No sooner had his head touched the hair-bare old hide than did he fall asleep. At once a vision came to him. And this is what he saw:
He and his friends were riding along beside an oak grove when they heard a tumult the like of which they had never heard before. They halted and, looking fearfully behind them, saw a young man with curly hair and a new-trimmed beard riding a golden horse. This man was green from the hips down to his toes, and he wore a fine yellow mantle that shimmered in the sun. At his side was a golden-hilted sword in a sheath of fine leather, held by a belt with an enormous golden buckle. And the size of the man was all but twice that of any of the three companions!
The three companions knew themselves to be in the presence of a man of power and authority, so they waited for him to draw near. “Peace, friend,” called Rhonabwy as the man approached. And because the man was so big he added, “And mercy, too.”
The young man in gold and green halted before them. “You beg peace and mercy from me, and you shall have that gladly. Do not be afraid.”
“Our thanks to you, and the thanks of our lord also. Since you grant us mercy, chieftain, tell us your name.”
At this the young man smiled and said, “I am called Gwyn Ysgawd, and my father is the ruler of this realm.”
“Who might that be?” Rhonabwy asked.
“His name is not uttered except in praise,” Gwyn answered. “He is Chief Dragon of the Island of the Mighty and its Seven Adjacent Isles, and much else besides, for he is Emperor of the West.”
The three friends peered at one another anxiously. “We have never heard of this man, great though he undoubtedly is.”
“That surely is a wonder,” said Gwyn. “But I will allow you to judge for yourselves, for I will take you to him and you can pay him the homage you think he deserves.”
“Fair enough,” said Rhonabwy, and the huge man continued on his way. The three fell in behind him and kept up as best they could. Yet no matter how fast they rode, the yellow horse ahead of them galloped faster. When they breathed in, they seemed to gain a little, but when they breathed out the yellow horse was further away than before.
In this way, they passed over a great plain—wider and more vast than Argyngrog. And they crossed many rivers, each of them wider and more vast than Mor Hafren. And they rode through many forests, each of them wider, darker, and more vast than Celyddon. But at last they came to an immense shore at the very edge of the Island of the Mighty. And spread out along the shore as far as the eye could see in each direction were bright-colored tents of all sizes—enough to hold the greatest host the world had yet seen.
They proceeded to the sea verge and came to a flat islet lying close to the shore. An enormous man sat on the small island on a throne of stone, and beside him Bishop Bedwini at his right hand, and Hafgan, Chief Bard, on his left. Before them stood a warrior dressed all in black. From the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, all black. His hands were covered with black gloves, and his cloak, tunic, and mantle were black. All that could be seen of this warrior was the span of wrist between sleeve and glove—and this skin was whiter than the white of a maid’s eyes, whiter than lilies; and the wrist was thicker than the small of Cadwgan’s leg. The strange warrior held in his hand a sheathed sword.
Gwyn led Rhonabwy and his companions across the water to stand before the mighty man on the throne. “God be good to you, Father!” he called in greeting.
The man on the throne raised his hand in welcome. “God be good to you, my son!” he said in a voice that surely shook the hills. He regarded the three travellers curiously, and said, “Wherever did you find these little men?”
“Lord, I found them riding at the border of your realm,” Gwyn White Shield answered.
At this the great king shook his head and uttered a sharp, mocking laugh.
“Chief Dragon,” said Gwyn, “what are you laughing at?”
“I am laughing out of the sadness I feel at this worlds-realm being held by such puny men as these after the kind that held it before!”
Then Gwyn turned to Rhonabwy and asked, “Do you see the ring on the emperor’s hand?”
Rhonabwy looked and saw a golden ring with a purple gem. “I see it,” he answered.
“It is the property of that ring that having seen it you will remember everything that passes while you sojourn with us. If you had not seen it, you would remember nothing at all.”
They were still talking like this when a great commotion arose on shore. Rhonabwy looked and saw a tremendous warband riding toward them. “What warband is that?” asked Rhonabwy.
“The Flight of Dragons! And it is their pride and duty to ride before and after the emperor in every danger. For this they are granted the privilege of wooing the most noble daughters of Britain.”
Rhonabwy watched as the warband passed by, and he saw that there was not a warrior among them that was dressed in anything but the deepest red like the reddest blood in the world. Together they appeared a column of fire springing from the earth and ascending to the sky. These exalted warriors hailed the emperor as they passed by, and rode to their tents on the shore.
With sweet golden mead and savory roast pork the Pendragon feasted his Dragon Flight. Rhonabwy and his friends feasted with them and continually remarked to one another, and to Gwyn, that never had they tasted such a feast as the one set before them.
In the morning the warriors arose, donned their battledress, and saddled their fine horses. “What is happening here?” asked Rhonabwy, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“The warhost is gathered,” explained Gwyn. “It is time to join battle at Caer Baddon.”
So saying, they all climbed on their horses and began riding to the battle place. Now the emperor’s warhost rode so fast that they could not be seen—only the windrush of their passing could be felt. But Gwyn led the three along the track, and eventually they reached a great vale where they saw the host gathered below Caer Baddon.
A warrior sped past them where they waited and proceeded at once into the vale without pausing. At the approach of this rider all the warhost scattered. “What is this?” wondered Rhonabwy to Kynrig Red Freckles. “Is the emperor’s warhost fleeing?”
Gwyn overheard them and replied, “The emperor’s host has never fled, but has ever been victorious. Lucky you are, for if that remark had been heard down there you would already be dead.”
“Who is that rider then,” asked Rhonabwy, “that he causes such tumult among the troops?”
“The rider you see speeding his way to the front of the battleline is none other than the foremost champion of the Pendragon’s warband. The commotion you see at his arrival is that of men jostling one another to be near him in the fray.”
The tumult threatened to become a riot, so the emperor signalled his sword-bearer, the youth in black, who raised the Pendragon’s weapon—a great sword with a golden hilt in the shape of twin serpents. He drew the sword, and the brightness of the blade was like the brightness of the sun so that it was not easy to look upon. The commotion quieted at once.
Gwyn, Rhonabwy, Kynrig, and Cadwgan lifted their reins and rode down into the vale where they found the emperor’s tent. A huge, yellow-haired man approached with an enormous bundle on his back. He lowered the bundle and drew out a wonderful mantle of pure white wool with a golden apple at each corner. The giant man spread the fair mantle upon the ground before the tent. Next, he drew out a camp chair so large that three kings could sit in it at once; this he set up in the center of the mantle. And then he withdrew a silver gwyddbwyll board and gamepieces of pure gold, which he set up in the center of the chair.
Rhonabwy and the others dismounted and stood aside to see what would happen next, and what happened was that the emperor emerged from his tent and took his place in the chair beside the gwyddbwyll board. He raised his head, looked around him, and cried, “Who will try their skill against me in a game of Chase and Capture?”
Immediately, a crowd gathered around the mantle.
And such a crowd! For each man among them was nobly born, and not one was lower in rank than king, and some were kings with other kings in their retinue.
Up spoke a king with brown hair and a drooping brown mustache, who said, “I will try my skill, Lord and Pendragon.”
“I recognize you, Vortiporix,” replied the Pendragon. “Very well, I allow you the first move. Make it good.” And they began to play.
They were deep into the game when there arose a great din of such cawing and shouting and clashing of arms that it could only be a battle of unusual size and violence. This continued, growing ever louder, until from a nearby tent came a warrior. The tent was all of white with a standard flying before it bearing the image of a jet-black serpent with poisonous eyes and a fiery tongue. The warrior was dressed all in yellow-green from neck to knee, and half of his face was painted yellow as well.
“Emperor and Pendragon,” said the warrior, “is it with your permission that the Ravens of Annwfn tear at your brave warriors?”
“It is not,” replied the emperor. “This I will not allow.”
“Then tell me what is to be done and I will do it,” said the warrior.
“Take my standard and raise it where the battle is fiercest,” said the emperor. “Then stand back and let God’s will be accomplished.”
The warrior rode directly to the place where the battle was going badly for the Dragon Flight, and there he raised the emperor’s standard—a great red-gold dragon with teeth and claws bared. And when the Flight of Dragons saw the standard being raised in their midst, they took courage and rose up with renewed vigor and began beating back the Ravens, smiting them and stabbing them so that they were wounded and killed.
Vortiporix went down in defeat to the emperor, and his game ended. “Who will play next?” asked the Pendragon in a loud, challenging voice.
“I will try my skill,” said a man, stepping out from the crowd which had gathered around the gameboard.
“Then sit you down,” said the emperor. “I recognize you, Urien Reget, and grant you the first move. Do your best.”
They began to play the game, bending low over the board to study their moves. When they had played a short while they heard a great uproar of men and animals fighting and tearing one another to pieces. They raised their heads at this commotion to see a rider on a pale horse galloping toward them. The rider wore a white cloak on his shoulder and a white tunic, but his legs and feet were covered in grey linen the color of smoke or morning mist. In his hand he held a long, three-grooved sword; and on his head he wore a helm with a powerful sapphire gemstone on its brow and on its crest the image of a white lion with poisonous blood-red eyes.
This warrior rode straight to where the game was being played on the mantle and, without dismounting, said, “Lord and Pendragon, Emperor of the Island of the Mighty and all other lands of consequence, I beseech you.”
“Why do you beseech me?”
“I would have you know that the best warriors in the world, the nobles and kings of Britain and their vaunted retinues, are being killed by wild beasts—so many, in fact, that it will not be easy to defend this worlds-realm henceforth.”
“This will never do,” replied the emperor when he had heard the sorry report.
“Tell me what is to be done and I will see that it is accomplished,” said the warrior.
“Take my sword in your hand and carry it before you by the blade in the sign of the Cross of Christ.”
The warrior rode directly to the place where the battle was going badly for the Dragon Flight, and there he raised the emperor’s sword, holding it before him by the naked blade. When the wild beasts saw the flashing sword making the sign of the Cross of Christ, they fell to quaking with fear and lay down and became meek as newborn lambs.
Urien of Reget went down in sharp defeat at the emperor’s hands. But the emperor still wanted a fair match at the game, so he called out, “Who else is there to pit skill against me?”
“I will try my skill and cunning against you, O Mighty Pendragon,” said a king stepping from the throng.
“I recognize you, Maglocunus,” replied the Pendragon. “Very well, take your move and see that you make it your best.”
They bent low over the gameboard, moving the golden pieces here and there as the game demanded. They had not played very long when there arose the greatest uproar yet heard anywhere in the world. Though the din was terrible, far worse was the silence that followed. Everyone trembled and looked around fearfully.
Out of the east came a warrior on a horse of dappled-grey with four red legs as if the animal had swum through blood; yet its hooves were green. Both rider and horse were clothed in strange, heavy armor that gleamed like silver with rivets and fastenings of russet. The warrior carried a long, heavy spear of grooved ashwood colored half with white lime and half with blue woad, the leaf-shaped blade covered with fresh blood. On his head he wore a helm set about with shining crystals and crested with the image of a griffin holding a powerful gem in his mouth.
This warrior approached the emperor and cried out, “Lord and Pendragon! Your warriors are slaughtered, your people killed, all who followed you are scattered and oppressed!”
Hearing this the Exalted Pendragon seized up a handful of pieces from the gwyddbwyll board and squeezed them in his hand until they were ground to fine gold dust. Then, looking around angrily, he demanded of the royal throng, “What is to become of us? Why do you stand there empty-handed? Why do you stand idly by, watching a stupid game while the enemy has laid waste to our lands and slaughtered our people? Are you even men at all?”
The emperor rose up and threw the gameboard from him. He called for his sword and his horse. He took up his spear and his shield, and put on his dragon-crested helm. “Whoever would follow me, take up your sword!” he cried.
At these words the crowd vanished—they simply faded from sight and blew away like mist. The tents faded from sight, as did the horses and warriors and all that had gathered in the vale below Caer Baddon. Lastly the emperor and his son vanished, taken from sight by a shining cloud that covered them and bore them away.
Of the great host, not so much as a footprint remained. Everything disappeared, leaving only Rhonabwy and his two friends standing just where they were. “Most wretched of men are we,” cried Rhonabwy miserably, “for we have seen a wonder, but no one is here to tell us what it means! On top of that, we are lost and now must find our way home as best we can.”
No sooner had these words passed his lips than did a wind begin to blow and howl, and rain and hail begin to fall. Thunder roared and lightning flashed, and in the chaos of the storm Rhonabwy awoke to find himself once more on the yellow ox-hide in the noisome black hall. His friends stood over him, their brows wrinkled with worry, for Rhonabwy had slept three days and three nights.
So ends The Dream of Rhonabwy.
The Emrys sang out of his bard’s awen, and would not speak of his song or its meaning. The next day, however, I sensed this same unease in his conversation with Avallach. Clearly, something had begun preying on the Emrys’ mind. I determined to discover what it was. Over the next days and nights I stayed alert to any word that might illumine me.
* * *
Our sojourn proceeded uneventfully. I spent several days wandering along the cliff-tops above the sea, watching the grey seals dive for fish and sun themselves on the rocks. I talked to the Fair Folk when I could engage one of them, and struck an awkward friendship with one of the grooms in Avallach’s stable. In this way, I learned some surprising things about the Fair Folk, but nothing about the matter I sought.
At night I stayed near the Emrys, so that I might hear all that passed. My vigil availed me nothing, however, until the last night. We were to leave the next morning to be in Caer Lial when the Pendragon arrived—which would be soon.
The Emrys sat between the Fisher King and his mother, and I served them so to be near. They talked of crops and cattle, of fishing and the winter weather on the isl
and…
All at once, the Emrys grew serious. He dropped his knife onto the table, letting it fall from his hand as if he lacked the strength to grasp it. He turned to his mother and said, “Where is Morgian?”
Charis’ hand fluttered to her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Must I ask again?”
“Oh, Hawk, you cannot think she would—” She did not say the words. “Why do you ask?”
“Since coming here I have sensed her presence. If she has not been here, she is surely coming.”
Avallach, I noticed, stopped eating and swallowed hard, as if choking down the food in his mouth. He laid down his knife and gripped the edge of the board with his hands.
He knows something! I thought, and wondered whether the Emrys would see this. But he did not turn toward the Fisher King, and continued to speak only to his mother. “Do you think she would do this?” Charis asked. “Why?”
The Emrys shook his head slowly. “I cannot say. Her ways are beyond reckoning.” Then he reached out his hand and took one of his mother’s and pressed it hard. “Beware,” he cautioned. “There is a matter here I do not know, and an end I cannot see. Please, beware.”
No more was said, and once it had passed, talk returned to more pleasant things. Still, I wondered. The Wise Emrys’ words found a place within me and echoed like a hand-struck harp: If she has not been here, she is surely coming.
* * *
I did not find opportunity to speak to the Emrys about what I had seen at the Fisher King’s table until we were aboard ship and well away from the island. The Emrys moved apart from the sailors to stand gazing at the waves scattering before the ship’s sharp prow. I hurried to him and said, “Lord Emrys, a word please.”
Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle Page 41
