Awaken The Lord Of The Dance
Don Dorcha
Continued
"Don Dorcha," the voice whispered softly before him, "is everything alright?"
The girl had returned to the chamber to bring him some more food, and was now standing beside him, her torso bent forward to inquire about her master. Dorcha could smell the scent of lavender on her skin as he turned to face her, his features suddenly resuming its grim demeanor.
"Yes, Fionna,' he replied. "What is it you need?"
The girl stood up and laid out his food of fruits and meats, wine and some ears of corn recently harvested as well. He could see the faint imprint of her breasts against her loose tunic as she moved about.
"The gypsies are coming, my lord." She suddenly said and Dorcha drew an intake of breath so loud it almost echoed in the chamber. She watched his reaction and looked down at her feet. "They say Morrighan, the healer, is with this band coming to join the Beltane celebrations." She added before turning away.
Dorcha could remember clearly the nights spent with the beautiful Fionna, yet he could not bring himself to be soft with her. I was not raised as such, he thought to himself bitterly. I enjoyed no such luxury under Fergus. He enjoyed her touch immensely yet could not admit it out loud to anyone, not even himself.
He called out her name and she spun around to face him, her face illuminated by the light streaming through the window. "Sit here," he said, patting his knee and she did so, enveloping him with her scent of lavender flowers, its oil applied neat against her skin.
Although such moments of tenderness were few, Fionna relished them. He ate from her hand as she cut the meat gingerly, her hands slightly shaking. When she laid a grape against his mouth, his lips touched her fingers and her face turned crimson as his lips lingered against her still fingers. She drew her breath as his lips released her and Fionna gazed at the masked face before her, wishing she could see his face just one time. Before she could stop herself, her fingers went up against his face, bare skin touching the cold hard mask.
As if reading her mind, Dorcha pushed her away roughly as tenderly as he had caressed her on his lap, sending her away with his hand. Coldly he told her never again to think such thoughts, having been bestowed by the demons of his father the power to almost read thoughts as he much as he read faces.
Left alone in the chamber once more, Dorcha looked at the meal before him but now his mind was on what Fionna had said about the gypsies. He had ran across the gypsies before, an amalgam of strange and not-so-strange characters, their visits few and often, too short, as they astounded villagers with their various skills and trades. They were a lot of dark, ebony-hued people with skills ranging from knife sharpening to the repair of various contraptions found around the village, even fortune-telling, if one indeed could call it a skill.
And there was the healer. Dorcha smiled to himself as he thought of the gypsy, recalling the first time he had met her at a Samhain celebration, after all the apples had been picked for the year. Trinoux Samonia, it was called, or Three Nights of the End of Summer, celebrating the dark winter when the Earth is said to rest and fertility renewed.
Morrighan! The name was like water to his parched throat, a welcoming sound to his ears. Dorcha hoped the young wench was right as he stood up from his chair and strode towards the window where Eleanor once stood. It was now three years since he had last seen her and his eyes were drawn towards a faded strip of cloth tied around a massive oak tree, flapping against the wind. It no longer bore its bright hue as it had been tied to the trunk in years past, having faded into a dull gray, its cloth frayed at the edges. Dorcha brought his hand to touch his mask, feeling the cold smooth texture of it. Just like the soul that lives in me, he thought to himself bitterly.
As he closed his eyes, the memories once again flowed like a geyser of steam and water, long imprisoned beneath its depths, yearning its freedom. Memories, thought Dorcha as he drew an intake of breath, smelling the fresh harvest of corn outside. They are but what I have of that fiery gypsy.
He had sent for her then, having seen her the night of the Samhain festival when spirits and ghosts ventured out of the cairns and traveled the land. He had watched her dance around the bonfire made from tein-eigin, fire made from rubbing two pieces of wood by the druids. As everyone joined in the festivities, Dorcha could only watch, aware of the deformity that lay beneath his mask, not wanting to draw attention to it.
Then he saw her sacrifice an animal on the ground, allowing its blood to seep into the earth, its life-energy replenishing the soil. "The healer, they call her in the gypsy camp, my lord," whispered Eleanor, noticing his sudden interest at the girl with the fiery eyes and cascading dark hair.
Should he risk another attempt at banishing his scars? Dorcha thought to himself as he saw her sheath a knife into a scabbard that hung on her side, allowing some of her people to continue the ritual with her as more animals were sacrificed that night. He remembered the vain attempts before, causing even more disfigurement to the top half of his face, as he allowed the charlatans to do as they pleased to him. But that was no more, and the idiots had been put to death for their folly.
"Send her to the castle tomorrow, Eleanor," he commanded the old woman, who nodded her assent, having thought of the same endeavor for the young gypsy as well. She had heard many things about the young gypsy, now in the cusp of being a woman, although her body already bore signs of womanhood. Whether everything Eleanor heard was true, she would find out tomorrow.
If Morrighan walked out of Dorcha's castle unharmed, everything they had whispered about her was true. If not, Eleanor glanced at the young girl with sadness in her eyes at such a thought. If not, then she would be put to death, a consequence of seeing Dorcha's face and not being able to cure it.
Through the very same window where Dorcha stood now, he had seen her that very next morning. Astride a black stallion and on her shoulder perched what he thought to be a peregrine falcon, the gypsy rode towards his castle, her bare shoulder pale against the morning sky. A stark contrast to her family, thought Dorcha, as he felt his heart begin to beat loudly against his chest.
She was clad in a fiery red dress that caught the ray of the burning sun above her within the folds cascading over her legs. When the hemlines rose with the wind, Dorcha could see her bare legs beneath adorned with a single anklet of brass bells.
Behind him, Eleanor had watched the approaching gypsy as well. They saw the bird on her shoulder suddenly set itself alight and discovered that it was no falcon, but a large crow, its black feathers glinting as it flew above her. Eleanor gasped in surprise.
"It is true!" she whispered. Dorcha continued to look at the gypsy, not the least bit curious, or so it seemed.
"What is true, Eleanor?" he asked, his voice calm as outside his door, he could hear the servants rushing towards the other windows of the castle, their voices muffled, yet excited.
"She is the daughter of the Morrigu, Don Dorcha," replied Eleanor, recalling the stories she had heard each time the gypsies rode into town. "They say she was found one Samhain on a cairn, a heap of stones over a grave. She was but a babe, but it seemed, abandoned for no reason. An old gypsy woman found her and took care of her, but she almost went crazy with terrible dark dreams till she did as the dreams told her."
"And what did her dark dreams tell her, Eleanor?"
Eleanor frowned, trying to remember every detail in her mind. "The dreams were of this hag that would turn into a crow, as well as other shapes. And it had instructed the gypsy woman to teach the child ancient ways of the druids. But they could not find any druid willing to teach a gypsy."
Dorcha finally turned to face her as she spoke. "And what happened?"
"Morrighan disappeared when she was but eight samhains old. An old hag had joined them in one of the roads that go past the forest of Cran. 'Tis enchanted, you know, that forest. When Morrighan disappeared, so did the old woman, and her mother, the gypsy, dreamt another dream that told her that Morrighan was to be with her own for a time."
"It sounds ridiculous, Eleanor," scoffed Dorcha. "I am certain those stories are half truth, and half fantasy. There is no daughter of the Morrigu running around Eire. Those things are of the past."
Eleanor shook her head, her eyes wide. "No, my lord. It is true. The goddess Morrighan is the most ancient goddess of Eire, and if what they say about this girl is true, then she is most powerful indeed. That crow," she pointed towards the crow that now seemed to have gotten larger in the sky. "That crow is the morrigu's guardian. She had transformed herself into such in times past."
"And you think it is watching over her daughter? A mere gypsy?" Dorcha shook his head, suddenly wishing he had not sent for the girl at all. "She could turn out to be just like the others. Fakes."
Eleanor shot him a stern look. "Ah, Don Dorcha," she begun, her voice low. "I would exercise patience with her, if I were you. 'Twas you who sent for her. She offered you no bane for your impurities, and yet, be a believer in her presence. Else nothing will work for you, your scars, or your soul."
Dorcha was about to say something to the old woman but she spun away abruptly from him and the sound of footsteps in the hall made Dorcha turn his face towards the window again. He saw that the horse was now riderless, its reins secured around a tree, and overhead, the crow had settled itself on a branch, cawing noisily.
The scent first assaulted his senses and Dorcha could not mistake the sweet whiff of myrrh that filled the air. He could tell she was now in the room with him and he listened as the door closed behind her, Eleanor having let her in and now departed.
"You sent for me, Don Dorcha," said a low quiet voice and Dorcha saw a young girl that did not even reach his shoulders standing opposite him. Her skin was pale and smooth, her eyes like two jewels of onyx, gazing at him questioningly. Her hair tumbled over her bare shoulders in a cascade of black curls that reached to the small of her back. She wore a simple chemise beneath a red vest and a reddish skirt with a belt of tiny bells and charms all around her waist. An underskirt of black peeked beneath the crimson skirt. She was barefoot except for an anklet of bells on her left leg.
When Dorcha did not speak, could not speak, for he simply stared at her behind his mask, she added. "I know why I was sent here, Don Dorcha." She reached for a pouch that hung against her side, next to a knife that bore a bejeweled hilt, and produced a heap of herbs in her hand. "I need you to lie down, Don Dorcha," she said with a firm voice and patted the table.
Dorcha did as she was told and set himself on his back, as she towered over him. She set the herbs on the surface next to him and when her hands reached for his mask to unfasten it, Dorcha stiffened.
"You wanted to be healed of this, Don Dorcha," she whispered as her hands continued to unfasten the mask and the man closed his eyes, afraid to see the reaction on her face. What Morrighan saw caused no horror to be reflected on her face but she felt pity yet did not show it. Were a cut would have healed if treated with the right herbs and care, it had now festered to become an ugly gash, growing skin intertwined against old, infection also having taken residence.
Morrighan found a bowl of fruit on the table and she overturned it, sending the apples and pears to tumble on to the floor noisily. She took a smooth rock from her pouch and tossing the herbs into the bowl, began grinding it smooth, adding some oil that also was in her pack. She worked diligently for almost an hour and Dorcha could hear her chanting some words under her breath as she mashed and ground her concoction. Was it Ogham? He wondered, vaguely recognizing the ancient language of the druids. But Dorcha continued to lie still as she worked, his thoughts tainted with doubt at her skills.
Suddenly he felt something warm against his skin and he closed his eyes as she applied her poultice around his eyes and forehead. It stung mildly and when it leaked onto the infected crevices in his skin, Dorcha clenched his fist at the pain but held his tongue. The gypsy continued to chant softly as she continued and soon, Dorcha felt the stinging subside, replaced by coolness against his skin, lulling him to tranquility. Whatever it was she had done definitely had a better effect than a pitcher of his strongest brandy, he thought to himself, for the castle healer often used it to dull the patient's senses first before operating. It unfortunately left the patient with the worse hangover the very next day.
Dorcha could feel something being wrapped around his scars and as she wound a long strip of cloth around his head, she left little slits where he could see through.
"I shall send a woman here with some more poultice to last you a fortnight," she begun saying. "You need to apply it before the hour of ten in the morning, Don Dorcha, everyday for a fortnight. And you cannot wear any mask over it. You can have your maid cover it with a light cloth, as I have done, but nothing more than that. Else you will never be better." She helped him upright and Dorcha felt faint, but he felt her hand steady him as he got to his feet and sat down on the chair.
He could smell the vapors of the poultice she had applied on his skin, and it made him feel lightheaded. "Every Samhain you need to do this, as I will send a gypsy to bring you the same poultice to apply to your face, until I return. Every Samhain for a fortnight thereafter," she added.
The combination of the myrrh she wore, and the herbal concoction she applied on his skin was such a mysterious blend and Dorcha could see her face almost in a blur as she leaned towards him, her hands on both armrests. "I…I cannot say like this without my mask for a fortnight," he whispered, trying to keep himself awake.
"A fortnight, Don Dorcha. Three samhains, three fortnights, and no mask during that time." She whispered against his ear and Dorcha swooned, his body growing limp on the chair. He felt her hands cradle his face as her eyes gazed at his own through the slits of his bandages. "You asked for me. Remember that."
When she left the room, Dorcha could not remember but when he heard the door slam shut, he staggered to his feet and made his way towards the window. He watched as the guards opened the gates for her and she made her way towards her horse a few yards away, yet in full view of the entire castle.
From his window, Dorcha watched her stop by the yew tree currently inhabited for the moment by the dark crow. She dismounted and walked towards the tree, bending down to lift the hem of her long flowing skirt of crimson and with a sudden movement, ripped it apart, tearing it in a long straight strip that left her skirt like an apron over her black underskirt. With the long strip of crimson in her hand, he watched her wrap the cloth around the yew tree, tying its ends into a tight knot once and then twice.
"Air impidhe an Tigherna mo chuid tinneas do flagaim am an air so." She said out loud in the wind and Don Dorcha recognized her petition on his behalf as his arms went up to his temples to touch the bandages covering his eyes. In the absence of her perfume, which now was but a faint whiff of myrrh in the air, he no longer felt lightheaded. He watched her mount her horse once more and with her feet digging into the animal's sides, sent the horse galloping away from his manor, the crow now flying close behind her.
Dorcha retreated into the confines of his bedchamber and when Eleanor found him within the next hour, carrying a bowl of medicinal smelling concoction delivered by an old gypsy woman, he was running a fever. For a fortnight after that day, Dorcha was plagued with dreams so dark and terrible that no one could come near him but Eleanor. He allowed no one to enter the room but his trusted Eleanor, for it was she who tended to his wounds, applying the poultice against the roughened skin, and wrapped the bandages over his face, as if encasing the mysterious magic within its wrappings.
Outside, the seasons caused the crimson strip of cloth to slowly fade away and with each season, Dorcha held a looking glass before him. As the hue of the cloth tied around the yew tree slowly fade with each season, so shall the unjust punishment bestowed on the young man's face fade away. So did the gypsy chant that day, though in words of old Gaelic, a petition on his behalf to rid him of his malady.
As Dorcha's mind returned to the present, he walked towards the door and closed it, shutting the rest of the world outside. Slowly his hands went up to his face and undid the clasp that held his mask in place. Three Samhains it has been, gypsy, he thought to himself. And three fortnights it has been since I have been hounded and haunted by your dark dreams molded into my own as I applied the mysterious balm your old gypsy woman sent here faithfully.
His hand tentatively touched the skin around his eyes and temples and Dorcha winced but soon relaxed as he brought his hand down. Only he knew whether the gypsy's poultice and mysterious chantings did work, and nightly he had gazed at the face his father had hated so much. He replaced the mask against his face and watched as the room was bathed in light once more, the clouds allowing the sun to peek out once again.
And now the gypsy was returning to Ailleel, as she had promised. Dorcha smiled a wry smile and finally sat down, his appetite returning. She would surely be a woman now, he thought as he begun eating his meal. More woman than any of his wenches could ever be.
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