The water fell in cool blue sheets from twenty feet overhead to break into clouds of spray where it hit the bottom. The noise pounded in Cricket’s skull, but not unpleasantly; it throbbed with power and rhythm, and possessed a wild music all its own. Unfortunately, it also blocked his path completely; there was no way to escape without getting wet.
CuChulainn sniffed at the downpour, getting closer and closer as he tried to figure out this new phenomenon. His nose suddenly touched the cascade, spraying him with water. Startled, he jumped back and shook, then spent a few minutes barking while Cricket laughed at his antics.
After putting it off as long as he could, Cricket sighed and gathered his things together. Linnaia was safe in her case, and the food pack was well oiled, but he didn’t look forward to the cold bath he was about to receive, especially when he wasn’t sure what was on the other side. Taking a deep breath, he plunged through the deluge, gasping with the shock, and found himself in a knee deep pool fogged by spray. He waded to the rocky shore before he realized that CuChulainn was still on the other side of the fall, still barking like crazy. He set his packs down with a prayer of patience, and went back for the dog.
After pulling CuChulainn through, they made their way down the mossy, stone littered gorge. The wolfhound recovered quickly from his soaking, and bounded along, nose to the ground while Cricket followed more slowly, thankful for the warmth of the sheepskin coat. But the weight of his wet cloak and packs, and the cold mist that thinned, but did not clear, oppressed his spirit until they emerged into a sun-soaked meadow.
He could see the flags of Caer Arberth in the distance, but they looked small and insignificant, like brightly colored dots over the hills. Finding a relatively flat rock, he laid out his gear to dry, and then stretched himself out in the sheep cropped grass to absorb some springtime warmth for himself. The sun relaxed his stress filled muscles, and with a deep sigh he fell asleep.
He woke shivering in a black and forbidding darkness, and he felt a moment of fear until CuChulainn brushed against him. “Do you know your way out of here?” he asked the dog. “Or do you think we should stay until dawn?”
The hound settled down beside him in answer, although he remained alert. Cricket laid back as well, but he could not go back to sleep.
Something tickled his brain with its wrongness; the night, oppressively black, weighed on him like a mountain, and he could imagine that he was deep inside a cave. Except for the muted whisper of the distant waterfall and his own breathing, nothing moved or made a sound.
He sat up, knowing what had disturbed him. Being outside, there should have been some noise from animals, insects or wind, but the meadow remained abnormally silent. He reached for Linnaia, then realized he didn’t know which way to turn to find his pack and harp case.
A moment of panic swept him with fear and disorientation. He gripped CuChulainn tighter and tried to calm his racing heart and think through the situation, but all he wanted was the feel of harp strings under his fingers. “I need your help, boy,” he told CuChulainn. “I’m scared, and I can’t find our things. I can’t think. You need to guide me.”
The dog licked his hand, but did not move.
“Are you scared too?” Cricket said. “Can you sense something that I don’t know about?” He stood up. “Are you hungry? Help me find the food, boy.”
CuChulainn whined in the back of his throat, but began sniffing along the ground. Cricket kept a hold of his fur with one hand and kept the other outstretched. Despite his caution, he banged his shin on the rock, but the pain was swept away in relief when he touched the smooth leather of Linnaia’s case. Grabbing the straps tightly, he felt about for the rest of his things, giving CuChulainn all the meat left in the food pack.
When he strummed the first chord, the oppression around him lifted. He quickly played “Ethna’s Love”, a quick jig that improved his spirits even more. The mist cleared away, letting the stars twinkle brightly overhead, and he felt his brain clearing as well.
He started to laugh at himself for being frightened by the dark, but the reflection of his music stopped him. It carried strangely over the rocks, the echoes making his bright song into a hollow dirge. He began using power, trying to find out if the condition was natural or induced somehow.
Dyfed suffered. He could feel the weight of its pain on his shoulders and down his back, making him catch his breath. Pushing it back, he tried to understand the cause, but it simply throbbed around him without direction.
The sky began to pale with the first hint of dawn, and the feeling retreated somewhat. Cricket could still feel it like a lump of lead in his stomach, but as the sun came up, it no longer threatened to overwhelm him.
He and CuChulainn wandered the misty hills after that, avoiding roads and people. The wolfhound, evidently deciding that survival was a good reason to hunt, kept them well supplied with fresh meat, but Cricket felt hollow most times anyway. He constantly thought of how to fight the mysterious evil, but the strain of just keeping it at bay began to tell on him: his eyes grew dark circles, and he began to stumble a little as he walked.
Sitting beside a small fire three nights after leaving Caer Arberth, he had to laugh at himself. First, he had been under a geis that kept him from resting. And now he simply was scared to go to sleep.
He took Linnaia onto his knee and tuned her carefully. He plucked a single string, listening to the sound and all the echoes it produced from the stones around his little campsite. He began playing slowly, feeling his way through a new song, trying to feed the power in slowly and steadily, trying to break through the wrong he felt all around. He wished suddenly for help from the immortal ravens, Thought and Memory, but had a feeling that this was his battle alone.
What he played reminded him of the song he used to defeat the creatures on Gorsedd Ogham. It had the same joy, the same hope, but it throbbed on a different level. Cricket worked with the sub-harmonies, coaxing them into the ground, building an oasis where he could rest easily. It was not a defeat; the evil simply broke around him like water around a boulder, but at least he had a dry patch for the night.
When he felt confident that his magic would last, he changed the tune and began looking for the source of the corruption, stretching his perceptions out as far as he could. He saw it in his mind like a black fog laying over the land, thinner on the peaks and pooling in the valleys. It seemed thinnest around Caer Arberth and other places where there were lots of people, which explained why he hadn’t felt it before. He felt not one, but many different focal points, and he wondered if he was smart enough to find them, and strong enough to do something about them.
He slept well that night, untroubled by nightmares, and awoke full of renewed confidence. He made his way that morning to the closest source he had sensed, a young man and his dog strolling through pastures where sheep grazed under the watchful eye of silent shepherds. Cricket nodded to them, and they nodded back, but each had a job to do and felt no need to stop and socialize.
The copse of trees in the small dell looked innocent, even peaceful under the afternoon sun, but Cricket remembered the corruption he had seen at its heart. CuChulainn whined and began slowing down. At the edge of the meadow, Cricket stopped and hugged his friend.
“It’s okay if you want to stay here,” he told the big dog. He set his packs on the ground, adding Linnaia’s case to it after he took the harp out. “You can even guard this stuff for me, okay?”
CuChulainn thumped his tail, but his eyes remained sad and a little fearful.
“I know, boy, I know. But if I’m going to claim to be a real bard, I have to do this.” He hugged the dog tightly again, trying to absorb some of his warmth and strength. Then he straightened up, squared his shoulders, and entered the trees.
Cricket followed a game trail through the tangled underbrush that plucked at his cloak and threatened to trip him with every step, descending into a shallow bowl where the air stilled and felt heavy in his lungs. He gripped Linnaia tightly an
d pressed forward.
A small spring bubbled up into a clear pool, which overflowed into a small stream that gurgled away in a twisting channel. Cricket stopped, momentarily confused as he tried to reconcile the sylvan image with the darkness he had seen the night before. He sat on a fallen log and began to play, looking beyond the surface image to the truth.
Darkness surrounded him, disorienting him with its suddenness. He had the presence of mind to keep his song going, but he started trembling and couldn’t stop. A cold wind ripped through him like spear, trying to knock him backwards. He managed not to fall, but his fingers began to go numb, making it harder to play.
Cricket hunched himself against the assault, and concentrated on making his song into light to warm and comfort him. The wind howled and the evil pulsed around him, but Cricket kept at it, listening to the sub-harmonies all around him and forcing them into new patterns. Sweat dripped down his face and arms. The pressure built, and he fumbled several notes in a row. The darkness gloated and prepared to pounce, but Cricket felt the song click, and the darkness melted away into a new pattern.
His arms ached, and he could barely feel his fingers, but he kept playing long enough to seal the grove against any further corruption. Then he slid off the log onto the marshy ground and passed out.
A warm wet tongue on his face woke him up, and he looked into the shaggy face of CuChulainn and tried to avoid smelling his breath. One arm lay in the water, but the other clutched Linnaia to his chest. “Okay, okay,” he said, pushing the dog away and struggling to sit up. “I’m awake already.”
CuChulainn sat back on his haunches, panting happily. Cricket looked around, using more than his eyes, but everything seemed normal; the glade had become a peaceful, refreshing place. He sighed and allowed himself to enjoy the moment, avoiding for the moment that he had only won a single battle in what looked to be a very long war.
Chapter 22: Meetings
After two weeks, Cricket felt like he had been pounded between two mountains, but he also felt a certain sense of accomplishment. He had cleansed one place every day, and even though it hadn’t become much easier, his fears had been assuaged by success. The constant rain and fog did not help, though.
He hadn’t talked to another human being since leaving Caer Arberth, and he felt no need to stop at the duns and caers he passed. Beltain passed, but his constant struggle had put him in a slightly different plane of existence, and he wasn’t sure he could achieve it again if he went back to the every day reality of normal people. He talked to CuChulainn when he felt lonely, and kept moving.
Climbing over the bare shoulder of a mountain on a rare clear day, he saw the sea twinkling in the distance. It startled him, and he had to think about where he was; he sat down on a rock and used a stick to draw a rough map in a patch of dirt. He realized that he had cut a swath through the middle of the country, but that he still had three quarters of the cantref left.
He laid back on the rock and stared at the clouds, soaking up the warmth of the sun. CuChulainn brought him a hare, and he put it in his pack absently, not wanting to move. Just before he fell asleep, he remembered that all of this had started because he had been fleeing a company of cerddorion.
He woke with a start, lying on the ground under a canopy of trees. He sat up, looking around in wonder at the huge oaks that stretched as far as he could see. He still had his packs, and CuChulainn still slept at his feet, but he had no idea what world he had slipped into, and he had less idea how to get back.
The bell of a hound woke CuChulainn, and he paced around the clearing with his hackles raised. The barking came closer, and Cricket stood and quickly brought Linnaia to the ready, playing a sword dance unconsciously.
Through the trees he saw flashes of the pack as they came closer. White with red ears, they stood taller even than CuChulainn, all muscle and sinew under their short coats. They surrounded the bard and the wolfhound moments later, growling softly but making no move.
CuChulainn growled back, and Cricket said, “Easy, boy. I know you don’t like them, but you’re a bit outnumbered.”
A man rode up on a huge black horse, armored and wielding a bare gray sword. He had raven hair pulled back into a warrior’s braid and a thick gold torc around his neck, but his skin had a gray pallor despite his obvious strength. He called out in a language Cricket didn’t recognize, and the strange hounds sat back on their haunches, tongues lolling.
“Greetings, bard,” the man said, dismounting.
Ghostly ravens settled on Cricket’s shoulders, and what they showed him made him bow low. “Greetings, sire. I apologize for intruding in your realm.”
Arawn, ruler of Annwn and the King of the Dead, said, “You didn’t intrude. I brought you here on purpose.”
“Then I await your majesty’s pleasure.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Arawn stepped closer and lifted his sword. “I am not a pleasant man.”
CuChulainn growled and took a step forward.
Cricket played a soothing song for both of them, breathing easier when the hound relaxed somewhat. “Please, sire, if you would tell me why I’ve upset you...”
Arawn brought the blade down, burying half its length in the ground. Leaning upon the pommel, he said, “You’ve upset me by removing my curse from Dyfed.”
“You put all that evil in the land? But why? I thought you and the lords of Dyfed were friendly.”
“Friendly? Oh, certainly, if you consider cowards and villains to be your friends.”
“The men of Dyfed have more honor and courage than any others I have met.”
“Perhaps you need to travel more,” Arawn said. “I tell you, the men of Dyfed, especially those that rule Caer Arberth, are no better than the sheep they raise.”
“If it weren’t for your curse, they would raise sheep that anyone would be proud of. No sire, Mannath is as good a man any of his forefathers, including Pryderi and Pwyll.”
“Pwyll I can say nothing about; he helped me when I needed it most. But Pryderi...”
Cricket spoke quickly to forestall the loathing in the king’s dark eyes. “Please, sire, tell me what happened.”
Arawn face twisted with distaste. “He lost the pigs.”
“What?”
“I sent him a herd of pigs and he lost them! How can you even call him a man?”
“Sire, you have to explain. It happened almost eight hundred years ago in our time, and perhaps some of the details have been lost.”
Cricket could see the rage in the king’s eyes die slowly. Pulling his sword out of the ground, Arawn sheathed it and said, “I hate bards. You’re always so damn sensible.” He clapped his hands, and a pavilion appeared. “Let’s at least be comfortable while we talk.”
Cricket pulled the hare from his pack and offered it to the king. “Compliments of my hound and I.”
Arawn took it graciously, saying, “I thank you for your gift,” but Cricket thought he heard him mutter, “Too damn sensible.”
CuChulainn settled just outside the door. Inside, the tent was decorated with military luxury: leather covered the two stools and the table between them, and decorative carving covered the roof poles. Arawn shaped a gleaming brazier from the air, and spitted the rabbit over the glowing coals. “Sit, and we’ll talk while it cooks.”
“If you would, tell me about the pigs.”
“My greatest gift to your kind,” Arawn said. “When Pwyll died and Pryderi succeeded him, I sent him the herd as a gift on his ascension. I only had one request: that he would keep the herd whole for seven years before he shared them with anyone else.”
A beautiful woman, all soft curves under her silken dress, came in and tended the rabbit. “Why seven years?” Cricket asked, trying not to stare. She had the same pallor to her skin as Arawn.
“To give the herd time to grow, mostly,” the king replied. “But also, I thought to give the lad something to call his own. His father was quite accomplished, you know, and I didn’t want Pryder
i to feel like he was only respected because of who happened to whelp him.”
The servant left, returning with a basket of bread and two mugs of beer, which she set on the table. After she disappeared again, Cricket said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but is she a ghost?”
“What? Of course not.”
“But you’re the King of the Dead.”
Arawn waved it away. “Humans came up with that. Something to do with the way my kingdom and I look. Anyway, we were talking about the swine.”
“I’m sorry sire.” Although the tale was familiar, the ravens filled his head suddenly with vivid images from the distant past, things they had witnessed themselves. Cricket shook his head at what he saw, but said, “I know the story from this point on, although perhaps you don’t.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me it wasn’t Pryderi’s fault.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.” He took a swallow of beer and wiped the foam from his lip. “Pryderi was tricked by a devious bard named Gwydion, who cast an illusion on twelve mules and twelve mutts so that they appeared to be fine steeds and greyhounds, with jewel encrusted saddles, bridles, and harnesses. Then he sapped Pryderi’s will with a song so that he traded the swine for them.”
Arawn slammed his fist down on the table, upsetting his beer. “I know that!” he said. “I was there, in disguise, and I saw it all!”
“But did you know that as soon as Pryderi realized what he had done, he gathered the few men that would go with him and chased after Gwydion? And that he fought with Gwydion at the Dyfi River? And all this before the illusion had even faded?”
“He went after them?” Arawn said, leaning back. “I thought... I mean, he had made a fair trade...”
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