Mordred, Bastard Son

by Douglas Clegg

  I knew that terrible payment that had to be fulfilled.

  Or my mother would die.

  Part III

  The Twin Souls

  Chapter Twelve

  1

  I tore myself from his arms as if pulling myself out of brambles, and ran quickly to grab by clothes.

  “No!” he shouted, rising up, still half asleep himself. “Wait! Come back!”

  I glanced back at him once, feeling that the greatest distance between us was that short space from where I stood among the reeds, that tincture of a moment as I looked at him and felt that elemental force drawing me back, for I could imagine no home but his arms, no bower but his body curled around me. I had broken from him, and whatever mystery we experienced together, whatever crude animal mating—the rutting that all the other youths boasted of, and many maidens whispered about—was finished and could not be brought again.

  Although the stranger called to me, I did not heed him and instead felt the terror clutch at my throat. I drew up my trousers, tying them up, and then carried my shirt and shoes and went running back into the dark woods, losing my way, trying to see, but without seeing. I ran through brambles, swatted at by the low-hanging branches of trees, tripping across the slick stones of streams and stepping into a deep pool one minute and nearly tripping over a fallen log in another.

  Eventually, the effects of the wine and the spent lust took their toll, and I fell to the earth, my mind turning to darkness.

  I dreamed of the statue of Namtareth, with its three heads—of the jackal, of the vulture, and of the cat. Blood had been spattered on these faces, and poured down across the white breasts of the goddess. A ring of fire grew around it, and I heard the voices of those three sisters whisper and echo that the great Morgan le Fay, Queen of Many Lands, Faerie-Queen of Broceliande, would die before the sun would set if my promise were broken to Namtareth, on whom I swore a most sacred oath.

  And then, worse of all, I dreamed of Arawn, King of the Otherworld, in his most terrible aspect. His cape was long and made of a dark gold and yet seemed more like the wings of a swan than a cape as it trailed behind him. His face was darkened, but the obscene circle of his mouth yawned like a chasm, with the many ridges of small, sharp teeth protruded from the white of his lipless gums. His eyes shone like the last of twilight upon brackish water—red and black with the distant glow of the rising moon. What could be seen of his face was as a mask of ice upon smooth bone. Upon his head, the five-pointed crown of gold, encrusted with the emerald, lapis lazuli and moon-white stones of the deepest caverns of the world, and from this crown, twin ram’s horns curled, coming from his scalp just as the antlers rose up from the head of Cernunnos. I had heard from the crones that Arawn visited those who would die soon, in their dreams. One could tell if death would be peaceful or terrible by the god’s appearance.

  I grew afraid, looking upon this horrible being. In his right hand he held the loin-spike—used to cut into a man’s lower body in order to extract the soul. In his left, he clutched the thick sword of Death, broken just beyond its hilt, which came into being fully when thrust into those who lay dead upon the battlefield. Then, when thrust into the body, the sword would take shape as a blade of ice-blue flame, according to legend.

  Surrounding this king of Annwn, were the red-eared white-skinned hounds that retrieved the souls of the dead as Arawn hunted them down. Their howls filled the air as I watched Arawn’s face—the ice began to melt across the bone, and when his face was revealed, I could not see its features, for it was as if I saw this god’s face beneath rushing waters. Instead, I looked down as he pointed that loin-spike toward his feet.

  There lay my mother’s body, her sweet face turned up toward him as the Lord of the Dead pressed his left foot upon her breast as he bent down, bringing his spike to her flesh.

  2

  I awoke close to mid-day, my head pounding, my limbs sore, with the general feeling that I had somehow been beaten and whipped. My face was covered with the pollen of the white thorn flower that had made my bed and scratched me all over my body as I had tossed and turned in the night. I went to the nearby trickle of stream, and leaning over into it, saw my face. I looked as if I had traded the face of one nineteen for one of fifty. My eyes held great sacks beneath them, darkened as if smudged with char-paste. My eyes had grown small and squinty, and my lips, rather than the fullness I had known, seemed to be gnawed at and parched. My hair was a rat’s nest tangle, as well, and I looked at myself a moment only and thought, Why would a beautiful man—the most handsome I had ever seen—want to have at this bat-faced elf-troll? And then, I wondered: Was he even handsome? What if it had been the wine? What if my inability to know what to drink had caused me to believe he was beautiful? What if I had…

  Mordred, you are a foolish man. Do not blame the wine for your want of him. You watched him before, and he said he watched you, as well. This is what you have wanted all these years, what you have dreamed of. He is not Lukat, for Lukat cannot give his love to you the way you wish. He is a gift from the Lord of the Forest, as you are his gift. Do not speak lightly of the mysteries of flesh and the heart, and do not curse them when you have invited them to your arms.

  Truthfully, the voice in my head seemed so wise and deep and grave—and angry—that I wondered if Merlin himself weren’t vesseling me from some rocky promontory at Lyonesse or in Rome, where he might go to smuggle out more scrolls.

  I quickly splashed water upon my face, hoping that all the ugliness upon me would go away, but it did not. And worse, no matter how much water I lapped up from that stream, I spat it out as soon as it was in my mouth, for it tasted most foul.

  Is this the youth to whom Merlin taught art and science? Is this the bastard-son of the great King of the Britons? Is this the son of that Witch-Queen Morgan le Fay, nephew of Queen Morgause of the Orkneys? Is this the one who thought that many men would want him in their arms?

  Was it a dream? Had last night been a phantasm? For Midsummer’s Night was a night of faerie revels as well as those of humans, and though I had still seen no faerie, nor elf, nor actual troll beyond the troll-face I wore that day, I could certainly believe that I had merely gotten drunk and wandered into the deep woods drawn by a phantom of a man I had long dreamed of; and then, under the spell of the magickal night, and of lust, and of dreams sent by those Roman wolf-bitches, and more of wine and honey-ale and other concoctions and brews, after a sun-stroked twilight of dancing and singing, that I might have simply fallen asleep among those tiny white thorn flowers and their tiny needles.

  My heart gladdened at the thought that I might not have done what I was fairly sure I had. Find a naked beautiful man? In these woods? Lying on a flat rock? His mouth over mine, whispering of secret dreams of Eros that had captured us both?

  I had seen magick performed in ritual, but none quite so self-serving as this.

  How could I have gone to him like that? For I had a vow and a bargain that I did not wish to keep. I would surely have avoided a night of passion to keep those hounds of Namtareth at bay!

  But as I washed my face again, drawing off dirty and the small thorns that had embedded into my cheek during sleep, I felt that sinking emptiness of the truth that could be called nothing other than truth.

  I had been warned all my life of such enchantments. I had been warned that during the great nights—of which Midsummer’s Night was one—to stay within the tribal circle, within the hearth-fire’s flickering shadow, lest those spirits of unrest and ill-will might divert me with their wicked pleasures. I could no longer lay the blame of this on a boy, for a boy might be forgiven. I was too old for those excuses; I knew it.

  I had the ache of body and the sweetness within my flesh that told me that I had made passionate and perhaps violent rut-pleasure with a stranger of whom I knew nothing, and had done it, despite the wine in me, because I wanted to do it more than I had wanted to do anything in my entire life.

  I rose up from that water in a panic. />
  And a hunger.

  I wanted fried goose eggs and thick cream across a great dark hunk of bread.

  In this hungry state, I rose, and wandered back home eventually, far too late in the day for anything but rabbit-and-barley stew that had been left simmering on the communal hearth.

  I fell asleep again, barely making it to the blankets across my bed, so tired from the night and the way it had brought me joy and doubt and terrible confusion of spirit.

  3

  I awoke from a nightmare, though I could not remember a moment later what had so threatened me that I had sat up in bed, my mouth open wide as if to cry out.

  And then I rose swiftly from my bed, remembering too much, a head full of clattering rocks.

  I went to attend to my mother, but she had left the caverns.

  4

  I searched about, and when I found Morgause, she told me that my mother had risen of her own strength and had spoken a few words that she wished to go to the well and the grotto to see those Roman sisters that they might help her regain her strength.

  “And you let her go?”

  “Mordred?” Morgause asked. “She had health in her. Her face possessed the glow of the goddess. She would not do otherwise. Do you think I wanted her to return to them? She could not be stopped.” Her eyes seemed cold and harsh. “What do you know of this?”

  But remembering my vow to remain silent about my promise and debt to the Anthea, I could tell her nearly nothing of this new sorrow and fear. Instead, I drank great bowls of water to alleviate my intense thirst, and dipped bread in honey that I might satisfy what emptiness I felt in my gut.

  Then I went to the paddock above and asked the herdsman there for the fastest horse he had. As I mounted this steed, I noticed the darkening of the sky—I had slept half the day, and the night was coming too soon.

  I rode out to the Well of Poison and prayed that Namtareth herself would allow me time.

  5

  I arrived at the grotto in the cool of the early evening. The flowering vines that hung down from the ledge above the grotto’s doorway had blossomed with magnificent red-orange petals and a yellow-black center. The statue had a brightness to it, as if it had been washed and polished. The water itself was clear and teeming with eels and small yellow fish.

  “Anthea!” I called. “Daughters of Namtareth! Come out and hear me!”

  My voice echoed in that place, but I did not hear a sound from within, nor did I see evidence of flickering light.

  “Mother!” I shouted. “Mother! Are you here?”

  Again, I heard nothing.

  I waited for an hour or more. I called to them many times, but the Anthea did not show themselves nor did I see evidence that my mother had been there that evening.

  As the darkness came, I mounted the horse and turned it to go when I heard a terrible scream from within the grotto entrance. I leapt down and splashed into the pool of water, going up to my knees. The eels swam away, and I waded past them to the doorway of the grotto. Though no man was meant to enter this place, I stepped in through the doorway, and up to the muddy floor. Stones had been piled on either side, and water ran between them. I walked along the stones, crouching down as I moved in through the long tunnel of it, and as I went I did see a light come up at some distance.

  Down that dark tunnel I followed the light, and when I got closer to it, I saw that it flickered like torchlight, and I went into a chamber filled with candles, the smoke of which was like bitter incense.

  On the floor of the chamber, which was dry and strewn with rushes, my mother’s body.

  Her hands were about a twin-bladed sword that was of the ritual kind of the bloodier religions that still practiced murder though they might call it sacrifice.

  Crouched in a corner, those three harpy-women, each snarling at me as I entered their lair. Their confusion of voices was like a plague of locusts flying about my ears.

  “You did not pay the price.”

  “Though you yielded your flesh.”

  “To a man.”

  “A beautiful man.”

  “We know him well, for he came to us for visions once.”

  “Visions and poison.”

  “Though he, too, failed in that quest.”

  “But for his purity and beauty, we could not harm him.”

  “But we bring him dreams.”

  “Dreams of you.”

  “Your mother has taken her own life.”

  “She had tried once before, but you saved her.”

  “Can you save her now?”

  “She has taken Arawn for her lover.”

  “Namtareth blesses her.”

  “Namtareth curses the name Mordred.”

  “Thrice cursed is Mordred.”

  “Nine times nine cursed is Mordred.”

  “Where is our payment? The sun has gone down.”

  “You made the bargain.”

  “You gave us your word.”

  “Your sacred word.”

  “Upon your mother’s life,” they snarled.

  “But if you bring us the Cauldron, you may yet see your mother.”

  “For it is the Grail of healing.”

  “Of rebirth.”

  “It will call your mother back to life.”

  “From the arms of Arawn.”

  And then, their echoing snarls and growls silenced for a moment.

  I looked down at my mother, the pallor of death on her skin, and could not believe she had taken her own life here. And yet Viviane had been right when she had told me, “Once a soul has decided to leave this life, it is nearly impossible to stop it.”

  “And if I bring it?” I asked, fury rising up in me. “If I get you your payment?”

  The sisters looked at me, their snake eyes narrowing. “If you bring it tonight, there is time, for see? She has a little breath still, and the poison in her is slow as the bite of the river adder.”

  6

  The horse flew like the wind itself, and I came to the cavern by way of its narrow entrance, between the brambles, for I did not wish to call attention to myself to those watchers in the forest that might see my agitation and wonder about my intent. Nor did I wish to see Viviane or Morgause, or any friend or foe that might delay my getting that sacred object from the water.

  I had no thought to the Lady of the Lake, for I did not believe she had enough power if she could not stop the evil of Namtareth or stay my mother’s hand from desiring death.

  7

  I swam out to that middling point of the lake, and looked for the markers above as to the center. I took a deep breath, and dove down, pushing and kicking and drawing myself as far toward the heat below as I could. And yet, I could not find the Cauldron, nor did I find that strange green light near it where the burning water came through from far below the earth.

  Three times did I rise and dive again, and then six, and then nine, and yet I could not find it. I had grown exhausted, but my heart beat fast, for I did not want to waste a moment while my mother lay in death’s arms.

  I dove down again, deciding that if I did not find it on this attempt, I would drown myself trying and perhaps meet my mother at the entry to Arawn’s kingdom.

  Instead, I saw that glimmer of light, and I moved toward it. My hand again blistered with the burning water, and but I held to the lip of the bowl and brought my other hand to it as well. I felt as if my wrists and forearms were afire, and then it spread further as I tugged at the Cauldron.

  It gave itself up more easily than I had expected, and I wondered if my father in stealing the sword from its stone-buried place in these caverns had already drawn it with the ease with which I drew up this object.

  The Cauldron did not feel heavy until I had brought it to the surface, but with some effort, I dragged it alone with me to the shore, and soon had taken it up with me onto my horse. The Cauldron was the size of a large cooking bowl, the kind that we might make stews in for several guests at the table. Yet it was not beautiful nor
did it have jewels around its silver rim. The mask of the goddess called Coventina was within the bowl, that goddess of the underworld whom the Romans called Proserpine, and on the outer edge of the bowl were images of the Lord of the Dead, Arawn, his sacred boars and adders entwined about it. On its underside, was the great Dragon of Life, which slept beneath the Cauldron of Rebirth.

  I rode again through the black night as if knowing the way to the grotto of Namtareth by heart.

  8

  The least hideous of the three sisters met me at the grotto, and gasped when she saw the bowl. Her mouth moved as if speaking, but no words came from her, such was her delight at seeing the gift I’d stolen for them. I would only learn later that these sisters had been on the verge of death themselves, and the last of their shared soul had been used to its last moments before I brought the sacred Cauldron to them.

  Her other sisters crawled to the lip of the doorway, and when they finally spoke, it was with one small raspy voice, as of one who has need of drink. “Leave the Cauldron,” she said.

  “Take your mother.”

  “Morgan le Fay lives again.”

  “She breathes.”

  “She lays now beside the Poisoned Well.”

  “Arawn be praised, he has brought her back.”

  “From the brink of death, which is a blessing, though folk do not believe it.”

  “Though her blade was poison-tipped, still she lives,” they said.

  “Take her that she may live again.”

  “Long life to Queen Morgana,” they said.

  “Queen of the Faerie, she is.”

  “And of the Wastelands.”