Grail

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  While I kept watch, my companion slept soundly and well—grateful, I reckon, for a respite from her unendurable duties—and the next morning we journeyed on. The return took a little more time than the outward journey, for I chose another trail, which kept us well away from the forest. Having braved the unseen watcher once, I saw no need to do so again; besides, I thought it a reproach to tax the Heavenly Host with my protection when I could so easily avoid trouble in the first place.

  Thus, we skirted the forest and arrived at the Tor by another way, passing within sight of the Grail Shrine. Though I had been away only a handful of days, I found the site altered beyond recognition.

  Gone were the wagons and the heaps of rock-broken stone; gone, too, the ropes and lumber and ranks of workers swarming over a half-finished building. In place of all the clutter and activity stood a silent, graceful structure of whitewashed stone, glistening in the dawn light. Elegant in its simplicity—the Master Gall had done his work well—the shrine appeared to shimmer with an inner radiance. The drought heat had long since blasted the surrounding grass to thin, withered wisps of palest yellow, so that the whole place, with hill and shrine included, glowed in the early morning with the luster and radiance of gold.

  We stopped to marvel at the glorious sight. In all, it was a fitting house for the Christ’s Holy Cup. What is more, for the first time since I had heard Arthur’s plan, I thought he was right. It is magnificent, I thought; truly, it betokens a new and glorious reign of peace and well-being.

  Upon our arrival at the Tor, we were greeted by Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, who appeared in the yard as we dismounted. Gwenhwyvar and Charis embraced one another warmly, and Arthur stood by, beaming his good pleasure. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the elusive Avallach standing beside a pillar, arms crossed over his chest. Since coming to the Tor, I had rarely seen him—most often in the long evening when he was fishing with Bedwyr or Myrddin—and then only from a distance.

  I knew that the Fisher King suffered from an incurable malady which often kept him confined to his quarters. I assumed that was why we had not seen much of him since our arrival. Thus, I was surprised to see him standing in the shadows nearby. He stood for a moment, gazing at the tight group before him, then stepped out to join it.

  “Charis!” he said, throwing his arms wide for his daughter. His voice boomed like friendly thunder, and he hugged his daughter and told her how much he had missed her. “You are the sun of my happiness,” he said, “and now it is summer again.”

  “Have you seen the shrine?” asked Arthur, unable to rein in his curiosity any longer.

  “I have indeed,” replied Lady Charis, and pronounced the shrine the work of a master who both knew and respected the object to be protected within.

  “It is that,” affirmed the Fisher King—somewhat reluctantly, I thought.

  “Arthur,” Charis said, “are you certain this is the way?” She gripped Arthur by the arm as if to hold him to account.

  “As certain as the sun and stars,” the Pendragon replied, his gaze as steady as his unwavering grip. “The Summer Kingdom is here. We stand at the threshold of an age the like of which has never been seen since the beginning of our race. The nations will look up in wonder when they hear what we have done. The blessing begins here, and it will flow throughout all Britain and to the ends of the earth. People of lands far distant from these will come to witness the miracle. Britain will be foremost among the nations, and our people will be exalted.”

  Avallach nodded, resignation heavy in his eyes. Arthur reached out and squeezed the Fisher King’s arm. “We are so close, my friend. So very close. Have faith, and watch what God will do!”

  Arthur spoke with such passion and assurance that it would have been a dead heart indeed not to beat more quickly at his words. His zeal was a flame, burning away the straw of opposition. Who could stand against the Pendragon when heart and will and mind were united in the pursuit of so lofty a purpose?

  Who, indeed?

  As we were yet talking, others of Arthur’s court came to greet Avallach and welcome the Lady of the Lake: Cai and Bedwyr first, then Cador and Rhys. I looked for Llenlleawg but did not see him, and it was not until we were all gathered in the hall for our supper that the Irishman emerged from hiding.

  The hall was prepared for the Lady of the Lake’s return, and Avallach had already called for his guests to be seated and we were making way to our places—some of us more slowly as we hailed this one or another. Myrddin and Charis arrived and were talking quietly just inside the doorway while others entered the hall.

  It was then I saw Llenlleawg appear in the doorway, Morgaws at his side. The two stepped into the hall and moved towards their places at one of the nearer boards. As I was slowly making my way to the board myself, I had opportunity to mark their entrance and observe what followed.

  See, now: the Emrys, his head low and a little forward, is speaking earnestly to his mother, who listens intently. She senses a movement beside her, however, and glances to the side to see Llenlleawg pass by. She recognizes him, of course, for I see it in her eyes as her lips begin a smile—a smile that instantly freezes when she also takes in the sight of Morgaws.

  It is only the merest glance, but the queerest thing happens: as if acutely mindful of Charis’ attention, the young woman turns her head; their eyes meet. Morgaws falters, her foot catching in mid-step. She lurches sideways as if struck by a spear hurled from across the hall. She stumbles, her features twisted in pain, or rage, and I fear she will fall. But Llenlleawg’s hand is at her elbow; he steadies her arm and bears her up. Incredibly, Morgaws recovers both balance and aplomb in her stride; the moment passes in a twinkling, and I, the only one to have seen it, am left to wonder at what I have witnessed.

  The two latecomers turn away and lose themselves in the convivial mingling at the board. I look once more to where Myrddin and Charis stand. The Emrys is still speaking, but his mother is no longer listening. Instead, she stares at the place where Morgaws and Llenlleawg appeared, her expression one of horror, the color drained from her face. Strange to say, but I am put in mind of the first time Peredur laid eyes on the woman when we found her in the wood—his expression combined the same shock and terror at her appearance.

  Sensing that his words are no longer attended, Myrddin looks up; his mother’s stark features halt the flow of his words and he touches her arm. The Lady of the Lake quickens at his touch; she comes to herself once more—as if suddenly starting from a dream—sees her son, and smiles, her hand rising to her face. Myrddin, ever alert, turns to see what has so shattered his mother’s composure. But there is now nothing to see; Morgaws and her escort have disappeared in the crowd. Myrddin takes his mother by the arm and walks with her to their places at table with Arthur and Gwenhwyvar.

  I settled in next to Bedwyr, and noticed his dark brow furrowed in serious rumination. Thinking to lighten his somber mood, I said, “It seems friend Llenlleawg has become champion to the mysterious Morgaws. I wonder if Arthur kens this shift of loyalty.”

  “Never have I seen a man wear a more haunted look. He is sick with it, our Llenlleawg. I fear what may become of him.”

  “Well, no doubt he will recover. Love seldom proves fatal—so I am told.”

  Bedwyr gave a mirthless, scornful chuckle.

  “What? Has something happened while I was away?”

  “Ah,” he replied, his smile as bitter as his tone, “Arthur’s shrine races to its completion, and we are all deliriously happy, of course.”

  One of the serving boys appeared just then and placed cups before us. Bedwyr raised his cup to me and took a deep draught.

  “And yet?” I prodded, nudging him with an elbow.

  “Yet,” Bedwyr continued, “the Pendragon communes with God and the angels, and the concerns of earthly mortals are not to be mentioned.” Bedwyr’s rueful smile turned sour. “In short, our king stands with his head in the clouds and his feet on the dung heap. The odor, he imagines, is mead
ow-sweet, but it smells like manure to me.”

  “You surprise me, brother. If anyone can bring the Summer Kingdom to fruition, it is Arthur. It could happen just as he says.”

  Bedwyr drank again, put aside his cup, and said, “Do not mind me, Gwalchavad, I am only mourning the past. Or maybe I am jealous—she is a beautiful young woman, is she not?” He laughed, forcing himself to rise above his melancholy, yet there was a bitter edge to his voice when he said, “Two days, my friend—two days and all doubts and suspicions shall be swept away. In two days the shrine is consecrated and the Grail is established, and the Kingdom of Summer begins. I am certain all will be well.”

  Despite his dubious assurance, Bedwyr’s conviction appeared as shaky as my own, but after my harrowing visit to the plague camp, I had tried to believe the miracle could take place. What if, as Myrddin had said, the Swift Sure Hand was on Arthur to bring about the restoring of this worlds-realm? Who could oppose God?

  Chapter Twenty

  Dreams of spitting cats and hissing snakes kept me thrashing on my pallet all night. I heard strange laughter, and awoke to the sound of someone calling my name. The warriors’ quarters were quiet, however, and, as the sun was rising on a new day, I thought to banish the night’s malignant cast with a cold plunge in the lake.

  I crept from the palace and made my way quickly down the twisting path. The mist rising off the lake as the dawnlight struck the surface of the water made it seem as if I descended from the pure heavenly heights to the cloud-bound earth below. At the lakeside, I stripped off my clothes and waded out from the shore—some little distance, for, owing to the drought, the level of the water was much lower now.

  Gathering courage, I dove in and swam quickly to the center of the lake before I lost my nerve. The water was clear and stinging cold, but not as cold as it should have been for the season. Here the Christ Mass was upon us, and winter winds should be howling from the frozen north; yet, save for a few chill evenings, the days, though short, remained warm as midsummer, and dry. The warmth nobody complained of, but the lack of rain scoured the land to dust.

  Ever since I was old enough to walk from my father’s caer down to the water’s edge, I have loved swimming. Lot insisted that anyone bred and born on a rock in the sea should be able to swim to save his life, so my brother and I learned early and learned well. This thought was in my mind as I swam to the center of the lake, took a deep breath, and sank down into the cold, spring-fed depths.

  Down and down I went, the icy water tingling on my skin, pricking like ten thousand needles. When at last I could stay under no longer, I rose to dive again and again, trying to go deeper each time. The last time, I simply bobbed to the surface to float on my back, gazing up at the sun-streaked morning sky, letting my thoughts drift as idly as the clouds above.

  While I lay floating, the sound of someone singing reached me—a lightly lilting, wordless melody. Silently, without so much as a ripple, I sank down into the water and turned my eyes to the bank, where I saw a hunched figure hurrying along the lakeside pathway leading to the Tor: a woman, dressed all in black. I did not recognize her, for a cloud had passed before the sun and her features were hidden by shadow. Curiously, this shadow moved with her, covering her, so that I could not see who it might be.

  It was then I remembered having heard that same strange song before—it had led me a chase the day I found Morgaws in the wood. The thought had no more flitted through my mind when she stopped—halting in mid-step, much as someone might when hailed from behind by the shout of a friend. In the same instant, the shadow vanished and I saw that it was, indeed, Morgaws, and what I had taken for black was, in fact, her customary green, which I could see so clearly I wondered how I had mistaken it before. That aside, I thought it odd she should be astir so early in the morning, and naturally wondered where she had been.

  She stood stock-still for a long moment, and then turned slowly towards the lake. Something in me urged secrecy, so I allowed myself to submerge once more. Strange to say, but as my head sank beneath the water, I felt a peculiar warmth where her gaze swept the water. It passed in an instant, like a wave washing over my head, and then all was as it had been before. When I surfaced again, Morgaws was gone. I watched for a time and thought I saw her on the Tor path just before she entered the palace gate, but owing to the brightness of the sunlight, I could easily have been mistaken.

  I swam to the bank, dried myself, and dressed, then made haste to find Myrddin; I had it in mind to tell him what I had seen. But by the time I reached the Tor, I had convinced myself that my concern was mere foolishness. What had I seen, after all? Only someone taking an early-morning walk. She sang, yes, as any young woman might, delighting in her own company and the simple splendors of the new day. In any event, Myrddin was occupied with the ordering of the ceremony, and would not care to be bothered.

  Along with the rest of the Dragon Flight, I spent the day in preparation for the consecration ceremony. Beginning with a fast, we assembled in the hall to learn our duties for the ceremony, and to hear how our ranks should be ordered. We then attended to our clothing and weapons: siarcs and breecs were washed and cloaks brushed, swords and spears were burnished, and shields were washed white with lime and painted with the cross of the Christ. That night, in place of a meal, we gathered in the hall and held vigil; led by one of the abbey priests, we prayed through the night for the Good Lord’s blessing on the new realm.

  Then, as dawn broke upon the eastern horizon, we dressed in our finest clothes, and arrayed ourselves as for battle. The participants assembled in the yard, each one taking his place as we had been instructed: Arthur and Gwenhwyvar first, Myrddin and Charis following, with various priests and monks and nobles from the region coming after, and behind them, the Dragon Flight and the rest of the Cymbrogi. Walking slowly, crosier held high, the procession was led out through the gate by Bishop Elfodd; beside him walked Lord Avallach, carrying a fine wooden casket in his hands.

  Thus, we walked slowly down from the Fisher King’s palace to the lakeside path, two by two. Upon reaching the lake, the monks commenced chanting a psalm, softly, quietly at first, but louder and with more spirit as we went. When we passed the monastery, its lone bell tolled, the plaintive voice ringing out over the countryside, calling the world to witness the changing of the age.

  Much of that world seemed prepared to take notice, for there were many hundreds of people already gathered in the valley, awaiting the ceremony. The stoneworkers and their families were there, of course. Also, I suppose the monks had spread the word throughout the region, and many, despite the plague—or, indeed, perhaps because of it—had come to see the Lord of Summer begin his reign.

  The Grail Shrine gleamed like white gold in the morning light, the cool stone shimmering and radiant against the fair blue of the sky. The procession reached the foot of the hill and stopped, whereupon Bishop Elfodd turned and spoke a prayer. We then continued up the hill—followed by the crowds, which pressed in all around us to see and hear what was taking place—and paused at the hilltop for another prayer; a third prayer was spoken as the Grail was carried around the perimeter, and a fourth at the entrance to the shrine. At each place, Avallach, accompanied by the bishop, presented the casket to the four quarters, while the good bishop offered up a prayer; together they sained the earth with the presence of the holy object.

  In a loud voice Bishop Elfodd called for all present to bear witness. “From this day the ground whereon you stand is holy ground. Let it here be known, and proclaimed throughout all Britain, that the Lord Christ has favored this place and has claimed it for his own. Henceforth and for all time, this place shall be a refuge and sanctuary for any and all who come here, and no one shall be turned away, nor shall anyone be compelled to leave, nor carried away by force. Thus, no one shall prevent another from entering God’s peace.”

  Then Myrddin, his dignity and noble bearing never greater, ascended the steps of the shrine, turned to the mass of onlookers, and stret
ched forth his hands. If anyone had forgotten that Myrddin was once a king, the memory was reawakened now. I have lived my life in the presence of kings and noblemen, and I saw a king now, lordly in manner and mien. Tall and erect, his head high, his expression grave and proud, his golden eyes ablaze with the light of righteousness, Myrddin gazed out over the upturned faces of the throng, and silence descended over the hill as all upon it strained forward to hear what he would say.

  “My people!” he cried in a loud voice. “This is a day like no other in the long history of our race.”

  He paused and I felt the air quicken around me with anticipation. The crowd, as a solitary creature, keen with yearning, held its breath.

  “Rejoice!” the Emrys shouted suddenly, and I swear I heard his shout echoing across the surrounding hills like thunder.

  “Rejoice!” he cried again, lifting his hands high. “For this day begins the Kingdom of Summer, may it endure forever.

  “Listen! Hear the words of the Chief Bard of Britain, Taliesin ap Elphin ap Gwyddno Garanhir: ‘There is a land shining with goodness where each man protects his brother’s dignity as readily as his own, where war and want have ceased and all races live under the same law of love and honor. It is a land bright with truth, where a man’s word is his pledge and falsehood is banished, where children sleep safely in their mothers’ arms and never know fear or pain. It is a land where kings extend their hands in justice rather than reach for the sword; where mercy, kindness, and compassion flow like deep water, and men revere virtue, revere truth, revere beauty, above comfort, pleasure, or selfish gain—a land where peace reigns in the hearts of men; where faith blazes like a beacon from every hill, and love like a fire from every hearth; where the True God is worshipped and his ways acclaimed by all.’