The Mammoth Book of Merlin

by Mike Ashley

  And the knight fled from them, knowing that he had failed in his quest.

  The wounded knight and I were alone on the road, surrounded by corpses. He lay back in the cart. It was dawn. Black birds had begun to gather.

  I knew that he was truly dying now. He would not rise from the cart again. His blood seeped down over his legs, staining his brazen greaves.

  “Please,” I said. “You must tell me the rest.”

  “Write down what you have. Make up the rest. Sometimes not even a story is enough.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Explicate the text, then. You’ve got an education.”

  “No, I don’t. Not really.”

  “Then there’s nothing for it. Sorry. There’s nothing.”

  I wept again, for a long time, leaning my head against the cart. The day brightened. Once I saw horsemen at the crest of a hill, and I remained very still, clinging to the cart as if draped over it. Whether they were Saxons or not, they must have seen only corpses and didn’t come any closer.

  Merlin’s raven landed on the rim of the cart and said to me, “Ask him about his sin.”

  I asked, and the knight cursed the bird, swatting at it weakly with one hand, saying that it only wanted to torment him, like twisting a knife in an already fatal wound.

  Yet he told me, how the Knight of Pale Countenance had been brave and true, and loved a lady and was sworn to her. Yet when he was far from her in the midst of the wars, and weary, he rested with another and got a child by her. But the Devil tempted his own lady into cunning despair, and she, through witchcraft, learned of his treason. When he returned home, she greeted him with smiles and prepared a great feast. When he was drowsy with food and drink, she took him into her bed and there stabbed him with a poisoned dagger; but when she saw him bleeding she hurled herself from her window and died, not all at once, but slowly, cursing God, broken on the pavement below.

  In the cart, the Pale Knight seemed to be passing into another delirium, scarcely aware that I was still there. It was well into the afternoon of the second day on the road. I was weak from hunger and from fear, and clung to the edge of the cart, barely able to stand.

  “She died,” he said. “Went straight to Hell, I suppose. No help for it. Being a knight gets confusing at times.”

  But I begged him, in the earnest folly of my youth, in all my innocence, to tell me the true and proper ending of the tale, how some good might come of all this suffering and Britain might be redeemed.

  “Your soul can still be saved. It’s never too late.” I was beginning to sound like Father Caius, I thought. I wept yet again, at the memory of him. His body lay almost at my feet, with his brains spilled out, gathering flies.

  “That too, in the bargain?”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “Then take up your book and write the rest.”

  Eventually I wrote it all, how the Boy With the Cart found the strength to transport the dying knight back the way he had come, back along the road, past the burning town, the empty farmhouses, and the battlefields; into the dark forest where pagan gods crouched in the shadows beneath the trees, leering and tittering as he went by. But the boy did not tarry. He did not fail in his purpose. He came to the shore of the lake once again. It was midnight. The dark water mirrored the sky. The old moon had just risen.

  There, a white mist rose up, and out of the mist came a golden barge with sails of purest silver; and in the barge were maidens clad in gowns the color of the blue morning sky, but their heads were the heads of birds, and they sang sweetly among themselves. They carried the wounded knight into the barge, staining their hands with his blood. They permitted the boy to follow.

  Slowly, the barge crossed the lake as the mist parted and the Isle of Glass loomed before them, the castle gleaming like a swarm of brilliant stars. The head of Sir Vorcilak called out from atop its pillar, warning away all who were sinful and unworthy.

  I knelt down in the barge and prayed that I would be worthy and that the Knight of Pale Countenance could be redeemed. The bird-women fluttered and chirped like startled sparrows, but they took the knight up in a litter and bore him into the castle.

  I followed. We came at last, after many turnings, into the bedchamber of the lady, who was horribly burned from the demon’s touch and swollen with the demon’s child. Her knight lay down beside her and caressed her and kissed her, hideous as she now was, begging her forgiveness and the forgiveness of all women. While they lay there, she was delivered of her child in a great outpouring of steaming blood.

  Merlin the magician stood up at the foot of her bed, his black raven fluttering into his hands, his newly born body man-sized and gnarled, ancient and young at the same time, flames flickering from his fingertips and smoke rising from his mouth and nose as he breathed. Born outside of time, where the years did not pass, it would be his fate to live backward knowing the future as if it were the past, forgetting the past as if it were the unknown future, awesomely powerful at first, youthening, weakening, until he finally ended up under a rock, bound there by a lady who had betrayed him.

  He would do much in the meantime. But for good or ill, I wondered. He was a devil’s child, after all, born of a woman’s despair and a knight’s sin.

  He stood there glaring at me, his eyes filled with devilish hatred.

  But, newly born, ancient and an infant at once, he could not even stand. His limbs spread out in all directions like those of a newborn calf. He fell down into the puddle of his mother’s blood. Before he could make any move, I took water from a cup and baptized him, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and I prayed for his soul, and for the souls of the knight, of both his ladies, and for the whole land of Britain, that the tale might end well at last.

  Merlin stood up and wrapped a sheet about himself to cover his nakedness.

  Then the weariness of all I had been through overwhelmed me, and I fell down senseless at Merlin’s feet. I awoke at dawn by the edge of the lake, lying on my back, clutching my book-bag to my chest. I sat up weakly, feeling light-headed, and saw only trees on the far side of the lake. There was no mist and no Isle of Glass.

  “Your tale is preposterous,” someone said. “No one will believe a word of it.”

  I turned, startled and afraid, but also a little indignant.

  “It is true.”

  Merlin laughed and helped me to my feet. It was truly the Magician now, clad in a black gown, boots, and a tall cap, leaning on an intricately carven staff which looked like it might come alive at any moment. Its top was shaped like a serpent’s head.

  “Yes, it is true. But getting people to believe it is something else again.”

  I didn’t understand. He said that didn’t matter, yet. He led me a little way along the lake shore and showed me two fresh graves at the forest’s edge. I knelt there and prayed for the Knight of Pale Countenance and for the Lady of the Isle of Glass, and resolved to write in my book that those two would whisper their names to one another just before they entered paradise. I, of course, would never know them.

  Merlin called a fish out of the water into his hands, and made a fire by snapping his fingers. We two ate, and later he walked with me for a time, speaking many prophecies which he commanded me to write down in a book to be called The Prophecies of Merlin; for he knew the beginnings and endings of all stories, even his own. I think he had somehow looked into the Glass of Knowing and survived.

  If he knew everything ahead of time, I asked him, couldn’t he avoid his doom?

  He merely shrugged. “Sorry. There’s nothing for it.”

  He explained that his doom was as necessary as his birth, part of the same pattern. He had seen it all, and, reaching back through time, sending his raven to do his bidding, weaving so many strands together: the knight’s sin, his own birth, and my life too, that I might be there to baptize him when he needed it. He had placed the covered two mirrors in the lady’s chamber and the cup of water by her bedside. H
is end grew out of his beginning, as a tree grows out of a seed.

  “It’s all quite preposterous,” he said, “this tale.”

  But he commanded me to write it down, and many other things also, and I wrote them, naming the names of the heroes to come, and especially of the great king who would make Britain glorious once again. These were my labors as I grew into manhood and journeyed ever eastward, to a place where I would be believed, called Camelot.

  THE CASTLE OF KERGLAS

  EMILE SOUVESTRE

  The tales of Arthur and Merlin became “best sellers” throughout western Europe during the Middle Ages. They soon became inextricably enmeshed with the legends and tales of Brittany where we might claim the real heroic adventures of Arthur and his knights were born, starting with the writings of Chrétien de Troyes in the late twelfth century. It is not unreasonable to say that many of the Breton folk tales owe their origins to some of the same sources as the Arthurian tales. The following story, collected by the French playwright and folklorist Emile Souvestre (1806-54) in Le Foyer Breton (1844), does not feature Merlin, but it has all the recognizable features of Merlin’s world. The hero is Peronnik, a Breton version of Perceval, who was developed by George Moore in his novella Peronnik the Fool (1924), which was derived from this story.

  Peronnik was a poor idiot who belonged to nobody, and he would have died of starvation if it had not been for the kindness of the village people, who gave him food whenever he chose to ask for it. And as for a bed, when night came, and he grew sleepy, he looked about for a heap of straw, and making a hole in it, crept in, like a lizard. Idiot though he was, he was never unhappy, but always thanked gratefully those who fed him, and sometimes would stop for a little and sing to them. For he could imitate a lark so well, that no one knew which was Peronnik and which was the bird.

  He had been wandering in a forest one day for several hours, and when evening approached, he suddenly felt very hungry. Luckily, just at that place the trees grew thinner, and he could see a small farmhouse a little way off. Peronnik went straight towards it, and found the farmer’s wife standing at the door holding in her hands the large bowl out of which her children had eaten their supper.

  “I am hungry, will you give me something to eat?” asked the boy.

  “If you can find anything here, you are welcome to it,” answered she, and, indeed, there was not much left, as everybody’s spoon had dipped in. But Peronnik ate what was there with a hearty appetite, and thought that he had never tasted better food.

  “It is made of the finest flour and mixed with the richest milk and stirred by the best cook in all the countryside,” and though he said it to himself, the woman heard him.

  “Poor innocent,” she murmured, “he does not know what he is saying, but I will cut him a slice of that new wheaten loaf,” and so she did, and Peronnik ate up every crumb, and declared that nobody less than the bishop’s baker could have baked it. This flattered the farmer’s wife so much that she gave him some butter to spread on it, and Peronnik was still eating it on the doorstep when an armed knight rode up.

  “Can you tell me the way to the castle of Kerglas?” asked he.

  “To Kerglas? are you really going to Kerglas?” cried the woman, turning pale.

  “Yes; and in order to get there I have come from a country so far off that it has taken me three months’ hard riding to travel as far as this.”

  “And why do you want to go to Kerglas?” said she.

  “I am seeking the basin of gold and the lance of diamonds which are in the castle,” he answered. Then Peronnik looked up.

  “The basin and the lance are very costly things,” he said suddenly.

  “More costly and precious than all the crowns in the world,” replied the stranger, “for not only will the basin furnish you with the best food that you can dream of, but if you drink of it, it will cure you of any illness however dangerous, and will even bring the dead back to life, if it touches their mouths. As to the diamond lance, that will cut through any stone or metal.”

  “And to whom do these wonders belong?” asked Peronnik in amazement.

  “To a magician named Rogéar who lives in the castle,” answered the woman. “Every day he passes along here, mounted on a black mare, with a colt thirteen months old trotting behind. But no one dares to attack him, as he always carries his lance.”

  “That is true,” said the knight, “but there is a spell laid upon him which forbids his using it within the castle of Kerglas. The moment he enters, the basin and lance are put away in a dark cellar which no key but one can open. And that is the place where I wish to fight the magician.”

  “You will never overcome him, Sir Knight,” replied the woman, shaking her head. “More than a hundred gentlemen have ridden past this house bent on the same errand, and not one has ever come back.”

  “I know that, good woman,” returned the knight, “but then they did not have, like me, instructions from the hermit of Blavet.”

  “And what did the hermit tell you?” asked Peronnik.

  “He told me that I should have to pass through a wood full of all sorts of enchantments and voices, which would try to frighten me and make me lose my way. Most of those who have gone before me have wandered they know not where, and perished from cold, hunger, or fatigue.”

  “Well, suppose you get through safely?” said the idiot.

  “If I do,” continued the knight, “I shall then meet a sort of fairy armed with a needle of fire which burns to ashes all it touches. This dwarf stands guarding an apple-tree, from which I am bound to pluck an apple.”

  “And next?” inquired Peronnik.

  “Next I shall find the flower that laughs, protected by a lion whose mane is formed of vipers. I must pluck that flower, and go on to the lake of the dragons and fight the black man who holds in his hand the iron ball which never misses its mark and returns of its own accord to its master. After that, I enter the valley of pleasure, where some who conquered all the other obstacles have left their bones. If I can win through this, I shall reach a river with only one ford, where a lady in black will be seated. She will mount my horse behind me, and tell me what I am to do next.”

  He paused, and the woman shook her head.

  “You will never be able to do all that,” said she, but he bade her remember that these were only matters for men, and galloped away down the path she pointed out.

  The farmer’s wife sighed and, giving Peronnik some more food, bade him good-night. The idiot rose and was opening the gate which led into the forest when the farmer himself came up.

  “I want a boy to tend my cattle,” he said abruptly, “as the one I had has run away. Will you stay and do it?” and Peronnik, though he loved his liberty and hated work, recollected the good food he had eaten, and agreed to stop.

  At sunrise he collected his herd carefully and led them to the rich pasture which lay along the borders of the forest, cutting himself a hazel wand with which to keep them in order.

  His task was not quite so easy as it looked, for the cows had a way of straying into the wood, and by the time he had brought one back another was off. He had gone some distance into the trees, after a naughty black cow which gave him more trouble than all the rest, when he heard the noise of horses’ feet, and peeping through the leaves he beheld the giant Rogéar seated on his mare, with the colt trotting behind. Round the giant’s neck hung the golden bowl suspended from a chain, and in his hand he grasped the diamond lance, which gleamed like fire. But as soon as he was out of sight the idiot sought in vain for traces of the path he had taken.

  This happened not only once but many times, till Peronnik grew so used to him that he never troubled to hide. But on each occasion he saw him the desire to possess the bowl and the lance became stronger.

  One evening the boy was sitting alone on the edge of the forest, when a man with a white beard stopped beside him. “Do you want to know the way to Kerglas?” asked the idiot, and the man answered “I know it well.” />
  “You have been there without being killed by the magician?” cried Peronnik.

  “Oh! he has nothing to fear from me,” replied the white-bearded man, “I am Rogéar’s elder brother, the wizard Bryak. When I wish to visit him I always pass this way, and as even I cannot go through the enchanted wood without losing myself, I call the colt to guide me.” Stooping down as he spoke he traced three circles on the ground and murmured some words very low, which Peronnik could not hear. Then he added aloud:

  Colt, free to run and free to eat,

  Colt, gallop fast until we meet,

  and instantly the colt appeared, frisking and jumping to the wizard, who threw a halter over his neck and leapt on his back.

  Peronnik kept silence at the farm about this adventure, but he understood very well that if he was ever to get to Kerglas he must first catch the colt which knew the way. Unhappily he had not heard the magic words uttered by the wizard, and he could not manage to draw the three circles, so if he was to summon the colt at all he must invent some other means of doing it.

  All day long, while he was herding the cows, he thought and thought how he was to call the colt, for he felt sure that once on its back he could overcome the other dangers. Meantime he must be ready in case a chance should come, and he made his preparations at night, when everyone was asleep. Remembering what he had seen the wizard do, he patched up an old halter that was hanging in a corner of the stable, twisted a rope of hemp to catch the colt’s feet, and a net such as is used for snaring birds. Next he sewed roughly together some bits of cloth to serve as a pocket, and this he filled with glue and lark’s feathers, a string of beads, a whistle of elder wood, and a slice of bread rubbed over with bacon fat. Then he went out to the path down which Rogéar, his mare, and the colt always rode, and crumbled the bread on one side of it.

  Punctual to their hour all three appeared, eagerly watched by Peronnik, who lay hid in the bushes close by. Suppose it was useless; suppose the mare, and not the colt, ate the crumbs? Suppose – but no! the mare and her rider went safely by, vanishing round a corner, while the colt, trotting along with its head on the ground, smelt the bread, and began greedily to lick up the pieces. Oh, how good it was! Why had no one ever given it that before, and so absorbed was the little beast, sniffing about after a few more crumbs, that it never heard Peronnik creep up till it felt the halter on its neck and the rope round its feet, and – in another moment – some one on its back.