Avilion

by Robert Holdstock

  Father and daughter exchanged a quick smile as the Saxon moved irritably away. ‘Dried meat and fruit,’ said Yssobel softly, holding her head in her hands theatrically. ‘Oh no.’

  It was Ealdwulf’s way of signalling that the meal was frugal, and badly prepared. Something had gone wrong in the kitchen. Probably an argument.

  Later, Steven went to Guiwenneth’s room, the small alcove where she liked to stitch hides together to make hunting outfits, or create small images in clay or bark of the entities and memories of her childhood. Yssobel had inherited her artistic talents. Guiwenneth’s shapes and forms were stranger, far more sinister in appearance, even though she claimed they were benign.

  Yssobel was sitting on the floor, leaning back against her mother’s knees. The room was illuminated with candles, and Guiwenneth was holding the portrait of her father and talking softly.

  Everything was peaceful.

  ‘I think, yes, he must have been very like this. I saw his image on a coin, and scratched on a piece of slate. I don’t know who scratched the lines.’

  Yssobel leaned back, eyes closed. ‘Probably your mother Deirdrath. When she and Peredur were in love.’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘Tell me what happened. What you were told had happened. It’s time I knew.’

  A mother’s hand raked gently through a daughter’s hair.

  The portrait was placed aside.

  Sadness and memory hung heavily for a moment, then Guiwenneth, her voice almost as weak as the frail, ghostly body that contained it, whispered what she knew of her birth. Everything she remembered. Some of it, Yssobel and Jack had already been told.

  ‘Deirdrath met Peredur after a battle. She tended to his wounds. I think he was just a boy then, not yet the king. He hadn’t yet fought for the war chief’s seat at what would become Dun Peredur.

  ‘Deirdrath’s sister, Rhiathan, was barren, but her consort, a Roman of rank, wanted very much to have his own child. He planned to stay in Britain after his time of service to Rome was finished. So when I was born, Rhiathan killed my mother and took me for her own.

  ‘I’m not sure where my father was at the time. Peredur was always away. War was commonplace; or perhaps he was taking hostages from another island. Ship raids along the coast were common, from another island, further west.

  ‘When Peredur came home he knew at once what had happened. But Rhiathan’s husband had gathered a force of men to guard the fort. Peredur and his shield-men, nine in all, went to a place and summoned the Jagad, a dangerous thing to do. She rules the pathways to the underworld. She rules ice and fire. She hunts what lies between the land and the wasteland. She can misdirect the dead on their way to the otherworld, so that a brave man can find himself stranded in nowhere rather than rejoining his fellow horsemen and heroes and starting life again.

  ‘The Jagad exacted a great price for her help, but she allowed Peredur and his companions to transform into any three animals they wished. That was when they became Jaguth, which means: bound to the huntress.

  ‘They first chose eagles. The Romans used an eagle as their standard, so I can see the pleasure he must have taken as he swooped and took me, just an infant, from the unsuckling false-mother.

  ‘Sadly, a bowman of great skill, as great a skill as yours, Yssi, shot him down from the air. That was that. I was passed between the others.’

  ‘My dream,’ the girl whispered. ‘That’s my dream.’

  ‘I know. The Jaguth,’ Guiwenneth went on, ‘transformed and protected me until I was old enough to ride. But then the Jagad called them back - she took back what she had believed to be hers.

  ‘Without their protection, I was lost. But I survived. And the Jagad, terrible woman, showed one small morsel of compassion. Every year on the day of my birth she allowed the Jaguth to find me, for a night only. And the last time I saw them was at Oak Lodge, at the edge of the wood, after I had met your father and was still happy. Before I was taken again.’

  ‘What is the day of your birthday?’ Yssobel asked, suddenly shivering.

  Guiwenneth smiled knowingly. ‘Soon. I sense it.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I can hear them again. After all this time. Their voices are on the wind. They are coming again. But they bring a cold fire with them. Urgency and danger.’

  The room had gone cold as well. The mood had changed abruptly.

  Yssobel said stiffly, ‘What danger?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said her mother softly, meeting Yssobel’s gaze with cold eyes.

  The girl almost screamed with irritation, twisting round to kneel facing Guiwenneth, a flame-haired, furious-faced image of the older woman. She snatched the portrait back. ‘You hear danger in everything! You smell danger in everything! What has happened to you?’

  And with a loud groan of frustration, she stood and started to walk from the chamber, hesitating only when she saw Steven standing in the doorway.

  Suddenly humbled, she turned back and placed the painting on her mother’s lap. Guiwenneth stared straight ahead, pale and unmoving. Yssobel walked grimly past her father, though Steven saw there were tears in the girl’s eyes.

  But enough had been done by the donation of the portrait of Peredur to ease the tension between the two women. Yssobel became fascinated with her grandfather, forcing her dreams to bring him to her sleeping mind, and she painted him vigorously; and in those paintings were reflections of his history, of his life, even - once - of his childhood.

  She used sheets cut from a scroll that recorded part of The Iliad. Since the paint did not penetrate through to the text, Steven ignored the disrespect for the poet who had recorded the story of a fateful few days in the siege of Troy. He couldn’t read the language anyway, and occasionally Yssobel - when ‘green’ - would rattle through some of the lines, sighing heavily with boredom. To Steven this was magic from his daughter’s mouth, even if what she read was simply the list of ships and men who had gathered from all over the Greek world to savage the city of Troy itself.

  The Cretans came in eighty black ships. All these were under the command of Idomai, who carried ten spears and two shields. He led the ships from Gnossos of the two-bladed axe, from Great Walled Gortyn, from all the hundred towns of Crete.

  ‘Where’s Crete?’

  ‘An island. A long, thin island, with mountains and valleys, rivers and wilderness.’

  ‘I like wilderness.’

  ‘It was famous for a labyrinth that had a very strange attribute. For sacrifice. For a creature that was made of one part man, one part woman, one part bull and one part wood. Once a year, this monster ate a meal of Greeks, fourteen in all.’

  ‘Quite a feat.’

  ‘Quite a feast. Four times a year, at the turning of the seasons, the creature was allowed to mate. It gave rise to strange offspring.’

  ‘You’re making this up.’

  Steven laughed. ‘A little embellishment, perhaps.’

  ‘But the island existed?’

  ‘It did. Oh yes.’

  ‘And the strange attribute of the labyrinth?’

  ‘I made that up as well.’

  Yssobel smiled. ‘I don’t think you did. There is something forceful about what you said, something of truth in it.’

  Another few lines from the ancient text caught her by surprise.

  Twelve ships, painted with crimson bows, came under Odysseus, master of all the masters of Ithaca. This was a great host, a great force, in awe of Odysseus, whose life-force and cunning rivalled that of life-engendering Zeus.

  She stared at the words, and without looking up asked, ‘Twelve ships?’

  ‘He took part in that great war. Against Troy. You know this.’

  ‘So this is part of what happened to him later. It’s strange to find it written. Master of all the masters of Ithaca. He’ll be very regal, then. Is Ithaca like Crete?’

  ‘Yes. A territory, a part of a greater land. Not an island. Our young friend Odysseus is destin
ed for long memory and fame; probably most of it wrongly reported.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Time creates confusion. Time changes memory.’

  ‘Well, of course. Don’t treat me like a child.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She sighed. ‘I miss him.’

  ‘You might find him again.’

  But Yssobel looked up and shook her head, sad and also knowing; accepting. ‘He’s moved on. Dad, you know that. If he remembers me, I’m pleased. But he’s moved on. I know that.’

  Steven was quiet for a moment, trying to find the right words. He couldn’t find them.

  You don’t know anything of the sort, he thought to himself. Not in this place. Not in this world. But then: I only know half of you, even though you’re my daughter.

  Red side, green side. What must it feel like to have that mix? What colours your dreams?

  Yssobel looked up suddenly, sharply. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She stood and came round to him; she was curious. Shorter than her father, she put her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking,’ Steven said, ‘that I’d like you to paint a picture of Guiwenneth; and of Jack; and of me. On fragments of The Odyssey, though The Iliad will do if needs be.’

  ‘Why do you want pictures of yourself?’

  ‘To be remembered by.’

  Yssobel laughed. She stayed where she was, holding Steven tightly. ‘But I know you. I can remember you. Peredur, Deirdrath - I need them because I can’t know them. Why would anyone want pictures of you? Especially of Jack! I’d have to paint him conceited and cocky.’

  ‘He’s not conceited and cocky.’

  ‘You don’t know him like I know him.’

  ‘Then you misunderstand him.’

  ‘I’m teasing.’ She looked up, pulled away a little. ‘Why? Why pictures?’

  ‘What if the green side of you should die? How will you remember us? If we’ve all gone.’

  ‘The red side of me will have everything that I need to remember. It’s blood that comes out of me when I fall and cut myself. Blood at the moon time. The wood is not in my veins, just in my head.’

  ‘And if the red side of you dies? What about the green?’

  ‘You will be legend. What else? But then, what is legend to a tree in the middle of the wild? If only the green in me survives, there is no need to mourn the passing of a father. Or a brother. Or a mother. You think too much, dad. You worry too much.’

  ‘I’d still like you to paint us. If all of you go, and I’m left: a small icon helps. You’ve worked so hard to bring an image of your grandfather to life. I love it. I think Gwin does too, despite your row. Use your skill to leave a little of the rest of us behind. And put something from your dreams in each painting. OK?’

  ‘Ok,’ Yssobel said without a pause, and with a smile.

  ‘And in exchange I’ll find you a horse to rival Caliburn. A better horse.’

  ‘For when I go?’

  Steven hugged his daughter. ‘Yes. For when you go.’

  ‘Caliburn is a wonderful horse. But he’s getting old. He changes when we enter Serpent Pass. It’s as if he’s going home. He knows exactly where to tread as he winds up through the rocks. When he dies I’d like to place him in Odysseus’s cave.’

  Steven was pleased by the thought. ‘So you’ll stay and terrorise the villa at least until the old war horse kicks his last?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. And Rianna has already promised me a new horse - a special horse, she says. So you don’t need to go trading.’

  Game and Promise

  Yssobel found Jack in the forge, helping Hurthig to beat out a new sickle blade from one of the pieces of iron that they gathered, as well as forage for the fire, from the surrounding valleys.

  Her brother, dripping with sweat, was distracted. Hurthig concentrated on his job, talking to Jack with his fingers and gestures. The coals flared and water hissed in the tempering barrel, and Jack was clearly proud of his efforts.

  He was learning a lot from the silent Saxon youth.

  ‘If you’ve come to be shod, you’ll have to wait your turn. Horses come first. And besides, I don’t know how big your feet are.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  Jack hammered the edge of the blade, then tested it with his finger, passing it to Hurthig, who twisted it this way and that, and then nodded approval.

  Wiping the sweat from his face, Jack grinned at his sister. ‘I’m getting to be quite good at this.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be rubbing down the horses?’

  ‘All done. The horses are happy.’

  ‘That’s good to know. I do like to hear that our horses are happy. And so: you’ve come to see your brother master his skills at . . . sickle making.’

  He lifted the blade, made gestures as if using it as a weapon. Hurthig looked bemused.

  ‘Do you like doing this?’ Yssobel asked.

  ‘I love doing this. Oh yes. Take something old, shape it new. Bring the gleam back to the dead. Bring the cut back to the edge that was blunted by neglect.’

  ‘Eloquent. I suppose.’

  ‘Thank you. Anyway. What makes you stand here watching me? Something of iron for you? Or of bronze? I have bronze. Ask me to make it, I’ll make it. With a little help from Hurthig,’ Jack added quietly and with a confidential smirk, as if speaking quietly mattered. The Saxon was far too busy with his own thoughts and skills. ‘I’m good, but not yet good enough.’

  ‘Do you have silver?’

  Stripping off his leather apron, untying his long hair from the strap that held it back as he worked at the fire, Jack frowned. ‘Silver. Silver? Why silver?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do I? Have silver?’ He walked to a box and opened it, peering down at the loose metal contents, moving his fingers through them. He was thinking hard. He picked out a small figurine, a woman diving as if into the sea, then a coin, turning it in his fingers. He dropped them back into the small hoard. ‘Yes, I have silver. Not much. I could probably find more. Why do you ask? I don’t waste it on horseshoes, not even for my sister.’

  ‘I don’t want to be shod; nor bridled.’

  ‘I didn’t think you did. Why silver?’

  ‘I want a silver ring to hold back my hair. When I ride through the deeper wood my hair catches in the branches. In the briar, if I’m hunting, I need to tie it down. Hard. A ring of silver.’

  ‘I tie my hair with leather. Or strips of fleece. Or strips of thin metal. Or thin rope. You could tie yours with any of those things. You could tie it back with a sharp word! Tie a parchment picture of our grandfather around it. Anyway, I know you tie your hair with bands of leather.’

  ‘But now I want silver.’

  Jack leaned back against the brick wall that contained the fire, quickly standing up as the heat began to burn him. He swore, brushing at his backside, and Yssobel was amused. Her brother laughed too, then said, ‘All right. Silver. You have something in mind?’

  ‘Something thin, something designed. Something that if I end up on a field of battle, and my scalp is taken as trophy, the ring will be admired. Something that when I’ve completed my days can be passed on to my daughter. Something that will mark me as Yssobel. Something to be loved by.’

  Jack stared at her, eyes wide, face expressionless.

  Then he said, ‘Well, that sounds easy enough.’

  After a moment, they laughed again, and he said, ‘Yssi, I’ll do my best. A ring to hold your hair. And in exchange . . .’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Then show me how to find the edge of the world.’

  ‘That, alas, I can’t do.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And so in exchange: what? Not another verse of that song!’

  Jack turned from her. Hurthig had slumped down, sipping water from a clay flask and
brushing some of it across his sweat-saturated face. Over the coals, Jack stirred the fire with the same blade he had just shaped, the reaping knife. He was not a man given to easy thought.

  ‘I don’t want to lose you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to lose this home, this villa. But we must move to the place that calls us. We have to.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How will we keep in touch? How will I know you’re safe?’

  ‘And how will I know that you are safe? And how will our parents?’

  ‘Gwin will always know. But Gwin is fading. I feel it.’

  ‘I feel it too.’

  Jack looked up from the fire. Yssobel met his gaze.

  And the young man said, ‘I don’t know why, or for what reason, or purpose, or because of what dream, or vision, or hawk’s cry of warning, or hound’s growl in your waking dreams, you want a ring of silver for your hair, but I will make it for you and pattern it as you require. With a little Saxon help,’ he stated. ‘In exchange, never let me go. And in exchange I will never let you go.’

  Yssobel had slumped down by the wall of the forge, knees drawn up. She was staring into the dusk, towards the darkening sky that came from the valley, from imarn uklyss.

  ‘Winter’s coming.’

  ‘Winter?’ Jack said with a frown. ‘We’ve only just had winter. Not so soon.’

  He walked away from the heat, out into the cold, stepping beyond the glow of the forge. He raised his head and took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. Winter. Again. So soon.’

  He came back and sat down next to his sister. Hurthig walked past them, shivering suddenly, then used his hands to signal goodnight, and could Jack please make sure the fire was controlled until it was reduced to embers, ready for the blow of the bellows tomorrow.

  Yssobel said, ‘I want to play the game. We haven’t played it for a long time, Jack. But I would like to play it now.’

  ‘Yssi ...’

  ‘Jack! I want to play the game. This might be our last time. And this time, it might be important.’

  ‘I have to look after the fire.’

  ‘The fire will die on its own. It can look after itself. It’s going nowhere.’