Weird Tales/Volume 5/Issue 2/Fayrian

​FAYRIAN
by Louise Garwood

Rain, gentle, relentless, soul-soaking. It seeped through the elms sadly, whimpered around gray stone cornices; and from a distance the wind brought tales of how it pattered upon the sea below the ragged cliffs. Only soft April rain, but Ermengarde grew cold, watching, and shut the window. Then she pulled close the somber velvet curtains, though they could not shut out the sound. That whimpering! As she went toward the broad hearth where a small fire burned, she drew her dark shawl tightly around her.

The room with its high, beamed ceiling, the carved table and the tapestries which a light draft ruffled eerily—how its familiar things stood out like so many impotent, disregarded selves: the white parchment-covered volume he had read, the candelabra that had lighted the reading, the slim, pointed dagger with the emerald-studded hilt, flung carelessly on the table, a lute with a broken string. They were eloquent of death. She sat down wearily in a tall chair before the fire and rested her elbows on the arms, her hands touching each other, the long white fingers pointed upward. She lifted one arched black eyebrow so that deep lines ran across her white forehead up to the roots of lusterless black hair.

Now she would go over it again, as if for the first time, go over it in the quaint, half-mad question and answer with which she tortured herself.

"Dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

"Who is dead?"

"Fayrian, whom you love—golden-haired Fayrian."

"Yes, yes, I remember!"

"Fayrian was killed."

"Who killed him?"

"You—you who loved him."

"I remember."

With an oblique glance of her heavy-lashed eyes she saw the long table. It had been set so: there had been Polevay; at the far end, herself; and here, Fayrian with the poison in his cup. She it was who had put the poison there, but they had hanged Polevay because he had once threatened to kill Fayrian. It did not matter that Polevay was hanged, for he was a bad man, already scarlet with other murders. She had not wanted to die, because hanging would mean that her white neck would be broken, her face turned purple. To die—it would hurt: and Fayrian would not ​want that—not revenge, for he loved her. Rather he would have wished her to go out to death easily, with all her white, lusterless beauty untouched, without tears to dim her slanting, violet-pupiled eyes. A deep shudder ran over her. She had killed him, madly, jealously. And yet she had known that the woman with the cornsilk hair and candid smile could not have held him long—it was a fancy. For his love was built upon her as upon a foundation of stone; his soul was anchored to hers as a bright craft is anchored in a troubled water.

When in her anger the poison slipped into the cup so easily, she had not known how horrible it would be. She had not guessed that he would writhe and twist like a hound whose meat has been filled with fine-ground glass, nor that he would whimper, like a child. That was it: the whimpering of the rain at the cornices. It made her cold. It was not right that Fayrian, who was brave and songful, should die like a dog. He would not have been afraid of death, but he had wanted a glorious passing: a battle, a duel for his honor, a plunge from a mountain height. Strange, how men could endure blood and horror and yet cringe at a little pain, like children! He had whimpered. Why had she not thrust the emerald-hilted dagger into his heart? No, she could not have done that—his soft flesh—blood on her fingers—a red stain on his lizard-colored doublet—no! It had not been fair; but he was gentle and had loved her: surely he would not want revenge! And she had loved him—she had killed him for her love.

Song, little rushes of tender words, deep, serious lights sifting into his bright eyes—how empty of these things the house was! And yet there was a kind of breathlessness about the silence—the breathlessness that comes before an expected footfall, a longed-for voice. The stillness listened. The emptiness expected to be filled. Death! Soon, soon, please God, she might wake to feel a slim, strong hand over her shaking one, a voice: "Foolish, foolish. You are dreaming!" She shut her eyes and tried to imagine it; but no, she was not dreaming.

Then all of a sudden the mute expectancy of the somber room seemed filled. A heavy shower of rain crashed down outside: it was like calls, like footfalls, and through it the breeze wandered like a weird song. Scarcely knowing why, she ran to the window and pulled back the purple curtains, to look out. She opened it. A flurry of rain blew in and the drops were like wet fingers touching her face. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the downpour slackened again into a seeping drizzle. Tears falling sadly through the leaves, making them shine in the patch of light the window threw out in the darkness. Little trembling sobs of wind against the stones. He had wanted to die splendidly! Vaguely she had a sense of contact with what was outside. It swept over her all at once like the knowledge of a physical presence. That sadness of the rain was human—human pain. She leaned far through the window so that her hair, face and bosom were wet and cool. Then she heard him whimpering, whimpering.

"Concetta! Concetta?" she called and fell back from the window, in a shudder; and in a moment she was in the arms of the ponderous, wrinkled old woman who served her.

"Lady Ermengarde, dear—there, there!"

She was weeping. The curse of tearless days was lifted in sobs that broke the bitter dam of dry unreality and longing.

"The rain, Concetta! Oh—the rain!"

"There, there! I will shut the rain out. The dampness is spotting the curtains!"

"No, no!"

​She lifted her face wildly from the old woman's shoulder.

"No, you will shut him out! I want the rain. Stay with me, Concetta; I am frightened."

"Yes—now my dear, dear lady, let me take you to your room, where you can lie in your bed and rest."

"No. I shall sleep here and you must sit beside me. I shall sit in the chair by the fire, for I am cold."

"Very well, and I will close the window for you."

"No, no! Leave it open, I say."

She caught the wrinkled arm in her long fingers. The old woman took her to her chair and muffled the dark shawl around her, then sat at a distance on a low bench; taking out some bit of hand-work she plied her fingers busily. Ermengarde kept her burning eyes upon the window, and little by little the rain seeped into her consciousness as it did through the elms outside. The feeling of it, the sound of it, permeated her, a film over her utter weariness; and beneath a certain trembling fear there was a warm sensation of nearness, the touch of loved hands. She closed her eyes.

"So I was only dreaming?"

She started at the touch of a hand on hers and opened her eyes quickly. Only Concetta's hand, wrinkled and hard! Where was she? Oh, yes, she had slept by the fire all night; and now there were ashes before her and the room was crossed by a bright bar of sunshine. The old woman was offering her something to eat. Today she did not have that old heavy wakening, knowing that little by little a dreadful knowledge would creep back into her consciousness. She woke in the full realization of it. Fayrian was dead. She had killed him. Then there had been rain, sweet and intimate, that refreshed her heart, and now sunshine that stretched like a warm hand into the room. The lute, the dagger, the book, those eloquent selves were no longer pitiful. They looked somehow as if they had been lately touched by him. The picture of his father that hung across from the tapestries, usually so solemn a face, had been changed by the sun, too: it looked years younger, like Fayrian himself, and a shadow falling near the lips made it look as if he were smiling sadly. Ermengarde was sad. It was good to be sad after the horrid weeks of stillness—good to grieve abundantly.

When Ermengarde had eaten, Concetta brought a comb and combed out the dull masses of her hair, then piled them up again with a great tortoiseshell pin.

"This morning I shall walk outside, Concetta."

"But last night's rain—the ground will be damp—"

"Today, somehow, I do not think that it will hurt me."

And she went out to walk in the light. As the full flood of sunshine struck her and she put her satin shoe into the damp grass, a warm soft wind flung itself about her shoulders, fluttering her black shawl. Arms, arms enfolding her—the wind was that! She rested herself against its force, closing her eyes.

"Fayrian! Fayrian!"

It whispered back to her and stirred uneasily, discontentedly; but always it touched, caressed. The dampness sank through her shoes as she walked in the grass, and as it melted through the light soles to her feet she shivered with pleasure—touch! Suddenly she wished to feel the grass with her naked feet, so she stripped off the shoes and walked with them in her hand. There was a kind of ecstasy in her contact with the ground. She caught her breath quickly.

"So he is there, too!"

With a rush of tenderness she pulled down a wet bough of blossoms so that it touched her face—kisses! ​Uncertain perfume, not too sweet—the flowers seemed very dearly hers somehow; she hugged them to her, though not close enough to hurt a single petal. As the bough swung back again, petals showered upon the grass below. And she flung herself down among them, pressing her soft finger-tips against the black earth. The breeze lifted a strand of hair at the nape of her neck and murmured questioningly close to her ear.

"Fayrian! Fayrian! You are here, all around me. What do you want of me?"

She almost thought she could feel the grass growing beneath her fingers. Fayrian had wanted to die a splendid death!

Hours later she came back to the house. The servant thought she had fallen, since there was mud on her dress and face. She must have fresh clothes and food. Poor Concetta who knew so little—she always thought of food when she was helpless to offer other comfort. She pattered about the kitchen with troubled steps. When she came in later to set plates on the table she tried to speak brightly. Ermengarde followed her with a heavy gaze.

"Lady Ermengarde, it's a sweet thing, God's sunshine—"

"It is?"

"There's something about a beautiful day like this that creeps over things and into a house like—like—"

"Like a—person, Concetta!"

Ermengarde spoke the words distinctly, looking straight at her. "A person—beautiful—dissatisfied."

Concetta's eyes fairly leapt. A knife clattered to the floor.

"Oh, my lady!"

She hurried from the room, crossing herself, and the busy patter of steps rang in the kitchen again.

"Fayrian—sunshine—I love you!"

Day followed day, and still the same enveloping presence with its piteous, insistent tugging, its desire for something. It was in the flame that leapt like a hungry question out of the fire. It was in the touch of water flowing over Ermengarde's hands. And always she wondered, and as she wondered her pallor heightened and her long fingers grew thinner and whiter. Could it be revenge that Fayrian wanted? What was the thing he asked for during this restless communion?

She would tell them what she had done, and they could hang her. It would not hurt now—perhaps it was what he wanted. So one morning she wrapped herself in a dark cloak and started through the gateway. As she passed, Fayrian's great hairy dog, chained to his kennel, snarled at her and showed his teeth. He knew! Soon others would know, too!

The magistrate to whom she went was very considerate. What was wrong? Could he do anything to help her? Clinging to his arm she whispered:

"Fayrian—his murder—it was I."

"What do you mean?"

His eyes were grave and kind. This time she answered aloud, trembling.

"I killed him. I put the poison in his cup—and he wanted to die a splendid death!"

A film came over the man's eyes, and he looked at her as one looks at a sick child.

"Poor lady, you have forgotten. Polevay killed him and Polevay is hanged. It is all over. Your grief has confused you."

"But he did not kill him. It was I who put the poison in the cup. Hang me; I should not mind the pain now."

She all but shook him. He caught her wrists firmly.

"You did not kill Fayrian; you ​loved him. You are distraught with grief. Come, let me take you home where you can rest and calm yourself."

As they went she still tried to convince him.

"He wants revenge."

"But he has vengeance. Polevay is dead."

"Oh, but you do not know that he is here asking me every day, asking me something—it must be that! I know, I know now where the dead go—into the all-ness of things: they are one with the sun and sky and rain—did you know that?"

He shook his head.

"Ah."

Her voice sank to a whisper.

"Then you have never been haunted by an April day! He touches me in the petals of flowers. He breathes in the growing of the grass; and all the day long in the wind or rain he speaks, asking for something. He is all around me—I live in him—we are nearer in death than in life. If it is not revenge that he wants of me, what is it?"

Her voice choked with tears.

"Fayrian" (she looked up at him again) "was poisoned like a dog."

They were at the gate now, and the man left her. She watched him go back down the path, shaking his head, and she smiled, for she knew that he thought her mad. She closed her eyes. Whispers, whispers! The wind had a taste of brine in it, blowing from the sea, singing around the cliff. She would go and watch the waves and hear them, for he must be there, too, he who was a part of all things. Perhaps, somehow, she would yet be able to understand him.

She took the path that led away from the stone gate and twisted up to the cliff. Fayrian did not want her to be hanged, so no one would believe her. She knew he had not wanted that. The wind bore her bodily up the path in its triumphant rush. It was swift, insistent, like a restless child tugging her impatiently toward some favorite playground; and soon she was at the top, looking down into the green water with its kissing, curling waves, while the wind romped and shouted around her noisily. It blew her long hair from the comb, spilling it down her back, and flung the folds of her cloak back from her white neck. And suddenly, clearly, it seemed to roar the answer to her questionings.

What could Fayrian want? Only two things. He wanted her; and he had wished to die bravely, splendidly—she had robbed him of these. Her life, roared the wind: it was his life also, and she could send it out to death beautifully, splendidly, as he would have wished.

Standing on the edge of the cliff, she balanced herself a moment against the wind—the feel of his strong arms—and looked down into the green water. That, too, was he, waiting for her. The waves foamed and curled expectantly. She stepped over the edge of the rocks. The water rushed up to meet her; it roared about her ears; and there was a note of triumph in its song as it received the Lady Ermengarde in its embracing arms.