On the evening appointed, Beski Tyúgrumôl was arrayed as she never had been, like a bride going to meet the bridegroom, in a fair white gown, with rings and jewels and flowers in her long golden hair. Her demeanour was outwardly placid, but she made numerous sallies at the expense of those around her. She taunted her fellow maidens that none of them had been judged handsome enough for the engagement she was going to, and the young men that they were so far below her that only a prince was deemed worthy to court her. She derided the older inhabitants of Arosgath for their sudden faith in Nabbolô.
The ûthéga, not without malice, perhaps, had given Bruand’s son Berwen leave to come home and watch the send-off of Beski. When she espied him in the crowd she called to him:
‘So! You only contrived to win yourself a little old witch! But I won a mighty young prince.’
Berwen did not repeat that to his mistress when he returned to Slidhig.
There was a glade in the woods not far from Arosgath where an ancient oak grew at the meeting place of several pathways. As dusk began to gather in the treetops, they brought Beski Tyúgrumôl to this place and seated her upon a tree stump in all her finery. Her father Fildimar was too distraught to accompany them, and perhaps too chary of his daughter’s sharp tongue to endure the parting. They left her there with a lantern, as the dark gathered.
Time went by. Darkness deepened. There was no sign or sound of Thangwerga. Beski began to feel drowsy. She was just on the edge of sleep, when she heard a noise like the beating of great wings. She jumped up in alarm, though this was not the sound she was expecting. It sounded like a great bird coming down, but she could see nothing. For a few moments there was quiet again, but then she heard the sounds of somebody making their way through the thickets around the glade. Was this now Thangwerga? Terror seized her as she looked in every direction. She remembered that she had a lantern, seized it, and held it up in front of her. She could just make out a figure approaching. An ordinary man, it seemed, and of quite low stature. She saw a wizened smiling face in a big head, with curly hair. Not the monster, but who? The man said:
‘Greetings, Lady of Arosgath! I guess that you are awaiting the arrival of Prince Groiznath. Be not impatient, he is on his way.’
Beski, vexed at the man’s calmness, and recovering some of her spirit, demanded:
‘Who are you?’
‘I have many names, and there is not time to expound them. Now listen to me, and do as I advise you.’
He reached behind his back and swept down a long narrow object that shone white in the lantern light. He placed it upright between them.
‘Look closely, Lady. What do you see?’
‘It’s — a sword!’
‘Yes, and no ordinary sword. Now take it by the hilt. It’s heavy, mind. But hold it tight. Do not let it go. And be careful not to strike with it. That would be your bane.’
Beski placed the lantern on the tree stump and, trembling, took the sword by the hilt in both hands. It was heavy, but she was a strong young woman.
‘Now, when he comes and picks you up, say to him: Rono tagseta fe-vadut, tages gundu-me ta-firungthabus “this is the sword of your father, the sword with the power of frozen death”. Can you remember that?’
‘This is the sword of your father, the sword with the power of frozen death.’
‘Good. Now I shall withdraw for the present. But I shall return. Keep your spirits up.’
The strange man walked away and seemed to vanish among the trees. But she felt that he was still there, watching. Then she had another fright. A soft sound of drumming began:
Dûmbû dâbûn dûbunda dâbunda
Dâbûn dûbunda dâbunda dûmbû
Dûbunda dâbunda dûmbû dâbûn
Dâbunda dûmbû dâbûn dûbunda
And then — he was there. The monster. A silent, dark, shaggy presence in the glade. But not as tall as the stories said: the height of a Ganga — less than a fathom and a half. She could hear his breathing, slow, but strong. She froze. His height seemed to diminish: ah, he was kneeling. Indistinct dark shapes moved towards her — his arms. Then she felt huge hands around her, picking her up, but gently, not roughly.
The sword gave her courage; she grasped it tightly to her chest. She was in the air, but not high. She was being drawn towards — a face. There was a face, and it had eyes and a mouth. She felt its warmth. She shuddered at the unmistakable feeling of lips touching her mouth; but the touch was soft and strangely sweet. It should have been horrible, but it was peaceful.
Then, she was suddenly back on the ground, standing, and before her, as far as she could see in the light of the lantern, was a figure, recognizable as a Hyûvanwa, a tall man indeed, but not of monstrous height. It was the prince, looking curiously at her. His face was handsome, with keen eyes, and a very well shaped mouth. He seemed to be clad all over in leaves. They looked at one another for a few moments. Her heart grew warm towards him.
But before he should speak or do anything more, Beski Tyúgrumôl recollected her instructions, and cried out:
‘This is the sword of your father, the sword with the power of frozen death!’
And with her two hands she raised the blade before the prince’s face. Instantly she could see that his eyes fixed on the sword and not on her. He stepped forward, and gently but firmly took the sword out of her hands. She feared for a moment that he might strike her with it, but he turned away. He walked rapidly across the glade, wielding the sword — she could see the light of her lantern reflecting from it — and then thrust it deep into a large boulder as if it had been mere earth.
But there was still something in her hand, something the Prince had put there, partly soft and sweet-selling, partly hard and prickly. Before she could consider what this was, she heard, and dimly made out, the other man, the small wizened one, coming into the glade. He bowed very low before the prince, saying:
O great Groiznath, gulbân no more,
Stout sword-wielder, your servant begs
That you will ride away on his ready mount:
No more wandering in the wild woodland.
Then, to Beski’s surprise, relief, and slight regret, the prince, taking up the sword again, followed the smaller man out of the glade. She listened intently and after a few minutes heard again the beating of great wings, wings far greater than a bird’s. She ran towards the sound but all she could see above her was a dark jagged shape blotting out the stars and moving rapidly into the east; and there came from the place where it had been a powerful and unpleasant stench.
In Arosgath, none had slept. All kept watch from window or door, or even in the street. In the early hours they were astonished to see, coming from the forest, Beski Tyúgrumôl, still in her wedding finery, a little bedraggled, bearing the lantern, in which the candle was now guttering. In her other hand was a small flower, a pink rose, which she certainly had not had when she entered the glade. As she walked up the cobbled street towards the house of Fildimar her father, she ignored, or rather seemed not to see, those who crowded curiously around her.
After a day or two of seclusion in the house, Beski went about her work once more, milking the cows, feeding chickens, sweeping the doorstep. If anyone thought to ask her about the night tryst with the monster, the look on her face killed any questions on their lips. And her sharp tongue was soon active. She would say:
‘The gulbân has gone. What more do you want? A family of little princes?’
She never described the encounter in the glade to anyone in Arosgath. Before that night, the nickname Tyúgrumôl, ‘Sweetmouth’, had irked her, and when it was used in her hearing, it had always provoked a stinging response. But ever afterwards she preferred it, and gave it as her name to strangers.
The pink rose never withered. Tyúgrumôl treasured it. It was said that she slept with it on her pillow, despite the prickles — or perhaps because of them.
Now Berwen, Fildimar’s son, remained the ûthéga’s servant. He was bound to Slidhig and could only leave it when Nabbolô lifted the binding spell for a few hours. When this happened, he came to Arosgath and stayed with his father, and then he went to the house of Fildimar and called on Tyúgrumôl. Folk saw her speaking to him from the window; his hands raised in entreaty; her head shaking slowly and sadly; and the young man turning away with a sorrowful look on his face as the binding spell drew him back to Slidhig.
And people asked Tyúgrumôl — as if they thought she had some special powers after her experience in the forest — whether she could do anything to deliver Berwen from bondage to the ûthéga.
‘Do you think I have a witch’s powers because I sat in a forest in the dark?’ was her tart reply.
But one day Tyúgrumôl arose very early and went to Slidhig. She had no fear of Nabbolô after facing the gulbân in the forest. She walked up the stair with the balusters like teeth and tapped on the mouthlike door. The ûthéga called from within:
Who knocks early on Nabbolô’s door?
She replied:
Tyúgrumôl taps, so take notice!
Our flesh and blood you have bound basely.
What rich ransom will rend his bonds
And bring us back Berwen the true?
Nabbolô said sneeringly:
Sweetmouth suing for sweetheart fond!
That thing of price you prize dearest
Will buy Berwen, and break the bond.
Tyúgrumôl made no reply. She returned home. After many weeks, the time came for one of Berwen’s home visits. As usual, he spoke with Tyúgrumôl at her window. This time she put something in his hand and then slammed the shutters abruptly.
On his return to Slidhig, Berwen approached Nabbolô with boldness, and said:
Tyúgrumôl sends respect and says:
My rich ransom is this rose fadeless.
But Angûthéga, thank me never,
It shall scratch your skin and suck blood forth!
And with that he thrust the pink rose of Tyúgrumôl into the bosom of the witch, and the sharp prickles drew her blood. Nabbolô began screaming, louder than any mortal could scream. The screams could be heard as far off as Arosgath. Berwen felt in his breast the snapping of the bondspell; he knew he was free, and, covering his ears, he turned and hastened away from Slidhig. But looking back, he saw Nabbolô running round the raised veranda, crying and cursing, trying to rid herself of the rose, whose thorns clung to her flesh.
And when, after a long time, people came cautiously to look for Nabbolô, they found at Slidhig only the great square patch of earth where the chickens had been wont to scratch. The house was gone, veranda, staircase, columns, and all. But deep marks, as if made by clawed feet like the feet of a dragon, led away into the depths of the forest. Those who know of these things say that Nabbolô had betaken herself, with her house, to Nanôr, and remained there, hoping to be delivered from the rose’s curse.
Neither Berwen nor Tyúgrumôl were ever married.
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