Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  * * *

  We followed Hafgan from the grove—Blaise, Charis, myself, and two or three others—and returned to the glen where the warband was waiting. We broke camp at once and rode south toward Yr Widdfa. Hafgan wanted to see the great mountain again, and to show us where he was born.

  He was angry for a time after leaving Garth Greggyn, but this passed very quickly and he soon appeared joyful and more content than I had ever seen him—singing, laughing, talking long and happily with my mother as we rode along—a man freed from a tiresome burden, or healed of a wearying pain. Blaise noticed the change as well, and explained it to me. “He has been divided in his heart for a very long time. I think he wanted to force the decision back there, and now that it is over, he is free to go his own way.”

  “Divided?”

  “Between Jesu and the old gods,” Blaise replied. “As Chief Druid he must uphold the eminence of the ancient gods of our people, though that has become distasteful to him in the years since he discovered the Great Light.” I must have frowned or shown my lack of comprehension, for Blaise added, “You must understand, Myrddin Bach, not every man will follow the Light. Nothing you or anyone else can do will change that.” He shook his head. “Though dead men rise from their graves and stones dance in the air, they will still refuse. It makes no sense, but that is the way of it.”

  I did not altogether believe him. I thought he was telling me the truth as he saw it, and respected his insight; but in my innermost heart I thought that if men did not believe the truth, it was only because a better way of explaining had yet to be discovered. There is a way to make all men see, I thought to myself, and I will find it.

  Two days later we sat on a high hill, the wind riffling the sparse grass and sighing among the bare rocks as we gazed at the cold, white-topped and solitary splendor of Yr Widdfa, Snow Lord, Winter’s Fortress.

  In that lonely land of brooding peaks and darksome vales it is easy to believe the things whispered before the firelight, the tales and scraps of tales men have passed to their children for a hundred generations and more: one-eyed giants in halls of stone; goddesses who transform themselves into owls to haunt the night on soft, silent wings; water maids who lure the unwary to rapturous death below the waves; enchanted hills where captured heroes sleep the centuries away; invisible islands where gods cavort in the twilight of never-ending summer…

  Easy to believe the unbelievable there among the hollow hills.

  We dismounted and ate a meal on the hilltop, then rested. I did not care to sleep, and decided to walk down to the valley and fill the water jars and skins at the stream. It was not a difficult walk, nor even very far; thus I did not pay particularly close attention to the features of the land—not that this would have helped.

  I stumbled and slid down the hill, laden with skins and jars swinging from their thongs round my neck and shoulders. A quick-running stream lay in the center of the valley among the tight tangles of blackthorn and elder. I found a way to the water and set to filling the skins.

  I cannot say how long I was at it, but it could not have been long. Nevertheless, when I gathered up the filled containers and stood to look around, I could no longer see the hill: a dense, grey fog had come down from Yr Widdfa and wrapped the higher hills in a dense clotted mass thick as wool.

  I was concerned, but not frightened. After all, the hill stood directly before me. All I need do was put one foot in front of the other and retrace my steps to the top where the others waited. I wasted no time, but set off at once in the event the others awoke and became anxious to find me missing and a fog filling the valley.

  I quickly found the path I had taken down the hill and began the ascent. I walked a long time, but came no nearer the top. I stopped and peered into the swirling blankness, and try as I might, I could not make out where I was on the hillside.

  I called out…and heard my cry muted and silenced by the thick, damp vapors.

  What to do?

  There was no telling how long the mist might last. I might wander the hill-track for days on end and never find my way. Worse, and far more likely, I might stumble over a rock in the path and break a leg, or step over a cliff and fall to my death. I sat down to think it through.

  It seemed obvious that I had been walking in a circle—and equally obvious, as I sat there, that the fog was settling in. I had no better choice than to set off once more, as I did not relish spending a cold, wet night alone clinging to a rock on the side of the hill. So I started walking again, but this time slowly, making certain that each step led upward. In this way, though it might take half the day, I would eventually reach our camp at the top.

  And in this way I did eventually reach the hilltop—only to discover our camp abandoned and no one there. I dropped the water skins and looked around. The mist was not as thick as in the valley, so I could, with a little difficulty, make a complete survey of the hilltop. The others were gone, leaving not a trace behind.

  Strange. And frightening.

  I called again and again, but heard no answering call. I went back to the place where we had eaten our meal, thinking to find some token of our presence, however small. But try as I might, I could not locate the place. Not a crust or crumb remained to show where we had been; there was not a single hoofprint, not a blade of grass disturbed…

  I had climbed the wrong hill! In my blind haste to escape the fog, I had lost my way, and now would have to wait until the mist cleared and I could see where and how I had made my mistake. In the meantime, I had no choice but to do what I should have done in the first place—stay put.

  My cheeks burned with shame at my stupidity. I could make a stone circle dance in the air, but could not find my way to the top of a simple hill without getting lost. It was too absurd for words.

  5

  Finding a nest among the rocks, I wrapped my cloak around me and settled myself to wait, knowing full well that I might have to spend the night there. But I did not like to think about that. Would the hollow hills claim another victim?

  I did not like to think about that, either.

  Later, as the deepening mist darkened toward dusk and I sat hugging my knees and trying not to be afraid, I heard a faint tinkling sound—the light jingling of a horse’s tack—one of the warband coming to find me! I jumped up and called out. The sound stopped, and I did not hear it again, although I stood still to listen.

  “Are you there? Blaise! Who is it?”

  My words fell to earth where they were spoken, and there was no answer. I retrieved one of the water skins and returned to my huddle among the rocks, miserable now. I pulled my cloak more tightly around me and wondered how long it would take the wolves to find me.

  * * *

  I must have fallen asleep, for I dreamed, and in my dream I saw a tall, gaunt man sitting in a room painted with strange designs. His hands were stretched flat on the table before him, and the eyes in his long, withered face were sunken and closed. His hair was uncut, falling around his shoulders like a net of cobwebs, and he wore a rich robe of darkest blue with a brooch and pin of silver inset with tiny moonstones.

  Before him on the table was an object shaped like a large egg—a polished stone, perhaps, cradled in a holder of carven wood. Two wasted candles stood on either side of this egg-stone, guttering in the fitful wind wafting through the cracks in the walls and windows.

  This man was not alone; there was another in the room as well. I could not see this other person, but knew, as one simply knows in a dream, that she was there with him. Oh yes, the other was a woman. I knew this, too, before I saw her stretch her hand slowly across the table to entwine her young fingers with those of the man. He opened his eyes then, for I saw the glint of light from the candles, but his eyes were wells of darkness…darkness and death.

  I shivered and woke.

  An unusual dream, but even as I felt its lingering presence, I knew it to represent a real place, and that the man I had seen and the woman’s hand I glimpsed were real.

>   I blinked and looked around.

  Night had fallen full and darkness was complete. The wind stirred, swirling the mist, and I heard again the light jingling sound. This time I did not call out, but remained silent, crouching among the rocks. The sound came nearer, but in the fog there was no telling how close it really was. I waited.

  Presently I saw a lighter patch floating in the darkness, swinging toward me through the thick, damp air. The light brightened, intensified, divided into two glowing orbs, like great cat’s eyes. The jingling sound came from the lights swimming nearer.

  Only when they were almost on top of me did the lights stop. I moved not a muscle, but they knew where to find me—by scent, I think, for the darkness and mist obscured all.

  There were four of them, two to a torch, swarthy men in rough skin vests and kilts. Their bodies were well-muscled and compact. Two had huge armbands of gold and carried bronze-tipped spears; all had bronze daggers in their belts. But I was not frightened of their weapons, for though they were men full-grown, none were bigger than myself, a boy of but eleven summers.

  Their eyes were dark, and cunning like weasel eyes. The men stood gazing at me through the mist, shadows flickering over their faces. The torchbearers held their brands high, and the other two advanced together to stand over me, jingling lightly as they moved. I looked and saw a chain with brass bells tied just below the knee of the foremost stranger. He squatted on his haunches and stared at me for a long moment, dark eyes glittering. He pressed a finger into my chest, felt the flesh and bone there, and grunted. Then he saw my silver torc and raised his hand to stroke it.

  After a moment he rose again and barked a word over his shoulder. The others behind him parted, and I saw another figure approaching out of the mist. I stood slowly, hands loose at my sides, and waited while the newcomer came to stand before him. He was smaller than the others, but carried himself in the way of chieftains everywhere; he wore his authority like a second skin, and I had no doubt that he possessed rank among his people.

  He motioned one of the torchmen closer so that he could see me properly. In the fluttering light I saw that this chieftain was a woman.

  She, too, looked long upon my torc, but did not touch it, or me. She turned to the one with the bells and uttered a short, harsh bark, whereupon he and the one beside him took me by the arms and we started off.

  I was more carried than dragged, for my feet scarcely touched ground. We descended the hill and reached the valley, splashed across the stream and, from the sound of running water close by, followed the stream for a time before beginning another ascent. The slope was gradual, eventually leveling out to become a narrow track or gorge between two steep hills.

  This track led a fair distance and we walked a time, one torch ahead and one behind; my companions on either side did not push me, neither did they loosen their grip, although escape was not possible—could I have seen where I was going in the mist, I would not have known where to run.

  At last the track turned upward, and we began a steep ascent. It was a short climb, however, and I soon found myself standing in front of a round, hide-covered opening in the hill itself. The chieftain entered, and it was indicated that I was to follow. I stepped through the opening and found myself inside a large mound-dwelling of timber and skin. Covered with dirt and turf on the outside, the rath, as it is called, appeared in daylight just like any of the innumerable hills around it.

  There were fifteen or more people inside reclining in groups on grass pallets covered with fleeces and furs around the central fire—men, women, children and several lean dogs that looked as though they would have been more at home running the hills in a wolf pack—all of them, men and beasts alike, staring at me as I stood uncertainly in their midst.

  The she-chief motioned me forward and I was brought to stand before an old woman, no larger than a girl, but white-haired and wrinkled as a dried plum. Her black eyes were sharp as the bone needle in her hand and she regarded me with frank curiosity for a moment, reaching out to touch my leg, which she pinched and patted. Satisfied with her appraisal, she nodded to the she-chief who jerked her head to the side, and I was led to a pallet and pushed down upon it.

  Once I was well inside the rath, the hill people seemed to lose interest in me. I was left alone to observe my captors who, aside from an occasional glance in my direction and a dog that came to sniff my hands and legs, appeared oblivious to my presence. I sat on the fur-covered pallet and tried to see what I might discover about these people.

  There were eight men and four women aside from the she-chief and the old woman; scattered among them were five naked children whose ages were impossible to determine—the adults looked like children to me! All the adults wore woadstained scars on their cheeks—fhain marks, as I was to learn. Distinctive spirals which, at the time of cutting, had the deep blue powder pressed into the wounds to color them forever. Individuals of the same fhain—the word means family tribe or clan—wore the same marks.

  I puzzled over who they might be. Not Picti—though they used the woad, they were too small for Painted People, who anyway would have killed me outright upon discovery. Neither were they members of any of the hill tribes I knew about—such as the Votadini or Cruithne. Their habit of living underground marked them for a northern people, but if so they were far south of their beloved moors.

  These, I decided could only be the bhean sidhe, the enchanted Hill Folk, as much feared for their obscure ways and magic as they were envied for their gold. The bhean sidhe were rumored to possess great malevolent power, and even greater treasures of gold; both of which were employed in tormenting the tallfolk, whom they delighted in sacrificing to their crude idols whenever they could catch them.

  And I was their captive.

  The clan settled for the night and one by one fell asleep. I pretended sleep too, but stayed awake to be ready to make my escape. When at last, judging from the sound of the snoring, everyone was sleeping soundly and peacefully, I rose, crept from my pallet to the doorway, and out into the night.

  The mist had cleared and the night was ablaze with stars, cold and bright, the moon already set. The surrounding hills showed as a solid black undulating mass against the deep blue of heaven. I breathed in the mountain air and looked at the stars. Here all serious thought of escape vanished. I had only to look at the jet-dark night to know that running in such darkness invited disaster. And even if I had been so determined, on the wind I heard the bark of hunting wolves.

  It came to me that this was why my captors had not bothered to restrain me in any way. If I were foolish enough to tempt the wolves, so be it; I deserved my fate.

  All the same, as I stood looking at the stars, I heard the rustle of the closing flap and turned to see someone emerge from the rath. As I made no move, my companion came to stand near me and I saw that it was the she-chief. She put her hand on my arm but lightly, as much to reassure herself that I was still there as to remind me that I was a captive.

  We stood together for a long time, so close that I could feel the heat from her body. Neither of us spoke; we had no words. But something in her touch gave me to understand that these people had some purpose for me. While not exactly an honored guest, my presence was more than a passing curiosity.

  After a while, she turned and pulled me with her back into the rath. I returned to my pallet and she to hers, and I closed my eyes and prayed that I would soon be reunited with my people.

  * * *

  What the hilldwellers wanted with me l discovered soon after sunrise when Vrisa, chieftain of the Amsaradh Fhain—their name for themselves; it means People of the Killing Bird, or Hawk Clan—took me out to their holy place on a nearby hilltop. The hill was the highest around and took some effort to climb, but upon gaining the summit I saw a menhir, a single standing stone painted with blue spirals and the representations of various birds and animals, most notably hawks and wolves.

  In her belt Vrisa wore a long, flat-bladed knife, polished and honed to m
irror brightness. The man with the bells—Elac, as I would later discover—kept his hand tight on my arm all the way up the hill, and two of the others carried spears. The whole fhain made the trek up the hill, gathering around us as we came to stand beside the menhir, humming softly, with a sound like wind through dry leaves.

  A braided leather rope was produced, and my wrists were bound tightly. My cloak was taken from me, and I was made to lie down on the sun side of the standing stone. They meant to sacrifice me; there was no doubt about that, and judging from the bones scattered around the hilltop, I was not their first offering.

  But though this might seem boastful to some, I was more fearful of being left by my people than having my heart carved beating from my body. There was no hate, no deception or guile in these people. They did not wish me harm in the least, and indeed did not consider the sacrifice of my life any great harm at all. In their way of thinking my soul would simply take up a new body and I would be reborn, or I would travel to the Otherworld to live with the Ancient Ones in paradise, knowing neither night nor winter. Either way, I was deemed fortunate.

  That I would have to die to come into one or the other of these enviable benefits could not be helped, and consequently did not concern them overmuch. And since it was a journey all must make sooner or later, it was assumed that I would not greatly mind.

  So as I lay there on the ground, waiting while the sun slowly climbed its way clear of the hills round about—this would be the signal: when the first rays of the morning sun struck the menhir, Vrisa would strike with her knife—I did what any Christian would, and prayed for swift deliverance.

  Perhaps the knife was poorly made; perhaps it was old and should have been recast long ago. Nevertheless, as the sun struck the menhir the humming chorus loosed a mighty shout. Vrisa’s knife flashed up and down swiftly as a serpent’s strike.

  I squeezed shut my eyes and in the same instant heard a cry.

  Opening my eyes, I saw Vrisa, clasping her wrist, her face pale with pain, teeth bared as she bit back another cry. The knife’s handle lay on the ground, its blade splintered into gleaming pieces like shards of yellow glass.