Two fine men, named Conare and Con Mac, were out riding their bold and beautiful horses over the heather and through the glens of fire-tipped flowers. The wind was on their faces and in their hair. They moved with the natural freedom of the best bonding between men and animals. Swift were their horses' hooves, wild like drums; strange the combinations, wondrous their shadows shifting over the earth, as the four manes rose and fell and flew in their own visible music on the crisp, midday air. A banner of red gold flew and a banner of white snow, sided by a banner of black night, starred small with the first twinklings of coming age, and a banner of acorn oak.
Four fair forms, riding, running toward the lake marked west, where the sun must set, toward the foggy, hollow hills, toward the dancing waves of the crashing sea. Now it was near the eve of Samhain, when the gates are open, and some come out and some go in.
By and by, the horsemen topped a ridge. Reining in, they stopped to look down on the unpeopled land. Out before them was a lake, thick as paint, all blue and green, wind wrinkling and dappled with pools of golden, floating sunlight.
"What place is this and what might its magic be?" asked Conare of Con Mac.
The companion winked his thoughtful eye and replied, "What I do not know, I will not repeat. But I've heard from the whispers that this same lake is the oldest lake there is. At its bottom is a water snake and the snake is the largest snake there is. Once a year, at the changing, she rises up and seizes any man who's near. Sure, she's all blue and green like the lake's thick waters, while her heart is like the moon and a silver white light, like moonlight, shows from her two empty eyes.
"The snake'll coil herself around you then and the cold of her scaly flesh chills to the marrow of the bones. But should any man not die of this and let her serpent's tongue lick his lips, this same man would never fear again, and he'd pass all his days in splendor, might and glory."
"A blessing from a curse and a worthy trial for two such men as brave as we," came Conare's reply. "But I have a restraint, which I'll tell to you, you being the fairest friend a man could have.
"Last night I dreamed a beautiful dream. There I was, standing at the edge of a lake in the light of a full moon. Now while I stood, the sound of swans' wings beat upon the waters and seven swans wheeled into the air and flew across the moon's round face: white fowl with black shadows below.
"As they flew, a wind rose up over the lake water and in the wind was a sweet voice singing, 'A flame of a woman, a pearl of desire; her lips are full like swollen, ripe fruit, her hair is yellow gold.' That when I looked about, there beside me stood seven beautiful women, more beautiful than any seven the waking eye might likely see. Three to the left there were of equal stature, with shimmering auburn hair surrounding their cheeks, spilling down from their shoulders and past their breasts. Three to the right there were, equal in height and form, with tresses of blackest black surrounding their cheeks, spilling down from their shoulders and past their breasts. But she who was seventh, both first and last, and stood in the center-fore, was beautiful beyond mortal words. The beauty of beauty's self. She was tall and white, while her limbs were slight, and her mane was yellow gold. A seductive roundness curved behind her hips, while her hands were wisp-like and delicate. Her waist was trim as a reed. Her lips were full, like swollen, ripe fruit, and her sea eyes lifted a hint at the outer corners.
"Thus she stood and smiled in the flooding, great moonlight, dressed only in a gown of rainbow-colored silk, that seemed but a mist about her ageless body. That I could, whether I will or no, view her every enchanting turn and fullness.
"Oh, what should I remember and what should I see?" Conare cried unexpectedly. "I would have spoken but no words were in me, even as now my heart is choked with longing."
Con Mac gazed at his companion slowly and seriously before he questioned, "What is to be done about it?"
Conare's face was haggard, but a flickering of madness started from his eyes. Lifting high on his saddle, he answered, "There is nothing to be done about it, except to ride." So ride they did.
By and by, the horsemen topped a ridge. Reining in, they stopped to look down at the unpeopled land. Out before them were the hollow hills, gray and gray-green in the shadows, with the fingers of fog clutching around their slopes.
"What place is this and what might its magic be?" asked Conare of Con Mac.
The companion winked his thoughtful eye and replied, "What I do not know, I will not repeat. But I've heard from the whispers that those same hollow hills are home to a big, grim man and a big, grim woman. Sure, each and the other has but one blood-red eye, has but one bloodstained hand, has but one blood-soaked foot to stand on. Once a year, at the changing, the pair watch before a well that has no bottom. But should any man draw near - the thirst like a fever inside him, hard and hot and as relentless as death's dire self - they bring up a bucket of water to quench his thirst.
"But wait, for it is not finished. Before the thirsty man has swallowed a taste, he sees his own bloodied face on the water's surface. While he stands, stiff with fear to his sinews, the one-hand man and the one-hand woman pitch the man into their well, where he falls, neither to live nor to die."
"It is a monstrous magic, indeed," said Conare, as he leaned forward, narrowing his eyes to peer into the fog of the hollow hills.
Con Mac smiled and was patient to continue. "Sure, and it's not over, good Conare," he finally spoke. "Should that man not be weakened by the demon of his own murdering thirst, and refuse the water, looking neither at the grim man nor at the woman, that which was meant for death becomes life. Then this same man will live many years in health and prosperity."
"A blessing from a curse and a worthy trial for two such men as strong as we," came Conare's reply. "But I have a restraint as hard as iron, as I've already spoken. So I'll tell you more, you being the fairest friend a man could have.
"As I stood in that world of dream, all spellbound and speechless, she, my lady of the silken mist, stepped with a gentle grace toward me. Letting her eyes meet mine, even as her lovely hand reached toward my hand, she spoke in so sweet a voice I thought the world had turned to song. 'Will you have me, fair Conare?' I heard her say. And though no word would leave my throat, both heart and soul inside me answered yes. No doubt, what was felt was known. For smile she did and still stepped up; her friends now soft with mirth and my own wild blood pounding in my veins.
"Near she stood, her magic youth touching against the strength of me. Her sea eyes were into mine. The humming wind tossed her mane of yellow gold. Her lips like swollen fruit, ripe for tasting, moved toward mine and said a kiss by their sweet parting.
"Oh, what should I remember and what is there to see?" cried Conare, as though his soul were lighted kindling and his body but a puff of smoke.
"Her breath, smelling like mead, of wine with honey mixed, stole mine, and I shut my eyes to better hold her image in my mind. Sweetly, as she kissed my melting lips, I lived and died, and I awoke."
Along and along, bending to stroke his mare's dark neck, Con Mac inquired, "What is to be done about it?"
Heaving a heavy sigh, Conare replied, "There is nothing to be done about it, except to ride." So ride they did.
By and by, the horsemen topped a ridge. Reining in, they stopped to look down on the unpeopled land. Out before them were the western hills that hid the sight but not the sound of the drumming sea.
"What place is this and what might its magic be?" asked Conare of Con Mac.
The companion winked his thoughtful eye and replied, "What I do not know, I will not repeat. But I've heard from the whispers that over there are the last western hills where once each year, at the year's changing, a dragon roams, fierce, hostile and starving. Red is he from snout to the tip of his thorny tail, and the fieriest dragon in all the world. The higher he climbs up from his cavern underground, the redder and hotter he grows. That any man the dragon seizes on its path is surely in fear for his mortal life. But that's not all. For the great red worm makes seven flaming rings about that man's roasting flesh and sniffs to the depths of the poor man's soul. Then, if it is a foul soul, the dragon sniffs it out and the soul drops like a char bone in the belly of the beast. While, if it is a good soul, the man's released. He's free to descend the nether slopes and to seek out the old sea mother who squats on the sand, stirring her pot of acorn broth.
"Sure, that man, saying his prayers with every step, has his eyes opened from the smallest taste of that brew that cooks but does not spoil. Then a man can see the specters and the subtle folk dancing on the waves of the crashing sea. And that same man, who sees and sleeps on that same shore, and dreams there while he is asleep, will have what is from his dream from this very night to the end of time."
"Here is a wondrous magic, indeed," said Conare, fully amazed, "and a worthy trial for two men good as we. But I have a restraint and cannot budge until one who's a mentor in truth and wisdom interprets for me the seeing of the seven women and she whose kiss has stolen my peace and my freedom, and who holds my life in the weave of an uncanny charm."
Con Mac watched the last rays of the setting sun let go of the western cliffs. He studied the swallows hunting on the twilight breeze. He listened to the martins calling, and then he spoke. "What I do not know, I will not repeat. But I have heard from the whispers that each soul has a counter, or one or more to be complete. For there lives none who is not half or less. Yet should a man be bold and honest in his way, he might win the love of such a mate. Though it is not for me to judge whether the lady is of this world or another, whether the winning be here or there, or whether the dream of such fulfillment bring us good or ill.
"Sure, but the hero's path and the lover's path is a riddled road, brindled from a skein of light and dark, both drawing their measure from the same deep source. A blessing from a curse or a curse from a blessing, either and maybe both."
Along and along they sat with these thoughts. Conare peered earnestly into the folds of the western hills, as a small red glow, like a fire on wheels, started from below up toward the furthest crest. "Look how the coming dark is broken by that bonfire, moving like a cart loaded with heavy stones and like a bellows belching to join the earth and sky in one red conflagration."
To which Con Mac replied, "What is to be done about it?"
That Conare, leaning straight over his horse's snow white back, threw his two arms around his good friend's neck and said, "There is nothing to be done about it, except to ride." So ride the horsemen did, into the hours of Samhain, when the gates are open, and some come out and some go in.
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