The Final Prophecy

by W. D. Newman

Prologue: Earth, 15th Century

  There seemed to be no end to the thick green canes around him. He came through the tree over an hour ago and was still struggling to find his way out. He considered using his sword to hack his way through the bamboo, but there was not even enough room among the canes to sit and rest, much less swing a sword, so he forged onward. Soon, however, and much to his relief, he came upon the edge of the canes at a small brown stream. Once across the thin ribbon of water, he sat upon the ground with his back against a tree to rest.

  Although he had finally made it out of the river canes, he was still in a forest of tall, stately hardwoods. There was hardly any undergrowth and all around him as far as he could see great trunks of oak, chestnut, hickory, and ash sprang from rich, black earth that was littered with layers of leaves from countless winters past. He needed a new staff for walking but there were no young saplings to be found and there were no low hanging limbs within reach of his sword. With a sigh, he rose to his feet and drew the elfin blade from its scabbard. Gathering his tattered robes in his free hand, he stepped into the cold, slow moving creek to cut down a stalk of the bamboo that grew down to the water’s edge.

  The moonsilver flashed brilliantly in the sun, slicing neatly and cleanly through the base of the cane. He pulled the cane down and lopped off a piece that was as long as he was tall, then sheathed his sword. The bamboo was both light and sturdy. It would make an excellent staff for walking.

  He knew that his best chance of finding anyone would be to follow the creek. The creek would eventually lead to a lake or possibly a larger stream. That, in turn, would likely lead to a river and if there were any towns or farms to be found, they would be located near just such a water source. However, he decided to make for higher ground to see if he might be able to spot signs of habitation such as smoke from kitchen hearths.

  As he trekked up the hillside, he removed the floppy gray hat from his head and stuffed it into the pockets beneath his robes. The day was warm and springtime lay across the land like a soft green blanket. Overhead, a cool breeze stirred the sun-kissed tree tops and, here and there, tiny green leaves were being coaxed out of hiding from among branches tinged with bright red buds. Somewhere nearby, a wood thrush greeted the day with his happy song. Tut-tut-oh-layo-leeee, tut-tut-oh-layo-leeee. This place was so much like Camelot when he first found it, wild, pristine, and beautiful beyond description. And, like Camelot, this place stirred something deep in his soul. It was a calling, a need, something he could not identify, but something that drew him nonetheless.

  The game in this land was plentiful too. He spied a large herd of deer making their way through the forest and, as he stopped to watch them pass, a multitude of squirrels chattered at him from their lofty perches, while somewhere over the next hill, a flock of turkeys gobbled loudly. At least he would not starve to death in his search for civilization.

  When he finally reached the top, he was dismayed to find nothing, but more hills and more trees. South and east of him, the hills shrank and the land became flat, while behind him and to the north, ridges of mountains in various shades of blue rose above the endless sea of trees. Even from this distance he could tell that the mountains were old. Eons of wind and rain had worn away all sharp edges, leaving smooth, round tops and gentle slopes, much unlike the tall, jagged peaks of the Iron Bones on Camelot. Rather than making for flatter land, he picked the next highest point and, after a brief respite, continued west. It took him a couple of hours to reach the next spot, but with persistence and steady plodding he finally made it to the top. His efforts were rewarded with a grand view of a wide valley full of tulip poplars. These were the biggest poplars he had ever seen. The trunks were so large that one could carve out a room within the bole of the tree and have a comfortable dwelling in which to live. As he stood there pondering how much effort it would require to carve such a dwelling, the smell of wood smoke caught his attention and the tree house was quickly forgotten.

  He could not see any smoke, but the wind was from the west, so he continued in that direction. However, the hills eventually became too much for him, forcing him to veer southwest in search of an easier route. He stopped once, when the sun was at its highest point, to rest and to eat some of the food he had brought along in his sack. The meal was a simple fare of cold biscuits and hard cheese, but after a long morning of strenuous hiking it was quite tasty.

  After eating, he hiked for a few more hours, still trying to navigate west and avoid as many steep slopes as possible. When the shadows grew long he decided to set up camp for the night. The landscape had started to change; the hardwoods giving way to a few tall pines and hemlocks. He crawled beneath the branches of one of the hemlocks and ate some more of his bread and cheese. Tomorrow, he would have to trap some small game or find a stream with some fish to catch, but for now he was tired and needed to rest. He placed his sack under his head, for a pillow, and folded his hands across his chest. Within a few minutes, before the sun had even set, he was snoring loudly.

  The next morning he was awakened by the birds. The dim sky was an empty slate of steel gray, poised for the sunrise to paint its horizons with pastel pinks and blues. Every bird in the forest was singing at the top of its lungs, so sleeping in was not an option. He ate the last morsels of food in his sack and then crawled out from beneath the hemlock to greet the day.

  The smell of smoke was a little stronger this morning so, with the rising sun to his back, he began another day of walking. Within an hour, he began to hear the sound of moving waters and soon came upon a wide rushing river. The fast moving stream was filled with great boulders and moss covered stones. Thick groves of laurel, their branches laden with fragrant pink blossoms, shaded the banks and speckled trout lurked in the dark pools along river’s edge. He thought about trying to catch one of these fish but something else caught his attention and pulled his thoughts away from food; he had stumbled across a trail.

  The trail was not a game trail. It was wide and tall, weaving among the laurel and following the river in both directions. After filling his flask with the cold mountain water, he decided to follow the trail downriver. At one point, the trail dipped into a depression between two hills, where a small rivulet of water trickled down to join the river. Here, the ground was moist and the rich black earth of the river valley was mixed with sand and clay. Navigating around this marshy spot, he happened to glance down and there, in the soft damp earth, were footprints.

  He knelt to examine the prints. There were three distinct sets and all of them were human. Two sets were leading in the same direction that he was travelling and the third set went the other way. Finally, he was on the verge of finding someone in these wild parts. Strange, though, that all three of the persons who left these tracks were not wearing shoes. He absently scratched at his dirty gray beard as he pondered the implications of this discovery. It could be a poor farm family. Back on Camelot, most farmers were poor and their families often went barefoot in the warmer months, saving their shoes for winter. He shrugged his shoulders and continued on, excited now and anxious to speak to someone who lived here.

  He did not have to travel far to find what he was seeking. The trail spilled out of the forest onto a large grassy field with a tall pole erected in the center. On top of this pole sat a wooden fish and, below the pole, dozens of children ran about playing some sort of game. The boys that were playing carried sticks with small nets fashioned on the end. They were using these sticks to catch and throw a ball made of deer hide. The girls, however, did not have sticks and were using their bare hands to catch and throw the ball. Apparently, the object of the game was to knock the wooden fish off the top of the pole and the children, though this was just a game, played with a fierce intensity and determination to win. He watched them for several minutes and listened to their chatter. They spoke a language he did not understand and were unlike any people he had ever seen. Their hair and their eyes were black
and their skin was dark, with a reddish tint. They were a very handsome people, but appeared to be somewhat primitive. All of the children were barefoot and dressed in skins.

  After a few minutes, one of the players finally knocked the wooden fish off the top of the pole. While the game paused for the fish to be placed back on top of the pole, one of the little boys glanced over at the trail head and saw him standing there. The boy pointed at him and shouted.

  “Nunne’hi! Nunne’hi!”

  All of the children spun around, their eyes wide with fright. After the rambunctious and noisy game of stickball, the sudden silence seemed eerie and surreal. The wind rustled the grasses and, in the distance, a crow cawed. Suddenly, one of the boys threw down his stick and ran. This broke the paralysis that held the rest of the children and, swift as deer, they fled from him.

  The smoke he had smelled since yesterday was rising just over the hill where the children had vanished. The old man watched them disappear over the hill. Should he follow after them, or should he continue on? He didn’t know anything about these people or how they would react to a stranger among them. He did not know if they would be civil or savage. If he continued on, it could be days, possibly even months before he met another human being. That thought was more than he could bear, so he hurried after the children.

  As he crested the hill, the village came into view. Nestled between the forest on his left and the river on his right was one large building with many smaller ones scattered around it. All of the structures were primitive. The walls were woven together with sticks and plastered with mud and the roofs were covered in bark. The smaller buildings were family dwellings. Some of them were round, some were square. The square huts were larger than the round ones and some of them had lean-to structures connected to them, making them multi-room structures.

  A large crowd had already gathered by the big building in the center of the village and more people were coming. The adults were dressed much like the children; in animal skins and hides. Most of the women were wearing wrap-around skirts with poncho-style blouses and were very striking with their long black hair and dark skin. The men had the same dark skin and black hair, but their heads were either shaven or plucked, so that they were bald, except for a single scalp lock on the back of their head. The younger men wore breach cloths and leggings, while the older ones wore tunics. Everyone was talking in hushed tones and pointing at him as he made his way down the hill.

  When he made it to the assembly that had gathered by the long building, a tall proud looking man came forward to meet him and the crowd hushed. The man’s powerful arms were tattooed with strange symbols and a single eagle feather dangled from his scalp lock. Actually, with his stern gaze and arched nose, this man looked very much like an eagle and appeared to be the principal chief of this tribal village. Everyone waited breathlessly as their chief spoke to the newcomer.

  The old man shook his head and the floppy gray hat slid down over his eyes. He pushed the hat back up on top of his head and held his arms out to his side. “I cannot understand you,” he complained. “I do not speak you language!”

  The chief seemed shocked and a murmur went through the crowd. Another man emerged from the crowd; this one also had the strange tattoos on his arms and he too was wearing a single eagle feather from his scalp lock. There were two chiefs! Both men huddled together and talked in hushed whispers for a several minutes. Finally, the first man approached him once again. This time he rapped his fist against his chest when he spoke.

  “Onacona!”

  “I’m very sorry, but I have no idea what you are saying!”

  He rapped his fist against his chest again and repeated the word, “Onacona!”

  “Ah-ha!” the old man replied. “Could that be your name?” He pointed at the tall red man standing before him and repeated the word, “Onacona!”

  The red man smiled and nodded. He thumped his chest again, “Onacona!” Then he pointed at the man that was wearing an eagle feather like his; the other chief. “Galegina!”

  “Galegina!” the old man repeated.

  The two red men laughed and the crowd laughed with them. The tension was broken and the moment of danger had passed. Onacona, still smiling, walked up to the old man and poked his finger into the old man’s chest. Although he didn’t speak, it was very clear what he was asking.

  The old man responded by straightening up and thumping his fist against his own chest. He then cried out with a loud voice, so that everyone could hear him…

  “I am…”

  “MERLIN! Wake up!” the young page shouted. He shook the old man who was asleep at the table and shouted again, “Master Merlin, sir; Arthur wishes to see you in his quarters at once.”

  The old man raised his head from the table where he’d been napping and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He fell asleep studying the faded parchment on top of his desk. He had been studying it for several weeks now, although he didn’t really need to; he had memorized the words years ago. Nevertheless, the pulling sensation that drew him here, through miles of wilderness and across vast frozen oceans, never entirely went away. Even when the sword left him and chose Arthur as its new master, he still had that faint nagging feeling that his work was not yet complete and, whenever this sensation became too strong to ignore, something always drew him back to the worn and ragged parchment spread before him.

  “Tell him I’m on my way,” the wizard yawned.

  The young page bowed low and backed out of the room.

  Merlin rose and slipped into his dark blue robe. The castle’s interior hallways were chilly, even in the summertime, and living in civilization these past years had softened him quite a bit. As he padded down the tower stairs in his fine leather slippers, he remembered the dream from which he had just been wakened and thought back to his very first home here on earth; a small wigwam on the banks of the Keowee River. The house was constructed from mud, bark, and sticks and, as primitive as it was, it was one of the coziest homes he had ever owned. Oftentimes his mind wandered back to the days he spent with the Aniyun-wiya and his old friend, their war time chief, Galegina.

  “Drat!” he exclaimed. Whenever he let his mind wander like this he tended to forget things. He had forgotten his staff and his poor knees were reminding him very loudly now. He turned around and trudged back up the stairs to his room. “At least I remembered before I got to the bottom,” he mumbled as he opened his door and grabbed the gnarled wooden stick leaning against the door jamb.

  Merlin had traveled far in his lifetime and had seen more worlds and more strange sights than anyone on Earth. On his home world of Zorn, he had lived in a little stone cottage located in a beautiful valley called Camelot. When the floods came and everyone needed to escape from Zorn, Merlin used an ancient and powerful magic to open a portal to a new world. He named this new world Camelot, in remembrance of his former home.

  Once everyone had been relocated to Camelot, Merlin and his fellow wizards used the same magic and opened portals to Faerie, Crag, and Earth. The wizards of Zorn had such high hopes for Camelot, but all of their plans went horribly awry when Mordred, one of their own council members, betrayed them. By sheer luck, Merlin was the only wizard that escaped from Mordred’s wicked plans and, in his anger, he banished Mordred to another world and closed the portal, so that Mordred could never return.

  With his fellow wizards gone from Camelot, Merlin left for Earth to start a new life and to live out his days in peace. Or so he thought. His first two years on Earth were spent with a primitive race of people who called themselves the Aniyun-wiya. These people believed that Merlin was one of the Nunne’hi; a race of invisible spirit people that lived in houses up on the bald rocks, high in the mountains. Sometimes the Nunne’hi were known to take on human form, in the appearance of an Aniyun-wiya, so that they might communicate with the tribe. The problem with Merlin was that he did not resemble any of the tribe members in any form
or fashion and, even if he had, he could not speak their language. The tribe finally decided that Merlin was a very ancient Nunne’hi; one so old that he forgot what the Aniyun-wiya looked like and the language they spoke. Thinking him old and senile, they revered him greatly and took enormous care of him because, after all, he was still a Nunne’hi.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he paused a moment to rub his aching knees and then hurried off into the dim castle corridors. His staff thumped against the tiled floor and echoed loudly off the stone walls as he made his way to Arthur’s quarters. His real staff was still on Camelot; hidden away in a cave beneath a sleeping dragon, where he hoped it would remain undiscovered for all eternity. This new staff he carried was nothing more than a walking stick; it had no magical properties and, even if it did, there was only one place on earth that he knew of where there were any magic at all. At any rate, he had carried a staff all his life and it had become an extension of his body. When he arrived at Arthur’s quarters, he rapped twice on the great double doors with the knobby end of the wooden stick.

  “Enter,” a muffled voice from within called out.

  Merlin pushed the doors open and stepped into the king’s private quarters. The first room was a great library with high vaulted ceilings and polished marble floors. Behind plush sofas, deep shelves filled with books, scrolls, and parchments lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The wizard had instilled a great love of learning in the king and his private library had grown to the point where it would rival the libraries of the finest universities back on Zorn. Near the doorway, two over-stuffed chairs sat before a large fireplace, where bright flames caused the shadows around them to leap about. In one of the chairs sat Arthur, king and protector of the realm. Merlin walked over and sat beside him. They had spent countless hours in the past sitting in these very chairs; discussing politics, science, religion, war, and even love. The king was staring into the fire, a thoughtful expression on his face. Merlin waited patiently for him to speak. However, sitting in the soft luxurious chair, with a gentle fire crackling before him and warming his legs, he began to feel sleep stealing over him again. He stretched out his legs to the fire and, as he nodded off, his chin came to rest upon his chest. Once again he dreamt of his days with the Aniyun-wiya…

  The autumn morning dawned cool and crisp. Merlin threw off the warm furs and sat up inside of his cozy wigwam. When he first arrived here, he had stayed in the long building in the center of the village throughout the summer. However, the long building was the council house and meeting place for official tribal business, so the men of the village soon built him his very own lodging. He stepped outside and adjusted his soft leather robes. His thread-bare linens had been discarded last year and some women in the village had stitched together some garments of supple deerskin for him to wear. In addition to the robe, they had made him a long winter coat of wolf skins, a pair of moccasins, and a fur hat fashioned from the head of a wolf. When he was wearing the hat and the coat, he looked so much like one of the gray wolfs that roamed the forest, that people in the village began calling him Agayvli Waya, which means old wolf.

  Most of the tribe was down by the water, going through their morning ritual of greeting the day. Galegina came up from the river bank to greet him.

  “Agayvli Waya! It is good morning?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Merlin glowered, “I suppose it is a good morning.” These cool nights always made his bones ache and Galegina’s good mood was not at all contagious this morning.

  The chief smiled and clapped Merlin on the back. “Come, we eat. Walk. Talk.”

  Although these people were living in primal conditions, they were extremely intelligent. Merlin had picked up some of their words, but their language was difficult for his tongue and, much to his dismay, they had no written language at all. However, many of them had been eager to learn his language and their minds were like sponges; absorbing the words and phrases with astonishing speed.

  Galegina had, perhaps, one of the sharpest minds Merlin had ever encountered. As their friendship blossomed, it became a ritual for them to breakfast together and then take a stroll through the woods.

  “Not long until cold days,” the chief commented. “Already, cool nights.”

  “Yes, not long, indeed,” Merlin replied. “We must be leaving soon, before it does get cold. I will not stay another winter here.”

  “Why is Agayvli Waya eager to go?”

  The dry leaves crunched under their feet as they strolled beneath the hardwoods and the musty smells of the fall season filled the forest. Why was he eager to leave? He loved it here. He loved the people here too; they were kind and caring, very much unlike any other humans he had dealt with in his long years on Camelot and Zorn. But something was calling him and, whatever it was; it was growing stronger every day.

  “The Aniyun-wiya think I am Nunne’hi. What does Galegina think?”

  Galegina paused to reflect upon the question. He had spent much time with Merlin, teaching him the ways of the Aniyun-wiya; how to live off the land and survive in extreme conditions. He had seen him sweat in the mid-day heat of summer and shiver on dark winter nights. He had seen him toil, tire, and sleep. He had seen him bleed. He was not Nunne’hi. He was just an old man.

  “Agayvli Waya is not Nunne’hi. Agayvli Waya is like Aniyun-wiya, but different color.”

  “Ha! Galegina is wise. I am just a man. Just a feeble old man.”

  “Agayvli Waya not feeble. Agayvli Waya sly, like fox. Still not answer question. Why leave? Seek people of own color?”

  “Yes. I mean no!” Merlin scratched absently at the gray whiskers on his chin. “Well, actually, yes and no. I am seeking my own people, but not because of our color. I love the Aniyun-wiya. I would live out the rest of my days here with them, but something calls me. It is something that speaks to my heart, something urgent and very important. Every day, I feel the time is growing shorter and the urge to leave gets stronger.”

  “Agayvli Waya answer yes and no. I change my answer; Agayvli Waya is like us and not like us.”

  Merlin raised his bushy eyebrows, waiting for Galegina to elaborate.

  “The thing you call a sword is… what is the word you used?”

  “Magic?”

  “Yes! Big magic. There is no magic in the Aniyun-wiya. Is there more magic in your people?”

  “A long, long time ago, there was, but my people were separated from me. The magic in the sword comes from another people; people who are older than these mountains.”

  “From the elves?”

  “No, these people are even older than the elves.”

  Galegina tried to fathom how someone could be older than people who lived forever. He was fascinated with Merlin’s tales of wizards, elves, dwarves, and dragons. He loved the stories about magic too but, most of the time, he thought that Merlin was making them up just to amuse him. However, there was the sword.

  When Merlin first arrived at the village, the tribesmen were just as interested in his sword as they were in him. All of their tools, implements, and weapons were crafted from wood and stone. They had never seen steel before and all of the young men wanted to try it out. The problem was that Merlin was the only one who could lift it. Once he laid the sword down, or propped it against a tree, it was absolutely immovable; no one could budge it. The sword, a gift from Marcus, was an ancient blade, even by elfin standards. It was a blade whose lineage dated back to the founding of Faerie. In elfin lore, the blade was forged by the First Elves and presented to Jupiter; the mightiest of the twelve immortals. In the final prophecy of Venus, oracle of Gazafar and another one of the twelve immortals, the sword had an even greater destiny.

  “You have been good friend to Aniyun-wiya. We will honor your request. Let us return home and make ready. Tonight, we have great feast. When sun rises, we leave for… what is word for big water?”

  “Ocean,” Merlin answere
d, with hope in his eyes.

  “Yes, ocean. Galegina has long wished to see this ocean.”

  “You are coming with me?”

  “Yes. Someone needs to look after Agayvli Waya.”

  Merlin tried to scowl at his friend, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to transition into a foul mood. They were finally leaving and he suddenly felt as light as a feather. He spun around and headed back to the village.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, smiling like a buffoon,” Merlin called over his shoulder. “Let’s get back and start packing. We have a lot to do before morning!”

  Galegina laughed at the sudden spryness in the old man’s step and hurried after him. When they arrived at his house, he called for his son, Amadahy.

  “Go. Find Onacona. Bring him and elders to council house. Tell them Agayvli Waya is leaving the Aniyun-wiya. Tell them Galegina is going with him.”

  The news rapidly spread through the small village. Within an hour, the council house was packed with men of the village, while all of the women and children milled around outside. Agayvli Waya had become part of the tribe and was loved and respected by all. Everyone knew that he wanted to leave, that he had some task he needed to complete, but no one really thought that he would actually follow through with it. Even more shocking, was the news that their war time chief and his son were accompanying Agayvli Waya on his journey. Galegina informed the tribal elders that they were walking to the Tugaloo village first, to find a bride for Amadahy; Aniyun-wiya culture strictly forbade marriage within the same tribe. Amadahy would then return to Keowee with his new bride and would sit in as the war time chief until Galegina returned from his trip to the ocean. The council, though sad to see them depart, was overjoyed for Amadahy and began immediate preparations for a great feast.

  The celebration lasted far into the night, yet, the next morning, everyone was up well before dawn. A group of twelve strong braves were selected to accompany the party to Tugaloo. The air was still and cold and there was a light frost on the grasses in the fields. When the sun rose, the party set out from the village in high spirits. Many from the village followed them all the way to the main trail that led to Tugaloo, but once there; they said their farewells and returned to their warm fires.

  It took three days to reach their destination. The trip was uneventful and even somewhat pleasant. The forest was still ablaze with autumn colors; the fiery reds and oranges of sweetgums and maples interspersed with the dazzling yellows of beech, hobblebush, and pin cherry. During the day they ate dried jerky while they traveled, but in the evening they feasted on roasted venison. On this short trip from Keowee to Tugaloo, Galegina spent all of his time with Amadahy. It was a long journey to the ocean and he knew that it very well may be spring before he saw his son again.

  They came upon the village late in the evening, just before sunset. All of the structures, including the main council building, were ablaze. The bark covered roofs and the wall logs, chinked with mud and moss, sent great billowing clouds of grey smoke into the evening sky. The villagers were running about frantically, beating at the fires with blankets and robes. Though the sun was setting, the day was not completely gone and the light from the fires illuminated the surrounding area enough for them to make out the bodies scattered across the ground. Most of the slain were Aniyun-wiya, but a few appeared to be from another tribe.

  After the fires were extinguished, the bodies of the Aniyun-wiya were carried away to be prepared for burial and the bodies of the enemy were stacked in a nearby field to be burned. These warriors from another tribe were fearsome, even in death. They were dressed in long trousers and moccasins, their upper bodies bare and painted with bright colors. Their faces were tattooed with tribal symbols and their long hair was dyed red and tied in a topknot on top of their heads.

  “Who are they?” Merlin asked Galegina.

  “They are Yeh is-WAH h’reh; the people of the river.”

  One of the men from the Tugaloo tribe came running up to Galegina. They hastily conversed in their native tongue, the young brave waving his arms wildly and pointing as he spoke. Finally, Galegina turned to Merlin. His face was ashen and his voice conveyed fear, anger, and urgency as he spoke.

  “I cannot go to ocean with Agayvli Waya. Yeh is-WAH h’reh leave here, go to Keowee. I am war chief. My people need me now.”

  “I understand,” Merlin replied. “I’ll go back with you.”

  “No, Agayvli Waya must go to ocean. I feel it too, old friend; something strong. Big magic, maybe. Amadahy will go with you. Plenty time to marry when he returns.”

  Amadahy started to protest, but Galegina cut him off with a sharp glance.

  “We go after Yeh is-WAH h-reh tonight with many braves. Be safe, my son, and return home to Keowee. Watch over Agayvli Waya and when you come home, tell me all about ocean.”

  Galegina embraced his son and then ran to join the large party of braves that were waiting for him. In the flickering firelight, the years appeared to magically fall from his shoulders as he straightened to his full height and raised his spear high above his head. Gone was the smiling, peaceful, slow moving man that Merlin had come to love and in his place stood the fearsome war chief from the Keowee tribe of the Aniyun-wiya. Galegina let out a tremendous war cry and fled into the night with his braves in search of Yeh is-WAH h’reh. It was the last time Merlin ever saw his friend…

  “It has left me,” Arthur said at last.

  The king’s deep strong voice startled Merlin from his dream. He sat up and slid his chair back from the fire because his legs had become quite toasty while he slept.

  “What has left you, sire?”

  “Excalibur,” the king replied, nodding toward the sword propped against the mantle.

  Merlin glanced over at the shiny sword flickering in the firelight. It was an elfin blade fashioned from the rare and precious moonsilver found only on Faerie. It was forged by the finest elfin smiths and presented as a gift to Jupiter, one of the twelve immortals that founded the twelve great cities of Faerie. The Creator was so pleased with the generosity of the elves and so delighted with their gift that He bestowed a blessing upon Jupiter, who was already the mightiest among his brethren. He proclaimed that with the sword in his possession, Jupiter would be invincible; no man from any world, any race, or any tribe would ever be able to stand against him. However, he also warned Jupiter that should pride take root in his heart, then one day someone meek and lowly would bring about his downfall.

  “Hmmm…,” said Merlin, scratching absently at his dirty grey beard. “The sword is right there, sire. How is it that it has left you?”

  “I cannot pick it up. I cannot move it.”

  Merlin gasped. “Are you certain?”

  “I am positive. I have tried all morning to move it.”

  Merlin thought back to the day the sword first came to him. All of the immortals have special talents from the Creator. Jupiter’s talent was strength and endurance, while Venus’s talent was foresight and discernment. Jupiter had always held contempt for the elves, seeing them as a lower race that was unworthy of the Creator’s love. He could never understand how his perfect Creator could fashion such imperfect beings and he thought often, in his heart, to destroy the elfin race so that the Creator could start a new and more perfect creation; a race that was worthy of His love. Thankfully, Venus, who loved the elves, saw the darkness growing in Jupiter’s heart and stole the sword and hid it away from him. Jupiter, ashamed of losing the sword and not wanting the Creator to know of it, went away quietly with the other immortals when they departed Faerie to return to their homes. Venus, however, was stricken blind by the Creator and commanded to remain on Faerie until his business there was finished. When his brothers had departed, Venus gave the sword to an elf named Marcus and told him that he should be the sword’s keeper. Along with the sword, Venus also gave Marcus the gift of foresight so that he might protect the
sword and wisely guide it to its final destiny. Centuries later, Marcus relinquished the blade to Merlin.

  The wizard slowly rose from his chair and walked over to the blade. With a trembling hand, he reached down and gasped the hilt of the sword. He took a deep breath and lifted the sword from its resting place; it was light as a feather. Arthur looked at him with a stunned expression.

  “What does this mean?”

  “Oh my,” Merlin replied, looking sadly at Arthur. “Oh my, oh my, oh my.”

  There were two ways the sword could change possession. The first, and most obvious way, was for someone to give the sword away. However, it had to be given freely, without constraint, without doubt, and without regret. The other way for the sword to obtain a new keeper was for the sword to abandon its current keeper and choose a new one for itself. Only the keeper of the sword could wield it; to all others it was completely immovable.

  “What is it?” Arthur asked, with growing concern in his voice. “What ill omen is this?”

  “I’m afraid it’s time. Yes, I’m quite certain, it is most definitely time.”

  “It is time for what? Speak, Merlin!”

  “Time to be going, of course. What time did you think it was?”

  “Good heavens!” Arthur exclaimed. “Where are we going?”

  “To the Cradle,” Merlin called over his shoulder as he hurried out the door. “We must prepare to leave at once so that we may be there before midnight!”

  Arthur and six of his trusted knights accompanied Merlin to the stone structure he called the Cradle. They rode all day and into the night, stopping only once to eat a quick bite and water their horses. With the steady clip-clop of the horses hooves and the gentle rocking of the saddle, Merlin once again slipped into the dream that had already visited him twice before on this very day…

  Even though they travelled by river for most of the journey, the trip to the ocean took them well over a month. The morning after the attack on the Tugaloo village, the Tugaloo war chief sent a war party of braves down the river to accompany Merlin and Amadahy. The Aniyun-wiya were a peaceful and generous people, but cross one of them or harm one of their loved ones, and they would walk a hundred miles to exact revenge.

  They passed by Yeh is-WAH h’reh’s village under the cover of darkness and the Aniyun-wiya braves beached their canoes just south of the village. Merlin and Amadahy continued their journey downriver and, within a few minutes, they could hear the sounds of battle traveling across the rippling waters that carried them onward to the sea.

  Along their way, there were many places where they had to portage their canoe and cargo; places where the rapids were too dangerous to navigate, places where fallen trees blocked their path, and even a few places where the river was wide and too shallow for their canoe to pass. The further south they travelled, the warmer it became and, as they exited the piedmont area, the rolling foothills gave way to flat land and the scenery changed from red clay and pines to sandy soil and palmettos. Finally, the river emptied into an immense swamp, where large cypress trees, their branches draped with ethereal slips of Spanish moss, sank their roots deep into earth beneath the brackish still waters. The trees reminded Merlin of the Twilight Faerie Oaks back on Camelot. He almost expected the trees to lift their roots from the waters and reveal to them the path they were supposed to follow.

  The swamp appeared to have no end, but eventually they found a channel where the water was deeper and they began to follow that. As the trees began to thin, they found themselves being pulled along in a small current. Even though it was mid-autumn, the day had become unbearably hot and they were obliged to lay aside their oars and let the stream carry them wherever it was going. By late afternoon they were in the midst of a vast marsh and the current was now moving them along at a brisk pace. The noisy cry of gulls alerted them to a sandy slip of beach protruding from some sea oats and reed grasses to their left. Hastily, before the current could carry them past it, they snatched their oars and paddled hard for the dry land.

  After a several hours in the small dugout canoe, it felt good to stand on firm ground and stretch their legs. They were not at the ocean yet, but they were close. They could smell the sea and hear the waves crashing on a distant beach. Amadahy looked frightened.

  “Is that big water we hear?” he asked with wide eyes.

  “Yes, that is the ocean,” Merlin answered. “Come! Let’s drag the boat up to higher ground and we’ll strike out on foot from here.”

  They secured the boat, stuffed their packs with the remaining supplies, and then followed the sound of the surf. Although they were out of the swamp, they had to make their way through a twisted maze of reed covered dunes and several thick stands of prickly bear grass to reach their destination; a wide crescent shaped ribbon of white sand that disappeared in the distant haze. They were here. The big water. The ocean.

  Amadahy dropped his pack and stared out at the endless expanse. As the waves rose up from the sea, the water changed from slate to turquoise and then to a frothing white as it curled over and crashed upon the shoreline. Here, in the open, a strong wind blew constantly. At first, after long hours in the hot marsh and swamp where no winds stirred, they found it refreshing. Now, however, it chilled them and they were forced to don their cloaks while they sat upon the warm sands to rest.

  “Where does water go?” Amadahy asked.

  “What do you mean?” Merlin replied.

  “Out there,” Amadahy pointed. “Does it go on forever?”

  “Oh, no, not forever. There is land on the other side.”

  “I see no land.”

  “Well it’s there; it’s just too far away for you to see it.”

  “How do you know this?”

  Back on Zorn, the wizards were extremely advanced in the study of astronomy and they knew that their world was a round globe, hanging in the nothingness of space. This world would be no different, but how could he possibly explain that concept to Amadahy so that he would understand? He would surely think him crazy.

  “This ocean is like a big lake,” Merlin explained. “It is so big you cannot see the land on the other side.”

  “But it is flat. I should be able to see land, unless land on other side is flat too!”

  Merlin absently scratched at his beard while he thought for a moment. “Have you ever been on top of the bald rocks high up in the mountains?”

  “Yes, many times.”

  “Could you see the ocean from the top of the bald rocks?”

  Amadahy shook his head. “I could not. I see now what you are saying. How many days would it take to cross ocean?”

  “I don’t know, “Merlin answered. “I don’t know how big this ocean is. But I do know it would take many moons.”

  “Look!” Amadahy cried, pointing out to sea. “A boat!”

  Merlin squinted and shaded his eyes against the bright sun. It was indeed a boat and it was heading straight toward them. Suddenly, that same feeling he had the night Garrick beat upon the door of his little stone cottage, back on Camelot, began to stir in his bones again. This encounter was part of his destiny, whatever that may be. He could feel it now as surely as he felt it that fateful night when Zoltan destroyed much of the Twilight with his scorching flames. His pulse quickened. He had an even stronger premonition that things would not bode well for Amadahy if he were here when the strange looking boat arrived.

  “Amadahy, you must go now,” Merlin cried. “The people on that boat are warriors and they will kill you if stay here.”

  “Then we both must go.”

  “No, they would catch us.”

  “Then I stay and fight!”

  “No, you fool. If you stay you will die. I know this. It’s magic. Big magic.”

  Amadahy stared at the approaching boat and then at Merlin. The Aniyun-wiya were not afraid to die; there was great honor in a noble death. His father had tasked him with taking care of Agayvli Waya
too, but he would have done that anyway because the old man was well loved by everyone in the tribe. “You will be okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I’ll be fine, I promise!”

  “How you know this for certain?”

  “I’ve already told you, Amadahy, it’s magic; very big magic.”

  Amadahy looked out at the boat again. Merlin could tell that he was wavering, still undecided on what he should do. He tried a different tactic. “Amadahy, wherever these people are from, that is where I must go. You have delivered me to the ocean safely. You have done what you were supposed to do. Go home now and tell Galegina about the big water. Go home and chose your bride. The Aniyun-wiya need you. I will be fine.”

  “Will we see Agayvli Waya again?”

  “No. I don’t think we shall meet again, but who knows what tomorrow may bring? Go now! Hurry!”

  Amadahy embraced Merlin and squeezed him tightly. “Farewell Agayvli Waya.”

  The wizard watched Galegina’s son disappear into the grass covered dunes that separated the beach from the marsh and then turned his attention back to the oncoming boat. The vessel was long, narrow, and double-ended; having a symmetrical bow and stern. A single mast with a square sail stood in the center of the boat and, down the lengths of both sides, sat men at oars rowing furiously against an unseen rip tide. Merlin counted the number of oars as the ship neared the beach; thirteen on each side, so there were at least twenty-six men on board. Finally, a wave caught the ship and carried it gracefully up onto the sandy shore. The oarsmen stowed away their oars and leapt into the surf. Grabbing the longboat by the sides, they carried it up to higher ground where the waters could not pull it back into the sea.

  Once the boat was secure, the men drew weapons from their belts and gathered around Merlin in a circle. These men were like him in color, sporting long hair and beards too, except they were young men and powerfully built. They were dressed in woolen trousers with long tunics cinched at their waists. Their weapons were mainly great axes and broad swords; very similar to the weapons used by men back on Camelot.

  One of the men stepped forward and plunged his broad sword into the sand in front of Merlin. This man appeared to be the leader of this band of seafaring warriors. He was taller than the others, with piercing blue eyes that were much like the eyes of the elves of Faerie. His long blonde hair and beard were woven into thick braids and pinned with intricately carved bones. After planting his sword, he crossed his arms and waited to see what Merlin would do. The other men that were gathered around them were smiling and talking in hushed whispers. They were having sport with him!

  Of all the things, Merlin thought to himself, to find me, an old man alone in the wilderness, and rather than offer me aid and succor these buffoons try to terrify and bully me? As his anger boiled over, Merlin removed his wolf skin cloak and laid it aside. He walked forward and grasped the hilt of big man’s sword. With a vicious jerk, he pulled it from the sand and flung it to the ground. This act of defiance produced an uproar of laughter from the onlookers. Then, as fast as a snake, Merlin reached over his shoulder and drew his elfin blade from the scabbard hanging across his back. The sword flashed brilliantly in the sunshine as the wizard twirled it over his head and plunged it into the sand in front of his antagonist. The men hushed, their mouths agape, as the old man stepped back, crossed his arms, and glared up at their leader.

  The big man stared hard at Merlin for several long seconds and then threw his head back and laughed a long hearty laugh. The tension was broken and all of the other men joined in. Merlin, however, did not see anything funny about the whole situation. He stood there, ramrod straight, with his arms crossed and his chin thrust defiantly in the air. When the laughter died, the big man reached down and grabbed the hilt of the elfin blade with his big meaty fist, but to his shock and amazement the blade would not budge. He grabbed the blade with both hands and pulled, but still could not pull it from the sand. He straddled the sword and, with a loud cry, pulled until the veins popped out on his forearms. He pulled on the sword until his face was red and his eyes bulged, but still the sword was stuck fast in the ground where the old man planted it.

  The big man wiped the sweat from his brow and stepped back away from the sword. He bent over and retrieved his own sword from the sand and sheathed it in the wood and leather scabbard hanging from his belt. He stared at Merlin with wonder and a little bit of fear too. “Finngerd,” he whispered.

  Merlin saw the fear and uncertainty in the big man’s eyes and it gave him great satisfaction to see him squirm in front of his own men. He stepped forward and placed his hand upon the hilt of the elfin blade. In a flash blade was out of the sand, its point at the base of the big man’s throat. No one moved. No one spoke. No one breathed. Merlin locked eyes with the big man for just a second and then sheathed the sword before turning around to retrieve his wolf skin cloak.

  “Finngerd!” one of the men cried.

  Merlin slipped into his cloak and pulled the furry cap down over his brow. He picked up his sack and walked toward the boat. Now, with the wolf head grinning wickedly from the top of his head, he did not look so much like a helpless old man. The seamen lowered their weapons as he approached and parted to let him pass. They all watched in amazement as he climbed into their ship, sat down upon one of the benches, and then motioned for them to join him.

  The men, not sure what to make of this, looked to their leader, who was staring at Merlin with a thoughtful expression.

  “Thorfinn?” one of the men whispered, calling him by name.

  Thorfinn stood there, fingering the hilt of his sword, trying to sort this out. They had been exploring the coasts of this strange new land for many months now. They were all tired and anxious to return home before winter clogged the northern seas with ice. However, this was the first person they had seen in their journeys and they were hoping to find an easy town for plunder. Was this old man a powerful magician? Or was he some old Norse god, forgotten and lost, but still mighty and powerful? Either way, Thorfinn finally decided, whoever he was, the old man would make a better friend and ally than foe. He held his arms out to his side and shrugged his massive shoulders. Everyone put their weapons away and followed Thorfinn over to their boat, where the old man sat behind the dragon-headed prow as if he owned the ship.

  The men split up, half on one side and half on the other, with Thorfinn at the stern. They picked the boat up and, keeping a wary eye on the old man, ran down the beach into the sea. Once the boat was adrift, they climbed aboard and put the oars over the sides to row against the incoming waves. When they were past the breakers, they pulled the oars in and ran the square sail up the mast. Thorfinn left his seat at the stern and joined Merlin at the Prow.

  “Hversu ferr?”

  “I have no idea what you are saying,” Merlin replied.

  The big man pointed his finger at himself and said, “Thorfinn.” He then pointed at Merlin.

  The wizard moaned and shook his head. “Egads, here we go again.” He pointed at himself and shouted, “I AM…”

  “MERLIN! Wake up, we are here!”

  The old wizard jumped and almost fell from his saddle. He realized, with a start, that he had been dreaming a continuation of the same dream he had earlier; one he had dreamed of three times during the same day. It was an omen for sure, but an ill omen or a good omen, he did not yet know. He slid off his horse and looked around. The moon was shining brightly and the knights were busy taking care of the horses and setting up camp. He stretched and rubbed his backside. He would be sore for days from the long hours in the saddle, but he was here and the time of returning was upon them.

  “What now?” asked Arthur.

  “Follow me inside,” Merlin answered. “We have a short time before I leave.”

  “Leave? But where are you going? We are in the middle of nowhere!”

  Instead of answering, Merlin hitched up his robes and dis
appeared among the stones. Arthur instructed his knights to keep watch outside and then hurried after the wizard into the stone formation.

  The Cradle was a circular structure built entirely from stones; huge stones. The outermost circle, about a hundred feet in diameter, was composed of thirty large sandstone obelisks. Each of these stones was around seven feet wide, 4 feet thick, and stood about fourteen feet high. Across the tops of these standing stones were lintel stones, each of which were over ten feet in length and approximately three and a half feet wide and almost three feet thick. They were attached to the standing stones with a method very similar to a woodworking joint called a mortise and tenon. Sixty more rocks with a bluish tint stood just inside the outermost circle. These were around seven feet tall, three to four feet wide, and about two and a half feet thick. The circle of blue rocks was seventy five feet in diameter and had no lintel stones upon them. Within the blue stones, arranged in the shape of a horseshoe and forty five feet in diameter, were five sandstone Trilithons. The Trilithons stood over twenty feet tall and each one contained two upright stones with a lintel stone connecting them across the top. The final and innermost circle, comprised of nineteen blue stones around six to eight feet in height, was also horseshoe shaped. The blue stones in this innermost circle did not have lintel stones on top, but within their midst was a huge grey stone, about sixteen feet long, lying across the ground. This was the birthing stone and this was a Dragon’s cradle. There was one just like it on Crag.

  Arthur found Merlin standing in the center of the structure.

  “What is going on? What is this talk of leaving? And what has happened to my sword?”

  Merlin turned and sat down on the birthing stone. “Come,” he motioned for Arthur to join him, “we haven’t much time.”

  Arthur sat by the wizard, a worried and puzzled expression on his face.

  “Do you remember the day you found the sword?”

  Arthur nodded. “It was during the invasion. The sword was standing up, lodged between two stones.”

  “Yes, I placed it there when I was escaping from the men of the north. Carrying it was slowing me down and I had great need for speed that night.”

  “If you had not rallied the town’s people, none would have survived. So, Excalibur is yours?”

  “No, the sword belongs to someone else. I was just a steward of the sword, as you have been.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “The day of the invasion, I left the sword behind without fear of losing it, because only the sword’s keeper may wield it. When you returned from battle with the sword, I realized that Excalibur had chosen you as its new keeper. And, now that your kingdom has been established, the sword has come back to me, because it has an even greater task ahead of it.”

  “What task is that?”

  “I don’t know!” Merlin laughed. “I haven’t a clue! But I do know that it is time for me and the sword to go back.”

  “Back to where?”

  “Home,” Merlin replied. “My dear friend, I’m going home. Help me up onto the birthing stone.”

  Arthur leapt on top of the stone and pulled the old wizard up behind him.

  “I hate goodbyes,” Merlin grumbled, “so I will say this quickly. You have been a dear friend and I shall miss you.”

  “And I shall miss you too,” Arthur smiled, “but exactly how are you getting home? You speak as if you are leaving this very instant.”

  “I am,” Merlin answered sadly. “Step down now and watch.”

  Arthur hopped down from the stone and stepped back to see what his old friend would do next. Merlin was very eccentric and was always doing the strangest things. The king had no idea what he was up to now, but he watched with keen interest as Merlin began to chant. At first, nothing happened, but soon a faint glow appeared between the two outermost rings of rocks. As the wizard continued to chant, the glowing air began to sparkle and swirl in a clockwise direction. The chanting became faster and the shorter blue stones began to hum and vibrate. The spinning light between the outer rings illuminated the five tall trilithons of the inner rings. The dark shadows cast by these giant stones converged on top of the birthing stone where Merlin stood and, as the light grew brighter, the shadows grew darker. Finally, Merlin struck the birthing stone with his staff. At once, the spinning lights halted and the shadows on the stone leapt into the air, forming a gaping black hole in front of the wizard. The hole was about six feet in diameter and flat as a blade of grass if viewed from the side. Merlin glanced down at Arthur, who was standing there with his mouth agape.

  “Farewell, my king. Live long and rule wisely.” Merlin then stepped into the black hole and vanished.

  *****