Merlin's Nightmare (The Merlin Spiral)

by Robert Treskillard

  Merlin stared at the other man in shock. Was this the taciturn horse master he knew? Shaking off his surprise, he said, “It’ll take years of planning. Preparing an army alone will — ”

  “Are ya sure?”

  “I said no! The timing isn’t right.” Merlin stood and began pacing with the torch.

  Peredur shut his mouth and looked on in concern.

  A sudden urge came over Merlin to see the Sangraal once more — the very cup that the Christ had used at the Last Supper, the very cup that caught his blood when Jesu was nailed to the cross. Merlin had hidden it just a little way down the passage. Who knew? Maybe now was the time when God would raise Colvarth.

  “Come along,” he said. “I want to see the cup.”

  Peredur got a distant look in his eyes, but made no move to follow.

  “Are you coming?”

  “I still remember when I first saw it.”

  “On Atle’s mountain?”

  “Yeah. That unforgettable day I saw heaven itself open. Colvarth had spoken o’ the Sangraal before, but I didn’t comprehend. Can I really see it again?”

  “Yes.”

  Peredur momentarily covered his eyes with his hand. “Thank you.”

  Walking deeper into the cave, Merlin slipped on some loose gravel. Somewhere on the left wall there was a natural pit that he’d filled in with rocks to hide the Sangraal . . . but something was odd. Charcoal had been scratched onto the walls in seemingly random patterns. Merlin turned toward the depths of the cavern, and the sputtering light illuminated the floor ahead —

  Someone had been here.

  An old campfire lay before him. How long ago? The smell of wood smoke was extremely strong here, the oily torch notwithstanding. He unsheathed his sword and dug the tip into the charred remains and ashes. A small, glowing coal emerged from the depths, and Merlin gasped.

  “What is it?”

  “This fire was lit just last night. See? The ashes are still warm.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “Is there anyone who would’ve taken this road from Dinas Crag? Think!”

  “Only Arthur, Dwin, and Culann.”

  “But they left this morning. Who, then?”

  Peredur shook his head. “None else, with Ector’s rules about keeping our escape route secret except in times o’ war. Anyone would have had to get permission, and there just wasn’t time for someone to do that. Or else — ”

  “Or else someone was on their way to the valley. Maybe spying.”

  “Could it have been the envoy?”

  “No. Brice told me he let the man out yesterday, and he was cursing as he headed north to Urien.”

  Peredur bent to examine the wall above the old pit. “Merlin . . . lift your torch higher.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see . . .”

  Merlin raised the light, and what he had thought were random, unconnected charcoal scratches on the walls were revealed to be, when taken together, a monstrous creature — a dragon. Merlin’s gaze followed the shape from its sharp teeth and horns down to its elongated, muscular tail, which was poised directly over . . . the hiding place for the Sangraal.

  He handed the torch to Peredur and began pulling the rocks from the hole. When he had taken the last one out, he motioned for Peredur to hold the light up. From deep inside gleamed the ornamental gold box that Colvarth had commissioned to house the Sangraal.

  Praises! It was still there!

  Reaching in, he pulled the box to the edge of the hole.

  Peredur looked over Merlin’s shoulder.

  From inside his tunic, Merlin produced a bronze key hanging from a leather necklace. Inserting the key, he pushed it upward and then slid it to the left.

  Click!

  Merlin lifted the lid.

  The box was empty. The wooden bowl was gone.

  Running his fingers frantically around the inside, Merlin groaned in frustration. But what if he were the only one who couldn’t see it? The Sangraal had perplexed him before, with only some able to view and touch its ancient wood. “C-can you see it?” he asked, hoping beyond hope.

  Peredur shook his head, his shoulders slumping. “No one could’ve stolen it without the key . . . and why would a common thief take the Sangraal and leave the expensive box? That’s passin’ strange.”

  Merlin picked up the box. Anger rose in him at his own stupidity. Why had he left it here? “It’s gone,” he yelled. “It’s stolen!”

  But then an odd feeling came over him. His hands . . . he couldn’t feel them, nor the box. His arms began to shake as the numbness crept past his elbows and inched up toward his shoulders. Soon it held him across the chest like a death grip, and the sensation climbed up his neck, as if he were sinking into a cold lake, deep in the depths of the earth. His sight began to fail. Peredur seemed to tilt, and then the torch faded from view.

  Merlin awoke on his back, with a black thorn bush growing beside him. To his left lay the carcass of a deer, its head missing and flies buzzing madly at an open wound in its chest. Far above him he heard the clap of thunder, and a violent wind began to blow through the dark foliage of the distant trees. Merlin sat up and found he was barefoot. He didn’t recognize the place — or the large mound that lay in front of him, round like the shell of a massive turtle, a dark tunnel gaping where the head of the reptile would have hidden.

  “Stand, intruder,” a voice said from behind. Three men jumped forward and leveled their bronze-tipped spears at him. And these men were strong, with sinewy, bulging arms, massive chests, and legs as thick as Merlin’s torso.

  “Get up!” said the man to his left, and then he poked Merlin below the shoulder.

  The wound throbbed in pain, and Merlin scrambled up, fearing another jab. Each of these men towered over him by a foot.

  “Now march. We need to find out what Grannos the Mighty will do with a trespasser like you.” The men pointed toward the mound and its maw.

  Merlin began to march, taking stock of the fact that his dirk was hanging from his belt. It took a long time to reach the mound, it being larger than he’d realized and almost half a league away. There they bade him stop next to the dark opening. Merlin blanched — it wasn’t a tunnel for anyone his size. Even the men with spears were dwarfed by the colossal pillars supporting the roof.

  The men began cheering, “Grannos the Grand! Grannos the Powerful! Grannos the Mighty!” And from deep within the dark tunnel sounded the grinding and scraping of metal as if a massive door were being opened.

  Then came the sound of steps, one heavy footfall after another. Death, ruin . . . Death, ruin they boomed, and Merlin quaked.

  Grannos! Grannos!” the men shouted, stamping their feet so that rocks fell and the ground shook.

  He turned his gaze around and was stunned to see hundreds more of the warriors, spears in hand. Merlin’s dirk was useless. Thick smoke began to pour from the tunnel, rotten sulfur that was bitter on Merlin’s tongue.

  “Grannos! Grannos!” the men sang, delirious at the mighty man’s coming.

  The boom of the steps drew nearer, until . . . until a little hand poked out of the smoke at about the height of Merlin’s knee.

  A man stepped forth, coughing. A little man.

  “Grannos!” the warriors yelled, bowing down.

  He wore black breeches and a white tunic under a tiny orange woolen vest. Upon his long yellow hair he wore a bright blue pointed cap with a feather. His face was thin, with a pinched-up nose, and the strangest thing of all was that his teeth were green, with a little black tongue that slipped in and out of his mouth as he spoke.

  “Bring the interloper to me,” he squeaked.

  Two warriors grabbed Merlin’s arms and twisted them behind his back. They dragged him forward and shoved him to his knees.

  Merlin wanted to look up at Grannos — but instead had to look down, for the man was that short.

  “So . . .” Grannos said, “how are you feeling?”

  Merli
n tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “How are you feeling lately? Have any sniffles? Are your elbows giving you trouble?”

  “No . . . no, I’m, uh, fine.”

  Grannos pulled out a rolled-up parchment from inside his vest and shook it out. The thing was yellowed with age and filled from top to bottom with little squiggles. “Aha,” he said, “perhaps you have wooden tongue?”

  Merlin shook his head.

  “Gray, painful toes? A big black mole on your left knee? Gassy billows? Cracky-wack-a-back?”

  “No, no, no, no . . . and . . . no.”

  Grannos licked his lips with his little black tongue. “That’s one answer too many. Let’s proceed without insubordination. So . . . do you have a crankled ankle?”

  “No, but my shoulder — ”

  “That’s not on my list, and I’m very sad, because I would so much like to heal you. Thankfully, all of these other things can be arranged.”

  Merlin was confused. “What did you say?”

  “First off, we must have privacy. I simply cannot work with all these eyeballs and ruckuses.” His little voice went shrill as he said, “Go away, you!” He waved his hands at the warriors, and in three heartbeats they faded away, freeing Merlin from their grip.

  Merlin and Grannos were alone.

  Suddenly, Merlin’s dirk seemed more useful. If only —

  “Now, which of these illnesses would you like?” He showed the list to Merlin, who couldn’t read the writing.

  “Ah . . . nothing.” Merlin stretched his arms and ended with his fingers near his belt and the handle of his dirk.

  “I think I’ll give you . . . a wonderful case of blabby-nose.” Grannos stepped back and pretended to shoot an arrow at Merlin. But a real arrow, hardly bigger than a twig, appeared from the air and jabbed into Merlin’s cheek.

  “Ow!” he yelled, but even as he tried to pull it out, the arrow melted away. His face began to feel strange, almost heavy. Before he knew it, his nose had grown so large that it hung down over his lips and pressed against them.

  “Thstop that!” Merlin said, grabbing for his dirk.

  But Grannos had already nocked another invisible arrow and shot it. “And here’s some flibbity-fingers, just for your defiance!”

  The arrow appeared from nowhere and sank into his wrist.

  “Oucth!” Merlin said as the arrow faded away. But Merlin’s fingers began to hurt as the knuckle bones of both hands twisted grotesquely and began to wrap around each other. The pain was intense and the muscles in Merlin’s arms began to seize up. He became enraged at Grannos, and the nostrils of his flabby nose began to twitch. He tried to grab the dirk, but his fingers couldn’t grip it, so he stood, ran forward, and kicked at the little imp.

  Grannos slipped sideways and Merlin missed.

  He aimed again, and the slippery creature jumped, causing Merlin to slam his bare toes into the rock pillar holding up the tunnel. He fell to the scrubby grass and writhed in pain.

  “Aha!” Grannos said, “now you have gray, painful toes!”

  The devilish man appeared above him, smiling and licking his green teeth. “But we must have one more, so . . . Grungy-gut for you! And then, I truly believe, you’ll be ready.” He shot another arrow, and its painful tip stabbed into Merlin’s stomach. Merlin’s black tunic powdered and coagulated into wet, moldy dirt. Then mushrooms began to sprout from his abdomen, and their roots sank into his flesh, turning it a sickly purple. Veins popped out to feed the white and speckled, bulbous mushrooms.

  Merlin screamed.

  “Now,” Grannos whispered in his ear, “to make you hale I will require you to undertake a few simple tasks for me. First, you shall climb to the top of the Tán Menéth Marrow and delve downward through fire and rock until you find enough silver to mint a thousand and one coins.”

  “I can’th — ”

  “Next you must bathe the coins in the Cauldron of Ceridwen after you destroy the monster who guards its pearl-rimmed sides.”

  Merlin groaned.

  “And then you must drag the coins to Loch Obha and put all its many waters back into the well from which they flowed. Finally, you must throw the coins in. And then, and only then, will I heal you.”

  Merlin shook his head, flapping his nose. “I won’th do ith, you beasth!”

  “You cannot be a hero without being hale. This is the hill of heroes, you know! Make a vow to fulfill the quests, I say . . . and then fulfill your vow!”

  Merlin climbed stiffly to his feet and ran. He had to get away from the little monster.

  “O my queen!” the imp called, “I need you to kill the interloper! He is not fit for my hall!”

  Instantly a giant gray wolf appeared — with a woman astride its back. Covered from boot to shoulder with black armor, even her face was hidden by an iron helm with two yellowed horns protruding from the sides. In her hands she held a black spear as long as a weaver’s rod.

  Merlin ran faster, but she was right behind, with her wolf barking and howling.

  Grannos’s squeaky voice called from behind, “Destroy him!”

  Merlin ran, but didn’t get far before the woman struck him across the head with the haft of her spear, knocking him to the ground, dizzy. Her wolf sniffed at his torso, and its sharp jaws twitched in anticipation.

  There was no escape.

  Merlin looked up just as she removed her helm and released her long, luxuriously black hair. She was his sister! Though older, he would recognize her face anywhere.

  “Why do you hunt me? I’ve done you no wrong, Ganieda.”

  At the sound of her childhood name, she hefted her spear and threw it. “I am Mórgana, now, and you will never forget it, dear brother!”

  The spear struck and its deadly point gored him through. Merlin shouted and jerked, unable to move away from the torturous pain.

  Grannos appeared, then, and sneered at Merlin with wild eyes. “Now you really need healing! Hah!”

  But a bright light shone down from above as time itself held its breath. An angel appeared within the light and descended. His robes gleamed with a holy brightness. The angel knelt down, compassion on his face, and whispered in Merlin’s ear.

  “Merlin! The Lord God has sent this vision so that you may know that your time of peace has ended. The Lord has protected you for many years from your sister, but now you must face her, for she has sworn to destroy you.”

  The pain was so intense that Merlin could hardly take a breath. “I’m not ready . . .”

  The light of the angel’s face brightened. “You never will be, Merlin. But take courage. Your God is with you!”

  Grannos, Mórgana, and the spear faded, along with the pain. Merlin floated upon a sea of songs, dark laments, and lapping dirges. Ages passed, it seemed, and finally he was washed back up to feeling and warmth.

  Peredur’s face appeared above him, and firelight flickered on the rock ceiling. The smell of bean and wild carrot soup filled the air.

  “Where am I?” Merlin asked. His lips felt dry and his tongue swollen.

  “We’re here, still, in the cave o’ Colvarth. Are ya well?”

  Merlin sat up and took a sip from his waterskin. “No . . .”

  “Is it your shoulder? You fell, and I tried to catch you, but — ”

  “The war’s begun.”

  Peredur sat still for a moment, then filled a wooden mug with soup and offered it to Merlin. “There’s always been war. Saxenow, Picti . . . even the Scoti.”

  Merlin wanted to take the soup, but he began to shake as if the room had suddenly grown chill. “Not those. The war between my half sister, Ganieda, and me. She was the one who told the Picti to make us slaves, and it was she who fought against me at Atle’s temple as well.”

  “That was long ago. You’ve mentioned her name before, but I didn’t realize — ”

  “I had a vision, she told me her name is now Mórgana . . . ‘Gana the Great.’ She’s the granddaughter of th
e arch druid, Mórganthu, and if that man is still alive, I know he’s helping her too.”

  “So? Yer sister and an old man.” He offerred the mug of soup once more, and Merlin accepted it with trembling hands.

  “She has power. Dangerous power. And what can I do?”

  “Fight.”

  Merlin shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Do you remember when Natalenya was sick?”

  “You mean when we were slaves? When she had the boils?”

  Merlin closed his eyes and nodded. “Mórgana did that. And now God has removed his protection from us, whether all of it, or some of it, I don’t know. But Natalenya may be in danger again.”

  Setting his own mug down, Peredur said, “You can’t go back. Arthur needs you, Merlin.”

  “I have to warn her, at least. There’s Taliesin and Tinga to think about too.”

  “But what about Arthur?”

  Merlin tasted some of the soup with a wooden spoon. The beans weren’t cooked all the way through, but the carrots were very good, and the warmth helped stem the shaking. “Everyone keeps telling me he’s ready. Maybe Arthur’s supposed to go on alone.”

  “You can’t mean that. He doesn’t even know he’s Uther’s son.”

  “Does it matter? God can — ”

  Peredur gripped Merlin’s arm. “I can’t believe ya’d say such a thing. Yes, God can, but God has given the task of advisin’ Arthur to you. Colvarth chose you, Merlin, to guide the next High King. I heard the old bard say it with me own ears.”

  “I know what I need to do, and I don’t need you telling me.”

  Merlin banged his mug down on a rock near the fire, stood stiffly, and walked to the cave entrance. He took some deep breaths of the fresh night air. “It’s just that I’m afraid.”

  “Do I need to hit ya over the head? I don’t care how scared ya are, the task is yours.”

  Merlin didn’t answer. He had always secretly hoped that, somehow, he only need raise Arthur and the rest would take care of itself. That he could continue to live out his days with Natalenya and the children in their safe valley. That the evil specter of Ganieda . . . Mórgana . . . was nothing more than a bad dream. He had helped to defend the north with the goal of ending the slave-taking by the Picti. Why was more required of him than that?