by Mike Ashley
“My handmaidens were over-zealous in their guardianship,” the High Priestess said, “but we intend you no cruelty. All we need to know, indeed will know, is the purpose of your visit.”
The monk did not reply and still kept his eyes lowered. Ever since his capture he had known that his best chance lay in saying as little as possible, and above all not to look at their eyes. He had not even given a single glance to this new arrival, but there was something in the voice that was familiar.
“You may safely look upon my face, Silvanus,” the voice said. “I will not beguile you. I have other methods of making men talk.”
Curiosity, and the utter confidence in the woman’s voice, made him risk a glance, and as he recognized her his heart sank.
“Yes, you are right,” said the woman, “I am Morgan le Fay, wife to King Uryens of Gore, half-sister to King Arthur, Pythoness in the Order of Theutates, High Priestess of the Elder Faith. Many a time when I was a girl I sat in your teaching circle to learn your philosophies, but it has been many a year since Morgan le Fay graced your meetings.”
“Witch-Queen!” he burst out. “You will learn naught from me. I will die first!”
The woman shrugged. “Having knowledge of the Elder Faith you know perfectly well that one of senior grade such as myself can read the mind of a man as his soul leaves his body at the moment of death. So you can either tell me now and live, or reveal it all as you die. It matters little to me either way.”
Silvanus knew that such a thing was certainly claimed, but he had no way of knowing whether it was true or merely a ploy to frighten the gullible. “I do not believe that you can do any such thing,” he said slowly.
Morgan le Fay smiled a horribly ominous smile. “You now have the opportunity to put the matter to the test,” she said confidently. She rose and gathered her robe about her. “You have the night hours to ponder your dilemma. At dawn you will tell me, one way or the other.” She turned to the senior priestess. “Bind him and guard him. Have all in readiness an hour before dawn,” and she turned and walked away into the darkness towards the hermit cells.
Within minutes the fire had been doused and Silvanus had been returned, bound, to his cell, two priestesses set to guard his door, and all grew quiet, a silence wherein his thoughts raced frantically seeking an avenue of escape from his predicament.
The matter was simple of definition but not so simple of solution. If Morgan le Fay could really do what she claimed then there was no point in throwing his life away. He might just as well tell her voluntarily and live. But could she? He had no fear of death itself, though he was apprehensive about the manner of dying, but neither was he prepared to end this incarnation without good reason.
Time and again during that long night he tried to contact Merlin on the inner, but failed. Presumably he and Arthur were already on their way to Avalon, travelling at night, in which case it was nearly too late for Morgan le Fay to interfere anyway.
The settlement was astir before first light. They came for him a little before dawn and took him to the chalybeate well at the foot of the Tor; the well whose iron-laden waters rose from the oldest rocks and whose flow never altered, summer or winter, flood or drought. On the surface of the water, and indeed below it, floated a misty mass of rare red water-fungus that some said gave rise to the name of Blood Spring, though others said the name sprang from a darker, more gruesome reason.
Above the well-head was built a chamber of great blocks of stone such as were used at Stonehenge, the great stone circle some few miles away. A single block of stone formed three sides of the well-mouth, a stone whose masonry filled with the closest accuracy, true square and perfectly perpendicular. The round well-shaft led down some fifteen feet to a bed of blue lias gravel through which rose the powerful and never-failing spring.
Opening out of the well-shaft just below the surface of the water was a large chamber of finely hewn stone. In one wall of that chamber was a recess in which a man could just stand. To one side was a sluice which enabled the water to be run off so that the inner chamber could be entered. When the sluice was closed the well would rapidly refill so that once more the chamber and its recess would be below the surface. Into the wall of the recess were set four huge iron staples to which a man or a woman might be bound. As Silvanus was brought to the well he could see that the sluice was open and that the well was rapidly emptying.
“As you probably know,” said Morgan le Fay calmly, “at dawn today, Midsummer’s Day, as the sun rounds the shoulder of the Tor a shaft of light shines straight into that inner chamber. Let us hope that it illumines your mind as well as your face so that you may make the right decision.”
“And if my decision does not please you,” said Silvanus drily, “no doubt you will then close the sluice and allow the well to refill with me still bound within it.”
The High Priestess shrugged. “The choice is yours.” She looked at him with some compassion. “You are a good man, Silvanus, one who is sympathetic to the Elder Faith, and I do not wish to see you die. Tell me the purpose of your visit, and live.” He shook his head and said nothing. Morgan le Fay sighed and turned to her senior priestess. “Take him and tie him in the recess.”
The well was now empty and the priestess led their prisoner down the rough-hewn ancient stone steps into the well itself, into the inner chamber, and fastened him by thongs to the iron staples in the recess. This done she looked up at Morgan le Fay for instructions. The High Priestess glanced at the sky. “Don’t be a martyr, Silvanus. Tell me now before it is too late,” but again Silvanus shook his head.
Morgan le Fay reluctantly gave the sign and the senior priestess pulled on the lever that let fall the wedge-shaped piece of stone that blocked the sluice-way, and immediately the water began to rise. Hastily the senior and two junior priestesses scrambled up the stone steps to safety, the hems of their robes already soaking wet from the rapidly rising water. As they scrambled clear the sun’s first ray lanced from behind the Tor and struck into the inner chamber and into the recess and lit up the monk’s face, but the water was already swirling about his knees and rapidly rising higher.
Silvanus had made his decision some time earlier. Merlin must already be well into his dawn ritual at Avalon. By delaying matters until now he had successfully thwarted the Witch-Queen’s plans. It was now time to save himself.
“Very well, Witch-Queen,” he cried out, the water now to his waist. “You win. I will tell you all you wish to know. Release me!”
Morgan le Fay leant over the well-head. “Tell me first, then I will release you,” she said calmly.
“It will be too late.”
“Then die, monk,” she said.
The water was now halfway between his waist and his chest. “All right, all right. I came to inform the Christian monks that Merlin is planning to place the sword Excalibur in the hand of the Christian king, Arthur Pendragon.”
So that was it! She leaned further over. “When?”
“Today – now – at dawn. You are already too late, Witch-Queen. Now I hold you to your vow. Release me.”
For a fleeting moment Morgan le Fay was tempted to let him drown, but she rose and said: “Release him, quickly.”
Three of the junior priestesses plunged into the well and swam into the inner chamber to the recess. By the time they arrived the water was up above his chest and reaching for his chin. Two of them dived beneath the surface to free the thongs that bound his ankles, and the third trod water and supported his head.
“Quickly!” he gasped. “Quickly!” He felt one leg go free but the other remained fast. The swirling water reached above his chin and he strained his head upwards.
“Take a deep breath,” the priestess cried, “and don’t struggle.”
One of the two below the surface came up for air. “We cannot free the other one!” she gasped. “The thongs are too tight.”
In that moment Silvanus took a last despairing breath as the water came up over his mouth and covered
his head completely, reaching the roof of the actual recess itself and within a foot of the ceiling of the entire inner chamber.
The second priestess came up for air and handed the knife to the first who now dived below the surface again. The body of the monk was thrashing wildly, making it difficult for her to reach the trapped leg. Several of the thongs were cut but there were still two to go. Suddenly the body gave a final lunge and then was still. Frantically she sawed at the thongs regardless of whether she was cutting through flesh or not, and at last they parted. She gathered her feet to the floor and thrust herself to the surface.
In the meantime the other two priestesses had released his arms but in his last paroxysm he had grasped hold of both of them and they could not release his grip no matter how frantically they struggled. By this time the water had reached so high that as the third priestess shot to the surface she smashed her head a sickening blow against the rock ceiling of the inner chamber, driving the breath from her body. In her dazed state she tried to breathe but took in more water than air, and in those last few seconds the water reached the ceiling. She turned towards the opening of the large chamber and the open surface beyond but the struggling group were in her way, and as she tried to squeeze past she became caught up in their furious thrashing. For a further full half-minute the four danced a macabre dance of death below the surface – and then they danced no more.
At the well-head the others had seen the terrible predicament but had not dared at first to interfere lest they add to the confusion. When the surfacing priestess smashed her head Morgan le Fay snapped her fingers and three more priestesses plunged into the well, but by the time they had dived and reached the inner chamber the group had already become still. But there was still time to save them if they could get them out quickly.
The doomed four were now floating hard up against the rough-hewn ceiling of the inner chamber, and as the rescuers tried to pull them those few precious feet to the open surface their robes caught against spurs of rock and held them fast. Furiously the rescuers struggled to free them, but then had to desist and return for air. Three times they dived and three times they struggled but all to no avail, and Morgan le Fay signalled for them to abandon the attempt lest they too became snagged, and they came dripping out of the well, their robes flattened wetly against their bodies, their hair matted into thick wet ropes.
The well was now full and the water was quiet and peaceful. Fifteen feet below the surface they could see see the bed of blue lias gravel, and in the water and on the surface lazily floated the misty clouds of red water-fungus. The sun’s rays, stronger now, lanced into the inner chamber and lit up with motes of gold the four who now floated serenely, clasped together below the surface of Chalybeate Well.
Merlin deplored the enmity between the old and the new, for to him Christianity was but an extension of the Elder Faith into the new age, both were stretches of the same river of spiritual thought and thus sprang from the same source and were headed in the same direction for the same reason. But each considered the other to be a blasphemy and in such a climate it was impossible for the seed of co-operation to take root.
The great symbol of the Christian Church at Glastonbury was the Cup that Joseph had brought to Britain, the very one that Jesus had used at the last meal with his disciples. Monks then hid it deep within the Tor in a secret chamber guarded by three pure maidens to prevent it being profaned by the Romans or blasphemed by the Elder Faith. This was the Cup of Avalon.
The great symbol of the Elder Faith at Glastonbury was the sword of Excalibur, secreted below the lake in the halls of the Lady of Avalon, the Lady of the Lake, and there it was guarded by the three goddess-queens. This was the Sword of Avalon.
Merlin was neither Christian nor of the Elder Faith, for he was of that company that transcends both and knew that both the Sword and the Cup were archetypal symbols of the same spiritual power and that if they could be used in conjunction with one another then the way could be gloriously opened for the Most Holy Grail of God to descend to earth and remain there permanently for all men to see for all time. But the Elder Faith was dying because it refused to recognize and accept the Cup, and Christianity was already sterile and would last but a short impotent time in the evolution of mankind because it refused to accept and wield the Sword.
“What is Avalon?” said Arthur as he and Merlin rode through the night. “It is a strange place. I have been there several times and each time my dreams are filled with the most curious imagery.”
Merlin patted the horse’s neck as he rode. “It is the holiest earth in Britain. It is many things to many different types of soul. It is that part of your realm where the veil to the inner is thinnest. There has not been a phase in the spiritual story of our race that did not involve Glastonbury and Avalon. Its influence twines like a golden thread throughout the story of these islands. Even the most ancient of the folk-stories, those that are full of deep spiritual significance to those whose hearts are tuned to their key, are linked to the spiritual pulse of Glastonbury.”
“But what of Stonehenge? I thought that was the sacred centre of our race.”
Merlin nodded. “Cor Gaur, to give it its ancient time, has been the sacred centre of the outward religious life of the people for some four thousand years, but Glastonbury was always its secret heart. One of the secret Green Roads of the soul, the mystic way, leads through the hidden door of Avalon into a land known only to the eye of vision. There is the Avalon of the Cup and the Avalon of the Sword, as I have told you, but this mystic way is known as the Avalon of the Heart. This mystic Avalon lives her hidden life, invisible save to those who have the key to the gates of vision. Glastonbury is a gateway to the unseen. It has been a holy place from time immemorial, and to this day it sends its ancient call into the heart of the race it guards, and still we answer to its inner voice. Since you are the true king, Arthur, then your heart already knows all there is to know of Avalon.”
The trackway wound its ancient way, worn by wandering feet and hooves that sought firm ground. In the east the sky had already begun to lighten as king and priest breasted the last barrier of hills and descended towards the alluvial salt-marshes. Ahead of them the wide flat land stretched out in the early grey light to the sea beyond, hidden in the mist of distance. One side of the plain was guarded by the Polden Hills, and the other by the Mendips. Here and there on the plain itself rose sudden hills called “islands” by the local peasantry, for much of the plain was often below water. As Merlin and Arthur descended the slopes to the lower levels they could see that in the middle of the plain rose the grey pyramidal hill crowned by a tower, the Tor of Glastonbury itself, and beside the Tor rose the dreaming green hill called Chalice Hill, and beyond it, they knew, lay the magical Lake of Avalon.
“The Christian monks have their settlement at the foot of the Tor,” said Merlin, “and Morgan le Fay, your half-sister, leads a cult of the Elder Faith upon the slopes of Chalice Hill, but we will avoid both until we have done what we came to do.”
They descended onto the plain and picked their way along the ancient trackway that wound across the salt-marsh levels, skirting both Tor and Chalice Hill until they came to the reed-banked Lake of Avalon beyond. There they wearily tethered their horses and waited by the water’s edge for the coming of the sun.
“It seems deserted,” said Arthur presently.
Merlin smiled. “The Lady of the Lake knows that we are here, and why. She will come to us.”
Arthur said nothing but his heart was full of doubt. He tethered his horse and sat on the grassy bank, his back propped against a wind-stunted bush. His body shivered in the chill air, and he pulled his cloak more closely around him. There were times when he wished himself back with his foster-father Sir Hector, to be as he used to be, a carefree youth, squire to his foster-brother Sir Kay. As king he had expected to be in command of all around him, but with this priestly magic and ritual he felt as a dry leaf blown by strange winds into strange lands that he did
not understand.
He sighed and closed his eyes for a few moments and saw himself as he had been at the castle, working in the kitchen, tending the horses in the great stables, or polishing Kay’s armour. As a boy he had been at everyone’s beck and call from dawn to dusk – aye, and beyond dusk when the great hall rang to the drunken laughter of visiting knights and squires when he had been required to serve mead to the great table – and yet in a strange way he had felt in control of his life and had understood his small world and his place in it. But then had come that fateful journey to London when magic had first invaded his soul. There were times when he bitterly regretted ever having seen that sword in the stone. From that moment his life had become no longer his own.
He opened his eyes, and as the sun rounded the Tor behind them and lit up the surface of the lake he saw to his astonishment that across his lap lay a finely jewelled sword and scabbard of surpassing beauty and craftsmanship. He took the hilt in his hand and immediately he was as one with the sword and felt its strength flowing through him. He looked up. “But what is . . .” he began, but Merlin was already gathering his horse.
“Come,” said the wizard sternly, “we may not delay.”
“But the sword? What . . .”
“That,” said Merlin, springing to saddle with an agility surprising in one no longer young, “is Excalibur. It is given into your keeping for a little while by the Lady of the Lake,” and he swung the horse’s head and cantered away.
Arthur struggled to his feet and girdled the scabbard about his waist. For a moment he paused, gazing at the sword, hefting its balance and scything it around him in a practice swing – and nodded in wonder. As king he had fine swords a-plenty, but nothing like this – a king among swords, fit for a king.