Atlantis was no more.
BOOK THREE
THE MERLIN
CHAPTER ONE
What shall I write of the hard years, the terrible years, years of despair, disease, death… What is there to say-that we struggled, starved, ached, bled, and suffered in every one of a thousand different ways?
We did this.
We did more. We survived and forced a cold and hostile land to yield a home.
After nearly four grim, wretched, restless months aboard our crippled ships we landed on the rock-bound western coast of a land called Ynys Prydein, a cloudbound island of mist-covered mountains and soft green hills far to the east and north.
There were few inhabitants of the narrow spit of land where we made our landfall, but those few received us with respect despite all their suspicious, backward ways. Slight and short of stature, hair and eyes dark like the forest creatures they resembled, these people, who called themselves Cerniui, lived crudely in small holdings of wood and mud. We could not speak to them; speech was hopeless. Their language was a meaningless tangle of soft gutturals and willowy sibilance, not speech at all. Yet, somehow we made our desires known to them and they were eager to provide for our needs, looking upon us as very gods and goddesses.
We stayed with them two seasons, waiting for the fourth ship which, sadly, never came. Kian, Elaine, and all the rest were lost, and we mourned them. Then we moved deeper into the land, beyond a range of low mountains, sacred to the Cerniui, to a region of rich woodlands, lakes, and fair glades which Belyn had surveyed and Believed could be made to furnish us with the means of survival. Thinly populated to begin with, there were none to oppose us; the savages we did encounter fled at the mere sight of us, abandoning home and livestock without lifting a hand, so strong was their terror.
We named our new land Sarras, after the home we had left behind. But to our diminuitive neighbors it soon became known as Llyn Llyonis-their approximation of Atlantis. And here, in Llyn Llyonis, we began to make a life in this rough and unsparing land.
Just beyond the northernmost border of the land Belyn surveyed stood a great hill surrounded by marshland with a very broad but shallow lake beside it. Avallach claimed this hill on which to build his palace; Belyn remained in the south, settling his remnant in Llyn Llyonis, on that narrow peninsula jutting out into the sea. Maildun stayed with him. I think Belyn wanted to be near the water to see the missing ship if it ever should arrive.
Avallach’s hill, or Tor as the locals called it, was set in a strange and fantastic landscape: roundly humped hills and wide glens seamed through with darksome, wood-bound rivers and glinting silver streams, with heavy stands of ancient oak, yew, elm, and horse chestnut-a tree so large that an entire herd of cattle could shelter beneath the lofty, spreading branches of just one venerable grandsire of the wood. It was a moody and melancholy place of quiet airs and shadow, of great distances made short and small things made large, a waterworld on dry ground.
It was an old and secretive land, empty, haunting, inhabited only sporadically throughout its long history. In time I came to love this place, with its subtle, shifting light and misty atmosphere, although it never lost its strangeness for me.
In the midst of this eerie landscape stood the Tor. From the top, even before Avallach established his tall gleaming towers there, we had an unlimited view in any direction. At any distance the hill drew all eyes to it, although strangely, from certain nearer vantage points, the Tor disappeared from view.
Building stone was plentiful nearby, and there was good timber for the taking within easy reach. The lakes teemed with trout and perch and pike; the meadows nurtured game of all kinds. Cattle fattened readily on the fertile pastures, and grain grew almost without care. Wild fruits and berries could be found in die wooded glens, along with all varieties of edible herbs.
If not as generous as our lost home, it nevertheless yielded what comfort it possessed. And within a few short years we had built an enviable holding, becoming the source of endless fascination and speculation for the native tribes round about, who never tired of watching us and discussing our activities at extraordinary length among themselves. We observed them, in turn, learning their customs and eventually mastering their bewildering language.
We paid dearly for our gain, however, and the price was high. The climate, chill and perpetually damp, gave rise to a host of diseases which our Atlantian blood had never encountered and could not tolerate. More nights than I care to remember, I stood by helplessly as mysterious feverous maladies carried off my people, steadily dwindling our numbers.
But each year work continued on Avallach’s hilltop palace; his lakes were stocked, fields plowed, orchards planted. Lile, happier than I had ever seen her, took the care of the orchards and gardens as her own particular duty, and seldom could she be found elsewhere than among the dappled leaf-green shadows of her Beloved apple trees. Little Morgian grew up with twigs and blossoms in her hair and rich soil under the nails of her herb-stained fingers.
Annubi grew more and more into himself, living almost entirely alone, shut in his room in the palace. Rarely seen, still more rarely heard, he became a living shade that haunted the dark byways of the palace grounds and the remote high places. The Dumnoni called him Annwn and made him out a god of the Otherworld, their netherland where the dead lingered on in twilight. In this they were very nearly right.
Curiously, Avallach’s wound never completely healed-sometimes forcing him to his bed for several days, whereupon he would conduct the business of his court from a special canopied litter he had constructed. But when he felt better he would resume his activities as before-especially fishing which became his passion. He spent countless hours out on the lake Below the palace. It was a common sight to wake in the morning and see Avallach, like Poseidon plying through dawn’s golden mist in his boat, motionless, fishing spear poised.
And me? I roamed the moody hills on horseback and visited the secret places in the land-forest pools and private glades where no one ever went. This wandering suited my restless and melancholy spirit, and I spent my days dreaming of a time and place now lost forever. For, having brought my people to this land, my task was accomplished, my purpose achieved, and there was nothing left for me to do.
Charis slipped from the saddle and dropped the reins. Her gray pony wasted no time getting at the long, sweet grass beneath its nose. The clearing was not far from the palace, just beyond the hill opposite Ynys Witrin, which was what the natives had taken to calling the Tor now that Avallach’s palace was there: Isle of Glass. This lesser hill had, as far as Charis knew, no name, nor had the clearing, although obviously it had been the site of habitation in the past.
For at one end of the clearing stood the remains of a small, sturdily-built timber structure. A house of some kind perhaps, but a good deal larger than the houses of the natives and with a steeply pitched roof of thatch, now broken in several places. If it had ever boasted a door, that refinement was now long gone and the house stood vulnerable and open.
Charis studied the clearing and its ruin with interest; the place, like so many of the places she discovered for herself, had a distinct air about it. She had become expert at discerning the subtle textures of the atmosphere exuded by these secret places, and this place had a strong aura. Something significant had happened here upon a time, and the air still tingled with the memory.
If only I could read that memory, she thought, what would this place tell me?
The question occurred to her every time she visited the ruin, which was often because its peaceful solitude touched the restlessness inside her and calmed it for a while.
She advanced slowly from the cover of the surrounding trees, leaving the pony to graze. The ruin’s timber frame was intact, although much of the mud had crumbled from the wicker wattles between the beams. The broken roof allowed what little light that penetrated the clearing to fully illumine the weed-choked interior. Charis stepped to the open door, aware once again of a hus
hed whisper-the breeze, or an echo of a voice long past.
Something important had happened here once. Either that or a very powerful god ruled the place and imbued this little patch with his own potent Charisma. Whatever it was, Charis could feel the immense attraction of this primitive magnetism within her own spirit. She had felt it before but never stronger than this time. As a result, she stood at the door of the rude hut, holding her breath, listening, imagining to herself that the place, even in its decaying state, had been the site of the most high and holy of temples.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly, half-expecting an answer. The still, quiet air reverberated with the sound of her voice. The upper branches of a nearby ash tree rustled and a woodcock took flight. Charis listened to the soughing of the breeze in the leaves. The burring buzz of an insect seemed to fill the entire glade with its drowsy drone.
She stepped inside the decaying structure, placing a long, slim hand on the rotting doorframe as she passed. “Speak to me,” she whispered. “Tell me your secrets.”
The interior of the habitation was overgrown with nettles and nightshade and lacy-leafed fem. The smell of damp soil and rotting wood was strong in the place. She moved into the center of the building, ducking beneath one of’the fallen beams. There were no furnishings to be seen-not the smallest utensil or fragment of pottery remained. In fact, there was no firepit or oven, no place for warmth or cooking anywhere that she could see. How odd, she thought. Who had lived here that had no need of warmth or food?
There were no windows either. Only a curious slit high up in the back wall, too high to serve as a window and too small to let in much light. It was strangely-shaped too-one long vertical slash, crossed at its upper terminus by a horizontal slash nearly as long.
The light entering through this unusual window slanted down in a bright shaft in which midges and motes of dust idly whirled. She watched for a moment and then turned to go, but reached the fallen roof beam and stopped. The peace of the odd ruin appealed to her and she sat down on the beam, the light from the curious window falling all around her.
The warmth of the sunlight on her back felt good and Charis closed her eyes. Outside she heard the tinkling of the tiny silver Bells braided into her pony’s mane as the horse grazed quietly and the sigh of the breeze…
But there was something else as well. As she listened, Charis became aware of a mumble of voices speaking softly nearby. Her gray pony whickered to her, tossing its head, making the Bells jingle in gentle alarm. Visitors.
The voices stopped as the strangers entered the clearing. Perhaps they had seen her mount. She could not see her guests but imagined them standing without, looking dumbly at the pony and at the rained building. She heard the slight shuffle of stealthy footsteps as someone approached the structure.
A dark shape appeared in the doorway, that of a young man above middle height who stood blinking into the light. She watched as the man’s eyes wandered over the interior and then, at last, came to rest on her, taking her in first as a feature of the place and only later as a living being like himself. The shock of this small revelation made the man gasp and fall back. His reaction was noticed, for a quick exclamation of concern sounded from outside.
The man in the doorway did not answer; he did not take his eyes off Charis. He stood for a moment, staring, then took a slow step into the ruin and sank to his knees, clasping his hands in front of him.
Charis was as surprised by this behavior as the man was shocked by her. The stranger’s companion exclaimed again- Charis heard the fear in the man’s voice-but received no answer, for the man in front of her remained motionless, staring at her, terror and rapture on his face.
His fellow rushed in then, took in his friend in a prolonged gape, and raised his eyes to where Charis sat, hands folded in her lap, serene and regal as any queen on her throne. The second intruder sank to his knees also and raised trembling hands in supplication to her. “Maria!” he said, joyous tears boiling over his cheeks. “Ave, Maria!”
This both unnerved and fascinated Charis. Clearly she was being addressed in some reverential way but in a strange speech-definitely not the language of the local Dumnoni. Who were these men-dressed plainly, hair cropped short over their round heads in the manner of scholars, their young, bearded faces bright with joy and reflected sunlight-who could they be?
She rose to her feet, a motion which brought a gasp from one of the men. “Who are you?” she asked in the speech of the Britons.
The men looked at her, their eyes growing wide with wonder. To her surprise one of them answered her. “Holy Mary, mother of the Christ, Lord of all the Hosts of Heaven, have mercy on us!”
Although the words were strange, she understood them; the man could speak the local dialect. “Who are you?” she asked again.
“Why-followers of Martin,” the man sputtered, confused.
“Ave, ave, Maria, Mater Deo!” jabbered the second stranger, his face raised to the hole in the roof, the light full on his blissful countenance,
“Why have you come here?”
“We have come seeking this holy place…”He gazed at her and doubt came into his eyes. Charis read his confusion.
“You are far from home,” she said quietly.
The man nodded but did not speak. The expression of joy faded from his face, replaced by one of uncertainty.
“Who is this Holy Mary of whom you speak?”
“Mother of the Most High God, Jesu the Christ, Savior of Mankind, Lord of Heaven and Earth.” He lowered his hands and unclasped them. “You are not the Blessed Lady?”
Charis smiled. “I have never heard of this goddess.”
The man’s round face flushed crimson. He climbed quickly to his feet. “Forgive me, lady,” he muttered. His friend opened his eyes and peered around. Seeing his companion on his feet, he too jumped up and rushed forward, falling on his face at Charis’ feet and seizing the embroidered hem of her tunic in his hands. He raised the garment to his lips and kissed it.
“Collen!” exclaimed the first man, and went on to say something in a burst of odd-sounding speech which Charis did not understand. The other looked around curiously, glanced back at Charis, dropped the hem and scuttled backwards.
“Forgive us, lady,” said the first intruder. “We thought… We did not know.”
Charis dismissed the apology with a gesture and asked, “She is your goddess, this Mary?”
“Goddess?” The man blanched, but answered forthrightly, “In the name of Jesu, no! We worship no god but the True God.” He raised a hand to their surroundings. “The God who was once worshiped here in this very place.”
“The True God?” Charis puzzled at the meaning of these words. “Worshiped here?” It seemed unlikely to her.
The second man asked a question of the first, who answered him in the foreign tongue. They discussed something for a moment and then the first turned and addressed Charis. “Collen here is not fluent in the tongue of the Britons as I am. Although his grandmother was born in Logres, he is from Gaul and has only the speech of the Gauls and of our brothers in Rome.” He smiled and made a polite bow. “My name is Dafyd. I am of the Silures in Dyfed, no great distance from here.”
“I am Charis; I live near this place in the palace of my father, Avallach, who is king of all these lands.”
The man’s glance quickened. “Avallach? The king of the Fair Folk who dwell on the Glass Isle?”
“Ynys Witrin; yes, that is what they call our palace.”
Dafyd’s eyes grew round. His comrade glanced at him in alarm and asked an unintelligible question. The first man put out a hand to silence the other and shook his head, keeping his eyes on Charis all the while. “Faery,” he whispered.
“Is something wrong?” Charis asked.
“The people here tell many strange tales about you. We have heard things” He broke off.
“Disturbing things,” Charis guessed from the trepidation in his voice.
Dafyd nodded.
“Enchantments and magic,” she continued. “We are said to change our shapes at will: wolves, hounds, stags; we take on the forms of birds and fly; we never sleep or rest; and we have but to bid and the winds bring us news from any corner of our realm, thus any word or speech is known to us… Yes, I know well what they say of us.” She shrugged and lifted an eyebrow. “But you appear to be learned men, what will you Believe?”
“We will Believe,” Dafyd answered slowly, “what the Holy God reveals to us as the truth of this matter.”
Charis pondered these words for a moment and asked, “This god is this same True God?”
“He is one and the same, lady,” replied Dafyd. “We call him Lord and King, Almighty Father, for he is Creator of all that is seen and unseen, and we are his servants.”
“Indeed? I have never heard of this god,” replied Charis matter-of-factly. “Tell me about him.”
Dafyd grinned happily. He spoke a quick word to Collen, who with a last backward glance moved to the doorway and hurried off. “I sent him to look after the horses,” Dafyd explained. “He will wait for us without.”
Charis seated herself once more on the fallen beam and indicated that the holy man should take a place next to her.
He did so, approaching with caution, settling beside her, near but holding himself apart, as from an open flame.
“This ruin whose walls enfold us was once, we are told, a place of worship sacred to the Almighty. We have come to find and if possible restore this chapel in order that the truth of our God might be proclaimed once more hereabouts.”
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