The Silver Hand

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  After an age, it seemed to me that the water roar grew less. “Llew, what can you see?” I called over my shoulder.

  “Nothing,” he replied. “The mist and spray—I cannot see a thing!”

  I made to move on but, try as I might, I could not find the next foothold. Finally, in a fit of desperation I reached as high as I could stretch, pressed my fingers tight to the rock crevice and swung out and up . . .

  I felt my foot strike a step that I could not see, but the rock was slick and my foot slipped away again. But for my fingers wedged into the crevice, I would have fallen. I slid back down.

  “Tegid! Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “I will try again.”

  “No! Wait—”

  I kicked out once more, and my heel caught on the narrow, unseen edge. I quickly shifted my hands and pulled my trailing leg up until the foot reached the step. I straightened and felt fresh wind on my face. I stretched forth a hand and felt the rock sloping sharply away. Two more quick steps and I was standing on a wide, level surface.

  I called for Llew to follow, and he shouted back, “Stay there! Wait for me.”

  In a moment, he shouted again: “Tegid, it is too far. The step—I have nothing to hold on to.”

  I lay on my stomach and extended my hand over the edge toward him. “Take my hand,” I shouted.

  “I cannot reach it, Tegid,” he shouted; I heard the pain and frustration in his voice. “I cannot hold with one hand!”

  “Take my hand, Llew. Reach for it, I can hold you. Stretch out your foot to the step and take my hand. I will pull you up.”

  “No, Tegid. It is too far. I cannot—”

  “Take my hand, Llew.”

  “I tell you it is too far! I have but one hand!”

  “Trust me, Llew. I will not let you fall.” He was silent for a time. “Llew?”

  “Very well,” he replied slowly. “I will count to three. Ready? On three: one . . . two . . . THREE!”

  I braced myself. His hand struck mine; my fingers closed on his wrist and held fast.

  Loose stones clattered away and were lost in the water roar below. A moment later, Llew was scrambling onto the rock beside me.

  “Tegid, you did it!” he said, gasping for breath. “Bless you, brother, we made it!”

  We lay panting on the rock. And, as if to reward us for our effort, the sun shone down on us, warming the rocks and drying our clothes. We lay back, drinking in the warmth, listening to the water voice now small and far, far below.

  When we finally roused ourselves to continue on our way, I asked Llew to describe what he saw around us.

  “It is the entrance to a glen, I think,” he replied. “The river has carved out a bowl-shaped ravine here. Very green. The grass is short and fine. There are many rocks among the trees, and the trees are large. The river ahead is wider here, and deeper too. The glen is crooked; it bends out of sight a little way along. I cannot see what lies beyond the bend, nor what lies above the ridge of the glen.” He paused as he turned toward me. “Well? What say you, brother?”

  “Let us follow the river and look for a place to make camp,” I answered. “If you see a likely branch for a staff, I would welcome it.”

  So saying, we moved on. Llew directed my steps, and we clambered over and among the rocks along the riverway. I listened to the sounds around me and sniffed the wind, sifting the air for signs. Amidst the sounds of moving water, I heard birdcalls: the thin cry of the tree creeper, the whistling warble of the dunnock, and high, high aloft the mewing call of a buzzard circling lazily over the trees. Now and then I heard the splash of a fish, or the furtive rustle of an animal darting into the undergrowth at our approach. I smelled the rich earth smell of mouldering foliage and damp, rotting wood; and the clean, fresh scent of sun-washed air; and the faint sweetness of flowers.

  In a little while, Llew paused. “There is a stand of pines not far ahead,” he told me; pain made his voice crack. The climb up the falls had exhausted him and his wound was hurting him again. “I think we should stop and make camp there.”

  We made our way to the place and found a well-sheltered clearing among the trees. The ground was covered in a drift of pine needles, thick and soft beneath our feet; the branches overhead formed a fair roof. There were large stones clumped in a rough ring—these formed a rude caer in which we might build our fire and sleep. After a rest, Llew set about to gathering firewood, and I turned to the task of clearing a space for the fire.

  As I worked, feeling around the circumference of our caer, I heard the breeze sighing in the treetops. The wind was rising, strengthening out of the east as the sun sloped toward evening. It would be a chill night; we would be glad of the fire. This I told Llew when he returned with the firewood.

  “Then I will gather more wood,” he said. I could tell it was the last thing he wanted to do, but he moved off among the trees.

  Feeling my way slowly, I crept down to the river’s edge and retrieved several smooth, round stones. After repeated trips, I had assembled enough to make a simple fire ring. As I began arranging the stones for the ring, I caught the slightest whiff of a familiar smell.

  I stopped and sat up, raising my head and turning my face to the wind. I waited, but the scent eluded me. Perhaps, I thought, I have imagined it only.

  I continued with my work, and in a moment the wind gusted, and I smelled it again. This time I was certain I had not imagined it: oak smoke. I turned my face into the wind. I was still standing this way when Llew returned.

  “What is it?” Llew asked, dropping his armload of wood. “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. “But I have smelled something—an oak fire.” I indicated the direction of the wind. “It is coming from that direction, not far from here, I think.”

  “A settlement?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “It will be dark soon,” Llew observed. “Still, I think we should go and see.”

  “We will go together.”

  “Here.” He stooped and then took me by the wrist. “I brought you this.”

  He pressed the end of a branch into my hand. The length was slender and the bark smooth; the wood supple, yet resilient: ash, I guessed. “When I find another knife, we will carve you a proper staff,” he said.

  We moved slowly along the river, following the smoke scent. Soon, Llew remarked, “I can smell it now. We must be getting near—but there is no sign of anyone.”

  “It might be hunters,” I replied.

  Presently, Llew stopped. He placed his hand against my chest to halt me. “I see it!” he whispered. “I see the smoke—drifting across the water. The camp must be just a little way ahead.”

  We continued on, quietly, and, after but a few paces, Llew halted. “I think there is a ford here,” he said. Even as he spoke, I heard the sound of water trickling over stones. “We can cross to the other side. Do you want me to go across and see who has made the fire?”

  “Guide me. We will go together.”

  With my staff in one hand, and the other holding to Llew’s arm, we crossed the river at the ford. The stones were well placed, and I had no difficulty finding my way across. My feet had but touched the opposite shore, however, when I became aware of a strange stillness in the air, and in the earth itself.

  “An oak grove stands before us,” Llew told me in a whisper. “The trees are very large.”

  “Let us go into the grove,” I replied. “See that you remain alert.”

  We started forward, and after a few paces I sensed a change in my surroundings. It was cooler in the grove, and damp—rank with the smell of smoke and the moss-grown trunks of trees and fallen leaves. The air was still, the wood silent. No sound could be heard—no wind shifting the leaves, no stir of small feet in the undergrowth, no bird-cry.

  We crept forward cautiously, pressing close to the trees. Llew tensed, touched my arm, and stopped. “What have you seen?” I whispered.

  “It is an image o
f some kind—a carving. Here—”

  He took my hand and raised it to the trunk of the tree beside me. The bark had been pared away from the bole, and a figure carved in the smooth wood. I traced the carving with my fingers, and felt a rough-hewn image: a hollow circle with a narrow rod passing through its center. It was a wheel with a spear for an axle.

  “There are more of them.” Llew whispered. “At least one carving on every tree.”

  I did not need to see the images hewn into the towering oaks to know that we had come to a place of power. I could feel the stillness of the grove—a silence persisting from time beyond memory, from before men walked upon the earth, from before the forest even—a stillness which overwhelmed all sound, calming, quelling, pacifying. A peace which reconciled all things to itself.

  The image carved into the tree trunks identified the grove. It belonged to Gofannon, Master of the Forge. It was his sanctuary we had entered.

  “This is a nemeton,” I whispered, “an ancient place, a holy place. This wood is sacred to Gofannon; it is his place. Come,” I said, tugging Llew’s arm gently, “we will greet this lord and see whether he will have compassion on us.”

  On soundless feet we crept deeper into the nemeton. I brushed the rough trunks of the great trees with my hands as we passed, and smelled the sweet dry smoke of burning oak . . . drawing near to the heart of the refuge, entering into the presence of the lord of the grove.

  11

  GOFANNON’S GIFT

  He is here.” Llew breathed a barely audible whisper. “He is . . . Tegid, he is enormous—a giant.”

  “What does he look like? Describe him.”

  “He is twice the height of the tallest man. His arms are knotted thick with muscles; they look more like the limbs of an oak tree than arms. He has rough black hair all over—on his arms and chest, his legs, his hands, his neck, and his head. He has a long forked beard and long black hair. He wears it bound tight to his head like a warrior. His face . . . Wait! He is turning—looking this way!” Llew gripped my arm in his excitement. “He has not seen us yet.”

  “What else? Tell me more. What does he look like? What is he doing?”

  “His skin is dark—smoke-blackened. His eyes are dark too; and he has great, thick black brows. His nose is flattened and immense; his mustache is tremendous—it covers his mouth and curls upwards at the ends. He is dressed in leather breecs only; his arms and chest are bare—except for huge gold bands coiled around each wrist.”

  “What is he doing?”

  “He is sitting on a hump of earth at the entrance to a cave. The cave has a doorway: two square stone posts crossed by a stone lintel. The two posts have skull niches, three on each side, with skulls in them—birds and beasts, I think—and the lintel is carved with the Endless Knot. The skulls and the carving are washed with blue woad. There is a stone and anvil just outside the cave entrance. Next to the stone, I can see a hammer—huge—it is the biggest hammer I have ever seen. And there are tongs on the anvil.”

  “Go on,” I urged. “What else?”

  “He is sitting before a firepit and holding a huge spit in his hands. There is meat on the spit—a whole sheep or deer. He is dressing the meat on the spit—getting ready to roast it. There is no fire yet, and . . . he is looking this way again. Tegid! He has seen us!”

  I heard a voice, deep as the voice of the earth itself, stern and commanding.

  “Welcome, little men,” said the lord of the grove. “Stand on your feet and come before me.”

  Though it was stern, I heard no threat or malice in the command. Still gripping my arm, Llew drew me with him, and we stepped slowly from the outer circle and into the ancient one’s scrutiny.

  “Hail, lord,” I called, “we greet you with respect and worthy regard.”

  Gofannon replied, “Show me a token of this respect you declare. What gift do you bring me?”

  “Great Lord,” I replied, speaking in the direction of the voice that addressed me, “we are exiles seeking refuge in a land unknown to us. We were set upon by enemies and cast adrift. We bring only the small benison of the companionship our presence will afford. But if you deem that a gift worth having, we give it gladly.”

  “That is a rare gift, indeed,” replied the ancient one with gravity. “For it is long since I have welcomed men within my grove. I will accept your gift with pleasure. Sit with me and share my food.”

  We stepped nearer—Llew guiding me with his hand under my elbow—and sat down on the ground.

  “Do you know me?” asked the ancient one.

  “Great Lord, you are the Searcher of Secrets,” I replied. “You are the Delver of Ore and the Digger of Treasure. You are the Refiner and the Shaper of Metal, the Master of the Forge.”

  The deep voice grunted its resonant agreement. “I am that—and more. Do you dare to speak my name?”

  “You are Gofannon,” I replied confidently, though I trembled inside.

  “I am he,” replied the lord. I sensed satisfaction in his voice. He was pleased with his guests. “How is it that you know my name and nature?”

  “I am a bard and the son of bards, Mighty Lord. I am learned in the way of earth and sky and of all things needful among men.”

  “Do you have a name, little man?”

  “I am Tegid Tathal,” I told him.

  “And the little man with you,” Gofannon said, “has he a name? Or do you share one name between you?”

  “He has a name, lord.”

  “Has he a tongue? Or is yours the only tongue to serve you both?”

  “He has a tongue, lord.”

  “Then why does he not speak out his name? I would hear it, unless something prevents him.” I sensed a slight shift in the giant’s voice as he turned to address my silent companion.

  “Nothing prevents me, Great Lord,” said Llew softly. “Neither have I lost my tongue.”

  “Speak then, little man. You have my grant and leave.”

  “My name is Llew. I was once a stranger in Albion, but I was befriended by the one you see before you.”

  “I see much, little man. I see that you are wounded,” said Gofannon. “You have lost a hand, and your friend has lost his eyes. And I see that these wounds still pain you. How did this happen?”

  “Our enemies attacked us in a holy place,” said Llew. “The bards of Albion have been slaughtered. We alone survived, but they wounded us and cast us adrift in a boat.”

  The lord of the sacred grove mused long on this, uttering a low rumble in his throat as he turned our words this way and that in his sagacious mind, weighing out the truth. “I know you now,” Gofannon replied at last. Again, I sensed satisfaction in his words. “Come, we will eat together. But first there must be wood for the fire.”

  His next words were for Llew. “You, little man, will chop the wood.”

  I heard the giant rise and move away. Llew whispered, “He means me to cut wood. My hand—how can I use an ax? I cannot do it.”

  “Tell him.”

  “Here is the ax,” Gofannon said, returning. “The wood is there. Cut enough to last through the night, for we will need it.”

  “It is my pleasure to serve you, lord,” Llew said politely. “But I am injured as you see. I cannot hold the ax, much less cut wood with it. Perhaps there is another way I may serve you.”

  Though Llew declined with all courtesy, the Master of the Forge remained unmoved. “You had two hands and lost but one. Do you not have another?”

  “I do,” answered Llew, “but my injury is—”

  “Then use the hand that is left to you.”

  Llew said no more; he rose from beside me and a few moments later I heard the chunk of the ax as he began, slowly, clumsily, to chop. I thought Gofannon’s demand harsh but did not consider it wise to intervene in the matter.

  So I listened to the dull chink of the ax and Llew’s breath coming in bursts. And I gritted my teeth for Llew’s sake, feeling his pain and frustration as he wielded the giant’s ax.r />
  When Llew finally made an end of his work, Gofannon had him carry the wood to the firepit. Llew did so without a word of protest, although I knew his wound must have been pounding with pain after his ordeal. Again and again, from pile to firepit he carried the wood, using his one good hand. Upon delivering the last log, Llew collapsed beside me on the ground.

  He was wet with sweat and trembling with exhaustion and pain. “That is over,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

  “Be easy,” I soothed. “Rest.”

  “Good work!” cried the forge lord. “We will eat now.”

  So saying, the giant clapped his hands and I heard the crackle of a fire, and soon I smelled the scent of roasting meat. The aroma brought water to my mouth, and my stomach suddenly felt its emptiness. While Gofannon busied himself with his task, Llew lay on the ground, gathering his strength, and I listened to the sizzle of bubbling fat as the lord of the grove turned the spit and the hot juices sputtered in the flames.

  By the time the meat was cooked, I was dizzy with hunger.

  “Let us eat!” cried the Shaper of Metal suddenly, as if he could wait no longer. I then heard a loud pop and a muted tearing sound and, the next I knew, a steaming haunch of roast venison was thrust into my hands. There came another rending pop, and Llew was likewise presented a whole haunch to eat. “It is enough meat for a week!” Llew whispered. The rest of the deer belonged to our huge provider.

  “Eat my friends! Eat and be filled,” he bellowed happily, and I heard a snuffling sound as our host began to gnaw meat from bone.

  Casting off all restraint, I lifted the haunch to my lips and began to eat. I worried the meat with my teeth, filling my mouth greedily, delighting in the warmth and flavor. The savory juices flowed down my chin and neck and onto my chest. I let them flow, I was so hungry.

  “Lord Gofannon,” said Llew abruptly, “never have I eaten meat this good. Had you given us but a taste of your meal, you would yet remain most generous.”