Karya

There are three kinds of men. Those who love me, my sons and husband, for example; those who carnally desire me, too many both nameless and faceless; and those who fear me. When I say fear, I don’t mean “for their lives”. The men who fear me, fear my strength, my resilience, my intelligence, my tenacity, my energy, and being on the wrong end of my biting wit. I give no ground to fools. What does not exist are men who are indifferent to my charms and wiles.

Odd way to start my story, but the most important facts deserve top billing. All my travails are wrapped up in the deceit and weakness of men. I love men, but maleness is the gods’ worst idea, made worse in the execution.

I was born Karya, one of eight daughters of the forest spirit, Oxylus and his sister, the nymph, Hamadryas. Like all my sisters, I was born betrothed to a tree, and in my case a sweet chestnut in the shadow of Mount Othrys where my grandfather, Orius, the mountain god resides. Orius plays a pivotal role in my story, but more on that later. Another fact about me, said with humility: my seven sisters are stunningly beautiful, but each pales in comparison as my very presence illuminates the forest, blinding mere mortals, if only for a moment. My black hair defies physics as it emits rather than captures light. My limbs are powerful, yet lithe and supple. My breasts are perfect, not because I say so, but because many have told me as much. Oh, and my neck, it seems to go on for miles. Men, those lustful creatures, might find my nape and nest. My soul mate, Castanea Sativa, loves me with a love that knows no bounds. And I him. We are in our second millennia together and he is as strong as ever, never aging. Likewise, I, like Mount Othrys itself, am immutable. The gods protect Castanea and punish mortals that might see a chair or table where stands a tree. My survival is inextricably bound to his and thus the deities’ defense of Castanea extends to me. It was a long time ago, but the lesson was driven home for all the sisters when Morea departed to Hades, her mulberry kindred spirit destroyed by Eurus who in a fit of rage let loose a brutal southeasterly. She was the most kindly of the hamadryads and we miss her company even now.

From time to time, men from Anavra, a small village nearby, come to the forest to kill a boar, forage the fruits of Castanea and his kin, and harvest the occasional tree. They represent no real threat as they are like children often disciplined and they have learned that Castanea is a protected creature. My father has little patience for mortals on the best of days. Thus, the elder villagers do what they must and move on. The brash ones, coming of age, are a different matter altogether. They are like the young bulls in the field quarreling in pursuit of virginal heifers. Inevitably, I am spied and the pursuit begins. Castanea provides plenty of comfort and his canopy protects me from Apollo's rays. However, a chestnut tree is useless against youths acting out their animal instincts. Castanea’s small fruit is a weapon to no effect. So, I am left to my own craftiness, which I have mastered over these so many centuries. I know this game well and I rarely lose (unless I, in the mood, forfeit the prize to some comely lad). This forest is home turf and all the advantage is mine. If the chase becomes too arduous or their numbers too many, I cheat. I call upon father Oxylus and the tournament is ended. Lessons learned, the adolescents will become village elders and then be gone, all in a blink of an eye. Time and life is different through the lens of immortality.

It is autumn, typically a warm and sunny time of year in Greece with grapes ripe on vine; but not this day. Boreas is at full force, the feeling of winter is in the air, and the clouds are as dark as my hair. A solitary wanderer, axe in hand, appears to be meandering, but with purpose. This stranger to our forest is like a hunter seeking the perfect quarry. His eyes fall upon Castanea and affix. This day, the gods are too busy fighting amongst themselves, thus all this inclemency. For them, Castanea and Karya are trifles. Even father is distracted. This lumberjack is tall, strong, barrel-chested, and determined. Without the help of the gods, who have deserted us, I am no match. Castanea steels himself and flexes his bark, but the axe slowly wears him down, chip by chunk. I scream in despair but no one can hear me over the howling northern winds. No one except Orius. Of all his many, many grandchildren, I am by far and away his favorite. He confirms what I have always suspected: he is always watching out for me. Alas, the damage has been done and Castanea’s fate sealed. But grandfather is unwilling to let me go the way of Morea. Orius faces a serious dilemma. He must choose between selfishly thwarting my destiny or maintaining the order. Like those boys in the woods, the gods have learned their own lessons over the years. Rules establish order and rules broken lead to chaos. I am writing my story so we know his choice. I assure you I am not writing from the grave. Just as certain, I am not writing from the safety of my native woodlands. Whether to protect me or to cover up his disobedience, Orius calls upon Eurus, who because of the unintended death of much beloved Morea, is deeply indebted. Only Eurus, god of the southeasterly winds, can fight Boreas and he alone can transport me as far away from Mount Olympus (and punishment) as possible. At the very far northwest reaches of Europa, Orius reigns over the highest peak on the mountainous northern reaches of an island none from Greece have ever seen. There I am deposited at the foot of Ben Nevis, and thus snatched from death, I begin my second life.

Cailin Dubh

Here am I, surrounded by freckled blonde and red-headed mortal folk. Their visages wear the fear of a child in the woods alone at night. I have seen that look of terror from time to time, but never directed at me. Once they gain some modicum of composure, they move from silent fright to agitated yelling. I prefer the former. “Witch, sorceress, evil fairy, brùnaidh”. Philarion still prevails and Hermes has yet to do his mischief, thus I can understand all they say even the unusual words I have never heard before. Seems a brùnaidh is an evil spirit and every home in this scrubby land has its own. Much like I was bound to Castanea, but not quite so benevolent.

Fear gives way to anger and anger to curiosity, as the smallest girls amongst the throng show the most courage, reaching out to touch my extraordinary black hair as it courses down seductively towards my buttocks. For these barbaric people, black-haired people exist, but are very uncommon and gatekeepers of power. I see, from a distance, watching this theatre, is an amused Cernunnos, the local god of the forest. He seems to discern my true nature and probably has some passing knowledge of dryads, as he reigns over an assemblage of similar nymphs. Beyond that, unlikely he knows the details of my story or the existence of my sisters and me. Standing next to him is a female, her face my mirror image. I do not know her, but she is, without question, no ordinary woman. She is tall and very regal and not unkempt like the clan encircling me. This swarm is increasingly annoying, their attention unwanted. Little girls and teenage girls are all fascinated. To them I am both exotic and mysterious. And then sniffing at the outer boundaries, the jackals, males aged 13 to 30, eyeing me like prey. Cernunnos’ companion sensing my discomfort and vulnerability – foreign land, traditions, mores - intervenes. Her presence is sufficient to disperse the crowd except a few little feminine stragglers whose pluck overwhelms any caution. In a few years, the jackals will wean them of such daring.

In form a woman, but my savior is a very important goddess in this kingdom. Her name is Áine and she quickly educates me on the ways of Northern gods and goddesses. Unlike the deities who rule my Mediterranean home, goddesses on this forsaken island are the ones preeminent. Gods are an afterthought (seems about right). It is Áine who intervenes on my behalf not Cernunnos, he merely entertained by my distress. With gods as such role models, one cannot expect too much from their mortal counterparts. Áine becomes my protectress and over the years we became closer, dare I say best friends. Our unequal status, she a goddess and me a mere nymph, is not an obstruction but it is always there, in the background. Áine and I could be sisters, our appearance so similar. Our black hair defines our power so Áine has taken to calling me Cailin Dubh, and this is the name I have adopted just as I have adopted this rocky, damp, forsaken patch of earth. Karya seems to me an entity from a faraway place and a distant time.

It is summer and my favorite amusement is dancing through the forest, gossiping with the trees, a weak attempt to relive a bit of my happier past. When Apollo, the sun, spends his time here providing continual warmth despite the ubiquitous fog, Áine reigns. Unlike in Greece, it is a short tour of duty. Her responsibilities are her pleasure, but all-consuming. The sun’s warmth on my skin is almost hypnotic, lulling me into a trance-like sleep. I awaken with a start. A heavy weight is upon my chest, crushing my breasts. A scarlet beard is scratching my face, and what, between my thighs, can be pleasure is only fire and pain. I had passed through so many centuries without this indignity, but here I am, a victim of the basest of all crimes. The only saving grace is that is over quickly and the villainous interloper gone.

Crying, I steady myself and run from the forest into a clearing where midsummer night preparations are underway. I search, frantically, for Áine. I am furious with myself and, to a lesser extent, with her, my goddess protector, but mostly with the brute. I want justice. No, I want revenge. Black hair, flowered crown not too far off, Áine listens patiently and lovingly. Áine shares her own experience of being raped by Ailill Aulom. She had bitten off his ear which ended the assault and his reign as King of Munster, as only unblemished mortals can be a sovereign. Áine empathizes with me, but quickly points out the obvious: “Your predator was a burly red-bearded savage. That describes every man in the shadow of Nevis. I should have been there for you, but could not. You are too much the beauty to survive in this violent backwards country alone.” Áine summons Cernunnos. “Cailin Dubh is the widow of a sweet chestnut tree and needs a companion for comfort, love, and protection. We have no sweet chestnut trees (I have lived long enough to see the Romans bring the chestnut tree to Britannia, but there were none when Áine provided her directive). That of which we have plenty and have had for over 5,000 years are hazelnut trees. Find the strongest, straightest, healthiest, and most stunning hazelnut tree in your forest. Point it out to me and I will transform that tree into a man of the same qualities.” Unlike the gods with which I grew up, Áine has many portfolios. She is the goddess of summer, which in these climes is short-lived, leaving her plenty of time to also handle wealth, sovereignty (thanks to old “one-eared”, or in their tongue, Aulom), and finally, most relevant at this moment of my story, love and fertility. Once the hazelnut tree is made man, Áine assures that he is my man. He is totally devoted to me. He retains his Methuselah-like longevity, a remnant of his hazelnut beginnings. Watched over by Áine, we have been blessed with many black-haired children, locks that reflect the sun, each child more beautiful than the one before. Any traveler to our country today will still see the blonde and red-haired descendants of those ancient little girls so inquisitive on my arrival. He will also see our progeny and he will be struck by a thunderbolt of passion.