The Summer-Woman’s Tale

 (originally published 8 June 2016)

There came a day when The Summer-Woman decided to travel. Her duties and responsibilities were all done, and the day shone bright and warm and filled with possibilities. First, though, she garbed herself in all the Seasons of the Year so that she could walk outside The Summer Country safely. For Autumn, she ran rivulets of scarlet fire through her hair, leaving streaks of copper and auburn and cinnamon behind. For Winter, she draped herself in a black dress limned with silver, as distant as the night sky when the nights are longest. And for Spring, a coat of lush green, as rich and soft and fragrant as a new meadow. With those preparations done, she journeyed down to the riverbank and followed its course to the vast and many-fissured City of Stone, through which all rivers must eventually find their way.

As she wandered along the riverbank, she passed a wide, deep bend beneath a spreading tree, which dappled the waters. There, a family of River Folk were gathered to eat, and as she approached, they invited her to join them. “Come,” they beckoned, “and take what you will from our feast”, to which she inclined her head graciously and sat beside them. “I shall take a little of all you will offer me, and no more,” she replied, with a smile and, as this was agreeable to all, they commenced to eat. As was their custom, the food drifted along in the currents and eddies, floating atop leaves and scraps of bark drafted to serve as temporary plates. As each one drifted past one of the River Folk, they reached out a slender hand, a brief taste, and occasionally would add a pinch of spice, a drop of water, blend two things into one, or split one into two, and so, with the meal swirling and spinning in a strange, ever-increasing dance around them, they ate. As each morsel drifted past her, The Summer-Woman tasted them in turn, savouring the sensation as the flavours sang to her. Some sang of their past, of their births alongside high mountain rills. Others sang of their present, of the conviviality of mealtime in pleasant company. Still others sang of their futures, of the moment when each river shall enter the ocean and cease to be, and in doing so, become part of something so much more. At last, though, The Summer-Woman had tasted sufficiently and thanked the River Folk for their hospitality. “But wait,” they said, “there is still more.” The Summer-Woman replied. “While rivers flow, there will always be more,” she said, “but I am glad for the songs I have learned today, and if I were to learn any more, I may forget the ones I have, or muddle their words or meaning.” And then she smiled full upon them with all the warmth of Summer, which tingled their toes in the deep, chilly water, and warmed their bellies for the journey still ahead of them to the City of Stone.

Fortified by the meal, and whistling a song of spice and flavour, The Summer-Woman entered the City of Stone. She wandered, for she had nothing else pressing upon her obligations and explored the vast wide canyons, the narrow fissures, and deep ravines which criss-crossed the city. Down a narrow tunnel, she heard a lively song, dimly recalled. Crossing a wide canyon, she could see the bustle of an open-air bazaar far below. Everywhere the people of the City moved around her, and as she passed by, she would grace an occasional one here and there with a smile, or a wave, gifting them with a glimmer of Summer’s warmth. What they did with it was not her concern. It was a simple gift, and she was its giver, not its custodian.

Eventually, her aimless feet, in tracing the perimeters of secret geometries led her to the Cavern of Memory. Within these walls, the voices of those long past chased each other through enormous vaults, down sinuously winding passages, past ranks of pillars or over deep, still pools. Echoes from long ago chattered and reverberated off of walls, ceilings and floors, circling and recircling upon themselves forever. Over the years, visitors had made carvings upon the walls in which to capture the voices, or hung chimes so that their passing could be heard, or shaped rock and earth to shape the currents of air and sound. The Summer-Woman regarded the vaults and tunnels, corridors and galleries of stone and air. Down one, she spied an old woman who stood, still as a statue and wept gently at what she heard. Down another, two children, whose futures were still too full to imagine that the past had any worth, ignored their parents and chattered and played, little dreaming that in decades to come, their voices would join the chorus of history. As she traced the corridors, she listened as the voices flowed around her. Some whispered, covertly swearing her to secrecy over matters which had long since become public knowledge. Others bellowed like bulls, proclaiming for all to hear the most obscure arcana. She paused to laugh at a peevish voice which had become entangled amongst a cunning array of string and bones and seashells, which insisted upon its prominence and bemoaned the indignity of such a poor prison for one so exalted. At each voice, she paused to listen. She heard tales of adventure and awkward, pained love poetry. Short, blunt utterances which barked out their presence and departed in a flurry, their energy expended, and long, baroque recitations which seemed to rattle and clatter along to their own irregular rhythms. She spent over an hour coaxing one shy susurrus which wound its way hesitantly through a baroque wall-carving to offer up its tale and considered that a rare treasure indeed. At last, though, with dozens of lives and words and memories swirling about her head and chasing her own thoughts, she emerged onto a wide stone terrace which led out of the Cavern and back onto the thoroughfares.

By now, the day was drawing on, and the shadows around her had begun to lengthen. The memories she had gathered clamoured about her. “You’ll never remember us all,” said one, mournfully, “When the langour of Summer is upon you once again and all afternoons melt into a single golden haze, you’ll soon forget us.” “Winter,” said another, half-swallowing the words as though afraid to draw attention to itself, “Winter is the most retentive month.” “Well of course it bloody is,” rumbled a third, its voice like not-so-distant thunder, “without the memory of Summer, Winter’s long nights would never end.” “We shall see,” replied the Summer-Woman, and continued to walk.

In the city’s largest bazaar there is a place called by some The Gallery of Wonders. Most travellers avoid it for it has a dubious reputation. Though it is as it claims to be, a place of wonderment, many of the supposed treasures within its walls are nothing but common trash, glamoured to attract the unwary or the unknowing. The rumour most commonly believed is that, for every visitor to the Gallery of Wonders, there is a single treasure which will reward the one who claims it most richly, but that all else is worthless rubbish. It was to this place that the Summer-Woman came and, parting the rich tapestries which marked its entrance, stepped inside. All about her was draped in layers of rich cloth, and upon every flat surface, weird artefacts sat. Small alcoves dotted the walls, clustered with strange constructions of shining metal and glittering gemstones and from the roof hung an array of sweet-scented lamps, all in different colours, which transformed the whole room into a kaleidoscope of the senses. As the Summer-Woman entered, there was a fluttering from the far-off ceiling and three tiny imps descended from the shadows. All three looked, to all extents and purposes, like tiny women. Dressed entirely in black and white so as to better capture and reflect the colours from the lamps, they glided and fluttered on butterfly wings. Their faces were identical blank masks, except for their eyebrows, which each wore differently, almost as a mark of pride. As they regarded The Summer-Woman, their brows twitched and bristled eagerly.

The first imp, bolder than its sisters, wore its eyebrows arrow-straight, sweeping outward like the wings of some bird of prey. It fluttered directly towards the Summer-Woman. “May I assist?” it trilled, “perhaps these scarves? From ancient lands and woven in gold.” In the back of its throat, The Summer-Woman could hear, very faintly, an eager chittering. She looked at it, her eyes warm and pleasant, but said nothing. Merely placed a finger gently on her lips and moved deeper into the Gallery. About her head, her memories once again began to chatter. “That was very rude. That girl was just trying to help,” said one. “That was no girl, you dullard. And she was trying to help herself to a rich payment for the offer of some worthless trinket,” replied a second. “We shouldn’t even be here,” stammered a third, “there’s no telling what we could end up buying... or trading away.” But the Summer-Woman paid them no more heed than she did the first imp.

The second imp, its eyebrows arrayed in a wave of baroque curls, lazily circled the Summer-Woman. It flickered its eyes towards its sister and spoke, “It’s terrible, isn’t it, when people act so pushy? Were you seeking something in particular?” she asked, her eyes lazily resting on a nearby statue. But again, the Summer-Woman merely looked, and placing a finger gently onto her lips and continued on. “That’s right, go ahead and antagonize them,” said one of her memories. “It DOES seem unwise to make them angry,” said another. “Surely, it couldn’t hurt...” began a third, but the Summer-Woman merely waved her hand as though brushing aside an errant hair and continued into the Gallery. She was close now. She could feel it, and the last thing she needed was to lose her focus.

Towards the rear of the Gallery, there was a vast, silvery mirror, and around its edge was twined a long ivy. Upon each leaf of the ivy was hung a tiny item of jewelry each in a subtly different combination of precious metals and stones. As the Summer-Woman approached, the ivy curled lazily, extending its leaves towards her so as to better display its wares. The Summer-Woman could hear its gentle rustling, but ignored it, focusing on her own reflection and waited. She didn’t have to wait long as the third imp approached her from behind, its eyes meeting those of her reflection, its eyebrows swept back and away from its face. “A pendant, then? Or an amulet?” it said. It was trying to appear disinterested, but the anxious twitching of its wings said something else. Without breaking eye contact with the imp, The Summer-Woman reached out her hand without looking, somewhere downward, and to her side. She could feel a light tingling in the tips of her fingers, and resisted the urge to smile. As her fingers brushed metal, she simply said, “I shall have this.” She looked down to see a silver ring, very small and very low on the ivy, and adorned only with a single flat, black stone. The imp looked down at the ring and said, “Oh no, that is far too small for your fingers”, but the Summer-Woman just smiled and shook her head. “That would never fit you,” said the imp, but again, the Summer-Woman merely smiled, and shook her head. “Are you certain that that is what you seek? It shan’t fit your fingers.” But the Summer-Woman merely extended the pinkie finger of her left hand, placed it gently on her lips, and nodded once.

With her new ring adorning her finger, she turned and smiled at the imps. As she went to leave, they drifted lazily back to the shadows at the top of the Gallery of Wonders, chattering excitedly among themselves. “She was so brave,” said the first, and then, “Maybe I could wear some red in my hair.” “So tricky,” said the second, “I think a little green in my clothing would set my eyes off nicely.” “So clever,” said the third, “and that WAS a nice ring. I wish I had one just like it.” And they sighed in unison, as a quiet chorus of chittering began in the back of their throats. The Summer-Woman pushed her way past the tapestries which led back to the bazaar proper. The ring still held an echo of its chill. Silver and black, she thought. But of course it is. Winter is, after all, the most retentive month.

Epilogue. High, high above the teeming bazaar at the heart of the City of Stone is a lonely tower, atop a long and winding stairwell. At this height sits the Storyseller. Each City has one, and the City of Stone is no exception. The Storyseller’s fingers sound like paper, and his bones creak like crumpled cardboard. From his lofty tower, the Storyseller can look out upon the whole of the city, though he rarely does. And though she was somewhat footsore with her travels, The Summer-Woman climbed the stairs that led her to the Storyseller’s rooms, hemmed in on all sides with notes, tales, memories and reminiscences all whispering at him in their papery voices, and she joined her voice with theirs and told the Storyseller of all which had occurred.

This, then, is the tale as I have heard it told to me. And so I tell it to you.

With that, the Summer-Woman smiled at me her most radiant smile. And then, even in the high stone tower of the Storyseller, with the frost-rimed clouds gathering without and the insistent winds battering at the windows, for a time at least, it was Summer.