by T.A. Barron
“They’re not!”
The geologist moved toward her, but clipped his thigh against the corner of the desk. “Ow! Where are my glasses?” Bending nearer, he asked hoarsely, “Are we the ones who are dead? I mean, this ship and all. It’s ancient! A real museum piece. And, what’s more, it’s loaded to the gills with—”
“Treasure,” completed the pile of brown rags on the chair.
Terry jolted. “What, er, who . . . are you?”
Creakily, the old man rose and extended a hand. “Geoffrey of Bardsey, at your service.” He paused, looking confused, then asked, “Have we already been introduced?”
“And this is Terry Graham,” said Kate, stepping to Geoffrey’s side. “No need to kneel on his account.”
“I’m hallucinating,” moaned the broad-shouldered young man. “Or dead.”
“You’re not dead,” declared Kate. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Then where am I? Who is he?”
Facing him squarely, Kate replied, “You’re on the Resurreccíon. Remember? The ship you said wasn’t real. At the bottom of the whirlpool. And Geoffrey here is a survivor, kept alive somehow by a magical Horn. Is that enough for you?”
“Enough to convince me I’m crazy,” said Terry uncertainly. “Wait. Did you say we’re at the bottom of the whirlpool?”
Kate nodded.
“So that sand out there is really the ocean floor, three thousand feet down?”
Again she nodded.
“But . . . that isn’t possible! Look, be rational. It’s so warm here. Too warm for that far down. Unless . . .” His eyes bulged. “Have you felt any tremors?”
“More than one.”
Terry went pale. “Then, if this is the ocean floor, magma must be pushing closer! There could be an eruption any moment.” He waved at the air. “And we’re stuck down here. Hopelessly stuck.”
Sensing his anxiety, she felt an unexpected touch of sympathy. “Maybe not.”
“Hopeless is an unfortunate state of mind,” offered Geoffrey. “It is very difficult, while feeling hopeless, to remain at all, well, hopeful.”
Kate and Terry traded perplexed looks. Then Kate asked the monk, “Are you absolutely sure there is no way the Horn could help us?”
“Not unless you can solve the riddle.”
“Tell me what else you know about the Horn,” she insisted. “Maybe it will give me a clue.”
Geoffrey regarded her doubtfully. “I suppose I could tell you a story I learned during my time in the Order of the Horn—the story of how the Horn came to be found, and then lost, by Merlin. Beyond that, all I can tell you is how, long after Merlin’s demise, I came to find it again.”
“Go ahead,” she pleaded.
“I really would rather—”
“Please.”
Geoffrey cracked his withered knuckles. “I never could say no to the ladies,” he muttered. “All right. It is, I admit, an intriguing tale. One of hope and promise.”
He reached for the red volume, tucked it under his arm, then started hobbling toward the door. As he passed Kate, he remarked, “The deck is the place to do it, though. Out with the sails and the fresh air.”
Reluctantly, Kate and Terry followed.
Geoffrey led them onto the deck, past the rows of cannons and the cases of cannonballs and bar shot. Near the trapdoor, he stopped and lifted a rammer off the deck. Reaching as high as he could, he used the rammer to tip over a round clay jar lashed to the rigging above his head. A brief cascade of water, collected from the constant vapors of the whirlpool, poured onto his upturned face. Then he shook himself, cast the rammer aside, and tottered onward.
His version of a shower, thought Kate. All he needs now is some shampoo. Strong enough to kill lice.
At the base of the snapped mainmast, the monk stepped over a tangle of rigging and sat down on a broken barrel. Motioning to the others to join him, he looked up into the swirling clouds of mist, as if searching for a glimpse of the blue sky he had not seen for half a millennium.
Kate sat on the dark wood of the deck before him, leaning her back against the side of a crate. As Terry joined her, he grumbled, “Do you really expect to learn anything useful from this character?”
“Got any better ideas?” she replied.
“No.” He gingerly wiped the salty dew from his brow. “But every minute we sit here the eruption gets closer.”
Geoffrey tilted his haggard face toward them. He scratched behind his knee and between two toes, then intoned, “Our story begins in the age of Merlin, long after Arthur perished at the hands of Mordred.”
Terry released a painful groan, causing Kate to elbow him.
“Merlin learned of a legendary craftsman, whose life was steeped in tragedy. He lived all alone, high on a mountain precipice. His true name had been lost from memory, but he was known as—”
“Emrys,” finished Kate.
Geoffrey and Terry both looked at her with surprise, though the elder’s expression showed a touch of admiration, as well.
“You are correct,” said Geoffrey. “Now may I continue?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, by the way. When I come to the part concerning me—how I came to find the Horn—I will speak of myself as Geoffrey. That is because . . . this is how, long after my time has passed, I hope the story will be told.”
He squared his shoulders. “Now listen well, for you shall learn how Serilliant came to be . . . the Horn of Merlin.”
XVII: The Story of the Whirlpool’s Birth
When King Arthur died, the wizard Merlin’s hopes for peace and justice in Clas Myrddin died as well. His only scant comfort came from the prophesy that one day, under certain conditions, Arthur might return. The prophesy told of a Final Battle that would follow where Arthur would fight against all the assembled forces of wickedness. If Arthur won, the world would be liberated, but if he lost, the world would sink into chaos and despair.
Merlin believed that the Thirteen Treasures created by Emrys would be essential to Arthur in that colossal battle. Merlin’s friends, the elusive mer people, had told him enough about the Horn named Serilliant to convince him that it was the most valuable of all the Treasures. Yet they would not reveal, even to Merlin, the secret of its power. They warned him that the Horn must never fall into the hands of Arthur’s enemies, or his cause would surely be doomed.
After years of searching, Merlin finally discovered the mountain hideaway of Emrys. Merlin found the craftsman on the verge of death, still tormenting himself for the loss of his one true love, the mermaid Wintonwy. Although Merlin could do nothing to relieve Emrys’ pain, he convinced him to contribute the Treasures to the cause of Arthur. So Emrys gave Merlin the flaming chariot, the cauldron of knowledge, the mantle of invisibility, the knife that could heal any wound, and the other Treasures in his possession. But he could not deliver the three that had been lost: the sword of light, the ruby ring that could control the will of others, and—most precious of all—the mysterious Horn.
Guided by the directions Emrys provided, Merlin made his way to the realm of Shaa. At last he came to the entrance. There he found a fearsome monster of the deep, a spidery creature with a thousand poisonous tongues. By the monster’s side lay the sword of light. Merlin hid himself and waited until the moment the monster began to doze. Then, changing his own form into a small crab, Merlin managed to spirit away the sword of light.
After passing through an abyss, darkest of the dark, Merlin entered the realm of Shaa. It lay, as legend described, in the place where the sea begins, the womb where the waters are born. No mer people remained there, having abandoned the realm after Nimue’s brutal attack. And, as Merlin had hoped, Nimue and her army of sea demons had also left, having found nothing more in Shaa to steal or destroy. Even the ancient castle of Merwas stood vacant, its great hall drained of water and of life.
Merlin searched relentlessly for the two Treasures still missing. Yet he could find no clue to their whereabouts. Finally, near the
forgotten castle, the wizard happened upon an enormous pile of discarded conch shells. All were spiral in shape, all were empty—but for one, which seemed to glisten strangely. Out of curiosity, Merlin retrieved it, only to realize that it brimmed with a rainbow-colored fluid. He knew in a flash that he had recovered the lost Serilliant. Triumphant, he returned to the land above the sea.
Only those whose wisdom and strength of will are beyond question may drink from this Horn. Merlin knew well this command, yet he found himself increasingly consumed by his desire to experience the Horn’s power. He believed that his vast wisdom would surely pass the test, and would no doubt make up for any deficiencies in his strength of will. In time, he ignored his own better judgment and decided that Arthur would want him to take a drink from the Horn.
And then he drank. His eyes flamed with a newfound brightness. Yet because he had not waited to drink from the Horn until his strength of will was greater, he began to grow possessive and arrogant, more so with each passing day.
Telling himself that no one but himself, perhaps not even Arthur, could fully appreciate the Horn’s power, Merlin carried it with him wherever he went. Before long he stopped calling it Serilliant and started referring to it as the Horn of Merlin. Though it came to be no less part of his garb than his fabled blue cloak, he steadfastly refused to divulge to anyone, even his closest friends, the nature of its power.
While under the sea, Merlin had discovered an ideal place to store the Treasures until the return of Arthur. This place was far from Britain, deep beyond imagining, and almost impossible to find. Merlin called it the Glass House. He kept its location secret, although from time to time he hinted that it lay hidden beneath the waves. In time, he brought all the Treasures to the Glass House for safekeeping. All, that is, except the ruby ring, which he had not yet found, and the Horn itself, which he could not bear to leave behind.
Merlin traveled widely, with the Horn ever at his side. In his arrogance, he flaunted it, believing that the Horn was destined to remain with him always. No one, he told himself, would be so foolish as to try to steal it.
He was wrong. The sorceress Nimue had long envied Merlin. She had often tried, with limited results, to trick him into parting with his secrets. Realizing that the Horn could confer unrivaled power, she vowed that she would one day possess it. Then, at last, she would be greater than Merlin, greater than anyone who might dare to challenge her.
Carefully, Nimue crafted a plot. It was founded on the belief that, one day, Merlin would choose to return to the Glass House under the sea to inspect the Treasures hidden there. To succeed, she knew she would need an ally, one who would not shy away from a great battle on the open ocean.
She sought out a certain sea captain, a man named Garlon. Such great distances had he sailed that it was said that neither war nor weather could sink a ship if Garlon the Seaworthy stood at the helm. For some reason known to no one but Garlon himself, he seethed with contempt for Merlin. Nimue knew not the origins of his hatred, but she knew well how to fan its embers into flames. She approached Garlon aboard his ship one day, enticing him with her sweet perfume and her promises of wealth beyond measure. But these meant less to him than the chance he had longed for, the chance to humble Merlin at last. He agreed to help.
For a long time, Nimue waited. At length, the desired day arrived. Disguised as a cloud of mist upon the water, she watched as Merlin readied a barge drawn by a great whale. The wizard boarded the barge, then commanded the whale to take him to the place where the sea begins, the womb where the waters are born.
As the barge drew farther away from Britain, mysterious winds seemed to gather around it, driving it toward a faraway destination. Unnoticed, the sorceress followed at a distance. Hidden behind her curtain of mist, Garlon sailed his own ship, propelled by the same winds that drove Merlin.
Finally, the winds ceased. Merlin released the whale and prepared to plunge beneath the waves. At that instant, Nimue cast aside her disguise. She attacked the lone wizard, joined by her band of sea demons and the vengeful Garlon.
Although he had no army to defend him, Merlin held his own for some time. The battle raged on for weeks, turning night into day and water into fire. But in time, the combined forces against him proved too strong. Merlin realized that he could not prevail. In that bitter moment, he also understood his own colossal folly. He had broken the command of Merwas; he had wasted his opportunity to protect the Horn; he had betrayed the very cause of his king.
As Nimue and Garlon bore down on him, Merlin tried to think of some way to save the Horn, even if he could not save himself. In desperation, he hurled the Horn as far as he could from the attackers.
Nimue merely laughed, gloating in triumph. “Do you think you can sssstop me sssso eassssily?”
Then, as the Horn hit the water, something remarkable occurred. As it started spiraling downward into the depths, the Horn caused the water to start spinning around it. Soon the ocean itself began whirling with ever-greater force, and a dark hole opened on the surface of the sea.
A great whirlpool was born.
Seizing his chance, Merlin mustered all his remaining power. He cast a protective spell over the whirlpool, so that only those who were friends of King Arthur—or Arthur himself—could enter the whirlpool and survive.
Nimue tried to force her way into the mouth of the whirlpool but could not. She exploded in rage. Merlin had denied her the Horn! She swooped down on the exhausted wizard and carried him away, dropping him into a deep cave on the Isle of Bardsey, which she sealed forever.
Yet, so great was Nimue’s desire for the Horn, she could not accept defeat. She returned to the whirlpool, determined to wait until it finally slowed and collapsed, no matter how long that might take. After all, there was now no risk of being menaced by Merlin. In exploring the area below the whirlpool, she discovered Merlin’s Glass House. She claimed it for her own, although its store of Treasures held no interest for her. The one Treasure she most wanted lay beyond her reach . . . for the moment.
Nimue took Garlon, against his will, to the Glass House under the sea. Although he had no desire for the Horn, he had been useful to her once, and might be so again. Yet he resisted serving as her underling, even as he resisted living deep under the waves. Once he tried to escape to the surface and was apprehended by her sea demons.
Though the sea demons wanted to tear Garlon to shreds, Nimue halted them. Instead, she raised her vaporous hand and laid on him a terrible curse. If Garlon should ever again go above the surface of the sea, he would instantly disintegrate and perish—unless he had first taken a drink from the Horn. Thus Garlon’s loyalty was ensured, for unless he could somehow recover the Horn, he would never again feel the touch of sunlight on his skin.
Years passed, turning into decades, then into centuries. Still the whirlpool persisted, surrounded in time by a group of whales, singing and circling without end. All this time Nimue waited, with Garlon at her side, kept alive by the power of the Horn that seeped through the whirlpool into the surrounding waters. Yet she had not counted on the fact that the Horn would also nourish the whirlpool and keep it spinning strongly—so strongly that it showed no sign of ever collapsing. While she suspected that the whirlpool’s strength would prevent any friend of Arthur who might get in from ever getting out again, she also began to fear that her vigil might be prolonged forever.
Unknown to Nimue, on the one thousandth anniversary of Merlin’s demise, the spirit of the great wizard appeared in the dream of Geoffrey of Bardsey, the last surviving member of the Order of the Horn.
“Last of the faithful,” the spirit of Merlin declared, “I come to you with a command.”
“Are you sure?” asked Geoffrey in protest. “I am rather weak and frail.”
The spirit examined the aging monk with evident disappointment. “You are the only one I have left. For one thousand years I have slept in constant torment, not knowing whether the Horn could still be saved for Arthur. Yet now, through the whis
pering of mer folk who come near my cave, I have learned that there is indeed a thin strand of hope. But I need your assistance.”
The spirit of Merlin then told Geoffrey all that had befallen the Horn. He concluded with this command: “Go now to the distant port of Manila. There you will find, preparing to sail, a ship known as Resurreccíon. You must smuggle yourself aboard, then ride with the ship, wherever it may go. For its route will take you close to the mighty whirlpool where the Horn lies to this very day.”
Geoffrey scratched his neck nervously. “Surely you are not expecting me to sail into the mouth of a whirlpool.”
The spirit scowled at him, then said only, “The ship will lead you to the Horn.”
With that, the spirit disappeared and Geoffrey of Bardsey awoke. Despite his fears, not to mention his tender feet, he made his way across Asia to Manila. He arrived just as the ship was being loaded with priceless treasures. He boarded and hid himself away, but not before he made a small coded entry in the ship’s manifest, on the remote chance that it might one day alert an ally who could somehow provide assistance.
Soon after the ship was launched, Geoffrey discovered its generous stores of food. Finding himself eating better than ever before in his life, he began to conclude that his original fears had been misplaced. Surely Merlin would never reward his loyalty by causing him to plunge into a deadly whirlpool!
Months passed at sea, and Geoffrey began to wonder whether he would ever see the hills of his home again. Then came a morning when the ship suddenly changed course, spinning in ever tighter circles. Sailors started cursing and howling like wounded beasts. Geoffrey rushed out to the deck to discover that the ship was, indeed, being swallowed by the whirlpool. Men screamed in fright and leaped overboard into the churning waves, even as wind tore at the sails and the mainmast snapped in two.
Just as he uttered his final prayers, Geoffrey heard the men crying that they were being devoured by whales. Then, to his astonishment, he saw that they were in truth being saved, carried to shore before they could drown.
