Merlin's Ring

by H. Warner Munn

  It was an amazement to both of them to savor the youth of the spirit, to understand the unimportance of the body’s aging, its aches and pains, its only function as the house for the soul.

  This was a spiritual melding far more wonderful in its completeness than the strange relationship they had known in the Land of Dream. For the first time, both understood that strange blending of two personalities in the mystery of possession, wherein neither owned nor was owned, but became an integral part of the beloved.

  It was a union for Gwalchmai he had never imagined, a fusion for Corenice such as she had never experienced.

  The days of the land-takings, the bitter quarrels, and the bloody feuds had long been over in Iceland. The explorers had made their voyages, planted their colonists in the West, left their sons, their axes, and their carved runes in Alata and retreated from it, leaving only legends in the land that was not for them.

  In Iceland the sagas were becoming old and loved and told in Europe, by the skalds, the troubadours, and minnesingers. There was an awakening of curious minds. There were those who wondered about that far land the Greeks called Thule.

  It was a safe place to visit. Christianity had followed the Vikings who had gone there to escape it and the thoughts and actions of their descendants had been softened by it.

  The next day after Merlin’s visit, an aged and mild-mannered man came to the cave. He carried a long staff, but bore no weapon. The two men regarded one another for a long moment To Gwalchmai, he looked much like Bishop Malachi of the Children of God. He understood that similar thoughts can mold the faces of different individuals to a striking similarity.

  “I am Ragnar Ragnarsson. We saw you land last night and I have come to bid you welcome. Will you come down to live among us, or do you mean to dwell apart? Whichever you choose, you shall live as you wish.”

  “Then, if it is of my own saying, I would prefer to remain here. I have known many countries, have sailed many seas, have committed many sins. I would commune with my soul and be alone with my God, for I have much to answer for.”

  “It shall be as you say. You shall not be disturbed.”

  He bowed and went away.

  Now Gwalchmai lived the life of an ascetic. He saw no other visitor for many months, nor did he feel the lack of company, for it was impossible that he should ever be alone again.

  Food was brought and left outside the cave for his body’s sake, as other hermits in the mountains were fed by the people, for in that way all acquired merit.

  Shy children laid down the packages their parents sent— and ran. He scarcely noticed them at first He was never sick, or cold. He lived always in a warm glow of mutual affection with the other half of his dual self. He needed no other.

  After & long time of this self-imposed solitude, he began to mingle with the other people of the lower village. He seldom spoke, but often joined them in their fishing. In this way, he and Corenice felt they earned the food that sustained their single body. They were very much content.

  He gained the reputation of being expert in the ways of the sea. The villagers knew him for a far traveler and made up stories about him, but they respected his silence and did not ask questions. ,

  Time passed and he was happy. It became a custom for the children who brought gifts to the cave to stop and wait for a story of strange lands, and they were seldom disappointed. He became an institution.

  Ragnar Ragarsson died and his son, also called Ragnar, sometimes brought food and stayed to listen. More often, the duty fell to his little daughter, Sigrid, who had no fear of the old hermit on the hill. Both felt a proprietary ownership of family. He belonged to them.

  Gwalchmai loved to have her near him. He admired the pale gold of her hair as they sat in the mouth of the cave, looking out to sea. She was a quiet, understanding girl and they knew a strange happiness in their company.

  Without expression in words, an entirely new aspect of love was evinced to birn from this communion between himself, Corenice, and this small girl-child. It was sympathy.

  One day, when she came early, bringing bread and that clabbered milk called skyr, he was surprised to find that she was guiding a stranger to him.

  He was a sturdily built man, under thirty years of age, beardless, tanned, and with ruddy hair. He had blue eyes with little wrinkles at the corners from long squinting into the sun across endless waves. Gwalchmai liked his looks at once.

  He took off his sailor’s knit cap and bowed, in a style Gwalchmai thought singularly disarming and polite. It reminded him of Huon, yet there was none of Huon’s sardonic and nonchalant air in this visitor.

  “I am told that you are a man of the sea and know something of lands to the west of Thule.” Gwalchmai started.

  “How did you learn that?”

  “It is common talk in the village that you have widely voyaged. I came here on yonder English herring boat, out of Bristol, hoping to learn of lands to the west There has been much comment concerning lands beyond Greenland and speculation that India and Cathay might be reached in that direction. I have made the theory my life’s effort and I mean to prove it. Can you tell me aught of those countries? Would you be willing to draw me maps or act as pilot thither?”

  “From whence came you? You are not a native of England?”

  “Nay. I was born in Genoa, which is in Italy. I can find few there who agree with my ideas. Most laugh at me. If I can prove that I am right, I mean to take the evidence to Portugal or Spain. Perhaps I can interest one or the other. Portugal is much taken with seafarers.”

  Gwalchmai began to wonder if this could be the man awaited—the one Merlin had promised would seek him out.

  “What are you called?” he asked.

  “I was christened Christopher. My surname is Columbus, but some call me Colon. I think Thave always had a yearning for the ocean.”

  “Were your people sailors?”

  “There is a tale in my family records that one of my ancestors was a man of the north, in the service of Constantinople. Somewhere he found a treasure and spent it for lands in Italy. Most of our men have had a desire to wander. It is in our blood.”

  The descendant of Mairtre and Arngrim! The man he was to meet! The wheel had indeed come full round.

  “What of Spain? And Portugal? Are they Christian kingdoms?”

  “Both of them. Of the two, I would say that Spain is the most Christian kingdom of any upon earth because, except for a few Moors who hold the city of Granada, no others live in Spain but ardent Christians.

  “No others can live in that country. Granada is under siege and by the time I get back, the city may well have fallen. Such are the latest reports.”

  “Then I would by all means seek aid in Spain. I think I can promise you success. My prophetic soul foretells it. Yes, I will draw you maps ,and act as your pilot, if you will stay here and hire a sailing boat. I believe it will do me good if I take one more sea voyage.”

  For some weeks, the old hermit disappeared from his cave. His absence coincided with that of the sailor who jumped ship from the English herring boat and who as unaccountably was seen again at the same time that a missing Icelandic sailboat turned up drifting aimlessly off Reykjavik.

  There was certainly a connection but it could not be proved, and the English sailor, for so they thought Columbus to be, kept his own counsel and an extremely tight mouth. Later, he found another berth and sailed away again. They never saw him more.

  As for asking questions of the old hermit—long ago folk had found that vain.

  A few days after the return of the pair, little Sigrid went with her father to bring food to the cave. They found their friend lying with eyes closed and smiling.

  She ran to him and touched his hand to awaken him. The flesh was cold. He did not open his eyes.

  She turned from Mm. Her lips quivered.

  “Father, is the storyteller dead? What are the bells, father? Can you hear them ringing?”

  Ragnar hesitated. He thought
his small daughter was far too young to be introduced in this way to such a hard fact as death.

  “Let us not call it death, darling. We will say a prayer for him. Let us say—he has gone home!”

  They knelt on the bare floor of the hermitage. As he took her hand in his and they bent their heads, at the instant of the touch of fingers he too suddenly heard the heavenly chiming of little golden bells that filled the cave—a melody that faded farther and farther away, into infinity and beyond—as the tenants passed forever out of their ken.

  Epilogue

  There is a single piece of evidence on record that is hard to dispute.

  Were you to take the trouble to closely inspect the original charter given to Christopher Columbus, under the seal of their Most Christian Monarchs, Ferdinand and Isabella, of Aragon and Castile, you might, if you have good eyes or a powerful microscope, find an alteration, an erasure in the first wording, as though the scribe had made a foolish mistake and corrected it.

  Under the words giving the Admiral of the Ocean Sea an interest in the lands that he will discover, you may be able to discern the earlier phrasing. It reads “the lands which he has discovered”!

  A minor change perhaps—but of what tremendous significance.

  And what of Gwalchmai and Corenice?

  This tale is not the end, for no story ever really comes to any definite end. There is only a pause in life—a change, a blending, a transmutation into something new, which in itself is impermanent.

  It continues changing toward a development known only to God.

  If, sometime, you again have that experience common to all of us—an eery sensation of looking upon familiar things and for an instant finding them new and curious, do not be alarmed.

  Flann would have thought that both Gwalchmai and Core-nice should have been translated to dwell forever young in Tir-Nan-Og, the place of Eternal Spring.

  The Vikings would have gladly seen Gwalchmai as a warrior “in Valhalla and granted Corenice an honored appointment as Sheild-Maiden.

  The Fay would have been happy to receive them as joyous guests in Astophar.

  Surely Jeanne would have used her good offices to obtain them a place in Paradise.

  But neither would have been content. This wandering pair could never be happy in any one place very long.

  Remember, if you have this feeling, it may be that one of them is today using you as a medium and gazing out through your eyes—using them as windows which open upon the many wonders of the world.

  Do not be afraid. Be kind. Let that one briefly share your life.

  It may chance that the other is very near, and in repayment for your kindness, you may also feel, for just a moment, the love they possess for each other—for all eternity.

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