The Endless Knot

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Tegid stood nearby, leaning on his staff and squinting sourly at the dense tangle of woodland rising sheer from the narrow beach like a gray wall. The strand was sharp with shards of flint. Dead trees lay on the shore like stiffened corpses, shriveled roots dangling in the air. “We should not linger here,” he said. “Our coming will be marked.”

  “All the better,” I remarked. “I want Paladyr to know we are here.”

  “I was not thinking of Paladyr only,” the bard told me. “He may be the least of our worries. I sense far worse trouble awaiting us.”

  “Bring it on,” Alun declared. “I am not afraid.”

  Tegid grunted and turned a baleful eye on him. “The less boasted now, the less you will later regret.”

  Shortly after, Garanaw returned from his foray up the coast to report that he had found a stream which would serve as a path inland. Cynan proposed a plan to make for the hills we had seen from the ships; from the vantage of height we might discern the lay of the land and espy some sign of the enemy habitation.

  The evidence of hoofprints, beacons, and the grooves of ships’ keels left little doubt that Paladyr had the help of others. From the heights we could easily spot the smoke from a campfire or settlement. It was an extremely slender hope resting on the narrowest of chances, but it was all we had. So we pursued it as if we were sure of success.

  Drustwn returned from a survey of the coast to the south. “The land rises to steep cliffs. There is no entry that I could see.”

  “Right. Then we go north. Lead the way, Garanaw.”

  We moved off slowly, following Garanaw’s lead. Bran and the other Ravens walked with him, Cynan and his war band followed them in ragged ranks, and Tegid, Scatha, and I came next, followed by six warriors leading the horses in a long double line. The wood lining the shore was so close grown and thick there was no point in riding. We would have to go on foot, at least until the trail opened somewhat.

  The stream Garanaw had seen turned out to be a reeking seepage of yellow water flowing out of the wood and over the stony beach to slide in an ochre stain into the sea. One sniff and I decided that it was the run-off from a sulphur spring. Nevertheless, the water had carved a path of sorts through the brush and undergrowth: a rough, steep-sided gully.

  With a last look at the dead white sky, we turned and headed inland along the ravine. Undermined trees had toppled and lay both in and over the gully, making progress tortuous in the extreme. We soon lost sight of the sky; the ceiling above was a mass of interwoven limbs as close and dense as any thatch. We advanced with aching slowness through a rank twilight, our legs and feet covered in vile-smelling mud. The only sound to reach our ears was the cold wind bawling in the bare treetops and the sniffling trickle of the stream.

  The horses refused to go into the wood, and we had barely begun when we were forced to stop while a score or more of the animals were blindfolded. Calmed in this way, the lead animals proceeded, and the rest allowed themselves to be led.

  We toiled through the day, marking our progress from stump to broken stump of fallen trees. We ended the day exhausted and numb from slipping and sliding against the sides of the gully and climbed from the defile to make camp. At least there was no shortage of firewood, and soon there were a good many fires ablaze to light that dismal day’s end.

  Tegid sat a little apart, bowed over his staff. His thoughts were turned inward, and he spoke no word to us. I thought it best not to intrude on his musings and left him to himself.

  After resting, the men began to talk quietly to one another, and those in charge of the provisions stirred to prepare supper. I sat with Scatha, Bran, and Cynan, and we talked of the day’s progress—or lack of it.

  “We will fare better tomorrow,” I said, without much conviction. “At least, we can do no worse.”

  “I will not be sorry to get out of this putrid ditch,” Cynan grumbled.

  “Indeed, Cynan Machae,” Alun said, “the sight of you struggling through the muck is enough to bring tears to my eyes.”

  Scatha, her long hair bound in tight plaits and tucked under her war cap, scraped mud from her buskins with a stick as she observed, “It is the stench that brings tears to my eyes.”

  Our gloom lightened somewhat at that, and we turned our attention to settling the men and securing the camp for the night. We ate a small meal—with little appetite—and then wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and slept.

  The next day dawned wet. A raw wind blew from the north. And though it was cold enough there was no snow—just a miserable damp chill that went straight to the bone and stayed there. The following day was no different, nor was the one after that. We slogged along the bottom of the defile, threading our way over, under, and around the toppled logs and limbs, resting often, but stopping only when we could no longer drag one foot in front of the other.

  The ground rose before us in a steady incline, and by the end of the third day we had all begun to wonder why we had not reached our destination.

  “I do not understand it,” Bran confessed. “We should have gained the top of this loathsome hill long since.”

  He stood leaning on his spear, mud and sweat on his brow, breecs and cloak sodden and filthy—and the rest of the noble Raven Flight were no better. They looked more like fugitives of the hostage pit than a royal war band.

  None of us had shaved in many days, and all of us were covered in reeking mud. I would have given much to find a suitable trickle or pool to wash away some of the muck. But both this and the summit eluded us.

  I turned to Tegid and complained. “Why is it, Tegid? We walk a fair distance every day, but have yet to come in sight of the top.”

  The bard’s mouth twisted, as if with pain, as he said, “You know as much as I do in this accursed land.”

  “What do you mean? What is wrong?”

  “I can see nothing here,” he muttered bitterly. “I am blind once more.”

  I stared at him for a moment, and then it came to me what he meant. “Your awen, Tegid—I had no idea . . .”

  “It does not matter,” he said bitterly, turning away. “It is no great loss.”

  “What is wrong with him?” asked Cynan. He had seen us talking and had joined me just as the bard flung away.

  “It is his awen,” I explained. “It is no use to him here.”

  Cynan frowned. “That is bad. If ever we needed the sight of a bard, it is here in Tir Aflan.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Still, if wisdom fails, we must rely on wits and strength alone.”

  Cynan smiled slowly. He liked the sound of that. “You make a passable king,” he replied, “but you are still a warrior at heart.”

  We made camp in the dank wood and rose with the sun to renew our march. The day was a struggle against tedium and monotony but at least it was not so cold as previous days. In fact, the higher we climbed, the warmer the air became. We welcomed this unexpected benefit and persevered; we were rewarded in the end by reaching the top of the hill.

  Though the sun had long since given up the fight, we dragged ourselves over the rim of the hill to a level, grassy place. A sullen twilight revealed a large, flat clearing. We quickly gathered firewood from the forest below and built the fire high. Bran cautioned against this, thinking that the last thing we needed was a beacon to alert any enemy who happened to be near. But I judged we needed the light as well as the warmth and did not care if Paladyr and his rogues saw it.

  As my wise bard had already warned, however, Paladyr was the least of our troubles—as the shouts of alarm from the pickets soon proved.

  20

  THE SIABUR

  In the time-between-times, just before dawn, the horses screamed. We had picketed them just beyond the heat throw of the campfire, so the flames would not disturb them. As we were in unknown lands, Bran had established a tight guard on the animals and around the perimeter of the camp as well.

  Yet the only warning we had was the sudden neighing and rearing of the horses—quickly followed by
the panicked shouts of the sentry.

  I had my spear in my hand, and my feet were already moving before my eyes were fully open. Bran was but a step behind me and we reached the place together. The guard, one of Cynan’s men, stood with his back to us, his spear lying abandoned beside him on the ground.

  The man turned toward us with an expression of mystified terror. Sweat stood out on his brow and his eyes showed white. His teeth were clenched tight, and cords stood out on his neck. Though his arms hung slack at his sides, his hands twitched and trembled. “What has happened?” I asked, seeing no evidence of violence.

  By way of reply the warrior extended his hand and pointed to an angular lump nearby. I stepped nearer and saw what, in the cold light, appeared to be nothing more than an outcrop of rock . . .

  Bran pushed forward and knelt for a closer look. The Raven Chief drew a long, shaky breath. “I have never seen the like,” he said softly.

  As he spoke, I became aware of a sweetly rancid smell—like that of spoiled cheese or an infected wound. The scent was not strong but, like the quivering guard, I was overcome with a sudden upwelling of fear.

  Get up! Get out! a voice cried inside my head. Go! Get away from here while you can.

  I turned to the guard. “What did you see?”

  For a moment he merely stared at me as if he did not understand. Then he came to himself and said, “I saw . . . a shadow, lord . . . only a shadow.”

  I shivered at the words but, to steady my own trembling hand, bent down, picked up the sentry’s fallen spear, and gave it to him. “Bring Tegid at once.”

  Roused by the commotion, others had gathered around. Some murmured uneasily, but most looked on in silence. Cynan appeared, took one look and cursed under his breath. Turning to me, he said, “Who found it?”

  “One of your men. I sent him to fetch Tegid.”

  Cynan stooped. He reached out his hand, thought better of it and pulled back. “Mo anam!” he muttered. “It is an unchancy thing.”

  Tegid joined us then. Without a word, he stepped to the fore. Scatha followed on his heels.

  “What has happened?” asked Scatha, taking her place beside me. “What . . .” She took in the sight before her and fell silent.

  The bard spent a long moment studying the misshapen heap before him, prodding it with the butt of his staff. Turning away abruptly, he came to where Bran, Cynan, and I stood. “Have you counted the horses?” he inquired.

  “No,” I said. “We did not think to—”

  “Count them now,” Tegid commanded.

  I turned and nodded to two men behind me; they disappeared at once. “What happened? What could . . .” I strained for words. “What could do this?”

  Before he could answer, someone shouted from the hillside below. We hurried at once to the place and found a second display just like the first: the body of a horse. Though, like the first, it scarcely resembled a horse anymore.

  The dead animal’s hide was wet, as if covered with dew, the hair all bunched and spiky. An oddly colorless eye bulged from its socket, and a pale, puffy tongue protruded through the open mouth. But the remains were those of a creature starved to death whose corpse has collapsed inward upon itself—little more than skin stretched across a jumble of sharp-jutting bone.

  The horse’s ribs, shoulder blades, and haunches stood out starkly. Every tendon and sinew could be traced with ease. If we had starved the hapless beast and left it exposed on the hilltop all winter the sight would have been no more stark. Yet, as I knelt and placed my hand against the animal’s bony throat, the sensation was so uncanny my hand jerked back as if my fingers had been burned.

  “The carcass is still warm,” I said. “It is freshly killed.”

  “But I see no blood,” Scatha observed, pulling her cloak high around her throat.

  “Och, there is not a drop of blood left in the beast,” Cynan pointed out.

  Appalled by the wizened appearance of the animals, it had not occurred to me to wonder why they looked that way. I considered it now. “It looks as though the blood has been drained from the carcass,” I said.

  “Not blood only, I think,” Bran mused, answering my own thought. So saying, he lifted the point of his spear and sliced into the belly of the dead horse. There was no blood—no bodily fluid of any kind. The organs and muscle tissue were dry, with a stiff, woody appearance.

  “Saeth du,” Cynan grunted, rubbing his neck. “Dry as dust.”

  Tegid nodded grimly and glanced around the long slope of hillside as if he expected to see a mysterious assailant escaping through the trees. There was little to be seen in the thin, early-morning light; the mist-draped trunks of trees and a thick hoarfrost covering grass and limbs and branches bled the color from the land until it looked like . . . like the stiff and bloodless carcass before us.

  The horse lay where it had fallen. Aside from a few strange, sticklike tracks around the head of the carcass, I could see no prints in the frosty grass. Nor were there any tracks leading away from the kill.

  “Could an eagle do this?” I wondered aloud, knowing the notion was absurd even as the words left my lips. But nothing else suggested itself to me.

  “No natural-born creature,” Bran said; he held his chin close to his chest. A good many others were unconsciously protecting their throats.

  “Well?” I asked, looking to Tegid for an answer.

  “Bran is right,” the bard replied slowly. “It was no natural creature.”

  “What then?” demanded Cynan. “Mo anam, man! Will you tell us?”

  Tegid frowned and lowered his head. “It was a siabur.” He uttered the word cautiously, as if it might hurt his tongue. I could tell by the way he gripped his staff that he was badly shaken.

  The men returned from counting the horses. “Two tens and eight,” was their census.

  “Thirty-three men,” I remarked, adding, “and now we have horses for twenty-eight. Great. Just great.”

  “This siabur,” Scatha wanted to know, “what manner of creature is it?”

  Tegid grimaced. “It is one of the sluagh,” he told us reluctantly. He did not like speaking the name aloud.

  Ghost? Demon? I tried to work out the meaning of the word, but could get no further than that.

  “The Learned call them siabur. They are an order of spirit beings that derive their sustenance from the lifeblood of the living.”

  “Blood-sucking spirits?” Cynan blustered, his tone forced and his voice overloud. He was holding fear at bay the best way he knew, and only half succeeding. “What is this you are telling us?”

  “I am telling you the truth.” Tegid jerked his head around defiantly, as if daring anyone to gainsay him.

  “Tell us more, brother,” Bran urged. “We will hear you.”

  “Very well,” the bard relented, flicking a cautionary glance in Cynan’s direction. “The siabur are predatory spirits—as you have seen with your own eyes. Upon finding their prey, they take to themselves a body with which to make their attack, devouring the very blood as it flows.”

  I did not blame Cynan for his disbelief; Tegid’s description was incredible. But for the two dead horses, sucked dry and cast aside like withered husks, I would have dismissed it as little more than whimsy. Clearly, there was nothing remotely fanciful about it. And Tegid stood before us solemn and severe.

  “Nothing like this is known in Albion,” said Scatha. “Nothing like this . . .”

  “That is because the Island of the Mighty remains under the protection of the Swift Sure Hand,” Tegid said. “It is not so in Tir Aflan.”

  “What can be done?” I wondered aloud.

  “Light is their enemy,” the bard explained. “Fire is light—they do not like fire.”

  “Then tonight we will bring the horses within the circle of the campfire,” Cynan suggested.

  “Better than that,” I replied. “We will build a circle of fire around the entire camp.”

  Tegid approved. “That will serve. But more m
ust be done. We must burn the carcasses of the horses, and the ashes must be scattered in moving water before the sun sets.”

  “Will that free us from the siabur?”

  “Free us?” Tegid shook his head slowly. “It will prevent them from inhabiting the bodies of the dead. But we will not be free until we set foot in Albion once more.”

  No one was willing to touch the dead horses, and I had not the heart to compel any man to do what I myself abhorred. So we heaped a mound of firewood over the unfortunate beasts and burned them where they lay. The carcasses gave off an excess of thick, oily black smoke with the same rancid cheese smell I had marked earlier.

  Tegid made certain that every scrap of hide and bone was burned, and then raked the coals and gathered the ashes in two leather bags. After that we turned our attention to finding a stream or river into which we could strew the ashes.

  This proved more difficult than anyone imagined.

  Tegid considered the turgid seepage in the ravine unacceptable for our purposes, and we were forced to look elsewhere. Leaving Bran in charge of the camp, Tegid, Scatha, Cynan, and I set off in the bright light of a dour, windswept morning in search of a stream or brook. We soon discovered that the hilltop we were camped upon was not a natural hill at all.

  Scatha first tumbled to the fact that the plain on which we stood was strikingly flat for a natural plateau, and furthered this observation by remarking on the peculiar regularity in the curve of the horizon. We rode a fair portion of the circumference just to make certain, and found as we expected that the rim of the plateau formed a perfect circle.

  Despite this evidence, Tegid remained hesitant and withheld judgment until he had examined the center. It took considerable effort just to find it; it was no simple matter to quarter a circle that large. But Tegid lined out a course and we followed it. After a lengthy survey we found what we were looking for: the broken stub of a massive pillar stone.

  So immense was the thing, we had failed to recognize the hill for what it was: a gigantic mound, ancient beyond reckoning, raised by human hands. Sheer size obscured its true nature. But the presence of the pillar stone removed all remaining doubt. The mound was the omphalos, the symbolic center of Tir Aflan. Judging by the size of the circular plateau, it was something in the order of twenty to thirty times larger than the sacred mound of Albion on Ynys Bàinail.