Camelot & Vine

by Petrea Burchard

  “Your healing magic is a blessing for Gareth,” said Morgan le Fay. She smiled. The crow’s feet and square jaw made her Arthur’s half-sister. She had handed down her long, slim fingers and high cheekbones to their son, Medraut.

  “I don’t think it’s helping.”

  “You’ve done well for him,” she said. “I can see it strains you.” On her the square jaw was as noble as Arthur’s but elegant, too, and the gray eyes were more calm than sad. “I know you’re wounded, too,” she said, “but Gareth needs all you can give.”

  “I can only do my best.”

  “Of course.”

  I had nothing to offer. I was near the end of my vast store of pretense. The pressure of it tightened the muscles in my neck and shoulders.

  Myrddin emerged from the hut, running his fingers through his thin, white hair. “He’s resting,” he said. “Morgan, may I leave your cousin in your charge? I’d like to walk with Casey while we still have the sun.”

  He strode away with his usual purpose of step, scattering sheep in his wake. I trotted after him across the upward slope, up the grass toward the dominating Tor, leaving behind the huts that circled the meadow’s lower edge like brown jewels around a green throat. Above us on the Tor’s terraced flanks, priestesses harvested grain, the fullness of their mushroom-colored robes pulled up between their legs and tucked into their belts. Wide-brimmed, cloth hats shaded their necks from the sun.

  When I caught up to him, Myrddin said, “You are well enough now to tell me what happened to your arm.”

  “Oh. Well, it was pretty chaotic out there.”

  “Of course, it was a battle. Did your injury occur while you were protecting Arthur with the magic branch?”

  We reached the lowest terrace of the Tor and began to ascend. Myrddin slowed to a stroll, his hands resting comfortably behind his back. I trudged and panted, only one arm free to balance me.

  “No.”

  “Because it appears,” Myrddin barreled through my answer, “that either your arm was caught by something and you pulled it harder than I would think possible, or someone powerful was helpful enough to shove it out of its socket for you.”

  I didn’t answer right away. We gained height, walking the terraces and circling the Tor above the meadows, looking out over the apple orchard to the small lake beyond. The way continued upward to where the terraces ended and a dirt path began, encircling the conical hill. The incline burned my thighs and made my lungs hungry. Morning walks around the Cadebir perimeter hadn’t exactly gotten me into athletic shape. Breathless as I was, from that height I could appreciate the poetry of the eastern plains. Their grasses flowed in waves to the mossy edges of the lake that made Ynys Witrin an island. To the north, more sun-gold hills rose above the wetlands, and when we rounded the Tor’s western side, the shining opulence of the marshes moved me as they undulated toward the distant sea.

  I had to trust someone.

  “Lancelot says I have to leave or die.”

  “Ah. Where will you go?”

  I hadn’t expected that. “I was hoping you’d know what to do.”

  “You’re the great wizard from the future. I should think the answer would be clear.”

  It was clear I had only made things worse for myself at Cadebir. I’d thought it through in my few days on the island: if I told Arthur I had no magic he might have me killed for lying. He’d at least exile me. And if he knew Lancelot had threatened me it could jeopardize their alliance, so for Arthur’s sake I didn’t want to tell him. I might find a place among the Saxons if I discovered the spy and allied with him. But I’d have to be a traitor to Arthur to do it. Even if I could stomach that, which I couldn’t, I wouldn’t be safe with Arthur’s enemies. There weren’t a lot of options and they were all bad.

  Myrddin and I climbed a flight of steps that looked like they’d been carved into the hillside in a previous century. They brought us to the top of the Tor. There, a stone wall encircled two small buildings that flanked a blackened hearth, scorched by the fires of thousands of years and big enough to barbecue a mammoth.

  We sat on the wall and watched over the tapestry of Arthur’s world. Beneath us, priestess hats bobbed along the rows of grain. Sheep floated on the meadow in tiny cotton clouds. In the orchard, branches quivered, ceding apples to the harvesters’ hands. Past the apple trees, the lake’s dark waters lapped at the quiet shore. In the distance, a last glimpse of Cadebir rose above the southern plain before the mist rolled over the water, closing us off from the outside world.

  “I’m not a wizard, Myrddin,” I said. “But you already know that.”

  He sighed and put his arm around me. “I understand lying to protect one’s self in fear. But you haven’t time for it anymore.”

  I began to cry because he was right on both counts: I was scared and it was too late. I hated to cry. I never had anything to blow my nose on. “Could I stay here at Ynys?”

  He patted my sore shoulder gently. “For a time, perhaps. No man but the king enters here without permission from Vivien. But if Lancelot is determined, he’ll find a way. You’ve usurped his position as Arthur’s closest friend.”

  “He’s afraid I’ll disclose his affair.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would never do anything to hurt any of them.”

  “Except Gareth?”

  I sniffed. “I didn’t make him worse, did I?”

  “There’s a perfectly good physician at Beran Byrig. You were mere hours away, yet you insisted that Gareth jolt about in a wagon for an entire day to come here instead. That day was precious time.”

  Guilt ran through my veins, slowing my blood like lead. “You’ve done everything you could for him, haven’t you?”

  “Of course I have. But his condition is grave.” He pressed his lips together. “If he dies, you could be blamed. Arthur expects great things from you. He knows my limitations, but he doesn’t know yours.”

  I hadn’t thought of Gareth. I’d thought only of myself. Maybe Lancelot was right. I had to leave. “I could head south, try to find passage to Gaul.” Gareth had been the first person in the Dark Ages to give me a smile. If he died it would be my fault. Of all the people there, he’d be the first to forgive me. “But I don’t think I’d make it. And that’s just running away.”

  “There is one other option,” said Myrddin. “There is the Gap.”

  I half-laughed. “It’s not possible.”

  He straightened. “I’ve made twenty-five batteries.”

  Twenty-five thousand batteries couldn’t do the impossible. Leave or die. Those were my only real choices, and they were what I deserved.

  “I’ve done everything wrong, Myrddin. I wish I could start over.”

  Myrddin’s black eyes flashed with something like a scold. “If you should ever get a chance to start again,” he said, “do begin with the truth next time.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  At dusk, Vivien stood on the topmost rung of the ladder, picking apples with the vigor of a teenager. When I told her I’d like to stay at Ynys Witrin she said I’d have to become a priestess and worship the goddess. I said I’d try.

  “We accept no false worshipers,” said the elder, eyeing me from where she towered among wizened branches. “You must seek reverence in your heart or the goddess will find you out.”

  “Okay.”

  “You will work the fields and orchards as well.” She handed her basket down the ladder to me. A full basket of ripe apples weighs about as much as a person.

  Vivien climbed to the ground, then lifted the ladder with one hand. “Dance with us tonight in the sacred grove. The young ones will anoint themselves with mandragora. You and I shall not, as we must remain alert for the sake of our charges.” She winked. My charge was Gareth. I was on call.

  We each took a handle and carried the basket through the orchard toward the kitchen. Gnarled old branches hung heavy and low. There was plenty of work to do on the island. I could learn to pick apples.
r />   -----

  Vivien’s veined arms swept up to grab at the stars in the treetops. No fabric bound her small breasts. No ribbons tamed the long, wild hair that flowed away from her upturned face in shades of white to ash to slate. The shadow of her slim, strong form floated inside her robe, giving the feeling she could dance a ballet one minute and uproot a tree the next.

  The younger priestesses raised their arms, too. Palest moonlight filtered into the grove and dusted their bodies, glinting on the greasy spots between their breasts where they’d rubbed the mandragora ointment. Most had thrown their robes aside because the night was warm; muslin swayed in the branches like ghost faeries in the surrounding grove.

  With toes digging into earth and leaves, the women danced in a pattern among the trees, chanting, “Rigantona, Rigantona, Rigantona...” I followed, a beat behind, waving my free arm while my sore one rested in its sling, my chant not exactly earnest, but hopeful. Beside me, Morgan sang to the goddess, letting her head rock from side to side. When I fell out of step I watched her feet to find my way back into the pattern. We moved forward and back, side to side, a simple sway with the chant as we progressed through the grove. I closed my eyes and tried to let the chant overtake me as it had Morgan and the others, but I fell out of step again.

  When I opened my eyes I found Vivien watching me, her expression receptive, as warm as the embers of the bonfire we’d made on the beach. I thought she knew what I knew: while the priestesses grew more serene in their song, I grew more certain I could only imitate it. I was going through the motions. It would never be otherwise.

  Whether or not the goddess Rigantona would find me out was irrelevant. I had found myself out.

  -----

  An hour later I walked back to the settlement, leaving the priestesses to dance until the mandragora visions subsided. Upon the black lake, the reflection of the waxing moon rocked with the water’s gentle undulations.

  I picked up a stone and held it. I could pray—for Gareth to get well, for Lancelot to let me stay, for King Arthur to care about me. But no god or goddess could make others do what I wanted them to do.

  “Help me know what to do,” I whispered to the stone.

  I aimed for the moon’s reflection and threw. The milky disk split into twenty moons, shivering on the water.

  -----

  An oil lamp burned in the kitchen. Someone, perhaps a novice, was at work. The rest of the settlement slept. Sheep huddled together, murmuring in a contented, woolly drift at the base of the Tor. In utter darkness, I crossed the meadow to the huts.

  A lone figure sat silhouetted in moonlight at the doorway to Gareth’s hut.

  “Is Gareth sleeping?” I asked Myrddin as I came near.

  The old man raised his weary head to gaze past me to the orchard, the Tor, the stars.

  “Young Gareth of Orkney is dead.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  During the night’s dark hours when I wasn’t lying awake on my cot, I paced the dirt floor of my hut. Surrounded by a ring of huts with fifty priestesses snoring in ecstatic oblivion, two grieving men in their sad tossings, and one corpse in irretrievable slumber, I had no one but myself to ask, over and over again: had my selfishness caused Gareth’s death? Or would his wound have killed him regardless of my actions?

  I'd never know, and the answer didn’t matter. Gareth was dead. What kept me awake was the knowledge that I had been so concerned with my pain, my fears and my high position that I had made his death more probable. I could rationalize one Saxon death as a necessary accident. I could not rationalize Gareth’s, no matter how hard I tried.

  I told myself I had no way of knowing if the physician at Beran Byrig was as skilled as Myrddin.

  But King Arthur had wanted to send Gareth there. That should have been enough for me. I should have trusted him.

  My shoulder had been in pain.

  Yes, but I wasn’t dying.

  I feared Lancelot. His threat was real.

  But even that excuse didn’t work, because at Beran Byrig I’d have been further from Lancelot, and perhaps safer.

  No. I’d insisted on dragging Gareth to Ynys Witrin because I had wanted to cover myself. I was afraid I couldn’t fake wizardry with the physician at Beran Byrig. I had not insisted on Ynys for the sake of my life but for the sake of my lie.

  Was I willing to spend other people’s lives to save my own? How dark would it get before I realized I wasn’t worth what I’d spent on myself? Dying terrified me, especially out of time, where I wasn’t meant to be. But letting an innocent person die so I could continue lying made a guilty hut to live in, a dirty place not only without baths or tissues, but without light or love or air.

  I cried all night. Crying hurt my throat. I wept for Gareth, because he was good and innocent and lost. I hoped, begged and pleaded with Rigantona, or whoever would listen, that it wasn’t my fault. But I couldn’t let myself off that hook. I cried for myself, which infuriated me because I didn’t even know how to weep for Gareth without getting some tears in for myself as well.

  I must have slept some. When I woke, puffy-eyed and thirsty with the dawn, I knew what I had to do.

  -----

  “You can go directly west then down the coast,” said Myrddin. “I have friends in the south.”

  The sun had barely risen, tinting the lake mist a soft lavender. Because most of the priestesses were sleeping in, Myrddin, Vivien and I had the wide kitchen almost to ourselves. The few island denizens who hadn’t partaken of the mandragora ate their breakfasts seated on indigo linen pillows at low, scattered tables.

  Myrddin broke off enough bread to feed a Saxon for a week, dropping crumbs so huge they left shadows on the table. “It’s an easy ride.”

  I sipped my tea from a clay mug. “You mean travel alone?”

  “Mmhmm.” His mouth was full.

  “I’ve made the trip many times.” Vivien rested her smooth, old cheek on Myrddin’s shoulder. More than mere colleagues, I realized. If this woman was to imprison Myrddin in a tree as legend told, clearly he’d be happy about it. “The coast isn’t far,” she said. “You can see it from the Tor. It’s a lovely ride.”

  Sure, if you’re not a fugitive in the wrong century.

  “Most of the villages along the coast are friendly,” said Myrddin, reaching for a bowl of dark berries and popping several into his mouth.

  “That’s reassuring,” I said. “But I’m going back to Cadebir.”

  Myrddin stopped eating in order to give full energy to a frown. “You won’t survive.”

  I leaned on my good elbow. “I know I have to leave, but before I go, I’m going to tell Arthur the truth.”

  “It’s a bad idea.” He pouted as though the berries had gone sour.

  “You said I’ve become his closest friend.”

  “And he told you he brooks no lies.”

  “That’s why I have to—”

  “Send him a message from Brittany.”

  “I’m going back with Agravain this morning.” My voice was as shaky as my resolve.

  “Oh my.” Myrddin sighed and rubbed his chin, staining it with berry juice.

  Vivien raised a slender finger. “Is Agravain ordinarily a late sleeper?”

  “I gave him a sedative,” said Myrddin. “Otherwise, I couldn’t have moved him from his brother’s bedside.”

  “He’s hardly stirred from there since he arrived,” said Vivien.

  Myrddin reached across the table to place his hand over mine. His black eyes glistened with something like pride. “Casey,” he said, “We do not expect rain at the full moon. But if there is lightning I’ll meet you, with batteries, at the Giant’s Ring.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  The first person who’d smiled at me in the Dark Ages now wore a death grimace. Gareth’s body lay on a low bier in the center of our small barge. I avoided his empty gaze and sat at his feet, swatting persistent flies.

  Young priestesses sat posed like warriors at the vessel’s flanks, di
pping oars in the silent water and occasionally wiping their brows. Rowing a body across the lake wasn’t what they’d planned to do on the day of their ritual hangover.

  Agravain’s mourning was wordless, but not silent. He stood at the head of the body and gazed at his brother’s face. His lungs pushed forth forceful sighs. The moans he heaved came directly from his broken heart. His tanned brow wrinkled with questions and aggravation. I worried, wondering if his questions would lead him to me.

  We made our crossing under an overcast sky. Black water lapped at the barge and the mists closed behind us like a curtain. We arrived on the opposite shore in a fog so thick I’d have thought there was no island at all.

  The wagon we’d left there a few days before had been cleaned and prepared by the priestesses, who seemed to do much of their work invisibly. I sat in the rear of the cart with the body rather than ride with Agravain while he drove. I could tell by his unsmiling nod that my choice was his choice as well.

  But neither brother was my first choice of traveling companion. Agravain refused to cover the body—a priestess had told me this would leave Gareth’s spirit free to rise when it was ready—and during the two hours’ ride I couldn’t avoid the void of Gareth’s blue-green face. Sometimes I could believe for a moment that I wasn’t responsible for his death. Then I’d think of Agravain or Lynet and be shocked again by my selfishness.

  I wished desperately for magic and in strange moments I felt as though Gareth would, at any second, smile and make a joke. He was obviously dead, yet even with the evidence before me, death’s finality was hard to believe.

  I exhausted my good arm fanning flies. I brooded on whatever subjects willed themselves to plague me. Agravain’s unreadable back, above me in the front seat, raised constant questions. Did he blame me? Did he blame the Saxon who had wounded his brother? Did he know I had lied? With no one to converse with, my mind chattered away. Arthur had trusted me. I had judged Lancelot and Guinevere for taking advantage of his trust, but I had done the same. Worse. Myrddin had said I was Arthur’s closest friend. Poor Arthur, to have such awful friends. I was finally ready to be honest with my friend but I had already botched it. Before me lay my grimacing guilt, and it would not be assuaged simply because I planned to come clean.