by Mike Ashley
Of the rest of the long night’s Lupercalia, no bard has dared to sing, nor scarcely hinted; for hymns were sung to Februaria and Fauna and Demetria and Maria and Brigit of the Two Countenances, as one hundred and one sacred couples went out of the Church of Stephen and scattered to all the farms around Trinobantes.
As they traipsed along merrily in full delight, they sang an ancient hymn that goes, “We are the sons of Benjamin, we are the daughters of Shiloh,” knights and their dames in turn. Then all lay down amidst new-sown fields and rutted in the furrows.
And it was seen by many who raised their heads from rutting that a gigantic stag was chased by the edge of the forest. It gave a belling cry and lowered its head to battle thirty sleek black bitches, and one white scenting-hound. Wedged within the antlers was a cross, with the hairless sylvan Merlin on it.
The scenting-hound leapt off the ground to clamp jaws tight upon the throat of the tormented prey. The stag went down and vanished in the midst of black bitches.
The Tor of the Glassy Isle was like the long back of a whale beached amidst swamplands. The sides of the Tor were terraced, and upon the terraces were apple trees in full bloom, having the appearance, from a great distance, of barnacles on the beached whale’s hide. The terraces encircled the whole of the great mound in the form of an elaborate maze or cultic causeway patterned upon complicated knotwork, broken in places by passage of long ages, and called by the peasants, from time immemorial, The Roof of the Labyrinth.
Across the generations, the ancient apple trees spread their seed from off the Tor to fill the spaces between the swamps, so that the young forests surrounding the Castle of the Horn constituted a fruit-bearing wilderness. This forest of plenty required no tending, save only that they received the enriching prayers of monks who dwelt by the Church of Our Lady of Apples, established on a site sacred from a time older than myth.
When apples ripened, serfs came in service of King Pelleas, which was the name by which they knew Sir Pellinore of the Round Table. They were allowed to keep a goodly share of the harvest, so that everywhere on the Glassy Isle there were none dissatisfied or willing to revolt.
The Castle of the Horn looked as though it were not made of stone and mortar, but of ivy – a leafy structure of organic parapets and crenelated walls fashioned by shears of a colossal gardener. The highest of the grape-laden greeny towers rivalled the heights of the Apple Tor. And this topiary castle was encircled by a moat thickly covered over with waterlilies in concentric circles of white, pale pink, and yellow.
Nine elfin priestesses arose from out of a secret place within the Tor, to dance around and round the humpy peak, their sweet voices heralding spring. Chief among the Nine was Morganna, who was the warlike Morrigu grown beautiful and tame amidst the flowers. Two of her unearthly followers bore in their slender arms a cornucopia made from the one horn of a fabulous beast, engraved with mystic whorls akin to those which mazed the Tor, and having three stout legs to stand on. This horn, immovable by impure hands, was weightless to the good of heart; and every autumn it was taken under the mound by Morganna’s party until, at spring’s return, it was restored to the Castle.
Down from the Tor they danced and kicked their heels as three of the Nine played upon flutes, and three slapped tambourines. They followed the winding paths from terrace to terrace, as all the while the Morrigu drew handfuls of flowers from out of the ceaseless fountain that was the Ivory Horn. As the petals were cast to the wind, they were carried merrily across the countryside, adhering to branches that yesterday were bare.
All along their route, they flowered the Glassy Isle, until at last they arrived at the lowered bridge of the ivyed castle. Therein nobles had gathered from near and far for the festive occasion of the Return of the Ivory Horn to the House of King Pelleas and Queen Vivian.
In a large courtyard of the castle, celebratory jousts were in progress. Many valorous companions of the King arrived from their own estates and baronies that they might struggle in the tournament, to please their own fair ladies, and to cast eager eyes upon the Castle’s celestial treasures that were laid out annually for public viewing.
Along the ivy-hung galleries overlooking the courtyard observant guests were seated. With them was Pelleas whose crown was draped with flowers and Vivian whose crown was wound about with grape vines. The elfin priestess Morganna went about the tables pouring an endless stream of purple liquor from the Ivory Horn into upheld cups. Her eight companions danced and piped among guests idling throughout the castle.
With a cry half of anguish, half of pleasure, a knight was unseated from his horse. It was Sir Bediver, the Knight With One Hand, who lay laughing at his own defeat; for it had seemed to him no one had done him battle, despite his fall.
In a swirl of refracting light, Bediver’s opponent reappeared with steed, having dropped his diaphanous cape from off his shoulders. The champion of the joust was Sir Garlan, Knight of the Magic Cloak. He rode below the galleries, saluting first his queen, then the king who was his brother, and finally his chosen lady, who threw him down a scarf.
Among the knights at table sat Sir Balin, who had come from Northumberland with his Lady Lyll. He had two swords sheathed over his shoulder and was clad in full armor. He stood to challenge Sir Garlan, then descended the stairs from the upper gallery to mount a readied horse.
A squire came forth with shield, but Balin refused it. This made the company grow still and lean attentively across the balustrades, for Balin was too serious. Without a shield he might not be as safely unhorsed.
As Sir Garlan began to raise his cloak of invisibility, Balin said, “Are you too cowardly to fight without magic?”
The audience held its breath. No one had ever before criticized the king’s brother.
“Do not be rude and unseemly, Sir Balin, at my brother’s feast. I am famous for my cloak; you, for your broad chest as tough as stone and your white eyes as piercing as two swords. You will not make your skin soft for my lance, and I will not throw down my cloak.”
So saying, the cloak whirled about Garlan. With a momentary scattering of rainbow flashes, the knight and steed vanished.
Lyll dropped her scarf to Balin, who caught it on a breeze, and tied it about his white eyes, so that he might pursue the encounter without misleading tricks of vision. The young squire handed him a wooden lance, with which Balin rode to a far corner of the yard and took his post, blindly facing the center of the yard.
He kept his horse perfectly still until he heard the clatter of hoofs before him. Then he spurred his steed into that sound. He felt a lance tear through his surcoat and shatter on his armor. His own lance drove hard against a shield with such precision that it was not deflected. He heard Sir Garlan’s grunting as he was flung to the packed earth.
When Balin took the scarf from his eyes, he saw the horse rendered visible, with no one on it; but Garlan was still unseen. Balin dismounted and kicked about the dust where he thought Garlan must have fallen.
Sparks flew unexpectedly from Balin’s shoulder armor, causing him to turn about and confront – nothing. Before he had fully drawn the iron sword in his left hand, he was stabbed in the hinge of his armor under the arm, though no harm was done to his stone-hard body. Then as his right hand drew the sword of bright steel from across his shoulder, he was struck in the hinge of a legguard with sufficient force that he plunged to one knee.
He stood swiftly, his two broadswords whirling front and back, protecting himself on all sides. When Balin’s right-hand sword perchance struck Garlan’s unseen weapon, Balin’s left-hand sword jabbed instantly into the airy space.
Garlan cried out. Blood appeared upon the cloak of invisibility, a red smear upheld as a feather in a draft. Balin used the flat sides of his two swords to swat again and again that bloody spot, until Garlan submitted, and drew off his cloak begging mercy, clutching his wounded arm.
Balin put boot behind Garlan’s leg and shoved him unchivalrously to the ground. Lady Lyll was standing at
the edge of the upper gallery. She removed from under her garment the tip of a broken lance and dropped it to Balin, who caught it and with one powerful swift motion pierced Garlan’s breastplate and drove the point into his heart.
Knights of Horn Castle swarmed into the courtyard from all sides, horrified by Balin’s action, ready to avenge the king’s brother. Pelleas stayed their hands, saying, “Stand back from him! His flesh is granite. You could never kill him even were he stripped of armor and bound helplessly before you. Sir Balin! Why have you slain my brother?”
Balin answered, “He used his magic perfidiously when he came upon one of my companions, driving a lance into his back, then rode on, committing further mayhem without semblance of knightly valor. He may have told you his exploits were otherwise, but I saw with these white eyes as the unsuspected lance erupted from the chest of my companion-in-arms. Therefore I have slain the villainous Garlan with the point of the same lance that slew my friend.”
Pelleas came down from the gallery, tearing flowers from his crown. He said, “If it is as you say, then there is something of justice in your actions. Nevertheless, you have done it in my castle in a day of joyous revelry. It cannot be forgiven.”
“I had no choice, Sir Pellinore!” said Balin with alarm. “He has never been known to fight fairly in an open field. Here, at least, between these courtyard walls, I could hear his every movement.”
A squire ran into the courtyard from the armory, bearing the famed spear of Pelleas, that had been, like himself, bathed in the blood of the dragon. “Were I merely Sir Pellinore,” he said, “I might have taken this issue differently. But here I am King Pelleas, and cannot pardon such an affront to my people’s feastday.”
Sir Balin, unused to the necessity of ducking blows, darted awkwardly to one side, and received Pelleas’ spear under his arm. His eyes went wide with momentary alarm, jolted by the pain. He rushed forward and struck the Lord of Horn Castle hard against the chest with one sword then the other. The sword of steel shattered; the iron sword rang out and stung Balin’s fingers. Pelleas, though without armor, was entirely uninjured.
As Balin fell back, Pelleas’ spear swept across his face, drawing blood from a nick on his forehead.
Lady Lyll was no longer in the gallery. She ran through the interior of the castle, encountering no one, as all were pressed to windows overlooking the courtyard. She came to an open room where the castle’s treasures were laid out for viewing.
Surrounding a golden table were the Nine Elfin Priestesses, whose charming fay beauty appeared a little wilted. They had stationed their Ivory Horn in a place of honor upon the golden table alongside the Cup and the Spear.
“Let Balin die,” said Morganna, tears upon her cheeks. “If you will do so, you will spare him much tragedy and pain.”
“I will not,” said Lyll. “King Pelleas fights with insufficient honor, knowing as he does how vastly his enchanted spear outranks my husband’s pair of swords. I am aware that the spear among these treasures is the equal of Pelleas’ Dragon Spear. Do not try to keep me from taking it to Balin and lend fairness to the duel.”
The Nine spoke as with one voice, “We cannot keep you from this Spear, dipped in the Blood of the Lamb. It is immovable to anyone not fated by its power.”
Morganna continued, “To win the Spear, you must show strength sufficient to gaze into the Well of the World, that is this Stone Chalice, and not be laid low by revelation. As you approach the Golden Table, know that the Spear is Pelleas King of Apples; the Chalice is Queen Vivian the Lady of the Lake; and I am this Horn, Morganna, Queen of Earthly Plenitude and Earthly Wont.”
Seemingly the least of the Three Treasures, the Well of the World looked like nothing but a crudely primitive mortar, lacking for a pestle. It may have been as old as the World herself, fashioned from the stuff of the First Creation.
Lyll gazed into terrifying depths. She saw therein, hung in space, the Crown, the Key, the Egg.
Before her alarmed and watchful gaze, the egg burst asunder, flinging far the Crown and Key. Out of the shattered Egg sprang forth the dreadful serpent Plague upon whose tail the Earth depended.
When Lyll raised her head from peering into the dreadful cosmos, her dark hair was shot with streaks of white. She could no longer scowl as the Loathly Maid, for she had obtained an enlightenment that made her holy, and she was wholly beautiful. She said to Morganna, “You are the World Egg that houses the Dragon, and the Dragon is Nimuë.”
“We are the Fate of Arthur,” the Nine intoned, and Morganna added, “Upon this golden table, when all other treasures of the world are swept away, I and my sisterhood will lay out Arthur as the Last Treasure of the World, healed of earthly suffering, eternal and undying, but without thought, without motion, hidden in the labyrinth of the blossoming Tor, upon his golden bier. When his time is renewed, he will attend the final battle at the Mountain of Megiddo, where he must choose to fight for Michael, or for Satan, whose natures are intertwined, so that the choosing will never be so clear and certain as first may seem.”
Lyll replied, “I care not what happens in the Time of Dissolution, for I and my Lord are alive today, and I wouldst keep it so.”
Hearing these unhappy words, the elfin priestesses lowered their faces, and drew dark veils upon their heads.
Dame Lyll took up the Spear of the Lamb’s Blood and tossed it expertly through a window. When it struck the ground outside, the earth trembled with warning. Sir Balin dropped his black sword and the broken hilt of steel to take up the Spear of the Lamb as match against the Spear of the Dragon. He parried once then sank the spearpoint into King Pelleas’ inner thigh.
Balin could not withdraw the spear. He leapt away unarmed, fearful of the swipe of the Dragon Spear. Pelleas did not continue the dreadful duel. He fell heavily to both knees and laid his spear on the ground at his left. With bloodless hands, he drew the Lamb’s Spear from out of his groin, and lay it at his right-hand side. His flushed red face had grown aged. His lion’s mane became thin brittle straw beneath a tarnished crown.
He said, “Yours, Sir Balin, is the Dolorous Stroke. You have wounded the Spring, that Spring may smile no more.”
Then Pelleas raised palsied hands toward his dour, beloved queen. Nimuë looked on him with pity as she sang, “I gaze on the Lamb that hath been pierced. I weep for Him, as for an only son. There is mournfulness in Avillion, as all the country mourns, knowing that Castle Sangrail, the House of Brave Pellinore, hath fallen into pieces on the ground.”
Then she leapt from the gallery and flew upward, up, in the shape of a numinous white raven; and Pelleas lowered his arms and bowed his head, finding himself bereft of all the things by which he knew himself to exist.
The rustling of doom caused Balin to look along the enclosing towers. Ivy swiftly faded from green to yellow, then fell crisp and brown from tendrils rooted destructively in mortar. The earth heaved and rumbled; the castle bucked; towers leaned perilously. Balin shouted helplessly as a beam broke loose above the gallery, striking the Lady of Poppies a mortal blow. Before he had taken two steps toward the place where her shattered body was flung, the first of the toppling towers filled the courtyard with rubble, pressing Balin beneath heavy stones, where he lay weeping and unable to move.
The night full of stars draped herself onto the world without prelude of dusk. Screaming faces withdrew from every window above the courtyard. The remaining towers were tumbling; the whole of the castle was collapsing into itself. These many who arrived as celebrants fled now in stark panic, colliding with one another in buckling, pitch-dark hallways. Blocks of stone and heavy beams of timber came down upon them, crushing mortal flesh into pulp and splintered bone.
Nine only left the castle before the drawbridge fell into the roiling, murky moat. Like pallbearers, eight of the elfin priestesses strode solemnly, carrying the Golden Table upraised to their shoulders. The ninth, Morganna, led them through a night filled with cries from all points of the countryside.
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sp; Upon the Golden Table sat the Well of the World and the Ivory Horn of Spring. As the grim procession wound along the road between increasingly fetid swamplands, toward the Apple Tor, blossoms withered prematurely, setting no fruit, scenting the night not with perfume, but mildew and decay.
When the Nine bleak maids reached the foot of the Tor, Morganna with wild hair and fingers like the claws of a falcon lifted the Well of the World from off the table and set it into the ground. It at once became the Chalice Well, a fountain going into the depths of the womb of the Earth. And into the Well she threw the Horn of Spring, where it fell and fell forever, until it reached the stars.
Blight spread swiftly throughout Britain. The trouble was known as far away as Camelot even before the dust had settled around the ruins of Horn Castle. Merlin Ambrosius, awakening on his couch, was chilled to the bone. He went out of Arthur’s castle, shifting his shape as he walked along the road.
He came to the shore of the sea, having upon him the form of a barren mule. A barge awaited, and his unshod hooves clattered thereon. There was no mast for sail, but the currents bore the little barge along the coast, upon a route Arthur must someday follow. For three days the mule observed the coastline, that looked all burnt, for every plant and tree was blackened. Already a great number of people were dead of a virulent pox, and widows wailed lamentations from every hill.
On the third day the barge brought the mule to the Glassy Isle. It leapt ashore and plodded into cesspools that until lately were healthy swamps colored with irises and lilies. Then the mule passed through forests of dead trees whose twisted limbs beseeched the deaf of heaven.
Arriving at heaps of rubble covered with tendrils of stiffened vines and rotted grapes, the mule began braying loudly, and kicked angrily at blocks of stone. Small though the mule was, his kicks were mighty, and stones were flung about the landscape, revealing corpse upon rancid corpse.