The Iron Tempest

by Ron Miller

  “By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. I will rise now, and go about the city, in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.”

  Her virginity resisted the onslaught of that hot desert scirocco, intoxicating with the blood and musk of tawny animals. “Oh!” she raged, her fists clenching until her nails dug into her palms, a droplet of red welling around each point, “I am a garden inclosed! A spring shut up! A fountain sealed!”

  The houris’ chubby, mosaic ankles were belled and the rhythmic, insistent jingling seemed to echo the pounding of Bradamant’s blood, which made her veins twitch like firehoses, her mutinous body throb to the unfamiliar harmony, resonating like a sympathetic drum. There was the scent of patchouli and sandlewood and jasmine. The air reeked of incense and musk.

  There was soft music on the piccolo.

  The flickering illumination whose inconstancy had animated the lifeless people of oil, tempera, glass and stone came from a flame that burned atop a low, drum-shaped altar in the center of the chamber. The flame was uncanny; it was greenish, soundless, rising ten or twelve feet into the air, wavering and twisting slowly, like a ship’s pennant, but with a sinuous deliberation that reminded Bradamant of a snake. She suddenly had the uncanny premonition that the flame was in fact alive, intelligent, and in a rush of backlogged guilt and religious fervency she dropped to her knees and began to pray, which seemed to be the safest thing to do whether she be in the domain of God or Satan. But as the first words were leaving her trembling lips, she saw that a figure was standing just behind the flame—or perhaps within the flame, for all she could tell. The green sheath poured over the pale body like absinthe, flowing silkenly up the long legs, curling over the ivory stomach and breasts, as a mountain stream reluctantly parts for the sleek and mossy stones in its bed, like the caressing and curious tongue of the serpent. The figure took two or three steps toward the knight, emerging from the flame that parted as harmlessly as a silk curtain, and stepped to the edge of the altar and looked down upon the armored girl kneeling on the floor. Bradamant saw to her amazement that the figure was a woman, as white and slender as a tallow candle. She was clothed only in the billowing aura of her pale, golden hair, in much the same way that a blazing brand is clothed in flame or a ship’s mast with St. Elmo’s fire. At first she thought herself victim of yet one more illusion wrought by the deceitful illumination. Then she decided that she must be in the presence of an angel, for nothing demonic would dare be so beautiful; nothing evil could possibly be so full of light and grace. Perhaps that was not golden hair that floated around her shoulders and arms; perhaps it was her wings. She shuddered; somehow Bradamant found the possibility of confronting an angel no less frightening than a demon would have been.

  In the glare of the woman’s pure light, Bradamant saw that the orgy she had imagined was in reality only a collection of tattered, stained tapestries, sooty old paintings and cold, crude carvings. The chamber now seemed dark, dull, tawdry and chill and the great fire that had raged within her was banked so that the heat of not even a single coal was left to warm her. She remembered that brief touch of passion no more than one might awaken from a long illness and remember the fever dreams.

  “Please rise, Bradamant of the Great Heart,” the faerie woman said pleasantly, in a voice not at all unlike an articulate cello. “Have no fear: you have been led here by the will of God. When I spoke last with the spirit of Merlin, the great magician prophesied that you’d be taking an unusual path in order to visit his holy relics. He wishes to reveal to you something of your future.”

  “Pardon?” said Bradamant, not making any sense of what the woman was saying. “I beg your pardon. What is this place? Who are you?”

  “Welcome to the Valley of Joyousness, sometimes known to others as the Valley of Delight.”

  “It seems somewhat misnamed to me, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

  “Of course I do. Admittedly it was not always the dreary place you see now. There was in all the world no rival for its beauty when Merlin and Vivian first saw it. They didn’t know whether it was lovelier in the daytime, or at night when the moon shimmered full into its shadowy depths, like milk splashing into a deep pewter vessel.

  “This place is the work of Merlin. Surely you have heard of him? This is his holy tomb.”

  “Of course I know who Merlin was.”

  Everyone knew the story of King Arthur’s fabulous magician, advisor and seer—of how he had been cozened and entombed by the treacherous Vivian—what Bradamant didn’t understand was what his tomb was doing in Frankland, and said so.

  “There was once a palace on this spot,” explained the luminous woman, patiently, “of unprecedented grandeur, erected by Merlin magically in a single day for the woman he thought he loved. This is all that remains.”

  “Are you Vivian?”

  “Good heavens, no!” she laughed, unoffended. “My name is Melissa, and I came from a country very far from here in order to consult the legendary wizard. I am myself a sorceress of no small ability, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, and I wanted Merlin’s opinion on a small but important detail of my craft. In any event, I discovered, through him, that you were soon to arrive, so I waited here a month longer than I originally intended, just in the hope that I would meet you.”

  “Me? Why?” said Bradamant, thinking that perhaps she was in fact still lying, unconscious, at the foot of the cliff and that this impossible conversation was entirely the product of a fractured skull, a bruise on her brain. “Why am I so important that there’d be prophecies about me or that you’d hang around this lonely place waiting to see me? It’s nice enough, I suppose, in its way, but in all honesty I can’t imagine that Merlin could be very good company, all things considered.”

  “You’re much too modest, Bradamant,” replied the sorceress, stepping down from the altar though it was much too high for the single step she appeared to take, “and you underestimate Merlin.”

  Bradamant was only half-listening. There were two things she had just realized about the woman who now stood not three paces from her: the first was that she was taller than Bradamant and she disliked women who were taller than she, and the second was that the woman was completely nude. Bradamant had never before seen another human being unclothed, let alone another woman—indeed, she had never even seen herself unclothed—and she was speechless and distracted with mingled consternation, embarrassment and fascination.

  “Will you come this way, please?” Melissa said, “I’ll try to answer your question, though the answer will not be a simple one.”

  Bradamant, thought that, dream or not, this was an interesting adventure and since adventure was adventure after all, followed more or less eagerly. If she had been meant to come to harm in this place, the harm would surely have befallen her by now. She trailed the shimmering woman into the dark recesses of the chapel. The sorceress had need for neither lantern nor torch: her phosphorescence was sufficient. Bradamant looked with some jealousy at the sinuous figure that glided ahead of her, as graceful as a meridian of longitude, her lustrous buttocks like twin pearls, undulating as rhythmically as the reflection of the moon in a trembling pond, the impossibly long legs, like ivory spindles, like dagger blades white-hot from the forge, swinging like lazy pendulums—it made her feel gross and clumsy and carnal in her armor. She wished she could tell whether or not Melissa’s feet were touching the tiles; she feared that they did not.

  They crossed what seemed to be the apse of the subterranean cathedral, though its soaring walls and vaulted ceiling were all but lost in the gloomy, silent darkness. Soon Bradamant became aware of another light, a lambency against which even the sorceress’ aura seemed like a painter’s feeble attempt to duplicate sunlight with coarse, opaque pigments. The source was a great block of marble, as large as a cottage, glowing like an ingot in an ironworker’s furnace. It illuminated the surrounding chamb
er and the towering statues that circled the block. These cyclopean figures supported the looming roof on their bent shoulders, leaning over the mausoleum like the curious, gloomy spectators surrounding an accident victim. They were the images of the great knights who had formed Arthur’s round table.

  “This is the tomb,” said Melissa, “created by Vivian after she had placed Merlin into a sleep that was deeper than death itself. His uncorrupted body still lies within, as cold and stiff as that day the wicked Vivian ensorceled him, but she could not murder his spirit—that was beyond her powers—and it still lives on.”

  The tomb was featureless save for a single iron door. It swung open noiselessly at their approach. The sorceress, without hesitation, passed through it. Bradamant, after a moment’s hesitation, a shudder of superstitious foreboding, followed. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she was surrounded by an impenetrable mist of light, a luminous, opaque fog, and heard a voice that she knew must be Merlin’s. It seemed to come from the air itself, from every direction indiscriminately.

  Welcome, most noble Lady, and may your God favor your every desire.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Bradamant replied, not knowing what else to say, but rightly believing that common courtesy was never inappropriate. She did not know where to look while speaking; the misty illumination was disorienting. She held her hand near her face; it was invisible. Nor was there was there any sign of Melissa. “It’s, ah, nice to be here.”

  I’m glad you like it. I look forward to seeing it from your vantage some day. I understand Vivian did a fine job. How is the weather?

  “Rather dreary, my lord. It was beginning to drizzle when I arrived.”

  I can tell you that sounds wonderful to someone who has to be dusted every few decades. However, I’m wasting your valuable time with this idle chitchat. There’s something far more important that I must tell you.

  “Tell me, my lord?”

  You, indeed, my dear Bradamant, and here it is, ready or not: From your womb shall spring children destined to bring honor not only to Italia but to all mankind. Two perfect bloodlines, yours and Rashid’s, each having originated in ancient Troy, are to be blended within you to produce the greatest of all the dynasties that have ever existed between the Indus, the Tagus, the Ister and the Nile, between the Antarctic and the Great Bear. Your posterity will include marquises, dukes, popes and emperors. From you shall spring the hundreds of generals and thousands of dauntless knights who by sword and wit will reclaim for Italia all her vanquished honor. The Golden Age will again live, under the august, just and holy rulers who shall be your descendants. In order to bring about this edict, which has been proclaimed by Heaven itself, which from the beginning of time has decreed that you be Rashid’s wife, continue your way with courage, remembering always that nothing will prevent God’s will from being done.

  “But Rashid is a paynim paladin, Lord Merlin, an unbeliever, and I am Christian. Even God must know that there will be certain difficulties.”

  Turning such a great knight to your faith will be one of the keystones of Agramant’s downfall and the foundation of the Pax Charlemagne.

  “I didn’t know that you were such an avid supporter of the Christian cause, Lord Merlin.”

  Heaven forfend! It’s only my affection for Arthur that compels me to take the Christian side over the Moors, at least in this case. Were it not for the sake of his memory, I’d probably back the Druids, wherever they are now. But I can see that I have a reason even greater than posterity: your love for Rashid and his love for you.

  “He loves me?” she whispered, her heart thrumming within her armored breast like a captive hummingbird.

  Oh dear. You didn’t know? Well, I’m probably giving away too much, but . . .

  “I hardly know what to say, my lord!”

  I don’t suppose there is much that I expect you to say. Trust in your God, no matter how bad things may seem, and everything will turn out for the best. And, Bradamant, my dear . . .

  “Yes, my lord?”

  Well, I was just going to say, if you happen to be in the neighborhood again some time, stop by and say hello, will you?

  “Of course, my lord!”

  There was no reply; the light dimmed and Bradamant found that she was alone with Melissa, who was just closing a huge leather-bound volume. They were outside the tomb although Bradamant had no recollection of passing through the door. She was disappointed; she had looked forward to seeing what Merlin’s preserved body looked like. Was he like the mummies of the Egyptians or was he pickled, like an egg or a sausage?

  “Did you have a nice visit?” the sorceress asked pleasantly.

  “I suppose so. He gave me a prophecy.”

  “I thought he would. You’re very fortunate, you know. I don’t think that Merlin has spoken to an outsider in a hundred years.”

  “I know that I should feel more grateful than I do.”

  “He must have spoken of your future.”

  “He did,” Bradamant said. “But I don’t know who these people are he spoke of, these people I and my descendants are to bear. Who are these kings and queens and emperors and knights? Are they all to be so perfect, are there to be no villains, no traitors? What of my own fate and what of Rashid’s? What will become of him and me?”

  “I can’t tell you any more than Merlin did,” the sorceress replied, “whatever that was. I’m more human than he is. Perhaps I wouldn’t even if I could. Besides, what would their names mean to you? They haven’t been born yet, nor their children nor their children’s children.”

  “But what then of Rashid and me?”

  “No. No, you should leave here with a sweetness in your memory and not complain if we refuse to make it bitter.”

  Bradamant didn’t like that answer one little bit, but she saw that the woman was adamant and deferred the question to a more appropriate time.

  “But why Rashid? I’ve only met him once and that was in the midst of a battle, and not a single time since, though I’ve tried hard enough. He was a heathen warrior, but he had lost his helmet and was being sorely pummeled by an unchivalrous knight who was taking cowardly advantage of Rashid’s handicap. I couldn’t allow that, of course, no matter that he was my enemy. I threw him my own helmet, to make the fight fair, with the result that I sustained a wound that almost killed me.”

  “Yes,” replied Melissa, “Merlin told me you were ill for quite some time.”

  “I nearly died, but it wasn’t from the wound itself but from an infection that didn’t set in until well after the battle. Although the blow had nearly knocked me senseless, I recovered my wits and what with one thing or another I had other business during that fracas and lost sight of Rashid. Afterward, I searched every inch of the battlefield for him, but I didn’t find him. I’ve never seen him since. I feared he was dead and it was almost more than I could bear.”

  “No, he is very much alive, as you have so cleverly discovered. If you’d care to know, he also searched that same battlefield for you, also in vain.”

  “Did he really?”

  “Of course. What did you think?”

  “I feel so foolish, speaking of these things. I’ve told no one else—no one; I couldn’t bear to. And I don’t know if it wasn’t wrong to do that, or if it’s wrong to feel as I do for a pagan. I don’t seem to know anything. Nothing in my experience or education seems to give me the right answers, to fit this situation, and I daren’t ask a priest. I know what he’d say and I believe that my father and brothers would say the same thing.”

  “Nothing could be wrong,” said Melissa, “that will have so much good resulting from it.”

  “I know that, but it doesn’t really matter. I love Rashid and I will have him; whether it be for the world’s good or ill is of little account to me.”

  “And does such self-interest bother you so much?”

  “I feel that it should.”

  “That’s only your training and your religion speaking,” the sorceress replied. �
��You’ll come to your senses. At dawn we shall take the most direct road to the steel castle where Rashid is being kept prisoner. I’ll guide you through the forest and as far as the sea. I will point the way from there, but I can go no further.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which Bradamant rescues her True Love—

  only, to her Consternation and Astonishment,

  to see him take Flight once again

  The next morning, Bradamant followed the spirituelle sorceress through a dark and winding tunnel, the way illuminated only by Melissa’s firefly light. Abandoning the startling nudity of the previous day, much to Bradamant’s relief, the woman was now dressed in a gown of simple fabric that might have been gossamer on Bradamant’s body but on Melissa seemed as coarse and heavy as sackcloth. Though Bradamant had no reason to distrust Melissa, she did not much care for the narrow, twisting tube that forced her to make her way in a painfully hunched, stooped posture—the ceiling neither so low as to force her to her hands and knees nor quite high enough to allow her to walk upright. Peculiarly, the woman ahead of her, though taller than Bradamant, seemed able to walk erect. It was a trick that Bradamant wished that Melissa would be thoughtful enough to share—but, typically, it did not occur to her to voice a complaint or to beg for the favor, or if it did occur to her she repressed the weakness. A painful cramp in her neck and lower back made Bradamant feel cranky and impatient, to say nothing of an uncomfortably increasing awareness of a previously unsuspected inclination toward claustrophobia. For some reason she found this discovery embarrassing, as might a jeweler discovering a flaw in an otherwise perfect gem.

  She had spent the night in the palace’s single bedroom. Evidently Merlin had considered the vast, labyrinthine excavation a kind of honeymoon hideaway and made no provisions for overnight guests. There were, so far as Bradamant could tell, not even accommodations for servants—but then, she thought, why would two powerful magicians require servants? The room was the size of the tilting field at Montauban and proportionally high. The only furniture of significance—save for a few inconsequential chairs, chests and small tables—was an enormous bed, raised so high above the floor that its billowing surface was just on a level with Bradamant’s eyes. Small stepladders on either side allowed its passengers to mount onto it, as though they were boarding an ornate pleasure barge for a pareunial cruise down the Nile.