Merlin's Harp

by Anne Eliot Crompton

  The rustle of Mellias waking, rubbing his eyes and rolling over, startled this weird night's silence. Lithely he rose, pulled on his tunic, and joined us at the fire. He whispered, "Our Aefa is still gone."

  I said, "You know she is not 'our' Aefa, now."

  To my horror, tears misted his eyes. He muttered, "This night is evil."

  "You feel that, Mellias?"

  "Even a Human would feel it."

  Merlin whispered urgently, "Niviene! Look at the fire!"

  "I cannot scry, Merlin."

  "Pretend you can! Look, Girl, look."

  Outside, a sound broke through the smothering curtain of silence. Muffled, padded feet stomped past our door—horses' hooves, clothed in rags.

  Merlin whispered, "Niviene, scry!"

  Mellias murmured, "Do neither of you mages hear horses?"

  Bent over the fire, Merlin cried out, "Look here!"

  As I bent over the fire, I felt Merlin's hand touch the base of my spine. From where his fingers lay, unlooked-for power wriggled up my back; and, even as I breathed a prayer of surprised thanksgiving, my eyes focused on the scene in the fire.

  Naked and twined, Lugh and Gwen sprawled across a huge bed among rumpled linen sheets and embroidered cushions. A small oil lamp burned on a table. A red coverlet had been pushed to the floor. Lovemaking over, Lugh and Gwen petted and murmured. Lugh spread her hair in the lamplight and wound it around his arm. One of her pale hands fondled his chest. Their double aura had flamed red throughout the small room. Now it was shrinking and dimming to orange.

  In the place where my heart had once lived, something hurt as though stabbed. Why did I have to be a "virgin" mage? At that moment I felt I would gladly be a mere Human queen, if I could live so in my body and treasure my heart!

  Lugh lunged up on an elbow. Gwen pulled him down, but he struggled up again, head cocked, listening.

  Gwen tensed, raised her head, and heard what he heard. She rolled over and reached down for the coverlet on the floor.

  Lugh leapt up off the bed and looked wildly around him. The door—the heavy oak door, iron-bolted—buckled under blows from outside. Lugh rushed frantically around the walls, looking for a sword. The door splintered.

  Lugh darted behind the door. On her feet by the bed, Gwen drew the red coverlet up around herself.

  The iron bolt held, but the oak door broke vertically in half. Naked and empty-handed Lugh stood poised, concealed behind the open half door.

  A small dark man, sword in hand, rushed through the broken door and paused, his back to Lugh. Mordred. Over his shoulder I glimpsed other faces. For the space of a gasp Mordred stood, sword raised, peering around for Lugh.

  I had thought of our hostage, Morgan's son, as a poisonous serpent who would lunge, then slither to cover. His courage surprised me. I would have expected to see him behind the men in the doorway, urging them on, not out in front. But there he stood like a rearing snake, eyes darting around the small, rich room.

  Lugh struck. Clenched into one huge fist, his hands smashed down on the back of Mordred's neck. Mordred dropped. Lugh swooped, snatched Mordred's sword from his numbed hand, and turned on the knights crowding in.

  Those in front pushed back. No man would willingly fight Lancelot if he were armed. He stabbed a knight through the groin and whirled on another. Confused, the knights pushed back, knocked each other over and almost took flight.

  Mordred reeled to his feet, pointing at Lugh. His mouth opened in a shout. The knights surged forward like a wave, attacking Lugh together.

  Lugh backed across the room, slashing and parrying, leaving a man here, a man there, on the floor. He was making for a shadowed door at the back of the room which I thought led into Gwen's herb garden.

  A small, cloaked figure slunk from the hall into the doorway. Aefa.

  She bent and hefted a fallen sword and pushed it into Mordred's hand. Mouth wide in a triumphant cry, he followed the knights after Lugh.

  All this time Gwen had stood statuesque, wrapped in her long hair and coverlet. Now she gathered up the coverlet, scurried to the herb garden door, and shot back the bolt. Aefa glided from the doorway to plaster herself against a wall. Lugh pushed the garden door open with his shoulder and backed outside, parrying. Swords swinging, the knights pressed between him and Gwen. Lugh disappeared in the darkness outside. Mordred and two others seized Gwen by her hair, her arm, the coverlet.

  The broken hall door glowed red. Arthur stood in the open half, armed, Caliburn himself in his gloved hand. His aura spread red through the room.

  Our scrying fire flickered, flamed up once more and died.

  A Merlin Song

  This cauldron old and huge and dark,

  Crusted with pictures rude and stark

  Of stag and bull and captive bound,

  Of naked God and druid gowned,

  Once caught the blood of many a throat

  While seers and sorcerers took note.

  Now stands the druid, knife in hand.

  Now all about the cauldron stand

  King Vortigern, his Saxon Queen,

  His knights and men-at-arms. The sheen

  Of armor answers to the light

  Of many a torch; around, deep night.

  Out of the night the hunters come

  Leading their prey. A single drum

  Beats like a heart. Here stands the child

  Whose father's unknown, of Hell or the Wild;

  The child who was sought, and found, and brought,

  The child whose blood in the cauldron caught

  And mixed with mortar will save the fort.

  He stands here before King Vortigern's court,

  Looks calmly into King Vortigern's face,

  And smiles with a quiet, friendly grace.

  Breathes the Saxon Queen, "He shines like a star!"

  Quick she moves, the knife to bar.

  "Child," she says, "prophesy to the King.

  Show him your word is a finer thing

  Than your blood. Why does his fort not stand?"

  Now, Merlin comes from a distant land.

  He has heard no word of Vortigern's fort

  That three times crumbled, as though the sport

  Of angry God or teasing devil.

  Calmly, he says, "Two dragons level Your fort, my Lord, when they twist and fight. They lie under the fort, one red, one white…"

  11

  Gwenevere

  Counsel Oak towers over all the ancient apple trees of Avalon. Oh, to rest once more in his shade, and hear once more his wise leaves whisper!

  Here at Gildas's monastery, Arimathea, the apple trees were young, severely pruned, richly fruitful; like graceful maidens sporting red and yellow gems, compared to the hungry hags of Avalon, with their wizened brown treasures.

  I crouched with Gildas in dappled shade, sorting apples. Ladders leaned and baskets waited throughout the orchard; young monks and village boys climbed and picked. (I was, of course, thought to be one of these boys.) Older monks trundled barrows from basket to basket and out to the apple sheds. Men called and shouted and sang here and there; barrows creaked, squeaked, and bumped. Gildas and I talked softly, murmuring, whispering, hunched close together over our apple pile.

  "Cider," Gildas muttered, and tossed the apple to his right. "Dry." That apple plopped left. "So, Niv, I ask you, what did you expect the King to do?"

  A reasonable question. Why was I shocked? What would any Human king do, who saw his power threatened?

  For fifteen years I had watched Arthur tolerate Gwen with something like affection, and sport with Lugh as with a brother. When the flash of his triple wide aura reminded me of his vast pride, I told myself, Never cross this man! I knew he could be dangerous to me; but Lugh was the man closest to him, and Gwen…he had lain with Gwen, and when she proved sterile he had not cast her off. There must be some tenderness there.

  Gildas murmured, "You know he can't simply forgive his enemies like a Christian. No earthly k
ing is so powerful he can do that."

  A barrow squealed up to dump a fresh load of apples between us, then squeaked away.

  My hands sank to my sides. The heart I did not have somehow clogged my throat and weighed me down, and something was happening to my eyes. Sun and shade ran together, and though my fingers touched apples I could not see them.

  "Cry," Gildas advised. "Go right ahead and cry. Cider. Eat. Dry. You have shown remarkable courage, Niv, for a woman. Tomorrow you must be brave again, but you can take a private moment now to cry."

  Tears blurred the light. My tears. And weird choking sounds erupted around the lump in my throat. I could not hold back either tears or chokes. Sobs.

  Once begun, I could not stop. I muffled my sobs in my bunched tunic and crouched low behind Gildas. He shifted his bulk between me and most of the barrow traffic, but the orchard stretched all around us. I could only hope no monk would look down from his tree and notice that young Niv wept instead of working.

  I cried hard for a while, letting anger and fear flow out with my tears. Then I cried now and then, and busied my hands in the apples between times. When at last I could speak—though still I could not see very well—I asked Gildas, "When did you know?"

  "That you are a woman? I've known that since the day you watched me write, standing so close behind me. That day I smelled female. And I turned around and saw female."

  "And…never said…"

  "Do you say everything you know?" Gildas pulled a bit of cloth from his sleeve and handed it to me. "Clean up your face."

  The dry, soft cloth comforted my face. "What is this?" I asked, wiping my hands dry too.

  "It's a handkerchief, Mage. We civilized folk use handkerchiefs when we sneeze or cry."

  He had said "Mage." "You even know…"

  "Every herd boy knows you for Mage Niviene, Merlin's assistant. We Humans are not stupid."

  Now I could see Gildas smiling, wanting to hug himself for satisfaction, though his hands never slacked, tossing apples. He wiggled his brows at me and twinkled his eyes.

  "Merlin said if you knew…or your brother monks knew…they would burn your books."

  "I know you are not evil, Niv. Fifteen years you've been stopping here with Merlin, and no harm has come to monk, cow or corn. But as to burning my books, know you, Mage, I would sooner burn down Arimathea Monastery!"

  I studied Gildas's merry, sympathetic face. When I had the power I had never read his mind; now it was closed to me. But I saw, looking carefully, how Gildas loved his books. When he said the word "book," his eyes brightened, and a tiny smile crept from the corners of his mouth. He held out a hand for the kerchief. "I would like to wash this," I said, holding back.

  Gildas grinned. "I do no magic, Niv. Your tears are safe in my hands." He reached and drew the kerchief from me. "I never thought to see these tears."

  "I never thought to shed them!"

  "Well, now we can be honest with each other."

  "You know," I said, bending to the apples again, "it all began with you. All this came about because I told Arthur about your book."

  "What!"

  "Arthur was angry that you did not name him in your book."

  Gildas made a sound between a growl and a hiccup.

  "He does not know you are the author, Gildas. I would not tell him that. But he knows the book exists, and that he is not named therein."

  Then I told Gildas how anger had turned to lust, how I lay with Arthur in the moonlit meadow and lost my power. "Mordred would never have trapped Lugh and Gwen if I had had my power. I never had even an inkling of what was to come. I left Merlin to work alone."

  A barrow creaked nearby and Gildas bent quickly to his apple pile. "Eat. Cider." But he murmured exultantly, "The King knows! Now is my revenge perfect!"

  I whispered, "Gildas. Is your revenge all that matters to you?"

  Anger choked me like tears. Arthur was hunting Lugh like a wolf. The destruction of Arthur's Peace seemed imminent. And here heartless Gildas gloated over his worthless revenge! Who under heaven cared about what Gildas called ''history"? Who even knew what it was?

  I answered myself. Arthur knew, and cared.

  Gildas chuckled. "Because you have given me revenge, Niv, now I will do what I can for you."

  But I had never doubted that he would.

  Riding the moonless night, hunting Lugh, I had told Mellias, "There is one who will help us. Abbot Gildas of Arimathea."

  I heard the scowl in Mellias's voice. "A monk! A monastery! They will pull our filed teeth!"

  "Gildas is Merlin's friend. I trust him."

  "Hah! Well, if you come to grief, Niviene, I want to come with you." Mellias kicked his pony ahead.

  His words sank into my mind and would have sunk into my heart if I had one. When I could trust my voice I called after him, "You're sure Lugh came this way?"

  He flung over his shoulder, "If I ran naked I would make straight for our cave, like a wolf for his den."

  I knew that Lugh and Mellias had a hideout somewhere in the low hills ahead. They had spent many a moon there, fishing and hunting, while the world thought Lugh sought the Holy Grail, or during one of Lugh's rages. They slept in a cave, caught and ate raw fish and sunbathed by a stream. That was one reason Mellias stayed by Lugh. "I could never stay in the kingdom moons at a time," he said once, "if we did not come back to real life now and then."

  Now we were making for this hidden cave. Shuddering, I imagined Lugh running, naked and barefoot, over this dark plain. He must have thrown himself flat when hooves thundered behind and thus escaped unseen.

  We came to dark, crouching hills. We splashed across a stream. Mellias had no need to tell me how Lugh had crossed and recrossed this stream, how he had climbed this oak and swung through those beeches. I knew what I would have done, and where.

  One thing Mellias could have told me, had I dared ask, was why he was guiding me on this hunt. I came after Lugh because I remembered being his sister, though he had forgotten me. Why did Mellias so endanger himself?

  I dared not ask; but his crystal bounced warmly from breast to breast, reminding me of the almost Human warmth of Mellias's heart.

  In a dark glade we slipped down and hobbled the winded ponies. Mellias led me by touch down a trail barely visible in moonless dark, even to us, across the stream once more, and up a cliff face. We crawled into the cave.

  Now we couched in absolute darkness. "Lugh," Mellias murmured. And Lugh, back in the cave, whispered, "Mell!"

  Mellias asked, "Do you have kindling?"

  "In the fire pit."

  Mellias said, "A good thing I brought fire!" He guided my hand forward to touch a pile of sticks and whispered, "You can still make fire."

  "Still"? Did Mellias know about my night with the King? Now was not the time for questions.

  I warmed my palms. Moments later a little flame, a little light, licked up. I looked around at the small, low cave, furnished with a few skins and pots. A grown Human could not stand up in here. Lugh could not stand up. Bone-lean, bloody, and smudged, he lay curled against the back wall. He had rolled in mud to darken his skin. That was how he had gone unseen, flat on the breast of the Goddess, while his hunters galloped past.

  His eyes closed against the light, then opened wide. "Niviene!"

  Mellias chirped, "I brought her!"

  Lugh unfolded, stood up stooping, came stooping to me. Wordless, he took me into his bare trembling arms. Mellias hugged us both, and the three of us nuzzled, chuckled, and patted. In that embrace, I was almost glad of the danger and disaster that had brought us three back together.

  Later, Lugh pulled on the clothes and wolfed down the bread that Mellias had brought. Wolfing, he asked, "Gwen?" Speechless, I looked at Mellias. Mellias looked away. Lugh gulped. "What has happened to Gwen?"

  I tried to speak. Mellias's fingers rose and wriggled the basic sign, Fire. Lugh remembered that sign. The bread dropped from his suddenly slack hand into our fire.

&nbs
p; Mellias signed again. Unless you save her.

  * * *

  Arthur had ordered no hunt for Lugh's squire or sister, but (I told Gildas) Mellias and I took no chances. We lived in the dank, dim tunnel behind Merlin's hut and dug out an exit to the meadows. Merlin, of course, moved about freely. He was completely above suspicion. Had he not foretold the Queen's treachery long ago?

  Aefa came to us there. Huddled by our brazier, shivering in the damp, we saw a lamp approach down the tunnel. A woman, richly gowned, carried the lamp before her. Standing over us she looked tall, till I rose slowly to face her. I said, "At least, you have not betrayed us."

  "You knew I never would!"