Poul Anderson - A Midsummer Tempest

A flame sprang up, became a fire, beat red-blue-yellow, and sang its dry, mysterious song. Four stood between it and the vanished chapel, facing the moon. Three had not changed garb. Rupert held Prospero’s book, Jennifer—in a skirt improvised from a cloak—his staff, King Charles a Bible; Will stood aside, an empty-handed scarecrow.

“So are we gathered,” Rupert spoke into night, “quite alone with God and with what lesser Powers we may raise by casting what small spells we know and dare. I fear they’ll be but few and feeble sprites. Yet must we try it for our fellows’ sake—”

There went a sound of movement, as quiet as possible, underneath the summit.

“—before we join them in their night attack, Sir William and myself.”

“I’ll pray,” Jennifer said in anguish.

Rupert nodded and looked at the King. “My lord,” he asked, “lead us in prayer, ere we draw wand or sword.”

Rupert ended his incantation, closed the book, held high the staff, and said into the wind: “Thus be ye summoned, spirits of the land. It is your King who calls you to his aid. If there be meaning in the holy bond between the King, the people, and the land, if there be sacredness in reverence for what is old and good and deeply loved, arise for him upon this judgment night!”

His words blew away. The fire flared once and sank, making the company mere glimmers of red amidst darkness. A cloud engulfed the moon. The stars were hazing out. Only the wind had speech; and its chill gnawed inward. After an endless while, Charles said, “Nothing?”

“No stir, no whisper of a help for us.”

Rupert answered as low.

“Well,’twas a brave attempt. I must admit some seeming pagan aspects troubled me.”

“We’ll die like Christians, surely.” Rupert straighted. “I’ll now go to fetch my horse and harness for the charge we hope in hopelessness may break the ring.” To the girl, his voice most soft: “Hark, Jennifer. If I do not return, forget not my last wishes were for thee. Remember what I’ve planned that thou shouldst do to reach to safety—”

“What’s that without thee?” Her words were muffled by her clinging to him. “Spare me the fear that thou wilt always mourn.”

“Nay, wait,” said another.

King, prince, and maiden looked about; for that was a somehow eerie sound.

“I think we be not finished, us,” Will Fairweather went on, and shambled forward till his ungainly shape caught the coal-glow.

“What’s this about?” Rupert demanded. Will shook his head. “I really dwish I knew.” He spoke in a sleep-walker’s tone. “But zudden-liake, a thing ha’ come on me… nay, through me, liake I war a dudelsack tha wind’s about to play a jig for ghosts on.”

Jennifer held fist to mouth, free hand straining over her man’s. Charles, head of the Protestant Church of England, crossed himself. A minute streamed past before Rupert breathed, “He is transfigured. See. He’s more than man—or else more wholly man, more of this earth than we have soul to let us understand… O Will, what have I done to thee, my friend?”

“The spell thou’st cast was but a fleeting spark,” Charles said, looked into the commoner’s face, and went on his knees. “Yet did it find a waiting torch in him. Because this is his land?”

Will lifted his arms. The fire leaped after them, taller, brighter, till he stood in a beacon radiance. The cloud departed from the moon and the stars grew near and brilliant. He said forth across night: “I am the land.”

For an instant, his human self broke through. “Thou went about it all wrong, General. What do tha land caere for kings or noables or priests or loards protector—any o’ thic lot—zave as tha’ belong in it? Thy brother caeme moare nigh tha mark whan’a called thee tha Green Man. Be thic, naught else. Lucky’twar, liake Charlie yonder zaid, zomebody war heare what tha spell could taeke hoald on in tha right way.”

Thereafter it was more than he who called: “I have the right to raise the land I am. In me alone the mightiness indwells, till I bestow it on my messengers that they may bear my wrath across the world. Mine is the outrage, as mine was the love.

“I am the land, by virtue of the bones of my forefathers which have strengthened it, the flesh which they give back to us in harvest, the patience of their plowing centuries, each blossom time when they went two by two, each hunter’s moon on woods afire with fall, each winter and each sorrow they outlived till humbly they went down to namelessness. Their gnarled old fingers made me what I am—nor wilderness nor iron desert: home—the while my skies and seasons worked on them. Their songs and hearthside tales, my wind and rain, speak each unto the other of our oneness. Though men and trees do die and die and die, the blood, the house, the field, the woods endure, and every babe or lamb or new-leafed branch says forth the immortality we share.

“Thou shalt not bind me fast in brick and steel, nor make my people to idolaters of little frantic leaders and their texts. If mystery and merriment alike be human rights, I claim them for my folk.

“Mine are the dead, the quick, and the unborn. From out of time, I call their life to me that it may leap in those embodiments to which the wonder of the folk gave birth.

“Come in your love and in your dreadfulness. Ye garlanded white maidens of the springs, ye dancers in a bright midsummer night, ye tricksy elves who are a household’s luck—ye huntsmen who go rushing through the air, ye tall gray-cloaked who walk the hills in awe, ye lurkers in the rustling river depths, ye warriors who sleep by rusted swords that once did bell,’This country is our own!’—arise. The hour is gruesome late.

Arise. “I am the land. I bid you come alive.” Higher whirled the flames, until they seemed to mingle with stars. Dwarfs were feeding them on wood which the storms of a hundred years had shaped. An owl went overhead—two ravens—an eagle.

The Tor groaned and opened. Horns resounded. Out above the earth rode huge shadows, and trollhounds clamored. “There goest the true Wild Hunter, Gwyn ap Nudd, leading the heathen dead from Annwn forth,” said Will’s throat. “Theirs be the land’s unrest and deepest peace.”

That which came after brought Rupert’s question wavering: “But what is the magnificence behind, a troop of riders bannered by the Cross, whose mail and lances burn as cold as moonlight?”

“King Arthur and his knights from Avalon.”

“In God’s name, I must follow them. Farewell.”

Through one heartbeat, Rupert held Jennifer to him. Meanwhile a procession of men, robed and hooded, streamed from the chapel which no longer was. The first bore a crucifix, the next a chalice, and together they all chanted:

Out on the plain, a stag bugled, a red bull bellowed, and a great white stallion went tramping.

Rupert was gone. Jennifer and Charles sought each other. Side by side, they looked at the bale-fire and at the form of Will Fairweather. “Oh, see,” the King stammered, “those visions in the sparks and smoke—they’re surely true—our tattered, splendid men go forth like storm—not only spirits rally to them, but common folk—I am not worthy.”

Sight: Prince Rupert is ahorse, armed, armored, on his helmet a white plume. He cries to the cavalry he has gathered, flings saber aloft, and leads their charge. In a shining tide, they stream on down to the enemy guns.

Sight: Prince Maurice, at the head of yeomen, crofters, wrights, herdsmen, diggers of peat and burners of charcoal, a reeve or two, weavers, tanners, fishers, laborers, carters, poachers, vagabonds, whoever wants the freedom to remain himself—hastens to join the army of the King.