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This is a story from long ago, from a time when troubadours wandered between the towns and the rich castles in the foothills of the Pyrenees mountains. They were travellers on foot and horseback carrying with them their stories and ballads to tell wherever people gathered at fairs in the town squares or at a banquet in the castle of a count or important lord.
In the court of the count of Foix the traveller had sung his ballads and been rewarded with food and wine and money, so that when he set out in the morning his step was light in the crisp mountain air. He was bound for Puivert, a small town with a castle which was a favourite haunt of troubadours. The lord of Puivert was fond of music and song and the travelling musicians and story-tellers would congregate there to exchange ballads. It was more than a day’s journey, so he had started early, when the sky was still a midnight blue and the dawn had barely begun to lighten behind the hills towards which he was heading. It was October and still very cool when he set out, but one of those autumn days when the sky stays clear and the sun brings a generous but gentle warmth by mid-morning. The path led over hills which were covered in dense forests of oak and birch and beech and down into valleys where streams and rivers ran fast over limestone rocks in faint blue torrents. The trees were changing colour and he could look over to steep hillsides covered as if with burnished gold over which had been draped in places lengths of crimson velvet.
It was mid-afternoon when, tired from almost a day’s walk, he came over the brow of a hill and looked down a steep valley to a hamlet almost hidden by trees below him. He could see the track snaking down towards it and a stream running through. Just before the hamlet a column of wood-smoke rose above the trees, a fire for a cool evening and chilly autumn night.
It was a small cottage by the stream. The smoke was coming from the fire which burned in the kitchen, a large open fire-place almost on the ground, as was the custom in those parts, with cooking pans and utensils hanging beside. The door was open and a girl was sitting looking into the fire as he approached. He must have cast a shadow as he came up to the door, because she looked up. She said nothing, but she seemed to expect him to come in, and as he entered her eyes met his as if they were searching for something long forgotten, a likeness, a meeting fleetingly remembered.
He thought she must have recognised he was a traveller, a troubadour, because she willingly gave him a drink and offered him food. I am eating too - was all she said, you are welcome to share what I have. The valley outside was silent under its forest blanket and the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the meal being prepared. They sat down together and ate. Later, as they shared the long seat in front of the fire, the traveller asked:
- What do you do here, all alone?
- I look after my garden, I grow my vegetables, I go to the market… and I watch my shadows.
- Are you not lonely all on your own?
- My shadows keep me company.
- They’re real, your shadows?
- Yes, you can probably catch a glimpse of one or other. There is always one around somewhere.
- They don’t scare you?
- No, they don’t scare me. I’ve lived with them a long time now. But I don’t like them all equally. There’s one who's very kind and comes close as if to comfort me. There’s one who’s very clever, seems to get ahead of me. There’s one who seems quite old. I don’t like that one so much. There’s one who’s always jerky and getting twisted round things. But there’s one who’s always here and seems to have parts of all of them, the parts I like and the parts I don’t like, but it never leaves me. I call it Spirit.
The traveller saw that the girl was looking round the room anxiously as if she had just noticed she had lost something, so he asked her if there was something wrong.
- There’s no Spirit… I like to know it is here. It holds me and then I know I’m safe.
- Do you not feel safe now?
The girl stayed silent for a long time. And when she spoke it was like the low soft murmur of deep pools in a stream.
- Yes, I feel safe. The shadow has gone but you have come.
As they had been talking, the night had darkened the sky over the cottage, and the birds which had been singing when the traveller arrived had become silent. The first hoots of the owls were sounding through the forest. The fire was burning low and the traveller and the girl edged closer together for warmth without really noticing. It seemed natural that the traveller would put his arm around the girl and that she would let her head fall against his shoulder. After a while the girl said:
- You can see my cottage is very small. I sleep in the other room and there is only one bed, but it is a bed for two and you are welcome to share it tonight. Only you must promise one thing. I will want you to come to me and I will want to open my body to you, but you must wait until I am ready. You must do nothing until I am ready. Do you promise?
The traveller promised.
- Go into the room and make yourself ready for bed and get in and wait for me there.
The traveller went in, undressed and got into the bed and waited. After a few minutes, the door, which he had closed behind him, opened and he watched as the girl came in, naked, her skin silky smooth, glistening in the lamplight, and came and lay down beside him.
As they lay in her bed, the traveller began to talk and he told her about the lands he’d visited, the places and the people and their stories. His voice was soft and gentle and became like music in her ears, the music of the hills and the trees and the wind blowing over them, stroking them. And as he talked, the girl moved closer until their bodies were touching and he could feel her breasts pressing against him and her hands open, holding and caressing his head. “Take me now”, she whispered, so he moved his body over hers, looking down into her grey-blue eyes, and they made love into the depths of the night, and then finally they fell asleep.
The sun was high in the sky when the girl stirred in her bed. The brilliant gold and the crimson velvet of the leaves were like a royal cloak thrown over the hills and, though her eyes were still closed, she could feel the warmth of the day and the iridescent light bathing her. Even before she looked she knew that she was alone again with the shadow which had never before left her. So she waited, not wanting to find the traveller gone. When at last she turned her head, she saw the hollow in the pillow beside her, like grass pressed down where the deer has laid. And on the hill far above the traveller could feel a pull like invisible arms holding him back, and he felt his step falter, almost stop, but slowly he walked on, wondering, as he did, if one day he might again find himself at the cottage by the stream.
the quiet path
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