White Horse Pilgrim

Leaves that are green

Leaves that are green will turn brown, Paul Simon wrote. But not if Brena can eat them first. These leaves were being devoured at quite a rate. Beech leaves seem especially palatable to horses, though Doru was also partial to Horse Chestnut leaves. Yes, this is a fine time for horses: vegetation flourishing in the sunshine after all that rain. And a time for the rider of such a horse as mine to remain vigilant. That mare can drop her head with lightning speed. 

Life circles around laying to rest harmful myths. A small one was the belief that Brena would buck when transitioning to a canter. For a while there was a nagging fear in the back of my mind that she would put in a respectable buck and remove me. It happened once in the arena, a place that I tend to avoid. But in the end I needed to go out and canter her. There was a little high-spiritedness at times that might have been taken for a small buck. But nothing mean or unsafe. Cantering became fun again. 

A much older and deeper myth came from school. Back then music was a compulsory subject up to around the age of fourteen. A number of us were told by our music teacher that we were devoid of talent. We were ordered to mouth the words when the class had to sing, and made to keep our hands away from the school's musical instruments. 

A desire to sing or play isn't just a matter of having some fun with friends. It's also about tearing down the barrier established by a couple of lazy thoughtless teachers. I don't need their blight upon my life. Enough damage has been done. It's not as if that school wrecked my life. Pity the children who left semi-literate or barely numerate because "lack of talent" justified a lack of investment in their growth. But that school sowed a doubt in my mind, locked a door and told me that worthless things lay behind. Now it's time to insert the key, turn and push. I hope that a new teacher will have something encouraging to say. 

The broad plains spread out below, green and soothing, encouraging a foundation of tranquility. That's the true backdrop to my life, more than the office or work or former exile. It's the hills that I return to. A little time up there and I am ready for the next challenge. Looking down on a timeless sea of green, upon an ages-old canopy, I reflect that the big challenge is an ancient one. As a friend put it, to become more of a Renaissance character. (I don't mean dressing up for a Renaissance Fair. Please no!) No, it's about become broad in knowledge, skill and enthusiasm. Being an engineer and having artistic proficiency. Managing processes and being creative. This is a whole new trail to explore. A new land to ride around. It's exciting. Leaves that are brown can turn green. 

An impractical dreaming

It's all very well to dream about the spring and summer that will come like two friends following one-another along a familiar trail. I may as well ride out and meet them. They will be there. So shall I, and we shall share happy times. We always do, it's in our nature. And it's in my nature to dream of other things too.

The roan stallion carried me along a grassy Downland track. We’d cantered along the level valley bottom then trotted up a short rise to rest in the lee of a beech copse. Low clouds scattered occasional drops of rain from a grey winter sky. Doru reached down to graze the thin upland grass. A good hundred meter sweep of grass separated me from the far eaves of the woods, a tangled mass of willow, spruce and beech. Not a sound disturbed us in this secluded spot. Then I saw her, and not for the first time. Off to my right, deep in the shadowy beech wood, a grey horse stood silent. On his back a tall woman watched me. I could make out little in the gloom, but I knew her flowing dark hair and dull green garb. She was a mystery, and that made her all the more beautiful.

I wanted to ride after her, as I had desired before. But each time I had felt as if a hidden hand restrained me. Then when finally I set off her horse was too fleet footed. Each time I had lost her. What a fine game she was playing with me! The romantic in me wanted to meet her, talk, obtain her phone number and meet again. Ride together, socialize and, to be honest, perhaps hook up too. Let’s be more subtle, then. I raised my right hand in greeting. She responded likewise. Then a roar behind captured my attention. I turned to look. It was the gamekeeper on his quad. That was no problem for me: I was riding on a right of way. As for the lady, she might have some explaining to do.

I turned back, but she had gone. I sighed, for I longed to meet her.

Well, we know of the pitfalls in relationships between Men and Elves (or Fairies). Strange partners apt to vanish then come back to snatch the children, marching to a different drummer, fickleness, jealousy. Come to think of it I've received all but one of those from humans, and she'd have taken the children if we'd have any. Oh well, a writing project can include some cleansed daydreams and might-have-beens.

I have done a little research for the writing project in progress - now that the text book is (almost) out of the way. What might have my equestrian nomads have worn? On one hand I have the Huns and Mongols as models, on the other hand Tolkien's Lord of the Rings characters. (There are also historical accounts as to how the Mongol Horde smelled, but let's not go there right now. It's not nice.) The LOTR characters are most romantic, of course, therefore best for my kind of book. The men are easy enough: think Aragorn or Boromir. Cloaks, boots, stuff like that. As for the women: well perhaps not quite as shown in the picture. I mean, at least she ought to be wearing leggings. However Arwen and Eowyn fared better. Patient not to mention obsessive people have done some interesting work to recreate the LOTR film costumes. A part of me is quite envious of Arwen - imagine her splendid layered flowing riding garb when she rescued Frodo. No, don't snigger, men are allowed to be envious of such things once in a while. Besides, all that has just given me a fresh idea for the developing book. I have a character who could look just a little better - indeed prettier - which I assume would have mattered to a bunch of equestrian nomads.

Grooming

The land is gaining a grooming, and my horse would look nicer for a groom too.

The frostiness of bare chalk is darkened by rich damp soil drawn by the hard discs to the surface. This is no easy land from which to scratch a living, nor has it even been.

Application of a stiff brush would take dirt from the Brena's coat. Now the mare is not rugged for the weather is warmer. Last weekend she was sweaty beneath her rug, and that was sign enough. Happy mare, her coat a little dirty: owner will be busy.

My manuscript is benefitting from a little grooming too. I'm a hundred pags into two hundred and fifty, sorting out the format and correcting inconsistencies. Now surrounded by the work it's easy to feel overwhelmed: by the sheer volume; by my overly critical mind; and by the odds against me.

I am paying the price for having written the thing in two frenetic bursts a year apart. There are a few mismatches to straighten out.

But I am stubborn, as I have just remarked to Jess. I survived a difficult exile and I'll get through this.

It's strange, though, performing a serious job in an office whilst equestrian nomads ride around my imagination. It is peculiar to carry within me the development of a powerful female character whilst working in a largely male environment. Writing about a tribe dependent upon horses is quite a contrast to my job focused on technology. There are moments when I smile inwardly at the incongruity of it all.

 

Creating

A simple fact occurred to me last night. I have written around one hundred and twenty thousand words. That is enough. For a first book anyway. A whole sweep of story has been created and set down, albeit roughly and in need of polish. I had thought that was two-thirds of the tale. No! It's the first part of a trilogy. Well, that realisation has brought a bit of clarity.

I did a little sketching of the remainder. Just the rough ideas and a beginning of a shape for the thing. Enough to be able to include my former haunts in Transylvania. Indeed the very trail that led due north from my home, crossing a medieval trade route and a Habsburg military road both now grassy tracks. Only there will be something at the end darker than I encountered in real life. Darker, but in keeping with tradition.

How wonderful to be able to make use of my old life in this way. Well, I would say that. But, seriously, I used to ride that land feeling as if we were upon the tableau a huge film set or within the pages of a historical novel. The place had a fictional quality, hard to describe and yet easy to perceive - a function of its strangeness, of long history and of the raw simplicity of life. Contrasts were strong, the light bright and the dark vile. There were conspiracies too deep to fathom, and suspicion lurked the valleys. Beauty and joy stood hand in hand to welcome the traveller somewhere between setback and reverse. And up above on the mountains most often I found freedom.

Yes, my exile was like the meeting point between Leo Tolstoy, Franz Kafka and Dylan Thomas. All rolled into one. No wonder it has inspired an urge to create. Now let's see what.

Of course...

Writing, of course, is therapeutic. Creativity stems from deep within. To write creatively, whether prose, poetry or lyrics, is to explore ones inner being. I've said that much before. To me recognition as a writer is a validation of ones skill as a wordsmith, obviously, but also of one as a person. This is personal, of course. Someone turning out books for money may not be writing from their soul. As an engineer, do I turn out structures that represent my inner being? Well I might if I happen to be influencing architecture. But structures follow laws and so, I suppose, does a certain type of formulaic book. Well, that's not the type that I wish to write.

Riding empties the mind and opens it to inspiration. It is pleasurable, however I would not call it a therapeutic activity. Working with my horse is educational for every once in a while she acts as a mirror, showing me some part of my character that encourages me or, more often, demonstrates a rough edge to be polished. But riding is not a creative outpouring in the way that writing is. Good feedback is getting back safely with my mare in good condition having looked after her carefully. Most often I can judge this for myself.

Guiding is a skill, and one part of that is storytelling. Many were the tales of the hills, of events long ago that formed history and culture. There is a creativity inherent to storytelling for a good tale is a living thing, a moral and a myth: and not just a dry collection of facts. From emotional resources within each tale must be brought to life, interpreted and presented. So each tale that I tell carries a part of me. I'm not being economical with the truth for myth is organic. As for feedback, most often I weight how I tell a tale and think how to tell it better. Usually I can do this for myself, though a bit of advice helps.

Writing probes deeper, is more finely crafted and lasts longer. My writing tells more about me than a tale told verbally. It's more serious. So that's why validation is so important. Of course.

One thousand words

The writing has begun again. It stopped at eighty thousand words and chapter ten of twenty-six planned. Given that the earlier chapters were longer in order to set out the background, I might be aiming at two hundred thousand words. Is that a excessive for a novel? I don't know.

I've set myself the target of writing a thousand words a day. One hundred and twenty days to finish this novel. Fewer if I am more productive or my work less wordy. Six months at five days a week. I've kept up that rate of progress for a week.

It has been fun too: a new virtual adventure. It is exciting deciding what my characters will say and do. The work restarted, they have regained lives of their own. They speak to me, and I try to imagine how they might feel.

I have realised that this novel must not tie up all of the loose ends. Leave something to pick up if I feel like writing another. Let that door remain ajar.

I cannot remember the name of the young lady who took part in a Carpathian mountain riding adventure in July 2007. (The dog, Mina, lives at my new home with D and I. The pony, Pusa, is in Hungary.)

Now, after years spent assembling adventures for others, I am creating one for myself. A literary adventure. From the warmth and light of my study, adventure is flowing. Truly I am enjoying myself.

It's a fascinating exercise to write in the first person. I can write a character who reflects me, but isn't me. I can write as an older person, or younger, or of the opposite gender. Braver, too, and agile so as to spring aboard a horse effortlessly.

Autumn evening arrival

Then I dreamt a waking dream, as I am apt to do. I imagined the last stage of a journey and our arrival at a house with a stable, walking inside and finding a box prepared, being welcomed and bringing my welcome also to good people. In this there is unconscious hope and perhaps a little allegory.

Thoughtful, I rode across a wild and unpopulated landscape of low hills, tracts of grass and scrub bounded by pine woods. The grass was yellowing with autumn and leaves were falling from the few stunted deciduous trees. Isolated puddles and a little mud showed that rain had fallen, however again the going was firm beneath bare hooves. Another dry day and we might leave a little dust hanging in our wake.

I knew this trail from a succession of journeys, recognising a conical hill here and a twist of a stream there. A peculiarly stunted tree, a boulder and a pool, each proved that we took the right path through this quiet land. Above, a vee of geese headed south. By Brena's feet dry colourful leaves swirled and fell again to earth. And all was still, for the wind had dropped to nothing beneath a clear sky. Just two men did I meet, one old and the other young, and they were shepherds. Flocks grazed purposefully at the thin dry grass, and it was clear that soon man and beast would return to lower pastures. A visitor releases the tongues of those whose lives are so lonely, and they told me of the grazing and the milking, of storms and blessings, and of the few that had passed this way. Then as I left the older added, "the ones called Jana and Willow passed this way three days ago". I feigned surprise for we wanderers like to appear disinterested in the journeyings of our fellows. Free spirits command a more attentive audience than members of a group. I had not seen those two for a season, however a hint of lowland autumn would send them on annual errand across the high mountains before bad weather made travel uncomfortable and early snow risked peril. Now I would keep my eyes open, for a meeting would be welcome.

As the afternoon grew old I left a broad valley and dropped downhill, the trail zig-zagging down a short steep slope and into shadow to reach an old trackway now grass-grown. As my mare stepped carefully I wondered which trail Jana and Willow would take. Perhaps this valley? Turning left at the valley floor we followed a curve beneath beech trees to reach an old stone bridge that bore right to cross a clear swirling river, narrow and deep. Over the bridge led the little-used track, then again off to the left following the river. But we took a path to the right, doubling back, and there were other hoof prints on the damp ground along that way. They led back down the hill and away to who knew where?

Up through bright beeches we climbed, weaving between great boles and stepping over roots like limbs. How long would Jana and Willow be travelling, I wondered. Perhaps two days each way? Now the path was dry and dusty, our footing crisp atop a carpet of dry fallen leaves. A last stretch northward, gently climbing alongside a stream, brought us to a level clearing. There ahead was a house, low, stone-walled and old as if it had grown organically from the hill. The stout end wall faced me with its weathered stones that had withstood many a storm and sheltered me from a few, and there an open wooden balcony stretched from corner to corner. That balcony continued to the right, turning to head down the length of the house past a door and windows. At the corner of the house three stone steps led up to the balcony and a carved door of dark wood, whilst two windows in the end admitted light through many square panes set in a green-painted frame.

To the rear of the house a further door, wider and rougher, led to stable. I rode up the final stretch of the ride and onto the level ground alongside the middle of the house. To my right the stream had been dammed to form a long pond, yet narrow so that a lithe person might leap across, as once I had been. Slowly I dismounted onto firm well-cropped turf thinking of all the times that I had jumped down here. All was silent, and none came forth to greet me. Shadows reached out to meet me as the sun slipped behind the wooded westward slope.

I unlatched the stable door and led my mare within, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Soon a lamp would need to be lit. Into a box I led my companion, noticing that the space had been made ready with hay and a pail of water. Soon my saddle was resting on an old wooden rack, the blanket spread out to dry. Then I looked for my host, but still not a soul came. Then in a window sill I spotted welcone things: a wooden plate covered with a cloth, and a sheet of paper. How had I missed them, save that always I try to care for my beast before my needs. On that sheet were written carefully these words: "Make yourself comfortable, guest, and be refreshed. We shall return soon". The writing was slender and precise with full loops, a work of care and artistry too.

Below the cloth lay two thick slices of bread, a slab of soft sheep-milk cheese, and a pewter mug filled with a deep red wine. I took a sip: it was rich and strong. Sitting on the stone step at the doorway I ate and drank, gazing at the dark pool, watching the last sunlight fleeing up the slope of the smooth grassy hill to the east. Fatigue rested in my limbs and my head became a little light as tiredness wasjoined by drink. A rocky outcrop at the very crest caught the final golden rays, and then all lay in shadow. At that moment a horse neighed down in the woods to the right, and then another shriller. Brena responded from within the stable behind. Then a voice laughed, deep and melodious. Another higher voice called brightly, "Ho, we're home again", as if that were something to celebrate. For me it was. The silhouettes of two cloaked riders appeared from the forest margin, grey and indistinct in the twilight. One was taller and stouter, the other slighter, and each horse matched its rider.

I stood to greet my friends.

Mellow land changing

On the first day of September there was a soft luminosity to the hills and valleys. Sunlight was filtered by a faint haze, its strength thrusting warmth and brightness upon a land just beginning to think of beckoning slumber. Crops have been harvested, fields ploughed and harrowed. The smooth naked curves of the soil are settling, relaxing and awaiting a long rest. Now their sensuousness entrances, but soon they will cool into hibernation, frigid and scarcely breathing.

For now the land is like a healthy body undressed and stretched out. The hills are like limbs, the ridges muscle. Leaves fall about to be blown by the breeze, like full hair over well formed shoulders. The organism that provides our food rests, another year's task complete. But still her beauty is laid out for enjoyment. She is my companion wandering the trails.

I will grant her a contented dreamy autumn even as I seek to lie down with her one more time on a sunny hillside to enjoy the last warm rays of an angled golden sun. She will thrill me with the final vivid beech leaves, then grant me a gift of windfall apples. I'll accept her winter's slumber as I miss the lively beauty of summer, for she is no corpse in a box receiving final respects. But I shall miss my good friend.

I imagine a dry trail where every footfall raises a puff of dust. I look for the landmark that is my objective: a hill or a pass, a wood perhaps with an inviting meadow in its lee. I think of the end of a hot afternoon, my horse grazing, me supine in a shady spot having cooled my feet in a clear stream - with my friend.

Dreaming in the golden light of evening

we set off into the bright evening, the wind fresh on our faces. The landscape hereabout is ancient and mysterious, and it is so easy to dream. The Ridgeway drives towards an enticing horizon whilst each perpendicular track seems to wind its way into strange terrain. What might lie around the next corner?

 
The evening was golden with slanting low light, the fields vibrant in green and yellow, the woods rich above inky shadow, the very landscape a plastic sculpture of curving, twisting form in brilliant relief. Through this we rode, my horse and I, casting long shadows that bent this way and that as our path wound around knolls and across a verdant hillside. It was a joy to be out in the closing act of a lovely warm sunny day, a day where a fresh breeze cooled the sun-baked traveller, a day when every detail of the changing landscape was lit in sharp relief bringing joy to the heart of a perceptive man. My horse, of course, thought just of eating the brightly lit and decidedly lush vegetation.

We paused, I to think and she to graze, our purposes meeting in convenient symbiosis. Where to go, I wondered? The dark wall of the forest faced me from the west, to my left, deep in shadow. Night was falling there even as I shaded my eyes against the plummeting sun. Why not that way, I thought? Let’s chase the sun by heading westward into shadow.

 
I pulled the greedy mare’s head up from the grass and turned her towards the setting sun. Down the slope we trotted, over the rank grass of the short flat valley bottom, then up towards the close ranks of tall trees. There was no path here for no-one walked this way. This wood is mysterious, and few enter willingly. Not all of these, it is said, return. But I have come and gone many times, for travelling is a part of my profession.

Between great boles we slipped, their bark smooth and grey in the gloom. Just a little light filtered down from the thick canopy high above. Over writhing roots my mare stepped, placing her feet carefully. The ground levelled, then fell. Hooves kicked up ancient beech mast atop the dusty soil. A dry valley within the woods led us downhill, then at a hidden nameless rock we turned right, again to the west. It was nearly dark and we seemed to feel the way rather than see it. The air was thick as if very old, and there was no breeze at this depth. Uphill the mare trudged as I sat upright for there were no low branches in this lofty stand. Then the trees grew smaller and closer spaced, and I had to duck low several times. Finally beech trees gave way to a thick belt of shrub, like a great hedge that closed off one part of the land from another. There was one narrow path through, and I found it uncannily as one guided by some gift. So it was truly, for this was an enchanted place, and most found no path but rather wandered in aimless circles until regaining that valley to the east frustrated and tired. Foliage brushed my knees and shoulders as we squeezed through. For a few dozen paces we forced our way thus, then a broad forest floor opened up. The wood was even more splendid than its counterpart on the other side. Still there was no path however knowledge led me downhill as intuition had once carried me. The gloom lightened to a bright gloaming then suddenly I was at the forest wall. Ahead green meadows and crop land descended to a village of low wooden farmsteads, a skein of grey smoke rising from each chimney. There it was, still.

I remembered my first visit here. Tentatively I had ridden down to this unexpected archaic place, ready to flee. An old man stumbled out from the largest cottage at the centre of the village, supporting himself on a hoary stick, and asked just one question.

‘What is your gift, traveller?’

‘I am a storyteller’, I improvised. It was the right answer.

These people, I discovered, were hospitable. However they liked guests to contribute to the labour required to sustain the community. Most could labour in some way or other, but my skill was rarer. Besides, I was one of the few who had emerged through the hedge.

That first evening in the meeting room within the large house I told the story of the barrow on the ridge, which was old even to them though positively ancient to me. They were not ignorant of its history. However tales gain quality with the passage of time just as hedgerows become richer and more varied. In that smoky room, dark and filled with eager listeners, I told of how two armies had clashed, one comprising local men, the other invaders who had crossed the sea. The latter had gained ground until the local king pushed to the front of conflict shouting that the line would fall back no further. A pace behind strode his standard bearer, raven banner fluttering aloft. In that moment warriors on both sides saw the embroidered black bird take wing as if flying upon the white silk background that seemed now a living part of the sky. Victory was his! But in triumph he was struck down even as his men slew and hewed their enemies. His son, an accomplished swordsman, led the rout through to completion then commanded construction of an earthen barrow over their fallen leader. Through thirty lifetimes that barrow had endured, old bones slowly decaying at its core.

Thus was the land of my hosts linked to mine, though I walked under no illusion that their time and mine quite coincided. It was all rather peculiar, and in such things it is best not to ask too many questions. I did never quite work out when they lived, only that the wood was enchanted and the hedge especially so.

The wise mare carried me down to a familiar house, the large one in the centre of the village. There the old man lived, a fellow craftsman with words. Many were the tales that he and I had shared and compared, and much the wisdom that I had gained from him.

My second tale had explained from whence I came, for that was of interest. The villagers accepted that story: embellished, deep in allegory and light in fact. The old man alone suspected a different truth – or, perhaps, one that ran in parallel. But then it was clear from his tales that he too had traversed the way through the hedge that appeared only to a select few.

This time, having put the mare to eat hay in a stable, the old man and I fell to talking on his balcony. I asked over familiar neighbours, he after my travels. Then, noting that we might be overheard, he bade me enter his house. In the dim dusty light of the story room, he started a new tale. For the first time in years new faces had appeared from the woods, skirting the village and slipping away. Who were they? Word had arrived that darkness dogged their feet and dissent spread before their every step. Something needed to be done.

I sensed a new quest emerging.

‘The Trickster may be a found a day’s ride away’, the old man spoke earnestly, ‘it is to him that you must ride.’

 

At the pool: a story

I’m back to creative writing after an absence like a walk in an arid place. Now the words flow again, but not as quickly as before, and their refinement requires effort. Sentences and paragraphs change emphasis as I seek the precise meaning that I wish to express. The former spring gushing stream of consciousness writing has dried up. Now I must reach down with a pail; and it is rickety and leaks. My new mechanism reflects a process of search and discovery. Previously I expressed a yearning for identity. Now I am finding responses, and they encouraging an onward journey through terrain that can be tough yet beautiful. This reinvention of creativity reflects a refinement of those responses, like a panning for gold or a search for treasure. The labour can be hard, but it is worthwhile.

This story is written particularly for a friend who is exploring the balance between the poles of her psyche.

The afternoon was hot and dry. From a cloudless sky the bright sun heated the bare hillside and reflected from the many rocks. No breeze cooled a solitary traveller and his horse as they crossed an open south-facing flank of a great mountain ridge. Above the slow-moving pair an expanse of rough grass and bare stone reached towards a broad rounded peak. Below the ground dropped away towards a heavily wooded valley, and then more slowly gave way as a succession of wandering low ridges and hummocks of hills all clad in the soft green of a broad rich forest.

I rode across the oblique face of the mountain, gently descending towards the lowland heat. This last league was the conclusion of a long ride from a deep valley now hidden beyond the ridge to the north. The twisting climb from those wooded depths had occupied a whole morning. After crossing a high defile the slow descent of a narrow path took another two hours. Now my goal was near. Toiling across the sweep of mountain flank took me to an outlying ridge where the woods reached up high like a dark green hand caressing the bare grass. The track that I had been following headed deliberately downhill, they way that shepherds and woodsmen headed. But I left the path and rode uphill a short distance, skirting the bottom of a low mossy cliff to slip between gnarled pine trees. A short steep climb led to a cleft in the rocks that reminded me of a gateway, the entrance to a hidden expanse known to just a few travellers. There ahead was a grassy space bounded by close-set pines and punctuated by clumps of majestic beech trees. The pasture, almost circular in shape and dropping from north to south, extended some three hundred paces across. At its centre a clear spring fed a shallow pool, from where water gushed and tumbled into a crevice and disappeared towards the valley bottom far below. It is a lovely spot, remote and tranquil, containing a rough wooden wayfarer’s hut where I have slept on numerous occasions before and after that day.

Tired and hot I dismounted and led my mare to the cool clear spring that bubbles forth from the rocks amidst a beech grove. I stripped the sweaty skewbald, leaning her saddle against a convenient bole and piling bridle, saddlebags, bow and quiver alongside. Released into freedom my mare ambled into the pool and began to drink. Then I undressed to the point of nakedness and followed her into the water. I splashed her all over, washing salt and scurf from her coat. Then I washed myself as she lay down and rolled in the shallow water. The big wet skewbald wandered off to graze as I cleansed myself and cooled after hours in the dry dusty heat. Finally I slipped beneath a great tree, my back stretched against the beech bark as I reclined cool and happy. Beyond the shade the afternoon was hot and bright.

My mare whinnied suddenly and with evident pleasure. I looked about only to spy a tall woman neither young nor old leading her horse along the path that I had taken. Quickly I pulled on the green trousers and tunic that were typical in those parts then walked out barefoot to greet her. I knew and respected this woman from stories that were almost legendary in their intensity and the patina of telling and retelling. Detouring via the spring and filling the carved wooden wayfarers’ cup that sat there always awaiting use, I approached her with a mix of excitement and trepidation within my heart. Black was her hair but threaded with grey, her dress was a rusty red gathered in an intricately tooled belt, and dark were her dusty boots. Her eyes were bright and perceptive, resting upon my face and seeming to penetrate my mind. Her face and forearms were brown and almost a little leathery from long exposure to the sun, creating the impression of a true and experienced traveller familiar with the long road and open spaces. Her horse was a strong bay, equipped with a well made saddle and bridle. Her saddle bore convenient leather bags at front and rear, and a full quiver hung from the right side. Over her back was slung a short horseman’s recurve bow. Here indeed was one whom the wolves had sniffed at. The same beasts had sniffed at me too.

‘Welcome, wise one’, I said when she was a few paces away, ‘please drink this good water.’ She reached out a brown hand and took the cup, raising it to savour the cool refreshing liquid.

‘Please bring me another’, she said, smiling. Quickly I fetched a second cupful of cool clear water from the spring. As she drank I looked at her tanned face, thinking how much older than I she was, and how courageous and energetic to wander these wild places.

Returning the cup she took my hands in hers and stood silent. I felt as if I stood naked whilst she probed my heart, as if a light shone within me that no shadow might remain unexplored. Then soft warmth seemed to wash over me, like a gentle loving assurance that I had passed her examination and was accepted. She withdrew her hands and mine dropped to my waist, having to grasp the cup that I did not drop it.

Swiftly my visitor removed bags, saddle and bridle from her horse. My mare approached and the traveller looked at me. ‘Is your horse good and kind?’ she asked. I replied to the affirmative. ‘So also is my horse good-hearted. I see that you are generous of spirit, and so am I’.

‘Thank you, wise one’, I replied.

Then she turned her horse to graze. I watched her pull off tall supple boots then cast off her knee-length dress. ‘Do you want to bathe again?’ she asked, seeming to know that I had not long left the water that was so welcome on a hot afternoon. I nodded. I watched her pull a vest over her head and draw down tight-fitting leggings then uncertainly followed her lead by removing my tunic and trousers.

One could not allow oneself to be surprised by the wise ones. Part holy fool, part mystic, indeed in small measure warrior too, these rare travellers loved to shock and surprise the few whom they truly trusted. Embarrassment apart I was being accepted into that small band of accomplices, having passed her probing my mind and heart. A thrilling realisation ran through me like the shock of a draught of strong beverage.

Into the cool water we strode, barefoot and naked, me a little behind her. Pebbles beneath my feet, smooth and mobile, stimulated my senses. The water reached our knees. Then she stooped down and splashed me, and I returned the gesture. Water ran from my shoulders and hair, and cascaded from her laughing face and bare breasts that were pert still despite her age. I laughed too, awakened as from a dream by the cool water and by her open acceptance of me. Then she pointed to a flat-sided rock, indicating that to be her favourite place to sit in the water. At her beckoning I sat with my back against the warm stone, the water lapping around my armpits. She settled down in front of me, nesting her bottom between my spread thighs. As she relaxed against me tentatively I put my arms around her shoulders, half expecting to be repulsed. But instead I felt her wet hair against my face, a reminder that she was very nearly as tall as me. She breathed out long in a gesture of relaxation.

‘You call me wise’, she said, ‘as do many, some in jest, some seriously and a few from their wisdom. However you are trustworthy and are no fool as I discerned before I entered the water.’

‘Long have I waited to meet you’, I replied, ‘though I did not imagine that it would be like this’.

‘I am your mother and your sister, and indeed a part of you too, for we are more alike than you realise’ she mused. Then with a laugh she added, ‘and now that I don’t any longer feel something firm pressing into my back I think that you inner unconscious accepts this complex relationship.’

I was glad for the calming effect of the cold water, though still my cheeks blushed at her recognition of that which, in my masculinity, I could not prevent. I sensed that she felt my twinge of shame for she snuggled a little more firmly against me. In my soul I was thrilled at this safe easy companionship.

We talked at length, part way that conversation through climbing from the stream to warm and dry ourselves on the grassy bank. She told me of her wanderings, long journeys guiding and healing those who needed help. In turn I talked of my travels, of how I sought a vocation, and of the complexity that I felt within me. The last especially was unfamiliar terrain upon which to guide a stranger, however my companion exuded a sense of trustworthiness. Besides, had she not accepted me? Then she talked of duality, and that concept struck a chord in me. ‘I am double’, she said, ‘two in one, and so are you. A part that I represent is within you – the soft tender intuitive part that you don’t quite know how to place. Well now accept that as a part of you like you accept me as a friend.’ This advice was unexpected, and yet it seemed that she had indeed gazed deep within me.

It is true that I saw complexity within me, and that I did not readily fit into the easy stereotypes of the simple society in which I had been raised. Therefore I inclined towards the wanderers and the healers, the monks and seers who were to be found in the hills and mountains back then. It was true that I practiced a trade, working with metal. Blades I could fashion, and good ones too. Ploughs, forks and nails I could make also. There was a forge in my home village and others besides where I worked in time of need – my need for money or others’ needs for weapons or tools. Thus my forearms were strong and there was a fine blade, light and sharp, hanging at my waist in a leather scabbard as I travelled. A bow I carried too, and that I preferred as a weapon since it was effective at sufficient range to allow ready flight after engagement. But most of all I preferred to avoid the need to use any weapon. That trade, and the weapons that I carried, were sufficiently masculine that none questioned my inner desires or observed confusion within. It was true nevertheless that I felt a peculiar divergence within, a sense that my innermost being embodied parts both of the masculine and the feminine. But in those days I lacked the knowledge, indeed the vocabulary, to explore such feelings. Simply I felt them intuitively, not realising that intuition itself was a telling characteristic.

Many other words followed – words that relaxed and enlightened me. In those moments I perceived a new and gentle understanding from a woman who was knowing but not critical. In my heart I began to love her with a deep and yet familial love.

As the sun fell we carried our bags to the hut beyond the spring, the travellers’ refuge surrounded by a rough fence that enclosed a pasture. Our horses we brought within the fence and allowed then to graze together. Then, wishing to be hospitable, I lit a fire from fallen twigs and branches, and began to prepare food from my bags. It did not surprise or embarrass me that I, of the two travellers, had quite naturally adopted the role of host and cook.

‘See’, she said, ‘you bear a part of me, Hawk the wanderer, or should I say a part of the feminine spirit that I embody as healer and guide. But that part should not dominate for maleness as your people know it serves you very well. Balance is the hardest target to strike. I am a traveller too, not without strength, determined and able to defend myself. Thus I embrace a part of that so-called maleness, and I respect it. Be grateful for the licence that you enjoy to travel without censure. However in us the two parts should combine to create a whole that is greater than the sum of the parts. So it is for me, and so also for you.’ Then reaching into her baggage she drew forth a new red tunic decorated with geometric patterns wrought in bright yellow and green. It was beautiful and well made, and rather unusual. It seemed neither to belong to a specific gender nor to any tribe that I knew. Indeed perhaps it was more ceremonial than common wear. ‘I’ve been seeking you to give this gift’, she said with a smile. I must have looked surprised, and indeed I did not often receive gifts. ‘Try it’, she commanded in a voice soft yet unavoidable. I complied, absorbed by the enticing spell that she had woven in her wisdom and mystery. ‘No-one will pass by tonight’, she observed, ‘therefore be free to become yourself through your outward appearance’. Here was a facet of my character that I had not previously exposed to critical view, let alone allowed to be drawn from me by another. She smiled. ‘You are comfortable as yourself, the dusty green-clad traveller who greeted me, and like a brother who bathed with me. But you must become comfortable with yourself as a whole. Now it is for you to define how you appear, and indeed make that acceptable.’

‘You deem me a two spirit?’ I questioned.

She smiled. ‘Of course, isn’t that obvious to you? Isn’t our new freedom together a welcome release for you? But you need to understand what this new realisation means.’

It was. ‘You realise that this is confusing to me’, I replied slowly.

‘Character is complex. Simpler people look for easy models. A man is strong and works with his hands, or travels far and wide to trade. A woman provides a comfortable home, cares for children, and dispenses compassion. A man gathers and defends whilst a woman loves and heals. That is how they understand the genders, governing how most of them live their lives. But some men can dispense hospitality, can love and heal. A few women enjoy travel, like to trade, and can even fight too in time of need. But those of us who stand above and beyond the boundaries tend to be misunderstood and feared. Or do we deny our desires and live frustrated? Perhaps we are too complex for some people? I travel dispensing wisdom and empowerment, yet I tread a narrow path between acceptance by a thoughtful few and distrust by the many. You work iron in the fire, yet you have a talent for healing. Your ironwork is unusually creative and deep within you embody a love of colour and decoration.’

‘What does that make me?’ I asked curiously.

Hawk laughed. ‘You can be slow, but I forgive you for this must seem strange. You are yourself, an amalgam, the best of two beings one inside the other. Don’t try to be just one or the other, but a happy synthesis. Be strong and creative with your hands, tender and hospitable, intuitive and colourful, and learn to be a healer too. The last especially I can guide you in. The goodness and skill within you mean that oddities will be accepted, as mine usually are.’

We sat on the bench outside the hut as the sun slipped towards the horizon. A welcome cool fell across the land. A little gentle breeze moved her hair and moved the hems of our garments. I looked down at the smooth fabric that sat across my thighs, enjoying its colour and uniqueness. Beyond our two horses grazed contentedly, tails occasionally swishing.

‘Hawk’, I began, ‘I’ve begun tonight to explore the duality within me, and I thank you for helping without causing embarrassment. But how do I move forward, for few will understand?’

She pondered thoughtfully. ‘Duality is within. You don’t need to copy any group in order to express both elements of your character. Indeed there are not two sides, for that sounds as if you are at war within. Rather it is like forest and meadow, the most interest and variety being where they mingle. Or it is like mountain and valley, the greatest beauty being in a fold of the turning land such as where we sit now. Be yourself with truth and integrity, enjoying and respecting what you find. This garb isn’t the dull regular male clothing of your people, nor is it feminine as women dress. Simply it expresses your uniqueness, thus it is symbolic. But bringing me water, holding me gently and preparing food for me were good and varied expositions of a kind, thoughtful strand within. You have moved beyond a fixed role governed by people’s expectations based upon your anatomy. Besides, one could wear the finest dress and be mean and lazy! Nor were you forward with me when we were naked, and that distinguishes you from most men. It is that which lies within which truly matters.’

‘What if I had been forward?’ I asked with curiosity in my voice?

‘I could have encouraged you, for you are handsome and probably a warm gentle lover. But then you would have left unenlightened as a man too passionate to look within. Or I might just have told you to stop.’

‘And if I wouldn’t stop?’

Hawk raised her eyebrows and smiled, replying in a cheerful voice, ‘You wouldn’t live until dawn.’

‘So there are the two poles of your inner complexity?’

‘When I looked into your heart after drinking from the spring I knew perfectly well that I can trust you. A part of you looks on me like a sister and you are driven by far more than a craving for transient pleasure. Besides, two-spirits together make poor lovers. They are too similar to make a pair of complimentary opposites, and think too much about what is happening.’

‘That may be true, however you didn’t answer my question’, I replied.

‘Not directly’, Hawk remarked still smiling, ‘tangents are more rewarding and a riddle more interesting. But this I shall say: what is gained at one pole represents a loss at the opposite. The trick is to nurture the greatest total.’

‘Like the high point between two valleys?’ I ventured.

‘That is for you to work out. Sometimes I am teacher, more often gatekeeper. If you have the wisdom and goodness and courage to pass my gate then you will be well capable of navigating the terrain beyond.’

The sun slipped down below the undulating dark horizon, and the sky transitioned from orange to a deep blue that soon darkened towards black. Stars twinkled, and soon the moon rose. But before the moon’s soft light enveloped the now cold hills Hawk and I were fast asleep below warm blankets on soft hay in the hut.

In the morning I dressed myself in my familiar dusty travelling clothes and set about checking the horses and lighting a cooking fire. Hawk watched me, and I sensed that she was sitting back to prove a point. As I placed a steaming mug of tea in front of her the older woman smiled. ‘See, you are true to yourself irrespective of how you appear outwardly.’

‘But it was a joy to express my spirit outwardly.’

Her smile broadened. ‘We’ll journey to the market and acquire some brighter gear for you, my friend. You need to express a joyful and creative spirit.’

After breakfast we prepared our horses and set off down the valley, heading for the nearest town two days journey away.