“How so?” I demanded. “I see none at all.”
He looked away, sighing heavily. “You are my daughter’s only child; the only son of your father. You are my flesh and blood, Merlin, and I am weak. I could not help myself. I did it to save you.”
“Indeed!” I cried, my voice ringing in the rock cell. “My life was saved so that the Kingdom of Summer would not die. Perhaps I was saved so that I could stand here before you this night and argue for Arthur’s life.”
The Fisher King observed me thoughtfully. “Who is to say?”
“You preserved me, and so preserved the vision of the Summer Realm. Hear me, Avallach, the Kingdom of Summer is near—closer now than it has ever been. How can we let the Summer Lord die?”
He said nothing, though I could see that he was wavering.
“If you are the keeper of this Grail,” I said solemnly, “then it is for you to exercise the power of your position for the good of all. I tell you the truth, there is not another life the worth of Arthur’s, and even now it is slipping away from us. Saving that life will lead to the salvation of generations yet unborn.”
Avallach pressed a hand to his head wearily. “Do you not know I have been entreating the Throne of Heaven on his behalf? I have not left off one moment since he arrived.”
“God will welcome Arthur in his time,” I affirmed. “But that time is not yet. This I know. If a life is required, I stand ready to give mine.” I raised my hands to Avallach in supplication. “Save him. Please, save him.”
“Very well,” Avallach relented. “I will do what I can. Though I do not command the Grail, as you seem to think. I can only ask. The Grail answers how it will.”
I did not know what form the Fisher King’s ministrations would take; but, as we hurried back across the yard to Arthur’s chamber, I offered to help in any way I could. “Tell me what is to be done, Grandfather, and it will be done.”
Avallach stopped beneath the gallery roof. “No one can aid me, Merlin. What I do, I must do alone.”
“As you will.”
“Every mortal creature must be removed from this place,” Avallach continued. “Every male and female, all mortal flesh, whether human or animal, must be removed beyond the walls of the palace. Arthur only may remain.”
I wondered at this, but accepted his instructions. “It shall be as you say.”
While Elfodd and I ran through the Fisher King’s palace, rousing everyone from bed, Llenlleawg awakened the stable hands and began moving the livestock from the barns and pens. By torchlight we made our way down the narrow twisting path to the lake. Some led dogs on leashes, others horses; several drove cattle: sheep, kine, and goats; two or three carried bird cages, and one child held an armful of kittens. In a little while, all who lived in the palace—mortal, Fair Folk, birds, and beasts—were gathered at the lakeside below the abbey. The horses and cattle grazed quietly in the long grass.
Charis and Gwenhwyvar were the last to leave Arthur’s side. “Come, lady, we can do nothing more for him,” Charis said, taking Gwenhwyvar by the hand. “It is time to give him up to the care of another.”
“I am loath to leave him, Lady Charis,” Gwenhwyvar said, tears swelling in her eyes. She lowered her face to Arthur’s and kissed him. A tear splashed on the king’s cheek; she kissed it away.
“Come,” I said gently, “for unless you leave, he cannot be healed.”
Charis and I led the queen from Arthur’s deathbed. At the doorway, I paused and looked back at his body sunken in the cushions of the litter, so still, so silent, as if already sinking into dissolution and decay. Gwenhwyvar hesitated and turned; she ran back to the litter and, unfastening the brooch at her shoulder, removed her cloak and spread it over him.
As Gwenhwyvar covered Arthur with a cloak, I covered him with a prayer: Great Light, banish the shade of death from the face of your servant, Arthur. Shield him this night from hate, from harm, from all ill whatever shall befall him. So be it!
She kissed him again and murmured something in his ear, then rejoined us, dry-eyed now and resolute. We hastened through the all-but-deserted palace. I looked for Avallach, but saw no sign of him as we passed quickly through the empty hall and gallery, and then flitted across the vacant yard and out through the open gates.
In darkness, we made our way down the narrow path to join the others waiting at the lake. Elfodd and Llenlleawg were there, holding torches; the rest of the palace-dwellers were scattered along the shore, sitting in small clumps, or standing, some on the hillside, some by the lake. We appeared an exile band, cast out from our homeland in the dead of night. The air was warm and calm. Though the moon had already set, the sky overhead blazed with stars, casting a pale silvery light over all below.
“Are you certain all the animals have been removed?” I asked.
“Every dog to the smallest pup,” Llenlleawg answered. “Every horse and colt, sheep, lamb, and cow. Nothing on four feet, or two, remains behind.”
Elfodd scanned the small gathering around us, his finger wagging in the air as if counting motes. “I think—yes,” he said when he finished, “everyone is here.”
“Good,” I said, and we talked a moment, but our eyes kept stealing to the Fisher King’s palace above; soon our talk ceased and we stood silent and expectant, waiting, wondering what, if anything, we might see. A group of the brothers from the abbey came down to see what was happening. They stood with us, gazing up at the dark edifice on the tor.
A young woman—one of Charis’ serving girls, I think—began to sing a hymn in a voice as soft and sweet as a nightingale’s. The words were unfamiliar, but the melody I knew. One by one, others joined in and soon the song filled the night—hope made audible in the heart of darkness.
When the first song was finished, another began at once, and another when that was done. In this way we passed the night: singing, every eye on the Fisher King’s palace, waiting for a miracle. I felt Gwenhwyvar’s hand slip into mine. She clasped it tightly and I pressed hers, whereupon she raised my hand to her lips and kissed it.
There were no words for what we felt, so we simply stood, clutching one another’s hands and listening to the voices in the night. The songs continued and the stars drifted, wheeling across the skybowl. It seemed to me that the songs became a prayer, rising up to heaven. Let it be so, I thought. May Heaven’s High King honor his High King on earth as we honor him with our sacrifice of song.
This thought had no sooner gone than a voice called out. “Listen!” A young monk who had been sitting on the hillside a few paces away, jumped to his feet. Waving his arm and pointing into the eastern sky, he said, “Look! They come!”
I looked where he was pointing, but saw nothing save the bright stars shining. Silence claimed the hill and lakeside. We all stared into the shimmering sky.
“They come!” another cried, and I heard a sound like that of the harp when it sings of itself in the wind—a music at once moving and mysterious. It might have been the wind, but it was deeper and more resonant: the sky itself was breaking forth in song.
The air stirred softly, as with the light flutter of feathered wings. I felt a silken touch like a cool breath on my face, and tasted honey on my tongue. I inhaled a fragrance surpassing in sweetness any I have ever known: blossoms of apple and honeysuckle and other blooms combined.
An unseen presence had passed through our midst, trailing perfumed music in its wake. My spirit quickened in response. My skin tingled all over and my heart beat fast.
I saw, as out of the corner of my eye, a faint, phantom image, pale, half-veiled shapes falling out of the sky and swirling around the Fisher King’s palace. Strange lights began to play in the darkened windows above.
Turning to Gwenhwyvar, I saw her face bathed in golden light. Her hands were clasped beneath her chin, her face upturned in the starlight, her lips trembling. “Blessed Jesu,” I heard her say. “Blessed Jesu.”
The golden light gleamed forth from every window of the Fisher King’s pa
lace. The holy music swelled, resounding through heaven’s vast halls. The swirling, fluttering, shifting, seen-yet-unseen shapes seemed to have multiplied until the sky could not contain them. They were everywhere!
“Angels…” breathed Abbot Elfodd in an awed whisper. “Heaven’s champions have come for Arthur.”
I gazed into the golden light now boldly blazing from the palace atop the tor, casting all below in sharp relief, the shadows of men and animals thrown hard upon the ground. The light was a living thing; dazzling, brilliant, it pulsed with ardent power, brighter and more potent than lightning.
And then, as swiftly as it had begun, it ended.
The light dwindled and the music hushed to a swiftly fading resonance—disappearing so fast, I wondered if I had heard or seen anything at all. Perhaps I had only imagined it. Perhaps it was a dream.
But the unseen presence returned, moving back through the waiting throng the same way it had come. I felt my soul rise up within me, and my heart moved in response; my skin tingled. And then this too was gone, leaving only a lingering fragrance and a sweet taste in the air.
We were alone in the night once more, and the night was dark indeed.
There was no more music; there were no more lights. All was still and quiet, as if nothing—from one eon to the next—ever happened. But we still looked above, at the palace and the sky full of stars beyond, searching for the wonders we had known.
That is how we saw him: Arthur, bold in the gateway of the Fisher King’s palace, alive and hale, dressed in his finest clothes, kingly torc gleaming gold at his throat. The Summer Lord raised a hand to us—a signal that he was healed and he was well. Then he started down the trail.
I saw Gwenhwyvar running, swiftly mounting the path. I saw Arthur descend to seize her, catch her up and lift her off the ground. I saw their fervent embrace…. But then I saw no more through the tears that filled my eyes.
Epilogue
HOW NOW, GERONTIUS! RICH the life of an exile! Do you not savor it? And you, Brastias, ever and always turning your eyes toward the home you left behind. Does your well-earned shame keep you warm at night?
Ulfias, weak-willed and easily led; if you must follow a king, why not the one you were sworn to honor? Is your great regret a comfort to you? And Urien, young schemer, is your foreign bed made more luxurious with the knowledge of your treachery?
False lords! The dogs begging scraps under your table know more of fealty than you. Did you really think the Cymbrogi would follow you? Did you believe you could take Arthur’s place? Or was this hope, like the vows you so quickly abandoned, merely empty air as well?
Faithless Ones, hear me now: the Kingdom of Summer was more than a dream! More than a tale to beguile children. Brave men died to secure it—pledging life to faith. Any realm founded on the rock of such faith cannot fail.
Do you wonder that the lords of Vandalia, Rögat, and Hussa received mercy from Arthur’s hand? I tell you that they did. For in victory, Arthur’s full grandeur became apparent. He took pity on his enemies, fed them, and offered them peace. The Pendragon of Britain, having shown heroism in adversity, in triumph practiced Christian mercy. Arthur befriended his enemies, and thus made cruel foes—the very same who had come to respect his valor—realize his nobility. The Vandal lord, Mercia, was baptized at Arthur’s invitation, and the High King welcomed him as brother.
And if these former enemies gained a boon by virtue of Arthur’s generosity, how much more did the Irish lords benefit? Those who forfeited home and lands to aid Arthur obtained all and more in return. Thus is faith rewarded.
Say what you will, Britain was exalted then. No, we did not escape the further torments of plague and drought. The Yellow Ravager gnawed deep, and dry winds carried our harvest away on the dust. But to those who knew where to look, the Summer Realm was even then sending forth its first faint rays.
For the High King of Heaven had blessed us with the holiest object in this worlds-realm: the cup of Christ—that Grail which would become the bright Sun of the Kingdom of Summer. Arthur declared that this most sacred object should become the symbol of his reign, to be established in the church that he would build. In truth, all Britain trembled when it learned of that most Holy Grail….
Ah, but that is another tale.
E-Book Extra
Stephen R. Lawhead on…
The writing process
Book-writing is a three-ring circus (complete with clowns and animals). At any given time there is 1: The Book Just Written, which is being edited, typeset, proofed, published, and needs to be promoted. While this is going on I am trying to write 2: The Book of the Moment: the one I’m working on pretty much nine-to-five, five days a week. It takes about ten months of writing and two months of re-writing from first word to last. Meanwhile, I’m beginning to think ahead to 3: The Next Book. I work up a proposal for the new project several months before finishing the current one so that by the time I’m ready to begin writing, the idea is set and the publisher is on board.
The actual writing, then, takes about a year—but it takes roughly three years from concept to printed copies.
This is a far cry from the romantic vision of the writer, locked away in his garret with nothing but a typewriter, a bottle of whiskey, and an overflowing ashtray, with his editor—and creditors—banging at the door, demanding that he slip a few pages of his deathless prose underneath the door…but it works for me.
His Writing Influences
When I was a teenager, I was reading Ian Fleming, Robert Heinlein, Mark Twain, and (under duress) Thomas Hardy. My wife says the influence of the James Bond books is marked. Charles Dickens, Walter Scott, Jules Verne, Stevenson, and Dumas are my literary heroes. I’ve had great enjoyment and drawn great inspiration from the Norwegian author Mika Waltari (The Egyptian, The Etruscan, The Roman, The Wanderer, and others). Martin Cruz Smith is the living novelist I most enjoy for solid entertainment. Lawrence Block’s columns in The Writer and his book Telling Lies for Fun and Profit were greatly encouraging and instructive in the early days. I am irresistibly drawn to historical heretics because they give me new ideas on what might have been; Julian Jayne’s masterpiece, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind is a book I come back to every now and then. Really.
The sequence of the Pendragon Cycle
To get a chronological reading of the Pendragon Cycle, first read Taliesin. Then read Merlin. Next, read the first two parts of Arthur, followed by Pendragon and Grail in order. Finally, read the last part of Arthur, and, if you’re keen to complete the marathon, finish with Avalon, which recapitulates the themes in a modern setting.
Names
The names I used in the Pendragon books came from various sources, mostly ancient texts of one sort or another, including the Mabinogion. Some are names which continue, with slight alterations, in Welsh, Scottish, and Irish, today; others are names which are no longer in common use, but could be revived.
My surname is Scottish, deriving from a placename which can be found in the Border country of Scotland where a “law” is a hill, and those who dwelled at the foremost part of the hill lived at the “head”. There is a tiny village in the Borders bearing the name Lawhead, and I visited it once to see Lawhead Farm, Lawhead Croft, and even a Law-Head Cottage. I’d never seen the name hyphenated before and asked the woman living there what it meant. She told me it meant the sign painter got carried away in a fit of creativity and took it on himself to add the hyphen.
Lancelot’s absence from the Pendragon Cycle
Lancelot has not been left out, I have simply returned to him his Celtic name Llenlleawg. You will also find Galahad (Gwalchavad) and all the other lads. However, my treatment of Lancelot will not track with Mallory’s late medieval, largely French, re-telling of the Arthurian myths; rather, it is consistent with earlier and, to my mind, more authentic Celtic myth and history. All this guff about courtly love is a perverted concoction of late medieval French romance which has no real part
in the legends of Britain.
The Atlantis/Britain connection
In the late 1800’s, the intrepid Professor Rhys traveled around Britain and her islands for many years gathering legends and tales from the last of the Celtic speakers who were dying out. He collected, organized, and analyzed these stories and the results were presented in Celtic Folklore, a two volume edition published by Oxford University Press in 1901. Professor Rhys was the first person I ever encountered who suggested that Llyonesse (an old name for the extreme southwest portion of Britain) and Atlantis shared a connection, and that many of the legends involving Fair Folk derived from this connection. Enchanted with this notion, I wove it into the Pendragon Cycle in order to explain some of the puzzles and questions surrounding the myths of Taliesin, Merlin, and Arthur. Thus, although it is not widely known, the Atlantis/Britain connection is well documented, at least in terms of folklore.
Geography
All the places mentioned in The Pendragon Cycle really exist, or once did. The difficulty in finding them on the present-day map is due to the fact that I’ve employed the ancient place names in use in fifth and sixth century Britain. Some of these, oddly enough, can still be found pretty much intact in Wales, but most have changed. Caer Lial, for example, is near modern-day Carlisle in Scotland; and Caer Myrdden is Carmarthen in southern Wales. In those two names you can see the ancient word still peeking through, as it were. Ynys Avallach is a little more challenging—it is Glastonbury; but Glastonbury is one of those places that has worn a number of names over the years. For most of the names in the book a little detective work will soon yield the modern name.
I visit virtually every place in virtually every book, trying to imagine what that place would have been like during the period I’m writing about.
Whether or not the Vandals invaded Britain
After living in North Africa and troubling Rome for a considerable time—having migrated there from their homelands in what is now southeastern Europe—the Romans grew tired of the harassment and decided to put an end to it by invading Carthage, which the Vandals had made their capital. The invasion went ahead, and the Vandals fought; but when the battle turned against them, they climbed into their ships and sailed right out of recorded history. What happened to them after that remains a matter of historical debate, but it is not too great a stretch to believe they sailed north, arriving first in Ireland and then Britain. I suspect the invasion is recorded in Arthurian tradition as an animal tale: Arthur and his warrior band fighting a giant wild Boar, first in Ireland and then in Britain, which appeared and devastated the land. My book, Pendragon, details the account of this obscure event as it may have happened.
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