“Beauty of the Night!” quoth she, “You who shineth amoungst the Stars and within our hearts... I am your Priestess Vivianne... I call out to you to fill this mortal vessel with your Divine Love…so that I may utter your words of Wisdom…so that all within this Temple who Love and worship you may hear them… Oh, great and benevolent Mother, Hail and Welcome...”
How stunning it was to see her thus transformed – one moment a woman, the next a Goddess!
Lady Vivianne, as the White Moon Goddess, placed into Morgan the power of Her Divine Self by holding her hand above Morgan’s belly... Morgan then became the Center – the ‘within’!
Morgan began to glimmer. The Full Moon’s shadows, which were cast betwixt the Standing Stones, became very pronounced – so that even though the clear, Starry Night Sky was very dark, the whole circle appeared as though torch-lit… but without the flickering... There was only the Moonlight’s steady glow.
Then Morgan raised her beautiful voice in a song of evocation and praise to the GREAT GODDESS. And so haunting a melody it was...
The words she sang were in a language I had never heard.
When Morgan began to sing, all other sounds went silent – no Tree, no Wind, no Bird or creeping thing was heard – save for her Bees, which were buzzing in seemingly the same melody.
Or, was it all just the Magic – the Magic of place and of moment – that made it seem so? I will never know. But so it was!
A scabbard for Caledfwlch had been wonderfully crafted by Makyr. On it were symbols of great antiquity – unrecognizable to me – which Makyr had carved into it by her own hands and tools. Within each symbol was held a Magical Power. The scabbard was made of the finest leather, several layers thick – it was sturdy, yet flexible. An exquisitely beautiful thing it was – worthy of a King.
Makyr placed the King’s scabbard upon Morgan’s belly. She then returned to the South and began to drum with a steady, persistent beat upon a drum made of Tree and hide. My head began to swim...
Then, The Lady of the Lake Enchanted the scabbard with the words of an ancient Charm of Making:
“Anail nathrock
Uthvas bethud
Dociel dienfey”
By serpent’s breath...
By life and Death...
I bind this Spell to the Making!
I noted with whatever part of my consciousness that was still capable of analytical thought, that Vivianne was speaking the Charm of Making in the ancient tongue of the Eire. The Charm is used relatively unchanged everywhere Druids intone their words of power... Even is it so in Gwynedd, where my native language is spoken. Was this yet another honour paid to Arthur and me? I thought “surely there were Charms of Making in the Old Tribes’ tongue” – and of course there were...
Vivianne Enchanted…
Ati me peta babka...
Gatekeeper open your gates for me...
Sebet babi...
The seven gates...
Kadingir...
Gateway of the Gods...
Ina qereb...
Into the midst of...
Baraggal...
The Holy of Holies...
Edubba...
Of the House of the scribal tablets...
Tammabukku...
Dragons...
Ulmash...
Glittering...
Gibil...
Ones of Fire...
Nusku iqbq...
Words spoken... “Budding Branch”...
Etu...
Then to be dark...
Si g...
Then – to become silent...
Cacama!
Amen! So be it!
Of course, at that Time I had no idea what her words meant – but later she translated them for me, as best as ancient words of a lost tongue can be translated.
Of a sudden – when the old Chant had begun to resonate with The Dragon – as we Druids call the Earth’s Energy – Morgan, with Caledfwlch’s scabbard upon her belly, began to rise upward into the Air, leaving Time and place behind. She shimmered...
Then the Lady of the Lake proclaimed... Or was this the voice of the Dark Mother hissing?
“While Arthur wears the scabbard of Caledfwlch he cannot bleed out his life's blood unto Death. Cut he may be, for that is the Warrior’s honour, but no limbs or vital parts can be severed. No killing wound can be inflicted upon him...”
Lady Vivianne repeated the Charm twice again, so that by the Power of Three all things would manifest; and that Morgan, while she lived, would also be bound to the Magic of Caledfwlch’s scabbard.
Morgan's body slowly lowered and came to lie upon the Star Stone again.
I took her hand to aid her in standing. She wove back and forth for a moment, pale as a ghost, then came back into herself. She looked at me – and for a moment, some vague expression of longing crossed her face – then it was gone. I have often wondered what that look was about.
She let go my hand, then walked to the East to hang the Magical scabbard about Arthur’s shoulders.
Then, from a buckskin roll she had brought to the Ritual and placed in waiting next to the Stone of the North, Morgan pulled out a beautiful woolen cloak, which she herself had spun, dyed, woven, and embroidered.
The dye she had made from Madder and Bluebells to render the wool a deep, rich purple. On the front and sides of the cloak she had embroidered emblems of all the Tribes and Clans of Our Fair Isles. Covering most of its back was a great Red Dragon – the Pen Dragon standard. Almost alive did it seem – stomping proudly as each breeze shifted the fabric of the King’s cloak. It was fastened by a bronze clasp, which had been fashioned by one of the Metalsmiths of the Order. A Dragon and Eagle were cleverly entwined in knotwork about it, to form the closure.
Morgan tried to drape it over Arthur’s shoulders – which she could barely reach – so he knelt at her feet to oblige her.
The Time had come for Arthur to place Caledfwlch across the great green Star Stone. When he did, the sword began to emanate a green light, as did the great Stone... But the green glow of the sword slowly changed to blue. The Wind picked up! The sword began to flame... blue flames!!!
From somewhere I heard an Owl hooting – Chronos responded. It was at that point that I realised that all the sounds of the Night had returned…
My Vision – here it was!
I had been told what to do, so I obeyed... I began to reach for Caledfwlch so as to do the task set before me... but then the Flames themselves lifted Caledfwlch... and turned her so that the side which had the large green Gem Stone where blade meets grip was facing the Earth – presenting the side of her blade which would be facing upward when Arthur held her in the underhand position…
I stretched out my right hand – first finger – and pointed it at the Flame surrounding the Sword, which Flame leapt between Caledfwlch and my finger. I felt the Gods’ power coursing through me. With the Flame directed by my first finger I etched into the great blade of Caledfwlch the letters of the word “Chaos.”
Then the Flame lifted her again and turned her so that the other side of the blade – the side with the Gem Stone – was presented. There I etched “Cosmos.”
I proclaimed: “I bind this Spell to the Making!”
“That is it!” thought I. “It is begun!”
And so it was...
We ended the Ritual with a shared cup of the mead from the Honey Bees. We drank from the shell that Bedwyr had held in the West to honour the Element of Water, whereupon we were refreshed and energized with perfect and pure Love.
As we left the Circle of Stones through the Northeastern gate, I could feel its sides and even perceive a lintel lying across the top of them. That gate was nothing of the physical realm – yet was it so much more. All things on the Tor were as such. I think that no matter how the Sands of Time, or the trifling of men’s hands, change this most Sacred of places, it will always be here for true seekers: The green Star Stone, the ring of Standing Stones surrounding it, the pow
er, the majesty, and the Magic – these will remain forever – in Spirit if not left in form.
Such was the beginning of the making of a King.
We had no more Time to spend on the Isle of Apples and so upon the next morn we bade everyone farewell and took our leave. Arthur – although past seventeen year-turns – when kissing his sister goodbye, had moist, red eyes. He quickly turned as tears escaped them. This did not go beyond my seeing, recognition, and pity.
We were taken to one of the punts, moored near the entrance of The Order, on the Northern Inland shore. Through heavy Mists we left this Otherworldly land.
When the Marsh Folk’s little boat finally bumped upon the mainland shore we exited into the world of Man. Now we must face the awesome tasks set before us.
Thank the Gods, the warmer weather held.
Meeting at Table Rock...
We travelled Northward again, however this Time not toward the land of the Cymru, but through the center of our lands and Easterly toward the coast, eventually arriving at a place far to the North, which was to become known as “Table Rock.” On our way, Arthur’s first recognition dawned of how vast was this land he was to protect and keep united in purpose.
I had sent a message ahead of us to all corners of these great Isles to Chieftains, Dux, Kings and Queens, and to the Old Dark Tribes as well as the Saxons of Hengist’s now established Kingdom on our Eastern shore – even to the Picti, who were known for keeping to themselves – that there was to be mighty council, which I, The Merlin, was calling. The missives said: “There will be a great unifying purpose in our coming together. This council will be held two Full Moon’s Dances hence.” I also said that I wished for it to be held in the Southern reaches of the lands of the Picti – if that met with their agreement.
The territories of the Picti Tribes began North of where the Emperor Hadrian had built his wall, to keep them out of “Roman lands”… so fierce were the Picti in their battles! They would face an armoured line totally naked – which in itself was intimidating – but also, their skin and hair would be painted blue and black. Their unknowable symbols were tattooed in black, all over their bodies and faces, which fascinated me, but terrified their foes – especially their more superstitious foes, such as the Gaulish/Roman armies. Also, their hair was parted and twisted into pointed sections, with some sticky substance applied to it to hold it standing up on end – this way and that – or straight out to the sides of their heads! They were an unusual people to say the least! They were also very clever. As did the Cymru, they would scream on the battle lines at their enemies. But their screaming never stopped! Then to escalate this cacophony, there were their eerie pipes and wild drumming and their women – who fought side by side with them – as they sang or wailed and shrieked their battle songs.
I had been told that I was known of all over Our Fair Isles, even by the Tribes living on the Islands in the far West, North, and Northeast off the coasts of the land of the Picti. Apparently this was true, for somewhat to my surprise, many responded that they would come – and come in peace – to our great council.
When the Time of our unlikely meeting arrived, the Wind was howling. Great thunderclaps shook the ground. “So the Thunder Gods have come too” thought I. On that great stormy, windy Day, we met at the appointed place, not far from the Eastern Sea, where a mighty escarpment juts straight up from a hilly landscape. On top of this great rocky Hill, it is said that Rituals, as well as Tribal Councils, have been held from Times beyond memory. Near to that promontory, and down a long sloping defile from it, sits another great mound, atop which, at its highest point, was a very large flat rock... large as a Kings chamber and perfectly round. We all gathered there, in the rain.
I raised my staff – I thought this would be a good touch – and spoke, “Sit you down, and let us each be seated at the perimeter of this great round Stone which men call ‘Table Rock’ – so that no one will be sitting at its head. For we have gathered here today as equals – with all being due the same honour, respect, and tribute. Despite our past disagreements or enmities, we all have today the opportunity for a united defense of our lands, from future interior wars and exterior invasions. Let us be pushed by the Wind. Let the Fires of our hearts free our Spirits. Let us put behind us the strife of the past. Let this cleansing Rain remove our enmities toward each other, for I have brought here to you, on this Day, the one unifying force.”
The weather got worse and worse. Some of the men made the sign against evil Enchantment, but most respected and listened to me. They began to hold their shields and checkered woven cloths above their heads, for bits of ice were falling down from the Sky. But still they sat and listened. For this, I was grateful! Then, out into the middle of this stormy circle of Warriors and Elders, in his purple cloak, came Arthur... Tall and straight with golden hair, Roman features and piercing blue eyes was he – yet the look of the Clans insinuated itself upon him, as well. He was beautiful! I turned him around, very slowly so that each man and woman could see him. I said, “Behold – the King of unity!”
Some laughed and jeered, some got up enraged: “What are you trying to do, Merlin – pass off an unfledged boy to us as King?”
I responded, “No. This is no plain unfledged boy! He who stands before you is the son of Uther the Pen Dragon – made upon the Lady of Dumnonia – Igraine, great Seer of the Tribes. As to his mettle in training and prowess in the Arts of war, Markus, steward of the fortress of Dumnonia has trained him well. And I have bestowed upon him the Wisdom of the ages!”
I thought that sounded impressive... even if it be that I boast.
There was a murmur that went round the circle. The Clansmen, of one accord said, “Prove this to us – we have not found a High King, for there was no deciding factor in Uther’s Death nor was there an heir of his blood or battle Champion to fill his place. Here we are all these many years later still bickering amoungst ourselves...”
“He is the son of Uther the Pen Dragon and nephew of Ambrosius Aurelius , the Good. He is the grandson of Macsen Wledig. And as everyone knows, Macsen Wledig’s wife, Helen, was the only living heir of King Hen Coel of olden fame. Oh yes, he is the rightful heir. The bloodline of the ‘Old Dark Tribes’ also runs a current through his veins from his own Mother Igraine, who would have become the Grandmother of her Tribe had she not married Dux Gorlois of Dumnonia to tend and protect Nodens’ Holy Well. Arthur comes from all the lines of old Briton’s greatness. Only the Picti, who are our ancient neighbors of the North hold no claim to Arthur.”
Then from the Picti: “We have never had a King over us – why should we want one now – especially one of Roman blood? Uther, the Pen Dragon was nothing to us…”
The women and men of the Old Dark Tribes sat in silence, listening.
Again, the Clansmen shouted, “Why have we not heard of him? What trickery is this? Uther had no heir of his blood.” They were murmuring, arguing, almost coming to fists, some were standing and raising such a ruckus that it seemed the Thunder Gods were only booming in response to their accusations when...
I shouted: “Stop!”
I lifted my staff and pounded it down upon the Rock – it felt as though the entire Rock shook. Startled, they stopped. I turned, staring into each man’s and woman’s eyes whilst tapping my staff upon the Rock in a steady repetitious thumping – thereby mesmerizing them... They calmed and listened...
“Yesss... yesss... that is better... Let the rain wash away your apprehensions.”
I continued: “Bastard born he was, but what meaning has that to us? I have protected and taught him in the ways of being a King since his twelfth year-turn, and before that he was educated in the house of his Mother Igraine of Dumnonia. Yet now, even more than claiming his rightful rule, he has a Dream – a Dream which I share and am committed to seeing the fulfillment of: The Dream of seeing all the peoples of these, Our Fair Isles – including the Old Tribes and the Picti, as well as those Saxons who already share our lands by rights – prosp
ering and living in freedom from the fear of each other. An Isle united by purpose, whose people are committed to stand at the side of their compatriots against invaders. Arthur desires not to usurp leaders of Tribes or Clans that be, but to have their willing oaths of allegiance to this alliance of peers under the battle command of one Over-King.”
Soon they began to acknowledge my words and began nodding in agreement...
“Gwyddion, The Merlin, we believe you! Our hearts are strangely at rest.”
But still a few – stronger of will – said, “What Dark Magic of yours is this?”
At that I realised that I was indeed insinuating my will upon them. I snapped my fingers and returned each to their own true consciousness and will.
I answered, “It is the Magic of the Thunder Gods and Spirits of the Wind and Rain which have calmed you – so that you may listen to my voice.” Which was A truth... if not the whole truth... “Now I shall prove to you his right and worthiness. Here in my hand I hold the sword of Uther, the great Pen Dragon.”
They all gasped in amazement as I passed it, one to the other.
Some said, “Uther’s sword has been lost for years...”
Then one voice cried out, “So you have known its whereabouts all this Time!”
Then yet another: “Well, but a sword alone can prove nothing. Everyone knows you were there, Merlin, watching from the Woods as Uther fell. You took Uther’s sword!”
I retorted, “Ah, this sword may prove nothing ... but... Arthur, show it to them now!”
Arthur’s purple cloak parted, he pulled it aside with his left hand, and there was the finely wrought scabbard – there was the dazzling gold hilt of the ancient sword of Kings. They all gasped. Arthur grabbed it with his right hand and brandished it aloft – the Gemstone began its green glowing...
I said, “Behold: Caledfwlch! – the lost sword, last wielded by Macsen Wledig.”
Voices of the Stars Page 20
