the waist, such as stone face thy fosterer told thee tales of, and forewarn thee. So would I eat before thee, and sign the meat with the sign of the earth God's hammer, to show thee that he is in error concerning me, that I am a very woman, flesh and fell, as my kindred were before me. He laughed, and was exceeding glad, and said, Tell me now, kind friend, dost thou deem that stone face his tales a mere mockery of his dreams, and that he is beguiled by empty semblances or less, there are there such whites in the waist. Nay, she said, the man is a true man, and of these things are there many ancient tales which we may not doubt. Yet so it is that such whites have I never seen yet, nor ought to scare me, save evil men, be like it is that I have been over much busy in dealing with sorrow and ruin to look after them, or it may be that they feared me, and the wrath-breeding grief of the kindred. He looked at her earnestly, and the wisdom of her heart seemed to enter into his. But she said, it is of men we must talk, and of me and thee, come with me, my friend. And she stepped lightly over the threshold, and drew him in. The hall was stern and grim, and somewhat dusk if for its windows were but small. It was all of stone, both walls and roof. There was no timber-work therein save the benches and chairs, and a little about the doors at the lower end that led to the buttery and outflowers. And this seemed to have been wrought of late years. Yay, the chairs against the gable on the dais were of stone built into the wall, adorned with carvings somewhat sparingly, the image of the wolf being done over the midmost of them. He looked up and down the hall, and deemed it some seventy feet over all from end to end, and he could see in the dimness those same goodly hangings on the wall which he had seen in the woodland booth. She led him up to the dais, and stood there, leaning up against the arm of one of those stone seats, silent for a while. Then she turned and looked at him, and said, Yay, thou lookest a goodly warrior, yet am I glad that thou came as tither without battle. Tell me, gold-main," she said, taking one of his spears from his hand. Ah, thou deft with the spear. I have been called so, said he. She looked at him sweetly and said, Canst thou show me the feet of spear-throwing in this hall, or shall we wend outside presently, that I may see thee throw? The hall sufficeeth, he said. Shall I set this steel in the lintel of the buttery door yonder? Yay, if I canst, she said. He smiled and took the spear from her, and poised it and shook it till it quivered again. Then suddenly drew back his arm and cast, and the shaft sped whistling down the dim hall, and smote the aforesaid door-lintel, and stuck there quivering. Then he sprang down from the dais, and ran down the hall, and put forth his hand, and pulled it forth from the wood, and was on the dais again in a trice, and cast again, and the second time set the spear in the same place, and then took his other spear from the board, and cast it, and there stood the two staves in the wood side by side. Then he went soberly down the hall, and drew them both out of the wood, and came back to her. While she stood watching him, her cheek flushed, her lips a little parted. She said, Good spear cast in for Soothe, and far above what our folk can do, who be no great throwers of the spear. Goldman laughed. Soothe is that, said he, the hardly were I here to teach thee spear-throwing. Will thou never be paid for that simple onslaught? she said. Have I been paid, then? said he. She reddened, for she remembered her word to him on the mountain, and he put his hand on her shoulder, and kissed her cheek, but timorously. Nor did she withstand him, or shrink her back, but said soberly, Good indeed is thy spear-throwing, and me seems my brother will love thee when he hath seen thee strike a stroke or two in wrath. But, fair warrior, there be no foreman here, so get thee to the lower end of the hall, and in the bower beyond shalt thou find fresh water. There wash the waste from off thee, and do off thine helm and horberk, and come back speedily, and eat with me, for I hunger, and so dost thou. He did as she bade him, and came back presently, bearing in his hand both helm and horberk, and he looked to light-limbed, and trim, and listen, an exceedingly goodly man. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 OF THE ROOTS OF THE MOUNTAINS By William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The fair woman, teleth face of God of her kindred. When he came back to the dais, he saw that there was meat upon the board, and the friend said to him, Now art thou gold-mane indeed, but come now, sit by me and eat, though the wood-woman giveth thee but a sorry banquet, O guest. But from the day it is, and we be too far now from the dwellings of men, to have delicate meat on the board, though tonight, when they come back, thy cheer shall be better. Yet even then, thou shalt have no such dainties as stone-face hath imagined for thee at the hands of the wood-white. She laughed therewith, and he no less, and in sooth the meat was but simple of curds and new cheese, meat of the herdsmen. But face of God said gaily, Sweet it shall be to me, good is all that the friend giveth. Then she raised her hand and made the sign of the hammer over the board, and looked up at him and said, Have the earth God changed my face, gold-mane, to what I verily am? He held his face close to hers and looked into it, and him seemed it was as pure as the waters of a mountain lake, and as fine and well wrought every deal of it, as when his father had wrought in his stithy many days, and fashioned a small piece of great mastery. He was ashamed to kiss her again, but he said to himself, This is the fairest woman of the world whom I have sworn to wed this year. Then he spake aloud and said, I see the face of the friend, and it will not change to me. Again she reddened a little, and the happy look in her face seemed to grow yet sweeter, and he was bewildered with longing and delight. But she stood up and went to an ambrine in the wall, and brought forth a horn, shod, and lipped with silver of ancient fashion, and she poured wine into it, and held it forth and said, O guest from the dale, I pledge thee, and when thou hast drunk to me, in turn we will talk of weighty matters. For indeed I bear hopes in my hands too heavy for the daughters of men to bear, and thou art a chieftain's son, and mayest well help me to bear them. So let us talk simply and without guile, as folk that trust one another. So she drank and held out the horn to him, and he took the horn and her hand both, and he kissed her hand and said, Here in this hall I drink to the sons of the wolf, whosoever they be. Therewith he drank and he said, Simply and guilelessly indeed will I talk with thee, prying weary of lies, and for thy sake have I told them any. Thou shalt tell no more, she said, And as for their health thou hast drunk, it is good and shall profit thee. Now sit we here in these ancient seats and let us talk. So they sat them down while the sun was westering in the march afternoon, and she said, Tell me first what tidings have been in the dale. So he told her of the ransackings and of the murder at Calstead. She said, These tidings have we heard before, and some deal of them we know better than ye do, or can, for we were the ransackers of Penetham and Heartsbane. Thereof will I say more presently, What other tidings hast thou to tell of? What oaths were sworn upon the boar last yule? So he told her of the oath of Bristler, the son of Breitling. She smiled and said, He shall keep his oath, and yet red and no blade. Then he told of his father's oath, and she said, It is good, but even so would he do, and no oaths sworn, Or men may trust I am face, and thou, my friend, what oath didst thou swear? His face grew somewhat troubled as he said, I swore to wed the fairest woman in the world, though the dalesman gained said me, and they beyond the dale. Yes, she said, And there is no need to ask thee, whom thou didst mean by thy fairest woman, For I have seen that thou deemest me fair enough. My friend, maybe thy kindred will be against it, and the kindred of the bride, and it might be that my kindred would have gained said it if things were not as they are. But though all men gain say it, yet will not I. It is meets and rites that we twain wed. She spake very soberly and quietly, but when she had spoken there was nothing in his heart but joy and gladness, yet shame of her loveliness refrained him, and he cast down his eyes before hers. Then she said in a kind voice, I know thee, how glad thou art of this word of mine, because thou lookest on me with eyes of love, and thinkest of me as better than I am, though I am no ill woman and no big eyeler. But this is not all that I have to say to thee, though it be much, but there are more folk in the world than thou and I only. But I told thee this first, that thou mightest trust me in all things. So, my friend, if thou canst, refrain thy joy and thy longing a little, and harken to what concerneth thee and me, and thy people and mine. Fair woman and sweet friend, he said, thou knowest of a gladness which is hard to bear if one must lay it aside for a while, and of a longing which is hard to refrain if it mingle with another longing. Knowest thou not? Yea, she said, I know it. Yet, said face of God, I will forbear as thou bidest me. Tell me then, what were the felons who were slain at Carlstead? Knowest thou of them? Overwell, she said, they are our foes this many a year, and since we met last autumn they have become foes of you dalesmen also. Soon shall you have tidings of them, and it was against them that I bade the arm yesterday. Said face of God, it is against them that thou wouldst have us do battle along with thy folk. So it is, she said, no other foreman have we, and now, goldmane, thou art to become a friend of the wolf, and shouts before long be of affinity with our house. That other day thou didst ask me to tell thee of me and mine, and now will I do according to thine asking. Short shall my tale be, because maybe thou shalt hear it told again, and in goodly wise, before thine whole folk. As thou wottest, we be now outlaws and wolves heads, and whilst we lift the gear of men, but ever if we may, of ill men, and not of good. There is no worthy goodman of the dale, from whom we would take one hoof, or a skin of wine, or a cake of wax. Wherefore are we outlaws? Because we have been driven from our own, and we bore away our lives and our weapons and little else. And for our lands, thou seeest this veil in the howling wilderness, and how narrow and poor it is, though it hath been the nurse of warriors in time past. Harken, time long ago, came the kindred of the wolf to these mountains of the world, and they were in a pass in the stony maze, and the utter wildness of the mountains, and the foe was behind them in numbers not to be borne up against, and so it befell that the pass forked. And there were two ways before our folk, and one part of them would take the way to the north, and the other the way to the south, and they could not agree which way the whole folk should take. So they sundered into two companies, and one took one way, and one another. Now as to those who fared by the southern road, we knew not what befell them, nor for long and long had we any tale of them. But we who took the northern road, we happened on this veil amidst the wilderness, and we were weary of fleeing from the overmastering foe. And the dale seemed enough, and a refuge and a place to dwell in, and no man was there before us, and few were like to find it, and we were but a few. So we dwelt here in this veil, for as wild as it is, the place where the sun shineth never in the winter, and scant is the summer sunshine therein. Here we raised a doomering and build it as a hall, wherein thou now sitest beside me, O friend, and we dwelt here many seasons. We had a few sheep in the wilderness, and a few neat fed down the grass of the veil. And we found gems and copper in the rocks about us, wherewith it wiles to chaffer with the aliens, and fish we drew from our river the shivering flood. Also it is not to be hidden that in those days we did not spare to lift the goods of men. Yea, wiles would our warriors fare down unto the edges of the plain, and lie in wait there till the time served, and then drive the spoil from under the very walls of the cities. Our men were not little hearted, nor did our women lament the death of warriors over much, for they were there to bear more warriors to the folk. But the seasons passed, and the folk multiplied in shadowy veil, and livelihood seemed like to fail them, and needs must they seek wider lands. So, by ways which thou wilt one day wot off, we came into a valley that lieth north-west of shadowy veil, a land like thine of Burgdale, or better, wide it was, plentious of grass and trees, well watered, full of all things that man can desire. Were there men before us in this dale, sayest thou? Yea, but not very many, and they feeble in battle, weak of heart, though strong of body. These, when they saw the sons of the wolf with weapons in their hands, felt themselves puny before us, and their hearts failed them, and they came to us with gifts, and offered to share the dale between them and us, for they said there was enough for both folks. So we took their offer, and became their friends, and some of our houses wedded wives of the strangers, and gave them their women to wife. Therein they did amiss, for the blended folk, as the generations passed, became softer than our blood, and many were untrusty and greedy and tyrannous, and the days of the hoarding fell upon us, and when we deemed ourselves the mightiest, then were we the nearest to our fall. But the house whereof I am would never wed with these westlanders, and other houses there were, who had affinity with us, who chiefly wedded with us of the wolf, and their fathers had come with ours into that fruitful dale, and these were called the red hand, and the silver arm, and the golden bushel, and the ragged sword. Thou hast heard these names once before, friend. Yea, he said. And as he spoke the picture of that other day came back to him, and he called to mind all that he had said, and his happiness of that hour seemed the more and the sweeter for that memory. She went on, fair and goodly as that dale, as mine own eyes have seen, and plentiful of all things, and up in its mountains to the east are caves and pits, when silver is digged abundantly. Therefore is the dale called Silverdale. Hast thou heard thereof, my friend? Yea, said face of God, though I have marvelled when she got such full sun of silver. He looked on her and marvelled, for now she seemed as if it were another woman. Her eyes were gleaming bright, her lips were parted. There was a bright red flush on the pommels of her two cheeks as she spake again, and said, Happy live the folk in Silverdale for many and many winters and summers. The seasons were good, and no lack was there. Little sickness there was, and less war, and all seemed better than well. It is strange that ye dalesmen have not heard of Silverdale. Nay, said he, but I have not, of Rosdale I have heard, as a land very far away, but no further do we know of toward that airt. Lieth Silverdale anywhere nigh to Rosdale. She said, It is the next dale to it, yet is it a far journey betwixt the two, for the ice sea pusher the horn in betwixt them, and even below the ice the mountain neck is passable to none, save a bold crag-climber, and to him only bearing his life in his hands. But, my friend, I am but lingering over my tail, because it grieveeth me sore to have to tell it. Harken then, in the days when I had seen but ten summers, and my brother was a very young man, but exceeding strong, and as beautiful as thou art now. War fell on us without rumour or warning, for there swarmed into Silverdale, though not by the ways whereby we had entered it, a host of aliens, short of stature, crooked of limb, foul of aspect, but fierce, warriors, and armed full well. They were men having no country to go back to, though they had no women or children with them as we had when we were young in these lands, but used all women whom they took as their beastly lust bade them, making them their thralls if they slew them not. Soon we found that these foemen asked no more of us than all we had, and there with all our lives to be cast away or used for their service as beasts of burden or pleasure. There then we gathered our fighting men and withstood them, and if we had been all of the kindreds of the wolf and the fruit of the wives of warriors, we should have driven back these felons and saved the dale, though it may be more than half ruined. But the most parts of us were of that mingled blood, thereof the generations of the dalesmen whom we had conquered long ago, and stout as they were of body, their hearts failed them, and they gave themselves up to the aliens to be as their oxen and asses. Why make a long tale of it? We who were left and could brook death, but not thrall them, fought it out together, women as well as men, till the sweetness of life and a happy chance for escape bid us flee, vanquished but free men. At the end of three days flight we had been driven up to the eastern most end of the dale, and up a night of the jaws of the pass whereby the folk had first come into Silverdale, and we had those with us who knew every cranny of that way, while to strangers who knew it not, it was utterly impassable. Night was coming on also, and even those murder-calls were weary with slaying, and moreover on this last day, when they saw that they had won all, they were fighting to keep and not to slay, and a few stubborn carls and queens of what use would they be, for where was the gain of risking life to win them? So they forebore us, and night came on moonless and dark, and it was the early spring season when the days are not yet long, and so by night and cloud we fled away, and back again to shadowy vale. For sooth we were but a few, for when we were gotten into this vale, this strip of grass and water in the wilderness, and had told up our company, we were but two hundred and thirty five of men and women and children. For there were a hundred and thirty and three grown men of all ages, and of women grown seventy and five, and one score and seven children, whereof I was four, as thou may steam, it was easier for grown men with weapons in their hands to escape from that slaughter than for women and children. There sat we in yonder doom-ring, and two council, and to some it seemed good that we should all dwell together in shadowy vale, and beset the skirts of the four men till the days should better. But others deemed that there was little of ale therein, and there was a mighty man of the kindred, Stonewolf by name, a man of middle age, and he said that late in life had he tasted of war, and though the banquet was made bitter with defeat, yet did the meat seem wholesome to him. Come down with me to the cities of the plain, said he, all you who are stout warriors, and leave we hear the old men and the swains and the women and children. Hateful are the folk there, and full of malice, but soft with all and dastardly. Let us go down thither, and make ourselves strong amongst them, and sell our valour for their wealth till we come to rule them, and they make us their kings, and we establish the folk of the wolf amongst the aliens. Then will we come back hither, and bring away that which we have left. So he spake, and the more part of the warriors yea said his reed, and they went with him to the Westland, and amongst these was my brother, Folkmite, for that is his name in the kindred, and I sorrowed at his departure, for he had borne me thither out of the flames, and the clash of swords, and the press of battle, and to me had he ever been kind and loving, albeit he have had the words of hard and froad used on him full oft. So in this veil abode we that were left, and the seasons passed. Some of the elders died, and some of the children also, but more children were born, for amongst us were men and women, to whom it was lawful to wed with each other. Even with this scanty remnant was left some of the life of the kindred of old days, and after we had been here but a little while, the young men, yea, and the old also, and even some of the women, would steal through the passes that we, and we only knew of, and would fall upon the aliens in Silverdale as occasion served, and lift their goods, both live and dead, and this became both a craft and a pastime amongst us. Nor may I hide that we sometimes went lifting other way, for in the summer and autumn we would fare west a little, and abide in the woods, the seas and through, and hunt the deer thereof, and whilst would we drive the spoil from the scattered fork, not far from your shepherd fork, but with the shepherds themselves, and with you, dalesmen, we meddle not. Now that little wood lawn with the toft of an ancient dwelling in it, wherein, saith Bo-me, thou dist once rest, was one of our summer abodes, and later on we built the hall under the pine-wood that thou knowest. Thus then grew up our young men, and our maids were little softer, in such as Bo-me is, and kind is she with all, and it seemed in very sooth, as if the spirit of the wolf was with us, and the roughness of the waste made us fierce, and law we had not, and he did not, though love was amongst us. She stopped awhile, and fell amusing, and her face softened, and she turned to him with that sweet happy look upon it, and said, Desolate and dreary as the dale thou demest friend, and yet, for me, I love it, and its dark green water, and it is to me, as if the fathers of the kindred visit it, and hold converse with us. And there I grew up when I was little, before I knew what a woman was, and strange communings had I with the wilderness. Friend, when we are wedded, and thou art a great chieftain, as thou wilt be, I shall ask of thee the boon to suffer me to abide here at Wiles, that I may remember the days when I was little, and the love of the kindred waxed in me. This is but a little thing to ask, said face of God, I would thou hast asked me more. Fear not, she said, I shall ask thee for much of many things, and some of them be like thou shall deny me. He shook his head, which he smiled in his face, and said, Yea, so it is, friend, but harken, the seasons past and six years war, and I was grown at all slim maiden, fleet of foot, and able to endure toiling off, though I never bore weapons, nor have done. So, on a fair eve and of midsummer, when we were together the most of us, round about this hall and the doom-ring, we saw a tall man in bright war-gear, come forth into the dale by the path that thou came us. And then another, and another, till there were two score and seven men at arms, standing on the grass below the scree yonder. By that time had we gotten some weapons in our hands, and we stood together to meet the newcomers. But they drew no sword, and notched no shaft, but came towards us, laughing in joyous and low. It was my brother Folkmite and his men, those that were left of them, come back to us from the Westland. Glad indeed was I to behold him, and for him, when he had taken me in his arms, and looked up and down the dale, he cried out. In many fair places and many rich dwellers have I been, but this is the hour that I have looked for. Now, when we asked him concerning Stonewolf and the others who were missing, for ten-tenths of stalwart men had fared to the Westland, he swept out his hand towards the West and said with a solemn face, There they lie, and grass groweth over their bones, and we who have come aback, and ye who have abided, these are now the children of the wolf. There are no more now on the earth. Let's be, it was a fair even, and high was the feast in the hall at night, and sweet was the converse with our Folk come back. A glad man was my brother Folkmite, when he heard that for years past we had been lifting the gear of men, and chiefly of the aliens in Silverdale. And he himself was become learned in war, and a deft leader of men. So the days passed and the seasons, and we lived on as we might. But with Folkmite's return there began to grow up in all our hearts what had long been flourishing in mine, and that was the hope of one day winning back our own again, and dying amidst the dear groves of Silverdale. Within these years we had increased somewhat in number, for if we had lost those warriors in the Westland, and some old men who had died in the Dale. Yet our children had grown up. I have now seen twenty and one summers, and more were growing up. Moreover, after the first year, from the time when we began to fall upon the dusky men of Silverdale, from time to time, they who went on such adventures set free such thralls of our blood as they could fall in with, and whom they could trust in. They dwelt, and yet dwelt with us in the Dale. First and last we have taken in three score in twelve of such men, and a score of women thralls with all. Now during those seasons and not very long ago, after I was a woman grown, the thought came to me, and to Folkmite also, that there were kindreds of the people dwelling near us, who we might so deal with, that they should become our friends and brothers in arms, and that through them we might win back Silverdale. Of Rosdale we wanted already that the Folk were not of our blood, feeble in the field, cowed by the dusky men, and at last made thralls to them, so not was to do there. But Folkmite went to and fro to gather tidings, at Wiles' eye with him, at Wiles one or more of Woodfather's children, who with their father and mother and Bome have abided in the Vale ever since the great undoing. Soon he fell in with thy Folk, and first of all with the Woodlanders, and that was a joy to him, for what ye want, he got to know that these men were the children of those of our Folk who had sundered from us in the mountain passes time long and long ago, and he loved them, for he saw that they were hardy and trusty and warriors at heart. Then he went amongst the shepherd Folk, and he deemed them good men easily stirred, and deemed that they might soon be one to friendship. And he knew that they were mostly come from the houses of the Woodlanders, so that they also were of the kindred. And last he came into Burgdale, and found there a merry and happy Folk, little one to war, but stout hearted, and no wise puny, either of body or soul. He went there often and learned much about them, and deemed that they would not be hard to win to fellowship. And he found that the house of the face was the chiefest house there, and that the Alderman and his sons were well beloved of all the Folk, and that they were the men to be one first, since through them should all others be one. I also went to Burgstead with him twice as I told thee erst, and I saw thee, and I deemed that thou would as slightly become our friend. And it came into my mind that I myself might wed thee, and that the house of the face thereby might have affinity thenceforth with the children of the Wolf. He said, Why didst thou deem thus of me, O friend? She laughed and said, Dost thou long to hear me say the words when thou knowest my thought well? So be it. I saw thee both young and fair, and I knew thee to be the son of a noble, worthy, guileless man, and of a beauteous woman of great wits and good read. And I found thee to be kind and open-handed, and simple like thy father, and like thy mother, wiser than thou thyself, new of thyself, and that thou wert desirous of deeds and feign of women. She was silent for a while, and he also. Then he said, Didst thou draw me to the woods and to thee? She reddened and said, I am no spellwife, but true it is that woodmother made a wax an image of thee, and thrust through the heart thereof the pin of my girdle-buckle, and stroked it every morning with an oak-bow over which she has sung spells. But dost thou not remember, gold-mane, how that one day last hey-month, as ye were resting in the meadows in the cool of the evening, there came to you a minstrel that played to you on the fiddle, and therewith sang a song that melted all your hearts, and that this song told of the wild wood, and what was therein of desire and peril, and beguiling in death, and love onto death itself. Dost thou remember, friend? Yes, he said, and how when the minstrel was done, Stoneface spelled to telling us more tales yet of the woodland, and the minstrel sang again, and yet again, till his tales had entered into my very heart. Ye, she said, and that minstrel was wood-want, and I sent him to sing to thee and thine, deeming that if thou didst harken, thou wouldst see the woodland and happen upon us. He laughed and said, thou didst not doubt but that if we met, thou mightest do with me as thou wouldest. So it is, she said, that I doubted it little. Therein were thou wise, said Face of God, but now that we are talking without guile to each other, mightest thou tell me wherefore it was, that folk might made that onslaught upon me? For certain it is that he was minded to slay me. She said, it was sooth what I told thee, that whilst he groweth so battle-eager, that what so edge-tool he beareth must needs come out of the scabbard, but there was more in it than that, which I could not tell thee erst. Two days before thy coming, he had been down to Burgstead in the guise of an old carl, such as thou sawest him with me in the marketplace. There was he guested in your hall, and once more saw thee and the bride together. And he saw the eyes of love, wherewith she looked on thee. For so much he told me, and deem that thou didst take her love but lightly. And he himself looked on her with such love, and this he told me not, that he deemed not good enough for her, and would have had thee give thyself up wholly to her. For my brother is a generous man, my friend. So when I told him on the mourn of that day, whereon we met, that we looked to see thee that eve. For indeed I am somewhat foreseeing. He said, Luke thou somebe, if he cometh, it is not unlike that I shall drive a spear through him. Wherefore, said I, can he serve our turn when he is dead? Said he, I care little, my own turn will I serve. Thou sayest, wherefore, I tell thee, this stripling be guileth to her torment, the fairest woman that is in the world, such an one as his meat to be the mother of chieftains, and to stand by warriors in their day of peril. I have seen her, and thus have I seen her. Then said I, greatly foresooth, shall thou pleasure her by slaying him? And he answered, I shall pleasure myself, and one day she shall thank me when she taketh my hand in hers, and we go together to the bride-bed. Therewith came over me a clear foresight of the hours to come, and I said to him, Yea, fork might, cast the spear and draw the sword, but him thou shall not slay, and thou shall one day see him standing with us before the shafts of the dusky men. So I spake, but he looked fiercely at me, and departed and shunned me all that day, and by good hap I was hard at hand when thou drewest nair abode. Nay, gold man, what wouldst thou with thy sword? Why art thou so red and wrathful? Wouldst thou fight with my brother, because he loveth thy friend, thine old playmate, thy kinswoman, and thinketh pity of her sorrow? He said, with nit-brow and gleaming eyes, Would the man take her away from me before us? My friend, she said, Thou art not yet so wise as not to be a fool at wiles. Is it not so that she herself hath taken herself from thee, since she hath come to know that thou hast given thyself to another? Hath she noted naught of thee this winter and spring? Is she well pleased with the ways of thee? He said, Thou hast spoken simply with me, and I will do no less with thee. It was but four days ago that she did me to wit, that she knew of me, how I sought my love on the mountain, and she put me to sore shame, and afterwards I wept for her sorrow. Therewith he told her all that the bride had said to him, as he well might, for he had forgotten no word of it. Then said the friend, she shall have the token that she craveth, and it is I that shall give it to her. Therewith she took from her finger a ring wherein was set a very fair, changeful mountain-stone, and gave it to him, and said, Thou shalt give her this, and tell her whence thou hast it, and tell her that I bid her remember that tomorrow is a new day. End of chapter 19 Chapter 20 of The Roots of the Mountains by William Morris. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Those two together hold the ring of the earth-god. And now they fell silent, both of them, and sat harkening the sounds of the dale from the whistle of the plover down by the water-side, to the far-off voices of the children and maidens about the kind in the lower meadows. At last Goldmane took up the word and said, Sweet friend, tell me the uttermost of what thou wouldst have of me. Is it not that I should stand by thee and thine in the folk-mote of the dalesmen, and speak for you when ye pray us for help against your foemen? And then again that I do my best when ye and we are a raid for battle against the dusky men. This is easy to do, and great is the reward thou offerest me. I look for this service of thee, she said, and none other. And when I go down to the battle, said he, Shalt thou be sorry for our sundering. She said, There shall be no sundering. I shall wend with thee, said he. And if I was slain in the battle, wouldst thou lament me? Thou shalt not be slain, she said. Again there was silence betwixt them, till, at last, he said, This then is why thou didst draw me to thee in the wild wood. Ye, said she. For a while no word was spoken, and face of God looked on her, till she cast her eyes down before him. Then at last he spake, and the colour came and went in his face as he said, Tell me thy name, what it is. She said, I am called the sunbeam. Then he said, and his voice trembled therewith, O sunbeam, I have been seeking pleasant and cunning words, and can find none such. But tell me this, if thou wiltst, Dost thou desire me, as I desire thee? There is it that thou wiltst suffer me to wed thee. And bed thee, at last, as mere payment for the help that I shall give to thee and thine. Nay, doubt it not that I will take the payment, If this is what thou wiltst give me, and not else. Yet tell me. Her face grew troubled, and she said, Gold, Main, maybe that thou hast now asked me one question too many. For this is no fair game to be played between us. For thee, as I deem, there are this day but two people in the world. And that is thou and I. And the earth is for us two alone. But, my friend, though I have seen but twenty and one summers, It is no wise so with me. And to me there are many in the world, And chiefly the folk of the wolf, amidst whose very heart I have grown up. Moreover, I can think of her whom I have supplanted, The bride to it. And I know her, and how bitter and empty her day Shall be for a while, and how vain all our reads for her Shall seem to her. Yea, I know her sorrow, and see it and grieve for it. And so can'st thou, unless thou verily see her before thee. Her face unhappy, and her voice changed and hard. Well, I will tell thee what thou askest. When I drew thee to me on the mountain, I thought but of the friendship and brotherhood To be knitted up between our two folks. Nor did I any wise desire thy love of a young man. But when I saw thee on the heath, And in the hall that day, It pleased me to think that a man so fair and chieft and light Should one day lie by my side. And again, when I saw that the love of me Had taken hold of thee, I would not have thee grieved because of me, But would have thee happy. And now what shall I say? I know not, I cannot tell. Yet am I the friend as erst I called myself. And go, main, I have seen hitherto But the outward show and image of thee, And though that be goodly, How would it be if thou did shame me With little heartedness and evil deeds? Let me see thee in the folk-mort and the battle, And then may I answer thee. Then she held her peace, and he answered nothing, And she turned her face from him and said, Out on it, have I beguiled myself as well as thee? These are but empty words I have been saying. If thou wilt drag the truth out of me, This is the very truth, That today is happy to me as it is to thee, And that I have longed so for its coming. Oh, gold, main, oh, speech, friend, If thou were to pray me or command me, That I lie in thine arms tonight, I should know not how to gain say thee. Yet I beseech thee to forbear, Lest thy death and mine come of it. And why should we die, oh friend, When we are so young, and the world lies so fair before us? And the happy days are at hand, When the children of the wolf and the kindreds of the dale Shall deliver the folk, and all days shall be good and all the years. They'd both risen up as she spake, And now he put forth his hands to her, And took her in his arms, Wondering the while as he drew her to him, How much slenderer and smaller and weaker she seemed In his embrace than he had thought of her. And when their lips met, He felt that she kissed him as he her. Then he held her by the shoulders at arm's length from him, And beheld her face, How her eyes were closed and her lips quivering. But before him, in a moment of time, Passed a picture of the life to be in the fair dale, And all she would give him there. And the days good and lovely from mourn to eve, And eve to mourn, And though in that moment it was hard for him to speak, At last he spoke in a voice hoarse at first, And said, Thou sayest sooth, o friend, We will not die but live. I will not drag our deaths upon us both, Nor put a sword in the hands of folk might, Who loves me not. Then he kissed her on the brow, And said, Now shall thou take me by the hand, And lead me forth from the hall. For the day is waxing old, And hear me, Seymouth, in this dim hall, There are words crossing in the air about us, Words spoken in days long ago, And tales of old time, That keep egging me on to do my will and die, Because that is all that the world hath for a valiant man. And to such words I would not harken, For in this hour I have no will to die, Nor can I think of death. She took his hand and led him forth without more words, And they went hand in hand, And paced slowly round the doomering, The light air breathing upon them, Till their faces were as calm and quiet as their once was, And hers especially, as bright and happy, As when he had first seen her that day. The sun was sinking now, And only sent one golden ray into the valley, Through a cleft in the western rock wall. But the sky overhead was bright and clear, From the meadows came the sound of the lowing of kind, And the voices of children are sporting, And it seemed to Goldmayne that they were drawing Naya, Both the children and the kind, And somewhat he begrudged that he should not be alone with the friend. Now when they had made half the circuit of the doomering, The sunbeam stopped him, And then led him through the ring of stones, And brought him up to the altar which was a midst of it, And the altar was a great black stone, Hume smooth and clean, And with the image of the wolf-carven on the front thereof, And on its face lay the gold ring, Which the priest or captain of the folk, Bore on his arm between the god and the people at all folk-moats. So she said, This is the altar of the god of earth, And often hath it been reddened by mighty men, And thereon lieth the ring of the sons of the wolf, And now it were well that we swore truth on that ring Before my brother cometh, For now he will soon be here. Then gold-main took the ring, And thrust his right hand through it, And took her right hand in his, So that the ring lay on both their hands, And therewith he spake aloud. I am face of god of the house of the face, And I do thee to wit, O god of the earth, That I pledge my truth to this woman, The sunbeam of the kindred of the wolf, To beget my offspring on her, And to live with her, and to die with her. So help me, thou god of the earth, And warrior and the god of the face. Then spake the sunbeam, I, the sunbeam of the children of the wolf, Pledge my truth to face of god, To lie in his bed, and to bear his children and none others, And to be his speech-friend till I die. So help me, the wolf and the warrior, And the god of the earth. Then they laid the ring on the altar again, And they kissed each other long and sweetly, And then turned away from the altar, And departed from the doom-ring, Going hand in hand together down the meadow, And as they went, the noise of the kind and the children Grew nearer and nearer, And presently came the whole company of them round A nest of the rock wall. There were some thirty little lads and lasses Driving on the milch kind, With half a score of older maids and grown women, One of whom was Bome, who was lightly and scantily clad, As one who heeds not the weather, Or deems all months mid-summer. The children came running up merrily when they saw the sunbeam, But stopped short shyly, When they noted the tall, fair stranger with her. They were all strong and sturdy children, And some very fair, but brown with the weather, If not with the sun. Bome came up to Goldman and took his hand, And greeted him kindly and said, So here thou art at last in shadowy veil, And I hope that thou art content therewith, And as happy as I would wish thee to be. Well, this is the first time, And when thou comest the second time, It may well be that the world shall be growing better. She held the distaf which she bore in her hand, For she had been spinning, as if it were a spear. Her limbs were goodly and shapely, And she trod the thick grass of the veil With a kind of wary firmness, As though four men might be lurking nearby. The sunbeam smiled upon her kindly and said, That shall not fail to be, Bome, Ye have won a new friend today. But tell me, when dost thou look to see the men here, For I was down by the water when they went away yesterday? They shall come to the dale a little after sunset, Said Bome, Shall I abide them, my friend? Said Goldman, turning to the sunbeam. Ye, she said, For what else art thou come hither? Ther art thou so oppressed to depart from us? Last time we met thou were not so hasty to sender. They smiled on each other, And Bome looked on them and laughed outright. Then a flush showed in her cheeks, Through the tan of them, And she turned toward the children and the other women Who were busied about the milking of the kind. But those two sat down together on a bank, Amidst the plain meadow, Facing the river and the eastern rock wall, And the sunbeam said, I am faint to speak to thee, And see thine eyes watching me while I speak. And now, my friend, I will tell thee something unasked, Which has to do with what to eat now, Thou didst ask me, For I would have thee trust me wholly, And know me for what I am. Time was I schemed and planned for this day of betrothal. But now, I tell thee, It has become no longer needful For bringing to pass our fellowship in arms with thy people. Yea, yesterday, air he went on a hunt, Whereov he shall tell thee, Folk might was against it, in words at least, And yet as one who would have it done, If he might have no part in it. So, in good sooth, This hand that lieeth in thine, Is the hand of a willful woman, Who desireth a man, And would keep him for a speech-friend. Now art thou fond and happy, Yet bear in mind that there are deeds to be done, And the truth we have just plighted, Must be paid for. So hark, and I bid thee, Thus thou cared to know why the weadling of thee Is no longer needful to us. He said, A little while ago I should have said, Yea, if thy lips say the words. But now, o friend, It seemeth as if thine hearts Were already become a part of mine, And I feel as if the chieftain were growing up in me, And the longing for deeds. So I say, tell me, For I were feigned to hear what toucheth the welfare of thy folk, And their fellowship with my folk, From that also have I set my heart. She said, gravely, and with solemn eyes, What thou sayest is good, Full glad am I, That I have not plighted my truth To a mere goodly lad, But rather to a chieftain and a warrior. Now then, harken, Since I saw thee first in the autumn, This hath happened, That the dusky men, Increasing both in numbers and insolence, Have it in their hearts to win more than Silverdale, And it is years since they have fallen upon Rosdale and conquered it, Rather by murder than by battle, And made all men thralls there, For feeble were the folk thereof, And doubt it not, But that they were looking to Burgdale before long. They are already abroad in the woods, And were it not for the fear of the wolf, They would be thicker therein, And fairer in wider, For we have slain many of them, Coming upon them unawares, And they know not where we dwell, Nor who we be. So they fear to spread about over much, And pry into unknown places, Lest the wolf howl upon them. Yet beware, For they will gather in numbers, That we may not meet, And then will they swarm into the dale. And if ye would live your happy life, That ye love so well, Ye must now fight for it. And in that battle, Must ye need join yourselves to us, That we may help each other. Herein have ye know to choose, For now with you, It is no longer a thing to talk of, Whether ye will help certain strangers and guests, And thereby win some gains to yourselves, But whether ye have the hearts to fight for yourselves, And though it's to be the fellows of tall men, And stout warriors, Who have pledged their lives to win or die for it. She was silent a little, And then turned and looked fondly on face of God, And said, Therefore, gold-mane, We need thee no longer, For thou must needs fight in our battle. I have no longer ought to do to weedle thee to love me. Yet, if thou wilt love me, Then I am a glad woman. He said, Thou wottest well that thou hast all my love, Neither will I fail thee in the battle. I am not little hearted, Though I would have given myself to thee for no reward. It is well, said the sunbeam, Not is undone by that which I have done. Moreover, it is good that we have plighted truth to-day, For folk might will presently hear thereof, And he must needs abide the thing which is done. Harken, ye cometh! For as she spoke there came a glad cry from the women and children, And those two stood up, And turned toward the west, And beheld the warriors of the wolf, Coming down into the dale, By the way that gold-main had come. Come, said the sunbeam, Hear ye brethren in arms, Let us go greet them, They will rejoice in thee. So they went, thither, And there stood eighty and seven men On the grass below the scree, And folk might their captain, And besides some valiant women, And a few carls who were on watch on the waist, And a half-score who had been left in the dale, These were all the warriors of the wolf. They were clad in no holiday raiment, Not even folk might, But were in sheep-brown gear of the coarsest, Like to husband men late come from the plough, But armed well and goodly. But when the twain drew near, The men clashed their spears on their shields, And cried out for joy of them, For they all knew what face of God's presence there Be tokened of fellowship with the kindreds. But folk might came forward, And took face of God's hand, And greeted him, and said, Hail, son of the older men, Here hast thou come into the age And to bode of chieftains and warriors, And be like deeds await thee also. Yet his brow was knitted as he said these words, And he spake slowly as one that constraineth himself. But presently his face cleared somewhat, And he said, Dalesman, it be over thy people to besture them If you would live and see good days. Hath my sister told thee what is too odd? O what sayest thou? Hail to thee, son of the wolf, said face of God. Thy sister hath told me all, And even if these dusky felons were not our foment also, Yet could I have my way, We should have given thee all help, And should have brought back peace and good days to thy folk. Then folk might flushed red and spake, As he cast out his hand towards the warriors, And up and down towards the dale. These be my folk, and these only, And as to peace, only those of us know of it, Who are old men. Yet is it well, and if we and ye together Be strong enough to bring back good days To the feeble men whom the dusky ones torment In Silverdale, it shall be better yet. Then he turned about to his sister, And looked keenly into her eyes, Till she reddened, and took her hand, And looked at the wrist, and said, O sister, see I not the mark on thy wrist Of the ring of the God of the earth? Have not oaths been sworn since yesterday? True it is, she said, That this man and I have plighted Troth together at the altar of the doom-ring. Said folk might, Thy will to have thy will, And I may not amend it. Therewith he turned about to face of God, And said, Thou must look to it to keep this oath, Whatever other one thou hast failed in. Said face of God, somewhat wrathfully, I shall keep it, whether thou bidest me To keep it or break it. That is well, said folk might, And then, for all that hath gone before, Thou mayest in a manner pay, If thou art dawnless before the foe. I look to be no blensher in the battle, Said face of God, That is not the fashion of our kindred, Whosoever may be before us, Yea, and even were it thy blade, O mighty warrior of the wolf, I would do my best to meet it in manly fashion. As he spake, he half drew forth Dalewarden from his sheath, Looking steadily into the eyes of folk might, And the sunbeam looked upon him happily, But folk might laughed and said, Thy sword is good, And I deem that thine heart will not fail thee. But it is by my side, and not in the face of me, That thou shalt redden the good blade. I see not the day when we twain shall hew at each other. Then in a while he spake again, Thou must pardon us if our words are rough, For we have stood in rough places, Where we had to speak both short and loud, Whereas there was much to do. But now will we twain talk of matters That concern chieftains, Who are going on a hard adventure, And ye women, do ye dite the hall for the evening feast, Which shall be the feast of the troth-plight for you twain. This indeed we owe thee, O guest, For little shall be thine heritage, Which thou shalt have with my sister, Over and above that thy sword winneth for thee. But the sunbeam said, As thou any tonight? Ye, he said, Spear-god, how many was it? There came forward, a tall man, Bearing an axe in his right hand, And carrying over his shoulder by his left hand, A bundle of silver arm-rings, Just such as Goldmane had seen on the felons Who were slain by Wood-Grey's house. The carl cast them on the ground, And then knelt down, and fell to telling them over, And then looked up and said, Twelve yesterday in the wood, Where the battle was going on, And this morning, seven by the tarn in the pine wood, And six near this eastern edge of the wood, One score and five all told, But, Folkmite, there come in night a shadowy veil, Sooth is that, said Folkmite, But it shall be looked to, Come now, apart with me, face of God. So the others went their ways toward the hall, While Folkmite led the burgdailer To a sheltered nuke under the sheer rocks, And there they sat down to talk, And Folkmite asked Goldmane, Closely of the muster of the dalesmen And the shepherds and the woodland carls, And he was well pleased when face of God told him Of how many could march to a stricken field, And of their archery, And of their weapons and their goodness. All this took some time in the telling, And now night was coming on a pace, And Folkmite said, Now will it be time to go to the hall, But keep in their mind that these dusky men Will overrun you, unless you deal with them be times. These are of a kind that you must cast fear Into their hearts by falling on them, For if ye abide till they fall upon you, They are like winter wolves that swarm on and on, How many so ever ye slay. And this above all things shall help you, That we shall bring you, Whereas ye shall fall on them unawares, And destroy them as boys do with a wasp's nest, Yet shall many a mother's son bite the dust. Is it not so that in four weeks' time Is your spring feast and market at Burgstead, And thereafter the great Folkmoat? So it is, said Golmain. Dither shall I come, then, said Folkmite, And give myself out for the slayer of Rusty, And the ransacker of Heartsbane and Penethom, And therefore shall I offer good Blood-white and Theft-white, And thy father shall take that, For he is a just man. Then shall I tell my tale, Yet it may be thou shall see us before, If battle be tied, And now, fair before this new year, For soon shall the scabbards be empty, And the white swords be dancing in the air, And spears and axes shall be the growth of this spring tide, And he leapt up from his seat, And walked to and fro before Golmain, And now was it grown quite dark. Then Folkmite turned to face of God, And said, Come, guest, the windows of the Harley yellow, Let us to the feast, Tomorrow shall thou get thee to the beginning of this work. I hope of thee that thou art a good sword, Else have I done a folly, And my sister a worse one, But now forget that and feast. Golmain arose, not very well at ease, For the man seemed overbearing. Yet how might he fall upon the sunbeams kindred, And the captain of these new brethren in arms? So he spake not. But Folkmite said to him, Yet I would not have thee forget That I was wroth with thee when I saw thee today, And had it not been for the coming battle I had drawn sword upon thee. Then face of God's wroth was stirred, And he said, There is yet time for that, But why art thou wroth with me, And I shall tell thee, That there is little manliness in thy chiding? For how may I fight with thee, Thou, the brother of my plighted speech-friend, And my captain in this battle? Therein thou say a soothe, Said Folkmite, But hard it was to see you two standing together, And thou canst not give the bride to me, As I give my sister to thee. For I have seen her, And I have seen her looking at thee, And I know that she will not have it so. Then they went on together toward the hall, And face of God was silent and somewhat troubled. And as they drew near to the hall, Folkmite spake again. Yet time may amend it, And if not there is the battle, And may be the end. Now we be merry. So they went into the hall together, And there was the sunbeam, Gloriously arrayed, As earthed in the woodland bower, And face of God sat on the dais beside her, And the uttermost sweetness of desire Entered into his soul, As he noted her eyes and her mouth, That were grown so kind to him, And her hand that strayed toward his. The hall was full of Folk, And all those warriors were there With Woodfather and his sons, And Woodmother, And Boemay and many other women, And Goldmayne looked down the hall, And deemed that he had never seen Such stalwart bodies of men, Or so bold and meat for battle. But as for the women, He had seen fairer in Burgdale, But these were fair of their own fashion, Shapely and well-knit, And strong-armed and large-limbed, Yet sweet-voiced and gentle with all. Nay, the very lads of fifteen winters or so, Whereof a few were there, Seemed bold and bright-eyed and keen of wit, And it seemed like that, If the warriors fared afield, These would be with them. So wore the feast, And Folkmite, as a fortine, Amongst the healths, Called on men to drink to the jaws of the wolf, And the red hand in the silver arm, And the golden bushel, And the ragged sword. But now had face of God no need To ask what these meant, Since he knew that they were the names Of the kindreds of the wolf. They drank also to the troth-plight, And to those twain, And shouted aloud over the health, And clashed their weapons, And Goldmane wondered What echo of that shout Would reach to Burgstead. Then sang men songs of old-time, And amongst them, Woodwind stood with his fiddle Amidst the hall, And Bome beside him, And they sang in turn to it, Sweetly and clearly, And this is some of what they sang. Wild is the waste, And long leagues over, Wither them when' ye spear and sword, Where nought shall see your helms, But the plover far and far From the dear dales swore. Many a-leagues shall we wend together With helms, spear, and bended bow. Hark! How the wind blows up for weather! Dark shall the night be with a we go! Dark shall the night be round the bayer, And dark as we drive the brindled kind, Dark and dark round the beacon fire, Dark down in the past round our wavering line. Turn on thy path, O fair footmaiden, And come our ways by the pathless road. Look how the clouds hang low and laden, Over the walls of the older boat! There are my feats for the rough waste wending, Wild is the wind, and my kirtle's thin, There shall I be ere the long ways ending, Drops down to the dale and the grief therein. Do on the brogues of the wild wood rover, Do on the bernie's ring-close mail, Take now the staff that the barbs hang over, O'er the wind and the waste and the way to prevail. Come, for out from thee shall I sunder, Come, that a tale may arise in the land, Come, that the night may be held for a wonder, When the wolf was led by a maiden's hand. Now will I fare as year-faring, And when no way but the way ye went, And bear but the burdens ye are bearing, And end the day as ye shall end. And many an eve, when the clouds are drifting, Down through the dale till they dim the roof, Shall they tell in the hall of the maiden's lifting, Of how we drave the spoiler-loof. Over the moss, through the wind and the weather, Through the morn and the eve and the death of the day, When we mannered made together, For out of the waste is born the fray. Then the sunbeam spake to gold-mane softly, And told him how this song was made by a minstrel, Concerning a foray in the early days Of their first abode in shadowy veil, And how, in good sooth, a maiden led the fray, And was the captain of the warriors. First, she said, this was counted as a wonder, But now we are so few that it is no wonder, Though the women will do whatsoever they may. So they talked, and gold-mane was very happy, But ere the good-night cup was drunk, Folk-mights spake to face of God and said, It were well that ye rose betimes in the morning, But thou shalt not go back by the way thou came must. Wood-wise an another shall go with thee, And show thee a way across the necks and the heaths, Which is rough enough as far as toil goes, But where thy life shall be safer, And thereby shalt thou hit the grill of the weltering water, And so come down safely into Burgdale. Now that we are friends and fellows, It is no hurt for thee to know the shortest way to shadowy veil. What thou shalt tell concerning as in Burgdale, I'll leave the tale there off to thee, Yet be like, thou wilt not tell everything, Till I come to Burgstead at the spring-market side. Now must I presently to bed? For before daylight tomorrow, Must I be following the hunts, Along with two score-good men of ours? What beast is a field, then? said Goldmane, Said Folk-mights, The beasts that beset our lives, The dusky men. In these days we've learned how to find companies of them, And for sooth every week they draw nair to this dale, And some day they should happen upon us If we were not to look to it, And then would there be a murder great and grim. Therefore we scour the heaths round about, And the skirts of the woodland, And we fall upon these felons in diverse guises, So that they may not know us for the same men. While so we clad in homespun as today, And seem like to fieldwork in carls, While in scarlet and gold like the knights of the westland, While in wolfskins, While in white glittering gear like the whites of the waist, And in all guises these felons, For all their fears, hearts, Fierce, and flee from us, And we follow and slay them, And so minish their numbers somewhat, Against the great day of battle. Tell me, said Goldmaid, When we fall upon Silverdale, Shall their thralls, the old dale-dwellers, Fight for them or for us? Said Folkmite, The dusky men will not dare to put weapons into the hands of their thralls. Nay, the thralls shall help us, For though they have but small stomach for the fight, Yet joyfully when the fight is over, Shall they cut their master's throats? How is it with these thralls? said Goldmaid. I've never seen a thrall. But I, said Folkmite, have seen many down in the cities, And there were thralls who were the tyrants of thralls, And held the whip over them, And of the others there were some who were not very hardly entreated. But with these it is otherwise, And they all bear grievous pains daily, For the dusky men are as hogs in a garden of lilies. Whatsoever is fair, they have defiled and deflowered, And they wallow in our fair halls, As swines strayed from the dunk hill. No delight in life, no sweet days do they have for themselves, And they begrudge the delight of others therein. Therefore their thralls know no rest or solace, Their reward of toil is many stripes, And the healing of their stripes grievous toil. To many of they are pointed to dig a mine in the silver-yielding cliffs, And of all the tasks is that the soarest, And there to stripes abound the most. Such thralls art thou happy not to behold, Till thou has set them free, as we shall do. Tell me again, said face of God, Is there no mixed folk between these dusky men and the dalesmen, Since they have no women of their own, But lie with the women of the dale? Moreover, do not the poor folk of the dale Beget and bear children, So that there are thralls born of thralls? Wisely thou askest this, said folk might, But thereof shall I tell thee, That when a dusky carl mingles with a woman of the dale, The child which ye beareth, Shall oftenest favour his race and not hers, There else shall it be witless, a fool natural. But as for the children of these poor thralls, Yea, the masters cause them to breed, If so their masterships will, And when the children are born, They keep them, or slay them as they will, As they would with welps or calves. To be short, year by year, These vile wretches grow fiercer and more beastly, And their thralls more hapless and downtrodden. And now at last is come the time, Either to do or to die, As ye men of Burgdale shall speedily find out. But now I must go sleep, If I am to be where I look to be at sunrise tomorrow. Therewith he called for the sleeping-cup, And it was drunk, and all men fared to bed. But the sun-beam took Goldmane's hand, ere they parted and said, I shall arise betimes on the morrow, So I say not farewell to-night. Yea, and after tomorrow, It shall not be long ere we meet again. So Goldmane lay down in that ancient hall, And it seemed to him, ere he slept, As if his own kindred were slipping away from him, And he were becoming a child of the wolf. And yet, said he to himself, I am become a man, for my friend, Now she no longer telleth me to do or for bear, And I tremble. Nay, rather she is feigned to take the word for me. And this great warrior and ripe man, He talketh with me, As if I were a chieftain meet for converse with chieftains. Even so it is, and shall be. And soon thereafter, He fell asleep in the hall in shadowy veil. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Of The Roots of the Mountain By William Morris This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Face of God Lukath on the dusky men. When he awoke again, He saw a man standing over him, And knew him for woodwise. He was clad in his war-gear, And had his quiver at his back, And his bow in his hand, For woodfather's children were all good bowmen, Though not so sure as bow-may. He spake to face of God, Dorn is in the sky, dalesmen. There is yet time for thee to wash the night off thee In our bath of the shivering flood, And to put thy mouth to the milk-bowl. Put time for naught else, For I am bow-mayer appointed thy fellows for the road, And it were well that we were back home speedily. So Face of God leapt up, And went forth from the hall, And woodwise led to where was a pool in the river, With steps cut down to it in the rocky bank. This, said Woodwise, Is the carl's bath, But the queen's is lower down, Where the water is wider, And shallower below the little mid-dale force. So Goldmane stripped off his raiment And leapt into the ice-cold pool, And they had brought his weapons and war-gear with them, So when he came out, He clad and armed himself for the road, And then turned with Woodwise Toward the out-gate of the dale, And soon they saw two men coming from lower down the water, In such wise that they would presently cross their path. And as yet it was little more than twilight, So that they saw not at first who they were. But as they drew nearer, They knew them for the sun-beam and bow-may. The sun-beam was clad but in her white linen smock, And blew down as he had first seen her. Her hair was wet and dripping with the river, Her face fresh and rosy. She carried in her two hands a great bowl of milk, And stepped delicately lest she should spill it. But bow-may was clad in her war-gear, With helm and bernie, And a quiver at her back, And bended bow in her hand. So they greeted each other kindly, And the sun-beam gave the bowl to face of God, And said, Drink, guest, for thou hast how long The thirsty road before thee. So face of God drank, And gave her the bowl back again, And she smiled on him and drank, And the others after her till the bowl was empty. Then bow-may put her hand on Woodwise's shoulder, And they led on toward the out-gate, While those twain followed them hand in hand. But the sun-beam said, This is the new day I spoke of, And lo, it's bringeth our sundering with it. Yet shall it be no longer than a day when all is said, A new day shall follow after. And now, my friend, I shall see thee no later than the April market, For doubt not that I shall go thither with folk-might, Whether he will or not. Also, as I led the out-of-the-house when we last met, So shall I lead the out-of-the-dale today, And I will go with thee a little way on the waist, And therefore am I shod this morning, As thou seest, For the ways on the waist are rough, And now I bid thee have courage while my hand holdeth thine. For afterwards I need not bid thee anything, For thou wilt have enough to do when thou comeest to thy folk, And must needs think more of worriers than of maidens. He looked at her and longed for her, But said, soberly, Thou art kind, o friend, And thinkest kindly of me ever, But me thinks it were not well done for thee To end with me over a deal of the waist, And come back by thyself alone, When ye have so many foremen nearby. Nay, she said, They be not so near as that yet, And I watch that folk-might have gone forth toward the north-west, Where he luceth to fall in with the company of the foremen, His battle to be a guard unto us. I pray thee, turn back at the top of the out-gate, Said he, and be not venturesome, Thou wottest that the picture is not broken The first time it goeth to the well, Nor maybe the twentieth, But at last it cometh not back. She said, Nevertheless I shall have my will herein, And it is but a little way I will wend with thee. Therewith they come to the scree, And talk fell down between them as they clumbed it. But when they were in the darksome passage of the rocks, And could scarce see one another, Face of God said, Where then is another out-gate from the dale? Is it not up the water? Yea, she said. And there is none other. At the lower end the rocks rise sheer from out the water, And a little further down is a great force Thundering betwixt them, So that by no boat or raft may ye come out of the dale. But the out-gate up the water Is called the road of war, As this is named the path of peace. But now are always ways of war. There is peace in my heart, said Goldmayne. She answered not for a while, But pressed his hand, And he felt her breath on his cheek. And even therewith all, They came out of the dark, And Goldmayne saw that her cheek was flushed. And now she spoke. One thing would I say to thee, my friend, Thou hast seen me amongst men of war, Amongst outlaws who seek violence. Thou hast heard me bid my brother to count the slain, And I shrinking not. Thou knowest, For I have told thee, How I have schemed and schemed for victorious battle, Yet I would not have thee think of me as a chooser of the slain, A warrior maiden, Or as of one who hath no joy, Saving a battle, Where too she bideth others. Oh, friend, There are many peaceful hours That I have had on the grass down yonder, Sitting with my rock and spindle in hand. The children round about my knees, Harkening to some old story, So well remembered by me. Oh, the milking of the kind, And the dewy summer even, When all was still, But for the voice of the water, And the cries of the happy children. And there round about me, With the dear and beauteous maidens, With whom I had grown up, Happy amidst all our troubles, Since their life was free, And they knew no guile. In such times my heart was at peace, Indeed, And it seemed to me, As if we had won all we needed, As if war and turmoil were over, After they had brought about peace And good days for our little folk. And as for the days that be, Are they not as that rugged pass, Full of bitter winds, And the voice of hurrying waters, That leadeth yonder to Silverdale, As thou hast divined? And there is not good in it save That the breath of life is therein, And that it leadeth to pleasant places, And the peace and plenty of the fair dale. Sweet friend, he said, What thou sayest is better than well, For time shall be, If we come alive out of this passive battle And bitter strife, When I shall lead thee into Burgdale to dwell there. And thou wattest of our people, That there is little strife and grudging amongst them, And that they are merry and fair to look on, Both men and women, And no man there lacketh what the earth may give us. And it is a saying amongst us, That there may a man have that which he desireeth, Save the sun and moon in his hands to play with, And of this gladness, Which is made up of many little matters, What story may be told? Yet amongst it shall I live and thou with me, And ill indeed it were if it wearied thee, And thou wert ever longing for some day of victorious strife, And to behold me coming back from battle, High raised on the shields of men, And crowned with bay. If thine ears must ever be tickled With the talk of men and their songs Concerning my warrior deeds. For thus it shall not be, When I drive the herds, It shall be at the neighbour's bidding, Where so they will, Not necks of men shall I smite, But the stalks of the tall wheat, And the bowls of the timber-trees, Which the wood-reeve hath marked for felling. The stilts of the plough, Rather than the hilts of the sword, Shall harden my hands. My shafts shall be for the deer, And my spears for the wood-bore, Till war and sorrow fall upon us, And I fight for the ceasing of war and trouble. And though I be called a chief And of the blood of chiefs, Yet shall I not be masterful To the good man of the dale, But rather to my hound. For my chieftainship shall be, That I shall be well-beloved and trusted, And that no man shall grudge against me. Canst thou learn to love such a life, Which to me seemeth lovely? And thou, of whom I say, That thou art as if thou were To come down from the golden chairs Of the burg of the gods. They were well nigh out of the steep path by now, And the daylight was bright about them. There she stayed her feet a moment, And turned to him and said, All this should I love even now, If the grief of our folk were but healed, And hereafter shall I learn yet more Of thy well-beloved face. Therewith she laid her face to his, And kissed him fondly, And put his hand to her side, And held it there, saying, Soon shall we be one in body and in soul. And he laughed with joy and pride of life, And took her hand and led her on again, And said, Yet feel the cold rings of my Horburg, my friend, Look at the spears that cumber my hand, And at Daleward and hanging by my side. Thou shalt yet see me as the slain's chooser would see her speech-friend, For there is much to do ere we win Weet Harvest in Burgdale. Therewith they stepped together Onto the level ground of the waist, And saw Bo May sitting on a stone hard by, And Woodwise standing beside her, bending his bow. Bo May smiled on Goldmaine, and rose up, And they all went on together, Turning so that they went nearly alongside The wall of the Vale, but westering a little. Then the sunbeam said, Many a time have I trodden this heath Alongside our rock wall, For if you end a little further As our faces are turned, You come to the crags over the place Where the shivering flood Goeth out of shadowy Vale. There, when you have clumb a little, Mace thou stand on the edge of the rock wall, And look down, and behold, The flood swirling and eddying In the black gorge of the rocks, And see presently the reek of the force go up, And hear the thunder of the waters As they pour over it. And all this about us now Is as the garden of our house. Is it not so, Bo May? Ye, said she, And there are goodly clusterberries To be gotten here about in the autumn, Many a time of the sunbeam And I reddened our lips with them. Yet it is best to be wary When war is abroad and hot with all. Ye, said the sunbeam, And all this place comes into the story of our house. Lo, Goldmaine, Two scorepaces before us, A little on our right hand, Those five grey stones. They're called the Rocks of the Elders, For there in the first days Of our abiding in shadowy veil, The Elders were wont to come together To talk privily upon our matters. Face of God Luke thither, as she spoke, But therewith saw Bo May, Who went on the left hand of the sunbeam, As face of God on her right hand, Not your shaft on her bent bow, And Woodwise, who was on his right hand, Saw it also, and did the like, And therewith all, Face of God got his target onto his arm, And even as he did so, Bo May cried out suddenly, Ye, ye, cast thyself to the ground, sunbeam, Gourmaine, Targe and spear, Targe and spear, For I see steel gleaming yonder out From behind the Elders' Rocks. Scarce were the words out of her mouth, Air three shafts came flying, And the bow strings twang'd. Gourmaine felt that once smote his helm and glanced from it. Therewith all, he saw the sunbeam fall to earth, Though he knew not if she had but cast herself down as Bo May bade. Bo May's string twang'd at once, And a yell came from the foemen, But Woodwise loosed not, But set his hand to his mouth, And gave a loud, wild cry. Ha-ha! Ha-ha! Ending in a long and exceeding, Great whoop like nought but the wolf's howl. Now Gourmaine, thinking swiftly in a moment of time, As warm eats men do, Judged that if the sunbeam were hurt, And she had made no cry, It were yet wiser to fall on the foe, Before turning to tend her, Or else all might be lost. So he rushed forward, Spear in hand, And target on arm, And saw, as he opened up the flank of the elder's rocks, Six men, Whereof one leaned aback on the rock, With Bo May's shaft in his shoulder, And two others were just in the act of loosing at him. In a moment as he rushed at them, One shaft went whistling by him, And the other glanced from off his target. He cast a spear as he bounded on, And saw it smite one of the shooters Full in the naked face, And saw the blood spout out and change his face, And the man roll over. And then, in another moment, Four men were hewing at him with their short steel axes. He thrust out his target against them, And then let the weight of his body come on his other spear, And drave it through the second shooter's throat, And even their width was smitten on their helm. So hard that, Though the alderman's work held out, He fell to his knees, Holding his target over his head, And striving to draw forth Dalewarden. In the nick of time, A shaft whistled close by his ear, And as he rose to his feet again, He saw his foeman rolling over and over, Clutching at the ling with both hands. Then rang out again the terrible wolf-woop From Woodwise's mouth, And both he and Bo May loosed a shaft, For the two other foes had turned their backs And were fleeing fast. Again, Bo May hit the clout, And the dusky man fell dead at once, But Woodwise's arrow flew over the felon's shoulder as he ran. Then in a trice was Goldmayne bounding after him, Like the hair just roused from her form, For it came into his head That these felons had beheld them coming out of the veil, And that if even this one man escaped, He would bring his company down upon the veil dwellers. Strong and light-foot as any was face of God, And though he was combered with his horberk, Yet was Ironface's handiwork far lighter Than the walk-out of the dusky man, And the race was soon over. The felon turned breathless to meet Goldmayne, Who draved his target against him, And cast him to earth, And as he strove to rise, Smote off his head at one stroke. The Dalewarden was a good sword, And the Dalezman as fierce of mood as might be. There he let the felon lie, And turning walked back swiftly toward the elder's rocks, And found there Woodwise and the dead foe-men, For the carl had slain the wounded, And he was now drawing the silver arm-rings off the slain-men, For all these dusky felons bore silver arm-rings. But Boemayne was walking towards the sun-beam, And thitherward followed Goldmayne speedily, He found her sitting on a tussock of grass, Close by where she had fallen, Her face pale, Her eyes eager and gleaming. She looked up at him as he drew Naya, And said, Friend, how thou hurt? Day, he said, And thou, thou art pale? I am not hurt, she said. Then she smiled and said again, Did I not tell thee That I am no warrior like Boemayne here? Such deeds make maidens pale, Said Boemayne, If you will have the truth, Goldmayne, She is not want to grow pale When battle is nigh her. Look, you, she hath the gift of a new delight, And findeth it sweeter and softer Than she had any thought of, And now hath she feared Lest it should be taken from her. Boemayne saith but the sooth, Said sun-beam simply, And kind it is of her to say it, I saw thee, Boemayne, And good was thy shooting, And I loved thee for it, Said Boemayne, I never shoot otherwise them well, But these idle shooters of the dusky ones, Whereabouts nigh to thee went their shafts, Said the sun-beam, One just lifted the hair by my left ear, And that was not so ill-aimed, As for the other, It pierced my raiment, By my right knee, And pinned me to the earth, So that I tottered and fell, And my gown and smock Aggreavously wounded, Both of them. And she took the folds of the garments in her hands, To show the rents therein, And her colour was come again, And she was glad. What were best to do now? She said, Said face of God, Let us tarry a little, For some of thy carl shall surely come up from the veil, Because they will have heard wood-wise's whoop, Since the wind sets that way. Yeah, they will come, Said the sun-beam. Good is that, Said face of God, For they shall take the dead felons, And cast them where they be not seen, If perchance any more stray hereby. For if they win them, They may well happen on the path Down to the veil. Also, my friend, It were well if thou were to bid a good few Of the carls that are in the veil, To keep watch and ward about here, Lest there be more foam And wandering about the waist. She said, Thou art wise in war, gold-mane, I will do as thou bidst me, But, soothly, this is a perilous thing, That the dusky men are gotten so close to the veil. Said face of God, This will folk might look to When he cometh home, And is his most light, That he will deem it good to fall on them somewhere, A good way aloof, So as to draw them off From wandering over the waist. Also, I will do my best to busy them When I am home in Burgdale. Their whiff came up wood-wise, And fell to talk with them, And his mind it was that these four men Were but a band of strayers, And had no inkling of shadowy veil, Till they had heard them talking together, As they came up the path from the veil, And that then they had made that ambush Behind the elders' rocks, So that they might slay the men, And then bear off the woman. He said with all, That it would be best to carry their corpses further on, So that they might be cast over the cliffs Into the fierce stream of the shivering flood. Amidst all this talk came up men from the veil, A score of them well-armed, And they ran to meet the wayfarers, And when they heard what had befallen, They rejoiced exceedingly, And were above all glad That face of God had shown himself Doubty and deft, And they deemed his reed wise, To set a watch thereabouts, Till folk-mights came home, And said that they would do even so. Then spake the sunbeam and said, Now must you wayfarers depart, For the road is but rough, And the day not over long? Then she turned to face of God, And put her hand on his shoulder, And brought her face close to his, And spake to him softly. Doth this second parting seem at all strange to thee, And that I am now so familiar to thee, I, whom thou dost once deemed to be a very goddess, And now thou hast seen me reddened before thine eyes because of thee, And thou hast seen me grow pale with fear because of thee, And thou hast feltst my caresses which I might not refrain, Even as if I were altogether such a maiden as ye warriors hang about For a nine days wonder, And then all is over, save an aching heart. Will thou do so with me? Tell me, have I not belittled myself before thee, As if I asked thee to scorn me, For thus desire dealeth both with maid and man? He said, In all this there is but one thing for me to say, And that is, that I love thee, And surely none the less, But rather the more, Because thou lovest me an art of my kind, And may I share in my deeds and think well of them. Now is my heart full of joy, And one thing only wayeth on it, And that is that my kinswoman, the bride, Be grudgeth our love together, For this is the thing that of all things most misliketh me, That any should bear a grudge against me. She said, Forget not the token, and my message to her. I will not forget it, said he, And now I bid thee to kiss me even before all these That are looking on, For there is not to be little as therein, Since we be troth-plight. And indeed, those folk stood all around them, Gazing on them, but a little aloof, That they might not hear their words, If they were minded to talk dribbly, For they had long loved the sun-beam, And now the love of face of God Had begun to spring up in their hearts. So the twain embraced and kissed one another, And made no haste thereover. And those men deemed that, But meet and write, And clashed their weapons on their shields, In token of their joy. Then face of God turned about, And strode out of the ring of men, With bome and wood-wise beside him, And they went on their journey over the necks, Towards Burgstead. But the sun-beam turned slowly from that place Toward the Vale, And two of the stoutest carls went along with her, To guard her from harm, And she went down into the Vale, Pondering all these things in her heart. Then the other carls dragged off the corpses of the dusky men, Till they had brought them to the sheer rocks Above the shivering flood, And there they tossed them over into the boiling cauldron of the force, And so departed, Taking with them the silver arm-rings of the slain To add to the tale. But when they came back into the Vale, The sun-beam duly ordered that watch and ward To keep the ingates there too, And note all that should befall till folk might came home.