Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

“I require no explanation,” the Archdruid told him. “But it grieves me full well to see a man of your obvious renown exacting punishment on a helpless creature.”

  “Helpless, is it? Where were you when this mouse and its myriad companions were devastating my fields and bringing about my demise?”

  “As you are a reasonable man,” said the druid, “allow me to redeem the worthless creature. I will give you seven gold pieces to let it go.”

  Manawydan shook his head firmly. “That will not do. I will not sell the mouse for any amount of gold.”

  “Still, it is not seemly for a man of your rank to kill mice in this way,” countered the Archdruid. “Therefore, let me give you seventy pieces of gold.”

  “Shame on me if I sell it for twice that amount of gold!”

  The Archdruid would not be put off. “Nevertheless, good lord, I will not see you defile yourself by harming that animal. I will give you a hundred horses and a hundred men and a hundred fortresses.”

  “I was lord of thousands,” replied Manawydan. “How should I take less than what I had?”

  “As you will not accept that,” the Archdruid said, “please name your price that I may meet it.”

  “Well, there is a thing which might persuade me.”

  “Name it and it is yours.”

  “I wish the release of Rhiannon and Pryderi.”

  “You shall have that,” promised the Archdruid.

  “Between me and Lleu, that is not all.”

  “What else then?”

  “I wish the removal of the spell of enchantment from the realm of Dyfed and all my holdings.”

  “You shall have that as well, only release the mouse unharmed.”

  Manawydan nodded slowly and looked into his hand. “That I will do; only first I will know what this mouse is to you.”

  The Archdruid sighed. “Very well, you have the better of me. She is my wife—otherwise I would not ransom her.”

  “Your wife!” cried Manawydan. “Am I to believe such a thing?”

  “Believe it, lord, for it is true. I am the one who laid the enchantment upon your lands.”

  “Who are you that you should seek my destruction?”

  “I am Hen Dallpen, Chief of Druids in the Island of the Mighty,” replied the Archdruid. “I acted against you out of revenge.”

  “How so? What have I ever done to you?” For indeed, Manawydan could think of nothing he had ever done to anger any man, be he priest or druid.

  “You took the kingship of Bran the Blessed, and in this you did not obtain the blessing of the Learned Brotherhood. Therefore, I took it upon myself to enchant your kingdom, which I did.”

  “I will say you did,” grumbled Manawydan unhappily. “What of my fields?”

  “When some of those who follow me learned of the wheat, they begged me to turn them into mice in order that they might destroy your fields. The third night my own wife went with them, and she was heavy with child—although if she had not been so, you would not have caught her. But since she was and you did, I will give you Rhiannon and Pryderi and lift the spell from Dyfed and all your lands.” The Archdruid finished by saying, “Now I have told you all—please release my wife.”

  Manawydan glared at the chief druid. “I am a fool if I let her go now.”

  “What else do you wish?” sighed the Archdruid. “Tell me and let there be an end to this matter between us.”

  “I wish that once the enchantment has been removed from the land, there will never be another spell cast.”

  “You have my most solemn promise. Now will you let the mouse go?”

  “Not yet,” stated Manawydan firmly.

  The Archdruid sighed. “Are we to be at this all day? What else do you require?”

  “One thing else,” replied Manawydan. “I require that no revenge be taken because of what has happened here—neither on Rhiannon, or Pryderi, or my lands, or people, or possessions, or the creatures under my care.” He looked squarely in the Archdruid’s eyes. “Or upon myself.”

  “A cunning thought, Lleu knows. For indeed, had you not struck on that at last, you would have suffered far worse than anything you have suffered until now and all harm would be on your own head.”

  Manawydan shrugged. “A man must protect himself however he can.”

  “Now release my wife.”

  “That I will not do until I see Rhiannon and Pryderi coming towards me with glad greetings.”

  “Then look if you will,” said the Archdruid wearily. “They are coming even now.”

  Pryderi and Rhiannon appeared; Manawydan hurried to meet them, and they greeted him gladly and began to speak of what had happened to them all.

  “I have done all you asked, and more than I would have done had you not asked,” implored the Archdruid. “Do the one thing I have asked and release my wife.”

  “Gladly,” replied Manawydan. He opened his hand, and the mouse ran free.

  The Archdruid scooped it up and whispered some words in the ancient secret tongue into the mouse’s ear, and instantly the mouse began to change back into a comely woman whose belly swelled with the child she was carrying.

  Manawydan looked around the land and saw that every house and holding was back where it should be, complete with herds and flocks. And all the people were back where they should be so that the land was inhabited as once before. Indeed, it was as if nothing had changed at all.

  Only Manawydan knew differently.

  * * *

  Here ends the Mabinogi of Manawydan, my friend Wolf. Yes, it is a sad story in many of its parts. But I think you will agree that its end redeems.

  What is that you say? Yes, there is more to it than first appears. How astute you are, O Wise Wolf. Of course, there is always more than meets the eye, or ear. This tale conceals a secret at its heart.

  He that has ears to hear, let him hear!

  3

  The ravens croak at me from the treetops. They speak rudely; no respecters of persons, they say, “Why do you not die, Son of Dust? Why do you cheat us of our meat?”

  I am a king! How dare you affront me! How dare you slander me with insinuations!

  Listen, Wolf friend, there is something I must tell you…Oh, but I cannot…I cannot! Forgive me. Please, you must forgive me, I cannot tell it.

  * * *

  Well, I am in misery. The scant trickle of my little spring as it drips from the rock is as my very life, my blood. Hear the bitter wind weeping among the cruel rock crags. Hear how it moans. Sometimes soft and low, sometimes as if to tear at the roots of the world. Sometimes a sigh or a thin, crooning song from the throat of a toothless hag.

  I wander without sense or purpose: as if the aimless movement of my limbs is atonement for sins too loathsome to utter, as if in the slow, purposeless shuffling of one foot after the other I will find some release. Ha! There is no release!

  Death, you have claimed all the others—why do you not claim me?

  * * *

  I shout. I rave. I cry into the depths of darkness and my voice falls into a pit of silence. There is no answer. It is the unknowing silence of the grave.

  It is the unyielding silence of despair, black and eternal.

  I was a king. I am a king. This rock I squat upon is all that is left to me; it is all my realm. Once better lands were mine. Away in the wealthy southland I raised my throne, and Dyfed flourished. Maelwys and I were kings together, after the custom of the proud Cymry of old.

  All the world turns back, turns back, turns again to the old ways, the forgotten yet familiar ways. In the old ways there is certainty and solace, there is the empty form of comfort. But there is no peace.

  Hear then if you will, friend Wolf, the story of a man.

  There was a feast following that first victory. How my sword did shine! Oh, it was a beautiful thing. Perhaps I valued it too much. Perhaps I tried too hard, attempted too much. But tell me, my Lord Jesu, who ever has attempted more?

  We burned the Irish warboats, throwing
in the corpses of the raiders before firing them and setting them adrift on the outrunning tide. The red flames danced and the black smoke rose to heaven and our hearts beat for joy. Maridunum was saved that day, suffering little more than a few dwellings lost and a few roofs fired. Ten of our people were killed—six of those were warriors.

  Still, we had survived, and before the summer was out the first of Maelwys’ new warband began arriving. We raised eighty that year. And sixty the next—Demetae and Silures; the dual clans of Dyfed produced fierce warriors.

  Great Light, I see them: astride their tough ponies, oxhide shields slung over their shoulders, spearpoints burnished sharp, the bold checked cloaks fluttering from their shoulders, torcs and armbands gleaming, their hair braided and bound like their horses’ tails, or free-flying under their war caps, their eyes dark and hard as Cymry slate under smooth brows, and firm the set of their jaws. It was joy itself to lead such men.

  We rode the circuit together, the ring of hillforts guarding our lands. And we erected timber platforms on the coastal hills for beacon fires. These were manned from the first summer on, until winter made an end of the warring season. And yes, we were attacked again and yet again—the barbarians knew that Maximus had gone, and the cream of the British troops with him—but we were never taken by surprise.

  This was a good time for Maridunum. The weather was a boon companion to the land: days full of clear skies and sunlight, and an evening’s rain to quench the thirsting root. All things flourished and bore fruit. Despite constant harassment of raiders, our herds and flocks increased; our people throve and were content.

  That first autumn of my kingship—when I was certain my place was established—I spoke openly of my love for Ganieda to my mother and Maelwys. It was decided that a messenger should be sent to take word to Custennin about my intentions. We chose six of our company and sent them north to Goddeu with gifts and letters, both for the lord and for my bride. I would have gone myself, but it is not done that way; and besides, I was needed in Maridunum.

  The day the messengers rode out was a crisp, golden day in autumn, just after Samhain. The warmth of summer had lapsed, and nights could be cold, but still the days were fair, with the fire-tint brightening summer’s greens. I stood in the road and watched them out of sight thinking that only the winter—a few grey, wet months, a little space of darkness and cold—separated me from my light, my Ganieda.

  Only one winter. Then I, too, would ride out to fetch my bride from her father’s hearth and bring her home.

  And it was much like I imagined it to be.

  I spent a restless winter, riding with the hunting bands when I could, watching clouded skies shift over the land as they brought rain and a little snow now and then. I fussed with Maelwys’ hounds; bathed in the heated bath; played chess with Charis, losing more often than winning; strummed my harp and sang in the hall of an evening; and generally haunted the villa like the restless shade I was—all the time waiting for the days to shorten and trees to bud.

  “Be at ease, Merlin, you are as tense as a cat about to pounce,” Charis told me one night. It was after midwinter, just after the Christ Mass, and we were at the nightly game of chess. She always played, with either Maelwys or me as her partner. “You cannot make the days fly faster than they will.”

  “That I know only too well,” I replied. “If it had been for hoping, spring would have been with us long since.”

  “You are so eager, my soul.” She looked at me over the chessboard, and I caught a hint of sadness in her voice and in her glance.

  “What is it, Mother?”

  Charis smiled and moved a gamepiece on the board. “I was only thinking.”

  “Yes?”

  “These years have themselves flown, it seems to me. Was it so long ago that Taliesin came with his harp to my father’s house?” She lifted a hand to my cheek. “You are very like him, Merlin. Your father would be proud to see he has sired such a noble son.” She lowered her hand and pushed a gamepiece with a fingertip, then sighed. “My work is nearly finished.”

  “Your work?” I moved one of the pieces, not caring which one, or where.

  Charis countered the move. “You will be Ganieda’s responsibility from now on, my Hawk.”

  “You make it sound as if I were going away across the sea. I am only moving into the chambers across the courtyard.”

  “To me it will be as if you have traveled to the end of the Earth,” she said solemnly. “From the day you are married, you and Ganieda are one. You will give all of yourself to her, and she to you. You will be a world together, and that is as it should be. I will have no place in it.”

  I knew what she was saying, but I made light of it. I did not like to think that something that would bring me such happiness would cause someone I loved such pain. I wanted everyone to share my joy, and so Charis did, but her joy was bittersweet and it could be no other way.

  A little later, when we bade each other good night, she hugged me more tightly and held me more closely. It was the first of many small farewells for us that helped ease the greater.

  The day did finally come when I rode out for Goddeu myself, taking a score of warriors for company. We did not fear attack on the road, but the enemy was becoming more bold with each passing season. Also, we had heard of a hard winter north of the Wall; this would send the hungry Picti and Scotti out on the war trail all the sooner.

  Riding with twenty of my best was only prudent, and it would serve to set an edge to winter-dulled skills. But aside from the usual spring-swollen rivers and mountain passes that had not yet thawed, the journey proved unremarkable. Indeed, it seemed to me as if I had traveled the Goddeu road so often that I remembered every rock and bush and ford along the way.

  Nor did we lack for traveling companions. For, despite the rumors of raiders of one sort or another, there were many others on the road as well. More than normal for early spring. It was as if men knew that the days of free-ranging trade over longer distances were drawing to a close and were anxious to do what they could before the end came.

  Yet, there was an air of exuberance, of carefree camaraderie—although that might have been my own mood coloring things for me. Oh, but it was a fine journey.

  And the day I rode into King Custennin’s lakeside stronghold, my heart swelled to bursting. It was a glorious day, all sun-bright and adazzle with lights off the lake. Clean-swept the sky, deep and azure blue; the woodland flowers full and sweet on the gentle air, the trees absolutely piping with birdsong—it was a grand day. Every man should have such a wedding day.

  Although the actual ceremony was yet some time away, the day I rode into Goddeu and saw Ganieda standing before the door of the king’s great hall—dressed in a cream-white mantle fringed with golden tassels and worked in emerald-green thread, with white wildflowers plaited in her black hair—that day, that instant, my soul was married to Ganieda’s.

  We were so happy!

  I do not remember catching her up to sit before me in the saddle, although they say I did—coming at her on the run and leaning low to sweep her away with me in a wild and joyous ride. I only remember her arms around my neck and her lips on mine as we galloped along the sparkling lakeshore, the horse’s hoofs striking up showers of diamonds for us.

  “How did you know I would come today?” I asked when we dismounted at last outside Custennin’s palace.

  “I did not know, my lord,” Ganieda answered with mock solemnity.

  “Yet you were ready and waiting.”

  “As I have been ready and waiting each day since the first flowers bloomed.” She laughed that I should marvel at that. “I would not have my love find me otherwise.”

  “I love you, Ganieda,” I said. “With all the heart and soul in me, I love you. And I have missed you.”

  “Let us never part again,” she said.

  Just then I w hailed from the doorway, and Gwendolau appeared. “Myrddin Wylt! Is that you? But for the wolfskin on your back I would not know
you, man. Unhand my sister and let me look at you.”

  “Gwendolau, my brother!” We gripped arms in the old greeting, and he beat me happily about the shoulders with his hands.

  “You have changed, Myrddin. Look at how you have filled out. And what is this?” He raised a hand to my torc. “Gold? I thought gold was the sole right of kings.”

  “It is and well you know it,” said Ganieda. I smiled to hear the possessive note in her voice. “Does he not look every inch a king?”

  “A thousand pardons, lady,” he laughed. “I need not ask how it has gone with you, Myrddin, for I see you have weathered well.”

  “And you, Gwendolau.” The year had wrought its change in him as well. He appeared more like Custennin than ever, a veritable giant among men. “It is good to see you.”

  “Allow me to see to your men and their horses,” he said. “You and Ganieda have much to discuss, I should guess. We will talk later.” And with a happy slap of my back, he walked off at once.

  “Come,” Ganieda tugged on my hand, “let us walk a while.”

  “Yes, but first I must pay my respects to the lord of this place.”

  “That you can do later. He is hunting today and will not return until dusk.”

  So we walked, and our path led us into the woods where we found a leafy bower and sat down on the sun-warmed grass. I held Ganieda in my arms and we kissed, and if I could have stopped the world from turning, I know I would have. Just feeling the sweet, yielding weight of her in my arms was Earth and sky to me.

  Great Light, I cannot bear it!

  4

  No…no, listen, Wolf, my mind is calm. I will continue: Custennin was well disposed to the match. Gwendolau must have given his father a good report of my kinsmen and lineage. Indeed, he could have done nothing else. The joining of our houses would be to affirm honorable and long-established ties, something both Avallach and Maelwys were anxious to do as well.

  The south needed the north, and needed it strong. The attacks that year by year drove deeper into the heartland invariably originated in the north; Picti, Scotti, Attacotti, Cruithne: these were all northern tribes. And the Saecsen and Irish, who were becoming bolder and more belligerent with each passing season, when they came, came across the sea and into Ynys Prydein from the unguarded north.