Scene 4: In Which Jack Cranton Seriously Ponders His Sanity
Faced with the impossible, Jack paled and sank to his knees. The very trees were different; larger than trees had any business being. They reached out and interconnected above, the branches crossing and intertwining in an elaborate arboreal web. In places, the branches seemed nearly to embrace each other; dancing at their own stately pace in a centuries old waltz.
The light that flowed down through these trees did so quite literally. Golden streams carried leaves and twirled lazily around branches, flowing in thick tributaries that meshed into a mighty golden tide around arboreal islands. It was felt everywhere, a peculiar lightness that gently kissed the skin. Every motion sent ripples of light dancing, as when you wade into a pool. Jack, unused to its brilliance, felt each kiss as a horrid burn.
His horse reacted quite differently. The tired old mare shook her mane and proudly thrust back her head, looking more like a proud Cavalry horse than the dusty ride of a western Marshall. Her master groaned and dropped her rains. Giddily whinnying, the mare charged off into the woods where she was met by a wild mass of neighing, whinnying, and snorting. A low rumble of hooves announced that she and her new found companions had left.
Above glittering birds swooped and twirled through the branches, singing joyous hymns in their peculiar avarian dialect. Below Jack fell forward and stared at the green grass, trying to collect his thoughts. The bird’s nests adorned the great trees as brilliant jewels formed of sapphire feathers, emerald leaves, and amethyst petals. The lively community seemed to tie the trees even closer together; the more one looked at them, the more difficult it became to differentiate one tree the other. They seemed, nearly, to be one great tree spreading out tributary stalks, granting the illusion of a great wood.
Jack thought of Hans Driden and his simulacra and now this strange forest. The world he thought he’d known was gone. Uncertain how to process this, and still being burnt by the light, he finally fell face first into the dirt. First tears. Then sleep.
It was unclear how long he remained like this. However, by the time he had recovered the light was no longer golden, but now silver. It was no less bright, but rather less painful.
As he began to rise he saw that Eiran had left, though Unbeniaid had remained standing as he had been. Overcome with shame, Jack ducked his head and angled his hat to cover his eyes. Attempting to regain some measure of respect in the faeries eyes, he spoke in his rough voice, “Nice home.”
Unbeniaid smiled broadly at the compliment, but when he spoke it wasn’t in response. Instead he said, “Peace be with you.”
The voice was warm and merry, full of comfort and joy. It flowed through Jack and reassured him, letting him know that everything was ok. His shame left him and suddenly he wasn’t embarrassed in the least to have wept. He realized now—the voice showed him—that there is no shame in breaking before a Faerie; no shame in surrendering to the superiority of the supernatural. To bow and weep before Unbeniaid’s majesty and Eiran’s beauty was expected, forgiven, and forgotten.
The faerie spoke again, “Come.” Unbeniaid then turned and began to walk through the woods. Jack Cranton, content to trust the speaker of that voice, silently followed.
Jack paused when they arrived at a small chapel. “This, Jack Cranton, is Tŷ Cwrdd.”
The chapel appeared to have been woven of white marble. Strands of stone spun together and twisted in and around each other, giving the illusion of something organic. The building was circular and crowned by a golden dome.
On the inside there was nothing; simply a clean, marble floor and the inside of white woven walls. However, on the ceiling there was most definitely something, though Cranton wasn’t quite sure what to call it. He might have said it was a painting, except that he was certain no paint could create those colors. It was as if light had condescended to take physical form, humbly consigning itself to one hue and one shape. Light had become something blue to become sky, something green to form the grass, and yet retained its gold for the sun. Still, while not a painting, it was certainly an image. As he examined it, Unbeniaid narrated.
“Long ago, before what you reckon as Time began, there was a rebellion in Faerie. Melltigaid, one of our greatest, grew proud and sought to rebel against our LORD, Duw El Dedwydd. He led a third of our number, now known to themselves and your kind as the Fair Folk, in a failed uprising.”
Here Jack’s eyes were drawn to the picture, to a faerie of extraordinary size and strength, towering head and shoulders over the others. He and his followers were magnificently armored; garbed for war in the manner of Homer’s brave Achaeans. The chief himself wore a brass breastplate and crested helm; a great shield of flame was held in his left hand and a bright blade gleamed in his right. This giant clashed with—Jack started at this—Unbeniaid, attired as a Roman legionnaire.
The trouble here was that, as Cranton understood it, this battle had occurred thousands of years ago—before the dawn of Time itself. It wasn’t odd to imagine Unbeniaid at war. The faerie who stood before Jack was tall and strong; the steel that backed his joy would be as at home on a battlefield as anywhere. Still, it was difficult to accept Unbeniaid’s apparent age. Yet, undeniably, Unbeniaid stood before him now, absolutely unchanged.
It was even odder that this other fellow, Melltigaid, was more impressive than Unbeniaid. Unbeniaid was proud and lordly, yet Melltigaid towered over his rival. His eyes burned with red pride, searing those who met his gaze and yet, even still, he lacked something. He was dull. There was no other word for it.
While Unbeniaid and his faeries glistened with light, Melltigaid and the Fair Folk were empty creatures that seemed—almost—on the verge of simply giving up their form. Unbeniaid was nothing like his brothers, they were all distinct. Melltigaid stood out from his rebels only by virtue of his clash with Unbeniaid, the clash itself gave form to the rebels—they were indefinite; definable only by the light they opposed.
The Faerie carried on, “We met them with war for two days. Our numbers carried the first, but Melltigaid’s cunning carried the second. Then, on the third, Swynedig Gwyn Geiriau—the son of our LORD—arrived and carried the day.”
As he spoke, Jack saw a chariot whose wheels were blazing stars. The chariot was porphyry and upon it sat a sapphire throne, inlaid with pure amber. It was drawn by four great beasts who sang continual praises of their master. The first was like a great golden lion, the second like a mighty ox, the third had a face like a man, and the fourth was like a flying eagle. Each of the four living creatures had six wings and was covered with eyes all around, even under his wings.
But the chariot’s splendor was pale compared to the Rider’s Glory. He was clothed in a long robe that had been dipped in blood and wore a golden sash across his chest. His hair was whiter than fresh snow and his eyes burned with flames. His skin was like burnished bronze, refined in the furnace. In his right hand he held seven stars and on his head were many crowns. Light flowed from him; at his arrival the dull forces of Melltigaid threw down their arms and fled; cast out of Faerie by the power of the Prince.
“Now, they were cast down, but they were not destroyed. Our LORD, in His Mercy, allowed them to remain free for a time, in your world. However, that time is coming to an end. This is why you are here.”
Now, to Jack Cranton, that didn’t sound very merciful. He had intended to tell this Faerie that—until it was revealed that somehow he, a Federal Marshall, was supposed to help. This, understandably, distracted the poor fellow. Instead, Jack laughed and asked, “How can I help? I’m not one of you and with that guy on your side”—here he pointed to the LORD’s Son—“you really don’t need my help. Why choose me for something like this?”
Unbeniaid smiled, “You were not chosen. You were made. When building a house, does the carpenter wait for wood to fall in just the right sizes? Did the man who made your boots happen to find leather in just the right shape? In the same way, do you think our LORD simply waited for someone to come along who could do what must be done? He created you for His purpose.”
Jack Cranton was not emotionally capable of handling a thought like this, and wise enough not to pursue it any further. Besides, he was beginning to have a far more terrible thought. “Is your LORD, God?”
Unbeniaid laughed at this, a rich and melodious sound that flowed out of his entire joyous being, “Indeed He is, Jack Cranton.”
This was more disturbing than the first—Jack couldn’t really comprehend a world where people were created to do things, so it didn’t trouble him too much. This, however, was terrifying. If God were real—and the very existence of Faerie and the strangeness of the place inclined him to accept this fact—then Jack Cranton was in trouble. Still, he decided that what was done was done and rather than dwell on what was wrong he’d simply have to face the facts. “I see. Still, that doesn’t explain what I have to do with anything. Why am I here? Let God do His own work.”
Unbeniaid responded with a grin, as if this were the most enjoyable question to answer in the world, “It is simple. You must awaken the Nine Worthies.”
Scene 5 – In Which Jack Cranton Has Really Good Intentions
At this point, Jack Cranton began to fade out and lose focus. This time, it wasn’t from the distraction of Eiran—simply from the fact that he could handle no more. The human mind can only handle so much and Cranton had reached his limit. He begged Unbeniaid’s forgiveness and then left the chapel for a time.
All he knew was that he was supposed to wake the Nine Worthies, some ancient warriors, in preparation for a big battle. Armageddon, if Jack remembered the churching of his youth correctly. To do that, he had to reach the Isle of Avalon.
First however, sleep. The sleep did not come from exhaustion; such was impossible in Faerie. It came from a desire for rest, not a need. Rest was not a relief from exhaustion, but a good thing to be claimed in and of itself. Cranton claimed his sleep in the silver light, surrounded by grand and terrible trees.
When he woke, nothing had changed. He had half expected to wake up in the cold, hard desert, or even back home at the Hairy Monk Tavern after a particularly long night of self-indulgence. No such luck. The light remained silver and flowed around his prone form; the shadows of the trees had not shifted.
Unbeniaid appeared to have left him and so Jack got up to look around. It would be good to see this land without any faerie interference, a man couldn’t think for himself when they were around. He crept through the forest as stealthily as he could manage in his desert attire; it would do no good for the faeries to see him and force him to come along with them again. He wanted to find a city of the faeries, or at least a town; a chance to observe them on their own.
After searching the forest for the better part of two hours, Jack was beginning to get frustrated. He had gotten hopelessly lost and couldn’t even find his way back to the little white chapel. This frustrated goal had led to a miserable walk through the woods in spite of the countless wonders; a frustrated man is quite incapable of appreciating even the most wondrous miracles. He had seen butterflies as large as eagles and elephants the size of a small dog. A spring in the midst of the forest housed a trio of naiads whose night song had attracted a crowd of satyrs, centaurs, badgers, moles, beavers, and various other woodland creatures, all of whom swayed in pleasure to the music and politely retained for making their own noises during the performance. Jack heard nothing but the babbling burble of the spring and barely noticed the creatures; he was looking for grand faeries in marble halls, not rodents.
Moving on he wandered into a wide open field of flowers. Their scent spoke of spring, youth, and love; even Jack allowed himself to crack a smile when he first entered the field. Soon however, the Queen Bee sought to welcome him into her domain, bringing her royal entourage to welcome the esteemed stranger. Seeing the bee nobility approaching—and having no knowledge of the Queen’s kind intent—Jack turned and left the field rather than have to deal with the stings he was sure would come.
Finally, he found his way to a stream and became immediately overcome with hunger and thirst. It had been twenty-four hours since he had last eaten or drank and the sight of the stream prevented him from ignoring that any longer. The silver light blended with the brook and the water was pure and cool; a delight to drink. Jack had never drank anything half so wonderful, and he suspected this would be true even if he wasn’t overcome with thirst. At his first sip Jack felt the troubles from the day before slip away. At the second his hunger was satiated and at the third he felt the accumulated pains of his profession slide away. Everything became clear.
He was a lawman; it was his job to catch Hans Driden. Somebody else could worry about these “Worthies” on Avalon. Despite their grand posturing and wild claims, the faeries had done nothing to deserve his loyalty. Uncle Sam had given him a country to grow up and live in, and a job; a sense of identity and purpose. Unbeniaid and his LORD had nothing on that. All that remained now was to find away back home. Of course, Jack reflected ruefully, with his luck today that was easier said than done.
With no better ideas on where to go, he decided to follow the stream. He reasoned that the city would have to be built by water of some sort, and, even if this stream wasn’t enough water for a whole city, it would lead to a larger river or lake. Before he found the larger body of water however, he found Eiran. She sat in a glade near the brook, lounging against one of the wide old trees of Faerie and eating a bright fruit, purple with scarlet leaves. She was watching the efforts of a squirrel to impress a mate and had not yet seen Jack. Taking advantage of this, he quickly ran from the river and hid in the protective foliage. His original goal of watching a faerie unnoticed was not forgotten.
At the moment, Eiran was busy trying to control her laughter. The squirrel she observed strutted about the lower branches, flaunting his muscles proudly and displaying his agility by leaping and flipping from branch to branch as the Lady of his affections sat next to Eiran, equally amused. Finally, the male vanished up the trunk, only to return with a brilliant blue flower, as tall as he was. Rushing down the trunk, he leapt towards Eiran, preparing to land with a flourish and bestow the flower on his Lady. Unfortunately for him, the weight of the flower was too much for him to carry as he leapt. He stumbled and fell into Eiran’s lap.
At this, she could no longer contain herself and laughed delightedly. The squirrel, unhurt, lifted its head high and haughtily scampered up and away. The young lady he’d been trying to impress, on the other hand, laughed along with Eiran and began chattering up a storm in rapid Squirrelese.
To Jack’s eyes, this female camaraderie seemed all too familiar—he himself had been in the poor male’s situation a time or two—and so he decided to try and help the fellow out when he spotted a wolf approaching.
Immediately, squirrels forgotten, he knelt and attempted to remain as still as possible; surprise was to good a friend to give up. Eiran appeared to be listening sympathetically to her friend and had yet to notice either the wolf or Jack. The wolf however, had certainly noticed her. The great silver brute marched towards the girls and then slunk low, as if to pounce.
There was an awful moment as Jack readied himself for action. He saw the wolf’s large fangs and watched the cruel, yellow eyes narrow on their target. His pulse raced; he had only shot to save Eiran.
Drawing his gun as he rose, he commanded, “Run,” and then fired. The wolf leapt as soon as Jack spoke, but the shot was true. The wolf spun in the air and landed heavily on the ground, yelping in pain. The next two shots silenced it. The broken thing lay on the ground and died. Its fur was coated in blood, its ribcage smashed. An awful silence settled over the glade, until it was broken by the quiet sobs of Eiran.
Hearing this, Jack clumsily turned to comfort the young woman. Putting his arm around her he spoke as gently as a lawman could, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’d rather you didn’t have to see that.”
Eiran refused to be comforted and threw off Cranton’s arm. She flung herself on the wolf and wept bitterly; crying aloud in a strange and beautiful tongue. In time, her wails formed a song. She sang of loss and sorrow; for the death of the wolf, for the death of all wolves, and, it seemed, for Death itself. As she sang, she seemed to age and her beauty grew terrible.
Before Cranton no longer stood a young woman, but rather an ancient and dread Lady from the dawn of time. The sorrows that she had endured made her only more beautiful; the age she bore made her only more frightening.
Humbled, Jack Cranton knelt as she sang and, when she was done, begged her forgiveness. Regally, she knelt and kissed his forehead. Her eyes no longer saw the kneeling lawman, but rather looked back through generations, into the first garden of creation. The tears that streamed down her face fell on him and she spoke in voice thick with memory, “Nay, son of my sons. It is I who should ask yours.”
Without knowing why he did so, Jack took her hand and kissed it as his blood recognized the Mother of his ancient race, “It is not mine to forgive. Yet know this: you have been forgiven.” Then, kneeling around a wolf’s corpse, for the first time since the dawn of time, Eve embraced one of her children.
Scene 6 – In Which Jack Cranton Continues to Master the Fine Art of Diplomacy
Jack dug a grave for the wolf and Eiran spoke a few solemn words in its memory and then the light turned golden and Eiran led Jack away from the brook. As they walked, he ate one of the purple fruits that Eiran had held. Its taste was marvelous; he had never before tasted anything half as delectable. It was also beneficial, for the golden light no longer burned his skin. Indeed, now simply walking through the air of faerie was an inexpressible pleasure. Their shared tears had emptied their grief and now, slowly, joy began to return.
Still, even as walked the light threw brilliant golden kisses and sent ripples of light with a wave of his hand, Jack was curious. He wanted to leave, to follow Hans Driden, but didn’t think that Eiran would tell him how to do that. Instead, he figured he could ask her about the Nine Worthies and, hopefully, turn the conversation to his ends in time. Besides, with the case open before him the lawman in him wanted answers.
Ever subtle, he simply asked, “Alright, I’m supposed to awaken some people, but who? Why?”
Eiran smiled sadly before answering, “They are sons of my sons, mighty men of God.”
This answer wasn’t especially helpful, so he carried on, “But why them? Why not nine others? Why not just make nine mightier men and let them handle things?”
Eiran laughed at his persistence and the last of her sorrow seemed to pass. While Jack wasn’t about to forget who was dealing with, he found himself yet again confused by this faerie. It wasn’t that she changed appearance; it was something in the way she carried herself. She was still small, blonde, and beautiful, but at times she seemed great and terrible; full of majesty and power. Then she would shrug off this burden and laugh gaily, reveling in beauty and delighting in wonders.
In this spirit she impishly answered, “Is it not written, ‘Shall a faultfinder contend with the Almighty? He who argues with God, let him answer it. Have you an arm like God, and can you thunder with a voice like his?’”
Momentarily thrown off his line of inquiry by this answer—if it could even be called an answer—Jack tried to pull himself together to launch a fresh set of questions, but it was quite hopeless. Eiran cut him off, “Oh Jack! If only you could see yourself now! It’s true, you know, ‘Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.’ But don’t worry, you’ll learn again!”
Grabbing his arm, she pulled him forward and rushed off through the trees. “Come on, you have to see this.” Overwhelmed by the sudden display of energy, Jack allowed himself to be pulled along. They passed through the woods and came at last to a great city situated on two hills. The city shone with its master’s glory and glittered like a great jewel amidst a wild arboretum. It had great high wall of jasper with twelve gates, each made of a single pearl. The gates were all open, though twelve faeries stood at each; armed and armored in shining silver. The foundation of the walls was encrusted with many shining jewels—sapphires, jacinth, topaz, and amethyst and from the foundations thundered a mighty river, flowing out from the city to the East. Over the wall rose many high golden domes; Byzantine palaces for faerie lords and human saints.
A wind rose beyond the walls, carrying the scent of his childhood. He remembered working in the stables with his father and his brothers, and remembered the smiling face of his mother when he first learned to ride. The wind carried the memory of laughter; his sister playing with her mothers clothes, and promising that she’d be a great lady someday—married to a prince!
The wind cooled Jack’s face and he realized that this was why he came here, the City. Hans Driden didn’t matter anymore; he was still trapped in mortality. Nothing in that world mattered compared to this. The City spoke subconsciously; a primeval heartache drew him towards domes that glittered with the images of his first kiss—Katie Langston, behind her fathers barn; under the stars. Her blonde hair—he could still smell it; still feel it—splayed out and meshed with the golden light of Faerie. This City was made for Men; all were meant to end up within its walls. His blood cried out, recognizing its home at last. Swallowing, he shrugged off Eiran’s restraining hold and began to approach.
She let him leave in silence. As he approached the nearest gate, one of the faeries stepped out to greet him. The guard towered above his peers--as tall and proud as Unbeniaid. Unlike Unbeniaid, whose skin was bronze and whose eyes were copper, this second was silver. His hair fell pale around his shoulders, and his eyes were cool beryl. His snowy hand clasped an argent spear and he was garbed in resplendent armor of pearl. His voice rang with authority and power, “It is not yet time, Jack Cranton. The City is not for such as you.”
Now denied, the glory of the city began to pain the lawman; its light beat upon his grey duster and hat. He remembered watching his father gunned down by Cheyenne’s men, remembered receiving the letter that told him his sister had died of some disease all alone in New York. His mother had soon followed, consumed by grief.
Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and he remembered Katie as he’d last seen her; dead in bloody pool, her golden hair and the top of her head gone, scalped by some red-skinned savage. He shifted his boots in the grass. The wind shifted direction and he smelt it; Death. He was here, he was always here. A new thought struck Jack.
He squinted across at the City and realized, the LORD who resided there claimed to be God. Faced with the cities grandeur and the glory of Faerie, Jack couldn’t disagree. Across the plain, guarded by glistering minions, lay the creator of Death. HE had the power and authority to stop every misery in Jack’s life. HE could have saved Jack’s father, his sister, his mother, and even precious Katie. But HE hadn’t.
Jack’s fingers itched. He drew his gun and aimed at the faerie—but before he could fire it flew from his hands and landed in the grass. Swearing, he marched forward and began to shout at the faerie, “What do you want with me, huh? To do some quest, some job that you guys don’t want to do? You’re too busy prancing in the woods, is that it? You’re no better than a pack of murderers. Standing by and letting good people die...” Jack stopped here; voice cracking with emotion, but he soldiered on in a hoarse whisper, “Why show me your City—your God. Damned. Heavenly City—if I can’t even enter it?” Through this maelstrom the silver faerie stood still and silent, staring at Cranton without the least hint of emotion.
Cranton paused and waited for an answer, but none came. “Well? The rest of you have no problem telling what they want me to do. What am I here for, huh?” Silence greeted the questions. “ANSWER ME!” Silence. Enraged, Cranton grabbed the faerie and raised his right arm, “Why you sonuva—“
“Hold lawman,” the silver faerie spoke with command and Cranton stilled against his will. The guard drew himself up to his full height and he towered over Jack. The golden light of Faerie seemed to fade, and the soldier grew; the City burned brightly behind him. Then the faerie laughed and the light returned, “Follow me.”
Jack did so in silence, the faerie may be suddenly merry but he wasn’t. He was taken to the river that flowed from the city. Next to the river sat a small boat. It was plain and undecorated wood, with no sail and no paddles.
The faerie spoke, “Now, I know you want to leave Faerie. All you have to do is follow this river. The boat will take you to Avalon. In Avalon there is a gate back to your lands. There you’ll also find Hans Driden; he is seeking the Nine Worthies and, should he find them, terrible things will happen.” The faerie looked grave again, “Things you accuse us of not stopping.”
Finding he was able to speak again, Jack responded bitterly, “Things you won’t stop.” He again saw Katie lying in blood and continued, “But, you’re right. I will stop it. Your LORD knows me, that bastard.”
Jack turned his back on the faerie and angrily pulled the boat into the river, got in, and floated down stream. As he sailed, a great deep fog pulled around him and he heard Eiran singing,
“If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee”
Her voice was warm and loving, but he ignored it. He would take no love from someone who had murdered his.
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