The Seven Streams

by Warwick Deeping

The barge foamed away on the bosom of the Gloire, gliding with the strong current as two men toiled at each great oar. Agravale and its white towers dwindled into the azure above the woods as the sun stood full in the eastern sky. Far to the south the white peaks gleamed, seeming to watch the barge pass down the broad river towards the sea.

Very solemn were the wilds that summer day, as the Gloire spread its curves under the towering hills. Gnarled trees drank like hoar warriors at the brink, and betwixt the sable deeps of the woods the grassland was broidered with many flowers. Sunlight and shadow were embattled there where the hills bristled against the dawn, and the river gleamed into rippling bays with a thousand lightnings threading the green. Deep were the mysteries of the woods and deep the chanting of the river as the sedges sang of the distant sea.

Tristan lay in the prow of the barge with his face turned towards the west. Like one in a dream he watched the woodland waving by, the great trees splashed with gold by the sun, the meadows ablaze with a myriad flowers. Sometimes he would gaze into the blue above and watch the white clouds sailing by, or a hawk like a black speck poised in the heavens.

Thus the hours sped as in a dream while the barge swept on down the river, the oars swinging with the steady rhythm of a song. Sometimes Tristan counted the strokes till they seemed like the breathing of a mighty beast. Often he would fancy that Holy Guard towered up before him against the blue, or starting, he would seem to hear Rosamunde’s voice calling his name as the water bubbled about the prow.

Blanche the Duchess watched beside him, wondering whether his life would ebb before they brought him to the sea. With her own hands she gave him food and wine for the staying of his strength. Her voice indeed was as the voice of a mother as she tended him there, forgetting self in the hope that his prayers should not prove in vain.

“Courage, Tristan,” she would often say, with her mouth close to the wounded man’s ear, “the stream runs fast, and there is blood in you yet.”

So night came, and with it a summer storm of wind and rain sweeping up the valley from the sea. The men covered Tristan with a canopy of rough cloth, and propped their shields round him to shelter his bed. Gloom wrapped the woods where the tall trees battled with the wind. The Gloire’s waves were capped with foam, yet the men at the oars rowed on and on. No sounds were there save the groaning of the looms, the heavy downrush of the storm, the plashing of the water at the prow. Truly did the Gloire seem a river of the dead as the black barge forged on against the wind and rain, with the hoarse moan of the forest filling the night.

Yet as the dawn came the clouds gave back and a clear sky waited in the west. Soon the sun rent the vapoury veil, flashing upon the distant mountains, while the wind sank to utter rest. The woods seemed wrapped in a shimmering mist and golden smoke wreathed all the hills. The huge shadows were startled from their sleep where every tree top pearled by the rain glimmered and flashed towards the dawn. The great Gloire laughed as the light came up and the drenched meadows smiled in the sun.

Tristan had slept that night through the rain and the wind, for sheer weariness had brought him dreams. In his sleep he had beheld Rosamunde walking the waters, treading the river to meet the barge. Her face had lit the waters like the moon, and crimson flames had wreathed her feet as they touched the waves that flowed betwixt the woods. Her gown was of a splendid green, so bright that it was as some rare emerald shot through with the sun. She had come to the barge and entered in, knelt down by Tristan and kissed his lips. And with that dream kiss Tristan awoke to find the dim woods dripping dew.

Whether it was this dream, or the clear morning air, or the long sleep that had held him through the hours, Tristan felt stronger with the dawn. Steadily the long oars still laboured on, for ten men rested while ten men rowed. There was to be no halting towards the sea, and with the swift stream the barge moved fast.