As tramples the boar upon the track,
As tramples the forest host of hart and hind,
As trample all quick things upon the earth,
I do trample and subdue it,
And drive all evil from it!
In the name of the Secret One,
In the name of the Living One,
In the name of the All-Encircling One,
In the name of the One True Word,
it is Bwgan Bwlch,
Let it so remain as long as men survive
To breathe the name.
So saying, the Chief Bard brought his staff down with a loud crack upon the rocks. He turned to me. “It is done. Let us hope it is enough.”
The writhing mist shuddered and drew inward upon itself, as if contracting under a hail of blows; or as if it were a creature cowed by fire, but reluctant to allow its prey to escape. The mutations rippled through the churning mass with ever-increasing frequency.
Returning to my place in the front rank, I lofted my spear and called aloud: “In the name of the Secret One, in the name of the Living One, in the name of the All-Encircling One, in the name of the One True Word, this place is Bwgan Bwlch!”
Bran, standing next to me, took up the words, calling out in a clear, strong voice. Soon others were shouting them, too, raising a chant against the malignant spirit bubbling like a foul froth all around us. We chanted and the fog churned with ghastly half-formed shapes whose origins could scarcely be guessed.
I saw an eyeless face with a swine’s snout and goat’s ears; a grasping hand became a five-headed cat before dissolving into the form of a gross, grinning mouth that opened to reveal a huge, bloated toad for a tongue. A pair of emaciated bovine haunches mutated into a coiled snake before disintegrating into a scattering of scuttling cockroaches.
I saw a horse’s head on the body of an infant; the infant torso stretched into a pair of thin scabby stork shanks with the long skeletal feet of a rodent. An immense belly swelled and split, spilling out blind lizards before dissipating into a clutch of palpitating reptile eggs that merged to become two slack-jawed, haglike heads . . .
“Louder!” I shouted, taking heart that our chanting seemed to be producing some effect. “Sain the ground! Claim it!”
The men redoubled their efforts. The voices of the warriors, so long pent by Tir Aflan’s dismal hush, swelled to fill the troubled pass; their voices raced up the sheer rock walls to strike the icy heights. Indeed, it seemed as if by the vigor of shouting alone we might drive the wicked bwgan spirit from its roost.
With blinding swiftness, the ghastly metamorphosis became instantaneous. Bizarre shapes blurred together in a fantastic stream of mutating forms—changing too fast now to be recognized as anything but hazy images of vaguely human and animal shapes.
I heard Tegid’s powerful voice lifted above the rest. On his lips a song, the words of the saining rite. Man by man, we added our voices to Tegid’s, and the song soared up strong and loud, and the bwgan shrank before the sound. We sang:
Power of fire I have over it,
Power of wind I have over it,
Power of thunder I have over it,
Power of wrath I have over it,
Power of heavens I have over it,
Power of earth I have over it,
Power of worlds I have over it!
The bard’s saining song drove into the vile spirit like the thrust of a flaming spear, a gogyrven of song. The fog began to fade and dissipate, vanishing as we watched.
As tramples the swan upon the lake,
As tramples the horse upon the plain,
As tramples the ox upon the meadow,
As tramples the boar upon the track,
As tramples the forest host of hart and hind,
As trample all quick things upon the earth,
I do trample and subdue it,
And drive all evil from it!
At the precise moment of its fading, the bwgan revealed itself as a huge hulking thing, a beast with the immense hairy body of a she-bear, its hind legs those of an ox, and its front legs those of an eagle. Its tail was the long, naked, hairless caudad of a rat, but its head and face were disturbingly human—flat-featured; big-lipped; with huge, pendulous ears; round, staring eyes; and a thick protruding tongue.
In the name of the Secret One,
In the name of the Living One,
In the name of the All-Encircling One,
In the name of the One True Word,
it is Bwgan Bwlch,
Let it so remain as long as men survive
To breathe the name.
And then, growing transparent as the mist dissipated, the bwgan vanished.
The mountain pass echoed with the resounding cheers of the warriors, who sent their song spinning up into a night sky suddenly splashed with bright burning stars.
“We have done it!” cried Cynan, happily slapping every back he happened upon. “We have beaten the bwgan beast!”
“Well done, men!” shouted Bran. “Well done!”
We were all so busy praising one another that we did not at first hear the thin wail coming from the peaks above. But Tegid heard it. “Silence!” he called. “Silence!”
“Silence!” Cynan shouted, trying to quiet the men. “Our bard is speaking!”
“Listen!” Tegid said, lifting a hand toward the darksome peaks.
As the jubilation of the men died away, I heard a bloodless and mournful shriek—like that of a great predatory bird—far away and receding swiftly, as the unclean spirit passed out of the world of men.
I looked to Tegid. “Bard?”
“That is the bwgan,” Tegid explained with satisfaction. “It is searching for a new home among these broken peaks. If it finds no home before sunrise, it will die.” Throwing high his hands, he cried, “Behold! A new day is dawning in Tir Aflan.”
Turning as one, we saw the sun was rising in the east. We watched it rise—hungry for it, like men too long away from the light. Soon a shaft of clear light touched the narrow pass and filled it, expelling any lingering shadows with the force of its radiance. The rocks blushed red-gold; the peaks glowed, every one a gem.
“That evil spirit will not return here,” the bard continued. “This ground is sained now, reclaimed for humankind.”
“We have conquered indeed!” Bran Bresal shouted.
It was a happy moment, a blessed relief to look upon that new day. Yet even in the midst of such celebration I could feel the deep melancholy despair of the land reasserting itself once more. We might have recovered one mountain pass among a myriad of others but, as the inexorable tide of grief flowed back, I understood that no mere saining rite could banish the long ages of torment and misery. It would, I reflected, take something more than a song to redeem Tir Aflan.
We struck camp and journeyed on. It was not long before dark clouds gathered to obscure the sun. The day, so brightly begun, sank into gloom once more—a gloom made all the more palpable for the glory of the dawn we had witnessed. I felt it—we all did—as a wound in the chest, a hole through which the soul leaked away like blood.
Five days, two horses, and three mountain passes later, we stood together, wind-wracked and wrapped in our tattered cloaks, staring dully at a peculiar dark pall of cloud hanging over the wide bowl of a valley far below us.
“A very odd-looking cloud,” I observed.
“It is smoke,” replied Tegid. “Smoke and dust and fear.”
32
STRANGERS
I gazed into the valley. The road showed as a narrow scar winding down the mountainside to lose itself in the pall of smoke and dust. My whole body leaned toward the sign in anticipation: direct evidence of human habitation. The end of our journey was near. I felt no fear.
“Why do you say fear?” Cynan asked Tegid.
“See it rising on clouds of smoke and dust,” the bard replied, extending his hands and spreading his fingers. “See it casting a shadow over this unhappy land. Great distress
lies before us, and great fear.” Tegid lowered his hand and voice. “Our search has ended.”
“Goewyn is there?”
“And Tángwen?” Cynan asked with eager impatience. “Mo anam, brothers! Why do we delay? Let us hasten to free them at once.” He looked quickly from one to the other of us. “Is there anything to prevent us?”
Had it been left to Cynan, we would have raised the battle call of the carynx then and there, and stormed the valley by force. But Bran’s cooler head prevailed. “Paladyr is surely awaiting us,” he said, harking back to the beacons we had seen. “It is likely he knows our strength, but we do not know his. It would be well to discover our enemy’s might before beginning battle.”
“Then come,” I told him. “You and I will spy out the land.”
“I will go with you,” Cynan offered quickly, starting away at once.
I placed my silver hand in the middle of his chest. “Stay, brother. Bran and I will go. Ready the war band and await our return.”
“My wife is taken also,” he growled. “Or have you forgotten?”
“I have not forgotten. But I need you to prepare the men,” I replied, adding, “and to lead them if anything should happen and we do not return.” Cynan scowled, but I could see him weakening. “We will not be gone long, and we will hasten back as soon as we have learned what we need to know.”
Cynan, still glowering, relented. “Go, then. You will find us ready when you return.”
Bran quickly readied two horses and as we mounted, Tegid took hold of the reins and stopped me. “You asked me what could rouse the ancient evil of the Foul Land,” he said.
“Do you know the answer now?”
“No,” he confessed, “but this I know: the answer will be found down there.” The bard indicated the smoke-dark valley.
“Then I will go and put an end to this mystery,” I told him.
Bran and I started down into the broad valley. The road was lined with enormous boulders all the way. We thought to ride to the level of the smoke haze, then leave the horses where we could reach them at need. We would continue on foot to get as near as we could.
We made our way silently, every sense alert. Bran carried his spear, and I my sword blade naked against my thigh. But we heard nothing save the hollow clop of our horses’ hooves on the road and saw only the smoke gently undulating like a filthy sea swell. Down and down we went, following the sharp switchback of the road as it uncoiled into the valley. I watched the smoke sea surge as we descended to meet it.
In a little while we dismounted and led the horses off the road to tether them behind a rock. A little grass growing at the base of the boulder would keep the animals occupied until we returned. We then proceeded on foot, all but blind in the haze. The acrid smoke burned our eyes, but we remained watchful and proceeded with all caution, pausing every few paces to listen. Having come this far, we could not allow a moment’s carelessness to ruin our cause.
We flitted from rock to rock, scanning the road below before moving on. After a while, I began to hear a drumming sound, deep and low, like an earth heart beating underground. The rhythmic rumble vibrated in the pit of my stomach and up through the soles of my feet.
Bran heard it too. “What is that?” he asked when we stopped again.
“It is coming from the valley.” The smoke pall was thinning as we descended, and I saw that we would soon drop below it. “Down there.” I pointed to a large, angular boulder jutting up beside the road. “We should be able to see better from there.”
We made for the boulder, pursuing the sinuous path as it slid down and down. The humming, drumming sound grew louder. In a little while we reached the rock and paused to rest and survey the land below.
The smoke cloud formed a ceiling above us, thick and dark. And, spreading below us, a vista of devastation: the entire bowl of the wide valley was a vast, denuded pit; rust-red mounds of crushed rock formed precarious mountains teetering over tier upon tier of ragged trenches and holes gouged into a rutile land, deep, angry red, like violent gashes in bruised flesh.
Plumes of foul smoke rose from scores of vents and holes, and from open fires burning on the slopes of slag heaps. And rising with the smoke, the stink of human excrement mingled with that of rotting meat and putrid water. The smell made our throats ache.
Crawling over this hellish landscape, swarming the slag heaps and plying the trenches, were thousands of men and women—thronging like termites, delving like ants, toiling away like tireless worker bees— more insect than human. Half-naked and covered in dust and mud and smoke, the wretches struggled under the enormous burdens upon their backs; scaling rickety ladders and clinging to ropes, they toiled with dull but single-minded purpose, hoisting leather bags and wicker baskets filled with earth, and then bearing them away. Squalid beyond belief, the valley squirmed with this teeming, palpitating tumult.
Gazing out over the desolate valley, straining to comprehend the methodical, meticulous thoroughness of its devastation, we could only gawk in dismay. I felt sick, disgusted by the horrific extent of the destruction.
“Maggots,” muttered Bran under his breath, “feeding on a rotten corpse.”
A fresh-running stream had once passed through the center of the vale. But the stream had been dammed at the further end of the valley, and the waters backed to make a narrow lake, now choked with scum and rust-hued mud. Beyond the dam a column of orange-brown smoke issued from an enormous chimney in puffing gusts to the rhythm of the deep pounding earthbeat. The smoke rolled slowly, relentlessly from the stack to add to the heavy canopy of filth hanging over the whole vale.
It took me some moments to work out that I was looking at a crude strip mine. The earthmovers and loaders working this mine were human: bemired, befouled, and bedraggled men, women, and children.
“It is a mine,” I lamented.
Bran nodded woodenly. “They are digging for iron, do you think?”
“Probably. But I want a closer look.”
We crept from our hiding place and continued picking our way down. The road curved away from the valley, rimming an inner bend in the mountains. At one place the rock wall climbed steeply on the left- hand side of the road and fell sharply on the right. Water from above seeped down the cliff, gathered in a yellow pool and flowed across the road to splash away below. This small stream had washed loose silt and mud from the cliff above to form a bed. As we crossed this stream, I caught sight of something in the mud that stopped me in midstep.
I halted, putting out my hand to Bran. He froze, spear at the ready, looking quickly around for danger. Seeing nothing, he turned to me. I pointed to the muddy track at my feet. The Raven Chief looked long at it, then bent for a closer inspection.
“Do you know what made this?” he asked.
“I do,” I told him. Blood throbbed in my temples, I felt dizzy and sick. “It is a wheel track,” I said at last.
Kneeling, Bran pressed his fingertips into the intricate lacework in the mud. “It is no wheel track that I have ever seen.”
“It was made by a—” Before I could say another word, I heard an oddly familiar rumble. “Hurry! We must get off the road.”
Bran heard the sound but made no move. He frowned, cocking his head to one side as he listened, unaware of the danger. Snatching the Raven Chief by the arm, I yanked him to his feet. “Hurry! We must not be seen!”
We sprinted across the road and flung ourselves down the slope. An instant later, I saw a streak of yellow and the dull glint of dark glass as the vehicle passed directly over our heads with a rush. It slowed as it came to the stream; there came the sound of gears grinding as it downshifted, the engine roared—a gut-clenching, alien sound—and the vehicle cruised on.
We pressed our faces flat to the dirt and held ourselves deathly still. The vehicle drove on. When it had gone, Bran raised his head, a stricken expression on his face.
“It was a kind of wagon,” I explained. “It comes from my world. That is what made the tracks.�
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“An evil thing, certainly,” he said.
“It has no place here,” I replied, rising. “Come on. We must hurry before it returns.”
We climbed back onto the road and hurried on. Bran kept looking back to see if any more of these strange wagons were coming at him. But the road remained empty, and I could see nothing moving on it down below.
The appearance of the vehicle shocked and disturbed me more than I could say. But I had no time to consider the implications. It was more crucial than ever now to learn the enemy’s strength and position. I ran headlong down the road, dodging behind rocks, pausing to catch my breath and lurching on. Bran ran behind me and we entered the valley, staying well out of sight behind the slag heaps and rock piles.
A tainted rain began to fall. It left black-rimmed spots where it splashed onto my skin. The laborers took no notice. The red dust slowly turned to red mud, transforming the valley into a vast oozy quagmire. Yet the workers toiled on.
Bran and I crept under an overhanging boulder and settled down to watch. The first thing that struck me, after the shock of the desolation and the presence of Dyn Dythri, the outworld strangers, was the relentless labor of the miners. They worked as driven slaves, yet I could not see anyone compelling them. There were, as far as I could see, no overseers, no taskmasters. There was no one directing the frenzied toil. Slaves under an invisible lash, then, the mudmen struggled and strove, sinking under their burdens, floundering in a thick stew of ordure and sludge and soot.
The poor, ignorant brutes, I thought, and wondered who, or what, had so enslaved them.
There was a track made of cut logs thrown across the mire on the far side of the valley. I watched as men fought their way up from the pits and trenches to stumble along this track toward the dam. The track crossed the dam and descended out of sight behind it in the direction of the smokestack. This seemed to be the workers’ destination.
I considered whether the impetus for the wretches’ toil might derive from the object of that labor, rather than any external force or threat. Perhaps they were enslaved by some deep passion within themselves. Maybe they wanted to work like beasts of burden. Lacking any other explanation, I decided they must be prisoners of their own rapacity.
The Endless Knot Page 33
