Grail pc-5

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  I leaned on my crooked staff, gazing at the thicket. The throb in my leg had become a steady pulse of pain, and my side felt as if live coals were smouldering under the skin. I was shivering with cold and pain, and sweating at the same time. I closed my eyes and leaned harder on my staff. 'Jesu, nave mercy,' I groaned. 'I am hurt and I am alone, and I am lost if you do not help me now.'

  I was still trying to marshal my waning strength to attempt the hedge when I heard quick, rustling footsteps behind me. My first thought was that the monster had returned. This fear swiftly vanished at the sound of my name.

  'Gwalchavad!'

  'Here!' I called. 'Here I am!' I turned to stare back down the narrow path that had led me to this place. A moment later, I saw Gereint loping towards me, his face gleaming ghostly in the pale light. He carried a sword – mine, it was – and wore an expression of mingled relief and wonder.

  'Lord Gwalchavad, you are alive,' he said as he joined me. Out of breath, he stuck the sword in the ground, and bent over with his hands on his knees. 'I feared you were – ' He paused, gulping air, then said, 'I feared I had lost you, but then I saw the light and followed it.'

  Observing my leg, he asked, 'Is it bad?'

  'I can endure it,' I replied. 'What of Bors? Have you seen him?'

  'Not since the attack,' he answered.

  'God help him,' I replied; then leaving Bors' welfare in the Good Lord's hands, I turned once more to the thicket. 'The light drew me here, too. It seems to be coming from the other side of this hedge wall.'

  'We will go through together,' said Gereint. Taking up the sword, he stepped to the gap and began slashing at the briers. He cleared the path before us, and reached a hand back for me.

  'Go before me,' I told him. 'I will follow.'

  He peered at me doubtfully, then turned and resumed his chopping at the knotted branches. He hewed like a champion, slashing with tireless strokes. The vapour from his breath hung in a cloud above him, and his hair grew damp and slick, but he stood to his work, arms swinging, shoulders rolling as he hacked at the dangling vines.

  I followed, hobbling a step at a time, as the hedge parted before Gereint's blade. In this way we proceeded, until…

  'We are through!' Gereint declared triumphantly.

  Glancing up, I saw the light shining through and Gereint standing in the breach, sword in hand. Whatever lay beyond the hedge wall occupied his complete attention.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I staggered behind Gereint into a wide clearing. Beyond the all-enclosing thicket, the ground was rocky and uneven, and the hedge wall stood back in a circle all around. In the centre of the clearing rested a squat stone hut with a steep, high-pitched roof, also of stone. The walls were squared, solid, and without openings of any kind, and the roof was covered with moss – in all a most curious dwelling.

  Beside the house stood a stone plinth of the kind the Romans used to erect for their statues and memorials. There was no memorial or statue now, but a heap of broken rubble at the foot of the plinth suggested that once there might have been.

  These things I took in first, and only when Gereint spoke did I feel the calming silence of the place. 'It is very peaceful here,' the young warrior said, and even at a whisper his voice seemed to boom like a beaten drum.

  Placing a finger to my lips, I warned him against speaking aloud until we could discover whether we were the only visitors. Gereint nodded and took my arm upon his shoulder and we proceeded cautiously towards the dwelling.

  We had been drawn to the clearing by the light. Now that we were here, however, there was no light to be found and none to be seen -that is, there appeared no source of illumination: no campfire, no torches, no subtle sunlight shining down from above – yet the stone hut did stand suflused in a softly gleaming radiance very like that of moonlight, and what is more, this gentle gloaming bathed the entire clearing with a fine luminescence that shimmered gently at the edges of my vision. Whenever I looked directly at an object, this ghostly glimmering faded, though the soft glow remained.

  Wary with every step, we approached the stone hut, moving slowly along the near side to what we took to be the front. There we found a door both low and narrow, its threshold overgrown with weeds and grass. So small was this entrance that only one could pass at a time, and that one must bow almost to his knees to enter.

  Gereint cleared away the growth with a few quick swipes of his blade, then, sword in hand, stooped and entered.

  A moment later, his face appeared in the doorway, and he said, 'It is empty, lord. There is no one here.'

  With some difficulty and no little pain – for I could no longer bend my injured leg at all, and had to lie down and drag myself through the opening – I joined him within. Gereint raised me to my feet again, and we stood together in a holy place.

  'It is some kind of chapel,' Gereint said, his voice filling the stone-walled room.

  The same weird light that played in the clearing outside also filled the interior of the single, vaulted room, allowing us to see each detail of the rich ornamentation – for every surface was carved with wonderful designs: intricate knotwork panels and borders, countless triscs and spirals, and hundreds of the elongated, much-entwined shapes of animals and men. I recognized this adornment; it was that which the Celts of old made with such zeal and delight. There were also innumerable crosses carved on the walls and floors, many with odd runelike symbols which I could not read.

  The room, unforgiving in its square, spare simplicity, seemed to dance to the rhythm and movement of those wonderful carvings. To stand and gaze upon floor and walls and roof was to inhabit a psalm or a glad song of praise. I filled my eyes with the graceful dance of the room, and felt my spirit rise up within me.

  'Truly, this is a sacred place,' I said.

  'An ancient place,' Gereint replied. 'Look how – '

  'Listen!' I held up my hand to quiet him.

  There came the sound of a soft footfall – someone was moving along the wall outside. Gereint made a flattening motion with his hand and silently stepped to the doorway, sword ready.

  I stood stock-still, straining into the silence. There came no shouts, no cries of help or alarm. I held my breath and heard only the rapid beating of my own heart. And then -

  A quick movement at the door and a dark shape burst into the room, straightened, and became the familiar figure I knew.

  'Bors!'

  Gereint lowered the blade and fell back; he had been that close to striking.

  'Here you are!' Bors cried, lowering the sword in his own hand. 'And here was I thinking I had lost you for good.'

  His relief was instantly swallowed in amazement as he beheld the walls and floor. He turned his wondering gaze upon the beautiful carvings, and we joined him in silent admiration. Explanations could wait; a greater mystery commanded our attention.

  When he spoke again, it was in a voice humbled with awe. 'It is wonderful.'

  'That it is,' I agreed. 'I have never seen the like.'

  'It reminds me of those cells the monks make in Armorica. Look here,' he said, moving towards the rear of the chapel, 'the altar still stands, and – '

  He broke off so suddenly, I glanced quickly at his face, which now wore an expression of revulsion: lips twisted in a grimace of distaste, eyes narrowed in disgust. With my crooked staff, I struggled across the room to join him. 'Damn them to hell,' he muttered, turning his face away.

  Then I saw what he had seen, and turned my face away, too. The sight and smell brought bile to my mouth and I coughed, feeling the burn in my throat as I swallowed it back. 'Desecrated.'

  On the altar before us lay the severed genitals of a bull, the members placed atop a pile of human excrement. The bull's bloody horns with bits of the skull, and tail with part of the anus attached, flanked the stinking mound on either side, and the poor animal's tongue, torn out by the root, completed the repugnant arrangement.

  'Have you found something?' Gereint hastened to where we stood. I tried
to warn him off but was too late, and he pushed in beside Bors.

  The young warrior looked at the altar. Clapping a hand to his mouth, he choked and turned swiftly away.

  'That is the worst of it,' I said.

  'Holy Jesu,' he whispered in a small, wounded voice.

  'This is not right,' Bors declared solemnly. 'I will not allow it.'

  So saying, he stripped off his cloak and flung it over the obscene display. I thought that he meant merely to cover the desecration, but he had another plan, for he spread the cloak and then gathered up the defiling mass, folding it into the cloth. Holding the bundle at arm's length, he bore it from the chapel, returning a moment later with a double handful of grass in each fist.

  Striding to the altar, Bors took to scrubbing the flat stone with the grass. 'I need some water,' he said through clenched teeth.

  'Maybe there is a well outside,' said Gereint, darting away.

  I leaned, exhausted, against the wall while Bors put the full strength of his arms into the cleansing of the venerable stone. As he worked, a faint green sheen began to gleam where the grass, crushed by its abrasion, left some of its substance.

  'See here, Gwalchavad,' Bors called, motioning me nearer. 'What is this?'

  I hobbled closer, and only then did Bors notice I was wounded. 'But you are hurt, brother. Forgive me, I should have -'

  'I will live, never fear,' I said, waving his apology aside. Indicating the altar, I said, 'What do you make of it?'

  'It is a circle, and words, I think.' He pointed to a broken arc of spidery lines which seemed to be etched in the stone. 'But I cannot read the letters.'

  'Nor can I,' I told him. 'Perhaps if we could see more of it -' Bors fell to scrubbing again, as if by brute effort he could make the words appear. But for all his muscle, the thin, cracked lines did not mend or improve. 'It is no use, Bors. Whatever is written on that stone is worn away and there is no reading it now.'

  Bors ceased rubbing, and stood with knots of grass clenched in his fists. 'I should go see what has become of Gereint,' he said, but his eyes never left the etched surface of the stone.

  'Yes, and then we should decide what to do next.'

  Curiously, we were both reluctant to leave the altar. We stood staring at the fragmented lines, neither making a move… until Gereint returned a few moments later. He burst into the chapel in a rush of excitement.

  'There is a well!' he exclaimed, bustling towards us. 'And I found this bowl on a chain. I had some difficulty getting the bowl free without spilling the water, but -' He stopped when he saw what we were looking at. 'It looks like writing.'

  'Aye, lad, it is,' Bors affirmed. 'But we can make nothing of it.'

  'Maybe this will help,' replied Gereint. Stepping quickly to the altar, he raised the vessel and dashed the contents over the stone.

  The water struck the stone with a hiss and a splutter, casting up great vaporous clouds of steam while droplets of water sizzled and cracked – as if the altar had been iron-heated in the forge. Bors and Gereint drew back a step, and I threw an arm over my face and twisted away lest I be scalded by the heat blast.

  'Jesu be praised!' breathed Gereint. 'Look!'

  Lowering my arm, I gazed once more upon the altar. Through the steam I could see the incised lines glowing with a golden sheen. Even as I watched, the thin broken lines joined, deepened, became robust and bold. The flat altar stone had changed, too: glittering and smooth as a new polished gem, it gleamed with the milky radiance of crystal shot through with veins of silver and flecks of crimson and gold.

  The image on the stone resolved clearly into that of a broad circular band of gold with a cross inside; bent around the band was a finely drawn ring of words. Flanking the circle and cross on either side were two figures – creatures whose bodies appeared to be made of fire – with wings outspread as if in supplication or worship.

  'It is beautiful,' murmured Gereint.

  'The words,' said Bors, his voice soft with awe. 'What do they say?'

  'I have never seen writing like this,' I said.

  'Is it Latin?' he wondered.

  'Perhaps,' I allowed doubtfully, 'but it is not like any Latin the monks use. See how the letters curve and twist back upon one another. I think it must be some other script.'

  Gereint, his face illumined by the soft golden light, gazed upon the altar figures with a beatific expression on his face. Oblivious to all else, he sank to his knees before the altar, his lips moving in an unspoken prayer. The purity of this simple, spontaneous act shamed me and I averted my eyes. Then I heard a movement beside me and when I looked back, Bors had joined the young warrior on his knees.

  The two knelt together shoulder to shoulder, hands upraised in the posture of monks. Had I been able to bend my leg, I would have joined them. Instead, I clung to my crude crutch, and raised my voice to heaven.

  'Blessed Jesu,' I prayed, my voice sounding loud and clear in the sacred place, 'I come to you a beggar in need. Great evil stalks this forest and we are not strong enough to overcome it. Help us, Lord. Do not forsake us, nor yet leave us prey to the powers of the Evil One.' Then, remembering the ruined chapel and its desecration, I added, 'Holy One of God, accept our poor offering of water poured out upon the stone. Sain this chapel with your presence, and restore the glory of your name in this place. So be it.'

  Into the silence of the chapel came the echo of a song – like one of those Myrddin sometimes plays in which the harp seems to spin the melody of itself: Gift Songs, the Emrys calls them -so quiet it took me a moment to realize that it was not of my imagining. Bors and Gereint ceased their prayers and raised their eyes above.

  I, too, gazed around, for it seemed as if the music derived from the heights. I saw nothing but the shadowed recesses of the high-pitched roof. The music, exquisite in its simple elegance, grew louder, and I saw the shadows fade as the carvings on the roof and walls of the chapel began to glimmer and glow.

  We gazed in wonder at the old, old markings as the delicate interwoven lines filled with the same shimmering radiance that transformed the altar. Soon we three were bathed in soft golden light. Suddenly the chapel was filled with a sound like that of the wind swirling through long-leafed willows, or the rush of feathered wings beating the air when birds take flight. With this sound came music, very faint, but distinct and unmistakable: the celestial music of the heavenly realms.

  A joy like that which I had experienced when I knelt alone in the presence of the Grail once more filled my heart, and it swelled to bursting for me to hear the strains of that glorious song swirling like a graceful wind, sweeping the crannies and corners of the chapel. I closed my eyes and turned my face heavenward and felt the warmth of the golden light on my skin, and knew a fine and holy rapture.

  Then, more wonderful than anything that had gone before, there came to me a fragrance far surpassing that of all the flowers that ever grew. I drew the marvellous scent deep into my lungs and breathed the air of heaven itself; and on my tongue I tasted the honeyed sweetness of that rarest of atmospheres.

  I tasted, and knew, even before I opened my eyes, that we were no longer alone.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Gereint saw her first. Still kneeling before the altar, he raised his head, and his eyes widened slightly in surprise, but there was neither fear nor alarm in the expression, only delight. The light reflected on his face made him appear wise and good.

  Bors – kneeling beside Gereint, his still head bowed – had yet to apprehend the visitor in our midst.

  She took the appearance of an earthly woman; her features dark and dusky, her skin smooth and clear as amber honey, she stood before us as calmly and naturally as any mortal being, but with the dignity and grace only the heaven-born possess. Her eyes were blue as the sun-washed sky, pale against the tawny hue of her supple flesh. Hair the colour of autumn chestnuts hung in long, loose curls around her shoulders, and spilled over the fine, gentle curves of her breasts. Clothed in a robe of deepest crimson, with a w
oven girdle of blue fretted with plaited gold, she seemed to me the very image and essence of beauty, wisdom, and dignity conjoined in the elegant, winsome form of a woman.

  I could have lingered a lifetime in her presence and reckoned it only joy. I could gladly have stood entranced forever and counted it nothing but pleasure as, fairest of the Great King's servants, she bent over the altar, gazing devoutly upon the object in her hands.

  Her devotion drew my own; I looked and saw what it was that the maiden had placed upon the altar: the Grail.

  My first thought was that the Blessed Cup had been found, that she had somehow got it away from those who had stolen it and was now returning it to us. This notion was instantly dashed, however; as if in answer to my thought, the Grail Maiden turned her head and looked directly at me, and the fire that burned in those clear blue eyes was terrible to see.

  'Turn away, Sons of Dust,' the angel said in a voice unyielding as the altar stone. 'The cup before you is holy. You defile it with your presence.'

  Speechless with shame and amazement, I could only stare at her and feel the full depth of my worthlessness in her eyes. Glancing at Gereint, I saw that he had bent his head under the weight of futility, and held his clasped hands tight against his chest. Bors had collapsed inwardly upon himself, his hands lying palm upward on the floor, his head touching his knees.

  'Did you think me incapable of defending that which I have been ordained to uphold? Blind guides! How is it that you can see so much, yet understand so little?' Her words were like fire scorching my ears with the vehemence of her anger. 'I do not know which is worse, your ignorance or your arrogance. Think you the Great King requires the aid of any mortal to accomplish his will? Is the Lord of Creation powerless to protect his treasures?'

  Her righteous scorn leapt like a flame, withering my self-respect and misplaced honour with its indignant heat.