Wynflaed wakes

Wynflaed sobbed and woke and sobbed again. She struggled briefly with her blankets before she quite understood that she was only in her bed – and that it must have been a dream.

“Wyn?” Mouse called softly.

“It was nothing, Mouse. Only a dream.” Now that she knew what she was doing, she could easily pull the blankets away and sit up in the dark.

“A nightmare?” Mouse asked.

“Yes, a nightmare.” She could not yet believe that it had been a dream – she could still feel the warmth of the sun on her hair, still smell the grass, still see that slack mouth – but she knew that if she sat quietly and thought rationally she would see through it after a while.

Mouse was silent long enough that Wynflaed was surprised to hear her ask, “Was it about father?”

“What?” Wynflaed replied quickly in confusion.

“Sometimes I have a nightmare where I see our father, and he is in trouble – drowning, or in a burning barn, or something – and I can see him but I can’t save him. Do you ever have such a dream?”

“No… not like that…” Wynflaed murmured. She had not been dreaming about their father, anyway. And she had arrived too late – there was no longer any flow of blood to stop.

“And then I wake up,” Mouse continued softly, “and I remember that he’s gone. Why do you think I do that?”

“It’s because you miss him, and think about him still. And because we couldn’t save him when he was ill.”

“Sometimes I dream about him, and he’s still alive and everything is as it was before. But it’s sad when we wake and remember he’s gone, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“What was your dream about, Wyn? Was it sad or frightening?”

“I don’t know. Both.”

“What was it? Was it about our father?”

“No, Mouse.”

“Whom? Our little mother?”

“No.”

“Was it someone in our family?”

“Mouse, please don’t try to guess. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Was it about Sigefrith?”

“What?” Wynflaed gasped.

“Because you don’t want to tell me. You always tell me your dreams.”

“No, I do not.”

“Was it, though? I dream about him sometimes. But silly dreams. Not nightmares.”

“Oh, Mouse!”

“I won’t tell him. Was it about him? Did you dream he was in danger?”

“Mouse – ”

“You did!” Mouse leaned closer. “Do you think it was true?”

“Oh! Do you ever have dreams that are true?”

“I did once! Don’t you remember? I dreamt that the black sow would have one pink piglet, and she did! Don’t you remember? And all the rest black.”

“Yes, Mouse, I remember your piglet story,” Wynflaed sighed.

“Tell me your dream, Wyn. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, Mouse, all right,” Wynflaed muttered and lay down again. “I shall tell you. But it can’t be true, because I dreamt it was summer. I was out in the hill meadow looking for flowers for our little mother’s summer fire, and I saw Sigefrith sleeping out in the sun, and I went to surprise him and laugh at him, but he was dead.”

“Just like in the song!” Mouse breathed.

“That’s right! Like in the song, and I do wish you would stop singing that stupid song, Mouse! Do you see what happens?”

“But I don’t sing the last verse!” Mouse protested. “I don’t remember all the words, anyway. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. And I don’t like to think about it. You know our little mother doesn’t sing that song any more at all.”

“I don’t see why not,” Mouse huffed and pulled her blankets back up over her body. “It’s still a pretty song if you don’t sing the last verse.”

“But we know it now. And you remember why our little mother sang that song that day. It was because Sigefrith was saying how lazy he was, and she told him she knew a song about a lazy knight. So, you see, she was thinking of Sigefrith when she sang the song, and now she doesn’t like it any more because she knows how it ends. And neither do I.”

“Fine, then. I shan’t sing it again. But do you think it’s a true dream?”

“I told you, I dreamt it was summer, and it’s already autumn, and our little mother has real fires now. And Sigefrith isn’t here to sleep in the meadow.”

“But perhaps he is somewhere else and was killed. Do you suppose they went into a battle?”

“Mouse! How can you say such things? ‘Perhaps he’s somewhere else and was killed,’ just as calmly as you would say ‘Perhaps he went to market!’”

“Of course I don’t want anything to happen to him,” Mouse grumbled. “I wish he would come home soon. I hope he didn’t forget us. I hope he will still come to see us sometimes in the winter.”

“I also! Now let’s go back to sleep.”

They lay quietly for a while, though Wynflaed did not think that she would soon sleep.

Mouse would not have let her in any case. “He’s been away a long time,” she said. “He said he might have been home by now.”

Wynflaed sighed in exasperation. “He also said he might be home later than now. Go to sleep.”

Mouse was still long enough that Wynflaed finally allowed herself to think over her dream. It seemed cruel of him to have told her and her sister the end of the song. He had even supposed that their father had pretended not to know it only to protect their little mother from sad thoughts – their little mother who did not even know any knights then.

Why had he told them? Did he not care whether they had sad thoughts? Did he not realize that they would think of him when they thought of the song? Perhaps he did not think it would matter to them. Perhaps he thought so because they did not matter to him.

“What if you dreamt it was summer,” Mouse said softly, almost as if she did not intend to be heard, “because he was killed weeks ago?”

Wynflaed flinched. She hoped she had not sniffed or made any sign of her tears. She could not understand how Mouse could speak so. Perhaps he did not matter to her.

“Wyn?” Mouse whispered.

Wynflaed lay quietly, feigning sleep, crying through closed eyelids. Sigefrith, she thought, and Mouse, and all the world were very cruel.