Grail

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “You have seen it,” observed Myrddin sagely. “You have seen the Grail.”

  I seized him by the arm and drew him further into the hall as if to keep the secret from being overheard. “What makes you think that?”

  “Your face,” he replied, raising a hand to my chin and turning my head to the side. “You have the look of someone who fell asleep in the sun—your skin is red.”

  “Red!”

  “Sunburnt,” he said. “Only, you and I both know there was no secret rising of the sun last night.”

  “Sunburnt,” I said, “but—” I touched my fingertips lightly to my face; the skin was as dry, with tiny raised bumps like sun blisters, but there was no pain or discomfort, and the flesh felt cool to the touch. Nevertheless, I believed him.

  “As you did not return to the Tor, I surmise that you spent the night at the old shrine,” the Wise Emrys explained. “That is where I first saw the Grail.”

  Reluctant still to demean the radiant vision with poor words, I replied, “I cannot rightly say what I saw.”

  He smiled knowingly. “There is no need, Gwalchavad. I have seen it, too, remember.”

  “But why me, Myrddin?” I asked. “I am not the most devout of men—far from it! There are better Christians than me, and a good many hereabouts. Why me and not one of them?”

  “God knows,” he answered. At my disapproving frown, he said, “That is to say the Spirit moves where it will, and no man may make bold to let or hinder.”

  “But I thought the Grail was real—a real cup, that is. What I saw was…” I faltered. What had I seen?

  “Oh, it is very much a real cup,” Myrddin assured me quickly. “But the hallows of this world, the holy and sacred objects given to us for our blessing and edification, are never limited to mere physical manifestation.”

  At my confused and baffled expression, the Wise Emrys went on to explain. “The Grail is no ordinary material object—a cup of bronze or silver, as you suppose. Although it is that, it is also a spiritual entity with a spiritual existence.”

  “A hallow—is that what you called it?”

  “Indeed. What you saw last night in the shrine was the hallow. That is, the spiritual manifestation of the Grail.”

  “A vision of the real cup.”

  “If you like,” Myrddin allowed. “But one is no less real, as you say, than the other.”

  “I saw the hallow, then, but what does it mean?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “But it must be a sign,” I insisted. “It must betoken something—something important.”

  “God alone knows the why and wherefore.”

  “That is no answer,” I growled.

  “Then ask God for another.”

  Myrddin made to move off, but I followed him with my questions. “What am I to do, Myrddin?”

  “Watch and pray,” he advised, repeating his homily of the day before.

  “Is that all?” I demanded, losing patience with his irksome reticence. I suppose I should have known better than to demand of a bard the meaning of a vision. They delight in posing riddles, but answers interest them not in the least.

  “What more would you have me say?”

  “Perhaps you could tell me this, at least,” I said. “Why were you looking for me?”

  “When I learned you had not returned to the Tor, I feared for you.”

  “You thought that what happened to Llenlleawg might have befallen me.”

  “It was in my mind,” Myrddin allowed, but said no more. A moment later, Bedwyr and Cai returned to the hall, saw us talking, and joined us. The Emrys greeted them and said, “You must be about your business. Come to me when you have finished, if you like.” He left then, and we took our places at one of the tables to wait for the others, and I finished my meal.

  To my relief, neither Cador nor Llenlleawg mentioned my reddened skin, and we began our deliberations where we had abandoned them the day before. We talked throughout the day, and with better resolve; no one, I think, wanted to spend a third day grappling with the others over fine points of custom and ceremony.

  Accordingly, we all agreed with Cai’s observation of the previous day that, yes, the Grail was a rare treasure requiring protection. Therefore, the first rule of the Grail Fellowship would be to protect the shrine wherein the holy vessel was contained. The five of us—Arthur’s battlechiefs, that is—would choose the guards from among the members of the Fellowship. Further, in order to ensure proper reverence and vigilance, each member of the Fellowship would be required to swear sacred oaths of loyalty and allegiance, not only to Arthur, Lord of the Summer Realm, but also to the Lord Christ, whose cup it was our sworn duty to protect.

  That much was easy to agree upon, which we promptly did—and then our swift forward march quickly bogged down in the mire of minutia. Questions arose which we had not anticipated, and for which, once raised, answers must be found. What, for example, if a member of the Fellowship should disobey his duty, or fall into disgrace? How should the remedy be determined? Should there be orders of rank among the members of the Fellowship? If so, how should these be comprised?

  All these and more beset us, and for each one we answered, two more sprang up to take its place. Thus the day passed, and I began to fear we would be at our task forever, when Bedwyr, who observed what was happening, suggested a compromise: that we begin with what we had agreed upon, but retain the right to amend or add rules to the ordering of the Fellowship whenever the need arose.

  By this time, tempers were frayed and it felt as if we had been treading on eggs all day long. We were fairly panting for a cool drink, and Cador went off to fetch it. No sooner had he gone than Llenlleawg, having grown increasingly peevish as the day wore on, pushed himself to his feet and declared that he was not so thirsty that he could not wait until supper. “If we have finished,” he said curtly, “I will beg to be excused further discussions. A matter awaits my attention elsewhere.”

  “Yes, go, by all means,” Bedwyr told him. “We have finished, God willing. Unless you have any objection, I will inform Arthur that our deliberations have borne fruit, and that we have reached an end for the time being.”

  The tall Irishman inclined his head in assent and took his leave at once.

  “He could not wait to get free of us,” Bedwyr observed. “It is not like him to be so hasty.”

  “Especially with ale in the offing,” Cai added meaningfully.

  “No doubt the cut and thrust of a blade is more suited to his nature,” I allowed. “This wordful striving is tedious; it makes my head ache.”

  “Aye,” agreed Cai, “it does that.” He thought for a moment, then added, “I say we should ride out to the new shrine and take word to Arthur. After sitting in this hall the whole day, I could use a breath of fresh air.”

  “After the ale,” amended Bedwyr.

  “Oh, aye, after the ale,” replied Cai, surprised that there should be any question about that.

  “I am for it,” I said. Consequently, when Cador returned bearing the jug and cups himself, we all hailed him a hero, drank up, and raced out to join the work party at the shrine.

  Nothing much had changed since the last time I visited the site. A few more stones had been placed along the line of the circular wall, and additional timbers erected. The heap of stone was somewhat larger, but that was all—despite the many eager hands available, for all the Cymbrogi were employed.

  “The work is going well,” Arthur said happily, dragging his forearm across his sweating brow. We found him standing atop the hill, bare to the waist and covered in rock dust. The sweat made little muddy rivulets where it had trickled down his back and sides. “Indeed, far better than I hoped. I think we will be able to hold the rites of consecration at the Christ Mass.”

  “Look at you, Bear,” Bedwyr commented. “Gray as a ghost, and filthy with dust. Have you been rolling in the stuff?”

  That the Pendragon of Britain should be toiling in the dirt did not s
urprise me in the least. Arthur was so eager for the Grail to be enshrined so that the Summer Realm might commence in full, I think he would have moved whole mountains with his bare hands if that would have helped. We all agreed that if the work continued at pace, the shrine would certainly be finished in time to mark the turning year.

  “Now, then, have you anything to show for your labors?” the king asked.

  “We have indeed, lord,” Bedwyr replied, and began relating all we had discussed, and the decisions we had reached. We each took it in turn to supplement Bedwyr’s admirably succinct, if somewhat flat-footed, report with comments of our own.

  Arthur listened, nodding from time to time, and when Bedwyr had finished, declared himself well pleased with the result. “It is just as I hoped,” he said, his smile quick and warm with approval. “You have done your king good service.”

  As he turned his gaze towards the heap of stone and timber, I saw the light come up in his eyes, and he said, “Guardians of the Grail…I am pleased.” Facing us once more, he added, “To you is granted the highest honor of a warrior in this worlds-realm. So be it.”

  Over the next days, a few embellishments were added to the ordering of the Fellowship, but the basic structure we had erected remained intact. The Cymbrogi expressed enthusiastic support of the Fellowship, and as the work on the shrine slowly proceeded, so their zeal increased; it seemed their ardor, like the king’s, knew no bounds.

  With the passing days, something akin to religious fervor took hold of all who labored on the new shrine. It seemed as if faith raised the circle of stone. Indeed, curious happenings became commonplace: a heavy stone slipped and fell onto a man’s hand as he tried to lift it onto the wall, but instead of his fingers being crushed, he received not so much as a pinch or scratch. Two workers, using nothing but their bare hands, stopped a wagon laden with rubble from rolling downhill when the wagon hitch broke—it had taken two oxen to pull the wagon in the first place. Another man, who had worked himself into such a frenzy that his hands became blistered, had his blisters healed overnight while he slept, so that he was able to renew his exertions the next morning.

  There were several minor accidents as well, mind: a fully laden horse stepped on the foot of one poor fellow and crushed two toes, which then had to be cut off. Another unfortunate slipped in the mud and hit his head against one of the lower steps; he bled like a stuck pig from an ugly gash, and had to have his hair shaved off in order to dress the wound. Neither of these, nor one or two others, were blessed with any miraculous cures, however, and instead had to be carried to the abbey for the monks to tend.

  Once out of sight, the afflicted were swiftly forgotten in the general excitement. Thus the small miracles loomed larger than perhaps they ought, which served to heighten the euphoria. Bishop Elfodd said that the miracles were signs heralding the dawn of a peace to last a thousand years. Once the Grail Shrine was consecrated, he said, the Age of Peace would begin, and all Britain would be blessed with signs and wonders.

  Strange to say, then, that as the elation of those around me waxed the greater, my own fervor waned. Perverse creature that I am, the intense, almost ecstatic jubilation of my comrades combined with my own sinful pride to produce the opposite reaction in me. I quickly came to view both the shrine and the Fellowship with distaste; what I once held in kindly favor became offensive to me. I could not bear to look at the shrine without shrinking from it. The very mention of the Grail Fellowship put my teeth on edge. Well, the fault is mine; I own it and confess it freely, so that you will know what manner of man I am.

  See, now: I do not shrink from the truth, even when it tells against me. Indeed, though it brings me no pleasure, I write this so all may believe me when I relate the horror of what is to follow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In Llyonesse I learned my art—Annubi possessed a great store of wisdom, all of which I devoured, and in that way devoured him—but in the Dark Islands I practiced it. Orcady provided the solitude I required, and also the resources of a wealthy and powerful husband to protect and indulge me while I perfected my craft.

  Poor Lot knew little of my labors because I allowed him to see very little—only enough so that he would respect my long seclusions. His headstrong son despised me, but his grandsons, Gwalcmai and Gwalchavad, might have proved valuable to me—ardent men have their uses, after all—and I could easily have bent them to my purposes. But they had forsaken their birthright to follow that ox-brained Arthur. So I persuaded the old king to give me a son of my own, a child I could train to my will, who would rule the realm after his father.

  I might have reigned in Orcady myself, but I have greater ambitions, and was already laying my designs for Merlin. Once, I offered him the choice of joining me—united, we would have created a force more powerful than any since Atlantis was destroyed! But the self-righteous idiot had the temerity to spurn me. He styles himself a bard like his father, and holds to the ancient bardic ideals—that and the pathetic notion of his which he dignifies with the name “The Kingdom of Summer.”

  Since Merlin would not join me, he must be destroyed. I had, through various means, watched his progress and knew that he had acquired a rough art of his own, which, if allowed to thrive, might cause me trouble. I had paid dearly for that which I possessed—great power comes at great cost—and I could not easily afford to let anyone interfere in my plans. So I lured him to Llyonesse, where I could more easily control the confrontation.

  Killing him would have been child’s play, of course; and looking back on it now, I know that is what I should have done. What I wanted, however, was not only to strip him of his power, but to do it so completely and absolutely that he would abandon every hope and ambition he had ever had for his ridiculous Summer Realm.

  I misjudged him, however; he was more canny than I expected; the encounter went against me and I was forced to break off the attack. Merlin imagines that he bested me; moreover, he believes my power was broken. In that, however, he is desperately mistaken. When I saw I could not win the encounter outright, I abandoned the attempt in order to preserve the power I had labored so long to gain. In truth, I permitted the little weasel to escape, or he would have been crushed and annihilated—just like the smarmy lickspit Pelleas; I destroyed him just for spite, and to show Merlin just how fortunate he was to escape.

  Yes, I allowed Merlin to slip away that time, but he will not elude me again. He has made it his life’s labor to raise the oafish Arthur to prominence. It will be a singular pleasure to wipe out that work, to obliterate the both of them. In fact, it is better this way. The sight of them squirming in their death throes is a sight I will relish forever.

  Oh, they will die in disgrace with curses between their teeth; that is inevitable, inescapable. They will die in shame and despair, but not before they have seen everything they valued laid waste. This I have promised myself. It will be.

  Morgaws is now in place. She has beguiled the entire court in one way or another, and she has chosen the one who will become the agent of betrayal. Rhys, I thought, would have served us admirably in this. Indeed, we tried to seduce him, but met with unaccountable resistance. Nevertheless, his influence has been abrogated; he will not trouble us. Gwalchavad, too, might have provided a pleasantly ironic choice, but I knew he would be difficult. We will keep trying, of course, but whether we win him or not makes no real difference. Others have been corrupted to the cause, and only await the command to strike. That command will not be long in coming. Only one or two details remain, and then the destruction will commence.

  The day of Morgian’s revenge is at hand. Behold, all you people, your doom swiftly approaches! Weep with black despair, for there is no escape.

  The seasons passed. Harvest came and went: a dismal business, best forgotten. The long, dry summer had done its worst. There was nothing for it but to trust winter rains to bring a better spring. Though we looked to every gray cloud that drifted overhead, the rain did not come.

  The lack of rai
n meant, however, that the work on the new shrine could continue without interruption, and people began to look upon its completion as the salvation of the land. “When the Grail Shrine is finished” became the litany which began every conversation, as people turned hopefully to a brighter future. Each day the Pendragon and Cymbrogi rode out to their labors, and each night returned delirious with exhaustion and companionship. Accordingly, the day of completion, hastened by favorable weather and the unquenchable ardor of the Cymbrogi laborers, arrived far sooner than expected.

  Though I did no work myself, I often rode out to watch as the builders, seized with the fervor of creation, vied to outdo one another in the quality of their work. And despite my inexplicable aversion, I will say that it grew into a fine and handsome place: six-sided, with neat straight walls rising from a tiered base and topped by a steep-peaked roof of wood covered with red Roman tile—God knows where they got that!—and a series of curved steps. It was not large, but Arthur allowed that it was, after all, only a beginning; in time, the shrine could be expanded, or attached to a much larger structure, which he had in mind. “But this will do for now,” he declared, well pleased with the result.

  As the turning of the year approached, Arthur began making plans for the Grail Shrine’s consecration. He called for messengers to summon those he wished to attend the august event. I volunteered at once, since the errand provided me a welcome escape from what I had begun to think of as the delirium which had overtaken almost everyone.

  I say “almost” because there were others, like myself, who regarded the absurd euphoria with increasing suspicion. Myrddin, as ever, pleased to garner whatever he could of the builders’ craft, would speak no word against the shrine or the Grail, but his praise was ever guarded and he held himself aloof from any talk of miracles, or thousand-year reigns of peace, and such. Likewise Bedwyr, who always seemed to find one important concern or another to occupy him—I know he often fished with Avallach. Llenlleawg, I believe, never so much as rode out to the site; it was whispered that Lady Morgaws demanded his constant attention. Cai helped often, however, and Cador only now and then, as it pleased him.