The Paradise War

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The sound became a wild, inchoate chant. At first I could not make out the words, but then I discerned a name—Ollathir was calling out a name. And the name was Dagda Samildanac.

  The words of the name meant the Goodly-Wise Many-Gifted One. It was the secret name of the highest god known among the tribes of Albion.

  “Dagda! Dagda Samildanac!” the resonant bull-voice boomed out. “Dagda! Samildanac Dagda!”

  Again and again the eerie invocation sounded, taking shape and substance. Up it rose, spreading like a shield above us, enfolding us in a cloak of protection—a blessed lorica to hide us from the fell enemy of all living things.

  “Samildanac! Dagda! Dagda Samildanac!” the great earth voice bellowed, louder and still louder until the very mound itself quivered and shook.

  I could not stand before such a sound. I gripped my hazel branch and swayed dizzily on my feet. I squeezed my eyes shut, but that made the dizziness worse. I reeled backward and fell down on hands and knees, still clutching the hazel wand in my right hand. I could not breathe; I gasped for air. I tasted the salt-sweet taste of blood on my tongue and realized that I was grinding my lower lip between my teeth.

  Fearfully, I turned my eyes toward the demon hand pressing down upon us. The lorica of Ollathir’s invocation had halted the thing’s advance but lacked the power to banish it. Not long could the Chief Bard endure the strain of his entreaty, for already I could see him tiring. He could no longer hold his head erect, and his arms began to sag.

  Soon his strength would give out; the bull-voice of the Dark Tongue would falter. And the lorica of protection would fail. Then we would surely be crushed.

  I dragged my feet under me and stood. Tegid lay before me on his side, bleeding from his nose and mouth, one arm flung over his head, the other stretched out as if trying to reach Ollathir. I saw Tegid’s reaching hand and determined what to do: I would uphold the Chief Bard’s hands; I would support his arms and keep them upraised. As long as the bard’s hands gripped the rowan rod, we would be safe.

  I lurched into the circle toward the pillar stone, stumbling over the body of Tegid. Instantly, I was battered by a force of blinding power which struck me like the heat blast from a fire, swirling around me like wind-driven flames. My sight dimmed. I could not see. I fought blindly onward, step-by-faltering-step, my heart thumping hard against my ribs. I could feel my flesh withering on my bones.

  I struggled toward the pillar stone where Ollathir stood. His head slumped on his chest. His arms sagged.

  I reached him just as his stamina failed and his hands, still grasping the broken rod, dropped. I seized the rod and lifted it. Ollathir raised his head, saw me standing over him, and recognition came into his bulging eyes. He opened his mouth and drew breath into his lungs.

  “Dagda! Samildanac Dagda!” the Chief Bard bellowed. “Bodd cwi Samildanac!”

  I felt once again the strange growing sensation in my hands where I touched the rod: my hands seemed to expand, to grow immense and powerful. I could feel a mighty strength surging into my fingers, palms, and wrists. Had I picked up a stone, I know I could have crushed it in my grip. The uncanny sensation flowed through my hands and into my arms, into my shoulders, neck, and head, into my back and chest and legs and feet. I felt as if I had grown huge, as if I had become a giant on the earth, possessing a giant’s strength.

  I lifted the rowan rod high. With a loud and terrible cry, Ollathir collapsed against the standing stone and slumped to the ground. Now I stood alone, raising the staff of power over us. Ollathir lay panting at my feet, feebly striving to rise.

  Looking above me, I saw the immense clawed hand stretching itself above us, pressing down. My strength, great though it was, could not prevent it from crushing us. I was not a bard; I knew no words of power. I cried out to the Chief Bard: “Ollathir!” I shouted, my voice torn from my throat by the shrieking blast. “Ollathir, do not abandon us! Penderwydd, help us!”

  He heard me and took heart at my words. He gripped my legs and pulled himself to his knees. I thought he meant to rise, but instead he beckoned me to bend near him. I thrust the rowan rod high, loosed a hand, reached down, and hauled him to his feet. He tottered, clutching at me, leaning on me for support, his limbs trembling with the effort to stand.

  His jaw worked, his mouth formed words, but I could not hear them. I thought he wanted me to say the words he was saying. I cocked my head, placing my ear to his mouth. Ollathir crooked an arm around the back of my neck and turned my face to his. “Domhain Dorcha . . . ,” he whispered in the secret language of bards. “The heart . . . in place beyond . . . the Phantarch sleeps . . .”

  I understood nothing of what he said. “What are you saying? Speak plainly!”

  But he was past hearing. “Llew!” he said in a tight, choked voice. “Llew . . . your servant greets you!”

  I saw the sweat of death on his brow, and his eyes fierce and bright. Then he pressed his mouth to mine.

  The Chief Bard held me in a desperate embrace. Before I could pull away, he breathed his dying breath into me. I tasted his breath hot on my tongue. My lungs swelled to bursting. With my free hand I tried to break his stranglehold; I seized his wrist and made to pry his arm from around my neck. But he was already slipping away. The movement begun to loose myself from his grasp finished with a futile grab to save him from falling and striking his head against the pillar stone.

  “Ollathir!” I cried, and my voice trembled the ground beneath my feet. “Ollathir, do not die!”

  The Chief Bard was already dead.

  That he should die, while I strove to save him, angered me. That he should die, leaving me to battle the hellborn beast alone, infuriated me. Instantly, I was overcome with a savage rage. “Ollathir!” I shouted. “Stand up! I need you!”

  The body lay in a pathetic heap at my feet. “Stand you, Ollathir!” I cried. I kicked at him, but he did not respond. This angered me the more. In white-hot fury I struck him with the rowan rod. I struck him time and again, screaming at him to rise. But he did not rise.

  Anger and frustration warred within me. I fell upon him, clubbing him with the broken rod. “Dagda!” I wailed, using the words I had heard him utter, “Samildanac Dagda, make him live!”

  It came into my mind that I was beating a dead man—and that the hell spawn hovering over the mound was deriving pleasure and strength from this abomination. With an effort of will I pushed myself away from Ollathir’s battered corpse. I stood and, with a mighty heave, slammed the rowan rod into the side of the pillar stone: once . . . and once more . . . and yet once more.

  Then I threw the blood-smeared staff into the leering, smirking maw above me. The rowan rod spun up into the night sky, striking the creature of the pit. There came a sound like a terrible rush of wind as the lowering image splintered and flew into a vapor of fragments that vanished like the night’s mist before the clear light of day.

  The whole sky seemed to lighten at once, flashing forth in a blaze of crimson and gold. I looked and saw the flaming sun-rim touching the lip of the horizon. The time-between-times!

  Within moments the plain below the mound was awash in golden light. The pillar stone shone like an earthstar, dazzling in the dawn light. I raised my eyes, shielding them with my hands from the new day’s light. I saw only the morning stars gleaming in the paling firmament. The creature of the night was gone.

  Great fatigue descended upon me, and I sank down on my knees beside the Chief Bard’s body. Tears started in my eyes to see what I had done to that once-handsome head. Shame and sorrow flowed mingled in the hot tears that streamed down my face. “Forgive me, Ollathir,” I wept. “Please, forgive me.”

  Tegid found me some little time later, still weeping over the body, holding Ollathir’s broken head on my knees, bathing it with my tears. I felt a touch on my shoulder. “What has happened here?” Tegid asked.

  I raised my head to make an answer, but the expression on Tegid’s face stopped me. He stared at the body in stunne
d and bewildered silence, his hands shaking in utter agitation. His mouth formed words, but he could not speak. When he finally found his voice, it was a single astonished word. “How?”

  I could only shake my head in reply. Was it the creature of the pit that killed him? Was it the Dagda? I did not know.

  Tegid dropped to his knees beside me and pressed his hands to either side of Ollathir’s head. He lowered his face to the Penderwydd’s and pressed his lips to the now-cold brow. “May it go well with you on your journey hence,” he murmured.

  The Brehon lifted Ollathir’s shoulders from my knees and set about straightening the crooked limbs and smoothing the rumpled clothing. When he had finished, he stood. “Where is his staff ?” he asked.

  “I threw it,” I replied and glanced across the flattened top of the mound. I saw part of the broken rowan rod lying on the ground at the edge of the circle of white stones. I walked to it and stooped to retrieve it.

  As my hand closed on the length of rounded wood, I felt once more the strange power of the rod. I stood holding the object before me as it were a snake. The sensation of strength overwhelmed me. It seemed as if my limbs were growing to the size of trees, as if my head touched the clouds, as if my hands could move the hills. I could hear the blood-rush pounding in my ears like the sound of wind-driven surf.

  It seemed as if I held within myself the power to do all things. I had only to lift my hand and whatever I craved would be accomplished. Nothing was denied; nothing would be withheld if I desired it. At the sound of my voice, the earth and sky would obey. I held within myself the authority to accomplish whatever I sought. My very presence could heal or slay. No longer was I confined to tread the dust like normal men. Where other men walked, I would run; where they ran, I would fly.

  I would fly.

  Holding the rowan rod in my hand and gazing out across the plain from the moundtop, I knew I could fly. I had only to lift my foot and I would sail out upon the wind, borne by unseen wings. I walked to the edge of the mound and calmly stepped out into nothing.

  22

  LLEW

  I do not remember sleeping. I do not remember waking. I remember only this: Goewyn softly singing, her voice like a silken cord gently tugging me back to my senses and to myself. Sight returned to me, and I saw Goewyn’s fair face above me and felt my head cradled in her lap. I lay on a fleece-covered pallet in a small, rush-lit room, soft otterskin covering me.

  I drew breath to speak, but before I could utter a sound she placed her fingertip to my lips. “Hush, my soul,” she whispered. “Say nothing yet.” She raised my head and offered a cup. “Drink this, and you will find your voice.”

  I sipped the warm liquid—tasting of honey and herbs—and it soothed my dry throat. I drained the cup, and Goewyn lowered my head to her lap once more. “What has happened?” I asked. “Why am I here?”

  “Do you not know?” She held her head to one side, her long tresses slid from her shoulder to fall in a curling cascade above me. I smelled the scent of heather in her hair, and it made me ache with longing.

  “I know only that I am where I always want to be,” I replied. I spoke my heart without inhibition. And, taking a handful of her hair, I drew her face toward mine. Her lips were warm, her kiss sweet as the honeyed mead. I did not want the kiss to end.

  “You have returned, indeed,” Goewyn murmured. “I feared you had left us.”

  “Where am I?”

  “Do you not remember?”

  “I remember nothing, I—” Even as I spoke, I was assailed by a confused rush of images and sensations—but muted, as if dulled by great distance and greater time. I dimly remembered leaving Ynys Sci, the sea journey to Ynys Oer, the gorsedd of bards, and the fearful battle with the evil horror that took Ollathir’s life. I remembered lying crumpled in the bottom of the boat, being tossed about on dangerous waves, and screaming—I remembered screaming unknown words at the top of my lungs, hurling garbled abuse at the four winds. I remembered, but it all seemed obscure and of little consequence compared with the look of love in Goewyn’s dark eyes.

  “Yes,” I told her, “I remember now—some of it. But I do not recall leaving the sacred mound, or returning—if I have returned—to Ynys Sci.”

  Goewyn stroked my forehead. “You are with me in my mother’s house. My sisters and I have been caring for you these many days.”

  “How many days?”

  “Three threes of days since you came here.”

  “And how did I come here?”

  “Tegid brought you.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “He is well. I will bid him come to you when you wish.” She smiled, and I saw the fatigue behind her eyes. She had been watching over me day and night.

  I attempted to rise, and found the effort greater than I had imagined. My muscles were stiff; my stomach, back, and legs cramped the instant I stirred. “Aghh!” I cried out in pain.

  Goewyn carefully shifted my head to the pallet beneath me. “Lie still,” she commanded, rising quickly. “I will bring help.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming as the spasms racked my body. In a moment Goewyn returned with one of her sisters. Govan hurried to where I lay doubled over on the pallet and said to Goewyn, “Leave us. I will attend to him now.”

  Goewyn hesitated. “Go now,” Govan insisted. “I will send for you when I have finished.”

  As soon as Goewyn had gone, Govan brought out a green jar which she placed amidst the burning coals of the iron brazier. Then she unwound the belt from around her waist, put it aside, and drew her arms through the neck of her mantle, pulling it off. Taking up the green jar once again, she pulled the clump of moss from its mouth and poured some of its contents into the palm of her hand. The room filled with the fragrance of scented oil. She replaced the jar in the brazier and rubbed her palms together. “Do not resist. This will soothe and heal you.”

  She stripped away my otterskin covering, took hold of my shoulders, and gently rolled me onto my stomach. My flesh warmed where she touched me, and in a moment I felt the same soothing warmth spreading across the knot-tight muscles of my back. Govan sang softly as she worked over me. Her strong fingers stroked the pain away, applying the healing balm, kneading life into my knotted, wooden flesh.

  She massaged my shoulders and back, thighs, legs, and feet; then she rolled me over and rubbed my chest and stomach, arms, and hands. When she had finished, every part of my body felt loose and lank. I smiled through a lazy haze of pleasure, warm and relaxed from head to heel. I had no desire to rouse myself, and did not care if I never moved again.

  Govan pulled the otterskin over me. “You will sleep now. And when you awake, you will be hungry. There will be food awaiting you.” She dressed herself and departed. I was asleep before she left the room.

  I woke again almost at once—or so it seemed. But I had slept, for someone had come in while I dozed and left me bread and ale and a little cheese. I drank some of the ale, and then, overcome by an almost ravenous hunger, tore the loaf in half and stuffed as much of it in my mouth as I could. I ate the cheese and the other half of the loaf likewise, and drained the cup.

  Besides the food, someone had also brought clothing and left it folded neatly at the foot of my pallet. I rose slowly and climbed unsteadily to my feet. I took up the siarc and thrust my arms into the sleeves, admiring the color and quality: scarlet, the hue of winter-ripe nightshade berries; the fine-woven breecs were checked with shades of russet and brown. The leather of the wide belt and buskins was thick and soft, without blemish or mark, the color of sand; the cloak was feathery gray, the color of dove down, and the intricate knotwork of its hem bright silver. The brooch was silver, too, large and round, its surface inset with bright blue stones.

  Never had I owned clothes so fine. It was the raiment of a wealthy chieftain. Why I should be so favored, I did not stop to consider. I dressed gladly, praising the generosity of my unknown patron—Scatha herself, no doubt. When I h
ad arranged the cloak over my shoulders, I fastened the silver brooch and went out.

  I was weaker than I thought, for the small effort of crossing the threshold made me light-headed and dizzy. I staggered against the doorpost and paused there until the house stopped spinning. The sun had slipped below a gray, hardcast sky briefly to illumine a dying day with a pale yellow light. Cold, with a raw wind off the sea, the air was sharp with the tang of salt.

  Some of the older boys who were staying on the island through Sollen had gathered nearby to play hurley. The low sun stretched their shadows long on the field. They stopped their game when they saw me, each one staring at me. None called out a greeting, though I knew them all and they knew me.

  Goewyn appeared on the path outside my door. She saw me clutching the doorpost and hurried to my side. The brash sea wind caught her unbound hair and blew the long golden tresses across her face as she gathered my arm in hers. “I was coming to sit with you while you slept. I did not think you would rise so soon.”

  “I have slept enough. I want to walk,” I told her. Supporting me, her arm beneath mine, she steered me past the gawking boys in the yard and out toward the sea cliff.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “I feel new made,” I said. At these words Goewyn hesitated—only a small falter in her step and a sidelong glance, both of which she covered instantly. But I noticed.

  “Why do you look at me so?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

  She smiled but again I sensed the merest hint of indecision before she answered. “You looked like someone else just then,” she replied. “It must have been the light.”

  Indeed, the fading afternoon light cast a golden glow over the sea and rocks below us and turned Goewyn’s honey-hued hair to spun gold and her fair skin to finest amber. The wind was fresh off the sea, flinging waves against the rocks and kicking up a mist that glimmered in the air. Too soon the golden light began to fade. Overcome by a sudden urge to touch her, I stopped on the path and raised a hand to her face, cupping my palm to her cheek. She did not resist.