The Paradise War

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The third supplicant was a farmer from Meldryn’s own holding who sought the king’s aid in clearing a patch of bottom land, a process which included draining a bit of marsh. This was clearly beyond the farmer’s capacity as he would need a great deal of help to get the land ready by planting time, which was rapidly approaching.

  The king, through his bard, blessed the enterprise—for a modest return in kind—and offered the labor of fifty warriors under the direction of a Gwyddon to accomplish the task.

  “What’s a Gwyddon?” I asked Simon, when he had explained the situation to me.

  “It’s a type of bard. There are several different kinds, degrees actually. From Penderwydd—that is the Head Druid, or Chief Bard—on down to Mabinog, which is a pupil or apprentice. The Gwyddon is an expert on anything to do with land or cattle; he’s also the nearest thing to a physician around here.”

  Wheels within wheels, I thought. Even simple societies had bureaucracies.

  The next claimant stepped forward and an audible hush fell upon the throng. Those in the foreranks moved aside from the man; from the way everyone behaved, he appeared to be a criminal. Simon whispered, “This should be good.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It is Balorgain,” Simon replied with wicked glee. “He is a nobleman of Meldryn Mawr’s lineage. He killed one of Meldryn’s kinsmen in a fight, so he’s been exiled for the last few years.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Watch and see.” Simon’s eyes glinted with keen, almost malevolent interest.

  The king regarded the noble with obvious contempt, although for his part I thought Balorgain seemed genuinely contrite. He stood before the king with his hands at his sides. The Chief Bard said something, a question. The man responded in a low voice. I saw the king’s face freeze; the line of mouth flattened; his eyes went hard.

  “Balorgain’s got guts, I’ll give him that,” Simon said. “He might have been killed on sight.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “He has claimed naud of the king,” he explained. “It is—”

  “I know what it is,” I whispered back. I had encountered the word before: a legal term for asylum, or refuge. Among the ancient Celts, a nobleman had the right to claim naud, or sanctuary, excusing him from a punishment. Interestingly, the claim of naud carried with it a moral obligation on the part of the king to grant it. By some obscure logic, for a monarch to refuse naud when it had been asked would transfer the guilt for the crime to the king.

  Apparently, Balorgain had returned and slipped unseen into the court of exile, seeking naud. If granted, the crime would be forgiven and plucky Balorgain would be free to return to life among his people. Of course, Meldryn Mawr, who had decreed the exile in the first place, was not happy about this. But, great king that he was, he simply whispered the words to Ollathir, who pronounced Balorgain’s claim of naud granted. And Balorgain strolled from the hall a free man.

  The next few cases were minor disputes between neighboring tribes—the most interesting of which involved an adulterous affair between a married woman from one holding and a single man from another. The complaint was resolved by requiring the single man to reimburse the cuckolded husband to the tune of three cows, or ten sheep, whichever the husband preferred. The wayward wife, however, did not escape punishment. For the husband was granted permission to take a concubine should he ever choose to do so.

  Meldryn Mawr seemed to lose interest in the proceedings then and scanned the room for some diversion. His eyes turned to where Simon and I stood waiting. He inclined his head in our direction, and Ollathir beckoned us to the dais.

  “That’s us,” breathed Simon. “Here we go.”

  Simon led me to the front of the dais. We had no gift, so we did not offer any. The king appeared not to mind. He gazed at me with, I thought, lively curiosity. At least, his bored expression disappeared as he looked me over from head to toe.

  As the others had done, Simon introduced us with a brief description of events. At least, I assume that is what he did. The king replied and asked questions. Simon answered briefly. The king nodded, and I thought the matter would end there, for he turned to his Chief Bard and whispered to him. Ollathir listened, surveying me all the while. I expected the king’s pronouncement to follow.

  Instead, the Great King turned to me and beckoned me closer. I stepped nearer the dais, and Simon moved behind me. The king spoke to me. I smiled pleasantly. “What’s he saying?” I whispered out of the side of my grin.

  “The king wants to know how you came here.” Simon replied calmly. “He understands that you do not speak the language and has appointed me to interpret. You don’t have to whisper; just answer him and I will translate.”

  “Okay, but what do I tell him?”

  “Tell him the truth,” urged Simon. “But whatever you tell him, do not hesitate. They consider even a second’s hesitation the same thing as lying.”

  I swallowed hardly. The king examined me benignly. “Great King,” I said, “I am a stranger here. I have come to your realm from another world—through a cairn on a sacred hill.”

  “Good answer,” said Simon, who then proceeded to translate for me. The king nodded without surprise and asked another question, which Simon relayed. “He wants to know how you came to kill the Cruin champion.”

  “Great King,” I said, “I killed the Cruin champion by, uh, accident. In the heat of battle, I found a spear and struck him when he attacked me.”

  Simon, without hesitation, answered for me and again relayed the king’s reply. “He wants to know if you are a great warrior in your world.”

  “Great King, I am not a warrior. I am the least among warriors.”

  At this, when Simon echoed my words, the king’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “If you are not a warrior, what are you? A bard?” Simon asked in the king’s stead.

  “Great King, I am no bard.”

  The king listened to Simon’s reply, and asked, through Simon, “Are you an artisan, perhaps, or a farmer?”

  “Great King,” I answered, “I am neither an artisan nor a farmer.”

  Meldryn Mawr seemed genuinely puzzled by my reply. He said something to me in a tone of frank bewilderment. “What’s he saying?” I asked desperately.

  Simon translated: “You do not fight, you do not sing, you do not plant or reap. What do you do, stranger?”

  “What do I tell him? What do I say?” I hissed at Simon.

  “Just answer!” Simon hissed back. “Quickly!”

  “Great King,” I said, “I read and write. I learn.”

  “Oh, splendid,” Simon muttered, “that’s torn it.” But he delivered my answer to the king.

  Meldryn favored me with a frown of stern disapproval and turned to Ollathir and then to Meldron, who whispered something to him. Many of those around us murmured. “What’s happening now?” I asked.

  Before Simon could answer, the king spoke up. Simon interpreted: “The king says that he will not be mocked—even by a guest ignorant of Llywddi ways. You came to his court in a warrior’s guise, a warrior you will become.”

  “I can’t!” I rasped in a panicked whisper. “Explain to him. We’re not staying. We’re leaving as soon as possible—we are leaving, Simon. As soon as we find a way to return to our own world, we’re gone.” I pleaded desperately. “You’ve got to tell him, Simon. Make him understand.”

  Simon said something to the king, who listened and then whispered into the Chief Bard’s ear. Ollathir delivered the king’s judgment in a voice bold with authority and grave with finality. When he finished, he cracked the rod on the stone three times and the llys was over. The king rose up from his judgment seat and withdrew. Those of us gathered in the hall filed slowly outside, where preparations for the victory feast continued.

  “Well?” I said, as soon as we were out of the hall. “What did he say? What happened in there?”

  Simon was slow in answering. “He did not see fit to withdraw his opinio
n,” he said at last.

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re going to become a warrior, boyo.”

  “He can’t do that!”

  “Oh, yes, he can do that,” Simon insisted. “He is the king.”

  “But I don’t know the first thing about being a warrior. I’ll get killed. Besides, I’m not going to be here that long. Didn’t you tell him we’re leaving right away? We have to go back, Simon. You told him that, right?”

  Simon hesitated. “Not exactly.”

  “What did you tell him?” I was fairly shouting with indignation. People around us were watching me with amused expressions, apparently much entertained by my hysterics.

  “Keep your voice down,” Simon warned. “They’ll think you’re questioning the king’s judgment.”

  “Darn right! I am questioning the king’s judgment! That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Don’t,” Simon warned. “Not here—not in front of the king’s hall.”

  “I’ll holler anywhere I please! What in blue blazes is going on anyway?” I demanded. Simon grabbed me by the arm and steered me away from the hall.

  “The king considers that anyone who can kill a champion by accident deserves a chance to prove himself a champion. Since you profess yourself good at learning, you will learn the warrior’s craft. It is really an honor he is paying you. Quite high, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering you all but insulted him with your flippant answers.”

  “My flippant answers? What are you talking about?”

  “Not a warrior, not a bard, not a farmer—you made him look foolish in front of his chieftains. That was a very chancy thing to do.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I protested. “I was only trying to answer his questions, like you said.”

  “He knows that,” Simon explained, “which is why he didn’t have your tongue torn out where you stood. I told you, it’s really an honor.”

  “Well, I won’t do it,” I insisted, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “You’ll just have to talk to him. Explain things. Work it out. Maybe get his bard to help us.”

  “Too late,” Simon replied. “You had your chance. The judgment is given. The king’s word is law, remember?”

  “Well, it stinks! Just what in blue blazes am I supposed to do now?”

  Simon pointed across the grassy yard to where the horses were tethered. I turned to see Ollathir and a young man speaking to one another. The young man took the hem of the Chief Bard’s cloak, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. Without a glance in our direction, Ollathir departed. The younger man quickly gathered the reins of two horses and proceeded toward where Simon and I stood looking on.

  “He’s coming this way,” I observed. “Simon, what’s he doing?”

  Apprehension crept over me like a swarm of ants. “What’s happening?”

  Simon put a hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, Lewis. It’s for the best.”

  “What’s for the best? Simon! What’s going on here?” My voice scaled several registers. “You know—so tell me!”

  “Listen carefully, Lewis,” Simon explained, speaking as one would to a distraught child. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you. You are going on a journey.”

  “I don’t understand. Where am I going?”

  “You are going to Ynys Sci.” He pronounced it Ennis Sky. “That’s an island—where there is a school for warriors. There you will be taught how to fight, and, when you have learned, you will return here to serve Meldryn.”

  “Warriors’ school! It’s a joke, right?”

  Simon shook his head solemnly. “It is no joke. Boys from all over Albion are sent to this school—the sons of kings and champions every one. I told you, it’s a great honor.”

  I was too stunned to speak. I stood looking on in mute despair as the young man approached and greeted Simon. They exchanged a few brief words, and then the youth turned to me and touched the back of his hand to his forehead.

  “This is Tegid Tathal,” Simon told me. “He is a Brehon—that’s another type of bard. He’s Ollathir’s right-hand man. The Chief Bard has chosen him to be your guide. He has also been given the responsibility of teaching you the language.”

  Tegid grinned at me and handed me the reins of one of the horses.

  “Just like that—we’re leaving?”

  “Yes. Just like that.” Simon moved to the side of the horse. “Here, I’ll help you mount.”

  “This is crazy!” I muttered murderously. “I mean, this is seriously nuts! I don’t belong here.”

  “Relax,” Simon soothed. “Enjoy yourself. It is going to be an experience you’ll never forget. It is a wonderful gift you have been given. I wish I could go with you—and I mean that.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “King’s orders,” Simon shrugged. “But don’t worry. I’ll be waiting for you when you return.”

  “Ha! If I return, you mean.”

  “Oh, you’ll return, never fear,” Simon assured me. “Tegid tells me the king has decreed that special care is to be taken—you are not to be killed in your training. There, you see? Nothing to worry about. Everything’s been taken care of.”

  Simon cupped his hands and made a stirrup. I raised my foot and he boosted me into the saddle. I say “saddle”—but it was little more than a leather pad over a folded cloak with a strap to hold both in place. “Simon, listen to me. You’ve got to talk to the king. You’ve got to get him to change his mind. I mean it, Simon. We can’t stay here. We’ve got to go back. We don’t belong here.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he promised blandly. “In the meantime, try to take it easy. It’s no use getting upset—just relax and enjoy it.”

  The moment I was settled, Tegid vaulted into the saddle, wheeled his mount, and began trotting away across the grassy yard. My own mount, an enormous gray beast, followed at a trot. “I can’t ride a horse!” I hollered, clutching the animal’s mane for dear life.

  “Of course you can!” called Simon. “Good luck, Lewis!”

  With that, we were off. People paused in their work and called out as we passed—wishing us farewell, I suppose. I turned and looked back when we reached the narrow gate of the caer and saw them waving us away. I frowned bitterly back and realized that, thanks to Meldryn Mawr’s wonderful honor of a gift, I would miss the feast.

  17

  THE ROAD

  TO YNYS SCI

  I could not remain sullen in that fair land. We journeyed for days through the most beautiful landscape imaginable: every panorama breathtaking, each vista enchanting. I felt like stopping to admire the view every hundred yards or so. Had Tegid allowed it, we would still be on the road to Ynys Sci.

  We traveled light; I carried nothing but the clothes on my back, and Tegid only his oaken staff and a large leather bag behind his saddle which contained a few provisions. Nevertheless, my guide assumed a slow, yet steady pace. For that, I was grateful. I had not ridden a horse since I was a small boy at the county fair, and then it had been a Shetland pony. Tegid allowed me time to marshal what rudimentary riding skills I possessed and master a few I lacked. He showed me how to lead the horse with the gentle pressure of my knees, leaving my hands free for holding a shield and sword or spear. And several times each day he urged the horses to gallop, so that I quickly learned how to stay upright on the broad, rolling back of the heaving beast beneath me.

  The days were soft and bright, the nights cool and crisp as the land warmed to full spring. We traveled north and west through the wide lowlands above the Synchant River, following an old hill track which some Llwyddi king had made in an effort to link his further-flung holdings together: Sarn Meldraen, Tegid called it. According to him, the name commemorated one of Meldryn Mawr’s celebrated ancestors. Tegid told me countless things, few of which I understood at first. But he was a tireless teacher, jabbering away at me from dawn’s early light to well past the time when my eyelids closed for the
night. By dint of Tegid’s constant repetition and unflagging zeal, I began to gain a rough rapport with the proto-Gaelic the inhabitants of Albion spoke.

  I recognized many of the individual words, of course; I had encountered scores of the older word-forms in my Celtic studies, and they were little changed. And why not? The bards of ancient Britain always maintained that their language emanated from an Otherworldly source. Most academics totally discount such stories, believing them to be nonsensical boasts on the part of a shabby tribe attempting to further itself by professed descent from an illustrious forebear. But hearing the language on Tegid’s agile tongue, I entertained no such doubts. The native speech of Albion was strong and subtle, infinitely expressive, and rich with a wealth of color, sound, and movement. I could easily discern the root of modern Gaelic.

  Since Tegid and I were alone on the trail, I tried my best to match my tutor syllable for tongue-knotting syllable, and vowel for elusive vowel. To his credit, he never laughed at my faltering, feeble efforts. He patiently corrected every gross mistake and lauded every small success. He made word games for us to play and pretended deafness whenever, in exhaustion or frustration, I lapsed into English. He seemed genuinely keen to have me master the brain-boggling intricacies of his speech, not merely salt away the odd word or phrase. And as soon as I gained a tentative foothold on a lower rung, Tegid was there, poking and prodding me to higher, more complex and sophisticated achievement.

  Under such intense and imaginative instruction, I came to a flirting familiarity with what the bards called Moddion-o-Gair—the Ways of Words. And, as I learned, I began to see the world around me more clearly. A queer thing to say, I know. For the more words I had for things, the better I could frame my thoughts, the more vivid my thoughts became. Awareness deepened, consciousness sharpened.

  I think this had to do with the language itself: there were no dead words. No words that had suffered the ignorant predation of a semiliterate media, or had their substance leached away through gross misuse; no words rendered meaningless through overuse, or cheapened through bureaucratic doublespeak. Consequently, the speech of Albion was a valued currency, a language alive with meaning: poetic, imagaic, bursting with rhythm and sound. When the words were spoken aloud they possessed the power to touch the heart as well as the head: they spoke to the soul. On the lips of a bard, a story became an astonishing revelation, a song became a marvel of almost paralyzing beauty.