“A great pity that; a very great pity,” he continued. “Stupid vanity! It will be his death and ours too! Stupid man.”
Old Red Sword’s grasp of the situation was surprisingly accurate. He had lived long and had learned not to be distracted by appearances and political maneuvering. What is more, he showed me that I had placed too much hope in an ambitious man’s idealism.
“But you, Myrddin, look at you. I wish Salach were here. He would want to see you.”
“Where is your youngest son?”
“Taken the orders, he has. Dafyd arranged for him to become a priest. He has gone to Gaul to receive the learning.” He sighed. “It must take a lot of learning to be a priest; he has been gone a long time.”
I had never met Salach, although I had heard of him. He had been there when my father was killed. “You must be very proud of him. It is a fine thing to be a priest.”
“Proud I am,” he agreed. “A priest and a king in the same family. We are fortunate.” He turned his bright eyes on me. “What about you, Myrddin? What will you become?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Who can say, Grandfather?” My use of the word pleased him. He smiled and reached out to pat my arm.
“Ah well, you have time yet to decide. Plenty of time.” He stood abruptly. “I am going to sleep now.” And off he went.
I watched him go, wondering why his question left me feeling unsettled. And it came into my head that I must see Blaise very soon.
Events, as Pendaran said, were galloping. While I had dreamed away in my hollow hill, the world had continued turning and the affairs of men had continued apace: more violent incursions by Pict and Scot and Saecsen; an emperor proclaimed; armies gathered; garrisons abandoned; people moving on the land…Now I was in the thick of it and felt that somehow, in some way, something was required of me, but I had no idea what it was.
Perhaps Blaise could help me find the answer. In any event, it had been nearly four years since I had last seen him and I missed him—and not Blaise only, but Elphin and Rhonwyn, Cuall and all the others at Caer Cam. This was not the only time I had thought about them since my disappearance, but there was an urgency now that I had not experienced before.
Unfortunately, I had no choice but to wait until spring opened the land to travel once more.
One moon passed and then another. With Gwendolau and others, I rode Maelwys’ hunting runs, or rambled the hills around Maridunum. The days were short, but left long nights to enjoy one another’s company around the fire, playing chess or talking. Also, I began singing again as my skill and confidence with the harp returned. Needless to say, my songs and tales were welcome in the hall where my father had sung so many years before. In all it was a good time for resting and gathering strength for the year ahead. I tried to rein in my impatience and not begrudge my inactivity, but to value this quiet time for its own sake.
In this I was only partially successful. The ferment in my heart and head made it seem as if I were standing rooted in place while the world flew by me in a dizzy race.
Nevertheless, the day came at last when we bade Pendaran and Dafyd farewell and started toward Ynys Avallach and the Summerlands. For me, it was a journey back to another time: all remained precisely as I remembered it. Nothing had changed, or seemed likely to change, ever.
Maelwys traveled with us, and Gwendolau, Baram, and some of Maelwys’ men as escort. Oh, we were a bold company, though, whether ranged along the road two-by-two as we most often were, or encamped in a wooded glade in the first flush of spring. The days took wing and one day, just after midday, I saw it: the Tor, rising from the mist-clouded waters of the lake at its feet. And on the Tor the palace of Avallach the Fisher King.
Even at a fair distance I was struck by the strangeness of the palace—the place in which I had grown up! That the home of my childhood should appear almost alien to me struck me like a physical blow. Had I been so long in the world of mortal men that I had forgotten the grace and refinement of the Fair Folk?
It was inconceivable that such beauty, such elegance and symmetry, could fade from my mind in that time. Seeing the palace in this way was like seeing it for the first time: the tall, sloping walls with their narrow, pinnacled towers; the high-arched roofs and domes within; the massive gateposts with their flowing banners.
Indeed, the palace belonged to another world. I saw my home much the way any stranger on the road might view it when coming upon it in the mist. And I understand how easily one might believe the tales of magical beings and strange enchantments. Was the palace itself not a thing of enchantment? Half-hidden in the mists, remote on its looming Tor, and surrounded by reed-fringed waters, now shining blue, now grey-slate and troubled, Ynys Avallach seemed an Otherworldly place.
But if the palace appeared strange to my eyes, the person of Avallach did not. At our approach the gates were opened and the king himself met us on the road. He shouted to see me, and I leaped from my horse and ran to his embrace.
What a reunion that was! Avallach had not changed—I eventually learned he never would—but I think I half-expected that the home of my childhood would have changed as much as I had. Everything was just the same as the day I left it.
Avallach greeted the rest of the party with equal enthusiasm—but stopped when he beheld Gwendolau and Baram. He turned to Charis, and she stepped beside him. “Yes, Father,” she said softly, “they are Fair Folk also; they are Meirchion’s people.”
The Fisher King raised his hand to his head. “Meirchion, my old ally. It is long since I heard that name…” He stared at the strangers, then burst into a grin. “Welcome! Welcome, friends! I am glad you are here. Come into my hall; there is much I want to hear from you!”
That night Gwendolau, Baram, Maelwys and I held audience with Avallach in his high chamber. The Fisher King’s malady came on him again, so he retreated to his chamber where he lay propped up on his red silk pallet, face white against the dark curls of his beard.
He listened to Gwendolau’s recitation of the events that had brought them to Ynys Avallach, shaking his head slowly, his eyes holding the vision of a time and place now lost forever.
“There were two ships, I have been told,” Gwendolau said. “They were separated at sea—one reached this island. We never learned what happened to the other ship, although it was hoped we would discover one day. That is why, when my father met Myrddin—well, he thought the others had been found at last.” Gwendolau paused, then brightened. “Still, finding you is just as good. I am only sorry Meirchion did not live to see it.”
“I, too, am sorry Meirchion is dead; there is so much we could say to one another,” he said sadly. “Did he ever speak about the war?”
“I was not yet born when he died,” replied Gwendolau. “But Baram knew him.”
“Tell me,” said Avallach to Baram, “for I would know.”
It was some moments before Baram replied. “He spoke of it seldom. He was not proud of his part in it…” Baram paused eloquently. “But he allowed that without the ships we would never have survived.”
“We understand that your brother, King Belyn, was also saved,” said Gwendolau.
“Yes, with a few of his people. They settled in the south, in Llyonesse. My son Maildun rules there with him.” Avallach frowned and added, “There was trouble between us, and it has been many years since we have spoken to one another.”
“So the Lady Charis has told us,” affirmed Gwendolau. “She also spoke of another ship, I believe.”
Avallach nodded slowly. “There was another ship—Kian, my oldest son, and Elaine, Belyn’s queen…” He sighed. “But it, like everything else, was lost.”
It had been a long time since I had thought about that lost ship. Kian and Belyn had stolen ships from the enemy fleet and had rescued the survivors of Atlantis’ destruction. Kian had turned aside to save Belyn’s wife, Elaine, and had never been seen again.
As a child I had heard of it, of course, but it belonged with all the other lost
things of that lost world. But now, sitting in the king’s chamber with Avallach and Gwendolau, I began wondering anew whether that ship was truly lost. Might it, like Meirchion’s ship, have made landfall somewhere? Might there be, like Custennin’s forest stronghold, another colony of survivors somewhere?
Gwendolau and Baram’s presence made the possibility seem almost a certainty. If another Fair Folk settlement existed, where would it be found?
“My father has instructed me to offer you bonds of friendship by whatever token you esteem. He extends the hospitality of his hearth to you and yours now and for all the time to come.”
“Thank you, Prince Gwendolau; I am honored,” Avallach accepted graciously. “I should like to prove that hospitality for myself, but as you see,” he lifted a hand to indicate his condition, “traveling is not possible for me. Still, that must not interfere with the bonds of friendship—allow me to send an emissary to accept in my stead.”
“Lord, that will not be necessary,” Gwendolau assured him.
“Nevertheless, it shall be done.” Avallach turned his eyes to me. “What about you, Merlin? Will you serve me in this?”
“Certainly, Grandfather,” I answered. Indeed, I had been wondering how I might find a way back to Goddeu and Ganieda. Suddenly it seemed as if I were halfway there.
“But first,” continued Avallach, turning back to Gwendolau, “I would have you speak to Belyn. I know he would be grateful for the information you bring. Would you consider going to him?”
Gwendolau glanced at Baram, who, as usual, gave no sign of what he thought or felt.
“I know you are anxious to return home, but having come this far…”
“Do not think of it,” replied Gwendolau. “My father would approve, and in any event it is only a small delay.”
Ah, but that delay… another month or more before I could see Ganieda again.
“We have tarried this long,” Gwendolau said, “a little longer will make no difference. And it furthers our purpose admirably.”
Oh well, there was nothing to be done. It was perhaps the first time in my life that I felt the cramp of kingcraft hindering my plans. It would not be the last.
We talked long into the night. Gwendolau and Avallach were still talking when I went to my bed, and Baram, who never had much to say at any time, had given up long ago and was snoring softly in the corner as I crept from the room. I dreamed of Ganieda that night, and of a great hound with blazing eyes that kept me from her.
* * *
The next day Avallach and I went fishing as we used to do when I was a child. Sitting in the long boat with him, the sun pouring gold on the water, the reeds alive with coots and moorhens, brought that time back to me once more. The day was cool, for the sun had not gained its full strength, and a fitful spring breeze stirred the waves now and again. There was not much fishing done, but that was never the point.
Grandfather wanted to know all about what I had seen and done. For one who never moved beyond the boundaries of his own realm, he knew a surprising amount about the affairs of the larger world. Of course, in Elphin he had a constant and reliable source of news, and he always welcomed the traders that happened along the way.
When we returned to the palace, Collen was waiting for his regular audience with Avallach—a custom begun during the long winter months when Avallach, confined to his litter, had invited the priest to read to him from the holy text—a book of the Gospels which Dafyd had recently acquired from Rome. The reading had proven so beneficial to them both, they had continued it. Indeed, the brothers occasionally said mass in the great hall for the Fisher King and his people.
After recovering from his surprise, Collen greeted me warmly, and we talked briefly about my “ordeal” among the Hill Folk before he excused himself to attend Avallach, saying, “You must come to the shrine when you can.”
“I will,” I promised, and did so the next afternoon.
The Shrine of the Savior God stands to this day on a little hill above the soft, marshy ground of the lowlands in that region. In spring flood the Tor and Shrine Hill are virtual islands; occasionally the ancient causeway leading from the Tor is under water as well. But this year the rains had not been so heavy, and the causeway remained dry.
The shrine was much as I remembered it; the mud-daubed walls were newly washed white with lime, and its high-peaked thatched roof only a little darker with age. Someone had plaited the reed thatch into the shape of a cross at the roof’s crown, and a fair-sized single-room dwelling for the priests stood well down on the shoulder of the hill away from the shrine. But these were the only changes I noticed as I approached.
I tethered my horse at the bottom of the hill and approached on foot. Collen came out of the priests’ dwelling, followed by two young brothers who could not have been much older than myself. They grinned and shook my hands in the Gaulish greeting, but, besides a murmured welcome, said nothing.
“They are shy,” explained Collen. “They have heard about you,” he added cryptically. “From Hafgan.”
I could guess that Hafgan had told them about the dance of the stones. We walked together to the shrine.
There is a peculiar joy of the flesh that is like no other, a joy that is as much longing as gladness. It is, I think, the yearning of bone and blood for the exultation that the spirit knows when approaching its true habitation. The body knows it is dust and will return to dust in the end, and grieves for itself. The spirit, however, knows itself to be eternal and glories in this knowledge. Both strain after the glory they rightfully possess, or will possess in time.
But unlike the spirit, the flesh’s hope is tenuous. Therefore, in those rare times when it senses the Truth—that it will be made incorruptible, that it will inherit all that the spirit owns, that the two shall become one—then, in those rarest of moments, it revels in a joy too sweet for words. This is the joy I felt upon entering the shrine. Here, where good men had sanctified a heathen land with their prayers and, later, with the blood of their veins, that special joy could be found. Here in this holy place I could feel the peace breathed out upon this world from that other, higher world above.
The shrine was clean-swept and smelling of oil, candles, and incense. The altar was a slab of stone on two stone pillars; it was very old. The silence of the shrine was deep and serene, and as I stood in the center of the single room, with the sunlight streaming in through the cross-shaped window onto the altar, I watched the dust motes descending on a slanting beam of yellow light, like tiny angels drifting Earthward on errands of mercy.
Watching this, I apprehended minute and subtle shiftings in the light and shadow of the shrine. There was movement and flux, a discernible ebb and flow to these seemingly static properties. Could it be that the Powers Dafyd described, the Principalities, the Rulers of Darkness in the high places, were even now encroaching on this most holy place?
As if in response to this encroachment, the single beam of light narrowed and gathered, growing finer and more intense, burning into the altar stone. The stone blazed where the light struck it, and the shadows retreated. But even as I looked, the circle of white-gold light thickened, taking on substance and shape: the substance of silvery metal, the shape of a wine cup of the sort used in a marriage feast. The object was plain and simply made, possessing no great value of itself.
Yet, the shrine was suddenly filled with a fragrance at once so sweet and fresh that I thought of all the golden summer days I had known, and all the meadows of wildflowers ever ridden through, and every soft moonlit night breeze that ever drifted through my window. To look upon the cup was to sense an unutterable peace, whole and unassailable, the abiding calm of endless, enduring authority, vigilant and present—if unseen—and supreme in its strength.
It came into my mind that to hold the cup would be to possess, in part, this peace. I stepped nearer the altar and put out my hand. The light of the cup flared, and the image faded as my hand closed around it.
There was nothing left but
the sunlight streaming through the window above the altar and my hand on the cold stone. The shadows deepened and drew closer, stealing the last of the fading radiance. And I felt my own strength flowing away like water poured out onto dry ground.
Great Light, preserve your shrine, and clothe its servants with wisdom and might; gird them for the struggle ahead!
Footsteps sounded behind me and Collen entered the cool, dark room. He peered carefully at my face—there must have been some lingering sign of my vision—but said nothing. Perhaps he knew what it was I had seen.
“Indeed, this is a holy place,” I told him. “For that reason the Darkness will try all the harder to destroy it.”
So that my words would not alarm him, I said, “But never fear, brother, it cannot succeed. The Lord of this place is stronger than any power on earth; the Darkness will not prevail.”
Then we prayed together. I shared the simple meal the brothers had prepared and talked of my travels and their work at the shrine before heading back to the palace.
* * *
I spent the next days rediscovering Ynys Avallach. As I visited once more the places of my childhood, the thought came to me that this kingdom, this realm of the Faery, could not endure. It was too fragile, too dependent on the strength and amity of the world of men. When that failed, the Fair Folk would vanish.
The thought did not cheer me.
One morning I found my mother in her room kneeling at a wooden chest. I had seen the chest countless times before, but never open. It was, I knew, a relic of Atlantis made of gopher wood inlaid with ivory, and carved with the figures of fanciful creatures with the heads and forequarters of bulls and the hindquarters of sea serpents.
“Come in, Merlin,” she said as I came to stand in the doorway. I went to her and sat in the chair beside the chest. She had lifted out several small, neatly-wrapped bundles, a rather long, narrow bundle tied with strips of leather among them.
“I am looking for something,” she said, and continued to sift the contents of the chest.
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