Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 32. Girlie: The King

[This is a story in five parts. This is the fourth part.]
The sun grew hot, the sun grew high, the sun slipped over and bye and she did not see the crone, for the crone did not come. But this was the King's way, and it was the King himself who came, riding easy with a hundred men, his crown set hard and serious on his head. Soft they came, for the rains there had left the place tender and the way was soft under horses' hooves. And magic there was, too, magic and conniving, for the girlie in the tree never saw, never heard, not a sound, never a word of the hundred men who beneath her passed, til at last the King himself beneath her came.

Now, she thought not on travelers nor on horses nor men nor on the King himself, but she wept her sore, there in the great tree which hangs over the place you must pass as you come down and a-down on the King's way. Cried she for all that was and was not. Cried she for what she saw as she looked about her for her brothers' love to her and for their help and their care and their warm keeping, and cried she for those things she did not see. Wept for an empty heart and useless hands, sterile life and barren lands. In her true mind's eye looked she about, and not a brother, not a boy, not a friendly man could she see, could she see, and wept she hard and serious high in the great tree, and careful she caught her tears in her hands, for she knew and well she knew that a lost tear is a dreadful dangerous thing. But the wind was tricksy just there, and magic there was, too, magic and conniving, for from her fingers the wind tore a single tear, though she knew it not. The tricksy wind stole her tear, caught it, tossed it, spun it gently round and round while it sparkled like a star falling through the sun. Down and a-down through the limbs and through the leaves fell a tear of her, fell a single tear of her onto the face of the King himself as he rode under the great tree which overhangs the King's way, as down and a-down he came on his horse and with his men. Then all in a wonder put he his hand to his own cheek and caught away her tear in his hand.

Never and not at all had he cried, had the King cried since that day the crown sat hard and serious on his head. In wonder held he up the tear before his eyes, turned it this way and turned it that, but no way he turned it could he ever think how it came to be on the cheek royal. Lovely to him it was, like a pearl and like a burning sun, like a song of lost, lost love, like a story of lovers found and faithful, like deeds and quests and a binding spell cast in olden times. He sat under the great tree which overhangs the King's way, sat on his horse still as a statue and all his men about him never daring for to breathe as their King was wrapt in a wonder big as the wide world at the beauty of the tiny thing in his hand. After a lifetime he spoke. It is a woman's tear, he said, for it is not mine, and when he said so all his men drew back and all their horses stamped, for a woman's tear is a dreadful dangerous thing. Somewhere in my kingdom, the King cried, is a woman who fits this tear, and she shall be my bride. To the man that her finds shall I give merit and deserving beyond any former giving. And so wheeled the men upon their mounts and off they were and away, for this was to their understanding, this was for their doing, this was why they rode by the hundred with their king. Every father's son of them went for his King to seek a woman who fitted a tear, and the King himself was left by himself and alone on his horse beneath the great tree that overhangs the King's own way. And when they were all away, when all had fled, then down from high and from high the girlie came a-climbing and a-seeking of her tear, of her own, her own own tear.

Saw she the King, then, saw him there on his horse with a shining drop like a burning world held careful in his hand. She knew it then, knew he had a tear of her and she was sore afraid, for a lost tear is dreadful, dangerous, though she knew not it was the King himself. But the man, friendly, smiled and bade her come near, and so she did, so she did, near and nearer til all at once the crown she spied, set hard and serious on his head. Then knowing who he was dropped down on her, and down under knowing who he was she dropped. Beneath the tree, beneath the rocks, beneath her own hands she fain would hide, and when she was under her own hands, she felt of her hair. Shorn and bristly, her hair, cut off short and tight. I can't, I can't, I can't stand before the King himself with not a hair upon me, she thought and before she had another thought, out and out she pulled her own hair.

Long it came, long and longer. Bright it was, bright and brighter. Not fish nor sheep nor bear nor boar nor snake nor bird nor dog. Like ropes of gold, like nets of silver, like caskets and baskets and caches and snatches of jewels it came and down it poured and down and over her til she was wrapped and wreathed in the jewels of her own hair. Magic was there, magic and conniving. She looked up at the King himself through the jewels of her hair, and he reached out, slow and soft, and fitted to her the tear of her he held in his hand. Back he started, back and away, then he mastered of himself and was off his horse in a moment to be by her, to be nigh her, to be with her. Let me, he began, let me, he went gently on, please, please let me be a love to you and let me be all your help and you be my care and give to me the warm keeping of your heart and hands, and do you take my life and my lands. And he leaned forward so as to catch all her words, and reached out, reached out his own hand to touch the glory and weight that was the masses of jewels of her own, her own, own hair.

Back she stepped then, and stopped him.
I love you, girlie, said he as he stood in his own right and on his own way, and one step forward he took.
Back she stepped.
Love me, love me, he said, reaching for her, for her words.
Back she stepped and one hand was on the great tree that overhangs the King's way which pass you must when down and a-down you come that way.
Don't, she said, both hands on the tree.
Tell me if you can love me, he said and on he came, leaning forward so as not to miss a word, his crown catching the sun, tossing the light, lifting it and letting it free. Letting it fly, letting it soar though back it came no more, loosing it and whirling it round, hard and serious. But now he had to look up to her, high and high into the great tree where she climbed and where she sat, swirled in the jewels of her own, own hair. Down she leaned, hard and serious, so he would not miss a word, not a single word. Go home, she told him, go home and I'll come to you if I can. Something there is I first must do and sure I must be, sure of you.