THE DREAMWEAVER — an extract

Everyone already stands behind a stool at the table, and there is a spare one for me next to Pryderi. At the head of the table is Seren. Her pale hair cascades over her shoulders in soft, fluffy waves, clean and brushed. We are all dressed in finer garments than usual, with aprons and tunics that are not frayed or mended with patches. Despite her icy complexion, Seren is resplendent in a pale blue gown, and a silver circlet rests upon her brow which she must have kept hidden away from us. For the first time since I have met her, I can see the princess within her. Such a dress does not belong down here in the dark belly of the earth, but in the gardens of a castle, where one might collect flowers for pressing and lavender to tie about the rooms. There, she might have laughed once, with her brothers, her maids, and, eventually, the Irish King she was wed to in the times before her mistreatment. In her grey eyes I see more than just a scholar, but the playful wit and curiosity that once coloured her youth. 

When Seren sits, we all follow suit, and look to the food laid before us. A bowl of broth with two slices of bread are positioned before me. The others have lamb steaks, potatoes and carrots. Stubby candles stand at the centre of the table and drip wax into blackened hollows in the wood, no doubt caused by the spill of one of Branwen’s potions in the past. 

“This is much better,” Seren says, “Would you not agree?” We all nod in unison and Branwen gives her a bright smile.

“We may not be welcome above ground, yet that does not mean we must be uncivilized,” she continues. Her eyes fix upon my braid which is coated in an oil that does not quite conceal its damp smell, and travel down to my dirt streaked hands. Compared with her always polished appearance, I may as well be a wild beast.

Seren picks up her cutlery from the table, cuts her lamb steak into neat pieces, and leisurely chews on them. Her movements are precise, delicate, and when she takes a potato, she does not spear it, but daintily prods it before she guides it to her mouth. In between bites, she turns to Iver and asks how his day was, how he feels, to which he shrugs and grunts in reply. He stabs his fork into his slab of steak and raises the entire portion of meat to his mouth, biting off chunks so large that red blood dribbles down his chin. Seren turns away from him aghast, and attempts to engage Pryderi into conversation, instead. Together, they talk in hushed, pleasant voices, about trivial matters. The weather, which rarely varies, Pryderi’s family, how his daughter has learned to say more words. I tune them out and examine the contents of my bowl of broth. I stir it with my spoon and dislodge pieces of meat which I know are lamb, but they may as well be anything since I cannot taste the difference. As I look at the flesh, the soft border of fat that surrounds the meat, I am reminded of the crow digging in to the soft white of a rabbit’s eye. Any appetite I have disappears. Conversation dwindles, and I sense eyes focusing on my movements.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Seren asks me. She peers over the top of the earthenware cup she sips wine from. It must be sour because she wrinkles her nose and puts it down again. I am aware that the others are watching, so I plunge the spoon into the bowl and swallow some of the still too hot liquid. I refuse to flinch as it burns a patch on the roof of my mouth and scorches a path down my oesophagus. Satisfied, they all turn back to artfully attacking their own plates. They all know I hate eating in front of them, but Seren always insists. “A lack of tongue is not an excuse for poor manners”, she once said, I must “refine my eating habits and confront my fears”.

I tear a section away from the buttery bread and allow crumbs to fall onto the table. Seren’s nostrils flare in reaction to the mess. I dunk the bread into the bowl so that it grows soggy, but not so much that it breaks off and disappears into the murk of brown. Held above the table, liquid drips onto the wooden surface in satisfying little splatters, which earns a deep, nasal breath from Seren.

“Remember, you are to help Branwen this evening,” she tells me, as if the mention of cleaning will halt my miniature display of rebellion. Which it does, for a moment, as I internally groan at the prospect of having to spend more time in the caves and less time outside with my magic. 

I give Seren a fake smile at just the precise moment warm broth trickles over my knuckles. If I could, I would have licked it from my hands to disgust her further. Instead, I graze my chin with the bread before it enters my mouth for chewing, leaving behind a smear of grease. Seren shivers and blinks rapidly as though she can remove the image from her sight, and suddenly finds an interest for the carrots on her plate. With my mouth deliberately left open, I chew the bread into a fine pulp which I direct to the back of my throat with my fingers, to where the stump of my tongue helps to swallow it.

The bread feels stale, despite its submergence in the steaming liquid, and the crust makes my jaw click as I grind it between my teeth. I abandon it, and also drop the spoon in a clatter as it only elongates this embarrassing ordeal of public eating. It cannot make my meal disappear fast enough. Opposite me, Iver is almost finished his own plate, lamb steak leaving bloody smears on his lips. I lift my bowl to my lips. Liquid sloshes over the brim and I blow on the surface to cool it. I tip the contents into my mouth, taking care to keep my lips as tight as possible to avoid the meat. Some of the broth falls and stains my apron or else joins the existing puddle on the table. Seren’s hands grip the handle of her fork until her knuckles turn white, and then she slams it down on the wood.

“Must you always behave like such an animal?” she cries.

A grin spreads across my grease coated lips as everyone is looks between us except Iver, who is busy chasing the blood on his plate with his potatoes.

“Creirwy,” Branwen begins to chastise me, “You know how much this means to Seren. All of us eating together. We all know about your…difficulties, but-”

I refuse to let her finish the sentence. I don’t need to hear the words. I know what she wants to say: That is no excuse to treat Seren with disrespect, or worse, your lack of tongue does not mean you must eat as though you were a beast. As if I need to be reminded of that. I push back my stool to stand. Seren’s cool rage permeates the air between us all, and her voice, when she next speaks, is measured and controlled, but it does not quite conceal her emotion.

“I have not yet dismissed you from this table, Creirwy, please sit back down.”

A lock of pale hair falls from her tight bun and she tucks it behind her ear in annoyance. The force of her voice forces me to consider obeying her, but I hate this facsimile of normalcy that she repeatedly tries to thrust upon us all. As if we can ever be normal again. Branwen holds her breath, waiting to see what I will do, and Iver has his head bowed over his empty plate and raises his eyes every so often to glance at my bowl which still contains fatty lumps of meat. His mind focuses more on the food than the argument he does not understand. I gesture with my hand for him to eat the lamb, rather than it going to waste. He pulls the bowl towards himself and plucks out the meat with his fingertips. Next to me, Pryderi has his wine in his hand and looks between me and Seren. His crooked smile tells me that he is amused by the situation. It is the most emotion I have seen from him in a while.

I laugh, guttural and gurgling, because this entire situation is ludicrous to me. Seren looks taken aback, repulsed by the sounds I am able to make, though she should know by now that all of me is repulsive. I settle back into my seat and wait for the others to finish in silence, watching the candles cast dancing shadows on their pale faces. Conversation trickles around the room, which I ignore, and no one tries to talk to me. Seren finishes her last mouthful of food. Branwen rises, winces and presses a hand over her left hip. 

“I have a surprise for you all,” she tells us as she hobbles away.

She reappears with small bowls full of cold, golden custard, and everyone’s faces light up. Even my face relaxes. I remember the taste of custard, it’s rich sweetness, and though I cannot taste it now, I do appreciate its smooth, velvety texture. Though it is a welcome change from the watery broths and soups I am used to, the custard makes me mourn the loss of my tongue more acutely, that one muscle I had taken for granted until it was stolen from me. And taste, that one sense that everyone would prefer to lose over sight or hearing, without knowing how much it takes away. Simple pleasures and treats become worthless, the comforts of a hearty meal and lovingly prepared desserts can never be enjoyed or fully appreciated. It is difficult not to let my mood turn sour, but my sense of injustice takes over until I am left glowering at my empty bowl, simultaneously craving more of the thick, golden custard and wishing I had never let it pass my lips. 

Wood scrapes against wood, a sound that grates my ears and sends a shiver down my spine. Iver isn’t letting a single morsel remain in his bowl. At last, he stops, and Seren, too, finishes eating. 

“Thank you, Pryderi and Branwen, for such an abundant feast. And to you, Creirwy and Iver, for travelling to the village for supplies.” She speaks to us in a Queenly voice, as if we are her subjects even though we are all free, in our own right, and her royal lineage means little anymore. Her Irish King is dead, as are her royal brothers. There are no remains of her family, and the lands they once owned are now under the control of some other lord. Seren stands, and curtseys to us.

“You are free to leave the table,” she says, and drifts from the cave to retire to her rooms, where I imagine a stack of books and scrolls await her. 

Iver wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve and trails behind her, a lump of wood already taken out of his pocket which he begins to carve with a small knife. He leaves shavings of wood, like breadcrumbs, behind him. Pryderi remains for as long as it takes him to finish his wine. He scrunches up his face at its bitterness.

“You’re lucky you can’t taste this,” he laughs, then stops at my glare. “Sorry,” he amends, “I never meant…” his voice trails away.

Branwen and I begin to gather the plates and bowls, stacking them on top of each other ready to take and clean. Pryderi scratches at the back of his neck.

“I can help, if you like,” he offers.

I shake my head, though he doesn’t see because he stares into his cup. Branwen answers for us both.

“No, we can manage, but thank you.”

Pryderi drinks the last dregs and stumbles to his feet. He has had more than perhaps he should.

“I see my wife and daughter tomorrow. It’s been over a month, I think. Maybe two.” We peer at him as we bend over the candles to blow them out, one by one, leaving the cave lit by the torches on the wall. 

“That’ll be nice,” Branwen replies.

“Every time I go, she seems so much bigger. My daughter that is. I sometimes worry that she will forget me.”

It seems I am not the alone in my fears of becoming a ghost, lost in the memories of those who once knew me. A featureless silhouette, a mere shape of the past.

“Perhaps you should visit more often,” suggests Branwen.

Pryderi’s hands tremble. “The weeks stretch into a single day and I lose track of time. Without the sky, I never know if its day or night, full moon or new moon.” His eyes glisten and turn hazy, as though he is far away from us, lost in the landscape of his thoughts.

“Then go outside more,” Branwen snaps, though this is easier said than done. We tend to leave and return at night to avoid suspicious eyes. She knows this. It is one of her rules, with few exceptions.

Pryderi’s eyes drift into focus, and I take in his appearance as I scratch dried taper wax from the table. Out of us all, his skin is the palest, almost translucent, with blue veins like a network of webs visible beneath the surface. The skin beneath his eyes are shadowed, as though he suffers, like I do, from lack of sleep, and his eyes squint, the light from the torches almost too bright for him. There is no way he would be able to walk above ground in full sunlight now without a strip of dark cloth over his eyes. He has let himself become a creature of the night, of darkness. Branwen must see it too because she skirts around the table and pulls a small phial out of her pocket. I recognise it as her sleep draught, the one she gives to me on the rare occasion I desire relief from my wakefulness.

“Five drops. It tastes better if you take it with some hot peppermint leaves.”

Pryderi pockets the potion, and drags his feet as he makes his way down the passage. The sound is audible for a few minutes, until he is far enough away for it to no longer carry.

“Poor wretch,” Branwen sighs. “He needs to be careful, else that wife and child of his will decide that he is no longer welcome. He will be all alone. Except for us, of course.”

With the last of the wax cleaned from the table, we carry the crockery into the antechamber, a makeshift kitchen with a hearth, a table where a wash basin already stands ready to use, and more tables along the cave wall which we use to store the cooking pots, plates, bowls, knives, and spoons. Branwen sets the dirty wood beside the basin, which I walk over to. A slop bucket lies on the floor beneath the table, and I tip the leftovers inside, chunks of fat cut away from the lamb, half a potato, a few stray carrots. Branwen brings over a jug of hot water, and I pour some of it into the basin. I pick up a pair of metal prongs which I use to hold a bar of scented lye soap and dip and swirl it around the boiling liquid to create suds. I roll up my sleeves and let the contents cool a little, and then submerge the tableware into the basin to scrub clean and set down for drying. Meanwhile, Branwen gets to work on creating dough, kneading and rolling it into a thin, sausage shape, which she wraps around some sticks, ready to cook over the fire. She covers them with a cloth and sets them aside. I dry the crockery and pile it neatly in stacks on top of the newly positioned tables. We add wood from a pile in a gloomy corner of the room to the fire.

“It should last,” Branwen says, and helps me carry the basin full of water out of the passage and down to where the cave stream runs. We pour it into the underground river, and watch as the soap bubbles drift downstream, away from where we collect the water we drink. We trudge back to return the basin to the kitchen. Branwen sets me to peeling carrots and potatoes for tomorrow’s breakfast broth, whilst she descales and guts a fish. Its pungent aroma burns my nostrils. Done with our chores, we head to the main hearth room. The fire here is little more than ashes now, so we build it up again to keep the cold and damp away from the clothes we all string up here to dry overnight. 

I settle down onto one of the logs and feel the heat lick my skin. The smoke makes my eyes water and I hastily wipe the wetness from my cheeks. Branwen breaks the silence.

“Iver tells me you left him alone in the woods. Whilst he was asleep.” I can’t tell if her voice is curious, disappointed, or furious. Perhaps it is all three.

“Why?”

I mime the same story I gave Iver, hearing something peculiar, investigating, and getting lost in the trees. But I can tell from the way she taps her chin with her finger and the arch of her eyebrows that she disbelieves my tale.

“Do you know something? For a girl whose voice cannot betray her, you are a terrible liar.” I bristle at the patronising use of the word girl, but force my face to remain neutral. 

“This is to do with your magic, isn’t it?”

I peer at her from the corners of my eyes and give a short, curt nod. Whilst I would not usually confide in the others, Branwen has proven to know much more about my skill than even I do.

“You are on the brink of tethering,” she whispers. Tendrils of smoke reach out towards us both and occupy the space between us. We look through the grey haze at one another. 

“You need to be careful, girl. You don’t know what the consequences might be. It could cost you your life.”

Consequences. But what about the rewards? A way to speak, to tell them all my story. I already know the exchange I must face, and though the memory makes me feel ill and is almost enough for me not to take this leap, I believe I can manage it. If feathers should begin to sprout from my body, or my nails turn to sharpened claws, then so be it, and if my lifespan is shortened, well, I shouldn’t mind that so much either. A life underground in the caves where very few know of my existence is hardly a life at all. 

“You know, you could have woven your secrets into one of those dream tapestries you make. Sent us a dream of your past, if you wanted to tell it.”

Branwen is right, I could have, and I did consider it once. But I do not want to send them such a dream, do not want them to live and feel the horrors I have encountered. Images and memories are one thing, but the recitation of them are another. It is through words that we can control our narratives, edit them to be less violent, less gruesome. They do not need to feel the sharp searing pain of a severed tongue, feel blood filling their mouths so rapidly they have to let it pour from between their lips. Feel the burn of cauterisation, the stench of their own smoking, burning flesh. The wriggling remnants of a stump, the phantom movements of a missing muscle. It is words that are needed to tell it all, not the sensory truth of my experience. I cannot tell this all to Branwen so she does not know what power lies within a voice, what everyone else has that I do not. Language, and words to communicate, rather than the spluttering and lisping nonsense that now resembles my speech.

I stand to add more wood to the fire, watch the flames kiss the sides of the dead wood. It crackles and echoes about the cave, and is joined by the relentless drip of water that fills the underground space. Branwen stands beside me and puts a comforting arm around my body.

“You’re going to do it tonight.”

I turn to look at her face, which, in the orange glow, looks sallow rather than the near translucent white that is characteristic of the rest of us. I briefly wonder how long she has been down here for, how long it takes for the lack of sunlight to ruin bones and cause permanent damage. When was the last time Branwen slept without the aid of her potions? And when was she last warm, and could go without the patchwork shawl she always has about her shoulders, which even now she grips with her free hand despite her close proximity to the flames. None of us were born creatures of the darkness, the underground, but circumstances led us here into hiding. We have all known the sun on our faces, the warmth of a home. Although we have adapted as best as we can, this is not the place where an elderly lady should live out the rest of her days, where any of us should, and nor do I want to. 

I remove myself from Branwen’s half embrace and give her a weak smile before I turn to unpeg my spare clothes from the drying line. Branwen turns away and sits with her back to me to give me privacy. I change out of the finer dress and apron she leant me, fold them into a neat pile, and give them back to her.

“You should keep them,” she tells me, but I place them on her knees.

“I will keep them safe for you, then,” she promises, and I pad away from her, deep into the passages, armed with a torch to re-light those that have gone out.