The Endless Knot

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Strangely, Tegid relented. “I knew that was what you would say.” He paused and, as if to allow me a final chance to change my mind, asked, “Is that your choice?”

  “It is.”

  He bent down and laid his staff on the ground before him, then straightened, his face like stone. “So be it. The taboo will be broken.”

  The Chief Bard paused and regarded the ring of faces huddled around us in the failing light. Speaking slowly, distinctly, so that none would misunderstand, he said, “The king has chosen, now you must choose. If any man wishes to turn back he must do so now.”

  Not a muscle twitched. Loyal to a man, their oaths of fealty remained intact and their hearts unmoved.

  Tegid nodded and, placing a fold of his cloak over his head, began speaking in the Dark Tongue. “Datod Teyrn! Gollwng Teyrn. Roi’r datod Teryn-a-Terynas! Gwadu Teryn. Gwrthod Teyrn. Gollwng Teryn.” He ended, turning to face each direction: “Gollyngdod . . . gollyngdod . . . gollyngdod . . . gollyngdod.”

  Retrieving his staff, he proceeded to inscribe a circle around the entire company gathered on the beach. He joined the two ends of the circle together and, returning to the center, drew a long vertical line and flanked it either side with an inclining line to form a loose arrowhead shape—the gogyrven, he called it: the Three Rays of Truth. Then he raised the staff in his right hand and drove it into the sand and, taking the pouch from his belt, sifted a portion of the obscure mixture of ash he called the Nawglan into each of the three lines he had drawn.

  He stood and touched my forehead with the tips of his fingers— marking me with the sign of the gogyrven. Raising his hands palm outward—one over his head, one shoulder high—he opened his mouth and began to declaim:

  In the steep path of our common calling,

  Be it easy or uneasy to our flesh,

  Be it bright or dark for us to follow,

  Be it stony or smooth beneath our feet,

  Bestow, O Goodly-Wise, your perfect guidance;

  Lest we fall, or into error stray.

  For those who stand within this circle,

  Be to us our portion and our guide;

  Aird Righ, by authority of the Twelve:

  The Wind of gusts and gales,

  The Thunder of stormy billows,

  The Ray of bright sunlight,

  The Bear of seven battles,

  The Eagle of the high rock,

  The Boar of the forest,

  The Salmon of the pool,

  The Lake of the glen,

  The Flowering of the heathered hill,

  The Strength of the warrior,

  The Word of the poet,

  The Fire of thought in the wise.

  Who upholds the gorsedd, if not You?

  Who counts the ages of the world, if not You?

  Who commands the Wheel of Heaven, if not You?

  Who quickens life in the womb, if not You?

  Therefore, God of All Virtue and Power,

  Sain us and shield us with your Swift Sure Hand,

  Grant us victory over foes and false men,

  Lead us in peace to our journey’s end.

  Through this rite, the bard had sained us—consecrated us and sealed our journey with a blessing. I felt humbled and contrite. “Thank you for that,” I said to him.

  But Tegid was not finished. He reached into a fold of his belt, withdrew a pale object, and offered it to me. I felt the cool weight in my palm and knew without looking what it was: a Singing Stone. Bless him, he knew I would choose to break the geas in order to save Goewyn, and he meant to do what he could to help me.

  “Again, I thank you, brother,” I said.

  Tegid said nothing, but withdrew two more stones and placed them in my hands. With that, the bard released me to my fate. I tucked the three stones safely into my belt, turned, and ordered the men to board the ships. Everyone raced to be the first aboard, and I followed close behind. I had all but reached the water when Tegid shouted. “Llew! Will you leave your bard behind?”

  “I would go with a better heart if you went with me,” I answered. “But I will think no ill if you stay behind.”

  A moment later he stood beside me. “We go together, brother.”

  We waded through the icy surge and were hauled aboard by those waiting on deck. Men took up long poles and pushed into deeper water as the sails flapped, filled, and billowed. Night closed its tight fist around us as the sharp prow divided the waves, throwing salt spray in our faces and spewing sea foam over our clothes.

  In the deep dark of a moonless Sollen night I left Albion behind. I did not look back.

  The seas were rough, the wind raw and cold. We were battered by rain and sleet and tossed on every wave as the sea battled our passage. More than once I feared a water grave would claim us, but sailed ahead regardless. There was no turning back.

  “What makes you think they have escaped to the Foul Land?” Tegid asked. I stood at the prow, holding to the rail. We had not seen the sun since our departure.

  “Paladyr was behind this,” I told him, staring at the waves and pounding my fist against the rail.

  “Why do you say so?”

  “Who else could it be?” I retorted. Nevertheless, his question brought up the doubt I had so far suppressed. I turned my head to meet his gaze. “What do you know?”

  His dark brows arched slightly. “I know that no man leaves a trail on the sea.”

  “The trail leads to Tir Aflan. That is where we banished Paladyr, and that is where he has taken them,” I declared, speaking with far more certainty than I felt at the moment. Standing on the shore, there had been no doubt. Now, after two days aboard a heaving ship, I was not so sure. What if they had sailed south and made landfall at any of a thousand hidden, nameless coves?

  Tegid was silent for a time, thinking. Then he said, “Why would Paladyr do this?”

  “That much is obvious: revenge.”

  The bard shook his head. “Revenge? For giving him back his life?”

  “For sending him to Tir Aflan,” I answered curtly. “Why? What do you think?”

  “Through all things Paladyr has looked to himself and his own gain,” Tegid countered. “I think he would be content to save himself now. Also, I have never known Paladyr to act alone.”

  True. Paladyr was a warrior, more inclined to the spear than to subtle machinations. I considered this. “It does not matter,” I decided at last. “Whether he acted alone or with a whole host of devious schemers, it makes no difference. I would still go.”

  “Of course,” Tegid agreed, “but it would be good to know who is with him in this. That might make a difference.” He was silent for a moment, regarding me with his sharp gray eyes. “Bran told me about the beacon.”

  I frowned into the slate-dark sea.

  “Is there anything else you have not told me? If so, tell me now.”

  “There is something else,” I admitted finally.

  “What is it?” Tegid asked softly.

  “Goewyn is carrying our child. No one else knows. She wanted to wait a little longer before telling anyone.”

  “Before telling anyone!” Tegid blustered. “The king’s child!” Shaking his head in amazement and disbelief, he turned his face to the sea and gazed out across the wave-worried deep. It was a long time before he spoke again. “I wish I had known this before,” he said at last. “The child is not yours alone; it is a symbol of the bounty of your reign and belongs to the clan. I should have been told.”

  “We were not trying to hide it from anyone,” I said. “Would it have made a difference?”

  “We will never know,” he answered bleakly and fell silent.

  “Tegid,” I said after a while, “Tir Aflan—have you ever been there?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you know anyone who has?”

  He gave a mirthless rumble of a laugh. “Only one: Paladyr.”

  “But you must know something of the place. How did it get its name?”

  He p
ursed his lips. “From time past remembering, it has been called Tir Aflan. The name is well deserved, but it was not always so. Among the Learned Brotherhood it is said that once, long ago, it was the most blessed of realms—Tir Gwyn, it was called then.”

  “The Fair Land,” I repeated. “What happened?”

  His answer surprised me. “At the height of its glory, Tir Gwyn fell.”

  “Fell?” I wondered. “How?”

  “It is said that the people left the True Path: they wandered in error and selfishness. Evil arose among them and they no longer knew it. Instead of resisting, they embraced it and gave themselves to it. The evil grew; it devoured them—devoured everything good and beautiful in the land.”

  “Until there was nothing left,” I murmured.

  “The Dagda removed his Swift Sure Hand from them, and Tir Gwyn became Tir Aflan,” he explained. “Now it is inhabited only by beasts and outcasts who prey upon one another in their torment and misery. It is a land lacking all things needful for the comfort of men. Do not seek succor, consolation, or peace. These will not be found. Only pain, sorrow, and turmoil.”

  “I see.”

  Frowning, Tegid inspected me out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, you will soon see it for yourself,” he said, pointing with the head of his staff to the sea before us. I looked at what appeared to be a dull gray bank of cloud riding low on the horizon: my first glimpse of the Foul Land. “After we have sojourned there a while, tell me if it deserves its name.”

  I gazed at the colorless blotch of landscape bobbing in the sea swell. It seemed dreary, but not more so than many another land mass when approached through mist and drizzle on a sunless day. Indeed, I wondered after Tegid’s description that it did not look more abject and gloomy.

  I had come to find Goewyn, and I would go through earthquake, flood, and fire to save her. No land, however hostile, would stand in my way.

  But in that I was wildly and woefully naive.

  19

  TIR AFLAN

  Easier to carry ships across the sea on our backs than to make safe landfall in the Foul Land. The ragged coast was rimmed with broken rocks. The sea heaved and shredded itself on the jagged stumps with a sense-numbing roar. We spent the better part of a day searching along the coast for harborage, and then, as the day sped from us, we happened upon a bay guarded by two rock stack promontories that formed a narrow entrance.

  Despite the shelter offered by the headlands, Tegid did not like the bay. He claimed it made him feel uneasy. Nevertheless, after a brief consultation, we concluded that this was the best landfall we had yet seen and the best we were likely to find.

  One by one the ships passed between the towering stacks. Once inside the shelter of the rocks, the water was calm—and darker even than the sea round about. “Listen,” Tegid said. “Do you hear?”

  I cocked my head to one side. “I hear nothing.”

  “The gulls have departed.”

  An entire flock of seagulls had been our constant companions since the voyage began. Now there was not a single bird to be seen.

  I stood at the prow as Cynan’s vessel passed ours and drew into the center of the bay. Cynan hailed us and pointed out a place where we might land. He was still leaning at the rail, hand extended, when I saw the water in front of his ship begin to boil.

  Within the space of three heartbeats it was bubbling furiously. No cauldron ever frothed more fiercely. The water heaved and shuddered; gassy bubbles burst the sea surface, releasing a pale green vapor that curled over the churning water.

  The men on board rushed to the rails and peered into the seething water. Exclamations of amazement turned to cries of anguish when out of the troubled water there arose the scaly head of an enormous serpent. Fanged jaws gaping, forked tongue thrusting like a double-headed spear, the creature hissed and the sound was that of ships’ sails ripping in a gale.

  From behind and a little to one side, I saw the monster with the clarity of fear. Its mucus-slick skin was a mottled green and gray, like the storm-sick sea; its head was flat, its yellow eyes bulged; scales thick and ragged as tree bark formed a ridge along its back, otherwise its bloated body was smooth and slimy as a slug. A steady stream of filthy slime flowed from two huge nostril flaps at the end of its snout and from a row of smaller pits that began at the base of its throat and ran along the midline of the creature’s sinuous length.

  If its appearance had been designed to inspire revulsion, the monster could not have been better contrived. My throat tightened and my stomach heaved at the sight. And then the wind-blast of the beast’s breath hit us and I retched at the stench.

  “Llew!” Tegid appeared beside me at the prow. He pressed a spear into my hand.

  “What is that thing?” I demanded, dragging my sleeve across my mouth. “Do you know?”

  Without taking his eyes from the creature, he replied in a voice hollow with dread: “It is an afanc.”

  “Can it be killed?”

  He turned his face to me, pasty with fright. His mouth opened, but he made no sound. His eyes slid past me to the creature.

  “Tegid! Answer me!” I grabbed him by the arm and spun him to face me. “Can it be killed?”

  He came to himself somewhat. “I do not know.”

  I turned to the warriors behind me. “Ready your spears!” I cried. There were five horses in the center of the boat; the sudden appearance of the monster had thrown them into a panic. They bucked and whinnied, trying to break their tethers. “Calm those horses! Cover their eyes!”

  A tremendous cracking sound echoed across the water. I turned back to see Cynan’s vessel shiver and lurch sideways. Then it began to rise, hoisted aloft on a great, slimy coil. Men screamed as the ship tilted and swayed in the air.

  “Closer!” I shouted to the helmsman. “We must help them!”

  In the same instant, an eel-like hump surfaced before the prow. The ship struck the afanc and shivered to a halt, throwing men onto their hands and knees. Winding a rope around my metal hand, I leaned over the rail and, taking my spear, drove the blade into the slime-covered skin. Blue-black blood oozed from the wound.

  I withdrew the spear and struck again, and then again, sinking the blade deep. On the third stroke I drove the iron down with all my strength. I felt the resistance of hard muscle, and then the flesh gave way and the spearshaft plunged. The great bloated body twitched with pain, almost yanking my arm from its socket. Black water appeared below me; I released the spear just as Tegid snatched me by the belt and hauled me back into the boat.

  Others, quickened by my example, began slashing at the afanc with their weapons. Wounds split the smooth skin in a hundred places. The gray-green seawater soon became greasy with the dark issue of blood. Whether the monster felt the sting of our blades, or whether it merely shifted itself in the water in order to concentrate its attack, I do not know. But the afanc hissed and the wounded hump sank and disappeared. The warriors raised a war cry at their success.

  Meanwhile, Cynan and his men, clinging to the rails, loosed a frenzied attack upon the beast’s head and throat. I saw Cynan balancing precariously on the tilting prow. He lofted his spear. Took aim. And let fly. He groaned with the effort as the shaft left his hand. The spear flew up and stuck in the center of the afanc’s eye. The immense snaky head began weaving from side to side in an effort to dislodge the spike.

  The men cheered.

  The praise turned to shouts of dismay, however, as the afanc reared, lifting its odious head high above the water. Its mouth yawned open, revealing row upon row of teeth like sharpened spindles. Warriors scattered as the gaping maw loomed over them. But several men stood fast and let fly their spears into the pale yellow-white throat.

  Hissing and spitting, the awful head withdrew, spears protruding like bristles from its neck. The ship, still caught in the afanc’s coil, heaved and shook.

  We were still too far away to help them. “Closer!” I shouted. “Get us closer!”

  Cynan, clinging
desperately to the rail, shouted for another spear as the afanc’s head rose to strike again.

  “Closer!” I cried. “Hurry!” But there was nothing we could do.

  The afanc’s mouth struck the ship’s mast. The crack of timber sounded across the water. The mast splintered, and the ship rolled, spilling men and horses into the froth-laced waves.

  Amidst the screams of the men, I heard a strange sound, a dreadful bowel-churning sound—thick, rasping, gagging. I looked and saw the top half of the ship’s mast lodged sideways in the afanc’s throat. The terrible creature was working its mouth, trying to swallow, but the splintered timber had caught in the soft flesh and stuck fast.

  Unable to free itself, the afanc lashed its hideous head from side to side, thrashing in the water like a whip. And then, when it seemed the ships would be dashed to bits by the flailing head, the bloated body heaved and, with a last cataclysmic lash of its finless tail, the beast subsided into the deep. The two ships nearest to it were inundated by the water and near to foundering, but turned and steered toward the shore. The last ship, swamped in the heavy chop, nearly capsized.

  We drove toward Cynan’s vessel and aided those we could reach. Even so, three horses drowned and a dozen men had a long, cold swim to shore. We were able to save the damaged ship, but lost the provisions.

  When the last man had been dragged ashore, numb with shock and half-frozen, we gathered on the shingle, mute, as we gazed out over the now-peaceful bay. We made fast the ships as best we could and then withdrew further up the coast, well away from the afanc’s bed, to spend a sleepless night huddled around sputtering fires in a forlorn effort to warm ourselves.

  Sleet hissed in the fitful flames, and the wet wood sizzled. We got little heat and less comfort for our efforts, and as the sun rose like a wan white ghost in a dismal gray sky, we gave up trying to get warm and began searching the shoreline for signs of Goewyn, Tángwen, and their abductors. Discovering no trace of them, we settled for finding our own way inland.

  “Clanna na cù,” grumbled Cynan, mist beaded in his wiry hair and moustache. “This place stinks. Smell the air. It stinks.” His nostrils flared and he grimaced with distaste. The air was rank and heavy as a refuse pit.