Memory is an unreliable witness. Recollection can be distorted by one’s own desires, prejudices, by a nostalgic belief that things were better than they were, or by denial of things one prefers not to remember. It is imprecise, corruptible, fallible, and malleable. Mother knew this, which is perhaps why she bought me my first journal on the occasion of my 11th birthday. That and the desire to provide an outlet for my musings, rather than scribbling in the margins of exercise books, and notebooks. I have kept my journal, more or less, ever since. Committing my memories to pen and paper before the passage of time causes them to fade. So, when recall fails me, I always have my journal to consult.
I did so this morning, for there was a nagging thought in me that I had misremembered things concerning the one-time prince, Llwydbrynnos. Perhaps the madness in him, and my associations of madness with the late, hopefully, Gwythyr, distorted my recollection regarding his parentage. I had characterised his madness as being a result of the taint from Gwythyr, when, in truth, he was not the son of Gwythyr and Faermorn, but of Saone, once Seelie Queen in Ashmourne Wilds. I was never close to Saone, nor ever her confidant, unlike with Faermorn, so I did not know who was father to Llwydbrynnos, nor what caused his madness. Such dealings as I had with him had little to do with getting to know each other and when the madness and destruction came, I was too busy defending my realm to concern myself with his background. Nevertheless, I wronged him in ascribing his madness to Gwythyr, so I am happy to correct myself here. He told Gwyn that the madness was behind him, so perhaps I shall never know as to what his madness could be ascribed. As to whether he has truly left it behind, that remains to be seen.
Gwyn was gone when I awoke, no doubt exploring or possibly just finding something to eat that wasn’t a mushroom. I dressed and wandered out into the sithen proper in the hope that coffee might be there to be found. I heard voices, or at least, a voice, so I headed in that direction. I was guest here in this sithen, so should at least introduce myself.
The voice came from the pool that gathered around the foot of the waterfall, where we had seen Llwydbrynnos the previous evening. Said King was still there, barely upright in the pool, and being ministered too by a rather odd individual, who appeared to be the owner of the voice. A young woman, though I have learned that judging age, or indeed, gender, by appearance can be deceptive, dressed as a nurse, of sorts. If I were to be charitable, and generally, I tend in that direction, I would describe her as a nurse who had recently been attending to some messy, and very bloody trauma. If I were less charitable, I would have guessed that she was on her way to some horror-themed costume party, or had escaped from the set of a low-budget blood and gore film set.
Whoever she was, she seemed intent on ministering to Llwydbrynnos in a way that seemed more affectionate than might have been considered professional conduct elsewhere. Here, of course, who knows what passes as professional conduct? Llwydbrynnos himself was much changed from when I had last seen him, and yet somehow still recognisable. He did not seem to be aware of anything or anyone around him, let alone the ministrations being visited upon him. He also appeared to have some sort of rose-like creature growing from him. Strange, but at the same time, oddly familiar, as if this was a distant cousin of the Mystroses that grew around Mysthaven, or their cousins, the Wyldroses in faerie there.
The King still showed no sign of awareness. Indeed, aside from some small movements, possibly in response to the ministrations, the flow of the water, or the motion of the roses, and shallow breathing, he could have been a statue. The roses were somewhat more animated and some turned in my direction. Sensing my blood, maybe, or, if they were cousins to the roses I knew, some sort of recognition. Or perhaps their reaction was more like a guard dog sensing a stranger, with a certain amount of hissing. I watched the King again, unable to contain a slight undercurrent of trepidation. His aura, such as I could sense, showed the ever-present conflict of dark and light, but which was going to be dominant I could not tell. I forced myself to relax and suppressed my fear. The past was past, and now, I would deal with the present. I gave greetings to them both, even if he was not aware, expressing the hope that I was not interrupting anything.
The nurse, who was singing some kind of lullaby was clearly not expecting anybody, for she jumped out of her skin with a colourful and inventive imprecation. She recovered quickly enough and made a creditable attempt to act as though all was normal and claimed that she was just tending to the King’s medical needs. It looked like more than that to me, but I gave no indication that I thought otherwise. After all the thing that I have seen in my travels, little surprises me anymore, and it isn’t my place to judge what others do to each other. She told me that he had had an accident and needed some looking after. Then she advised me that if I wished to speak with him, I might have to come back later. I could speak to him, she said, but she could not say whether he could hear or listen or respond. Almost as an afterthought, she offered her hand and told me she was called Bailey.
I declined the hand and offered slight bow instead. I asked her forgiveness and explained that I had been told by my wife, Gwyneth, that there was some contagion here that could be passed by touch. I similarly offered Llwydbrynnos a bow, even if he was not aware of it and explained that he and I were old acquaintances, albeit some years ago.
Llwydbrynnos gave no immediately obvious response, but perhaps there was some twitch, some change in his wing-beat that indicated that there was some awareness of another presence. The roses that grew around him gave more response, and I fancied they almost bowed in response and seemed to settle, as if accepting my presence. Bailey didn’t appear to take offence, merely glanced at her hand and responded with an “oh, yeah.” She asked if we were knuckleheads of old and offered to “fuck off for a bit if we wanted a moment.” Despite the offer, she made no move to depart, instead stripping off a glove and scratching herself on the arm to draw blood, which she offered to the roses, much as one might feed a pet.
I was a little bemused by the term knuckleheads. I had always thought this a term for an inept or bumbling person, which did not apply to Llwydbrynnos or myself. Perhaps she just meant it as acquaintances. I speculated that the word almost sounded like it could be applied to a pugilist and while the King and I had had our disagreements, we had never personally exchanged blows. I watched her feeding the roses and my mind went back to Mysthaven where I sometimes did the same to the Mystroses.
These roses fed greedily, and perhaps whatever sustenance they gained, stimulated the King, for his eye opened, unseeing, and turning towards us, as if aware there were people, if not aware enough to in any way respond. Bailey looked a little perturbed at my reference to past disagreements and bridled somewhat. If I was here to fuck with the king, I’d have to go through her first. Otherwise, she seemed pleased that I was acquainted with similar roses. She then decided to supplement their feeding with some coffee that she poured from a flask. I wasn’t sure whether the roses had more of a plant or animal physiology but they seemed to react to it anyway, and it even triggered a certain amount of reaction from Llwydbrynnos. Again, his eye opened, but again, there was no hint of recognition there. Bailey said that he had been through some shit and people didn’t understand what that did to people.
That was more true than she knew, I thought, though I could not speak for more recent events. We’ve all been through some shit, I told her, and I assured her that so far as I was concerned, the past was the past, and I wasn’t about to start any hostilities, though I reserved the right to defend myself if anybody else did. I told her that I admired her loyalty, a quality that I much admire, which pleased her. I repeated that I was not one given to violence of any sort. I told her that a great queen had once described me as her warrior-poet, but that I was very much inclined to the latter rather than the former, save when it came to defending me and mine.
She thought that was an interesting career path. She didn’t know much about poetry, but thought it must be like songs. She had learned a lot of songs from her father. I could not argue with that. A song is just a poem with music, I said, or a poem is a song without a tune, save for that evoked by the cadence and such of the reading. I thought back to the days when Faermorn gave me the title of warrior-poet, and said that poetry always came first, the warrior later. She, it seems was just the opposite, having been a warrior first. The only poems she knew were those of Victor Hugo, about which I knew little. I offered to bring some of my poetry books next time, for I always have some with me when I travel. Perhaps she, or indeed, the king, might like to hear some. That, she thought, they would both like.
I took my leave thereafter, as I had not yet breakfasted. Bailey recommended a noodle house in the Seiiki district, where I might obtain some pork buns “as large as your fuckin’ hand” as she put it. It was not the first thing I would have thought of for breakfast, but I figured I’d give it a go. I made my way out, and eventually, found my way to the place she had mentioned. A strange way to breakfast, but, let it not be said that I am not open to new experiences.
So, Llwydbrynnos lives, but, as yet, is insensible to my presence. His taste in companions might be considered questionable, but, given his past, who is to know. At least this companion seems devoted. What will pass when he is recovered remains to be seen. But, as I said to Bailey, it will not be me that starts anything.
Home is the Sailor 