I looked into the bowl cupped in my hands. The dark liquid within became a squirming, seething mass of yellow maggots. I saw human bones, smoldering with inexplicable fire. And I heard again the echo of those mysterious words: We have no choice…burn it down.
I saw again the mound of corpses, bloated and stained a hideous blue-black, piled high and burning, greasy smoke assaulting a dry white sky. The gorge rose in my throat; I gagged and threw the bowl from me.
Gwenhwyvar put her hand on my arm. “Myrddin!”
Sudden knowledge burst within me; the hateful word formed on my tongue. “Pestilence,” I answered, choking on the word. “Even now death is moving like a mist through the land.”
Arthur’s jaw was set. “I will defend Britain. I will do all that may be done to defeat the Vandali.”
He misunderstood my meaning, so I said: “There is an enemy more powerful than the Boar and his piglets, more dangerous to us all than any invader who has breached these shores.”
Arthur regarded me sharply. “You speak in riddles, bard. What is this death?”
“It is called the Yellow Death,” I replied.
“Plague!” Gwenhwyvar gasped.
“There has been no word of plague from any of the lords,” said Arthur. “I will not allow such rumors to be spread amongst men preparing for battle.”
“I have no interest in rumors, O Great King. Even so, there is no doubt in my mind—nor should there be in yours—that the Yellow Death is even now loosed in Britain.”
Arthur accepted the rebuke in my words; staring into my eyes he asked, “What is the cure?”
“I know no cure,” I told him. “But it comes to me,” I added on a sudden inspiration, “that if any remedy exists it may be that the priests at Ynys Avallach know of it. Their experience is wide and their knowledge deep,” I said, and remembered my mother telling me that the monastery was becoming a place of healing. But that had been years ago—would it still be so now?
“Then you must go at once without delay,” said Gwenhwyvar.
I rose from my place.
“Sit down, Myrddin,” Arthur said. “You cannot go now. It is dark and there are fifty thousand barbarians between you and Ynys Avallach.” He paused, looking up at me in the firelight. “Besides, I sit in council tonight and I need you here.”
“I cannot stay, Arthur,” I said. “If anything can be done, I dare not wait. I must go. You know this.”
Still Arthur hesitated. “One enemy at a time,” he said. “We only squander our strength if we chase off in all directions. There is no cure for the plague, you said so yourself.”
“I have no wish to defy you,” I said stiffly. “But you have the Cymbrogi to attend you, and I may be of use elsewhere. This danger has been shown to me, and I cannot ignore it. I will return as soon as possible, but I must go. Now. Tonight.”
“Bear,” Gwenhwyvar implored, “he is right. Let him go. It may be the saving of many lives.” Arthur’s gaze swung from me to her, and she seized on this momentary hesitation. “Yes, go to them, Wise Emrys,” Gwenhwyvar urged, as if this had been Arthur’s plan all along. “Learn all you can and bring us some good word.”
“I make no promise,” I warned, “but I will do what may be done. As for rumors, say nothing to anyone about this until I return.”
“So, it is settled,” declared Arthur, though I could tell the decision did not sit well with him. He stood abruptly and cried out for Llenlleawg. “Myrddin must leave us for a time,” he said. “Since the valley is swarming with Vandali, I would ask you to accompany him on his journey.”
Llenlleawg inclined his head in assent, his expression impassive in the firelight.
“I thank you,” I told them both. “But I will travel more swiftly alone.”
“At least let him see you to the boat,” Arthur insisted. “Then I will know the barbarians did not stop you.”
Seeing he was determined to get his way in something, I relented. Bidding Arthur and Gwenhwyvar fare well, Llenlleawg and I went at once to the horse picket to retrieve our mounts. We rode from the camp as Arthur was sitting down to council.
I do not know which I pitied more: Arthur contending with his kings, or myself spending a sleepless night in the saddle. Likely, I had the better bargain.
5
LLENLLEAWG AND I KEPT TO THE hilltops till we were well out of sight of the barbarian encampment, turning our horses into the vale as the sun broke red and raw in the east. Llenlleawg led the way, riding a little ahead, keeping close watch on the trail and the bluffs to either side, lest we encounter any straggling Vandali. But the trail remained empty and safe—until, rounding a blind turn just after midday, the Irish champion halted abruptly. “Someone is coming this way. Three riders, maybe more.”
My eyes scanned the riverside trail before us, but I saw nothing. “There.” The Irishman pointed to the rock-strewn riverbank ahead and to the right. The white sun high overhead shrank the shadows, making everything appear flat and colorless. I looked where Llenlleawg indicated and saw that what I had taken to be the gray shapes of boulders were in fact riders, slowly picking their way along the riverside.
“Did they see us?”
He gave his head a slight shake. “I do not think so.”
We sat motionless for a time, waiting for the strangers to show themselves. Since the men were mounted, I did not think they could be Vandali, but we waited just the same. The strangers were also wary; they came on slowly, pausing often to scan the trail ahead, and the instant they sighted us, one of their number turned tail and raced back the way they had come, leaving the remaining two to continue on.
“Let us meet them,” Llenlleawg said, drawing a spear from behind his saddle. We moved ahead slowly, and but a single spear-throw separated us when Llenlleawg gave a whoop and lashed his mount to speed. “It is Niul!” he called back to me. “Lot’s man!”
He rushed ahead, hailing the riders loudly. I galloped after him as Llenlleawg and Niul, leaning from the saddle, embraced one another. “What do you here, cousin?” cried the one called Niul. “I thought it was a very cruachag rising out of the river to carry us off.” He laughed, throwing back his head. One glance at the scars on his shield arm and the notched blade ready on his thigh gave me to know this battle-wise veteran feared little in this world.
Not waiting for Llenlleawg to present me, he turned and called: “Hail, Myrddin Emrys!” At my surprise, he laughed again. “You do not remember me, nor do I blame you.”
As he spoke, a memory shaped itself in my mind. I remembered a room in a house—Gradlon the wine merchant’s room in Londinium the first time I had met Lot. This man, one of Lot’s chieftains, was there. “It is true that I do not remember your name, if I ever heard it,” I confessed. “But you, I think, attended the first Council of Kings in Londinium. We shared a cup of beer together, as I recall, since Lot would drink no wine.”
“By the God that made you, Lord Emrys—” Niul laughed, enjoying this meeting very much—“you are a wonder. True enough. My soul, I was but a boy then. Yes, we shared a cup of beer. Lot would drink nothing else. But where is Pelleas? How come you keep company with this wild beast of an Irishman?”
“Pelleas is dead,” I told him. “Several years ago.”
Sorrow stole the mirth from his smile. “Ah, a sad loss indeed.” He shook his head. “Forgive me, I did not know.”
Llenlleawg spoke up. “Niul’s mother and mine were kin,” he explained. “Niul was fostered in Fergus’ house. We were raised together.”
The urgency of my journey pressed upon me, so, at risk of rudeness, I said, “Is Lot here?”
“He follows directly,” replied Niul. “He is with the warband but a small distance behind. Come, I will take you to him.”
Curving around the foot of an enormous hill, the valley bent and widened as it passed. Once beyond the bend I saw, spread out across the valley floor, a warband of perhaps five hundred warriors—three hundred on foot, the rest on horseback: a most h
eartening sight.
From the forerank of warriors two horsemen rode to meet us. Lot I would have recognized anywhere: his bold checked cloak of black and crimson, his braided locks, his great golden torc, the blue-stained clan marks on his cheeks. He recognized me, too, and called out with evident pleasure. “Hail, Emrys! I give you good greeting. It is long since we last met—too long, I think.”
I hailed him in return, and we embraced one another in true friendship. “Well, it is once again in the saddle with sword in hand—not so, Myrddin Emrys?”
“I would it were not so,” I replied. “Still, I am glad to see you. In the name of the High King, I welcome you, Lot.”
“We came upon Llenlleawg and the Emrys on the other side of the bend yonder,” Niul put in. “They ride alone.”
“And here were we expecting these fierce Vandali Gwalchavad warned us of,” Lot offered by way of explanation.
“Continue on the way you are going and you will soon find as many as you care to see,” Llenlleawg answered. “Fifty thousand or more.”
“Truly?” wondered Lot. “Gwalchavad did not say there were so many.”
“He did not know,” I replied, “nor did we.” Llenlleawg then told them where to find Arthur and how best to avoid the barbarians.
“Will you ride with us, Emrys?” Niul asked.
“Alas, we cannot,” I replied. “Llenlleawg and I pursue other affairs, no less urgent.”
“Then we will not delay you longer,” Lot said. “Until we meet again, Myrddin, I bid you fare well and safe return.”
We continued on our way, and they on theirs, and we soon passed from one another’s sight. The valley widened and, as the day dwindled, I could see the waters of Mor Hafren shining in the distance. We camped on the trail and were in the saddle again before dawn.
The sun had not risen above the surrounding hills when, high in the clear, cloudless sky I saw the dark shapes of carrion birds circling a place a little distance to the north. “That is Caer Uisc,” I observed.
Without a word, Llenlleawg turned aside and made for the settlement. We arrived a short time later to find the place burnt to its post holes. I surveyed the blackened arena formed by the scorched timbers of the palisade. Here and there, under collapsed roof trees I saw a few objects recognizable still: the sphere of an overturned caldron, a tripod reduced to lengths of twisted iron, heat-shattered jars by the score, and—God have mercy!—half-buried amid heaps of dead ash, the charred corpses of plague victims, young and old alike. The birds worked at the dead, picking clean the bones.
“The Black Boar has done this thing,” Llenlleawg declared bitterly.
“No,” I told him, seeing the flames and hearing the weeping of my vision once more. Here was its confirmation—if any were needed. “Twrch Trwyth is not to blame. The people of Caer Uisc have burned their own settlement.”
Llenlleawg started at this. “That cannot be!” he protested, and began to dismount in order to examine the scene more closely.
“Stay!” I commanded. “Touch not so much as an ash to your boot.” Pulling himself back into the saddle, he opened his mouth to object. I silenced him with a word, and said, “You will know this killer soon enough. When you return to Caer Melyn, tell Arthur—only Arthur, mind!—what you have seen. Tell him also that Myrddin’s vision was true. Do you understand? Say nothing of Caer Uisc to the others. We were never here, Llenlleawg.”
Accustomed to taking orders, the man accepted my instructions. I turned away. “We best not linger. The day is speeding from us.”
We rode on in all haste to the harbor at Caer Legionis, where Arthur’s fleet, joined now by Lot’s ships, lay at anchor. Barinthus hailed our approach; the doughty pilot had remained behind with a handful of men to guard and maintain the ships. “What word?” he called. “What word of the battle?”
“We fought but once,” Llenlleawg answered. “A broken skirmish. There was no victory.”
We dismounted and greeted the pilot; several others came running to hear what we had to say. I told them how the situation stood between Arthur and Amilcar, and asked, “Have you seen anything?”
“Lot arrived midday yesterday,” Barinthus told us.
“Nothing else?”
“No one passes here without our notice,” the bull-necked shipman answered. “We keep watch day and night, and neither friend nor foe has come this way—save Lot, as I say, and yourselves.” He paused, anticipating my order. “I am at your service, Wise Emrys. Where would you go?”
“To Ynys Avallach,” I answered, indicating the broad sweep of Mor Hafren glittering like hammered gold in the fading light of day. “I see the tide is flowing now. The need is such, I cannot wait.”
“It shall be done,” the pilot said. “I myself will take you.”
“Also,” I added, “it would be wise to move the ships away from the shore. We will not need them soon, I think.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” Barinthus replied, in a tone that made it clear I need concern myself no further with the safety of the ships.
He turned and began barking commands; those with him leapt to their tasks. I bade Llenlleawg return to Arthur then, and by the time my mount and I were aboard the boat, Arthur’s fleet was already being moved to deeper water—well out of reach of marauding barbarians.
Riding the ebbing tideflow, Barinthus expertly guided the ship around mudbanks and swiftly brought us to the opposite shore at the place where the little river Briw met the larger Padrud, forming a great mudflat at low tide. “It looks to be a mucky landing,” he warned. “This is as close as I dare go.”
Thus was I forced to disembark in waist-deep water. Leading my horse, I splashed through the water and floundered across the mudflat to dry land—where I mounted and hastened inland. Night overtook me on the way, but I did not stop; I wanted to reach my grandfather’s house as soon as possible. Pushing a relentless course, I came in sight of the tor as the sun rose once more.
There can be few more beautiful sights in this worlds-realm than the palace of the Fisher King by golden dawnlight. The slender towers and graceful walls of white stone—all rose-and-honey-colored in the morning light—made a richly glowing reflection in the lake that surrounded the tor with Ynys Avallach rising above the flat marshland like an island from a blue-green sea.
Years had passed since I last saw it—several lifetimes, it seemed. Even so, it remained as I recalled from earliest memory, and my heart swelled with a sudden yearning. Avallach’s palace had ever been a haven to me, and I felt its old tranquillity beckoning, like a cool breeze over the shaded depths of the lake’s many-shadowed pools, soothing the traveler’s heat-fevered brow.
Oh, Blessed Jesu, keep this place close to your loving heart, and hold it in the palm of your Swift Sure Hand. If goodness anywhere endures in this worlds-realm, let it reign here, now, and for as long as your name is honored among men.
I made my way around the lake, passing beneath the hill where stood the abbey, and reached the causeway leading out across the water to the tor. Ynys Avallach, green as an emerald against the sun-fired sky, seemed some otherworldly place—an impression only deepened upon meeting those who dwelt there. Fair Folk indeed, graceful in every line, enchanting to look upon—even the lowest stablehand possesses a bearing of high nobility. Two young grooms dashed forward, running to take my horse. Avallach, last monarch of that dwindling race, appeared and called a greeting as I passed under the high-vaulted arch.
“Merlin!” His voice resounded like glad thunder. Before I had properly dismounted, he drew me from the saddle and gathered me in his strong embrace. “Merlin, my son, my son. Stand here. Let me look at you.” He held me at arm’s length, then seized me once more and crushed me to him.
Arthur—big as he is—is but a boy beside the Fisher King. I felt a stripling youth again.
“The peace of Christ be upon you, Merlin, my son,” Avallach said, spreading wide his arms. “Welcome! Come into my hall—we will raise the cup togeth
er.”
Leaving the stone-flagged yard, we crossed a roofed portico and passed through two great doors into the palace. “Charis is not here at present,” the Fisher King informed me as the welcome cup arrived. “One of the priests summoned her this morning. They fetch her whenever she is needed at the shrine.”
“Did they say why?” I asked with sinking heart, praying it was not what I feared. Could plague spread so quickly? I did not know.
“Sickness,” Avallach replied, holding out the cup. When the cup was filled, the Fisher King pressed it into my hands. “Drink, Merlin. You have traveled far, and the journey was hot. The villagers say there is drought.”
I smiled. Avallach called any and all who lived in the shadow of the tor “villagers”—as if he were a lord with thriving settlements full of loyal subjects. In truth, though a few folk still lived in holdings scattered around the marshes, most who passed through the Summerlands were pilgrims in search of a blessing at the shrine.
“Then I will find her at the abbey,” I said, and sipped some of the good, rich beer before passing the cup to Avallach.
“So I imagine,” he said, raising the cup, watching me over the rim. He paused, cocking his head to one side as he studied me. “Christ have mercy!” he cried all at once. “Myrddin, you can see!”
“Truly, Grandfather.”
He gazed at me as if at a marvel. “But—but how did this happen? Your sight restored! Tell me! Tell me at once.”
“There is little enough to say,” I replied. “I was blind, as you well know. But a priest named Ciaran laid hands on me and it pleased God to heal me.”
“A miracle,” breathed Avallach, as if this were the most natural explanation—as if miracles were splendidly commonplace, as frequent as the sun rising in the east each day, as wonderful and as welcome. Indeed, in his world, perhaps they were.
Talk passed then to the small happenings of the marshland: fishing, the work at the shrine and abbey, the toil of the monks and the ever-widening circle of faith. I marveled, not for the first time, how little the trauma and turmoil of the day mattered in this place. Events of great moment in the wider world were either unknown here or passed as incidents of small consequence. The palace of the Fisher King, like its tor, stood aloof from the ravages and upheaval of the age, a true haven, a sanctuary of peace in a trouble-fretted world. Great Light, let it ever be so!
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