The Tower and the Emerald

by Moyra Caldecott

  Viviane passed through the first gap and set off to look for the second, hidden one. The sky seemed very far away and very deeply blue between the two steep-sided banks that towered on either side of her. Suddenly she was startled by a rush of air and the sound of beating wings as a flock of birds swooped low, narrowly missing her head, flying for a moment between the walls of the gully, and then soaring, to disappear over the rim into the sky.

  She paused, a little shaken, as though she believed the birds had been sent to warn her off. She knew she should return to her companions – but she was too fascinated by the place to leave it now.

  When she found the second gateway, she was still not through to the centre. A third wall blocked her. She hurried on, now determined to find out just how many defences this fort possessed.

  The third entrance was different from the two previous ones. There were huge lichen-covered blocks of stone half buried in the grass as though some ancient doorway had once been there.

  She peered through, not intending to enter, but found this inner ring so different from the outer, she could not resist exploring it. Here the earth walls seemed once to have been lined with enormous, square blocks of stone – most of them now fallen and cluttering the ground, but some still in place. The latter had been shaped with such great skill that there was not a hair’s-breadth of space between them. As the sunlight caught the surface of one block, she thought she could see some carving on it, and went at once to inspect it more closely. Though the surface was weathered and worn, there was no doubt there had once been the carving of a hart on the stone – still faintly visible.

  Eagerly she hurried from stone to stone, looking at other carvings. When these walls had been complete there must have been a continuous frieze in low relief. Not many scenes were still intact, but those that were all depicted the natural world – animals and plants.

  A fourth entrance led her into a further ring corridor, this one with walls far more complete and in several places still roofed over with slabs of stone. Where the slabs had fallen she had to pick her way carefully over the shattered pieces and she found the walls on either side worn and weathered. Fascinated, she walked further and further, finding that the stonework became less and less ruined. What she had first thought was an accidental crack in the roofing slabs proved to be part of the original design. Exactly down the centre of the roof was a slit through which the sunlight blazed, illuminating the frieze. The carvings were now mostly of human form: the animals featured only as beasts of burden or sacrificially. Flowers only appeared to adorn the human body.

  At first, as scene after scene met her eye, she noticed only the skill of the carving and wondered at the people who had left this remarkable record, and then, gradually, she began to notice that all the scenes were of conquest, and slaughter. Whole armies were being massacred, soldiers dismembered. Columns of prisoners with arms bound and chains around their necks were being led by men with whips. The sunlight was now a harsh rod of light burning straight down on her head. She felt increasingly nervous and afraid – but still curiosity led her on.

  Another entrance led to yet another corridor. Spears and swords were familiar, as were battle-axes and arrows – but what were these new and terrible weapons – these deadly birds flying over ruined cities? Trembling, she realized that she was looking at scenes so strange, so horrible that she could not imagine humans were the protagonists. No familiar natural living thing was to be seen, only men, clad in disfiguring garments as though trying to deny their true nature . . . contained in boxes as though packaged for death while still living. And still the killing, and the killing, and the killing . . .

  She began to hurry, hoping soon she would come to images less gruesome and frightening, almost afraid to go back the way she had come and pass once again those she had already seen. Without her noticing exactly when or how it happened the nature of the corridor began to change. She seemed to be hurrying down a narrow path between towering buildings, each like an ants’ nest crawling with people. Harsh, discordant sounds punished her ears . . . blinding lights flashing on and off making her head ache. She was pushed and jostled. She had never seen so much fear or so many ways of trying to hide it.

  The corridor ended in a blank wall.

  Her heart pounding, she turned and retraced her steps. When she thought she had found the exit she hurried through, only to find herself in an equally bewildering, horrifying chasm between grimy buildings. She was wading up to her ankles in filth, and rats scuttled on every side. Frantically she turned again, trying every gap between the buildings in a desperate attempt to find her way out. Around her she saw people stabbing and killing and dying horribly – narrowly escaping herself as one of the buildings exploded and flying splinters of glass went hurtling past her . . .

  Eventually she found herself back at the same blank wall, and leant against it in despair. Then panic seized her and she pounded on it with her fists, screaming at the lifeless stone in a voice as desperate and shrill as any she heard around her.

  Suddenly she sensed that someone was watching her – a presence different from the others. Spinning around she saw a young woman standing behind her – gazing at her with eyes that were totally cold and cynical. Viviane had the impression she had seen this woman before. She was extraordinarily familiar, and yet . . . where?

  ‘There’s no point in looking for a way out,’ the stranger said. ‘There is no way out. You have seen Time past, Time present, and Time future. In any of them did you see any comfort?’

  ‘I know you,’ Viviane said hesitantly. ‘Who are you?’

  The young woman smiled mockingly – and in that instant disappeared, as though no more than a trick of light. Viviane rushed forward to see if she could find her in the crowds – but to no avail.

  Then suddenly her heart stood still. She had seen that same face reflected in still pools and in mirrors. It was her own.

  She started to shiver uncontrollably. She had heard of the Double: the shadow that is no shadow. Some called it the ‘Fetch’ and it usually presaged death. So she was going to die in this horrible place? She collapsed on the ground with her back to the wall, and sobbed. Why, when she needed it most, did Father Brendan’s teaching seem so remote? But had he not once told her that in all existence there were no impenetrable walls . . . everything flowed from one to other . . . everything moved . . . everything changed . . .?

  She twisted round to study the wall behind her. It was already changing – each particle was separating from the rest . . . She put her shoulder to it. She passed through it.

  On the other side the scene was very different. The light was gentler, more diffuse. The strange buildings and people had disappeared. This ring, like the first three, was open to the sky. Its walls were not lined with stone carved grotesquely, but composed of earth clothed richly in grass and fern and flower. Underfoot the hard paving stones had given way to soft turf. She began to hope that there would be a way out of this dread place after all.

  She noticed that the path twisted and turned back on itself from time to time, but it was always the same path. There were no gates, no diversions. She was treading a maze, one of the kind that is designed to lead one to its centre, and by so doing calm the anxious spirit, very different in purpose from that tortuous labyrinth of buildings which had led her, through fear and confusion, to despair.

  Viviane was no longer afraid. She found herself breathing calmly, deeply. Her steps were light and unhurried. Patiently and hopefully she followed the path. She barely noticed that the sunlight was dimming and that evening was approaching. Above her the mighty sky burned deep and darkly blue, and then, like lapis lazuli, blazed with stars.

  At the end of the seventh coil she reached the entrance to the centre and stood astonished. Never had she seen such beauty. The full moon had risen above the lip of the high enclosing bank and illuminated the whole of the central area. Around the outside, defining the sacred space, stood a circle of tall stones, menhirs of pure wh
ite crystal, glowing in the moonlight. Inside this circle lay a smooth circular pavement of polished stone on which was defined – in contrasting white marble and red porphyry – a spiral path. At the centre was a tree, shimmering with white flowers.

  Viviane felt tears come to her eyes, but of a very different kind to the ones that she had shed before. These were healing tears: tears of joy. She stepped on to the white marble path and walked the spiral to the centre. With each turn she learned something new about something she had thought she had known fully before. When she came to the tree she put her arms around it and leant her cheek against its bark. The fragrance of its flowers was more potent than the scent of the finest incense. Among the leaves three birds were singing.

  ‘At the centre of the Soul is the Tree of Life, rooted in the Earth and reaching to Heaven. It is in flower now, but when it seeds, its seeds will be the Spirit.’

  Their voices had no sound . . . only light.

  She knew that the Green Lady would not be far away.

  The soul might return time and again to the Earth – and the future may hold many sorrows for it. But the Spirit . . . Ah! The Spirit soared . . . the Spirit could fly beyond!

  Suddenly she remembered the green cord at her waist, and looked down. She had not noticed that it had been unravelling while she was walking. She started to retrace her steps, winding it around her hand as she did so, expecting soon to reach the end of it and return it to her waist. But it seemed to have grown immensely long. And her heart did not falter as she followed it back into the labyrinth of tall buildings.

  This time she noticed things she had not noticed before. She saw children playing and laughing in a waterfall from a rainwater gutter; she saw lovers kissing under a broken street-lamp; she saw an old couple sitting at a window, talking quietly. She noticed flowers growing out of the cracks in the walls, and a dandelion shedding its ballerina seeds on to a pile of rubbish.

  She half hoped she would meet her double again. This time she would know what to say to her. ‘There is a way out,’ she would say. ‘Though beings may deny their true nature until almost all is lost, their true nature remains, in spite of their denial, and can at any moment be reclaimed.’

  * * * *

  She reached the final gateway and took a deep breath of relief as she stepped out into the open.

  She had been away a long time, and her companions must surely be extremely worried about her. She ran through the little copse like a young doe and burst out breathlessly on the other side, ready to tell her tale. They were calmly saddling up the horses and getting ready to ride on.

  Caradawc smiled at her as she appeared. ‘Did you have a good walk?’ he asked cheerfully. ‘We thought we’d move on now.’

  She stared at him in surprise. It was clear that time had hardly moved since she had left them.

  * * * *

  After a while they came to a fork in the road and were in a quandary as to which path to take. One seemed to wander off towards the south and the other to the north. Neither went to the east. Should they stay on the road in the hope that it would turn east eventually; and if so, which branch of it? Or should they set off across country? They were just debating the question when a rider appeared from the south: a tall, handsome young man in scarlet, fit to be a king’s companion. He greeted them cheerfully as he came level with them.

  ‘On the way to the marriage feast?’ he asked amiably.

  ‘We know of no marriage feast,’ Caradawc said politely, ‘but we’d be glad of some advice as to the road we should take if we want to reach the other side of those rocky hills.’

  ‘The road you want lies close to the castle,’ the young man replied. ‘I’d be glad of your company,’ he added with a smile at both the young women, ‘if you’d care to ride with me.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Caradawc asked, turning to Viviane.

  ‘How far is the castle, sir?’ she asked thoughtfully. A diversion might in the long run prove quicker if they could travel on well-made roads the whole way.

  ‘Not far, my lady, not far at all – and I’m sure the good lord will insist that you rest a while and feast with the rest of us on venison and wine before you resume your journey.’

  ‘We haven’t time for that, sir, but we’ll gladly accompany you until we join the right road.’

  Viviane wondered about the young man. He had appeared just at the time when they needed to know the way. Had he been sent to guide them?

  Caradawc rode beside him, listening to tales about the bride’s father and his vast estates, his riches, his skill in training falcons, his beautiful wife and daughters. Caradawc felt compelled to meet his boasts with boasts of his own, and he was soon enthusiastically exaggerating the merits of Castle Goreu.

  Viviane rode with Idoc, while Olwen, still low in spirit, brought up the rear.

  To the east of them was high, barren country; to the west the pleasant land that they had ridden across all morning was green and fertile, well ordered and cultivated.

  At length they saw the castle, high on a hill, its battlements fluttering with flags. Surrounding it, on the lower slopes of the green hill and in the valley, were the colourful tents of the wedding guests.

  Viviane rode up to join Caradawc and the young man in scarlet, who she discovered was called Sir Lionel. The stranger turned his head and smiled at her.

  ‘I urge you to reconsider, lady,’ he said earnestly. ‘The delay will do no harm, and the rest and refreshment can only be beneficial. Besides,’ he added with a naughty look at the two young women, ‘my reputation would be greatly enhanced were I to be accompanied there by two such beautiful ladies.’

  Caradawc laughed and tried to catch Viviane’s eye, but he could see that she seemed irritated. She was frowning thoughtfully. Was this man a way-guide or not? She was beginning to doubt it.

  Before she could speak they were joined by a group of riders coming in from a side road; all gaily and richly dressed; all talking and laughing noisily. They greeted the young knight with enthusiasm, slapping him on the back and admiring his clothes, which were indeed extraordinarily elegant. He enlisted their help at once in trying to persuade the travellers to join, however briefly, in the festivities. Viviane tried to resist, but somehow – and she was afterwards never quite clear how it happened – they were swept along and found themselves being jostled through the gateway of the castle by a boisterous crowd.

  ‘Will it matter so much?’ Caradawc whispered to her. ‘We need not stay long and, who knows, this may well be part of the quest for the emerald. He did appear just when we needed him!’

  Viviane did not know what to do. She turned to Olwen. ‘What do you think?’ she asked. From Olwen’s expression it was clear that she, like Caradawc, would be glad of a diversion and some good food.

  The decision was made for them by a group of girls who danced around them, dragging them laughingly off their horses and garlanding them with flowers. Viviane was soon separated from her companions, and was led into the castle. She looked back over her shoulder to see what was happening to the others and saw that they were undergoing much the same treatment. None of them seemed to mind, and she told herself that she was being over-cautious. It was a pity to delay the finding of the golden feather and, hopefully, then the emerald, but she could not be sure that this whole diversion was not part of the quest. Another thought weighed with her: perhaps a really joyful festival might help to remind Idoc of the good things of life and strengthen his will to live.

  The castle was magnificent, far grander than Castle Goreu, and even, she thought grudgingly, grander than her own father’s. She had a twinge of homesickness and wondered if she would ever see her childhood home again; the sea washing around the roots of the rocks on which it stood: on summer days wooing it, in winter lashing at it angrily and spitefully like a rejected lover . . . She thought about her father’s chair, the throne of the High King of six kingdoms, carved by Celtic craftsmen from oak, the horned god Cernunnos giving his prote
ction. She thought of her mother’s little Christian chapel built at the foot of the hill on which the castle stood. There was always the sound of the sea there, and on sunny days the flickering light reflected from water playing on the wall opposite the tiny mullioned window. She wondered why she was thinking of these things now and decided it was because she longed for that time when her parents made the decisions for her. She was suddenly weary of the burden she was carrying for Idoc. Had her father felt the same when he sat in his great chair, his chin in his hand, pondering day after day the problems and petitions his people brought to him?

  The girls hurried her along a wide corridor at the end of which was a huge door with elaborately carved panels. She was still gazing with astonishment at its heavy burgeoning of fecund nature – plants and animals twined and intertwined until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began – when the door swung open and she was led into a huge, low room, panelled heavily in dark wood and carved all over just as elaborately as the door; but this time the figures were of men and women and animals, all in the act of coupling, in every possible position and with every possible combination – the whole giving an impression of grotesque and obsessive sexuality. A group of young women were clustered in front of a tall mirror in a heavy gilt frame. One – presumably the bride – was being attended by the others.

  As soon as she saw Viviane, the bride smiled and reached out her hands to her. ‘Welcome,’ she said.

  Seeing her close by, Viviane realized that she was very young, barely thirteen, her pink and white complexion as virginal as the petals of a newly opened lily.

  ‘I hope you don’t find our arrival an intrusion, my lady,’ Viviane said nervously. ‘My companions and I were intending to pass by, but we met a young man called Sir Lionel, who insisted that we attend your wedding.’

  ‘Of course!’ the child laughed. ‘Sir Lionel would! But don’t worry – you’re most welcome. Everyone is welcome!’