Anwyn: Prologue

Running footsteps, a shout from outside. I can feel it now, stronger than before. The steady thrum of the Wellspring, disrupted by a dissonant chord. It tugs at the back of my mind, insistent, catching, grating as the sound of a child’s lonely cry. It rattles me to my very core. I shake, my heart hanging by a thread, and a terrible fear grows inside me, such as I have never known. This disturbance speaks of pain, so much pain, and confusion, and a terrible, terrible deed. The jar of salve I have been screwing shut shatters on the floor as I fly through the door. ~Gweneth!~

There is blood. So much blood! She clutches my hand and sobs, her body trembling, a leaf in a high wind. A shutter comes down on my mind. My sister. My twin sister. She is carried to my house on an improvised stretcher made of cloaks, the men bearing them looking somber and sad, their grim brows pulled down over brooding eyes. I hold her hand all the way, barely noticing as I stumble over the torch-lit ground, numb, the sky gray in the early morning light. As I attend to her hurts, the shuddering sobs subside, and a broken whisper weaves through the still, candlelit air to where I stand busy with mortar and pestle, silent tears, burning streaks on my face.

“W-Wyn?..” she says, her voice a ragged thread. “Why me? I feel so dirty. Why did it have to be me?” And she curls into herself, tears once more coursing down her face, silent like mine. Her waist-length hair straggles across the pillow, its sunny copper seems dimmed by her anguish, the ends a deeper red, stained with her own blood, red scores against the pale linen.

“Oh Gwen,” I say, fighting the sobs. I go over to put my arms around her, needing desperately to hold her, whole, in my arms, but she flinches away, a weak, frightened, tremulous movement. It feels like a knot tightening about my heart as she pulls back from me. From me! With whom she has ever shared an almost constant, physical contact. My anger and pain and tears build in me, pressure without outlet, until I want to scream, fight, tear my clothes, and, at the very least, kill the man who did this to her. My annoying, mischievous twin. Beautiful Gweneth, my bright, laughing sister.

I do the best I can for her, my skill with herbs some consolation, tears and love wetting the poultices as much as anything. But while I can heal her body, her mind is broken. I cannot reach her, her mind is closed to me, she is a void in the wellspring, an abyss I cannot breach. I see a blankness stealing over her face minute by minute, and I watch in wretched helplessness as she shuts herself away.

Finally, she sleeps, her face tight with dreams, and I can gradually focus on the people standing in the doorway and beyond. There is our father, face hard and knife hilt clenched firmly in his fist. There is blood on his clothes; not the innocent, bright blood of my sister, but blood of a darker, more bitter color. Our best friend, too, stands beside him, blood dried to an earthy red-brown, painted in streaks and splatters across his tunic, ill-concealed, unabashed tears on his face, the customary bright optimism replaced by righteous anger and a hint of confusion. Behind them is the rest of the village, silently watching, the men grim, some bloodstained like my father and my friend, the women with faces lined, bearing their sorrows and their knowledge of the evilness of some men.

“I have done what I can,” I say to them, voice near breaking, knowing they expect something, knowing I have to stand up and say something, alone. “The rest is up to her. She will never be the same.” I put my head down to hide my anguish and push past the throng congesting the front patio of my house. I have never felt so alone. A warm breeze pulls some of my hair out of its tight plait, singing of summer on the way. This year it doesn’t cheer me. Not now. I hate the world. It is a cold and hard one, to let this happen to my sister. A hand grips my shoulder. I look up into the well-loved face of my teacher, Ikwinon. He gazes down with a pair of clear, far-seeing eyes out of a face as lined as the trunk of a mighty oak. His eyes are so clear, so un-beguiled by the fantasies and illusions of this world. His eyes go straight through me, as if he can see each chord, each spark, each thought that is my being. His voice, when he speaks, is the hum of an ancient oak, shifting in the wind.

“There is yet the Wellspring. I will take her through to stand in the current to find what peace she may. As should you.”
That voice reminds me of the powerful secrets and wise truths it has spoken, which seem so distant, now. How can I find any peace until my sister does, Wellspring or no? The Wellspring. Source of all life, all energy, all hope. I don’t even know if she can open the slightest crack in her armor against the world know to let some of its light in anymore. Ikwinon holds my gaze for a moment, and then he turns away, facing the task before him. The Aisha of the Forest People then walks through the crowd and in through the door of my house to lead my sister’s spirit back to itself.
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Men are despicable creatures. Was it not a man’s greed that stole my sister? As twins, we were as close as two siblings could be; and as friends, we were loyal, loving, and true. Two faces, two sides, of a single coin. Different, yet part of one whole. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, a single tear running down my upturned face.

~Gweneth.~

I am the last to cast a white flower into the grave.