Morgana and the Well of Wyrd

“Wrong note... Again,” said Taliesin, grasping his brow. Morgana grinned sheepishly and began the song again. Her voice cracked as she hit a note that was far too high for her. Taliesin cringed. Morgana halted..

“I should just give up,” she said.

“Giving up never accomplished anything useful,” said Taliesin. “Keep trying.”

“I’m pretty hopeless, aren’t I?” said Morgana.

“I don’t think anyone is truly hopeless,” said Taliesin. 

“But I don’t understand it, Taliesin!” cried Morgana. “This... thing. My hands just won’t pluck the strings in the right order. I know what I need to do, but I don’t know how to get my hands and voice to cooperate.”

“Just need more practice,” said Taliesin.

“I’ve trained with you for years, and I’ve gotten nowhere!”

“Music isn’t one of your natural talents.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Just don’t give up so easily,” said Taliesin. “You’ll find your voice eventually.”

Having completed her lessons, Morgana walked by a riverbank alone, listening to the songs of birds and crickets and the babbling of the water. She felt the soft patter of light rain on her face. She tossed a stone in the water.

“Dash it, you’ve frightened the fish!” said a voice from nearby.

Morgana looked up, startled to see a man sitting on a rock with a fishing pole in his hands. His clothes were tattered and patched. Animal skins made up a large part of his attire. His hair and beard were wild and unkempt. Twigs and feathers were intertwined among his locks. 

“Pardon me, sir,” said Morgana. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You should apologize to the river,” said the wild man. “She takes offense so easily. I may not get a meal at all today.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should probably be going home.”

“To Camelot?” asked the wild man.

“What business is it of yours?”

“Just making conversation. I meet so few people, living in the wild places.”

“Who are you?”

“Some call me Myrddin.” 

Morgana had heard tales of the wild man of the woods, but she thought he was only a fable.

“You’re not Myrddin the Mad, are you?” asked Morgana.

“Some call me mad,” said Myrddin. “I think it’s the world that’s gone mad. You must be Morgana the Magician.”

“How do you know my name?” asked Morgana.

“Truthfully, I know not how I know,” Myrddin shrugged, “But I know you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a magician,” said Morgana, sitting on a stone. “I can’t even manage to play the lyre.”

“Ah, but I speak not of what you are now, but what you will be.”

“And how do you know what I will be?”

“I don’t know,” replied the madman. 

“You’re a strange one, alright.”

“Maybe you’re the strange one, have you thought about that?”

“We’re both a bit strange, I think.”

“What if I told you that you could be one of the greatest magicians in the history of Britain?” queried the madman.

“I’d say you were mad,” said Morgana, ruefully.

“I’ve seen it. You will go down in legend. 

Morgana paused for a moment to consider the possibility that the madman might be correct.

“How am I supposed to do that?” blurted Morgana.

“There is a well, the waters of which will make one wise,” said Myrddin in a far-away voice, as though recalling some distant memory. “They can grant sorcery, poetic inspiration. All of it.”

“Where is it?” begged Morgana.

“I do not know,” said Myrddin. “Taliesin would, but good luck getting it out of him.”

“Is there anyone else who might know?” inquired Morgana. 

“No mortal man,” said Myrddin.

“Brilliant. Now what?”

“Now, I have to go have a conversation with some magpies.”

Myrddin strode away into the wood and disappeared.

It was market day in Camelot. The merchants were selling their wares in the narrow streets, and the weather was finally fair. 

“Maegan, be a dear and hand me my blue gown,” said Morgana to her handmaid. “We’re going to the market.” 

Maegan obliged. 

“Yes, m’lady, but you should be aware that your sister, the lady Morgause, will be there as well.”

“Tush!” said Morgana. “We mustn’t let that battle-ax ruin our day.”

Morgana attired herself and braided her hair, and they departed for the market. They did their best to avoid Morgause, but it was inevitable that they would meet eventually. Morgana still stayed to the other side of the street, occasionally glancing over at Morgause and her handmaids who were giggling amongst themselves. Morgana hated the sound of their giggles. They were always gossipping; Morgana imagined they were gossipping about her. She and Morgause never got along. Morgause was the pretty one, the smart one, the one who understood magic in ways Morgana could only begin to imagine.  

Morgause made a particular gesture with her hand. Morgana took this as a sign that Morgause had something snide to say, and she was going to respond in kind. Morgana approached Morgause and her handmaids from the other side of the marketplace, but she stepped on her sandal-laces and fell face first in a mud puddle. Morgause and her handmaids laughed like fools. Evidently, Morgause had used her magic to cause Morgana’s sandals to come untied. 

Maegan helped Morgana off the ground. She felt a second pair of hands lifting her up. She looked up to see the kindly face of Bishop Dubric. He looked sternly at Morgause and her maids.

“Perhaps you could find somewhere else to play your little party tricks,” said the Bishop. “Maybe employ your skills with shoelaces at the cobbler’s shop.”

The ladies hushed their laughter and moved off. 

“Thank you, Reverend Father.”

“No thanks are necessary, but you are welcome, daughter.”

“I hate her,” said Morgana.

“While I understand the sentiment, Holy Scripture is rather clear on the sin of hatred,” said Dubric.

“It isn’t bad enough that I can’t manage to learn music and magic, why does she have to torment me mercilessly?” asked Morgana.

“Some people are simply ugly,” said Dubric. “Morgause may be beautiful to look at, but underneath it is a soul screaming with emptiness. Where there is a void in the soul, malice and pride will fill it.”

“Morgana!” cried Igerna. She ran out of the royal hall to her daughter’s side.

“I’m alright, mother,” said Morgana dourly.

“It was Morgause again, wasn’t it?”

“Who else?” said the Bishop.

“Reverend Father, what am I going to do with that girl?”

“There’s very little that we can do. She listens to neither man nor God,” replied Dubric. 

“Go into your chambers and get changed,” said Igerna to Morgana.

“I’ll fetch some water,” said Maegan.

After washing and putting on a fresh gown, Morgana joined Taliesin in the meadow outside Camelot to practice her lyre.

“More feeling!” said Taliesin.

“If I add more feeling, it sounds terrible!” Morgana said, gruffly.

“Just... try.”

Morgana played the wrong note once again. She tossed the instrument away in a huff.

“That’s no way to treat an instrument,” Taliesin rebuked her.

“I don’t know why this has to be so difficult, Taliesin!” cried Morgana. “There must be a better way!”

“Music is the root of all magic in the universe, Morgana,” returned Taliesin. “Unfortunately, there is no other way.”

“You didn’t learn like this,” Morgana said, eying Taliesin with suspicion.

“How I learned was unnatural. It shouldn’t have happened at all!”

“You turned out alright,” countered Morgana.

“It could’ve easily turned out the opposite!”

That evening, Morgana barely ate anything. She simply sat at the table, picking at her food.

“What’s the matter, Morgana?” asked Igerna. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”

“Not feeling fully myself tonight, I suppose,” said Morgana to her mother.

“I’d say you’re feeling half yourself!” said her sister, derisively.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Morgana.

“Normally, you’d have eaten twice that amount by now!”

“Morgause!” barked Igerna. “That is quite enough!”

“I’m only stating a fact,” Morgause shrugged. “Finally watching our girlish figure, are we?”

Morgana slammed her spoon down on the table and stormed out.

“Morgause, we are nobility. I will thank you to watch your tongue!” commanded Igerna.

Morgana walked out into the gathering twilight. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“It’s dangerous for an unaccompanied woman to be out at this time of night.”

Morgana turned around to see Taliesin standing at the doorway to the great hall.

“I don’t care!” snapped Morgana.

“I care,” said Taliesin. “I wouldn’t want my favorite student to be robbed.”

“I’m a terrible student,” replied Morgana.

“Yes, but you’re still my favorite.”

They strolled through the courtyard together, slowly. 

“I’ll never get any better at magic,” said Morgana, ruefully.

“Yes, you will,” said Taliesin. “You’re going to be one of the greatest magicians Britain has ever seen.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” said Morgana, “unless I drink from the Well of Wyrd.”

Taliesin stopped. 

“What would you know about that, then?” he inquired.

“Myrddin told me.”

“How long have you known Myrddin the Mad?” Taliesin inquired further.

“I met him the day before yesterday,” she answered. 

“You know he’s mad, right?”

“Yes,” said Morgana, “but they say he is also very wise.”

“The Well of Wyrd offers untold power and wisdom,” Taliesin stated, in a scholarly tone. “However, this wisdom is not free by any means. It comes at a price.”

Morgana was silent. 

“What’s the price?”

“Something very dear,” answered Taliesin.

“Can you tell me where it is?”

“I can, but I won’t.”

“Taliesin!” Morgana said, stomping her foot.

“It would go against everything I stand for to tell you where to find the well!” said Taliesin.

“Fine!” shouted Morgana. 

She stomped back inside and went directly to her chambers.

The royal stables smelled of horses and hay. It was a bright day, and the squires were practicing mounted combat. Bedwyr had just completed his exercises and was returning his horse to the stables when Morgana waylaid him. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” said Bedwyr.

“I know exactly what I’m asking, Bedwyr, is it really that complicated?” said Morgana.

“A white stag, Morgana?” said Bedwyr. The young squire glared at her with his clear, grey eyes. “You might as well have asked me to help you hunt a dragon!”

“You have seen one, haven’t you?” asked Morgana.

“That was long ago, before the strife,” he answered. “I was just a boy.”

“But, they exist,” confirmed Morgana.

“What makes you so keen on catching one, anyway?” asked the squire.

“It’s for my magic studies,” replied Morgana, “I don’t want to catch it; I just want to follow it.”

“Where to?” asked Bedwyr.

“That’s not your concern.”

“It is my concern if I’m going to lead you on a hunt through boggard-infested wood and possibly run afoul of the elves!”

“Fine. I’m looking for the Well of Wyrd, and I believe a white stag can lead me to it.”

Bedwyr glared at her again.

Morgana smiled at him, kindly.

“Please.”

Bedwyr ran his fingers through his brown, curly hair. 

“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll take you.”

The shaggy-coated hounds trotted through the bracken in the gathering twilight. Bedwyr and Morgana rode after them on tall steeds.

“This is our third day, Morgause,” said Bedwyr. “There is no white stag. Leastwise, not in these woods.”

“Just one more day,” said Morgana.

“Morgana, we have duties to attend to in Camelot. We can’t spend all our lives out here, searching for something that we may never find.”

“I have to keep trying,” said Morgana in a determined voice. “You’re free to go back to Camelot.”

“You know I can’t do that,” replied the squire.

“You also can’t make me go back to Camelot,” snapped Morgana.

“Fine then. We keep looking.”

Suddenly one of the hounds let out a single bark. Morgana looked about her, trying to see what caused the hound to bark. White fur flashed amongst the endless foliage. 

“There!” said Morgana, spurring her horse on. Morgana and Bedwyr chased the hounds through the forest. Then they finally saw it clearly, the prince of the forest; the white stag. They chased the creature through forest and glen, over streams and hills until they came to a heath. A thick fog gathered around it. The white stag disappeared into the mist.

“Come, we must follow it!” said Morgana.

“Are you certain that’s wise?” queried Bedwyr.

“I’m going with or without you!”

With that, Morgana followed the stag into the mist. The fog seemed to deaden all sound, save the whirring of crickets. The only objects visible were enormous, megalithic stones, the remains of the ancient giants, or so they say. Eventually, she came to a massive, gnarled, old tree. At the base of the tree was a perfectly round hole. Morgana knew that she had found the well. She produced her drinking horn and knelt by the well’s edge.

“Have a care!”

A black-robed woman stood at the edge of the well. She looked ageless and at once ancient.

“Pardon me, my lady,” said Morgana, humbly. “I meant no intrusion.” 

“The waters of Wyrd do not give their secrets freely,” said the crone. “We must all pay a price for knowledge.”

“What is the price?” asked Morgana. “I’ll pay it.”

“The price will be something very dear to you,” replied the crone. “More costly than you can imagine.”

“What will that be?”

“You’ll find out when the bill comes due. Now, will you still drink?”

Morgana paused to consider. Ultimate knowledge for a price yet to be determined. Was it worth it?

“Yes, I will drink.”

Morgana filled her drinking horn and drank deep the waters of Wyrd. She felt no different than she did when she entered the heath and began to wonder if anything had happened at all. Bedwyr shouted her name from somewhere in the fog. She answered him back and followed the sound of his voice through the mist. 

They rode back to Camelot in silence. Morgana felt cheated. Had she searched this long for nothing? Then something peculiar happened. 

“Wet weather today, don’t you think?”

Morgana looked around to find the source of the voice.

“Not as wet as yesterday,” said a different voice. It was not in any language Morgana thought she knew, yet she understood every word. She looked up through the canopy and saw ravens in the trees, conversing. It was at that moment that she realized she recognized the speech of birds. 

Morgana told no one of what happened on the heath. The following day, she and Taliesin met for their usual lyre lesson. Morgana sat down, placing the instrument on her lap. She sang with the voice of an elf, and her fingers flew over the strings with exceptional skill.

“Wait a minute!” cried Taliesin. “What happened?”

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Morgana. 

“You know exactly what I mean,” said Taliesin, crossing his arms. “How did you find the well?”

“I followed the white stag,” Morgana said.

Taliesin turned away, rubbing his face in his hands.

“What did it cost?” he asked after a long pause.

“I don’t know,” replied Morgana.

“You don’t know?!” shouted Taliesin.

“The crone wouldn’t say, only that it would be very dear.”

“So you don’t even know the kind of damage you’ve done?” queried Taliesin. 

“Not yet.”

Taliesin looked deep into Morgana’s eyes. There was great anger behind his eyes, but also great sadness.

“I...” he started, “I am so sorry, Morgana.”

With that, Taliesin left the library. There was nothing more he could teach her. Morgana wept. She didn’t even understand why she wept until years later.