Book I: Once upon a time...

Once upon a time….

Tumbling. That was the word that came to her mind as she watched a leaf snatched by a gust of wind. The leaf circled and tumbled wildly as the wind pushed and pulled it here and ‘fro. The leaf had no control it seemed to her as its fate was carried by the wind. It was early fall and there was a soft chill in the air. She was a princess of regal stature. A princess-bride, born of noble stock, promised to another whose face was as foreign to her as was his land. Often she had tried to picture his face in her mind, but was not able to conjure up one trait or feature. Of course not, she knew there was not enough concern in her to want it…to will it. Her fate was also left to the wind. There was no love; this marriage had been arranged as was her birth and everything in between. Everything was on schedule.

It started the night before; a sensation. The wedding was but a fortnight away and at this very hour her groom was crossing the channel. Already the castle was filling up with honored guests as were the local inns. She had not slept and tossed and turned in her bed with anxiety and … dread. That was it. At first she thought it to be anxiety, nervousness. After all, courtiers and ladies of the court fawned over her, parroting phrases about “How fortunate she was” and what a “wonderful service she was doing for her King.” One such nobleman, certainly a fine figure in the world, at dinner and drunk on ale, staggered forth and proclaimed, “Hail thee well, for what marvelous fortunes you bring us all.” Up until this moment, she had avoided the word, but it was clear now. Dread fell upon her like an icy cold hand falling upon her heart. She had quietly murmured her concern to the Queen Mother a day or so ago as she was being fitted for her wedding gown. The Queen Mother fretted with the gown, and avoided her daughter’s searching eyes. The Queen Mother cooed as she smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in the fabric, “There, there, young child, it will be alright. Speak not of such nonsense lest your father hear of such blasphemy. Really, child, this is for the best.”

Her father, the King, was unbearable. All he spoke of with his advisors were of the lands the union would bring, and much needed alliance between the two kingdoms. Once he mused while the Queen Mother combed her daughter’s hair, “Perhaps now, I could have a rightful heir.” On another occasion he heard him speak to the Cardinal, “Your Excellency, my prayers have been answered. My curse has been lifted!” With a wry smile, the Cardinal’s reply slithered from between his teeth, “God wills it.”

This night was no different. The fire in the hearth of her chamber had long since gone cold as she lay awake in her bed chamber clutching to her mattress for fear the wind might snatch her as it did the leaf. Everything was on schedule; everything was going according to plan. Not a stitch of thread was out of place. The fact was the more things progressed on schedule, the more out of control she felt. These past few days were particularly nerve racking. She had to fight to keep her composure. At first, she thought that perhaps the anxiety had driven her mad, an illness of the mind; hysteria to be cured by the village barber with leeches and bleedings. Then there it was again. Was it the howling of the wind or perhaps some lonely wolf? No. There it was; carried on the wind. Her name whispered in the air. She was sure of it now. She had lost her sense and sensibility. Then she caught her self laughing – her madness would stop nothing. She realized the marriage would proceed, like an anchor it dragged her to the airless bottom of her anxiety. Her in her grand mama’s dress, standing by her faceless husband, after which she would spend the rest of her days talking to spiders in the tower or in some distant nunnery. What madness, indeed.

She was about to call for her hand maiden when she heard it again. She rubbed her eyes and shook her head as if to shake of the sleep, but she knew better. It could not be a dream, for that requires sleep to conjure such hallucinations. There. There it was again. Her name, soft and gentle, carried on the wind as if it were a feather. She gazed out at her window at the dark forest that lay far beyond the castle keep. Even beyond the township proper and its surrounding farmlands. On the fringe of her world it clung. It was calling to her…for her. What madness she cried! If her father knew of such, he would surely lock her in the tower.

The following day, she found it even more difficult to focus. The fitful sleep the night before had fatigued her. She could all but drag herself to her studies with the Viscount. The Viscount came from the rock strewn and craggy province of Sans-Terre. He was a man who weighed three hundred and fifty pounds, clearly one of immense and ostentatious appetite, and as such was a person of no small consideration. A person fond of gambling and the ilk, one could measure the breath and width of his estate in the pebbles and rocks affixed to the soles of his feet at the end of each day. Thus he lived on the good graces and fine hospitality of his cousin and brother-in-law, His Majesty, the King - clearly the best of all possible worlds. The Viscount would hold her studies in the antechamber of the Grand Hall after the morning meal. The Viscount de Sans-Terre was an educated man of the highest order, a master barber, learned in Latin, Chief Alchemist to the King and oracle to the Royal Family. He was tutor and teacher to the princess-bride and lectured the young child in matters of metaphysico-theologo-cosmolonigology.

As she entered the chamber the good Viscount began his lecture, “Listen, my dear, the ancient teachers of this science, promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles.” At this, he dropped several manuscripts upon her lap, as he continued his monologue. “They penetrate into the very recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows…”

She found her concentration ebbing away as the good Viscount de Sans-Terre droned on barely aware of her presence, and then there was the voice again calling to her. Her mind seemed filled by it. She tried to busy herself with the manuscripts, but the voice kept calling to her. She felt herself slipping into madness; her dress felt suffocating, even the thrill of the birds outside the chamber’s only window seemed to lend its voice to the conspiracy. How could she marry a man who she had not laid eyes upon – what a ghastly notion! At that moment she surmised, that the good Viscount de Sans-Terre, nourished in letters, would certainly see her plaint as innocent and her cries just, and would then indulge the princess-bride her lament. She then spoke up so as to startle the good Viscount who had been lulled into a state of comfort by his own voice, and citing such works as that of the Lady de Pizan presented her case to the most learned and esteemed Viscount de Sans-Terre. She spoke of de Pizan’s numerous works as the world’s first lady writer and cited Capellanus’ work as well, “Surely it is the pure love which binds together the hearts of two lovers with every feeling of delight. This kind consists in the contemplation of the mind and the affection of the heart, none of which exists between me and my beloved…”

Annoyed at such an offense, the learned scholar and master barber, scoffed at the child, “My dear, I am a man of letters, a master barber, curer of the ill and infirm, and Factotum of the Guild of Barbers, not some troubadour or minstrel. I tell you every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with trifle folly and useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient? Understanding that you are a woman ignorant of subtle understanding and agile sentiment, and not an expert in rhetoric as I, a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus, would fall for such gibberish. Really! In this enlightened and scientific age, to find such folly tainting such a pretty head as yours. My dear lady, we must begin your studies entirely anew.”

“Observe, sweet child, your ears, one upon each side, matching in distance and location,” At this, the Viscount donned upon his head his black biretta, commonly worn by such academics as he. “Thus ears are formed so as to allow men to don hats and spare his vision. Stones were made to be hewn and to construct castles, therefore my lord and liege has a magnificent castle; for the greatest king in the world ought to be the best lodged. It is a demonstrable thing,” said he, “that things cannot be otherwise than as they are; for as all things have been created for some end, they must necessarily be created for the best end.”

With that, the Viscount, continued on, “Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes possibles. Thus my child, all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.” With that the Master Scholar and Factotum to the Guild of Barbers, curer of the infirm, the good Viscount de Sans-Terre, dismissed his young charge with the admonishment not to think of such folly again.

But through out the rest of the day the voice was there, calling to her. But no one seemed to hear but her. At the noon meal, it swept her away from the mindless banter of the court and called her to that dark forest on the edge of her father’s kingdom. The dread and anxiety sat upon her chest like a stallion, yet not a person noticed. She busied herself as best she could but the voice was always there. She wondered what lay beyond that forest that called to her. What mysteries lay hidden in the forest’s lush dark folds? After the noon meal, she attended to her loom under the Queen Mother’s watchful eyes, but she found it suffocating and anxiety caused her to flee. She found herself attending to matters in the kitchen as the evening hour approached. There she found herself in the company of three ladies who were women of noble spirit, instead of noble birth. Whose wisdom sprung not from the knowledge of man, but were born of the natural lessons of life. The small society finding much to complain about the men in their lives, supposed if there could, a city of ladies. Each in turn laughed at the idea, fantastic as it were, the first of which was an old woman, a mid-wife and widow who had found some measure of fortune in the death of her husband and as such inherited some meager lands which her children worked and the town bakery which yielded some income as to keep her and her children out of the elements and well fed. The widow was the first to speak, “I suppose,” said she, “if such a city could be built, one must excavate the earth and clear away all past assumptions that men in the past have laid there. Then, using reason, one must create her own beliefs.”

The cook, a master chef indeed, who knew full well the applications of spice as she traded with Muslims and Radhanites for her spices and knew the difference between true cinnamon and the inferior cassia. She explained briefly to a young maid who attended the cook in the meal’s preparation. “True cinnamon,” remarked the cook to her aide, “comes only from Ceylon, while the closely related, but inferior cassia could be found in the more distant Cathay. Its use is not only to flavour the king’s meal, but also for cosmetics, drugs, balms, oils, and perfume.” While watching the young maid apply the spices, the cook gave careful and meaningful consideration to what had been said of this fantastic city. After a moment of thought, the cook agreed with the widow, “Agreed - those beliefs soundly framed by reason shall make the dwellings for this fantastic city built upon solid foundation.” Then with a dash of pepper and a sprinkling of nutmeg, she added, “thus, the city, fantastic as it may be, will have a solid foundation rather than one built on sand, and thus would have no need of a wall for its defense.”

The maiden, being the youngest of the three, quietly observed and learned her master’s trade. After having absorbed that which she had been taught, remarked to her two companions, “Surely, my ladies, such a place does not exist, but if it should, then this city would need to be populated with women following their virtues and proving that all women are not evil creatures born of vice.” The other two looked favorably upon the young maid who had adequately absorbed that which she had been taught. Thanking them for their conversation and company, the princess bride left the three ladies to retire to the Great Hall for the dinner meal.

After the evening meal, she reflected on all that she had heard and learned that day – upon the Viscount’s parting advice: all is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. She looked upon the plush surroundings of her bed chamber and certainly there was not a thing she could have a want for. Yet for all the luxurious comforts the surrounded her, she could not help but notice the rough hewn walls and the heavy wooden door with its rough iron hinges and lock. Despite all luxury, the question nagged at her: are these not the same walls that surrounded the dungeon as her own bed chamber? The same walls then were used to keep intruders out as to keep prisoners in! The words of the cook won out in her mind, a city built on a good foundation, framed with reason, would have no need of such walls for its defense. At that moment, the princess-bride decided that she would leave for the distant forest. She hurried to the Royal Stables and drew her mount, an Andalusian stallion and a most regal breed. At the gate she declined an escort and against the advice of the Captain of the Guard she rode off towards the dark forest following her name carried on the wind. It was early fall and there was a soft chill in the air. She was a princess of regal stature. A princess-bride, born of noble stock, promised to another whose face was as foreign to her as was his land. She spoke naught a word the entire trip. It was as if she was floating in a dream. Suddenly, she found herself at the edge of the forest, as if her steed had followed the same call.

The forest was lush and green, nature’s hardest hue to hold. The sky was the color of laughing pumpkins as the sun bid its adieu, and the trees dressed with bright colors splattered amongst the greenery like jeweled courtiers danced in the evening breeze. As she dismounted, she once again heard it beckon to her; her name but a whisper in the air falling upon her ears soft as petals. She took one last glance backward at the farms and wooden buildings and its ovens and furnaces; and the castle’s walls with banners held high with its Latin and science and Aristotlian philosophy, one last glance at the places she used to go. But she was compelled to pierce its dark womb. She was drawn in and with her first step the very trees, these ancient witnesses to time’s steady march, seemed to part and envelope her at the same time. Each step she took was answered with her name soft and sweet like a songbird’s thrill. With every step it grew louder but never harsh or hard; always gentle as the wind’s caress.

She followed the path deeper into the woods as leaves and petals fell about her soft as a spring shower. Deeper she went into the dark woods following her name whispered among the rustling trees. The earth soft and moist - as winter’s cold had not hardened her yet - rose and fell at her feet in soft arcs while a distant stream giggled and laughed as it run through groves of whispering aspens and stubborn rock playing hide and seek with the moon. She found herself in a small clearing beneath ancient branches of oaks and sycamores.

Then there he was. He stepped from the shadows and into the silvery moonlight, his brazen frame and shock of blond hair, and his face with its chiseled features and deep set eyes of blue. To a lock of his hair, fixed above his left ear, was an Eagle’s feather that dangled with beads – a talisman perhaps. He was shirtless and his bronze skin revealed a life spent in the sun and on his face was a map of the world. Inked upon his chest was a Celtic circle; an intricate woven pattern that symbolized ‘eternity.’ Was he a woodsman? A traveler perhaps - from the Silk Road? An enchanter? A condottieri or even a deserter maybe…a thief and a robber?

The mystique of the man seemed to make the very air around him crack and pop like the smoldering embers of her hearth. They were two travelers on the same path a lifetime apart to come together at this moment. Her eyes met his and his gaze held hers and drew her into his soul. With his eyes he stripped the layers of her garments from her; her gown of golden embroidery and layers of Egyptian cotton and Oriental silk. Gone, too, were the symbols of regal stature, rings of gold and jeweled stones of rubies and emeralds from lands far away, beyond Persia, deep within the Pashtun and Panjshir Valleys. She stood naked stripped of the ostentatious trappings of her world. Naked, now she could breathe, like a swimmer’s first gasp at the air after he breaks the surface of the water - that first painful and joyful gasp of air. She stood with broad shoulder and arched back and felt no shame; no embarrassment. She stood with no judgment, just as pure beauty as nature intended it to be.

She forced herself to blink as if to see if this was real, and in an instant he was on her. She could feel his presence around her in the trees and the grass; in the leaves and petals that fell around them and the flowers and from the very earth beneath their bodies. She could feel the cool grass against her flushed perfumed skin. She could smell the musk of the earth on his skin; it was the smell of the forest - of death and decay; birth and renewal.

Then for a moment, her Mother’s voice echoed in her head and a moment’s fear gripped her heart and she tried to crawl away from him. He did not try to stop her, but instead whispered her name. Though he spoke with a foreigner’s tongue with an accent strange to her own ears, she recognized it. It was the voice she had heard. The voice carried on angel’s wings. The fear left her and she stopped and waited.

Do you feel it? He asked.

The slow subtle sensations of ecstasy ebbing and flowing with the cosmic tides of your soul…

Just then he crowned her with a wreath of flowers and anointed her with oil, and again he asked:

Do you feel it?

Think of nothing…let yourself go. Relax your muscles and your bones…your mind and your tongue and your toes…feel the soft, gentle pulsations of ecstasy coursing through every cell; through every molecule of your body.

She could feel him. He was all around her raining down from the stars above and rising up from the earth beneath her; rising through the ages up through the earth through her palms and up still through her arms and legs. This energy that drove at the very core of her soul. She felt it on every bead of sweat that formed on her flushed pink skin; its sweet release rose up from her like steam in the cool night air. He was all around her. She was a virgin and was a stranger to these feelings that raged in her like a wildfire consuming her soul. She tried to resist but could not - would not. She would have him.

He whispered in her ear.

Do you feel it?

Breathe it in. Yes. Again. Breathe it in. Every breath intensifies those sweet, subtle sensations…so exquisite…so magnificent…so divine…so cosmic…yes, breathe it in and let it go.

She arched her back and rolled her head back and a moan rose from her throat like hot lava up a vent of a volcano.

Do you feel it?

Do you feel me? He repeated.

Breathe it in. It’s all around you. It’s subtle, and sometimes it is the most subtle , sexual sensations that’s the most powerful. Breathe it in. It’s everywhere. That ecstasy is all around you and you don’t have to do anything ~ just lay there and let it go.

She began to rock her hips for him and pushed up against his body and she would yowl for him and cry for him.

Do you feel it?

Yes.

Can you feel me?

Oh yes.

You are exquisite…

You are magnificent…

You are divine…

You are ecstacy…

She briefly thought of her bethroed as she pushed up against him, but he could not picture a face. She bucked and writhed until her soul spilled in him and his into her. Like a mighty river tumbling into the sea; crashing into the waves, they collapsed onto a bed of leaves. She could feel the cool earth moist against her pink flushed skin. She could smell the sweet musk of the earth; of death and decay; of birth and renewal.

She turned to him and spoke, I am afraid. I am so small; I can barely be seen. How can this great love be inside of me?

Look at your eyes. They are small, but they see great things.

It was resolved. She decided she would leave with this stranger and the castle would never see their princes-bride again. She laid there for moment, her body still flushed and warm from her exertion. The stranger slipped on his trousers and his stomach was flat and strong and her breast trembled with a breath. He extended his hand out to her. She felt the rush of cool air as she inhaled. She looked upon the ivory moon and could not believe that it was the same moon that shone down on her just the night before. So much had changed. The grass was wet and the earth soft and spongy beneath her skin; the night seemed electric with energy. The shimmer of silvery moonlight danced on the brilliant creek as a minnow flashed delirious with gnats. A chrysalis pulsed in its mushy cocoon on a gnarled root of an ancient oak. A frog’s heart quickened its tap-tap in the wet bank sludge. Crickets serenaded them from fern leaves while fireflies pulsed in the cobalt night. She took his hand and the stranger asked for her name and she replied, “Gabrielle Émilie.” There. Exhaling, she had found herself.