He returned to his place at the head of the assembly. The High Mage grasped the knife and, stepping to the ox, placed his hand on the side of its neck. Then, in a single fluid motion, the knife circled once and bit into the ox's flesh. Wine-red blood spurted over the snowy hide; the stupid beast did not so much as blink.
One of the attending Magi placed a krater beneath the wound to catch the vital fluid as life gushed from the animal in a crimson torrent. In a little while the beast's head nodded, then sank to the stone and the ox rolled onto its side. Three Magi put off their robes and mantles and fell upon the carcass with knives and axes. The High Mage raised the krater filled with blood and went to the king, who held out his bowl.
The High Mage poured, and when the king's bowl had been filled he placed the krater on the altar and turned to Avallach. "Who are you?" he asked.
"I am the land," he answered.
"Whence comes your life?" the High Mage demanded.
"From the people."
"Before Bel the All-Seeing, and Cybel, the All-Knowing, renew your life," the Mage instructed. "Drink."
The glimmering orichalcum bowl rose to the king's mouth and he drank the still-warm blood. The three Magi, having butchered the animal, now began stacking the quartered pieces upon the altar in a mound, reserving the liver, which was placed in a basin and set aside for augury. The ox's head was placed last upon the heap, horns outspread, huge lifeless eyes staring emptily upward.
Two Magi, bearing long poles between them, moved to the tripod and, placing a carved pole on either side, lifted the boiling and smoking caldron. They carried the vessel to the altar and lifted it high, tilting the caldron over the dismembered ox. Fire poured out in a sheet of liquid flame, igniting the flesh. Heat licked Charis' face and hands.
The fire crackled and the meat burned, sending up heavy, blue-black smoke. After a time, the High Mage took tongs and, reaching into the fire, withdrew small pieces of roast meat, placing each sizzling chunk on a platter. Then he carried the platter to the king and held it before him.
"What is your food?" the Mage asked.
"To serve the people," came the answer.
"Before Bel the All-Seeing, and Cybel the All-Knowing," the Mage intoned, "eat and be filled."
Avallach reached out and took a piece of meat, ate it, and took another. The animal's liver was brought forth and the High Mage lifted it from the basin for examination, sniffing it and feeling it with his hands. Another Mage appeared to hold the liver while the High Mage brought out a golden dagger and with practiced strokes laid open the organ. The crowd gasped as the tissue parted to reveal a mass of long, squirming white worms that spilled through the Mage's hands and onto the stone where they squirmed horribly.
The High Mage, his face dead-white, turned terrified eyes toward Avallach. "Burn it!" the king said tersely. "Burn the vile thing!"
The Mage grimaced and scooped up the diseased organ with its obscene parasites and threw it into the flames.
The greasy black smoke rolled up and flames leaped high into the twilight sky. The smell of burning meat filled the air. Charis coughed and raised her eyes to see a trio of stars winking through the pall of smoke. She stood watching a ritual she had seen many times before, yet which now seemed odd and extremely archaic; as if everything—the hill, the ox, the Mage, the caldron, the king, the people looking on—everything belonged to a time so far away, so obscurely ancient that it could no longer be comprehended, only felt in the pulse of blood that flowed through her veins.
The moon rose, bulking large and pale as it hovered on the horizon, bound to the earth by a silken thread, its disk looming through the haze as a featureless face, or an eye gazing sightless on the night world it surveyed.
And Charis felt a tremble beneath her feet, a vibration in the stone, seeping into her bones, into her heart, into her brain until she tingled all over, from the soles of her feet to the tips of her delicate fingers. She felt energy flowing from her, surging up and through her from earth to Cybel's disk and back again. She felt as if she must shine—as if ends of her hair streamed sparks of moonbeams into the night.
Charis observed those around her, saw the faces she knew so well. She gazed out from the hilltop to the city below, Kellios, royal city, lights shining from myriad windows like stars burning in a firmament of stone; and beyond, the deep blue crescent of sea shimmering beyond the curved arm of the harbor. All appeared achingly old and familiar—as if she had stood on this hilltop and looked upon this unaltered scene for ten thousand years until it inhabited her most intimate being, more a part of her than her name.
And yet…it was changed. There had been a subtle yet profound shift. Like a shift in the wind that indicates the long dry spell is broken and the rains will come, like the step that takes a traveler over the unseen boundary into another land, Charis knew the anticipation that comes when something unknown is expected.
After the ceremony, when the bones of the ox were nothing more than scattered ashes and its blood a thickening river seeping among the ancient altar stones, the celebrants walked down the hill by torchlight. Charis moved as one in a dream, her feet drifting, every movement languid and slow. She floated, rising as if from icy, turgid depths through numbing fathoms, surfacing to breathe fresh air for the first time. She felt as if she had lived her life thus far asleep and now was about to awaken. With every airy step she felt the past receding, becoming more remote, falling away from her like worm-eaten clothing, a burial gown grown wispy and rotten with age.
Her heart beat in her chest and her pulse drummed in her ears. Every object that met her gaze appeared needle-bright and surrounded with a halo of cold, shimmering light. Her mind was opened to vistas unimagined, as if the wisdom of the ages had been breathed into her soul. She knew things she had never learned, and this knowledge swirled around inside her like a giddy whirlpool.
Charis walked down the hill to the city acutely aware of everything around her and yet oblivious to all. She drifted, feeling the wash of Oceanus' restless tide as its waves tugged at her; she breathed the sharp salt air deep into her lungs, and it was like breathing a rare and subtle ether.
Words formed in her mind as if written in flame: I am the Mother of Nations; I am the Womb of Knowledge…I am Atlantis.
* * *
It was very late, but Avallach and Briseis shared a quiet moment before going to bed. The lamps burned low, and the moon shone full through the open door to the balcony. They spoke in low tones as Briseis cradled her husband, her arms around him as Avallach stroked her neck and shoulders.
There came a soft knock on the door and Avallach rose reluctantly.
The king opened the door, and the light fell on Annubi's face. The seer apologized at once. "Forgive me, Sire. I would not disturb you but—"
"What is it?"
"It is about the bull girl—earlier today."
Avallach shook his head. "I do not understand."
"I asked him to bring me word," explained Briseis as she joined him. "What of the girl?"
"I am sorry, my queen."
"Dead?"
The seer nodded. "The wound was deep, and she was overweak from loss of blood. There was nothing to be done."
"Did she suffer?"
"She resisted to the end. There was pain, yes, but I think she preferred it that way."
The queen nodded absently. "Thank you, Annubi."
With a nod to the king, the seer turned and disappeared. Briseis closed the door after him and turned to the king. "Such a waste, when you think about it." Briseis put her head against her husband's chest. They held each other for a long moment.
"It has been a long and eventful day," said Avallach at last. "I am tired."
"Go along to bed. I will just blow out the lamps." The king kissed her and moved off to the bedchamber. Briseis made her way around the room, extinguishing the lamps. As she passed the balcony, she paused: a soft melody floated up from the garden below. Someone was singing. The queen stepped to the ba
lustrade.
On the moon-drenched lawn below stood Charis, wearing only a thin nightdress, turning slowly around and around, arms raised to the sky and eyes to the moon, the strange song on her lips and a look of pure rapture on her upturned face.
Briseis opened her mouth to call out, but thought better of speaking and listened instead. It was a long moment before she could make out the words. What she heard made her breath catch in her throat.
"Mother of Nations, Womb of Knowledge, I am Atlantis…Atlantis…Atlantis…I am Atlantis."
SIX
HAFGAN STOOD WRAPPED IN HIS CLOAK OF MIDNIGHT BLUE, oaken staff clutched in his right hand. He studied the night sky for a long moment and then began pacing once more, in sunwise circles around the heel stone in the center of the stone circle, pausing only to eat a few hazelnuts of knowledge from a leather pouch at his belt.
He paced his slow circles and listened to the wind as it fingered the winter-dry grass, and to the cry of a hunting owl in a distant tree. The moon shone down fair and full as it moved through its measured course, and Hafgan noted the quality of its light as it passed overhead. Listening, weighing, judging, the druid passed the hours of the night.
When the moon stood directly over the heel stone, the druid began his chant of prophecy, humming the secret syllables to himself, slowly, deliberately, feeling their power quicken within him. The heavy curtain that normally veiled his senses began to wear thin, becoming transparent, allowing him to peer into the Otherworld, where his eyes could see, his ears hear, and his mind perceive those things ordinarily denied mortal men.
His chant became a song and he lifted his voice, releasing it to travel the unseen pathways of the air. He sang:
Earth Mother, behold your son!
Sky Mother, recognize me, your
devoted servant.
Father of Wisdom, speak to me,
that I may hear your voice,
Keeper of the Gates of Knowledge, open wide
that I may enter your realm.
Great Goddess, Queen of Life, diffusing silver light,
bull-horned, and wandering through
gloom of sacred Night,
with silvery rays you shine;
Now full-orbed, now dwindling in decline,
show by your passing,
the secret sign;
Reveal to me the vision of your sight.
At this last, he stopped pacing and threw his arms wide. His cloak slipped from his shoulders as he raised his staff high, gripping it with both hands over his head.
A shimmer lit the sky as a star streaked to earth. A moment later another plummeted earthward, and another and then the sky was alive with falling stars, all glittering, hot points of sparks, the burning wake of a firebrand plunging through the night.
When it was over, Hafgan lowered his staff and reached into his pouch for a handful of hazelnuts. He sat on a nearby stone and chewed thoughtfully while he contemplated what he had seen. He sat there, thinking, until the moon began sinking toward morning. Then, taking up his cloak, he left the stone circle and walked slowly back to his hut outside the caer.
Early the next morning, the people of Caer Dyvi gathered outside the druid's hut. Many had seen the strange starfall in the night and feared that some dire misfortune was even now speeding towards them.
They called to him, saying, "Wake up, druid! Tell us what calamity is forecast. Hafgan! Why are you still abed when danger lurks near? Wake up!"
Receiving no response, they raised a great outcry until Gwyddno Garanhir himself came forward and demanded, "Kinsmen, why this shouting so early in the morning? What is happening here?"
"Are you the only one who does not know?" asked one distraught woman. "Has no one told you?"
"The starfall last night," said another. "Terrible it was! Surely, disaster must soon overtake us."
"If it is as you say," answered Gwyddno, pulling on his mustache, "then Hafgan will tell us what to do."
"But there is the trouble," answered one of the men gathered there. "Our derwydd will not awake and talk to us."
Gwyddno nodded to Cuall, who pushed aside the oxhide hung in the doorway to keep out the wind and entered the druid's hut. He emerged only a moment later. "He has gone," said Cuall. "But the ashes of his hearthfire are still warm."
"He left this morning then," said Gwyddno. "No doubt he has gone to confer with his brother druids and will return when he has an answer for us. Therefore, we will go on about our business."
"How can we?" demanded one of the women, "Any moment our destruction may come upon us!"
Gwyddno stamped his foot. "The only ruin will be a day's work wasted if we do not look to our affairs. Go on now, all of you! Go back to your houses and to your labors. See? The sun is rising; the day has begun."
There was some grumbling and several of the women complained aloud, but they returned to their houses and began their chores. The sun climbed high and shone bright over the land. No raiding ships appeared on the horizon, and the sky did not fall. By midday their anxiety had abated; the people of Caer Dyvi put aside their fear, although they still wondered what the mighty sign betokened.
* * *
A sacred grove stood atop the hill called Garth Greggyn, above a spring-fed stream. Over the place where the water bubbled out of the side of the hill stood a stone carved in ogam and dedicated to Tywi, the god of the spring. As he made his way to the oak grove, Hafgan paused and offered a blessing to the god of the spring, then kissed the ogam stone and continued on his way.
He climbed the hill and passed between two carven images—one of Lleu, god of bards and warriors, the other Don, mother of the gods—and entered the sanctuary of the trees, where he was met by other druids of the neighboring areas who, like Hafgan, had assembled there to discuss the sign they all had seen.
Cormach, a tall, white-haired elder, sat on a stone chair surrounded by assistants and ovates. He lifted his hands in greeting as Hafgan strode up. "See here! One comes who knows better than I the signs of the heavens."
Hafgan inclined his head, smiled, and said, "Only Cormach of Dolgellau could speak so and have anyone believe him." The elder druid stood and the two embraced. Many of the younger ovates and filidh gathered around to hear the two speak, for Hafgan was highly renowned among the learned brotherhood.
At length Cormach raised his rowan staff and tapped it three times on the rock chair. All the others fell silent and took their places in a circle in the center of the grove. Several filidh passed among them with cups of acorn tea and bowls of hazelnuts. When all had been served, Cormach spoke. "If there are no objections," he began, "I will speak first, as befits an elder."
"You are chief among us," affirmed Hafgan, "so please continue."
The others, nearly twenty in all, readily assented. Cormach touched the back of his hand to his forehead and uttered a long, sighing moan, which the assembly repeated until it became a drone that echoed through the grove.
After a few moments, the Chief Druid lowered his hand and said, "It is right that we come together today. May wisdom be increased! Last night I saw a mighty sign in the sky: stars falling like a rain of fire. And today the earth warms beneath a summer sun, though Beltane is only recently passed. Tell me, my brothers, what does this indicate to you?"
"Death," answered a young druid. "A falling star always indicates death."
"Such a great fall of stars must mean a very great death," said another. "A royal death perhaps?"
They fell to arguing about which king was great enough to warrant such an omen. Cormach listened patiently as the others talked and then tapped his staff on the rock. "Hafgan, you have been silent. Do you mean to keep us in ignorance?"
Hafgan drew himself up. "It is true that a falling star often betokens death, but it may also mean birth. For death and birth are one, as we all know. Nothing is born that does not die, neither does anything die but it is reborn. Each is swallowed and fulfilled in the other."
"Well said," replied C
ormach. "What else can you tell is?"
"As our younger brothers suggest, such a great starfall can only mean great death—the death of a king, yes. Perhaps many kings."
This last caused a sensation among the druids, who murmured their surprise. "Explain, please," said Cormach when the others had quieted.
"Very well," replied Hafgan. "The stars fell into the western sea, where lie the Islands of the Ever Living. Among our own people it is said that a king and his land are one. Therefore, by this great sign I see great destruction for the Westerlands, hence great death—the death of many kings."
"And what of the birth?"
"The stars fell from the Royal House of the Sun, so I look for a royal birth."
"A royal birth sprung from the death of kings," said Cormach. "Hear and remember, my brothers; Hafgan speaks the truth."
"When will this happen?" asked a druid from neighboring Yr Widdfa.
"Wait and watch, brother; time will fulfill itself. It is enough for now to know that it will be. When the hour arrives, it will be announced with signs and wonders. Instruct the people." With that Cormach raised his staff and said, "I declare this assembly ended."
The gathering disbanded then, but the druids lingered, speaking informally to one another before beginning their separate journeys home. Cormach took Hafgan aside and led him a little apart to speak in private. They stood under the spreading boughs of a great old oak. "What is this I hear about Caer Dyvi's fortunes on the increase?"
"It is true," admitted Hafgan. "Where did you hear it?"
The old druid's eyes crinkled in a smile. "The wind reveals many secrets to those who listen."
"And men's tongues reveal more," replied Hafgan.
Cormach raised a cautionary finger. "Such an increase will be met by a decrease elsewhere. Balance will be maintained. But tell me, what of the child?"
Taliesin: Book One of the Pendragon Cycle Page 7
