by Mike Ashley
“And there at last you speak the truth,” she retorted. “But I, too, say enough is enough. Let there be an ending to our struggle. I challenge you, Merlin, by that most ancient of rituals – The Rite of Challenge. Do you accept?”
Merlin was taken aback. It was an ancient rite of the Elder Faith known only in legend. He looked across at the defiant figure before him. “That Challenge has not been issued for untold centuries,” he said slowly. “Legend has it that it was only ever issued when it was believed that the High Priestess had succumbed to being a pawn of the dark forces. It was always issued by the priestess next in order of seniority. It was a challenge as to who should control the Elder Faith – the loser would withdraw from office – or die.”
“How appropriate to our present situation,” she said coldly.
“The terms?”
She leaned forward. “If I win – and I will win, Merlin – then you will abandon your plans to manifest the Grail in Earth, you will return Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, and you will withdraw all support from Arthur and let him find his own level.”
“And if you lose?” said the Arch-Mage softly.
She shrugged. “I will not lose, but for the record let it be known that if you triumph then I will withdraw all opposition to your plans and allow the Elder Faith to gradually sink into oblivion to henceforth be known only in the race-memory.”
Merlin nodded to himself. It was a tempting offer. His work so far had involved the coarse and vulgar path of blood and battles, but soon now, when the Round Table was established with the Knights of Honour in their places, then would begin the Quest of the Grail and matters would march with a more delicate balance. It would be of immense value to have nullified the opposition of the Elder Faith; indeed, without Morgan le Fay it might even be possible to bring Christianity and the Elder Faith together into a synthesis – the old and the new together – the Cup and Sword as one. Oh, what mystical magic could then be woven.
“I accept,” he said simply.
Morgan le Fay could scarce believe it, but quickly she said: “As challenger I have the right to choose the place of the testing.”
Merlin nodded. “So be it – choose.”
She smiled her dark smile and said softly: “Then I choose the dark caverns beyond and below the realm of the Dweller on the Threshold.” She threw up her arms in triumph. “There you will find me, Merlin – if you dare!” and she became as a mist, a wraith, a cloud of smoke that streamed downwards, downwards to the utter depths of existence.
Merlin hovered for a few minutes, and then gathering himself together he turned and created in his imagination the scene that he would need. On his left the bare rock of the mountain slopes gave way to patches of thin tough grass and wild flowers, and on his right the precipitous cliff gradually levelled out as he came down into a great plain. The beaten track ran on before him across the plain and ahead he could see the great Tauarch and beside it the moon and sickle symbol of Saturn, the Great One of the Night of Time – and there, just before the arch, set to one side of the path, was the Well.
On the well-head itself, wedged into the great stones, was an iron bowl and a skin of freshly drawn water. Merlin took the cup and raised it to his lips. The water was fresh and pure and tasted as nectar. Then he mounted the well and made his way down inside. The great slabs of stone that formed the stairway spiralled steeply downwards. There was no guard-rail, only the stygian emptiness of the central void of the well. The walls were dank and dripped moisture. Soon it was too dark to see the steps and he could only continue by sliding his foot forward to find the next stair. But below him he began to see a dim yellow light and he knew that he had passed the first of the tests. Emboldened now he stepped with more confidence, downwards, ever downwards, until he came to a tunnel opening to his left – and there, set high on the wall, was an ancient carved cresset containing a lighted flambeau. He took it and held it high, and by its light he could see below him the tunnel that led off to his left down to the cavern of the Dweller.
All was as it should be. He had trodden this ritual path many, many times and knew that the Witch-Queen would try no tricks this side of the abyss. Stepping firmly he descended and turned into the tunnel. The walls were dank and dripped moisture, and his footfall echoed eerily.
The tunnel twisted and turned its serpentine path, but ever downwards, sometimes broad and high-ceilinged, and sometimes narrow, barely the width of a man so that he had to turn and shuffle sideways, the rock ceiling pressing down upon him. Then, at last, the tunnel opened out into a vast cavern a hundred feet wide, or more, split by a gigantic chasm left to right, and from the abyss there came the far-off sounds of rumbling and groaning as though the rock itself was in such pain.
Across the abyss there stretched a rock bridge to the far side, and there in the centre of the bridge was a swirling, writhing cloud of dark grey vapour waiting to take form, the Dweller on the Threshold, the symbol of the atavistic levels far below even the subconscious; levels of consciousness that were formed and used long aeons ago in the dawn of human evolution.
Formless now – waiting – it needed but one pace upon the rocky span to give the vapour form and life, to cause it to shape itself into a symbol, often a dread symbol, to reflect the state of the subconscious of the one who would cross, the embodiment of all good and all evil committed through all the incarnations of that soul to date.
Dread deeds, evil deeds, lie in the past of all who take the human form, and for those who refuse to accept the truth of their own history the shape that stands athwart the bridge becomes the living essence of all that they fear, the embodiment of terror, the horror of their own inner self – and for them the Dweller is a dread figure to be feared; for them there is no path across the bridge.
Merlin had long since accepted and absorbed the Dweller, and for him the swirling shape was usually of a young boy at the threshold, an eager apprentice, a bold youth at the gate of learning, or some similar symbol – but now, as he advanced upon the bridge the swirling grey most rose up high above him, and in its depth there formed two eyes of red, baleful and terrible, and above those eyes there gradually formed a hideous face, hooknosed, pocked and scarred, the skin riven by open sores that wept a foul-smelling ooze.
The Arch-Mage stepped onto the rock-bridge and then stood grimly, feet apart, his staff in his left hand, planted firmly, his right arm extended, finger pointing commandingly at the foul apparition before him. “Get thee gone,” he cried, “back to whatever foul lair whelped thee. Thou hast no authority to be at this place, nor power to wreak thy will.”
The figure swirled, the grey mist grew dark, and the red eyes glinted evilly. “I am thy Dweller,” it hissed. “If thou wouldst secure thy safety thou shouldst pay me homage.”
Merlin shook his head. “Thou art no Dweller, and in claiming thus thou dost blaspheme. Get thee gone, I say,” and firmly he advanced, pace by pace, his staff thrust before him as a sword.
The miasmatic creature from the abyss, given hideous life by Morgan le Fay, rose high above him, its jaws agape, its fangs dripping a foul and corrosive ooze that hissed and babbled as it fell to the rocky floor. A great screeching roar filled the air and the creature gathered itself and flung itself upon the tiny figure below.
As the foul mist fell on him Merlin could feel the hot stench of its breath, but he stood firm. The creature, he knew, was from a lower plane, dredged up by the Witch-Queen, and it had no reality upon this plane unless his own fear gave it form. With the foul vapour swirling all about him, Merlin’s words rang with power throughout the cavern: “Get thee gone, I say. Thou hast no dominion here!” and the creature’s roar rose to a screech, its hideous features dissolving, the vapour shrinking, falling away until it was all quite gone.
The Arch-Mage took a further pace upon the bridge, and there was the true Dweller in the shape of an eager boy, a youth, and Merlin bowed in acknowledgement and passed in safety across the abyss. But his heart was grim, troubled even.
Never had he known anyone, Mage or Pythoness, that could supplant the Dweller with a form of their own summoning. Morgan le Fay was a mistress of her art, a more powerful priestess than any he had hitherto encountered.
The tunnel through the solid rock led to the left and sloped downwards, ever downwards to the lower levels, twisting and turning so that Merlin lost all sense of direction. Here there were cressets every few yards, and finally, by the light of their flambeaux, Merlin saw that the tunnel ended by an iron-studded oaken door. There were no signs or sygils upon the door, no runes or symbols of any kind – and the door stood ajar.
Merlin stood for a moment upon its threshold, and then resolutely stepped within, and found himself in a bleak and windswept forest. Winter gripped the land. The snow lay deep and flurries of it blew in his face – and then with a shock he realized that he was loping swiftly through the trees, a wolf, running with others in a pack hunt. Only when he tried to veer away did he realize that he was not the wolf, merely within it, his consciousness sharing the body but unable to affect its actions. He could feel the mind of the wolf, primitive, instinct-driven, but he could neither contact nor influence it. Helplessly he stared from its eyes and saw that there ahead of them the great elk that they had driven through the forest had now run into deep snow and had turned at bay, exhausted – and the pack fell on the great animal and began tearing it to pieces, Merlin’s wolf no less than the others.
He could feel his own mind slipping, fading, of his own node of awareness becoming that of the wolf’s. He resisted it, summoning all his power, for he knew that if he became that wolf there was the danger that he would not be able to return and would run as a wolf for the rest of his incarnation and all his plans for the Holy Grail would come to naught. How Morgan le Fay had brought this about he did not know, and as he fought to stay as Merlin within the wolf he was grimly appalled that obviously there was much about the Elder Faith rituals that he did not know – and for a fleeting moment the thought that he might lose the challenge sped through his mind.
Tearing the flesh of the great elk in a frenzy of feeding, lips drooling saliva, there issued from his throat a savage bestial snarl as he fought for space on the carcass with others of the pack.
Finally, the frenzy abating, many of the wolf-pack, including his own, withdrew and sat nearby licking their front paws and grooming themselves. The snowstorm blew across the desolate landscape, rippling the fur along their backs, but the wolves were full-fed now and if necessary could run for a week before the next meal.
Now that the frenzy was over his own wolf had become aware that something was wrong. It could not reason, could not grasp concepts beyond its own instincts, it knew only that something was wrong, that it was impaired in some way, damaged, and it began to run round in circles, snapping and snarling, trying to bite itself.
The other wolves gathered swiftly around, and one big male edged forward, snarling, cautious, and then suddenly dropped into a menacing crouch. His own wolf, realizing its danger but not knowing why, turned and ran from the clearing as swiftly as only a wolf can run. There was no baying behind them, for a wolf does not waste breath on a hunt, just a soft swishing sound as the entire pack gave silent chase through the trees. His own wolf had perhaps ten yards’ start, but it was not enough, and when it streamed into another clearing it spun round, its back to a huge tree, snarling hideously, ready to do battle, but the pack did not wait for the ritual encircling but just fell on it, this thing that looked like one of theirs but wasn’t – and as his consciousness burst clear Merlin knew now what it felt like to be torn to pieces, to have a predator tearing your flesh, its snout burrowing into your still living entrails.
There then came a fleeting moment when Merlin felt that he had triumphed and that Morgan le Fay had lost, for he had retained his own awareness throughout – but the scene shimmered, melted, changed . . .
. . . the shaman danced in the centre of the circle of swaying bodies, arms whirling, feet stamping, his jackal head-dress swaying. The drums were pounding, the flames of the fire leaping high into the night sky. The whole village was there, the tribal elders, the goatherds, the hunters, even the women were allowed to watch, for this was the dance of the jackal, and everyone swayed to the rhythm, hypnotized, transported. Faster and faster the drums beat, changing their rhythm to an incessant pounding, and the shaman whirled faster and faster, his head thrown back, his eyes glazed, and from his throat there rose the spine-tingling high-pitched screams of a jackal in rut. Again and again he screamed, whirling his body in a frenzied ecstasy, and then fell to the ground inert as a log.
Merlin was within the body of a young girl, a nubile girl, her body swaying, stamping, her mouth agape, her breasts glistening with sweat, her loins on fire. What little primitive intelligence she had was set aside in the frenzy of the dance. Merlin could feel the passion sweeping her, the desire, and despite himself he began to share her excitement, for desire is of both mind and body.
Then from beyond the firelight he came leaping towards her, the one the girl wanted. He grabbed her hand and together they leaped over the heads of the swaying watchers into the clearing, feet stamping, head swaying, her loins thrust forward, wanting him, demanding him. Then the leaping figure before them was no longer a man but a jackal, and the girl turned, her fur glistening, her haunches ready for him, her jaws dripping the rutting saliva – and Merlin’s mind within the girl-jackal was ablaze with lust, desiring, wanting no less than she. A lifetime of celibacy, of suppression, was exacting its price, and Merlin felt himself slipping, wanting to abandon all control, eager to experience all that he had denied himself – but some part of him, that part of him trained during life after life as an initiate of the mysteries, that part strained to hold him back, fighting the power of the rut that would engulf him – and as the man-jackal leaped upon them the consciousness that was Merlin burst from the girl’s body, and he found himself full-length on the cave floor back across the rock-bridge, scrabbling at the stone, gasping and crying, his body afire.
Gradually, through the tremors that racked him, he became aware of a pair of sandalled feet in front of him and the hem of a robe, and looking up he saw Morgan le Fay standing over him. “Well, well,” she sneered, “the Arch-Mage of all Britain, trembling like a lust-sick boy!” He scrambled to his feet, unable for the moment to speak at all. “By the Lady,” she cried, “I do believe that if I were to cast aside my robe you would leap upon me here and now. There is your Grail, Merlin, the Grail before which all men worship.”
“Do not blaspheme!” he cried. “You failed of the Challenge for I did not submit, I did not merge with your foul creations.”
She paused for a moment. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I did not win, but then neither did I lose. Acknowledge, Merlin, as an initiate of the truth, acknowledge that you did not win either.”
He remembered, and in remembering he knew that he had won the first encounter with the wolf, but with the second he felt the fire of passion that had swept through him, the desire he could still feel even now, and knew that he had not won.
He sighed. “I acknowledge,” he admitted.
She moved away along the tunnel to the Well. “You should be grateful, Merlin, for I have shown you your weakness.” She turned back for a moment. “The time will come when Arthur must stand alone, as all men must when they face the truth of themselves, and at that time the mantle of Arch-Mage of All Britain will be withdrawn from you by those on the inner.” She smiled. “Then, Merlin, wizard, then will come one who will renew the fires you just have experienced, and they will be your death,” and she turned and vanished into the tunnel opening.
Merlin remained for a moment, and on the rock-bridge his Dweller reappeared and smiled at him compassionately, and Merlin sighed and turned away. Wearily he retraced his steps from the Well and closed the ritual and returned to his body.
It was dark now. The rain had stopped and the sky was rapidly clearing of cloud. Merlin gathered his own skins of fu
r and wrapped them around him. The Table at least would get to Camelot and the Knights of Honour would be established. As to the rest . . . For a moment he stared towards the eastern sky. That was a prophecy if ever he had heard one. Was that his fate? Would it be lust that would cause his death?
He sighed and settled himself down to sleep. Let come what may. He would deal with matters as they arose – that’s all any man or wizard could do.
But that girl. The way she . . . forget it, sleep, Merlin, you old goat, sleep.
MERLIN’S DARK MIRROR
PHYLLIS ANN KARR
Although her husband continues to urge her to write “serious” novels, it is to our delight that Phyllis Ann Karr (b. 1944) still produces the occasional Arthurian short story. In fact she generously provided me with three manuscripts to choose from, each as good as the other, which allowed me some flexibility in minimizing any overlap between themes and incidents. Phyllis’s best-known Arthurian work is the delightful murder mystery The Idylls of the Queen (1982), and she has also written The King Arthur Companion (1983).
Merlin told his dark mirror: “Last night our young king had a troubling dream. He woke from it shrieking like a little child.”
The mage cast his message in as favorable an aspect as possible. Arthur had heard his counsel through and seemingly been much swayed; but at last he had commanded even Merlin, with shouts and tears, to leave him pondering alone for a while. Pondering and, the necromancer feared, praying. The boy suffered from an inconvenient milky streak.
Merlin could scry in any clear or shiny surface. Even now he had a basin of water ready at his elbow for watching his boy king. But the dark mirror – a hand’s-breadth of polished jet enframed in gold – was meant for no ordinary scrying. Wherever Merlin went, whether alone or with the king’s court, his first act after choosing the place for his secret study was to install the dark mirror in a shrine of honor where it sat with a black candle and a little incense burning before it, untouched by the surrounding clutter, while the mage watched and waited, hoping to see his father’s face therein, like a hermit hoping someday to see the face of Christ appear in sacred host or chalice.
