by Mike Ashley
For the first time, the youth addressed as Plentyn-Maeth allowed a small smile to align his thin lips.
“Is it truly said, Mawr?”
The great warrior, called Mawr, clapped the youth on the back.
“Truly said, Plentyn-Maeth. Now let us collect your clothes for the Venerable Fychan wishes to see you.” The warrior picked up his sword and sheathed it. “Never has anyone bested me in all three passes after the water test. Indeed, it was truly said. One day you may become a Master even as the Venerable Fychan.”
II
“Mawr tells me that you have done well, Plentyn-Maeth.”
The old man sat shrouded in a heavy white lambswool cloak in the darkness of the room. He sat on a tripod stool before a smoky fire. On the walls of the room a few burning brand torches gave out a flickering and unsatisfactory light.
The youth, now dressed in warm plaid trousers and a linen tunic, over which a sleeveless lambswool coat was belted at the waist, stood silently before him.
The old man, the Venerable Fychan, chief Druid of the Isle of the Mighty, gazed at the youth with brightly sparkling grey eyes which burnt curiously in the reflected light of the torches.
“You do not speak, Plentyn-Maeth?”
“There is nothing to say. If Mawr says I have done well, that is his opinion and does not need my opinion to balance it.”
The Venerable Fychan gave a wheezy cough as he stifled a laugh.
“You are correct, Plentyn-Maeth. Yet I will confirm that you have done well. You are now at the age of choice and your learning here is done. You have succeeded in every test that is allowed. You have shown that you are the master of all the skills which a ‘man of oak wisdom’ should have before he goes forth into this theatening world of ours.”
The old man suddenly raised a skeletal arm and beckoned the youth to approach him.
“Come, boy, and sit at my feet for a while. There are some things I must tell you before you leave this place.”
Frowning slightly, the youth addressed as Plentyn-Maeth moved forward and settled himself in a cross-legged posture before the old master.
“You know well, my boy, that there is a new religion taking over this land of ours; this land of Britain which was once known as the Isle of the Mighty. Alas, we are no longer mighty. First the Romans came and occupied our shores for over three centuries before they departed. By the time we Britons emerged again as free and independent, most of our people had accepted the new religion which the Romans spread in their wake.”
The youth nodded slowly. Surely everyone knew these facts?
“But, Venerable Fychan, some of us still retained the old ways, the old religion and knowledge,” he pointed out.
“This is so. But I have seen the beginning of the end, for the old ways will eventually pass. What concerns me more is that two generations ago, after the Romans had left, new would-be conquerors came to our shores.”
The youth grimaced.
“The Saxons! Who does not know this?”
“Indeed, the Saxons who are without religion other than the desire to destroy and conquer. Vortigern, our High King, learnt the cost of trusting a Saxon’s word. Emrys then united our people and, for a while, he drove the Saxon invaders into the extremities of this island, back to the shores of the land of the Cantii, but they regrouped and came on again. Now the battle raven is continually flying out of the east in this struggle and not from the west.”
“Is there no hope of defeating the Saxons, master?”
“Just one hope. I have seen a vision that there will come a bear from the west and drive all before him and his name will be spoken of down the centuries. Indeed, over a thousand years from now, even the descendants of his enemies will acclaim him as a great hero.”
Plentyn-Maeth stared curiously at the old Druid.
“A bear from the west?”
“Even so. And for him we must keep the old faith and the old knowledge alive for it will only be through the old knowledge that he will triumph over his enemies, both the enemies of his own race as well as the Saxon foemen.”
“When will this saviour of Britain appear, master?”
Fychan smiled and shook his white locks gently.
“I know that he already walks our land, but it is not given me to foretell the exact date of his victories. I see the green fields redden with the blood of heroes, and . . . after . . . there will be a golden age for our people.”
“This is great knowledge, master,” breathed the youth.
The old man gazed down with his twinkling grey eyes.
“It will come to pass, Plentyn-Maeth. It will come to pass so long as there are some among us that cleave to the old knowledge, the old religion which took our forefathers on the raven’s wing to breach the walls of Rome, to defeat the generals of the Macedonian emperors and to come through the gorges of Parnassos to sack the shrine of Delphi and defy the gods of the Greeks. It is the same religion which spread the raven’s wing into the east and into the west and from north to south. We walked upright once and so shall we walk upright again.”
There was a silence in the room of Fychan.
“Why do you tell me this, master?” asked Plentyn-Maeth after a while.
The old man coughed a little. Then he sighed.
“Your destiny is woven in the destiny of our people, Plentyn-Maeth. Beware of the new religion. Beware of the followers of Christ for their creed is weakening our people. While the Saxons strike us down, these followers of Christ tell us that to take arms against them even in our defence is wrong. They say that we must forgive them; that we must love them; that to fight them is more evil than the wrong they do to us.”
Plentyn-Maeth pursed his thin red lips in disapproval.
“I know their teachings well enough.”
“They would weaken us and allow the Saxons to overwhelm us. Soon you will go out into this unhappy world. When you do so, beware of these Christians. Never reveal that you are a Druid except to those you would trust your life to; never reveal your power to any save only those same people.”
“That I will do, master.”
“Many of our brethren have been persecuted unjustly by these Christians, Plentyn-Maeth. Trust them not.”
“It shall be so.”
“Are you ready to face the outside world, Plentyn-Maeth?” the old man suddenly asked after a pause.
The youth sat for a while in silence while he contemplated the prospect.
“Yes.”
The old man smiled sadly.
“You are not fearful about the unknown?”
“Have you not taught, of all passions fear weakens judgement most?”
The Venerable Fychan nodded slowly.
“Yet, I have also taught, danger breeds best on too much confidence.”
The youth’s features betrayed a slight conceit.
“I am ready to face the outside world, master.”
“If you say so, it shall be so. Yet remember this, the knowledge which stops at what it does not know, is the highest knowledge.”
The youth frowned slightly, hesitated and then said: “Well, I would know more about myself, master.”
“More? Is there more to know?”
“I don’t know who I am.”
“That can only be decided by you.”
“I meant, I do not know who my parents were.”
The old man, seeing the expression on the youth’s face, suddenly relented.
“I did not mean to mock you. Truly, my son, there is little I can tell you except that you were a foundling. You were six months old when you were found at the house of Dolwar, my steward. None ever knew nor discovered who you were. You were wrapped in a single blanket and on that blanket was embroidered the symbol of a curious knot.”
“A knot, Venerable Fychan?”
The old Druid turned to a box, opened it and drew forth a piece of blanket.
“I knew you might ask about this one day. I have kept it safe. Here is that same bla
nket. Take it with you and you might come to know your destiny.”
The youth glanced down and saw, indeed, a curious patterned knot had been embroidered on the section of blanket. “It is richly worked,” he observed.
“You were fostered by us and brought up in the knowledge of the old ways. This is why we named you Plentyn-Maeth, the foster-child.
“When you set out now, it will be the start of your journey to discover your self and your destiny. I can only tell you this; your journey lies east. Travel east until you find the symbol of the knot. That is your quest, Plentyn-Maeth.”
“It is little enough to know of oneself.”
Fychan grinned at the youth.
“Look into your mind, Plentyn-Maeth. You know everything there is to know about yourself. What you are asking is merely the superficial.”
“But,” protested the youth, “how do you know that the symbol of this knot can be found east of here?”
Fychan raised his eyebrows in marked censure.
“You question your master? Ah, truly you have come of age. Tell me, my foster-son, what will the weather be like this evening?”
Plentyn-Maeth wondered why the old master was changing the subject.
“It will be raining.”
“How do you know this? Beyond these walls it is a fine, bright day.”
“Easy to say. To the south-west there are many round-topped clouds with their bases flattened. The wind is from that direction and so they will bring rain, sudden and short lived.”
Fychan nodded amiably.
“And as you know this, which many will find beyond their understanding, allow me to know what I know.”
Plentyn-Maeth sighed deeply but he said no more and rose to his feet.
“You have said that I have passed all the tests required of me, master. When may I become an adept of the ancient knowledge? When may I be of the ancient order?”
The Venerable Fychan’s face was expressionless.
“It will require no words of mine to make you so. You will become an adept once you have discovered the purpose of your quest in life.”
Plentyn-Maeth nearly forgot himself by raising his eyebrows in surprise. The grin of delight was stilled on his face.
“But I know that quest now. Does that mean that I may set forth from here now?”
“If you believe that you know this purpose, you may do so. We have nothing more to teach you. You can now only instruct yourself. If you do not know now, then you will surely learn as you go. There is nothing more to bind you to this place. Remember, though, it is only when you leave this place that you will start to accrue the true knowledge. Be humble and learn well.”
Yet the youth’s face was also filled with pride.
“You now have only yourself to rely on,” insisted the Venerable Fychan. “Remember this, knowledge without thought is toil wasted. Thought without knowledge is a perilous path.”
The youth’s face was a picture of excitement. He began to rise. The old master held up a thin, bony hand to stay him.
“But one thing more; since Dolwar found you at the portal of our house, we have simply called you Plentyn-Maeth, which means ‘the foster-child’. Once you step out into the world you will no longer be a foster-child but, having reached the age of choice, you will be fully in charge of your own destiny. You will need a new name.”
The youth looked puzzled.
“But what name shall I have?”
The Venerable Fychan smiled gently.
“It is as your foster father that I have the right to name you. In all your tests you have excelled. In every art you have shown your abilities. In no area were you lacking. Therefore I shall name you Myrddin, or ‘many’, signifying the many talents which you possess.”
The youth blinked a little.
“Myrddin.” He carefully enunciated the name. “Myrddin. I shall like that name.”
The old master, Fychan, rose unsteadily and moved forward to embrace the youth now standing before him.
“Go, then, Myrddin. Set out on your quest to find yourself, to find your destiny. Remember all that I have told you and all that you have learned in these mountains that are sacred to our order. But I urge you again to guard against the evil of vanity. You are still young in years and no one, not even I, am possessed of all knowledge. We are constantly learning even at the hour of our death. Should the time come when you have need of advice, then we shall be here.”
Only when he had left the house of the Venerable Fychan did the youth, Myrddin, allow a tear to stain his cheek. But his face was set and he walked with a firm and steady gait away from the only world that he could truly call “home”. At the same time as the regret of parting, some inner part of him tingled with excitement and happiness. It was a curious contradiction but he did not want to analyse his feelings now. Above all his confused and contradictory emotions he had a sense of . . . of destiny. If he had admitted it, he also had a sense of youthful pride for knowledge of things may not necessarily be a knowledge of self-awareness.
III
Myrddin had been riding for two days across the broad mountains of the west of the Isle of the Mighty and down among the foothills, moving ever eastward. He did not know why he had taken this route, only that he was following the suggestion of the Venerable Fychan. In truth, he had never been beyond the Island of the Druids before, the small island which lay just west of the mainland. He had set forth eagerly, purchasing a horse on the way. The regret at leaving Fychan and Mawr and all his fellow students and teachers was still tempered by the exhilaration of a sense of freedom, of the purpose of questing.
He rode his black mare with a feeling of relaxation yet his eyes were never still, they were aware of everything around him, taking in the new sights and memorizing the paths. Yet as wary as he was, he had a youth’s exuberance of independence, of being special in this new, exciting world which lay before him.
He had come to a knoll and from its bare top he halted and surveyed the countryside before him. The small, rounded hill rose, bald except for heather and brush, in the middle of a forest land. He saw that three trails met and divided again at the foot of the hill. There was the trail by which he had come to that place, a trail to the east and a well-worn track which ran on a north to south axis, or south to north, depending on the prospect of the traveller.
Myrddin paused a while in the warming rays of the midday sun, leaning forward in the saddle, resting on its pommel, and wondering if he should deflect his path from due east, turning north or south.
It was then he became aware of the approach of two horsemen from the south. He noticed immediately that one of the approaching riders was elderly, for the man was stooped forward in the saddle, his body frail. His long white hair could be seen wisping from his burnished helmet. Myrddin’s eyes narrowed as he saw that the elderly man was clad not only in warrior’s armour but that he wore a rich cloak and his horse was well accoutred.
The second rider was a younger man, a youth whose age Myrddin guessed was not many years either side of his own. He rode erect and he, too, was well armed and dressed. He kept glancing towards his companion and concern showed in his body language as now and then he leant towards the elderly man, touching him as if in reassurance. Myrddin presumed that the elderly man must be ailing.
Neither of the two riders glanced up the knoll and so did not perceive Myrddin sitting astride his horse there. Myrddin mentally criticized their sense of awareness for he could easily have been an enemy, waiting to ambush them.
Myrddin was about to call out a greeting when his ears detected a sound; his training caused his senses to tense. There was danger somewhere in the woods. He had scarce drawn the conclusion when, out of the woods, sprang four horsemen. Four armed warriors who, with yells and cries of triumph, rode down on the elderly man and his young companion, waving their swords.
Myrddin could not fault the reaction of the pair. The elderly man, as old and frail as he was, had his sword out and spurred forward
to meet the first blows that fell from the leading assailant. A split second later his young companion had joined the fray. The scene that had been so peaceful a moment before was now a mêlée of men intent on bloodshed, horses stamping and whinnying, blades clashing on blades, accompanied by the hoarse shouting and cries of the combatants.
Myrddin sat astonished at the sudden change of the peaceful scene.
The newcomers, four warriors, were strangely dressed. Two of them wore great bushy flaxen-coloured beards and conical metal helmets. Their shields carried alien designs to those carried by the Britons. The two others were more richly dressed. One seemed younger than the other. The other, a dark, swarthy figure. Myrddin suddenly realized that he was seeing, for the first time, the feared Saxon warriors. He had heard stories of their fierceness, their invincibility. He examined them with new interest and found that they seemed to be only men and not mighty, indomitable beings.
Years ago, so the story went, scarcely two generations before, the High King Vortigern had invited the ancestors of these Saxons into the Isle of the Mighty to serve him as paid soldiers. They had mutinied and attempted to seize the kingdom for themselves. Thus had begun a war between them and the Britons. Soon more of these Saxons, in bands of thousands, were landing along the eastern and southern coasts of Britain and pushing the Britons slowly westward.
Eventually, Vortigern, to save his own power, made a treaty with them, marrying his daughter to one of their leaders, to the disgust of his people. Constans, a rival claimant to the High Kingship of Britain, rallied the opposition to Vortigern so that the Britons could unite and drive out the invaders. Vortigern had Constans murdered. But Constans had two sons, Emrys and Uther who, being children, were smuggled to Armorica in Gaul, where they had grown to manhood. They had returned to overthrow the elderly Vortigern. Then they led a renewed war against the Saxon kingdoms. But the Saxons, having gained their hold on the eastern seaboard of Britain, would not be shaken loose and as Emrys had grown older, the slow, inexorable tide of the Saxons resumed its westward flow. Now almost a quarter of the Isle of the Mighty was settled by them and the Britons driven westward.
Briton and Saxon were now enemies of blood.
