Avilion

by Robert Holdstock

  ‘We recognised each other. Legion, led by Christian, was drawn to her, though he didn’t see her. But I did . . .’

  Yssobel, too, was drawn: to this young man with the easy smile and the hard but kind eyes.

  ‘Will you help me, then?’

  ‘As best I can.’ Peredur looked around at the rising storm. ‘Legion is moving. Avilion is alive. I cannot tell where the next and last event will take us.’

  Avilion was the lake, within its island of yew trees. Deep in its waters lay all of death and all of life. To break those waters was to return to life.

  In the yew-green forest, as Legion moved away, Yssobel clung to the memory of her mother.

  ‘We are not part of the army. We stay here.’

  The dismembered body of Christian lay in a posture of agony, some of his men grouped around it, insecure now, confused. They looked to Yssobel for direction.

  The woodland was stripped as Legion moved away. Who was leading it now? she wondered. One of Christian’s men, perhaps; the truth, and the tale, did not matter at that moment.

  The lake was calm.

  When the waters broke, it was Arthur who emerged, rising rough-armoured and angry, flanked by two women in long black robes. He stepped through the blood-red rushes and came onto the bank, pushing back the shallow mask of metal that concealed his face, throwing it aside, stripping the false armour from his body, standing naked and furious as he stared at Yssobel.

  Yssobel slowly dropped the armour from her own body. She brought it to Arthur, placed it down. The armour of the king returned.

  The dark-cloaked women revealed their faces, and for a moment Yssobel felt joy as she saw Uzana and Narine. But they shape-changed into giant birds, rising on outstretched wings above the lake. There was no movement in their flight, just the ascension. They hovered there like hawks, looking down, waiting for the kill to fill their ghost-led desires, rising on Avilion’s strong breeze. Watching with the eyes of those who know that soon there will be flesh to eat and soul to take.

  Yssobel stared up at them. They returned the gaze with the hard focused glitter of the predators they were. She called out, ‘I liked you. Uzana? You were fun to be with.’

  The dark women in their bird forms had no time for memory.

  Arthur looked like this:

  His auburn hair was unshaped, draped about his face, long and lank. His eyes, green and angry, expressed a fury that was as alive as fire. His bearded face was grim, his fine lips held tight with anger. His shoulders were scarred, his breast was scarred, the deep slash on his body oozing guts. His thighs bled again from the wounds of battle. His feet were strong, his long-fingered hands as strong and pale and beautiful as flowers.

  With the flowers of his hands he reached for Yssobel, but gently.

  ‘Why did you steal my death?’

  She shook and shivered, then reached into Arthur’s cold and damp embrace. ‘I had to pass the crossing place. The idea came to me in an instant. It came from the memory of a story that my father told me.’

  ‘Concerning what?’

  ‘Concerning you,’ she said.

  ‘My death? My passing?’

  ‘The way you crossed to Avilion. I knew for certain that my mother was here. She called it Lavondyss. She would come back here if she died, she said. The young rider had taken her.’

  His arms were warming her. The earth trembled as Legion departed, but the yew forest remained. It was as if the ghosts of the long-dead, the fallen spirits of courage, were evaporating around them. The Avilion lake surged.

  ‘I have to regain my death,’ Arthur said. ‘To do so means I must take your life. I could choose life but I would be forgotten. I can’t have that.’

  ‘I know. I saw it in your eyes when I dreamed of you.’

  Flesh against flesh, life and death held hard for a while. Then Arthur stood back, reached down and picked up the sword that Yssobel had taken from the field of battle. He turned the blade in his hand, inspecting it. It was as if he were thinking: is this worthy enough for the bold and brilliant woman?

  There was a sudden movement. The two crows screeched as they now circled overhead. Arthur came forward. There was regret in his gaze. Yssobel waited, ready to parry the blow, but the lake heaved, the waters broke again. Avilion gave up its living, and Jack walked onto the bank, a young man beside him, tall and proud and hard-featured.

  ‘I’ll give you the death you seem to need.’ He glanced at his sister. ‘What happened to Christian?’

  ‘Dead. Disposed of. I have no right to keep life when I stole this man’s death.’

  Peredur threw Jack a sword, which her brother caught with astonishing skill. He checked its edge as he advanced towards the naked man who stood between him and Yssobel. ‘Is it death you want?’

  Yssobel had never seen such fury in her brother’s gaze. There was something of the feral hound about him.

  Arthur replied, ‘May I armour myself first?’

  When Jack stood still, Arthur put on his purloined leather and the iron from the killing ground, covering himself where it was vital. The only part of his own armour that he drew, from where Yssobel had placed it, was his face-helm. The mask of the king, with its scars and memories of survival. It was as if he wished to deny everything else in the armour of the king.

  Lake water ran from Jack like sweat. Yssobel reached down and picked up the belt-ring of her hair, bound with its silver clasp. She tossed it to her brother, who caught it and slung it around his neck, grinning as he recognised his own fashioned jewellery.

  ‘I thought you looked a little cropped,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It will take a year to grow it back. Meanwhile, I’ll start to lose mine through natural causes.’ He shook his head. Then, more serious, ‘Cover yourself, Yssi. You’ll catch a cold.’

  Arthur looked at each of them. He was in confusion. ‘Brother and sister?’

  ‘Brother and sister,’ Jack said. ‘And again: if it is death that you want, you come to me.’

  The resurrected man said, ‘It was your sister who stole my death.’

  Jack approached him, his arms loose at his sides, no threat implied. ‘I’ve travelled to the edge of a world to find why my sister left my home. I discovered that she was in danger. I mistook that danger. I misunderstood the man. If you want death, you take it from me. What have you got to lose? To die? Not to die? Either way you win it back, your life in the afterlife.’

  ‘You speak as if you know me.’

  ‘I speak of the legend that is Arthur. But first: we must settle the matter. Yssobel is not involved. Please give that statement your approval.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then a moment, please, before we enter the lake.’

  Jack came up to Yssobel. ‘Cover yourself!’ he whispered again. This was the human side of her brother. Peredur tossed his own cloak from where he crouched with his men, watching the surreal scene. Yssobel drew it round her shoulders, shuddering. She was forlorn and sad. ‘Let me do this.’

  ‘No. What other purpose was there in my journey? I found Huxley, I found the edge, I found the world where our father was born - and Yssi? I could not enter it. All I have brought back is the certainty that you were in danger. All I can offer is my life for yours. The youth is called Won’t Tell. Whatever happens, take him back to his own world. But stay in the villa. Stay at the head of imarn ukylyss. “Where the girl came back through the fire.” Where Gwin came back. Whatever happens, promise me that you will stay and remember where the girl came back through the fire.’

  ‘And deny my life?’

  ‘You have Odysseus.’

  ‘I do not have Odysseus. But the villa is a crossing place.’

  ‘It is,’ said Jack. ‘And at the crossing place we find what we need, find what we want, and find that it’s not just a passing place but a settlement.’

  ‘He’ll kill you. He’s a very strong man.’

  ‘I think we shall leave that to fate. Yssi: I can’t let you die for the sake o
f a man’s immortality. Won’t Tell might even tell you his name. But he must go home. I made that promise to him. And there is a woman called Silver. Look for her. She talks the common tongue, and she would like to journey to the edge, even if only for a moment.’

  Jack stepped back. The group of men, in this restless wood, were crouched and watching, not understanding.

  Arthur said, ‘We should do it now. Avilion is waiting for one or both of us.’

  With a quick kiss, Yssobel let her brother go. Green listened for Haunter. He came as a whisper. ‘Whatever happens, Jack will always be with you through me.’

  Separated by several paces, Jack and Arthur entered the lake, walking through the mud until they were waist deep in the water. There they began the combat.

  Soon they sank. The reeds were blood red. The crows screeched and hovered in delight.

  Won’t Tell

  I will never tell you my name. Jack called me the ‘Hawkings’ Boy’. He promised to take me home. I came to trust him.

  In the yew grove he protected me, but he had put his arms around me much earlier, when the tall creatures had taken me. When the yew grove was flooded by the lake, time seemed to race by. I grew, like young thorn, fast and furious, and when Jack and I stepped from the water I was a man. I wanted to protect him as he had protected me.

  One glance, one small shake of his head, and I knew that what was happening to him was none of my business.

  He entered the water with the armoured man and there was a fury of striking blows, but below the surface. When the waters broke it was Jack who came up first, screaming and dying. The other man surfaced a moment later, silent and despondent. Then he too went down into the blood silt.

  The crows made their sound, and one descended, reaching and drawing out the limp body of Jack’s opponent. It carried it into the sky, and disappeared.

  I waded into the lake. It became deep very fast. I found Jack there, floating as if asleep. I gathered him up and carried him to the shore. The woman called Yssobel knelt by him. She touched his face, his lips, his eyes. She cried for a long while. Then she looked up at me.

  ‘Where is your home?’

  ‘Shadoxhurst.’

  She seemed to understand, nodding forlornly.

  ‘I’ve heard of it. My father talked of it. My brother longed to find it. I’ll find a way to get you there.’ She kissed her brother’s mouth. ‘I’ll keep his promise.’

  Her expression was suddenly curious. ‘In a dream, I saw you as a boy. You seem to have grown since I saw you in that dream.’

  I cannot, and will not, tell of the experience when Avilion took me, and took Jack and the old Amurngoth; and took the man called Arthur. Not until I understand it myself. Except to say that Avilion itself whispered to me that I was too young for the journey home; that I would have to grow. That I would shed years of my life to find the strength I would soon need.

  Waters were broken once, she told me. Waters would be broken again. I would have to live with the loss of youth.

  I lifted my friend. Jack was lighter than I’d thought as I carried him in my arms, then moved his body across my shoulder.

  The second crow came down, wings spread. But the wings folded and the woman appeared out of the bird-form, dressed in black, a feathered cloak.

  ‘I will take him,’ she said.

  She was old. She reached out her arms.

  I denied her. ‘No. I’ll take him myself.’

  ‘Then I will lead you,’ she said, and I agreed.

  ‘To the edge?’ she asked.

  ‘To the Villa,’ I replied. Jack had told me of the Villa. And Yssobel nodded her approval. ‘And to the Amurngoth,’ I added. ‘They will take me to the edge.’

  ‘And I will have the man?’

  ‘No,’ said Yssobel angrily, confronting the shape-changer. ‘The man is for the earth.’

  The crow flared, for a moment, in the face of the woman, then calmed. Old engaged young, and there was a silent word spoken. Yssobel whispered, ‘Narine . . . help us . . .’

  And after a moment’s pause Narine answered, ‘Why not?’

  Her fingers were a feather’s touch upon the face of the young-man-grown-older, as he held the limp body of his companion.

  Then she took Yssobel by the hand. ‘Follow. Follow. Do as I say. I’ll get you away from Avilion.’

  The Fury of Survival

  ‘Take him to the edge.’

  Yssobel sat with her father in the dusk garden of the villa. They had cried; they had comforted each other. All that had happened had been told. Won’t Tell stood respectfully distant, waiting, as did Peredur and his men. In the distance a semicircle of Iaelven crouched, watching, Silver among them.

  ‘Why not bury him here?’ Yssobel asked. ‘It’s where he grew up.’

  Jack lay pale grey in death, his body still wrapped in Peredur’s cloak, only his facial features showing. Steven leaned down and rested his face against his son’s. ‘No. If you can bear to, take him to the edge. He longed for it. Besides, this place only exists because of us. When we’re gone it will be reclaimed.’

  ‘Jack will go with it.’

  Steven looked up, forcing himself to pause in his grieving. He shook his head. ‘I can’t speak for Jack. I can only speak for myself. I would like my son to rest in the garden where I spent my own childhood.’

  The Amurngoth rose suddenly from where they had been sitting. Silver had been listening intently and translating for them. Now she approached, moon-radiant and gentle.

  ‘They will take the body,’ she said, ‘and give it earth. They will take the boy. They will fetch back the Change they left behind. There will be no difficulty.’

  Steven bowed his head in acknowledgement and covered his son’s face. A moment later, with a bird’s cry and a swirl of wind, Narine arrived, though from where she had come it was hard to tell.

  As the dark-robed queen she stood over Jack’s body, looking at it hungrily; but she addressed Yssobel.

  ‘I’ve listened to your talking. I’ve listened to your grief. I feel for this man, your father, and I feel for his wish to send Jack to a place where he might have wanted to spend his life.’

  She was silent for a long while, eyes narrowed, lips tight as she considered an option, her gaze shifting from the dead body to Yssobel. Eventually she said, ‘I feel for you too. Uzana and I were impressed by the audacity of your trick with the man Arthur. So I will make you a bargain.’

  There was a sudden spasm of pain in her face. This bargain would be hard.

  ‘As morgvalk and morrikan I take life. As a wayland I transport death to the place of healing. And as a wayland I can give life, but that weakens me.’

  What bargain? Yssobel wondered, watching the shadow of the crow flick and flitter in the otherwise beautiful face of the woman. What have I to bargain with?

  Narine continued: ‘Give me the “wood” side of the man, the Haunter in him, the ancient part - and the man part, the blood heart, will find what he wishes.’

  For a moment Yssobel was too stunned to speak. She heard a whisper from within Jack, as if a child were emerging from a disturbed sleep.

  ‘You can do that? You can separate the two sides of my brother?’

  Narine inclined her head. She was still showing pain. ‘Yes. Of course. I can turn lives upside down, inside out. I make a habit of it. Though this is an unusual situation for me. This blood and sap. You are both very strange forms of the lives I’ve gathered with my sisters over the many generations.’

  It was the red in Yssobel who was talking to the gatherer. Now the green in her took over, submerging the human.

  Within the body of the young man, Haunter was terrified for the first time in Jack’s life. He became a forest shadow, darting through the earth, pressed against the looming boles of the forest, ascending to the canopy where the air was always fresh and moist. It was a time of terror. He engaged with what he could: the musty floor of leaves, the flower-filled dells, the animal sanctuari
es within the groves, the old tracks that he knew so well by an instinct drawn from the very wood itself.

  Eventually he came back to the edge, drawn there by the cold home that was Jack-in-the-flesh.

  Green slipped into the shadow and crouched down beside him. In the garden of the Villa, Yssobel was kneeling in her cloak and belt of hair, eyes closed, unmoving. Narine stood silently, some way away, waiting with a bird’s patience.

  Peredur’s horses were restless. Perhaps they sensed the tension in the air. One of his companions led them away from the uncomfortable arena.

  Haunter said, ‘When I died, heart-stopped, I was surprised to find that I continued to be in his dream. I felt the blow and called for you—’

  ‘I didn’t hear,’ Green said. ‘Yssi was in a rage of fury, trying to be aware of everything around her.’

  ‘When the boy reached for us and drew us to the land, I just let go. The deep earth abandoned me. I couldn’t hear the sounds of stone any more. I gave in quietly. But to find I’m still alive! And though I feel a part of this strange forest, I am Jack, with all his memories and affections and irritations - at Yssi’s birthday songs! Things like that. But I am not Jack. I am the ancient in him, the echo of the beginning. So hard to define it . . .’

  ‘Don’t bother. Green feels the same.’ She reached to stroke his hand. ‘So what do we decide? For Yssi and Jack. For the red in Yssobel. For the red in Jack. Haunter: the decision is yours.’

  He thought long and hard, always looking towards the garden of the Villa, away down the hill. They were sitting at the edge of the Iaelven wood. Torches were being lit in the garden, and were being placed around the body of Jack Huxley. He had been laid on a bier, but was otherwise unadorned.

  ‘With Haunter in existence,’ Haunter said, ‘Yssobel could still be in touch with her brother. Through me, through you. If she stays at the head of the valley, stays in the Villa, she would have the small comfort of connection.’

  ‘But if Haunter is taken by Narine . . .’ Green said quietly.

  ‘Then Yssobel has nothing. Unless she goes with Jack to the edge.’