II

by Robert W. Chambers

I woke up the next morning to the sound of a hunting horn echoing in my ears. I jumped out of the old bed and made my way to the curtained window, where sunlight streamed through the small, deep-set panes. Just as I looked down into the courtyard, the horn fell silent.

In the center of a pack of hounds stood a man who looked like he could be related to the two falconers from the night before. A curved horn was slung across his back, and he held a long whip in his hand. The dogs whined and yipped, bouncing around him in excitement, and I could hear the sound of horses stamping in the walled yard.

“Mount!” a voice called out in Breton, and with a clatter of hooves, the two falconers rode into the courtyard, their falcons perched on their wrists, surrounded by the eager hounds. Then I heard another voice that made my heart race: “Piriou Louis, handle the hounds well and don’t hold back on the spur or the whip. Raoul and Gaston, make sure the _epervier_ doesn’t act like a fool, and if you think it’s best, _faites courtoisie à l’oiseau_. Training a bird like the _mué_ on Hastur’s wrist isn’t hard, but you, Raoul, might find it trickier to manage that _hagard_. He lost the _beccade_ last week, even though he’s used to the _leurre_. The bird is acting like a stupid _branchier_. _Paître un hagard n’est pas si facile._”

Was I dreaming? The old falconry language I had read in yellowed manuscripts—the forgotten French of the Middle Ages—was ringing in my ears while the hounds howled and the bells of the hawks jingled along with the stamping horses. She spoke again in that sweet, long-lost tongue:

“If you’d rather attach the _longe_ and leave your _hagard au bloc_, Raoul, I won’t say a word; it would be a shame to ruin such a beautiful day’s sport with an ill-trained _sors_. _Essimer abaisser_—that might be the best approach. _Ça lui donnera des reins._ I may have been too hasty with the bird. It takes time to pass _à la filière_ and the exercises _d’escap_.”

Raoul, the falconer, bowed in his stirrups and replied, “If it pleases Mademoiselle, I will keep the hawk.”

“It is my wish,” she said. “I know falconry, but you still have many lessons to teach me about _Autourserie_, my poor Raoul. Sieur Piriou Louis, mount!”

The huntsman dashed into an archway and quickly returned, riding a strong black horse, followed by another mounted figure.

“Ah!” she exclaimed joyfully, “speed, Glemarec René! Speed! Everyone, speed! Sound your horn, Sieur Piriou!”

The bright notes of the hunting horn filled the courtyard as the hounds burst through the gateway, galloping hooves echoing as they raced out of the paved courtyard, loud on the drawbridge, then suddenly muffled, finally fading into the heather and bracken of the moors. The horn sounded more distant until it became so faint that the joyful song of a soaring lark drowned it out in my ears. I heard a voice below responding to a call from inside the house.

“I don’t regret the chase; I’ll go another time. Remember to show courtesy to the stranger, Pelagie!”

A weak voice quavered from within the house, “_Courtoisie_.”

I stripped off my nightclothes and plunged into the icy water of the large earthen basin that stood on the stone floor at the foot of my bed. Afterward, I looked around for my clothes. They were gone. However, on a settle near the door lay a pile of garments that I inspected in surprise. Since my own clothes had vanished, I had no choice but to put on the outfit that had clearly been left for me while my own dried.

Everything was there: a cap, shoes, and a hunting doublet of silvery grey homespun. But the snug-fitting costume and seamless shoes felt like they belonged to another era. I remembered the strange attire of the three falconers in the courtyard. I was certain this wasn’t the modern dress of any part of France or Brittany. It wasn’t until I dressed and stood before a mirror between the windows that I realized I looked more like a young huntsman from the Middle Ages than a Breton of my own time.

I hesitated, picking up the cap. Should I go downstairs dressed like this? There seemed to be no other option; my clothes were gone, and there was no bell in the old chamber to call a servant. So, I settled for removing a short hawk’s feather from the cap and, opening the door, made my way downstairs.

By the fireplace in the large room at the foot of the stairs, an old Breton woman sat spinning with a distaff. When I walked in, she looked up and smiled warmly, greeting me in Breton and wishing me health. I laughed and responded in French. Just then, my hostess appeared, returning my greeting with a grace and dignity that sent a thrill through me. Her beautiful head, adorned with dark, curly hair, was topped with a head-dress that made it clear I was far from home. Her slender figure was elegantly showcased in a homespun hunting gown trimmed with silver, and on her wrist, covered by a gauntlet, she held one of her beloved hawks.

With a natural ease, she took my hand and led me into the garden courtyard. Sitting down at a table, she sweetly invited me to join her. In her soft, charming accent, she asked how I had spent the night and whether I found the clothes that old Pelagie had provided for me uncomfortable. I glanced at my own clothes and shoes, drying in the sun against the garden wall, and felt a wave of disdain wash over me. They were dreadful compared to the graceful outfit I wore now. I laughed as I told her this, but she nodded seriously in agreement.

“We’ll throw them away,” she said quietly.

I was taken aback and tried to explain that I couldn’t possibly accept clothes from anyone, even if it was customary in this part of the world. I would look ridiculous returning to France dressed like this.

She laughed and tossed her pretty head, saying something in old French that I didn’t catch. Just then, Pelagie came out with a tray holding two bowls of milk, a loaf of white bread, some fruit, a platter of honeycomb, and a flagon of deep red wine. “You see, I haven’t eaten yet because I wanted us to share a meal. But I’m very hungry,” she smiled.

“I would rather die than forget a single word you’ve said!” I blurted out, my cheeks burning. “She’ll think I’m mad,” I thought to myself, but she turned to me with sparkling eyes.

“Ah!” she murmured. “So Monsieur understands all that is chivalrous—”

She crossed herself and broke the bread. I sat there, watching her delicate hands, too shy to meet her gaze.

“Will you not eat?” she asked. “Why do you look so troubled?”

Ah, why? I knew the answer now. I realized I would give anything just to touch those rosy palms with my lips. From the moment I had looked into her dark eyes on the moor last night, I had fallen for her. My sudden, overwhelming passion left me speechless.

“Are you ill at ease?” she asked again.

Then, like a man pronouncing his own fate, I replied softly, “Yes, I am ill at ease for love of you.” When she didn’t move or respond, something compelled me to speak again, and I said, “I, who am unworthy of your lightest thought, who abuse your hospitality and repay your kindness with boldness, I love you.”

She rested her head on her hands and replied softly, “I love you. Your words are very dear to me. I love you.”

“Then I shall win you,” I declared.

“Win me,” she echoed.

But all the while, I had been silent, my face turned toward her. She, too, was silent, her sweet face resting on her palm, gazing at me. In that moment, I realized that neither of us had spoken in words; her soul had answered mine. I sat up straighter, feeling youth and joyous love coursing through my veins. With a rosy glow on her lovely face, she seemed to awaken from a dream, her eyes searching mine with a questioning look that made me tremble with delight. We broke our fast, sharing stories about ourselves. I told her my name, and she introduced herself as Demoiselle Jeanne d’Ys.

She talked about the deaths of her parents and how she had spent all nineteen years of her life in the little fortified farm, accompanied only by her nurse Pelagie, Glemarec René the gamekeeper, and the four falconers: Raoul, Gaston, Hastur, and Sieur Piriou Louis, who had served her father. She had never ventured beyond the moorland—never even seen another person, aside from the falconers and Pelagie. She wasn’t sure how she had heard of Kerselec; perhaps the falconers had mentioned it. The tales of Loup Garou and Jeanne la Flamme came from Pelagie. She spent her time embroidering and spinning flax, while her hawks and hounds provided her with the only distractions. When we met on the moor, she had been so startled by the sound of my voice that she nearly dropped. It was true she had seen ships at sea from the cliffs, but as far as she could see, the moors she galloped over were devoid of any sign of human life. There was a legend Pelagie told about how anyone lost in the unexplored moorland might never return, as the moors were enchanted. She didn’t know if it was true; she had never considered it until she met me. She wondered if the falconers had ever left the moors or if they even could.

The books in the house, which Pelagie had taught her to read, were centuries old.

She shared all this with a sweet seriousness that was rare, even in children. My name was easy for her to pronounce, and she insisted that since my first name was Philip, I must have French blood. She didn’t seem curious about the outside world, perhaps believing it had lost her interest and respect due to the stories from her nurse.

We were still sitting at the table, and she was tossing grapes to the small field birds that approached us without fear.

I started to hint at leaving, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Before I knew it, I had promised to stay a week and hunt with her hawks and hounds. I also got her permission to return from Kerselec to visit her after my trip.

“Why,” she said innocently, “I don’t know what I would do if you never came back.” I knew I had no right to awaken her with the shock that my own love would bring, so I sat in silence, hardly daring to breathe.

“You will come very often?” she asked.

“Very often,” I replied.

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

“Oh,” she sighed, “I am so happy. Come and see my hawks.”

She stood up and took my hand again with a childlike innocence, and we walked through the garden and fruit trees to a grassy lawn bordered by a brook. Scattered across the lawn were fifteen or twenty tree stumps, partially embedded in the grass, and on all but two of them perched falcons. They were secured to the stumps by thongs fastened with steel rivets just above their talons. A little stream of pure spring water wound its way close to each perch.

The birds squawked excitedly when she appeared, but she moved from one to another, stroking some, taking others briefly onto her wrist, or bending down to adjust their jesses.

“Are they not beautiful?” she asked. “Look, here is a falcon-gentil. We call it ‘ignoble’ because it chases its prey directly. This one is a blue falcon. In falconry, we call it ‘noble’ because it rises above its quarry and swoops down from above. This white bird is a gerfalcon from the north. It’s also ‘noble!’ Here is a merlin, and this little one is a falcon-heroner.”

I asked her how she had learned the old language of falconry. She didn’t remember but thought her father must have taught her when she was very young.

Then she led me away to show me the young falcons still in their nest. “They are called _niais_ in falconry,” she explained. “A _branchier_ is the young bird that can just leave the nest and hop from branch to branch. A young bird that hasn’t yet molted is called a _sors_, and a _mué_ is a hawk that has molted in captivity. When we catch a wild falcon that has changed its plumage, we call it a _hagard_. Raoul first taught me how to dress a falcon. Would you like me to teach you?”

She sat on the bank of the stream among the falcons, and I settled at her feet to listen.

Then the Demoiselle d’Ys raised a rosy-tipped finger and began very seriously. “First, you must catch the falcon.”

“I am caught,” I replied.

She laughed, a lovely sound, and said my _dressage_ might be difficult since I was noble.

“I am already tamed,” I said, “jessed and belled.”

She laughed again, delighted. “Oh, my brave falcon; then you will return at my call?”

“I am yours,” I answered solemnly.

She fell silent for a moment, the color rising in her cheeks. Then she raised her finger again and said, “Listen; I want to talk about falconry—”

“I’m listening, Countess Jeanne d’Ys.”

But once again, she drifted into her thoughts, her gaze seemingly lost in something beyond the summer clouds.

“Philip,” she finally said.

“Jeanne,” I whispered back.

“That’s all I wanted,” she sighed. “Philip and Jeanne.”

She extended her hand toward me, and I pressed my lips against it.

“Win me,” she said, but this time her body and soul spoke as one.

After a moment, she continued, “Let’s talk about falconry.”

“Go ahead,” I replied. “We’ve caught the falcon.”

Then Jeanne d’Ys took my hand in both of hers and began to explain how, with endless patience, she taught the young falcon to perch on her wrist. Gradually, it got used to the belled jesses and the hood.

“They need to have a good appetite first,” she said. “Then I slowly reduce their food, which we call _pât_ in falconry. After many nights spent on the block, when I can get the _hagard_ to stay calmly on my wrist, the bird is ready to learn to come for its food. I attach the _pât_ to the end of a thong, or _leurre_, and teach the bird to come to me as I whirl the cord in circles above my head. At first, I drop the _pât_ when the falcon approaches, and it eats the food off the ground. Eventually, it learns to grab the _leurre_ while I’m spinning it around or dragging it along the ground. After that, it’s easy to teach the falcon to strike at game, always remembering to _‘faire courtoisie à l’oiseau’_, which means letting the bird taste the quarry.”

A sudden screech from one of the falcons interrupted her, and she stood up to untangle the leash that had wrapped around the block, but the bird continued to flap its wings and scream.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Philip, can you see?”

I looked around and initially saw nothing that could cause the chaos, which was now amplified by the cries and flapping of all the birds. Then my gaze fell on the flat rock by the stream where Jeanne had just been. A gray serpent was slowly slithering across the surface of the boulder, its flat triangular head gleaming like jet.

“A couleuvre,” she said calmly.

“It’s harmless, right?” I asked.

She pointed to the black V-shaped marking on its neck.

“It’s certain death,” she replied. “It’s a viper.”

We watched the snake as it moved slowly over the smooth rock, inching toward a warm patch of sunlight.

I started to step closer to examine it, but she clung to my arm, crying, “Don’t, Philip, I’m scared.”

“For me?”

“For you, Philip—I love you.”

I pulled her into my arms and kissed her on the lips, but all I could manage to say was, “Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne.” As she trembled against my chest, something struck my foot in the grass below, but I ignored it. Then again, something hit my ankle, and a sharp pain shot through me. I looked into Jeanne d’Ys’s sweet face and kissed her again, then, with all my strength, I lifted her in my arms and threw her away from me. Bending down, I yanked the viper from my ankle and crushed its head beneath my heel. I remember feeling weak and numb—I remember collapsing to the ground. Through my fading vision, I saw Jeanne’s pale face hovering close to mine, and when the light in my eyes dimmed, I still felt her arms around my neck and her soft cheek against my lips.

* * * * *

When I opened my eyes, panic surged through me. Jeanne was gone. I saw the stream and the flat rock; I saw the crushed viper lying in the grass beside me, but the hawks and blocks had vanished. I jumped to my feet. The garden, the fruit trees, the drawbridge, and the walled courtyard were all gone. I stared blankly at a pile of crumbling ruins, covered in ivy and gray, where great trees had forced their way through. I crept forward, dragging my numbed foot, and as I moved, a falcon soared from the treetops among the ruins, climbing higher in narrowing circles until it faded away into the clouds above.

“Jeanne, Jeanne,” I cried, but my voice faltered, and I fell to my knees among the weeds. By some twist of fate, I had knelt before a crumbling shrine carved in stone for our Mother of Sorrows. I saw the sorrowful face of the Virgin etched in the cold stone. I saw the cross and thorns at her feet, and beneath it, I read:

“PRAY FOR THE SOUL OF THE DEMOISELLE JEANNE D’Ys, WHO DIED IN HER YOUTH FOR LOVE OF PHILIP, A STRANGER. A.D. 1573.”

But resting on the icy slab was a woman’s glove, still warm and fragrant.

---

THE PROPHETS’ PARADISE

“If only the Vine and Love Abjuring Band Are in the Prophets’ Paradise to stand, Alas, I fear the Prophets’ Paradise Would be as empty as the palm of one’s hand.”

---

THE STUDIO

He smiled and said, “Search for her throughout the world.”

I replied, “Why tell me about the world? My world is right here, within these walls and the sheet of glass above; here among gilded flagons and dull jeweled arms, tarnished frames and canvases, black chests, and high-backed chairs, intricately carved and stained in blue and gold.”

“For whom are you waiting?” he asked, and I replied, “When she arrives, I will recognize her.”

A flickering flame on my hearth whispered secrets to the pale ashes. Below, I could hear footsteps, a voice, and a song drifting through the street.

“For whom are you waiting then?” he pressed again, and I answered, “I will know her.”

Footsteps, a voice, and a song echoed in the street below, and while the song was familiar, the steps and the voice were not.

“Fool!” he exclaimed. “The song remains the same; only the voice and the footsteps have changed with time!”

On the hearth, the flame continued to whisper above the pale ashes: “Do not wait any longer; they have passed—the footsteps and the voice in the street below.”

He smiled then, saying, “For whom do you wait? Go seek her across the world!”

I replied, “My world is right here, within these walls and beneath the glass ceiling above; here among gilded vessels and dull jeweled arms, tarnished frames and canvases, black chests and high-backed chairs, intricately carved and stained in blue and gold.”

THE PHANTOM

The Phantom of the Past would not go any further.

“If it’s true,” she sighed, “that you see me as a friend, let’s turn back together. You can forget here, under the summer sky.”

I held her close, pleading and caressing her, but when I grasped her, she was pale with anger and resisted.

“If it’s true,” she sighed, “that you see me as a friend, let’s turn back together.”

The Phantom of the Past would not go any further.

THE SACRIFICE

I wandered into a field of flowers, their petals whiter than snow and their hearts pure gold.

In the distance, a woman cried, “I have killed the one I loved!” and from a jar, she poured blood over the flowers, whose petals were whiter than snow and whose hearts were pure gold.

I followed her, and on the jar, I saw a thousand names, while fresh blood bubbled to the brim.

“I have killed the one I loved!” she shouted. “The world is thirsty; let it drink!” She moved on, and I watched her from afar as she poured blood over the flowers, whose petals were whiter than snow and whose hearts were pure gold.

DESTINY

I arrived at the bridge that few could cross.

“Cross!” shouted the keeper, but I laughed and said, “There’s still time,” and he smiled and closed the gates.

Young and old came to the bridge that few could cross. All were turned away. I stood idly, counting them, until I grew tired of their noise and lamentations, and returned to the bridge that few could cross.

Those in the crowd around the gates cried out, “He comes too late!” But I laughed, saying, “There’s still time.”

“Cross!” the keeper shouted as I entered; then he smiled and shut the gates behind me.

THE THRONG

There, where the crowd was thickest in the street, I stood with Pierrot. All eyes were on me.

“What are they laughing at?” I asked, but he grinned, dusting the chalk from my black cloak. “I can’t see; it must be something funny, maybe an honest thief!”

All eyes were on me.

“He’s stolen your purse!” they laughed.

“My purse!” I cried. “Pierrot—help! There’s a thief!”

They laughed again: “He’s stolen your purse!”

Then Truth stepped forward, holding a mirror. “If he’s an honest thief,” Truth declared, “Pierrot will find him with this mirror!” But Pierrot just grinned, dusting the chalk from my black cloak.

“You see,” he said, “Truth is an honest thief; she brings back your mirror.”

All eyes were on me.

“Arrest Truth!” I cried, forgetting it was a purse I had lost, standing with Pierrot, there, where the crowd was thickest in the street.

THE JESTER

“Was she beautiful?” I asked, but he only chuckled, listening to the bells jingling on his cap.

“Stabbed,” he tittered. “Think of the long journey, the days of danger, the dreadful nights! Imagine how he wandered, year after year, through hostile lands for her sake, longing for family, yearning for her!”

“Stabbed,” he tittered, still listening to the bells jingling on his cap.

“Was she beautiful?” I asked again, but he only snarled, muttering to the bells.

“She kissed him at the gate,” he chuckled, “but in the hall, his brother’s welcome touched his heart.”

“Was she beautiful?” I pressed.

“Stabbed,” he laughed. “Think of the long journey, the days of danger, the dreadful nights! Picture how he wandered, year after year, through hostile lands for her sake, longing for family, yearning for her!”

“She kissed him at the gate, but in the hall, his brother’s welcome touched his heart.”

“Was she beautiful?” I asked once more, but he only snarled, listening to the bells jingling in his cap.

THE GREEN ROOM

The Clown turned his powdered face toward the mirror.

“If being fair is being beautiful,” he said, “who can match me in my white mask?”

“Who can match him in his white mask?” I asked Death, who stood beside me.

“Who can match me?” Death replied, “for I am even paler.”

“You are very beautiful,” sighed the Clown, turning his powdered face away from the mirror.

THE LOVE TEST

“If it’s true that you love,” said Love, “then wait no longer. Give her these jewels that would dishonor her, and in doing so, dishonor yourself for loving someone dishonored. If it’s true that you love,” Love insisted, “then wait no longer.”

I gathered the jewels and approached her, but she stepped on them, tears streaming down her face. “Teach me to wait—I love you!”

“Then wait, if your love is real,” Love replied.

---

THE STREET OF THE FOUR WINDS

“Close your eyes halfway,

Cross your arms over your heart,

And from your sleeping heart,

Chase away all thoughts forever.”

* * * *

“I sing of nature,

The evening stars, the morning tears,

The sunsets on the distant horizon,

The sky that speaks to the heart of a future existence!”