Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  But the incessant raiding was driving the few stable and trustworthy Britons north of the Wall back into the south—those that, like Elphin and his people, had not already left long ago. So it was becoming more and more difficult to hold the middle ground between the war-lusting north and the civilized south.

  Without strong northern allies the south became more vulnerable than ever. Rome had realized this from the beginning, of course. The Eagles built the Wall—more a symbolic demarcation than an actual defense, although it was that, as long as the garrisons were manned. But the true defense of the south had been, had always been, the strength of the northern kings.

  This strength was faltering. It is no wonder that the southern Britons had begun to look fearfully to the north as both the cause of their troubles and their salvation. It was to the benefit of both to form strong alliances, and there is no stronger tie than blood.

  Kinship would do what the administrative might of Rome could not. Or we would all go down together.

  As king, this was to be my work. I saw, perhaps more clearly than others, the desperate need for accord between kingdoms. The few and feeble attempts at friendship between the north and south, good though they were, were not enough.

  If we were to survive, we would have to find and welcome ways of encouraging the northern kingdoms, and supporting them. This would mean putting away the petty concerns of rank and wealth, the small rivalries of small men, for the greater good of all. On this the future depended. On this we would stand or fall.

  I began thinking of one great kingdom made up of all the smaller kingdoms, united, yet each independent of the others, and all contributing to the general welfare and security. Not an empire, nor a state: a nation of tribes and peoples, ruled by a Council of Kings, each lord with an equal say. This was important, for if we were to survive the barbarian onslaught, it would have to be as a single united entity presenting one, unassailable front, not the fractious scattering of divided kingdoms—which is what we were.

  I began dreaming of this great kingdom made up of smaller kingdoms. This great kingdom would be ruled by a single great king, a paramount king, or chief king—one elected from among the Council of Kings to rule over all. A High King whom the lower kings, princes, lords and noblemen would serve.

  You might say, as others have said, that this was foolishness, or at best the idle whimsy of a self-important young ass. Better, they said, to stand tall and demand our rights as citizens of the greatest empire the world has ever known.

  “Petition Rome!” they cried. “We are citizens. Protection is our right, is it not? Send to the emperor with petitions. Bring the legions back, tell him. Now that Maximus wears the purple, he will listen. He will not let us be burned and bled by savages.”

  But Maximus did not long wear his imperial robe and laurel circlet. When he marched on Rome, as I knew he would—rather, as old Pendaran Gleddyvrudd had predicted—Theodosius, son of Theodosius the Conqueror, captured him and marched him into the Senate in chains. A few days later, Magnus Maximus was beheaded in the Colosseum. And it was not only the man that died that day: the dream of empire was extinguished in the blood-soaked sand before those jaded, jeering crowds.

  Bring the Eagles back!

  Yes, bring the Eagles back. Bring them all back, for all the good it will do. Is everyone blind? Can no one see?

  Never did we shelter beneath the Eagle’s wings. We were the Eagle. When the first Romans had laid their roads and forts across the countryside and then turned aside to other, more pressing matters elsewhere, who took up the standard? Who buckled on the breastplates? Who took up the gladius and pike? Whose sons filled the garrison rosters all those years? Who took Roman names and paid tax in Roman coins? Who raised the cities and built the great villa farms?

  Was it Rome?

  Oh, by all means bring the Eagles back. I would have them see how well the Briton wields the tools he has been given. For that is what we have always done. Rome left long, long ago, but we did not know it. Instead, we flattered ourselves, and were likewise flattered to be sure, that we were favored children of Mother Rome.

  Foster children, maybe. I will not say bastard children, for once Rome did look kindly on us, and from time to time sent her agents to help us look after our affairs—for a price, always for a price. Our wonderful mother was always more interested in the corn and beef and wool and tin and lead and silver that we produced and paid to her in tax and tribute than she was interested in our welfare.

  Yet, that was in the best of times, my friends. What do you suppose she thinks of us now—if she thinks of us at all?

  The truth is a bitter draught, but drain the cup and we will find our strength in it. We are not weak; we are not bereft of hope. Our hope is where it always was: in our own hearts, and in the strong steel in our hands.

  Yes, I began seeing the vision of a free people ruling themselves without let or hindrance from distant emperors whose hearts had grown cold; a nation of Britons ruling Britons for the good of all who sheltered in this fair land, high and low alike…

  It was Taliesin’s vision: the Kingdom of Summer.

  5

  The heavenly star-host wheels through the sky, the seasons spin away in the slow dance of years. I squat on my rock, and the rags of my clothes flap around me. Summer sun bakes and blisters, winter wind slices flesh from bone, spring rain soaks to the soul, autumn mists chill the heart.

  Yet, Merlin endures. Destiny waits while Merlin squats on his rock above dark Celyddon. Forest Lord…Cernunnos’ Son…Wild Man of the Wood…Myrddin Wylt…Merlin…He of the Strong Enchantment, who walked with kings, the very same who now grubs among rotting apples for his food—and the future must wait.

  How is that, Wolf? The Kingmaking? Have I not? Then I will tell you.

  Dafyd came to Maridunum the day of the victory feast, and he performed a rite of consecration for me as part of my kingmaking. With Maelwys and Charts, and several of the chiefs who had been summoned by news of the raid, Dafyd and I rode to the chapel, where, crowded together in the sweet silence around the altar, we all knelt and prayed for God’s blessing on my reign.

  Dafyd then anointed me with holy oil, touching my forehead in the sign of the cross; and he anointed my sword as well, saying, “Behind this wall of steel shall our Lord’s church flourish.”

  We all said “Amen” to that. He blessed me from the holy text, then kissed me with a holy kiss, and I him, whereupon each of the others in the room knelt and stretched forth their hands to cover my feet as sign of their submission to me. All except Maelwys, of course, but he embraced me like a father.

  In this way was I made King of Dyfed.

  I began my reign in the usual way, I suppose: I shared wine with the men who would follow me. I distributed gifts among them and accepted their pledges of fealty. There was singing—Blaise came with four of the Learned Brotherhood, who gave us such song as is reserved for, well, for a king’s ears alone—and the feasting continued for three more days.

  Between the time Blaise had handed me my kingship—I still think of it as his doing; but what of that? The druids of old were kingmakers and it was their right—and the time of my crowning, he had vanished. Only to reappear again with a golden tore. Pendaran had said he would give me his tore and also the throne he had occupied for nearly fifty years. But as he was still somewhat active in the affairs of the realm, that hardly seemed right. Since there had never been a time when three kings ruled in Dyfed at once, Maelwys ordered a new torc to be made instead.

  Blaise must have guessed that this would be the case, and he swept into the hall bearing the torc in his hands, as if it were the kingship itself that he held. At his appearance the hall fell silent. Men stared at the object he held. Had they never seen that ring of gold before?

  I admit, his entrances and exits could be arresting, but I saw nothing unusual about his bearing a torc to me. Perhaps it was because I saw it in the hand of a friend, while others saw it in the hand of the bard, and t
he more significant for that. However it was, he caused quite a stir.

  He bade me kneel before him while he stood over me with the torc, as if with a talisman of power. In the eyes of the Cymry, I suppose, it was a charmed thing. The church had power, most would allow, but so did the images and rites of old, which had the additional benefit of being hallowed by long tradition. It was all well and good to be anointed by the priest in the chapel in the wood. Better still to receive the torc of kingship from the hand of a druid.

  Well, I had it both ways.

  “Is this necessary?” I hissed under my breath. The hall had fallen silent; every eye was on me. “I’ve already been consecrated.”

  “Is it killing you?” he whispered as he bent the soft yellow metal in his hands, spreading the ends to fit around my neck. “Just be quiet and let me do this.”

  He held the torc before me, and I saw that it had two bears’ heads carved at the ends; their eyes were tiny sapphires, and each wore a collar of equally small rubies. I stared in astonishment. Where on earth did he get it?

  “Did you steal it?” I whispered to him as he placed the torc around my neck.

  “Yes,” he said. “Now be quiet.”

  He gently pushed the two ends of the tore together and, lifting his hands to my head, made the kingship speech in the old tongue. It is doubtful anyone in the hall, or even in all of Dyfed, knew the old Briton language anymore—the Dark Tongue, men called it—from before Rome came. Nevertheless, they appreciated the significance of it just then.

  Blaise, Jesu bless him, was trying his best to help me with all he had. He was showing the people gathered there that in the new king all past and future were brought together. He was reminding them of the old ways, in the same way Dafyd had shown the way of the future.

  But the old ways are evil ways—I have heard that said by more ignorant clerics than bears thinking about. Convenient, perhaps, to a priesthood neither knowledgeable nor tolerant of things belonging to another priesthood and another time. Much in elder days was evil, I admit; I am not like one of those pig-headed fools who stare into the embers of a dying fire and think to see the kindling of tomorrow’s flame. But neither do I deny the good where I find it.

  And there was some good, I assure you. In every age, there is some good. God is ever present, ever eager to be found if men will look. I know I searched.

  Blaise understood this, too. He wanted me to enjoy the dual blessings of past and future, thinking that the people would follow me more readily. He too believed in the Kingdom of Summer.

  Unlike me, however, he thought the people would need to be coaxed toward it. I believed I had only to throw the doors open wide and all would rush in gladly. But, then, I was very young.

  Blaise, of course, knew better—which is why he also went around telling all those stories about me. “What men believe, Hawk,” he told me once, “that is what they follow. Their hearts are willing—all men want to believe. Very few can follow a dream, even a true and beautiful dream. But they will follow a man with a dream. So,” he smiled deviously, “I am giving them a man.”

  When he put the bears’-heads torc on my neck, I tell you I felt a king. It was without a doubt a king’s tore, and wherever he had found it, I knew a king had worn it. Perhaps many kings. Indeed, it was a thing of power.

  The torc, Wolf, I wear it still. See? Ganieda liked it, too. Yes, she did.

  After that, Maelwys and I began making plans for repairing the hillforts—not that they were in poor repair. But none of them were supplied anymore, nor stocked with grain and water; a few lacked strong gates, and most had gaps in the walls, and mud-choked wells. The people were using thorn-bushes or briar hedges to close the gaps—which worked well enough to keep cattle from wandering, but would be no defense at all against Saecsen or Irish spears. No one actually lived in the hillforts anymore, had not for a long, long time. But Maelwys foresaw the day when fully stocked and gated forts would be required.

  We also began planning the series of coastal beacons; the first, as I have said, were built that summer when the warriors began arriving. From the beginning, there was much activity around the villa, and in Maridunum. The mood was high. In all it was a good summer.

  I did not often have time to stop and reflect upon my good fortune, but in those days I prayed as I never had prayed before: for my people, for strength, for wisdom to lead. Mostly for wisdom. It is a lonely thing to be a king. Even sharing the burden with Maelwys, it was not easy for me.

  For one thing, many of the younger warriors had apparently chosen me for their sovereign. They more or less attached themselves to me, looking to me to lead them. Maelwys helped me as he could, and Charis did too; but when men hold you as their lord, there is not much anyone else can do. It is up to you and you alone how best to lead them.

  We spent many long nights, Maelwys and I, talking, talking, talking. Rather, Maelwys talked and I listened, carefully, to every word. He taught me much about the handling of men, and in the teaching taught me much about life.

  I also saw a good deal of Blaise, and of Dafyd. And in the autumn, just before Samhain and the end of harvest, I traveled to Ynys Avallach with Charis, and then went on to Caer Cam to see Grandfather Elphin and the others. I stayed with them—such good people, such noble hearts—until the last leaves clung to the trees and the winds turned cold off the sea, and then went back to the Tor where Charis was waiting to return to Dyfed.

  The Isle of Apples, which is what some called it, had not altered in so much as a stone out of place. Time was frozen there, it seemed; no one aged, nothing changed. And nothing dared intrude on the holy serenity of the place. It remained, remains still, an almost spiritual place, a place where natural forces—like time and seasons and tides and life—obey other, perhaps older laws.

  Avallach now spent most of his time pursuing the holy text with Collen, or one of his brother priests from Shrine Hill, as it had become known. I think he had it in his mind to become something of a priest himself. The Fisher King would have made a very strange, albeit compelling cleric.

  That autumn, I remember, he began showing the first interest in the Chalice, the cup Jesu had used at his last supper, and which the Arimathean tin merchant Joseph had brought with him in the days of the first shrine on Shrine Hill.

  For some reason, I did not mention to him that I had seen an image, or vision, of the cup. I do not know why. He would have been keenly interested to hear of it, but something held me back—as if it was unseemly to say anything about it just yet. I remember thinking, “Later I will tell him. We must get back to Maridunum.” Although we were in no particular hurry at the time, it seemed best to let it go.

  That autumn, also, I sent my messengers to Ganieda. Whereupon, I settled down to a drear winter of the most restless waiting I have known. But that I have already told.

  6

  How long, Wolf? How long, old friend, have I sat here upon my rock and watched the seasons fly? Up they swirl, winging back to the Great Hand which gave them…They fly like the wild geese, but nevermore return.

  What of Merlin? What of the Wild Man of the Wood, eh? Will he nevermore return?

  There was a time when…Never mind, Wolf, it does not matter. Orion’s Belt, Cygnus, the Great Bear—these things matter; these things are important Let all else fade and fall. Only the eternal stars will remain when all else is unthinking dust.

  I watch the winter stars glitter hard in the frozen sky. Were I not so forlorn, I would conjure a fire to warm myself. Instead, I watch the high cold heaven perform its inscrutable work. I gaze at the hoarfrost on the rocks and see the patterns of a life there. I stare at the black water in my bowl, and I see the shapes of possibility and inevitability.

  I will tell you about inevitability, shall I? Yes, Wolf, I will tell you, and then you will know what I know.

  We were living in Dyfed. I was ruling my people, little by little helping them to see the vision of the Summer Realm. It was in my mind that if I could only show my
people the shape and substance of the kingdom I meant to create, they would follow me willingly.

  I had no hint, then, of the forces arrayed against me. Oh, we struggle against a cunning Adversary. Never doubt it. We move about on our crust of earth and we imagine we see the world as it is. What we see is the world we imagine.

  No man sees the world as it is.

  Unless, perhaps, granted sight by the Enemy. But I will not talk of him. Ask Dafyd, he will tell you. He will find it easier, for he has never had to stand against him face to face. Words alone are useless to describe the repugnance, the repulsion, the utter loathsome abhorrence…Ah, but let it go. Let it go, Merlin. Linger not upon it.

  * * *

  I remember when he came to me. I remember his young face, full of hope and apprehension. He little appreciated what he was doing, the young fool, but he knew how badly he wanted it, how much it mattered to him. Of course, I was flattered a little, and I saw some benefit in it for both of us or I would not have allowed it. As it was—

  What? Have I not? Pelleas, Wolf; I am speaking of Pelleas, my young steward. Who else?

  Along with Gwendolau and some of Avallach’s people, I had ridden to Llyonesse to hold council with Belyn. We were hoping to make a treaty among us to uphold one another through the barbarian incursions that had become more than annoying of late. We needed the help of those south of Mor Hafren and along the far southern coasts where the Irish had begun making their landfalls in the hidden little bays and inlets. Once ashore, they could strike north or east as they would.

  Maelwys and Avallach believed that by linking the coast-land with a system of watchtowers and beacon fires, we could discourage these landings, perhaps even end them. For if the Irish knew they would be met in force at each landing, and that their losses would outweigh their gains at every turn, they might abandon the war trail for more peaceful pursuits.