The Silver Hand

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  The day was warm. We traveled the river marge where the walking was easiest. At midday we stopped to drink from the river, cupping water in our hands and splashing it into our mouths. Then we sat down on the grassy bank to rest.

  “Last night was the first since”—he hesitated—“since Meldron— the first time I did not hurt.”

  It came to me then that my own wound no longer throbbed and burned. I touched a hand to my bandaged eyes and, though still tender, the pain was gone.

  “It seems that Gofannon has blessed us as he promised,” observed Llew.

  “I do not think it was Gofannon,” I said, more to myself than to Llew.

  “What?”

  “He appeared in the guise of Gofannon,” I answered, “but I think it was not the Master of the Forge who feasted us last night.”

  “Who was it, then?”

  “Another lord, greater still and more ancient. Perhaps the Swift Sure Hand himself.”

  “I wonder,” replied Llew thoughtfully. “You did not see him when you sang. But I watched him. He changed, Tegid. He was fierce, almost wild-eyed before. But as he listened to the song he took on an entirely different aspect. I tell you, brother, he was changed.”

  “Truly?”

  “If you had seen him, you would agree. When you finished, he could not speak. Nor could I. You have always sung well, Tegid. But last night . . .” Llew halted, grasping for words. “Last night you sang like the Phantarch himself.”

  I turned this over in my mind. It seemed to me that while I sang, I could see. With the song in my mouth, the words falling from my lips, I was no longer blind. For the span of the song, I saw the world bright before me—as if the vision of the song became my sight.

  We journeyed deeper into the wooded hills of Caledon. The land beneath my feet began to rise, inclining toward the mountain peaks in ever higher hills and ever deeper valleys. The river narrowed, becoming deeper, faster, and louder the sound of its passing. Llew led well; he was my eyes.

  Nevertheless, as the path rose and the woods deepened to forest, our progress slowed to a tedious crawl. To divert ourselves from our labor, we talked about the land and about the seasons and about the movements of the sun across the bowl of the sky. We discussed the star host: the Nail of Heaven, Great Bran the Blessed, the Plow, the Boar and Bear, the Seven Maidens, Arianrhod of the Silver Wheel, and all the rest. We delved into lore both ancient and holy. We talked of things hidden and known, seen and unseen: the powers of air and fire, water and earth; principles and verities; truth, honor, loyalty, friendship, and justice. And we contemplated great kings and chieftains, wise leaders and foolish. Yes, we talked long of kingships—the right ruling of people and nations, the secrets of discernment, the sacred order of sovereignty.

  As before, Llew took it all in. His capacity was boundless. Llew had a bard’s memory. He learned; he remembered. He grew, much as a tree grows when its roots touch the water hidden in the earth— straight and high and broad, casting its branches wide, claiming preeminence in the forest. As Ollathir would say, he became an oak of knowledge.

  Much of what I told him was known only to the bards themselves. But what of that? There were no bards in Albion anymore, and knowledge, like fire, is increased when it is shared.

  Alas, though he increased in knowledge, I detected no kindling of the awen spark, no flash of the brilliance concealed within. Ollathir’s awen remained a hidden gem, waiting to be revealed when and where it would.

  We ate what little we could find, but hunger was our constant companion. We did not thirst, however, for we drank our fill from the cold river freshets. Our bodies grew lean from want and hard from the rigors of the trail. Keen privation drew close and mingled our souls. Llew and I became brothers of the heart, kinsmen born of a bond stronger than blood.

  One day, after many days, we woke to rain and wind out of the north. We stayed under the trees and waited for the rain to stop. The rain continued through the day, and when it finally stopped and the clouds parted, it was too late to travel on. But we walked a little way up the trail just to see what lay ahead.

  “We are on a hill overlooking a deep glen,” Llew told me. “The hill on the far side of the glen is high—higher than this one.”

  “What lies beyond it?”

  “I cannot see—it forms a wall, steep and high. It will be difficult to climb. It may be that we would do better to go another way.”

  I nodded, trying to picture the lay of the land in my mind. “What is the forest like here?”

  “It is pine, mostly, and close—dense in the glens, but somewhat thinner near the top.” He paused to take in the landscape to the right and left. “I think the hill is part of a larger ridge. There appears to be a ridgeway running north to south along the top. If that is so, we might be able to follow it south.”

  I pondered this for a moment. Were there any old track ways in Caledon? It was possible, although I knew of none. Presently, the wind gusted, changing direction, blowing out of the south as the rainstorm passed. The wind brought with it the scent of pine, strong after a day of rain.

  I breathed in that heady scent, and there appeared in my mind’s eye the image of a lake: the lake of my vision. Suddenly, I saw the steep-sided glen in deep forest and the tall pines straining for a blue, cloud-swept sky which was reflected in a clear mountain lake.

  “What is it, Tegid?” Llew asked; he was growing accustomed to my lapses. “What are you thinking?”

  “Let us climb to the summit of the ridge.”

  Llew did not say no. “We have not much light left. It is high and will likely be dark before we reach the top.”

  “It is all the same to me.”

  Llew nudged me with his elbow. “A joke, Tegid? This is the first time you have made light of your blindness.”

  “Light of blindness? Do you think yourself a bard to speak in such riddles?”

  “The fault is yours, brother—filling my head with your talk.” He considered the path before us and sighed. “Come on, then.”

  We accomplished the descent very quickly. The climb up the other side took much longer. Llew hurried as fast as he dared in the failing light. He might have gone more quickly without me, but not much. And though the bruises proliferating on my shins might seem to indicate otherwise, I was growing ever more adept at finding my way along with the aid of my staff. I could move with some haste.

  As the hillside was steep, Llew’s directions became more succinct; he spoke only when necessary to guide me. And I wondered if he knew how well, how naturally he led. Was it, in the end, so different leading men? Was it not much the same—picking out the trail, deciding the safest way, strengthening the unsure step with words of encouragement, guiding, going ahead, but not too far ahead—was not trailcraft much the same as kingcraft?

  “It is just a little way now,” Llew called out from directly above. “You are almost there.”

  “What do you see?” I asked him.

  “I was right about the ridge,” he replied. His hand found my arm, and he pulled me up to stand beside him. “The view from here is stunning, Tegid. The sun is down now, and the sky is the color of heather. We stand on a high ridge. Before us is a wide, bowl-shaped glen, all but surrounded by the ridge wall. A stream passes through the wall somewhere below us and empties into a lake in the center of the bowl. There are tall trees around three sides of the lake and a broad grassy lea on the fourth side. The lake is like a mirror; I can see the clouds reflected in the water—and stars, there are stars beginning to shine. And it is just beautiful,” he concluded. “I wish I could describe it better. I wish you could see it.”

  “I have seen it,” I told him. “And it is beautiful.”

  “You know this place?”

  “I have never been here,” I explained. “But I feel certain this is the place I saw in my vision.”

  “Your vision in the boat—I remember.” His voice shifted as he turned his gaze to the lake once more. “What else do you see here, Te
gid?”

  I delved into my memory of that storm-lashed night and brought forth the glimmering remnant of my vision. “I see a lake . . . I see a fortress, high-timbered and strong . . . And I see a matchless war host—many hundreds gathered around a throne raised upon a mound,” I told him, recalling the images. “I see—”

  “No, I mean describe it—in detail. Be precise.”

  I concentrated, holding the images in my mind. “I see,” I began slowly, “a stand of tall pines lining the top of the ridge to our right. The slope is steep and densely wooded, rising from the near shore of the lake.”

  “Go on.”

  “The lake is longer than it is wide; it stretches almost the whole length of the valley floor. Forest surrounds it on the three sides, as you have said, and a wide grassy meadow on the fourth.”

  “What about the meadow?”

  “It forms a plain between the lake and the ridge; a plain perfectly enclosed because the ridge base rises sharply to form a protecting wall at the farthest end.”

  “What else?”

  “The lake is bounded by a rough rock shingle; the rocks are black, the size of loaves. There are numerous game trails and runs down through the forest to the lake.”

  “That is remarkable,” Llew conceded. “Unbelievable. It is just as you describe it.” He clapped his hand to my shoulder. “Let us go down to the lake. We will make our camp there.”

  “But it is growing dark, you said. How will you see the path?”

  “I cannot see the path,” he replied lightly. “Even now it is too dark. But I do not need to see the path, for you will lead me.”

  “Do you mock me?”

  “It is all the same to you, is it not?” demanded Llew. “Your inner sight will lead us to the appointed place. We will not stumble or go astray. Indeed, we will not put a foot wrong.”

  There came the croak of a raven. I listened, and heard an answering call—and then others. Soon the ridgetop resounded with the ragged, raspy clamor. Ravens were gathering in the trees along the ridge for the night.

  “Do you hear?” Llew said. “The guardians of this place are greeting us. Come, brother, we will be welcome here.”

  We stood atop Druim Vran, the Ridge of Ravens . . . This is the place I have seen, I thought, and I heard again the Banfáith’s prophecy: But happy shall be Caledon; the Flight of Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens, and ravensong shall be her song.

  Llew spoke the truth. I turned again in my mind to the vision I had been granted. And yes! I could see the path stretching out before my feet—as if in the full light of day.

  “Very well,” I said. “Let us prove this vision of mine. We will go down together.”

  I adjusted the harp on its strap and stepped forth boldly. My foot struck the path as I saw it in my mind. I took another step, and two more. To my surprise, the path of my inner sight shifted slightly as I moved. I saw the narrow trail sloping down before me—less a path than a dry watercourse choked with the tangled roots of trees and loose rock. Dangerous in any light, it would be treacherous for Llew in the dark.

  I took a few more steps. “The trail drops away sharply here,” I warned, describing what I saw in my mind’s eye. “Put your hand to my shoulder. We will go slowly.”

  Llew did as I bade him, and together we began the long, laborious journey down to the lake. It took all my strength of concentration; despite the cool night, sweat ran freely from my brow and down my back. Each step was a trial of trust, each step a pledge to be renewed— and no easier for the success of the last.

  Down we climbed, and down, following the twisting path. Contrary to Llew’s brash affirmation, our feet were rarely placed right: we stumbled over stones and tripped on exposed roots; we slid on the loose scree; and branches scratched at us from thickets on either side. Ignoring these small irritations, we persevered.

  “Tegid, you are a wonder,” Llew gasped with relief when we gained level ground once more. We continued on a little way to a place overlooking the lake. The trees grew tall; we found a place under sheltering branches and sank down on a bed drifted high with pine needles. “I am tired,” he said with a yawn. In a few moments he was asleep where he had dropped.

  I, too, was weary. But my mind was quick with excitement. Blind, I had traversed the treacherous way. Guided only by my inner vision, I had mastered the unseen path, and I could feel the newfound power leaping like a fresh-kindled flame within me. The vision granted me was genuine. Step by step, we had tested it and it had held true.

  I was blind still, and yet I had found a new sight. And it seemed to me that the sight I now possessed was greater than the sight I had known before. Sight! No longer confined to the limitations of light or even distance. Sight! If I could see beyond the furthest vistas, might I also see beyond the present and into the future . . . into realms yet to be?

  I did not sleep. How could I? I sat wound in my cloak, gazing inwardly at the lake as it was, and as it perhaps would be. I strummed the harp softly and sang, giving voice once more to the vision that burned within me. Goodly-Wise is the Many Gifted; let all men honor him and perform endless homage to the One who sustains all with his Swift Sure Hand.

  13

  THE CRANNOG

  We established our camp in a clearing among the pines on the slopes above the lake. The first day Llew caught two fish in traps he had made of woven rushes and hidden in the reeds and tall watergrass.

  That evening, while Llew cooked the day’s catch over the fire, we talked about all that had happened to bring us to this place. We discussed the meaning of the vision, and how it might be fulfilled; and we determined all that we would do. And then, with the vision glowing in our hearts, we ate our meal of fish and talked some more.

  Later, however, as I settled back with my harp and began to strum, Llew caught my wrist and held it.

  “Tegid,” he said urgently, “I want to do something.”

  “What do you want to do?” I asked.

  “We cannot sit here like this,” he continued, “or nothing will happen. We have to make something happen. I think we should make a start.”

  “What is it that you want to do? Tell me and we will do it.”

  “I do not know,” he admitted. “But I will think of something.”

  He said nothing more about it, then. But the next morning he woke at dawn and left the camp. I woke later and found my way down to the lakeside, thinking to find Llew there as well. But he was not to be found.

  I washed, standing in water to my waist, splashing cold water over myself. Upon emerging, I heard a dull, thudding sound. I heard it again as I pulled on my clothes. I turned in the direction of the sound. “Llew?” I called. Then louder, “Llew! Where are you?”

  “Here!” came the reply. “Over here!”

  I made for the sound of his voice and found him standing on the broad lea above the lake. “What was that sound I heard?” I asked him.

  “It was this,” he told me, and placed a large, heavy object in my hands. It was round and smooth and cool to the touch.

  “Why are you carrying stones?”

  “I am marking out the dimensions of our caer,” he replied, retrieving another stone. “These are the markers.”

  Apparently he had gathered stones from the lakeshore and heaped them in a pile. Now he was walking the circumference of his wouldbe fortress, using the stones to mark out the walls. We began the circuit of the walls, and he showed me where he had placed the stones.

  “This is good,” I told him. “But a bard should choose the place to build the stronghold if it is to stand. All the more if it is to be the residence of a king.”

  “I am no king,” he growled. “You keep forgetting, Tegid. I am a maimed man. In this world, men do not follow cripples. That is the truth of it!”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “That is the way of it! Yet, Goodly-Wise is the Many Gifted—”

  “No more! I do not want to hear it.”

  “Yet you will hear it!” I insiste
d. “The Swift Sure Hand has marked you; he has chosen to work in you this way. Now it is for you to choose: follow or turn back. There is no other way. If you follow, more may be revealed.”

  “It makes no sense to choose me. None of this makes sense.”

  “I have already told you—it is a mystery.”

  “And still you persist?”

  “I do persist,” I answered.

  “Why? What makes you so certain?”

  “But I am not certain,” I told him. “Nothing is certain. You want certainty?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then you want death.”

  “This is hard for me, Tegid!”

  “It is hard, yes. It is difficult. Life is harsh and it is relentless. You will choose in the end—one way or the other. No one escapes the choice.”

  “Bah! It is no use talking to you,” he cried, and his voice echoed across the water like the cry of a bird.

  “The path is revealed in the treading,” I said.

  “You sound like . . . like a bard,” he replied sourly.

  “A bard who cannot help believing that we have been brought to this place for a purpose. And the One who brought us here will not see his purpose fail.”

  “It has failed already! I believed you, Tegid!”

  Oh, the pain went deep in him. I realized that now, and I understood that the loss of his hand was the least of it. There was a potent bitterness in him, like a poisoned spring seeping into his soul. He had borne his suffering bravely, but it had been wearing at him all the same. It was behind his impatience of the previous night—and it was behind this impulsive exercise in moving rocks.

  “I am telling you the truth when I say there is a mystery—”

  “Stop it!” he roared, throwing down the stone he carried. “Speak to me no more of your mysteries, Tegid—and say no more of kingship. I will not hear it!”