While the boat hung there, bobbing in the calm sea, and I searched for an oar, I sensed a stirring above and looked up. The shadow lay on the cliff-top again, like the shadow of a cloud now. My fists clenched, and again I longed for my dagger. Then I started, for the boat began to stir of itself, very slowly, turning from Llyn Gwalch till its prow faced westwards. It began to move forward over the waves which shivered with the moonlight.
The shadow on the cliff grew smaller, darker. It raced down the cliff side, swinging about Llyn Gwalch. A cold darkness seemed to brush past me, like an unseen bird, and the sick, suffocating feeling of the night before touched me again. But the boat was picking up speed, gliding over the waves, and I suddenly remembered what is said of evil and open water, how some spirits may not cross the wide sea. I laughed. The black tendrils fell away from me, overextended and worn out.
I watched over the stern as Llyn Gwalch shrank behind me, becoming a pale place in the cliff wall, then a soft spot in the frothing of the light surf in the moonlight, with the waterfall of the stream a chain of silver hung down the cliff—then the mist grew thicker as the boat ran into it, and Llyn Gwalch and the island I had lived on all my life faded from my sight. I could not think to give it any farewell, and looked westward over the boat’s prow. We were still increasing in speed. I laughed again, feeling the same exultant triumph and liberty I had felt that morning, and sang a song of triumph in war. The boat leapt forward like a willing horse and glided on, swift as a gull or a falcon, through the fog into the moonlight again, and the foam glittered at its prow as it ran along the path of light cast by the sinking moon.
I yawned, realized that I was still very tired. The cushions I had noticed were soft, the coverlets of silk and ermins much warmer than my worn cloak. It was cold in that rush of speed across the open sea. I lay down and drew the coverings over me, whispering thanks to the boat and to whatever force had sent it.
I do not remember falling asleep, but the next thing I saw was the light of the sunrise pouring on to me, brighter than any dawn I could remember. I lay on my back in the bottom of the boat and stared up at the streamers of color which covered the sky from the east to the zenith. Such radiance promised a destination of equal loveliness.
I sat up. The boat was still moving, but a little more slowly now. Its prow and sides glowed with reflected fire on the water. Even the sea was like no water I had ever seen before. It was clear, but tinted with emerald and azure, colors brighter than any on Earth, jewel-toned in their brilliance, and they glittered in the dawn light. The sun cast my shadow before the prow of the boat, and we ran down it as down a road. As I watched, birds flew out of the west, white and gold wings flashing. I looked eagerly onward, hoping to see the land they came from.
Soon we approached it. It rose green-gold from the ocean. The sun struck some bright surface, and a pure clear light flashed up like a shout of joy. Truly, this had to be the Plain of Joy which so many songs spoke of. The Light had heard me. I lifted my arms to the morning and sang one of the songs about the islands I was fast approaching:
“…there one sees the Silver Land
Where dragonstones and diamonds rain,
And the sea breaks upon the sand
The crystal tresses from its mane.
Throughout Earth’s ages still it sings
To its own hosts its melody;
Its hundred-chorused music rings
Undecaying, deathless, free…”
I hardly had time to finish before the boat swept up to a white dock which jutted from the land into the sea, and there stopped itself, its journey over.
I stood and stepped out on to the dock. I glanced back into the boat, a little afraid to leave it. But then I looked at the land, the green grass, the gold-sanded path leading up from the dock, the tall trees—trees! Things rarely seen in the Orcades—swaying like dancers; and I began to walk up the path, slowly and wondering. I did not feel the stunned disbelief one would expect. Though wonderful, all seemed perfectly natural, as things do in a bright dream. Later, I realized, the astonishment must come. But now it was impossible. This Isle of the Blessed felt more real than the Orcades. It was what I had just left that seemed a dream.
I went up the path, savoring the beauty around me. Everywhere there were flowers, no two alike. Their smell blended with the song of the birds, the music of the breeze in the trees. I walked faster, then ran for the sheer joy of motion, until I rounded a bend and stopped, for I had found the Hall that was the center of the place.
It was much like its descriptions. The walls were of white bronze and gold filaments woven together, polished and brilliant. The roof was of the wing-feathers of every sort of bird that had ever lived, of every color, and none clashed. It glowed almost as brightly as the sun.
I walked slowly towards it, half afraid, although I knew that I would not be there if it was not intended for me to come. I approached the great silver doors and tapped on them softly. They opened of themselves, revealing their inner hall, which is beyond description. Yet it was enough like any earthly feast hall that I knew where to raise my eyes to the man who sat at the high table, above the others who crowded the place. They were all beautiful enough to bring tears into my eyes, and I felt my humanity and filthy clothing as though they weighed the whole world on me. But the man who sat at the high seat, the lord of the Hall, smiled at me—a bright, fierce smile—and gestured me nearer.
I walked the length of that hall in silence, with the eyes of the company upon me; and I cannot describe or explain what I saw there. Slowly I climbed on to the dais and stopped, facing the lord across the high table, not knowing what to do or say.
He rose and smiled again, and it flashed across my mind that Lot and Agravain really did look much as he would if the blazing radiance of him were dimmed.
“Welcome, kinsman,” said Lugh the sun-lord. “Be seated. You have travelled far and must be hungry.”
So I sat at the high table in the Hall of the Sidhe, and ate with them and drank the sweet, bright wine that is like an essence of light, and I talked with Lugh of the Long Hand.
He asked me of Lot and I told him of Arthur. He listened to me, then nodded. “It is fated. One day rises when another is fallen.”
“Does Arthur of Britain, then, serve the Light?” I asked.
“He serves it.” Lugh shrugged. “This is a greater matter and much is woven into it, and the end is not clear to me. My day, too, is over.”
I stared at him in astonishment. “You, my lord? But you are ruler here!”
“Yet on Earth, where once I had power, I have little strength. Once all the West turned to me. Now they turn elsewhere. In time what little I have left will cease, and I will become only a memory, and my Hall and my people but a story told to children. In time, not even that.” He spoke calmly, as of certainties, and without regret.
“Is this light to be quenched, then?” I asked, looking about that radiant hall.
Lugh shook his head, smiling at my question. “This light? Not so. We shall feast here till the Earth’s end and beyond. Time does not touch this place, nor death, nor any sorrow. It is better than the Earth where we once dwelt.”
“Then you did live on the Earth, as the songs say?”
“Long ago.” Lugh sipped the wine, and his blue eyes were hot and bright as the sky. “In what might have been Erin. Men were but a dream in the East, far from my domain. I came into being here in the West, not born as men are born, and here my people lived and made music. My mother was Balor’s daughter, my father, Cian, son of Diancecht the Healer. Like yourself, Hawk of May, I am created of both Light and Darkness. And once it was offered to me as well to serve either, and I chose the Light. I reigned in it, for a time, though I knew my reign would be hard and not endure for ever.”
“You know of my mother Morgawse.”
“I know of one who is called the Queen of Air and Darkness, who is become Morgawse. She is an old enemy, once of my people. She seeks he destruction of the worl
d she can no longer possess.”
“But you possessed it once.”
Again he smiled. “Once I drove my chariot along the wind from Temair of the Kings, though it was not the same Temair where the lord O’Niall now sits. Once my kind ruled over the Earth, commanding fire and water and air as a king commands men. But that time is long past, so that even the land forgets it. Which is as it should be.”
“I have heard a story,” I said, “which said that the Sons of Mil came to Erin, the first humans to reach its shores, long ago; and they found the Sidhe there, who were then called by another name. And it is said that the Sons of Mil fought with the Sidhe, or that they were judged between by Avairgain the poet of the Sons of Mil, and that Erin was given to Men.”
“The second story is closer to the truth,” said Lugh. “Though the issue was not decided by Avairgain.”
“Who decided it, then?”
“The High King, the Light who shines for ever. He gave me my kingdom, and he took it away again and bestowed it on the Sons of Mil, and Avairgain the poet told the first Men that this was what had been done. But the Queen of Darkness would not heed me, nor the Light, nor Avairgain, but desired to keep the land for herself.”
“The Light, this Light,” I said, “I do not know what is meant by it.”
He looked on me gently, amused. “And how should you? None do, when first they encounter it, and you are newly come from a great darkness. Darkness blinds the eyes. But have you not sworn to follow and serve it?”
“I have.”
“Then you will come to know it better soon enough. The Light is a strong lord, a great king, and often a demanding master, though a kind one. The Light is eager for servants and friends, and will show you more things to do than you had thought could be done by any. So, at least, I have found it.”
“You found it…but I thought…”
“That I was the Light? Not so, indeed. Many have thought that, and once, in Erin, I was worshipped as the Light. But it is sought differently now, better. There have been many changes on Earth. I too am only a servant.”
So we spoke, and drank the wine. I was not aware of time. I do not think one can be aware of time in that place. Perhaps those in the Hall go out, sometimes, into the island—there are songs of the horses of the Sidhe, and chariots of gold racing across fields of flowers, and dancing, and also of wars—but I think all these must happen without time, not at the same time, nor at earlier or later times, but with a sequence set by the spirit and not by the passage of the sun. I cannot make it clear even to myself, but so it was. But when I had spoken to Lugh for a while—I cannot say, “for some time”—the feasting ended and a man of the Sidhe who had been sitting to my right at the high table rose and went to a great harp in the corner and played upon it. That song was everything all men have dreamed of and sought for, which they only grasp for a few moments before it dissolves into the human world. It was light, fire, the pure ecstasy of immortal joy, totally unmingled with the sorrow which always accompanies it on Earth. I listened and felt as though my spirit would break from my body and go soaring off on that golden wind to the very pinnacle of heaven. I listened, wholly lost in the mazes of the music, feeling nothing by the sequence of each note. I would have sat so for ever, if Lugh had not touched my arm.
At this, I realized that I was weeping. I sat bemused and wondered why, and the harper played on. Lugh rose and gestured for me to come with him. I followed, tearing myself free from the music as painfully as a man might tear his own flesh from a deep wound. We left the Hall, and when the music had grown faint behind the walls it struck me fully, and I sat down on the floor and wept for sorrow. Lugh stood patiently over me in silence.
When my grief had run its course he dropped to one knee beside me and laid his hand on my shoulder. “You should not have stayed and listened for so long,” he said gently. “The songs of the Sidhe are not for Men. For you there is too much pain in ecstasy, and the fire burns too fiercely to be endured. Nonetheless, it is good that you have heard Taliesin sing here. Now you know something of the Light. You must remember it, and when the Darkness surrounds you, think upon it. It will aid you, along with that which I will give you now, if you can accept it.”
At this I looked up at him, and he nodded and again gestured for me to follow him. We rose.
He led me through some passageways behind the wall, going down, until I judged that we were underneath the feast hall. It was very quiet there, and the passages were dark but for the faint light that seemed to glow in the walls, and the brighter, quicker fire that surrounded Lugh, Master of All Arts. It was beautiful there, but there was a feeling of great power, like a banked fire. I was not exhausted by the song in the Hall, as I would have been on Earth, and so was sensitive to the strength that beat in the place like the heart’s blood.
Lugh stopped before a door of deep-gold-colored wood latched with red bronze and rested his hand on the latch. He turned to me.
“You have wondered why you were brought here, Hawk of May,” he said. His voice was almost a whisper, but it held the same note as the silent beat of the power burning beyond that door.
“I have, Lord.”
“It is well that you thought to wonder. You were not brought simply to see this island and rejoice, though it was necessary that you see light after so much darkness. Nor were you brought to my hall merely that you might escape the demon which pursued you, though that, too, was necessary. But you were brought for this: to take up arms to fight against the Darkness which you above others now can recognize. You are nearly seventeen now, and this is an age to take up arms.”
“Lord,” I said, “I still lack half a year before I am fifteen.”
He shook his head. “While you sat in my Hall, winter passed on Earth, and spring and summer, and another year after them. It is now March in Britain. By the time you return, May will have begun.”
I felt cold then and looked away. I knew the stories of how a man may go to the lands of the Sidhe for what seems a single night, and find on returning that a hundred years have passed, but I had never considered that it might happen to me. Nearly three years. Well, perhaps it was good. I would have grown, and have more strength of arm. But still…
Lugh smiled, very gently. “It will be no longer than that, spring falcon. I give you my word. But, you see, you are past the age to take up arms. And if you return to Earth you will need a weapon to protect yourself from the powers of Darkness which will seek your death. As well as this, you have sworn in your heart to accept the High King of Light for your lord. Do not forget that a warrior must fight for his lord.”
I nodded.
“You must have a weapon,” said Lugh. “And here I will give you one.”
He opened the door, stood holding it, and I walked slowly into the room.
It was a plain room, altogether dark except for where, at the opposite wall, a sword stood with light glowing deeply in the great ruby set into the pommel. Its shadow fell behind it on the wall in a cross-shape. I sensed the power that burned in it, great and terrible, and I felt a wave of cold fear sweep on to me.
“Lord,” I said to Lugh, who stood behind me in the doorway. “Lord, this is too great for me. This is not a weapon for Men. I am honored that you should think of it for me, but I could not bear such a word.”
“But it is a sword for Men,” Lugh said gently. “True, its power is great enough to destroy many, and the bearing of it often brings the bearer sorrow. But it is a weapon such as only Men need; my kind use other weapons.”
I knew that he was right, but still I stared at the sword where it slumbered against the wall, awaiting the hand that would draw it in fire. And what fire that would be, what consuming Light.
“If you truly do not wish to accept this sword,” said Lugh, “you may refuse it. I tell you, you can still serve the Light if you reject this.”
For an instant I wanted to accept this offer. But it was impossible. I could not disobey the Light immediately after it ha
d saved me. If my new lord desired that I draw the sword, I must try to draw it. Surely, I comforted myself, the Light would not wish this unless I was able to do so without being destroyed. And whatever else is true, a warrior must obey his rightful lord. So I shook my head. “I will try to accept this gift.” My mouth was dry and my hands damp.
I did not see but sensed Lugh’s smile. “Go then, and draw it.”
I walked over to it, each step heavy. My death could come here if I had not the strength to lift the sword…I was standing before it, and the light, warm, deep red, spilled over me. I dropped to my knees.
“Light,” I said. “My lord High King, the sea is round me and the sky over me and the earth under me, and if I break faith with you, may the sea rise up and drown me and the sky break and fall on me, and the earth open and swallow me; so be it.” The Threefold Oath was, I knew, unnecessary, but it was always sworn when one’s lord gave one arms. I took a deep breath, reached out both hands, closed them on the hilt of the sword, and began to draw it.
It was hot, hot as flame, and my hands were burning. The light in the ruby leapt, rose, fierce and red, red as blood, as the blood which beat in my ears and shook my whole body with its pulse. I pulled at the sword, and light slid along the exposed part of the blade, still red. I was aware of my hands only as centers of pain, was certain that they were being burned off; could almost smell the stink of them…I drew the sword further and suddenly it was clear of the sheath, and I screamed because the light and fire of it suddenly ran along my very soul, and I was burning in it, and saw myself, all of myself, revealed in the light. All the Darkness I had known lay there, and all the Darkness that was a part of me shrieked at me to drop the sword before it slew me. And it was slaying me, for I was impaled by its light, and it was not a sword for mortals at all…but the Light wished me to draw it (oh, Ard Rígh Mor, Great High King!) so I held on, feeling the air rush white-hot into my lungs, searing every part of me, heart, mind consumed in a light that was no longer red but burning white as the heart of the sun. My strength failed me, and I retreated back into myself, seeking some power that would hold the sword in that agony. For an instant it seemed that I had none, that I would be annihilated, for it was too late to drop the sword…
Hawk of May (Down the Long Way 1) Page 9
