Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  One of the items on the floor beside her was a book. I lifted it gently and opened its brittle pages. The first bore a painting of a great island all in green and gold on a sea of stunning blue. “Is this Atlantis?” I asked.

  “It is,” she said, taking the book in her hands. She stroked the page with her fingertips, lightly, as if touching the face of a loved one. “My mother’s greatest possession was her library. She had many books—some you have seen. But this one stands above them all because it was her treasure; it was the last she received.” Charis turned the pages, peered at the foreign script, and sighed. Looking at me, she smiled. “I do not even know what it is about. I never learned. I saved it because of the painting.”

  “It is indeed a treasure,” I told her. My eye fell on the narrow bundle beside her. I picked it up and untied the lacing. A moment later the gleaming hilt of a sword was revealed to me. Carefully, but with some haste, I stripped away the oiled leather and soon held a long, shimmering blade light and quick as thought itself, the weapon of a dream made for the hand of a god, beautiful, cold, and deadly.

  “Was this my father’s?” I asked, watching the light slide like water over the exquisite thing.

  She sat back on her heels, shaking her head lightly. “No, it is Avallach’s, or was meant to be. I had it made for him by the High King’s armorers in Poseidonis, the finest craftsmen in the world. The Atlantean artisans, I was told, perfected a method of strengthening the steel—a secret they guarded zealously.

  “I bought the sword for Avallach; it was to be a peace offering between us.”

  “What happened?”

  My mother lifted a hand to the sword. “It was a difficult time. He was ill…his injury…He did not want it; he said it mocked him.” She touched her fingertips to the shining blade. “But I kept it anyway. I suppose I thought I would find a use for it. It is very valuable, after all.”

  Lofting the wonderful weapon, stabbing the air with short thrusts, I said, “Perhaps its time has not yet come.”

  It was just something that came to my head and I said it. But Charis nodded seriously. “No doubt that is why I saved it.”

  The grip was formed by the intertwined bodies of two crested serpents whose emerald- and ruby-encrusted heads became the pommel. Just below the red-gold hilt, I traced the script engraved there. “What do these figures mean?”

  Charis held the sword across her palms. “It says, ‘Take Me Up,’” she replied, turning the blade, “and here: ‘Cast Me Aside.’”

  A curious legend for a king’s weapon. By what power had she chosen those words? Did she sense in some way, however obscurely, the role that her gift would play in the dire and glorious events that birthed our nation?

  “What will you do with it now?” I asked.

  “What do you think I should do with it?”

  “A sword like this could win a kingdom.”

  “Then take it, my son, and win your kingdom with it.” Kneeling before me, she held it out to me.

  I reached for the sword, but something prevented me. After a moment, I said, “No, no, it is not for me. At least, not yet. Perhaps one day I will need such a weapon.”

  Charis accepted this without question. “It will be here for you,” she said, and began wrapping it up again.

  I wanted to stop her, to strap that elegant length of cold steel to my hip, to feel its splendid weight filling my hand. But it was not yet time. I knew that, and so I let it be.

  12

  So it was that I found myself once more in the saddle—this time on the way to Llyonesse. Before starting out, however, I managed a short stay at Caer Cam to visit my Grandfather Elphin. To say they were happy to see me would be to tell a lie through gross understatement. They were ecstatic. Rhonwyn, still as beautiful as ever I remembered her, fussed over me and fed me to bursting—when I was not lifting jars with Elphin and Cuall.

  Our talk turned to matters of concern. Here, like everywhere else, men were mindful of Maximus’ taking the purple, and his departure to Gaul with the troops. And they had a grim opinion of what that meant.

  Cuall summed up their attitude when, after the beer jar had gone around four or five times, he remarked, “I love the man—I will fight anyone who says different. But,” he leaned forward for emphasis, “taking almost the whole of the British host is dangerous and foolhardy. He is grasping too high, is Maximus. Aye, but he always was a grasper.”

  “Nothing good can come of it,” agreed Turl, Cuall’s son, who was now one of Elphin’s battlechiefs. “There will be much blood spilled over this, and for what? So Maximus can wear a laurel crown.” He snorted loudly. “All for a handful of leaves’.”

  “They came through here on the way to the docks at Londinium,” explained Elphin. “The emperor asked me to join him. He would have made me a governor.” Elphin smiled wistfully, and I saw how much that might have meant to him. “I could not go—”

  “You speak no Latin!” hooted Cuall. “I can just see you in one of those ridiculous togas—how could you ever abide it?”

  “No,” Elphin laughed, “I could not abide it.”

  Rhonwyn hovered near and refilled the jar from a pitcher. “My husband is too modest. He would make a wonderful governor,” she bent and kissed his head, “and an even better emperor.”

  “At least I would not be tempted to go borrowing trouble beyond these shores. What’s wrong with an emperor making his capital right here?” Lord Elphin spread his hands to the land around him. “Think of it! A British emperor, holding the whole of the island for his capital—now, that would be a force to reckon with!”

  “Aye,” agreed Cuall, “Maximus has made a grave mistake.”

  “Then he will pay with his life,” growled Turl. Bone and blood, he was his father’s son.

  “And we will pay with ours,” said Elphin. “That is the shame of it. The innocent will pay—our children and grandchildren will pay.”

  The talk had turned gloomy, so Rhonwyn sought to lighten it. “What was it like with the Hill Folk, Myrddin?”

  “Do they really eat their children?” asked Turl.

  “Do not be daft, boy,” Cuall reprimanded, then added, “But I heard they can turn iron into gold.”

  “Their goldcraft is remarkable,” I told him. “But they value their children more than gold, more even than their own lives. Children are truly the only wealth they know.”

  Rhonywn, who had never borne a living child, understood how this could be, and agreed readily. “We had a little gern that used to come to Diganhwy in the summer to trade for spun wool. She used thin sticks of gold which she broke into pieces for her goods. I have not thought of her in all these years, but I remember her as if it were yesterday. She healed our chieftain’s wife of fever and cramps with a bit of bark and mud.”

  “They know many secrets,” I said. “Still, for all that, they will not long remain in this world. There is no place for them. Already the tallfolk squeeze them out—taking the good grazing land, pushing them further and further north and west into the rocky wastes.”

  “What will happen to them?” wondered Rhonwyn.

  I paused, remembering Gern-y-fhain’s words, which I spoke: “There is a land in the west, which Mother made and put aside for her firstborn. Long ago, when men began to wander on the earth, Mother’s children were enticed to stray and then forgot the way back to the Fortunate Land. But one day they will remember and they will find their way back.” I ended by saying, “The Prytani believe that a sign will tell them when it is time to return, and one will arise from among them to lead the way. They believe that day is soon here.”

  “The things you say, Myrddin,” remarked Cuall, shaking his grey head slowly. “It puts me in mind of another young man I used to know.” He reached out a heavy hand and ruffled my hair.

  Cuall was no great thinker, but his loyalty, once earned, was stronger than death itself. In older times, a great king might boast a warband numbering six hundred warriors; but give me just twelve li
ke Cuall to ride at my side and I could rule an empire.

  “How long can you stay, Myrddin?” asked Elphin.

  “Not long,” I answered, and told him of my journey to Llyonesse and Goddeu for Avallach. “We must leave in a few days’ time.”

  “Llyonesse,” muttered Turl. “We have been hearing strange things from that region.” He rolled his eyes significantly-

  “What strange things?” I asked.

  “Signs and wonders. A great sorceress has taken residence there,” said Turl, looking to the others for confirmation. When it was not forthcoming, he shrugged. “That is what I hear.”

  “You believe too much of what you hear,” his father told him.

  “You will stay the night at least,” said Rhonwyn.

  “Oh, tonight, and tomorrow night as well—if you can find a place for me.”

  “Why, have we no stable? No cow byre?” She wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me. “Of course I will find a place for you, Myrddin Bach.”

  The time passed far too quickly, and soon I was waving my farewell to Caer Cam, with only one regret—aside from not having enough time to spend there. And that was that I had missed seeing Blaise. Elphin told me that since Hafgan’s death, Blaise had been traveling a great deal and was seldom at the caer. He said the druid had told him there was strife within the brotherhood and that Blaise had his hands full trying to avert bloodshed. Beyond that, Elphin knew no more.

  The day after I returned from Caer Cam, we started for Llyonesse. Now, I had never been to Belyn’s realm in the southern lowlands, and knew little about it other than that it was Belyn’s realm and that Maildun, Charis’ brother and my uncle, lived there with him. The Llyonesse branch of the Fisher King’s family was seldom mentioned; other than Avallach’s hint of a long-standing disagreement between them—and that I had only recently found out—I knew nothing at all about what sort of man his brother Belyn might be, or what sort of reception we might expect.

  We traveled through country in the first blush of summer, green and promising a good harvest in time to come. It was a rough country, however, and grazing grass was short, the hills steeper, the soil rocky and thin. It did not boast the luxury of the Summerlands, or of Dyfed.

  Thrust out like a finger into the sea, Llyonesse, with its crooked glens and hidden valleys, was a wholly different realm than the Summerlands or Ynys Avallach. Sea mists might rise at any time of the day or night; the sun might blaze brightly for a moment, only to be veiled and hidden the next. The sea tang on the air made the breeze sharp, and always, always there was the low, murmuring drum of the sea—a sound distant, yet near as the blood throb in the veins.

  In all, I would say the land breathed sorrow. No, that is too strong a word; melancholy is better. This narrow hump of rock and turf was sinking beneath a dolorous weight, moody and unhappy. The strange hills were sullen and the valleys somber.

  As we rode along our way, I tried to discern what it was that made the region appear so cheerless. Did the sun not shine as brightly here as elsewhere? Was the sky hereabouts not as blue, the hills less green?

  In the end, I decided that places too have their own peculiar natures. Like men, a realm can be marked by the same qualities that characterize the soul: amiable, sad, optimistic, despairing…Perhaps over time the land takes on the traits of its masters, so that it comes to reflect these traits as impressions to anyone who journeys there. I believe that certain powerful events leave behind their own lingering traces which also color the land in subtle ways.

  This was Llyn Llyonis, now known and feared by many as Llyonesse. I could understand the fear—Llyonesse was not a convivial place. And the sense of brooding sorrow increased the closer we came to Belyn’s palace, which was perched on the high cliffs of the land’s end facing west. Like Ynys Avallach, it was a strong place: high-walled, gated, and towered. It was larger, for more of Atlantis’ survivors had stayed with Belyn than had gone north with Avallach in those early years.

  Belyn received us with restrained courtesy. He was, I think, happy to see us, but wary as well. My first impression of him was of a man given to bitterness and spite; one in whom life has grown cold. Even his embrace was chill—like hugging a snake.

  Maildun, my uncle whom I had never met, was no better. In appearance he was very like Avallach and Belyn; the family resemblance was strong. He had the imperious bearing and was a handsome man, but arrogant, moody and intemperate. And, like the land he lived in, possessed of a potent melancholy that hung on him like a cloak.

  Nevertheless, Gwendolau and Baram did their utmost to ensure there would be no misunderstanding of their motives. They gave the gifts Avallach had sent with them, carefully explained their reason for coming, and generally behaved as brothers long lost and lamented. They must have sensed the temper of the men with whom they had to deal, for they treated them warmly and, before our stay was over, won Belyn as a friend, if not Maildun as well.

  I suppose there were important matters accomplished, but I do not remember them. My attention was otherwise engaged.

  From the moment we rode into the foreyard of the palace, my spirit felt a heavy, suffocating oppression. Not fear—not yet; I had not learned to fear it—but the stifling, cloying closeness of a thing wretched and pathetic. I knew that this, and no other reason, was why I had come. And I decided to make it my affair to learn the source of this strange emanation.

  I paid the required respects, and then, as unobtrusively as possible, made myself free in Belyn’s palace. My first discovery was a young steward, a boy named Pelleas, I had seen lurking about. As he appeared to have no formal duties, I made him my ally and befriended him. He was eager to help me explore the palace, and I was gratified to have such a resourceful guide. Pelleas also knew quite a little about matters of court, and was not shy about revealing what he knew.

  “All you see here was built later,” he told me when I asked. “There is an older stronghold a little way up the coast—not much, mind, just a tower and an enclosure for cattle.”

  For two days we had been searching the extensive grounds and buildings of the palace, and had not found what I was looking for. Time was running short; Gwendolau and Belyn were about to conclude their business.

  “Take me there,” I said.

  “Now?”

  “Why not? Does not a steward serve a guest’s every need?”

  “But—”

  “Well, I feel the need to go see this tower of which you speak.”

  We saddled horses and rode out at once, though the sun was already well down on its plunge toward the sea. The sea cliffs of Llyonesse possess a lonely and rugged beauty, looming over relentless waves that hurl themselves ceaselessly against black rock roots to break and break again in frothy seafoam. On the sea side, what trees dare break soil grow as stunted, misshapen things: thin and with twisted branches forever swept backward by the constant blowing of the sea wind.

  The trail to the tower hugged the lea of the hills so that the wind off the sea did not buffet us so badly, but we felt the rhythmic thrumming of the waves resounding through caves deep underground.

  The sun was touching the sea, pooling light like molten brass on the far horizon, when we came within sight of the tower. Despite what Pelleas had said, it was no mean thing. Many a British king would have considered himself blessed to own such a stronghold, and would have made it all his world. It was of the same peculiar white stone as Belyn’s palace, which in the dying sunglow became the color of old bone. It was square-built for strength, but tapered from its solid foundations to a series of rounded turrets, so that as we rode toward the scarp of land on which it stood, it looked like a thick neck with a face for each direction.

  This, then, was where the last of Atlantis’ children made their home on these foreign and forbidding shores. It was here the three crippled ships made landfall, here that Avallach and Belyn settled the remnant of their race before moving on to claim other lands.

  Surrounding the fortress was a c
attle enclosure of stone atop an earthen bank, now ruined in many places. Heather flowed about the place like a second sea, inundating the inner grounds and washing right up to the stone tower itself. We tied the horses outside the turf bank and walked in through one of the numerous gaps in the fallen wall into the inner yard.

  The tower gave no signs that anyone lived within, but the deepening sense of lethargy, of hopeless woe, gave me to know that I had found the source of the oppression I sought. The tower was inhabited, but by what sort of creature I had yet to discover.

  Pelleas called out a timid greeting as we came into the yard. Our shadows leaped across the derelict ground and onto the tinted stone. There was no answer to his call, but neither did we expect one. He pushed open the wooden door and we entered.

  Though weak sunlight streamed through the high, narrow windows, the shadows already grew deep in the place. Opposite the entrance sat a huge, caldron-hung hearth with two chairs nearby. But the hearth was filled with ashes, and the ashes cold.

  Wooden stairs leading to the upper chambers stood at the far end of the room. As I started toward the stairs, Pelleas lay hand on my arm and shook his head. “There is nothing here. Let us go.”

  “All will be well,” I told him. My voice sounded thin and unconvincing in the place.

  The upper level was honeycombed with small rooms, one leading on to the next. Twice I glimpsed the sea through an open window, and once I saw the trail we had ridden to reach the tower. But one room contained another stairway, and this one was stone and led to a single topmost chamber.

  I entered the chamber first. Pelleas did not care to have anything to do with this search, and only followed me because he was not willing to stay behind alone.

  At first I thought the man in the chair by the window must be dead—perhaps had died this very day, this hour. But his head turned as I crossed the threshold, and I saw he had been sleeping. Indeed, he had the look of one who had been asleep for many years.

  His white hair hung in wisps, thin as spidersilk; his hands, crossed on his breast, were bony and long, the untrimmed fingernails thick and yellowed. His face was that of one long dead: grey and spotted with blotches that faded into his moth-eaten scalp. The eyes that stared from his head were sunken pits rimmed red and weepy.