The Song of the Beautiful Maighdean

The Song of the Beautiful Maighdean

There weren't always dragons in the Valley, but today Bertin was not afraid of these fierce creatures. The unseen guardians of the Path were way more dangerous for the young fellow, just starting his wizarding training.

Touched the gray water with his oar, Bertin flinched. A dark shadow appeared under the stern. The elderly man at the prow smiled.

“It is just a fish, Bertin,” said he softly. “No need to become alarmed. Maybe no one will appear here, and we quickly get to our goal ...”

A castle tower rose on the mountainous island ahead. The emerald forest sea obscured the mossy walls. The young man shivered, looking at the lead clouds in the silent sky, devoid even of the echoes of bird calls. Bertin feared that the master, sensing his discomfort, only tried to calm him down.

They left the horses at the riverside inn. Bertin timidly suggested that stallions would come in handy in a forest country. Looking at the rough map, the young man remarked, “There seem to be paths suitable for horses, Master.”

The old man warmed his hands by the hearth. In the south, the orchards were growling under the golden festoons of fruit. Here the strong wind howled behind the shutters, and a cold rain dripped on the roofs of the remote village.

Leading them into the room, the innkeeper, a burly young fellow, bowing, kissed the hem of mentor's black robe.

He respectfully said, “I am giving you the best room. We have enough firewood, and I shall bring the stew. The brew is hearty. Yesterday we slaughtered a ram, and the barley harvest this year was bountiful.”

Hesitating on the threshold, the innkeeper saddened.

“Please do not refuse to attend to my son. The maighdean, whom I drove away, has jinxed the poor child...”

The master promised, “After lunch, I will come down with my student. He is a capable young man.”

Bertin, who did not consider himself in any way capable, blushed furiously.

“Thank you. I will take care of your horses,” bowing again, the innkeeper closed the oak door.

Bertin stubbornly repeated, “Horses will be useful to us. There is no need to go on foot.”

Turning the logs with a poker, the mentor sighed heavily.

“Beyond the river lie the lands where evil spirits tear the horses together with the riders, my boy. You have to be very careful in this country. Have you heard what the innkeeper said?”

Bertin turned scarlet.

The master insisted, “You have and do not avert your eyes. The maighdean seduced this fellow. Having come to his senses, he married a worthy girl, but now the creature cursed their child. In the north, this happens often. Evil spirits possess the land over the river. If you want to become a real master, listen to me and do what I say.”

Bertin held a bag with tools and potions. The master waved a copper burner over a whimpering baby. Black ulcers on the emaciated body swarmed with foul-smelling fat worms.

Holding the boy, the innkeeper's wife angrily said, “Damn the maighdeans! They lure our men with false promises, and then the children suffer from their evil eye ...”

Bertin and his mentor left the inn at a break of dawn. The emerald foam of the forests spread beyond the river. Wielding the oars, Bertin tried not to look to the north.

Getting ashore, the mentor briefly said, “Follow me and be quiet. I have no idea which new evil spirits have appeared here since last year...”

During the day, they wandered along a path littered with fallen trees. Mud slid underfoot. The local lands seemed to produce only the thorny trees and the ubiquitous ivy. The gloomy green maze concealed the darkness of swamp rot. Bertin almost fell into the quagmire, following his mentor along the boards overgrown with gray mushrooms.

On the way to the north, the master explained that he also had studied in those lands. Real magi only came from across the river.

Bertin lanced boils and pulled teeth in the market of his hometown. A queue always lined up for the young man famous for his easy touch. Bertin did not know how he lessened the pain, but the master believed he possessed a true gift. Bertin had to study in hitherto unknown and inhospitable northern lands.

In the forest, the master stopped him, pointing to mushrooms or picking strange-looking herbs.

“Write it down,” the mentor ordered. “This one helps the fever, this one stops bleeding, and these treat the loss of the male power ...”

Bertin jotted everything in a notebook sewn with ox sinews. The letters of a learned language known only to the priests in the south appeared on the parchment. Bertin, the market healer, could never cross the threshold of their majestic academies. The mentor taught him the ancient dialect on the way north. Listening to the old man's accent, Bertin realized that the master was also a Southerner.

The tutor nodded, “I have also started in the market and then went traveling ...”

At dusk, the master stopped on a lawn overgrown with pale plants. Dropping to his knees, the old man muttered incantations. Crimson inflorescences swayed, and Bertin coughed from the unbearable stench.

Kindling a fire, the mentor explained that the predatory plants accepted offerings from travelers in exchange for protection. Pulling out a sharp knife with a bone handle, the master lifted the hem of his mantle, stained with swamp mud. The old man nodded at the almost invisible scar on his lower leg.

“I was as young as you are now. The plants require a sacrifice only once. Fear not, they are content with a little piece...”

Whispering a spell for good luck, Bertin gritted his teeth. In the morning, he hardly limped. The night passed quietly, save for the strange shadows hovering over the tops of ancient trees.

Throwing wood on the fire, the mentor chuckled, “Even the evil spirits are afraid of this lawn.”

Sated plants dozed, drooping bloody, fetid inflorescences.

Leaving the forest near the ruined stone arch overgrown with ivy, Bertin breathed a sigh of relief. Standing on the lakeshore, he admired the snow-capped peaks rising on the horizon. The mentor pointed to the castle walls.

“Only there one can become a real mage. You are just starting, Bertin. Sit on the oars and remember to be careful...”

A gentle girlish voice swept over the lake water.

“Bertin, Bertin!”

Her laughter was precious, as the sounds of bone horns in Bertin’s homeland. The priests played them only on the holy days.

A blond head appeared above the waves. The girl, smiling, extended her arms.

“You came,” she sang. “You were thinking about your maighdean. I have been waiting for you, my love, my Bertin…”

Bertin barely heard the master, who shouted, wrestling the oars from him.

“Shut your ears! Close your eyes, stop looking at her!”

Maighdean ran her graceful hands over the side of the boat. The golden sparks shone in her eyes of the pure azure.

“Come to me,” whispered the girl. “Come to your maighdean...”

Clutching a curved dagger, Berlin resolutely cut her white throat. Blood spattered on his cloak, and the maighdean plaintively wheezed. The boat rushed away. Bertin powerlessly collapsed to the bottom.

Waking up among the inhospitable granite boulders, he spat out the cold lake water. The master helped him to stand up.

“I read the spell,” grumbled the old man. “Still, you have done well. Your hand did not tremble, and you twisted the knife in the right way. You have sealed your fate, Bertin, and will make a good mage.”

Dragging the traveling bags on the stone steps, they ascended to the imposing castle walls. Ordering himself not to look back, Bertin flared his nostrils.

“This is not my last test,” sighed he. “I will become strong as a master.”

Staring at the old man's hunched back, Bertin stubbornly went forward.