Mordred, Bastard Son

by Douglas Clegg

  Even as I said it, I understood what he had just taught me.

  “You see? You’re brighter than you’ve led yourself to believe.” He chuckled, washing my back with a scraping stone that felt as if it would rake my flesh. “Of course, all realms are equal. The realm of our flesh. The realm of death. And that realm of our dreams that few understand yet many visit.”

  “And if all are equal,” I said. And then, it felt like a lightning bolt. I stood up in my bath, splashing water all over him and the floor, and I turned to him and said, “Then what is of dreams may be brought through magick here. In the flesh itself.”

  “You are more advanced in this Art than either of your parents, Mordred,” Merlin said, wiping the sudsy water from his shiny bald head. “And now I will tell you the dream I had when you were born, for I have waited long to mention it but could not do so until I was sure you would understand it.”

  So, late into the night, over several sweet breads that Merlin had brought that night for us to share, we sat upon my bed and he told me of a dream he had of me during the Beltane ritual. It was a long tale to listen to, and much of it had little to do with me but with the love he had for my mother, which he had never told her of directly, but finally he revealed his vision to me. “I saw a great orb of the sun crossed in the shadow of the moon as if it were mid-day in Annwn, as if the dragon had swallowed the sun-god and yet kept light upon the earth. Yet, this light was cast in a glow that was summer green, and beyond it, I saw a battlefield upon which many warriors lay dead. Wolves gathered at the edge of dense woods tearing at the dead and dying, and smoke from the fires of burning villages filled that air and changed the light to a sulfurous yellow. The cries of many went up to the heavens, and flocks of birds came from the smoke, and in their talons were the souls of the mist-like souls of the dead. I saw a man in a mask and full armor, though this was of yellow gold, with the signs of those goddesses of the East, Persephone and Demeter and those gorgon sisters of Crete, emblazoned on his breastplate. He held high that sword that your father had stolen from the Lake of Glass, and brandished above his head. I saw the jewels about its hilt shining in that unearthly sunlight. I saw the blade, clean and sharp, and the inscription upon it in one of the lost languages, which read, ‘He who is meant to rule Caliburn, the sword of destiny, shall bring death to his enemies and peace to his lands, but woe to him who holds it long for it is power in all its terrible purity, and woe upon him who grasps this sword without the blessing of its creator for it was forged in the mountain of Calib, within its lake of fire, and was bought with the souls of many men.’ This man who wielded it was not your father. Beneath that mask, I saw your eyes, and in the dream I approached him. I reached up to draw the mask from your face, and that is when my dream ended. But I knew it was Mordred, son of Morgan, queen of many lands, and son of Arthur, the High King of the Britons. I knew it was the baby that had returned his soul into this passage of life. And this is why I have brought you into the knowledge of Art from which many youths and maidens are forbidden. Even your father has not learned of many things that you have been trained in. You are a swordsman and have the knowledge of a young mage within you. All that you know will grow, for you offered the gods your purity while you studied, and you may be a greater man than many might be in this life. I believe you are here as the son of Morgan and of Arthur because the goddess herself wished for you to be born, Mordred. Do not unwish it ever again, no matter how dark your days may become. You are meant for a great destiny, although I fear…” And here Merlin sighed, deeply, bringing his hands to his face as if despairing of his own visions.

  “What do you fear?”

  He raised his head up, and tried to smile but could not. “I cannot tell you all my fears, for to one who cannot remember the lifetimes, it is pure terror and madness. But it is simply those elementals that tug at us and draw us where the gods wish. But do not refuse the cup of life as long as you may drink it, Mordred, for you are meant for something great, though I cannot know what that is, nor if it is a terrible greatness or a wonderful magnificence.” The gravity of his voice and feature changed suddenly, and his eyes seemed to twinkle like he was a child again. “How is that bread? It was baked by a fetching wench who warmed me at her fire one night.”

  I looked at the small curved roll in my hands, and then back to his face. “Bread does not interest me this night,” I said. “If Morgause has taken the Cauldron of Rebirth, and yet it holds no magick since breaking, to what purpose does she put it?”

  “It may be mended yet,” Merlin said. “There is more to the Cauldron than the broken shards of a bowl, Mordred. Its waters are all around us, yet we do not see them. Yet I do. I feel myself move through the waters from that Cauldron.”

  “Like the pull of the elementals,” I said.

  He shrugged, nodding. “Certainly. But through the Art you have learned, you may change the current of these things. That is how the healing will begin, and even Morgause does not understand it, for she abandoned her art long ago. Though she has a foot upon this world and the next, she does not understand this water of life that is around us. She sees only the bowl, and not what it contains. It cannot truly be broken, ever, though that bowl has cracked. The Cauldron is that cup of life—of eternal life—and to heal its breach, one must first know what to ask of it.”

  “You have always spoken in riddles, like the Druids do,” I said.

  “To those who understand, there is no riddle to this,” he said. “But to you, well, you have much pain that keeps you from your understanding.”

  “Why does life bring so much pain?”

  “Men rarely ask this question,” he said. “Because they are too afraid to know its answer.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  He laughed aloud. “No, it is not. Pain is the passage itself. When a child is born, both the child and mother feel pain. And yet, would you keep the child unborn within the mother’s womb for many years rather than bring that pain that the child may come through and the mother hold him? And so, in death and loss, we bring pain and we swim within it. But it is a sign of the passage, nothing more. Your mother understood this, though your aunt has never grasped the value of the passing of life.”

  “I must stop Morgause from what she seeks,” I said, after thinking a moment. “She means to destroy that maiden Guinevere that travels to my father at harvest time.”

  Merlin wagged a finger in my face. “Stopping her will not be simple. You must not attempt it. Morgause has brought back knowledge of the souls of the dead that even I do not possess. She is nothing but fury and power, and I am afraid that it will be nearly impossible to stop her.”

  “Nearly? So then she may be stopped. My mother’s half-soul may find its rest?”

  “All power has a flaw,” he said. “For she cannot halve her soul and have it remain in Annwn without longing for its other half. And the same is true for your mother’s half-soul within her. The soul in Annwn cannot find its other half, unless there is innocent blood on the hands.”

  “If she kills?”

  “If she herself, by her own hand, has the stain of the blood of an innocent upon her, that blood will cry out to Arawn. And the echo of the cry will reach her half-soul. That part of her in the land of the dead will draw its other half into Annwn to be joined together at last, for the soul always seeks what it has lost. But Morgause knows of this, and will do all she can to keep her own hands clean.”

  “Then she is not to be feared,” I said.

  “Innocent blood,” Merlin reminded me. “She may cause others to murder. She may murder one who has the stain of much guilt upon him. But she will do all in her power to keep her half-soul from calling out to its mate. But let us not think of this now,” Merlin said. “For I know that your father’s wedding feast is not for many weeks. You must rest awhile. Do not punish yourself further with a visit to Morgause. I am sorry that I did not foresee this twin-soul business many years ago when your mother stole raveling from me. Yet
I could deny your mother nothing.” His eyes glazed over a bit, and he seemed to have, however briefly, gone to another time in his mind. Then he returned and rose up from my bed. “You must rest. You may not find much peace here now that your fever has passed, for the tribes have turned against you, whelpling. I can do nothing to convince the council otherwise, though I have tried. Viviane defended you as well. But they have the law of the Lady and the Isle, and you did steal that bloody Cauldron, and they blame you as well for all else that has come to pass here. No, you must find a place that welcomes you, a warm bed for rest and a soup bowl for strength. I will seek out Morgause, for she sleeps among the standing stones near the Grove, and like a beast she snarls at those who come to her. I will deal with her soon enough. You must find your way in the world until such a time as I may bind her from doing further harm, for it is you she will wish to destroy and your blood on her hands will not call her soul to Annwn.”

  5

  When I finally emerged from my bedchamber the next morning, nearly all who had lived in the Isle of Glass turned their backs upon me. My crimes were known: I had stolen the Cauldron of Rebirth from its sacred resting place, and I had caused it to break. It had been useless in saving my mother’s life, neither could it be placed back within the water for fear of offending the goddess even more.

  I had brought shame into the Lake of Glass, as it hadn’t known since Arthur and Lancelot, barely more than boys, had brought shame to them.

  I walked among my people as a ghost, and though Viviane still faced me and spoke to me, and asked me to carry her to the world above when she wished it, I could even tell that she had nothing left to offer me but sorrow.

  Finally, I could stand this living death no longer. I took Viviane up into the meadows above, and we sat at the edge of a copse where I had often gone to gather kindling for the winter fires. Viviane brought with her a basket of berries of red and yellow hue, sweet and tart upon the tongue. She shared them with me, and after too much silence, she said, “I must bring you the saddest news in a summer of sorrow.”

  I knew before she spoke what this news would be. “I must leave.”

  She nodded and tried to muster a warm smile, but could not.

  “Merlin told me before he left us,” I said. “I understand.”

  Tears began to glisten at the corners of her eyes. “You may live above, as the messengers do.”

  “Messengers and hunters and outcasts,” I said, knowing the law all too well. “For even outsiders may have the forest of Broceliande, though only the sanctified of the tribes may dwell upon the Isle of Glass itself.”

  “We cannot go against the council and the will of our people,” she said. “No matter how I wish I could keep you here. I have known you since your birth. I have loved your mother and you all these years. I understand why you had to take the Cauldron.”

  I glanced over at her. “You do?”

  She nodded. “I think even the Lady herself understands, Mordred. You have suffered much for this. But I have lived in this world long enough to know that in times of tragedy, it feels like winter. But winter only lasts so long before the sun comes to the forest again, and the lakes above us melt. You are a young man, and you must make your way in the world. I am sorry that the law may not be trespassed, for there are no exceptions. But I know that whatever the goddess has in store for you, it is the path you were meant to take. When I lost the use of my legs, do you think I loved life then? That I felt the gods had not brought curses down on me? And yet, now, I see that what happened to me set me upon the path that would become my life and there was no other way for me to find that path. I will hope that you will come to understand how the path of life meets us in such dark days. Life chooses us. We do not choose it. And yet, Mordred, if you can learn to grasp this, to come around to the side of seeing your life as the gods themselves see it, you will not only find happiness, but you will seek out your path.”

  I felt my heart grow heavy with grief, and the caverns themselves seemed to have taken on the aspect of a tomb for me. Though the place was filled with children playing at the lakeshore, and the huntsmen had dressed a boar recently brought down in the fields, and I watched the maidens who worked near the burning ovens of the forge, mending swords, it was no longer home. They were at the business of the living, yet they did not seem alive to me anymore.

  Finally, as I left my home and said goodbye to Viviane for what I thought would be forever, I packed up provisions and some clothes I had. I drew my blankets across my back and took the few weapons I had earned from childhood to manhood—a dirk, and a short-sword, as well as a small axe I could keep at my side. I climbed the steps upward from the cavern at the isle into the paddocks above. The thickset horses of the Eponi were out in the yellow summer fields grazing. Men and women were about their work, and the grain had grown high for the fall harvest that would come soon enough. Lukat’s father, Anyon, met me, for he did not shun me as others did. He had aged a bit much in the past few years, and I wondered if the grief of his son’s leaving had hurt him too much.

  “Do you hear from Lukat?” I asked.

  He shook his head sadly. “I wait every full moon for the messengers from the coast. But none has brought news of my boy. But should you see him, you tell him to come home for Beltane next, will you, lad?”

  The fact that he still saw me as a boy made me even sadder, for it reminded me of my happiness here in the hidden lake that lay beneath the forest slopes. He offered me a bow and a quiver of arrows that he had carved himself that summer. “A man needs to eat when out in the wilderness,” he said. “You are a good shot, so you shall have a fine time of it. And do not ever forget, you’re welcome to sleep here, in our shelters, though you must share the paddocks with our horses. The Eponi will never shun a son of Morgan le Fay.” He smiled as broadly as he could, and chucked me slightly in the shoulder in a way that gladdened my heart. “And I have another gift for you, lad. Just back in the paddock.”

  He pointed off to the many horses that grazed the field that was enclosed by a low stone wall. “See? That one. That white horse? See? A white horse who is a great-grandson of a royal mare that had been left to die by a Roman prince who did not much care for his horses, the scoundrel. Most of the horses we raise are of the dark kind with the thick legs, but you see? He is slender and strong, and like the whitest of rabbits for his coat, that one.”

  “I can’t take such a beautiful animal,” I said.

  “It is not mine to give,” he said. “Nor yours to refuse.” He gave me a wink. I asked him more about this strange gift. He simply told me that the horse had been meant for me, and that I must take it. To refuse a horse from the Eponi was to insult the honor of all Eponi. I wondered aloud if Merlin might have intended this horse for me, but Anyon gave a shrug.

  I tried to read his stoic face for any betrayal of what this meant, but he was too much of his tribe: difficult to understand once they’d decided to be mysterious.

  “Thank you. I need this horse, even if I don’t deserve it,” I told him. “You’re like a father to me sometimes.”

  “And you, like my second son,” he said. “Now, let’s meet this magickal horse before I convince you to come live as a charioteer rather than take off on your own.”

  As we walked across the fields to the horse paddocks, I asked, “How’s this horse magickal?”

  “It’s a secret magick,” he said. “A kind even the Druids don’t know, although the horse understands all of their secrets.”

  In the paddock, he whistled for the creature. The horse glanced over in our direction.

  “See?” he whispered. “He regards us with uncertainty. This breed is not like ours. He has no trust, though he’s a fine rider and a gentle spirit.”

  I felt better than I had in many weeks, standing there with him. The Eponi believed that horses were their brothers and sisters and not their property at all. For an Eponi to claim one horse as his was a blasphemy. It would be like claiming a brother as a slav
e. To them, all horses were the masters or, at worst, friends sharing the burdens of human life.

  “Does he have a name?” I asked.

  “Caradoc,” he said. “His sire is named Druid, and lives in the wild mostly but comes back home in the spring to mate. Caradoc is his only son.”

  “I’ve never seen this horse before.”

  “Like his father, he returns to find the mares. But we have him now, and he is for you alone to ride. But when you ride him, you must be careful. He has a stronger mind than even your aunt Morgause—and a wilder temper. Perhaps, like his father, he was a Druid in another life. Or perhaps, like his grandmother, he ruled Roman lands.”

  Then the horse deigned to come to his whistle.

  Anyon warned me, “Now, he can be a difficult horse, Mordred, but if you speak in the Old Tongue to him, he will ride as if with wings. It is said of this Caradoc that he knows the heart’s desire of his rider and will take him there. Lukat should have a horse like this. If you meet him again, you must let him ride Caradoc so that I might see my boy before too many seasons pass.”

  I smiled at this, thinking of Lukat upon this horse, and embraced his father, who also passed me some gold coins of the realms to the west “that I meant to give to my son, but he left too soon. You may use them as you wish. They have no worth to me, but where those armies draw near each other, gold speaks as if it were the wisest of men.”

  “I will bring the coins to Lukat,” I told him, and slipped the coins into that small leather pouch I kept hidden within my shirt.

  Then I mounted Caradoc, patting him lightly along the neck and crest. I whispered to him, as best I could, in those few words that I knew from the Eponi, which simply meant, “Let us ride, my friend,” or so I thought.

  Instead, the horse took off at a gallop, and I lost my hold of him and had to wrap my arms nearly about his throat as we went for I feared I would be thrown. Yet the horse knew the paths well, and rode out across the meadow and through the narrow fern path into the woods that grew thick and verdant. When we came upon a stream, Caradoc made a leap over it, and I flew from his back.