Chapter 6
Winters in the Forbidden Forest could be severe, but, perhaps because so many dreadful things were happening elsewhere in the world, the winter of 1942-43 was quite mild. True, it snowed; and the wind came up and drove a blizzard of blinding ice pellets across the open ground, but in the depths of the forest it was quiet and sheltered and, though cold, one could still get about and, in one’s own way, have fun.
Jonathan was one of those who had fun. He had given up on having Xanthe and Rubeus in for Christmas when he found himself too weak to get out of bed the morning after his ill-advised shopping spree, but then Rubeus had come looking for him later in the day, bearing a note from old Marley, asking him to take Christmas dinner with them.
“I’ll go along with yeh, in case yeh get tired,” the boy said. “They asked me too. Yeh don’t wanna spend Christmas all by yerself; wouldn’t be right.” And so Jonathan had agreed.
It had been a joy and a revelation to him. The hospitality of the Oggs had been far less strained than he had feared and the meal had been truly epic. There had just been the four of them at table - Mr and Mrs Ogg and Rubeus in addition to Jonathan - but they had done justice to the enormous goose, and had laughed and whooped as the flames from the brandy-drenched pudding almost scorched the ceiling. Gifts had been exchanged. Mrs Ogg had pronounced herself enchanted with the sheaf of hastily handwritten recipes Jonathan had copied from an ancient book Nimrod had shown him, and Mr Ogg appreciated half a dozen freshly fletched quarrels for his crossbow - the fletchings were a brilliant orange because Marley had complained recently that he had trouble finding the plain coloured ones - and then they all played Rubeus’s games. Jonathan was invited to spend the night but declined, saying he needed the walk, and went home accompanied part of the way by Rubeus, both of them carrying packages of hand-knitting from the Oggs.
“Mrs Ogg’s knittin’ is famous,” Rubeus told him. “Did you feel how thick them socks was? An’ I reckon her sweaters’ll stop an arrow.”
Jon, sweating slightly under the weight of his package, could only agree.
Then, on Boxing Day, Evan Norris had called on him and insisted he accompany him home for ‘tea’. This had been another astonishing and delectable meal with game pie and sherry trifle. The Oggs and Rubeus had been there again, plus a few other locals who, if they were disturbed by his presence, hid it well and Felicity Norris had laughed and made long eyes at him under Evan’s nose. The genial little Welshman seemed quite unworried by it, though Argus Filch had looked sullen. Jon enjoyed that evening too, but found leaving the party to walk back home to his Tower was no wrench.
Settling in front of the fire, boots off and collar unbuttoned, in Nimrod’s silent, half-seen company, Jon picked up a book (“Beying anne Animadversion onne ye Lifes and Habittes of Ye Comyn Faun”) and sighed with pleasure. Alone, he had discovered, didn’t necessarily mean the same thing as lonely. He read contentedly, making plans in the back of his mind to spend the next afternoon, after his rounds, making a larger chessboard for Rubeus; the big lad’s fingers tended to knock over adjoining pieces when he tried to move them.
Gift-giving, as opposed to receiving tribute, had been an alien concept to Xanthe until he gave her the present he had carefully wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with golden string.
“Why, thank you, Jon,” she had said politely, looking at the pristine package. “It is lovely - so white!” and he had laughed and shown her how to open it.
Red, as he had thought, suited Xanthe, and from her delighted exclamations, she thought so too.
That Sylvanus had received his gift he knew - Xanthe had promised to pass it on, knowing her favourite would never accept it from Jon’s own hands. He also knew that the faun, out of fear or anger, had rejected it: he found the chain and the wolfsbane pendant under a pine tree two or three days later. For a week the gift remained hidden in the leafmould, the miasma of the potion inside the charm making Jon’s eyes water if he got within six feet of the spot. Then it was gone, and Jon wondered what had happened to it.
*****
Xanthe wondered this as well.
The great goddess Xanthe, of the beautiful hair and bright countenance, lovely in the dances, protectress of the forest, beloved of her dryads, venerated long since by human mortals who had known her power, honoured of old with offerings of fruits and wine and olives, celebrated in song and dance, was annoyed.
In a deity with a less disciplined outlook, this would have meant trouble for someone, but Xanthe was not one to interfere with the choices of other beings. Her first teacher, a centaur of great knowledge and greater patience, had warned her against too-hasty use of her divine powers. She could still hear his voice if she closed her eyes:
“As you have seen in our nightly observations, the stars in their courses hold the destinies of us all. As they move, swinging past each other in that silent dance across the heavens, they command us and our fortunes, bringing good or evil impartially, but with each event interlocking and forming a coherent pattern, so vast that only incessant study can reveal even a part of its meaning.
“The pattern may be altered: men or gods have often interfered in the destinies of each other, usually with great harm to themselves. You may prolong the life of a mortal whose time has elapsed-but then, my young one, you have altered the course of destiny, and that is an awful responsibility. Remember, at that point you are responsible for that person’s existence; what he says or does will be counted to you.
“Similarly, should you strike a mortal in anger, ending his life before his allotted time, the void you have created in the fabric of the world will be noticed, and lamented, and again charged against you.”
Young Xanthe had listened, and wondered. “Is there a punishment, Mentor, for such interference?” She had never really been punished, but she knew the theory.
“Oh, yes, of course there is. The punishment, Student, is that you have divine knowledge. You will know, as the world’s events create unhappiness or confusion, that your actions have caused that unhappiness. You will know regret, which can be a terrible thing.”
Xanthe’s friend and favourite Sylvanus had not been present at the time of that teaching, but he had become accustomed to her measured way of dealing with the world, and he felt quite safe, here in her chamber within the birch tree. He was not alarmed at her annoyance. He was unhappy, and he had calculated just how much of his unhappiness he wished to show. He crossed one slender leg over the other, waved a tiny hoof up and down, folded his arms across his chest and allowed his lower lip to protrude just a bit.
“I lost it. I didn’t like it anyway; it was ugly. I took it off when I was playing; I don’t remember where.” Sylvanus did not look at Xanthe when he said this, though in his heart he knew she didn’t need to look in his eyes; she always knew when he was lying anyway.
She did know. She rose from her couch, pacing up and down on the carpet, toying with the fringes on the red silk shawl twined about her neck.
“Silly faun, that charm was for your protection! Jonathan does not want to hurt you! He bought that charm for you, and carried it with his own hands, though it made him weak and sick to do so. He cannot help being two creatures in the one body; it gives him great sadness to think he might hurt or kill another being. You are being impossibly unreasonable, to refuse that charm simply because you don’t want Jonathan here.”
“If he’s so worried about hurting me, he should just leave; this was my home before it was his.”
“And again, you are being silly. Jonathan is not here by choice; he was sent here. He must remain here for all his life, and never live among his own kind again. You should pity him, and befriend him instead of making his time among us more difficult. He was taken away from all in his world; he lost the love of a mortal woman, who turned her back on him when he became a werewolf.”
“Well, he should have thought twice before becoming one! It is the work of gods to pity people; I am only a faun. And you no longer love me. You love the wolf, you do. You spend all your time talking and playing with that wolf, and not with me!”
Xanthe turned on him but made no move to threaten; instead she gave an exasperated sigh. “And that, my dear, is the silliest thing you have said yet! Of course I still love you! Even when you are naughty and babyish, I love you. But you must understand; I will continue talking and playing with Jonathan. I find him quite touching, and interesting-and, I think, wise. His voice holds kindness and honesty. Moreover, he seeks me out. Not because of any favours I can give him-he does not know what I am-but simply for love, and friendship’s sake. He pleases me. I will stay with him, for a little time, and learn what is in his mind. I do love him.”
The faun cast a sideways glance at Xanthe, gauging the level of her impatience with him. There was, he thought, a dangerous tension in her; she tapped one foot silently on the carpet. Her lips were pressed together and one perfect eyebrow was raised. He decided on a small capitulation. He rose from the couch, twitched his little goat’s tail, and walked to the far side of the roughly circular room. “Humans live but a short time, and the gods must do as they please. Very well, I will say no more. Do you think that wolfsbane charm can really keep him away from me at the full moon?”
Sylvanus did not wait for an answer, but faced the wall and disappeared through it. Xanthe watched him; when she chose, the walls of her house became transparent to her.
Sylvanus pranced away from the tree into the Forest, stopped at the first pine some distance away and stooped to scrabble in the litter. He stood up holding a glinting chain, which he swung around and around his head as he danced into the darkness of the pines. Xanthe turned away and shrugged. Perhaps he would be patient; there was nothing to do about it if he wasn’t.
She unwrapped the silken shawl from around her neck, and let its length slide through her fingers. The fabric was nearly transparent, very finely woven, with a slightly heavier pattern of roses, a deep rich red-on-red. It could cover her, neck to knees, if she wrapped it around her shoulders, but it was fine enough to compress into a mere handful of cloth if she crumpled it. It was fringed round with red strands of silk which did not tangle, no matter how careless she was with it.
Jonathan had given it to her, for a ‘Christmas gift,’ he’d said.
She had received many offerings in times past, in her warmer, dryer homeland, from townsfolk and farmers who had built her the small temple in the beautiful little olive grove; for generation upon human generation, they had depended upon her for healthy trees, good harvests and decent rainfall, and she had done her best for them, using the stars and planets as she’d been taught, putting the most benevolent interpretation possible on the configurations as they formed and dispersed.
Only one other mortal had ever given her a gift purely out of friendship and affection, expecting nothing in return.
He had been beautiful, her shepherd lad: not as tall as Jonathan, but muscular; skin the colour of ripe olives, black, laughing eyes and such strong, shapely hands. And the warmth of his voice, and his cheerful acceptance of all things, had warmed her heart to him. He came to her grove with his animals, and sang to her. They talked of everything, looked for each other in the fields and forests around the town, became friends.
He had given her a round gold pendant, engraved with the likeness of a slender tree, hung on a thong. He had laughed at her surprise, saying her beauty could make the gold appear dull. He had traded five of his best animals for it, and when she asked what she could give him in return, he asked for a kiss.
They had played together; the passionate urgency of mortal lovemaking at first astonished her. It was as if they knew, she thought, that their time was limited.
As of course it was. The land had been invaded. Soldiers with a strange, harsh language came, destroying her people’s crops and invading her people’s homes. Killing the men, even male children; taking the women away. She had found her shepherd’s body in the grove, beside her temple, his animals crying around him. Unacceptable; she would not stay and look after these new humans. Let them pray to their own gods, if they had any….
She thought back to her student days: there were regrets, she now knew, that came from other things than interfering.
That night Xanthe left her tree and took herself away from the Forest, to the top of a mountain, her mind occupied with affairs she had not considered for many years. She sat very still, gazing into the heavens, watching again the majestic dance of the stars and planets. There, and… yes, there…. It was a painstaking, exacting chore, separating the strands of lives and events and futures, looking for one particular one.
She was serenely confident, at ease with this task, as laborious as it was; she had learned these things well, long ago. Her thoughts were upon Jonathan; she had been alarmed to see how ill he was, on the day after his transformation. She had felt the pain and the weakness in him, searched out the cause-an ailment of his heart, from a disease mortals were victim to. And so now she searched for the configurations and movements that told his story. Once she had discovered his destiny, she could act to his benefit, easing his pain, giving him strength, perhaps prolonging his life.
She would act with subtlety and care-she would not disrupt the destinies of others near to him. It would be of no consequence to anyone if Jonathan were stronger and a bit more comfortable. None, that is, to anyone but himself.
And Xanthe.
Appalling, how little time was allotted to human mortals….
*****
As the winter progressed, Jon found himself gaining acceptance both in the forest and in the village. Witches no longer crossed the street with their children when he passed and when one morning he entered the grocer’s to hear the grocer telling a customer “You should ask that nice young Mr Lassiter if you want to know anything about Muggles,” he felt oddly touched. In the forest on patrol, Bane no longer threatened him as a matter of course, but would pace him gravely, keeping his distance and not speaking until their beat had been covered.
However, Jonathan considered his biggest breakthrough to be with the fauns. “Ye Comyn Faun”, he read, had good reason to fear werewolves. Too fast and too clever to be caught by any other predators, it was only on full moon nights that the little creatures were in any danger. At those times, the ones favoured by nymphs, as Sylvanus was by Xanthe, took cover with their ladies in their trees but those few who were not yet favoured in such a way would find a place of safety. Somewhere in the Forest, Jon knew, there would be a cave, or a hollow tree, or a ruined building where the little fauns could hide and seal the entrance against even the strongest werewolf.
It must be terrible for them, he thought, to see him walking calmly amongst them and know that in a week or so he could be feasting on their tender flesh. So he went out of his way to talk to Rubeus about the coming full moon - how many nights away it was, how he hoped everyone would stay out of his way, how he regretted causing anyone fear and worry - well aware that he was always watched and overheard.
The January full moon passed without incident. Xanthe stayed with him again; she must have led him away from her tree and any others where the nymphs afforded the fauns refuge. He came to himself once again wrapped in a blanket in Rubeus’s huge arms, and this time his recovery was much quicker. A day or two later he met Sylvanus face to face for the first time. With the silver chain bright against his smooth brown skin, and the grey wooden charm swinging against his chest, the faun stuck close to Xanthe’s side. He kept both eyes fixed on Jon, flinched every time he moved but did not give an inch. Jon stepped a bit further back, to ease the discomfort the charm caused him; he carefully averted his eyes from the tense face and twitching nostrils, and addressed himself to Sylvanus’s mistress. He found the little beast’s jealous courage both touching and exasperating, and was amused, when they parted, to hear Xanthe praising her pet, and his excited agreement that he had been so brave in facing that ‘nasty thing’ that he deserved a treat.
From then on, Jon saw the fauns more frequently, especially when he was with Xanthe, and he grew to enjoy their antics. Whether in a big romping group, squealing and laughing as they played ‘tag’ to some peculiar rules of their own, or quietly basking in the weak winter sun, they seemed to derive great enjoyment from everything they did.
‘Playing’ for instance, a euphemism that Jonathan had initially found quite startling, was something to be relished, whether with the nymphs or with each other, though just between fauns the rules of the game were quite different and seemed to be more to do with grooming than anything else. Although the fauns rarely approached him closely and if he came upon them suddenly they would start away in alarm, he soon found that he could walk past a group of them without them stopping their game. Once he came upon a pair ‘playing’ in clearing, each teasing their fingers through the other’s hair or fur, removing tangles and burrs and sighing with bliss, and neither seemed to so much as notice his passing. But Sylvanus remained wary and mistrustful, rejecting every overture of friendship Jon made towards him. Soon Jon gave up trying.
Then it was the full moon of February, on a mild damp night with the scent breast high and Jon-the-wolf ran and ran. He awoke far from home with Xanthe at his side and a huge hoof-shaped mark on his ribs. It took longer for Rubeus to find him that morning, even with the help of Bane, who seemed more amused than angry at Jon-the-wolf’s impertinence in trying to chase him.
“It is his fate,” Bane growled to Rubeus as the youth wrapped Jon and gathered him up. The centaur folded his arms and nodded at the scars on Jon’s breast and shoulders. “The signs that command may not be denied. However,” and his lips twisted in a smile, “I do not think he will attempt to bring down a centaur again.”
Jon, wincing and short of breath, could only agree. The hoofmark faded quickly, but he was aware, in the back of his mind, that a lesson had been learned. Rubeus was concerned. Xanthe, Jon knew, had been frightened. Sylvanus was gleeful and heard to remark that it was a pity Bane hadn’t kicked him in the head instead - a comment that caused Xanthe to drive him from her presence, though later she relented.
Jon felt little pity for the annoying faun, no more then he would have felt for a naughty child being punished for its own good. However, one windy afternoon in early March, close to the end of his patrol, he tasted the warm musky scent of a faun coming down the breeze towards him, and soon heard the sounds of sobbing and a soft voice raised in concern.
At the foot of a tree, Sylvanus was curled in a miserable bundle with another smaller faun anxiously patting his head. “But she still loves you,” it was saying. “She just wants to toy with it for a while. You are her favourite, just as I and Priscus and Lob and Hellebore belong to Belinda.”
“That is not so,” Sylvanus wept, “she has one favourite at a time, Glaucus, no more, and just now, when I took her primroses and sweet violets she put my gift aside and told me to get myself gone, for the wolf would be there soon and she wished to play with him.” He heaved a great sigh, his hands covering his face. “She no longer wants me; she will no longer play - all her talk is of the wolf.”
“Then come you to Belinda’s apple tree,” Glaucus suggested, hugging Sylvanus tightly, “and we will play together, all of us.”
“But I do not love Belinda,” Sylvanus said, “I love my lady Xanthe and she - she loves the wolf, she told me so.”
Puzzled, Glaucus shook his horns, “I don’t see what love has to do with it,” he said. Coaxing Sylvanus to his hooves, twining his arms about him, Glaucus led him away.
Jon watched them go, but his mind was racing.
“…the wolf would be there soon and she wished to play with him …all her talk is of the wolf…. She loves the wolf, she told me so….”
Later - much later - it occurred to him that then, in that moment, if he had given more thought to the anguished tones in which the words were spoken, rather than just their content, they might all have been saved much grief and terror. But then “she loves the wolf - she told me so” shivered through him like the concussion of an exploding shell, driving out all thoughts, all other considerations.
Xanthe loved him.
“Out of the mouths of fauns,” he breathed, and stepped out towards Xanthe’s birch with a swiftly beating heart.
Jonathan was one of those who had fun. He had given up on having Xanthe and Rubeus in for Christmas when he found himself too weak to get out of bed the morning after his ill-advised shopping spree, but then Rubeus had come looking for him later in the day, bearing a note from old Marley, asking him to take Christmas dinner with them.
“I’ll go along with yeh, in case yeh get tired,” the boy said. “They asked me too. Yeh don’t wanna spend Christmas all by yerself; wouldn’t be right.” And so Jonathan had agreed.
It had been a joy and a revelation to him. The hospitality of the Oggs had been far less strained than he had feared and the meal had been truly epic. There had just been the four of them at table - Mr and Mrs Ogg and Rubeus in addition to Jonathan - but they had done justice to the enormous goose, and had laughed and whooped as the flames from the brandy-drenched pudding almost scorched the ceiling. Gifts had been exchanged. Mrs Ogg had pronounced herself enchanted with the sheaf of hastily handwritten recipes Jonathan had copied from an ancient book Nimrod had shown him, and Mr Ogg appreciated half a dozen freshly fletched quarrels for his crossbow - the fletchings were a brilliant orange because Marley had complained recently that he had trouble finding the plain coloured ones - and then they all played Rubeus’s games. Jonathan was invited to spend the night but declined, saying he needed the walk, and went home accompanied part of the way by Rubeus, both of them carrying packages of hand-knitting from the Oggs.
“Mrs Ogg’s knittin’ is famous,” Rubeus told him. “Did you feel how thick them socks was? An’ I reckon her sweaters’ll stop an arrow.”
Jon, sweating slightly under the weight of his package, could only agree.
Then, on Boxing Day, Evan Norris had called on him and insisted he accompany him home for ‘tea’. This had been another astonishing and delectable meal with game pie and sherry trifle. The Oggs and Rubeus had been there again, plus a few other locals who, if they were disturbed by his presence, hid it well and Felicity Norris had laughed and made long eyes at him under Evan’s nose. The genial little Welshman seemed quite unworried by it, though Argus Filch had looked sullen. Jon enjoyed that evening too, but found leaving the party to walk back home to his Tower was no wrench.
Settling in front of the fire, boots off and collar unbuttoned, in Nimrod’s silent, half-seen company, Jon picked up a book (“Beying anne Animadversion onne ye Lifes and Habittes of Ye Comyn Faun”) and sighed with pleasure. Alone, he had discovered, didn’t necessarily mean the same thing as lonely. He read contentedly, making plans in the back of his mind to spend the next afternoon, after his rounds, making a larger chessboard for Rubeus; the big lad’s fingers tended to knock over adjoining pieces when he tried to move them.
Gift-giving, as opposed to receiving tribute, had been an alien concept to Xanthe until he gave her the present he had carefully wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with golden string.
“Why, thank you, Jon,” she had said politely, looking at the pristine package. “It is lovely - so white!” and he had laughed and shown her how to open it.
Red, as he had thought, suited Xanthe, and from her delighted exclamations, she thought so too.
That Sylvanus had received his gift he knew - Xanthe had promised to pass it on, knowing her favourite would never accept it from Jon’s own hands. He also knew that the faun, out of fear or anger, had rejected it: he found the chain and the wolfsbane pendant under a pine tree two or three days later. For a week the gift remained hidden in the leafmould, the miasma of the potion inside the charm making Jon’s eyes water if he got within six feet of the spot. Then it was gone, and Jon wondered what had happened to it.
*****
Xanthe wondered this as well.
The great goddess Xanthe, of the beautiful hair and bright countenance, lovely in the dances, protectress of the forest, beloved of her dryads, venerated long since by human mortals who had known her power, honoured of old with offerings of fruits and wine and olives, celebrated in song and dance, was annoyed.
In a deity with a less disciplined outlook, this would have meant trouble for someone, but Xanthe was not one to interfere with the choices of other beings. Her first teacher, a centaur of great knowledge and greater patience, had warned her against too-hasty use of her divine powers. She could still hear his voice if she closed her eyes:
“As you have seen in our nightly observations, the stars in their courses hold the destinies of us all. As they move, swinging past each other in that silent dance across the heavens, they command us and our fortunes, bringing good or evil impartially, but with each event interlocking and forming a coherent pattern, so vast that only incessant study can reveal even a part of its meaning.
“The pattern may be altered: men or gods have often interfered in the destinies of each other, usually with great harm to themselves. You may prolong the life of a mortal whose time has elapsed-but then, my young one, you have altered the course of destiny, and that is an awful responsibility. Remember, at that point you are responsible for that person’s existence; what he says or does will be counted to you.
“Similarly, should you strike a mortal in anger, ending his life before his allotted time, the void you have created in the fabric of the world will be noticed, and lamented, and again charged against you.”
Young Xanthe had listened, and wondered. “Is there a punishment, Mentor, for such interference?” She had never really been punished, but she knew the theory.
“Oh, yes, of course there is. The punishment, Student, is that you have divine knowledge. You will know, as the world’s events create unhappiness or confusion, that your actions have caused that unhappiness. You will know regret, which can be a terrible thing.”
Xanthe’s friend and favourite Sylvanus had not been present at the time of that teaching, but he had become accustomed to her measured way of dealing with the world, and he felt quite safe, here in her chamber within the birch tree. He was not alarmed at her annoyance. He was unhappy, and he had calculated just how much of his unhappiness he wished to show. He crossed one slender leg over the other, waved a tiny hoof up and down, folded his arms across his chest and allowed his lower lip to protrude just a bit.
“I lost it. I didn’t like it anyway; it was ugly. I took it off when I was playing; I don’t remember where.” Sylvanus did not look at Xanthe when he said this, though in his heart he knew she didn’t need to look in his eyes; she always knew when he was lying anyway.
She did know. She rose from her couch, pacing up and down on the carpet, toying with the fringes on the red silk shawl twined about her neck.
“Silly faun, that charm was for your protection! Jonathan does not want to hurt you! He bought that charm for you, and carried it with his own hands, though it made him weak and sick to do so. He cannot help being two creatures in the one body; it gives him great sadness to think he might hurt or kill another being. You are being impossibly unreasonable, to refuse that charm simply because you don’t want Jonathan here.”
“If he’s so worried about hurting me, he should just leave; this was my home before it was his.”
“And again, you are being silly. Jonathan is not here by choice; he was sent here. He must remain here for all his life, and never live among his own kind again. You should pity him, and befriend him instead of making his time among us more difficult. He was taken away from all in his world; he lost the love of a mortal woman, who turned her back on him when he became a werewolf.”
“Well, he should have thought twice before becoming one! It is the work of gods to pity people; I am only a faun. And you no longer love me. You love the wolf, you do. You spend all your time talking and playing with that wolf, and not with me!”
Xanthe turned on him but made no move to threaten; instead she gave an exasperated sigh. “And that, my dear, is the silliest thing you have said yet! Of course I still love you! Even when you are naughty and babyish, I love you. But you must understand; I will continue talking and playing with Jonathan. I find him quite touching, and interesting-and, I think, wise. His voice holds kindness and honesty. Moreover, he seeks me out. Not because of any favours I can give him-he does not know what I am-but simply for love, and friendship’s sake. He pleases me. I will stay with him, for a little time, and learn what is in his mind. I do love him.”
The faun cast a sideways glance at Xanthe, gauging the level of her impatience with him. There was, he thought, a dangerous tension in her; she tapped one foot silently on the carpet. Her lips were pressed together and one perfect eyebrow was raised. He decided on a small capitulation. He rose from the couch, twitched his little goat’s tail, and walked to the far side of the roughly circular room. “Humans live but a short time, and the gods must do as they please. Very well, I will say no more. Do you think that wolfsbane charm can really keep him away from me at the full moon?”
Sylvanus did not wait for an answer, but faced the wall and disappeared through it. Xanthe watched him; when she chose, the walls of her house became transparent to her.
Sylvanus pranced away from the tree into the Forest, stopped at the first pine some distance away and stooped to scrabble in the litter. He stood up holding a glinting chain, which he swung around and around his head as he danced into the darkness of the pines. Xanthe turned away and shrugged. Perhaps he would be patient; there was nothing to do about it if he wasn’t.
She unwrapped the silken shawl from around her neck, and let its length slide through her fingers. The fabric was nearly transparent, very finely woven, with a slightly heavier pattern of roses, a deep rich red-on-red. It could cover her, neck to knees, if she wrapped it around her shoulders, but it was fine enough to compress into a mere handful of cloth if she crumpled it. It was fringed round with red strands of silk which did not tangle, no matter how careless she was with it.
Jonathan had given it to her, for a ‘Christmas gift,’ he’d said.
She had received many offerings in times past, in her warmer, dryer homeland, from townsfolk and farmers who had built her the small temple in the beautiful little olive grove; for generation upon human generation, they had depended upon her for healthy trees, good harvests and decent rainfall, and she had done her best for them, using the stars and planets as she’d been taught, putting the most benevolent interpretation possible on the configurations as they formed and dispersed.
Only one other mortal had ever given her a gift purely out of friendship and affection, expecting nothing in return.
He had been beautiful, her shepherd lad: not as tall as Jonathan, but muscular; skin the colour of ripe olives, black, laughing eyes and such strong, shapely hands. And the warmth of his voice, and his cheerful acceptance of all things, had warmed her heart to him. He came to her grove with his animals, and sang to her. They talked of everything, looked for each other in the fields and forests around the town, became friends.
He had given her a round gold pendant, engraved with the likeness of a slender tree, hung on a thong. He had laughed at her surprise, saying her beauty could make the gold appear dull. He had traded five of his best animals for it, and when she asked what she could give him in return, he asked for a kiss.
They had played together; the passionate urgency of mortal lovemaking at first astonished her. It was as if they knew, she thought, that their time was limited.
As of course it was. The land had been invaded. Soldiers with a strange, harsh language came, destroying her people’s crops and invading her people’s homes. Killing the men, even male children; taking the women away. She had found her shepherd’s body in the grove, beside her temple, his animals crying around him. Unacceptable; she would not stay and look after these new humans. Let them pray to their own gods, if they had any….
She thought back to her student days: there were regrets, she now knew, that came from other things than interfering.
That night Xanthe left her tree and took herself away from the Forest, to the top of a mountain, her mind occupied with affairs she had not considered for many years. She sat very still, gazing into the heavens, watching again the majestic dance of the stars and planets. There, and… yes, there…. It was a painstaking, exacting chore, separating the strands of lives and events and futures, looking for one particular one.
She was serenely confident, at ease with this task, as laborious as it was; she had learned these things well, long ago. Her thoughts were upon Jonathan; she had been alarmed to see how ill he was, on the day after his transformation. She had felt the pain and the weakness in him, searched out the cause-an ailment of his heart, from a disease mortals were victim to. And so now she searched for the configurations and movements that told his story. Once she had discovered his destiny, she could act to his benefit, easing his pain, giving him strength, perhaps prolonging his life.
She would act with subtlety and care-she would not disrupt the destinies of others near to him. It would be of no consequence to anyone if Jonathan were stronger and a bit more comfortable. None, that is, to anyone but himself.
And Xanthe.
Appalling, how little time was allotted to human mortals….
*****
As the winter progressed, Jon found himself gaining acceptance both in the forest and in the village. Witches no longer crossed the street with their children when he passed and when one morning he entered the grocer’s to hear the grocer telling a customer “You should ask that nice young Mr Lassiter if you want to know anything about Muggles,” he felt oddly touched. In the forest on patrol, Bane no longer threatened him as a matter of course, but would pace him gravely, keeping his distance and not speaking until their beat had been covered.
However, Jonathan considered his biggest breakthrough to be with the fauns. “Ye Comyn Faun”, he read, had good reason to fear werewolves. Too fast and too clever to be caught by any other predators, it was only on full moon nights that the little creatures were in any danger. At those times, the ones favoured by nymphs, as Sylvanus was by Xanthe, took cover with their ladies in their trees but those few who were not yet favoured in such a way would find a place of safety. Somewhere in the Forest, Jon knew, there would be a cave, or a hollow tree, or a ruined building where the little fauns could hide and seal the entrance against even the strongest werewolf.
It must be terrible for them, he thought, to see him walking calmly amongst them and know that in a week or so he could be feasting on their tender flesh. So he went out of his way to talk to Rubeus about the coming full moon - how many nights away it was, how he hoped everyone would stay out of his way, how he regretted causing anyone fear and worry - well aware that he was always watched and overheard.
The January full moon passed without incident. Xanthe stayed with him again; she must have led him away from her tree and any others where the nymphs afforded the fauns refuge. He came to himself once again wrapped in a blanket in Rubeus’s huge arms, and this time his recovery was much quicker. A day or two later he met Sylvanus face to face for the first time. With the silver chain bright against his smooth brown skin, and the grey wooden charm swinging against his chest, the faun stuck close to Xanthe’s side. He kept both eyes fixed on Jon, flinched every time he moved but did not give an inch. Jon stepped a bit further back, to ease the discomfort the charm caused him; he carefully averted his eyes from the tense face and twitching nostrils, and addressed himself to Sylvanus’s mistress. He found the little beast’s jealous courage both touching and exasperating, and was amused, when they parted, to hear Xanthe praising her pet, and his excited agreement that he had been so brave in facing that ‘nasty thing’ that he deserved a treat.
From then on, Jon saw the fauns more frequently, especially when he was with Xanthe, and he grew to enjoy their antics. Whether in a big romping group, squealing and laughing as they played ‘tag’ to some peculiar rules of their own, or quietly basking in the weak winter sun, they seemed to derive great enjoyment from everything they did.
‘Playing’ for instance, a euphemism that Jonathan had initially found quite startling, was something to be relished, whether with the nymphs or with each other, though just between fauns the rules of the game were quite different and seemed to be more to do with grooming than anything else. Although the fauns rarely approached him closely and if he came upon them suddenly they would start away in alarm, he soon found that he could walk past a group of them without them stopping their game. Once he came upon a pair ‘playing’ in clearing, each teasing their fingers through the other’s hair or fur, removing tangles and burrs and sighing with bliss, and neither seemed to so much as notice his passing. But Sylvanus remained wary and mistrustful, rejecting every overture of friendship Jon made towards him. Soon Jon gave up trying.
Then it was the full moon of February, on a mild damp night with the scent breast high and Jon-the-wolf ran and ran. He awoke far from home with Xanthe at his side and a huge hoof-shaped mark on his ribs. It took longer for Rubeus to find him that morning, even with the help of Bane, who seemed more amused than angry at Jon-the-wolf’s impertinence in trying to chase him.
“It is his fate,” Bane growled to Rubeus as the youth wrapped Jon and gathered him up. The centaur folded his arms and nodded at the scars on Jon’s breast and shoulders. “The signs that command may not be denied. However,” and his lips twisted in a smile, “I do not think he will attempt to bring down a centaur again.”
Jon, wincing and short of breath, could only agree. The hoofmark faded quickly, but he was aware, in the back of his mind, that a lesson had been learned. Rubeus was concerned. Xanthe, Jon knew, had been frightened. Sylvanus was gleeful and heard to remark that it was a pity Bane hadn’t kicked him in the head instead - a comment that caused Xanthe to drive him from her presence, though later she relented.
Jon felt little pity for the annoying faun, no more then he would have felt for a naughty child being punished for its own good. However, one windy afternoon in early March, close to the end of his patrol, he tasted the warm musky scent of a faun coming down the breeze towards him, and soon heard the sounds of sobbing and a soft voice raised in concern.
At the foot of a tree, Sylvanus was curled in a miserable bundle with another smaller faun anxiously patting his head. “But she still loves you,” it was saying. “She just wants to toy with it for a while. You are her favourite, just as I and Priscus and Lob and Hellebore belong to Belinda.”
“That is not so,” Sylvanus wept, “she has one favourite at a time, Glaucus, no more, and just now, when I took her primroses and sweet violets she put my gift aside and told me to get myself gone, for the wolf would be there soon and she wished to play with him.” He heaved a great sigh, his hands covering his face. “She no longer wants me; she will no longer play - all her talk is of the wolf.”
“Then come you to Belinda’s apple tree,” Glaucus suggested, hugging Sylvanus tightly, “and we will play together, all of us.”
“But I do not love Belinda,” Sylvanus said, “I love my lady Xanthe and she - she loves the wolf, she told me so.”
Puzzled, Glaucus shook his horns, “I don’t see what love has to do with it,” he said. Coaxing Sylvanus to his hooves, twining his arms about him, Glaucus led him away.
Jon watched them go, but his mind was racing.
“…the wolf would be there soon and she wished to play with him …all her talk is of the wolf…. She loves the wolf, she told me so….”
Later - much later - it occurred to him that then, in that moment, if he had given more thought to the anguished tones in which the words were spoken, rather than just their content, they might all have been saved much grief and terror. But then “she loves the wolf - she told me so” shivered through him like the concussion of an exploding shell, driving out all thoughts, all other considerations.
Xanthe loved him.
“Out of the mouths of fauns,” he breathed, and stepped out towards Xanthe’s birch with a swiftly beating heart.