Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  In this young eagle called Aurelius I saw great potential. Perhaps he could become the High King I had seen, the one men needed to restore their faith.

  Oh, I had seen Aurelius from afar—in the firemists, in the black oak water of the seeing bowl—and I knew him, after a fashion. But I needed to meet him, to sit down and talk with him and observe what kind of man he was. Only then could I be certain if Britain had a worthy High King.

  Purposefully, I stayed well away from my old lands in Dyfed. I was not yet ready to witness what changes had been wrought there and much preferred my memory of the place. My sudden appearance would be awkward, to say the least, for those ruling there now. News of my return would hasten to Maridunum—now called Caer Myrddin, Pelleas informed me blithely—and that would cause confusion enough. Besides, I was not at all certain what I should do, and there would be time to decide that later, after I had met with Aurelius.

  Before that, however, I had but one desire: to return to the only home I knew to see my mother. In truth, I never stopped to think what commotion my sudden appearance at Ynys Avallach would provoke. In my mind the place was always so serene, so remote from the frantic strivings of the larger world, I imagined—if I had any thought at all—that simply setting foot onto the Isle of Apples I would instantly fall under its peaceful enchantment, occupying the same place I had always occupied. “Oh, there you are Merlin, I wondered where you had gone.” As if I had merely departed no further than the next room and had now returned but a moment, a small space of heartbeats, later.

  For me, at least, it was something like that. For Charis and Avallach, it was something else entirely.

  After the first flurry of sensation at the announcement of my arrival—there was now a gatehouse at the end of the causeway leading to the Fisher King’s palace, the glad cries of welcome, and the tears—my own and my mother’s—it still took some time for the place to recover its normal, staid dignity.

  I had been missed, and sorely, my death contemplated and wondered at ten thousand thousand times since my disappearance. I had, selfishly I suppose, vastly underestimated my own value in my mother’s life.

  “I knew you were still alive,” Charis told me later, when the excitement had diminished. “At least I think I would have known if you had been dead; I would have felt it.”

  She sat holding my hand in her lap, clutching it as if afraid to let it go lest she lose me again so soon. She beamed her pleasure, the light bright and shining in her eyes, and glowing from her face. I do not believe I had ever seen her so happy. Except for this, and the fact that she had once again adopted the fashion of the Fair Folk, she was unchanged.

  “I am sorry,” I said. How many times had I said that already? “Forgive me, I could not help myself. I never meant to hurt you, I—”

  “Hush.” She bent her head and kissed my hand. “It has all been said and forgiven. It is past and done.”

  At these words, and the truth behind them, the tears started to my eyes once more. Could one ever be worthy of such love?

  That night I slept in my old room and the next day went fishing with Avallach, sitting on the center bench while he poled the flat-bottomed boat along the bank to this favorite place. The sun danced on the lake surface, and the reeds nodded in the warm breeze; a heron stalked the green shallows, looking for frogs, and nervous moorhens jerked and clucked on the mossy shore and I felt like a child of three once more.

  “What was it like, Merlin?” Avallach asked me. He stood poised with the spear.

  “To be insane?”

  “To be alone with God,” he answered. “I have often wondered what it would be like to be in his presence—to see and hear him, to worship at his feet.”

  “Is that who you think I was alone with?” It shamed me to realize I had not acknowledged it before. But through years of sincere contemplation Avallach had grown sensitive to the life of the spirit.

  “Who else? The Great Lord himself,” he said happily, “or one of his angels. Either way, a very great honor.” At that moment a fish flashed beneath the stern of the boat, and Avallach s spear flashed in the same instant and he drew it back out of the water with a fine pike wriggling on the barbed tines.

  As he carefully removed the fish, I sought a reply. Of course, I had been sustained in the wild. At the time I had never questioned it, considering that my years of living with the Hill Folk had stood me good stead in surviving in the wilderness. But even that, surely, had been the Good God’s hand at work, preparing me.

  And at last he had appeared to me—I knew that, and had not dared admit it to myself aloud. But Avallach had seen it, and accepted it with the greatest enthusiasm and just a little pious envy. I marveled at his faith.

  “You are fortunate among men, Merlin. Most fortunate.” He bent and took up the pole once more and pushed the boat further along the reed-grown bank. “I, who would dearly love to spend but a moment in my Lord’s presence, must content myself with visions of his sacred cup.”

  He said this matter-of-factly, but he was as serious as he was sincere. “You have seen it too?” I asked, forgetting that I had never told him I had seen it myself.

  “Ah, I thought so.” Grandfather winked at me. “Then you know.”

  “That it exists? Yes, I believe that it does.”

  “Have you touched it?” he asked softly, reverently.

  I shook my head. “No. Like yours, mine was a vision.”

  “Ah…” He sat down in the boat and held the dripping pole across his knee. The quiet lapping of the water against the boat’s hull and the chirking of a frog filled the silence. When he spoke again, it was as a man sharing a confidence with a brother; never before had he spoken to me like this.

  “You know,” he said, “I have believed until this moment that the Lord’s Cup was denied me for the great sin of my life…”

  “Surely, Grandfather, your sins are no greater than any other man’s. Far less, I should think, than many I could name. And you have Jesu’s forgiveness…”

  My attempt to ease his mind was a thin one, and it is doubtful he even heard me, for he continued, “I gave life to Morgian.”

  At the sound of the name my heart turned leaden in my chest. Morgian…what had she been up to while I was lost to the world of men? Something told me her hands had not been idle. I saw her as a black spider spinning webs of alluring death around her.

  “Where is Morgian?” I asked, dreading the answer. I had to know.

  Avallach sighed wearily. “She is in the Orcades—a group of small islands in the northern sea. A good place for her, I think; at least she is far from here.”

  I had heard of this island realm, called Ynysoedd Erch in the British tongue: the Islands of Fear. And now I knew why. “What does she there?”

  The Fisher King sighed wearily. No one who has not so mourned can know the pain of a parent whose child has gone wrong. But he bore his torment like the king he was, neither pitying himself nor excusing himself. “What Morgian does only Morgian knows. But we hear lately that she has married a man, a king named Loth, and has borne him children.

  “I know nothing of the man nor his unfortunate spawn, but there are tales of great wickedness in the north, and terrors that defy description. It is Morgian’s handiwork, of course, but what she intends I cannot guess.”

  I could guess well enough what she intended. “Is anything known of these children?”

  “Only that they live. But no, there is no word…no certain word about any of this. Just traveler’s tales and dark rumors.”

  Morgian had learned patience, I will give her that. She was biding her time well, no doubt steeping herself in her craft and the forbidden lore of the ancients, gaining strength and black wisdom. She could wait, knowing perhaps that her best time to strike had not yet come. There would be chaos in the land soon, and she would have her chance. When she struck there would be no mistaking it.

  It was clear to me from that moment that the problems of Britain could not be consider
ed wholly apart from Morgian. The very fact that she had taken a Briton king as husband—the people of the Orcades are Briton rather than Pict or Irish—could only mean that her ambitions had blossomed since I had last seen her. Then, she might have been content with a soul or two to torture; now she wanted an entire realm.

  Great Light, be the strong shield before your warriors, be the very steel in their hands!

  It occurred to me to use the seeing bowl to determine what Morgian was about. Although I shrank inwardly from an encounter with her, I could have done it. But it seemed best to me not to interfere or draw attention to myself in any way. I did not know what powers she possessed. Very likely, she already knew I was back among the living—if not, she soon would. Better to let her wait and wonder. It never serves to let an enemy know your strength and position.

  “Listen to me, Avallach,” I told him. “You have no reason to feel guilt for Morgian. You are not responsible for her evil.”

  “Am I not?” He frowned as if something foul lay on his tongue. “I gave her life, Merlin. Oh, what would I give if…if—”

  “If and if and if! Do you hear yourself?” I said hotly. “If cannot change is!”

  He looked at me with mild reproach for my temper. “No, nothing is changed, Merlin,” he said sadly. “We all must bear our failures to the grave.”

  We spoke no more about this and went on to talk of happier things. Still, I wonder why his words stirred such a response in me.

  “But he does blame himself,” said Charis later when I told her about it. “He believes himself responsible.”

  “One man cannot make himself responsible for the actions of another,” I insisted.

  Mother smiled. “One did, once. Or have you forgotten? Is there anything to prevent it happening again?”

  I had not forgotten, but I remembered it now anew, and in a slightly different light. Was Charis suggesting that Avallach might be contemplating an atoning act on behalf of Morgian? Here was something new to think about. “You cannot let him do it,” I said earnestly. “You must not.”

  “Merlin,” she said soothingly, “what is the matter? You are troubled, son. Tell me.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “It is nothing; it will pass.” For some reason I thought of Maelwys, and I asked about him. “Tell me, how did Maelwys die?”

  “There was an attack on Maridunum,” Charis explained. “We fought off the invaders, having met them on the coast. The battle was over, and he was returning to the villa with some of his men. There was an ambush and the villa was fired…”

  As she spoke, my mind filled with images of such horror and pain that I trembled to see them. My mother broke off her recitation. “Merlin, what is wrong?”

  It was some moments before I could speak. “There is great hardship coming,” I replied at last. “Many will fall in the Darkness, and many more will be lost to it.” I regarded her grimly, hating what I had seen. “Surely, no one alive now has ever endured such calamity.”

  “I have, Merlin,” she said gently, answering the note of hopelessness in my voice. “I have endured, and so has Avallach, and all the rest who came with us.”

  “Mother, look around, there are few left now—fewer every year.”

  It was a cruel thing to say. I do not know why I said it, and the instant the words were out of my mouth I would have given my eyes to have them back.

  Charis nodded sadly. “It is true, my Hawk. There are fewer of us every year. Maildun, my brother, died in the winter.” She lowered her eyes. “We will not last. I used to hope that we might find a way to survive here; I thought that with your father—through Taliesin and me—we might survive in that way. But it was not to be. Yes, our days upon the land are nearly over, and soon we will follow the rest of Earth’s first children into the dust.”

  “I am sorry, Mother. I should not have spoken so. Forgive me.”

  “It is the truth, Merlin. You need never apologize for the truth.” She raised her head and looked me square in the eye, and I saw I was mistaken if I thought her words meant she had given up. “But there is a greater truth that must not be silenced ever: the Kingdom of Summer. As long as I am alive, it too is alive. And it lives in you, my son, and in all who believe and follow.”

  The Kingdom of Summer…was it only a dream of paradise? Or could it be made real, here and now? Could men of flesh and blood inhabit such a place?

  Once Taliesin had conceived it, had sung its shape in the heart, there could be no turning away from it. To deny the Summer Realm now would be to acquiesce to defeat, and ultimately to evil itself. For whenever the vision of a greater good has been proclaimed in the world of men, it must be striven for even unto death. Anything less is denial, and denial mocks the Great Light who inhabits the vision and gives it life. Turning away from good once it is known is willfully turning toward evil.

  Taliesin had set an enormous burden upon my shoulders, for it fell to me to bring the Summer Kingdom into being. Would that I had his voice, his gifts! I might have sung it into existence.

  Look! I can see him with the harp in his hands, the shimmering notes spinning from his fingers, his face glowing with the reflected glory of his song…And oh! such a song—words streaming from his throat as through a living doorway from the Otherworld, his fair hair shining in the torchlight, the whole world still and breathless to hear the heartbreaking beauty of his song…I see him and I weep. Father, I never knew you!

  * * *

  I stayed at Ynys Avallach until the new moon and let the timeless serenity of the place reclaim its place in my soul. I would have need of serenity in the turbulent days ahead.

  Then, on a cool, bright morning Pelleas and I rode out once more to begin the long, impossible task of saving the Island of the Mighty.

  2

  I found Aurelius and Uther on the road returning from the battle with Vortigern. The old fox had come to a messy end: locked in a burning tower, deserted by his closest allies. Even his son, Pascent, had fled to the coast, leaving his father to face justice alone. Thus the fight had been short and sharp, and decisive. The two brothers were still flushed with exultation when I met them a little north of Glevum, near where they had finally run Vortigern to ground.

  Aurelius had been instantly proclaimed High King by those who supported him. I saw him and shuddered: he was so young!

  “You were scarcely his age when you took the torc,” Pelleas whispered to me as we waited to be ushered before him.

  True, I suppose, but I had hoped for a little more maturity to work with—I groaned for the work ahead. Young Aurelius was High King in name only, his biggest battle lay before him, for he had yet to win the support of the majority of smaller kings, most of whom thought themselves eminently qualified to rule the roost now that Vortigern was gone.

  Winning fealty would be a rough campaign in itself; it did not need Hengist to make it more bloody than it already promised. I knew that many of the lesser lords would not be convinced by anything other than brute force. That was bad enough, but Hengist had yet to be dealt with. In short, I saw nothing for it but to advise Aurelius to make quick work of any who would not uphold him.

  If he would listen to me. I had no right to expect that he would. Pelleas was more optimistic. “Everyone has heard of Myrddin Emrys,” he told me. “Of course he will see you. He will welcome you like a brother!”

  Like a disreputable uncle, as it turned out. But he did agree to meet with me, which was something. I sat across the board from Aurelius in his skin tent, and we drank mead together while he watched me and tried to make up his mind about me. Uther had already made up his mind, and fussed and fidgeted in the background, trying to be noticed by his older brother so that he could say what he thought—which would in no way be complimentary, I was sure.

  Aurelius had a brooding look accentuated by a head of curly dark hair cut close to his skull in the imperial manner, and dark, dark eyes, set deep under even, dark brows. He had a high, noble forehead and a well-formed, unlined
face, now sun-browned from his days on the road.

  He also had Maximus’ sword. Though I had not seen it since meeting the Duke of Britain that day in Elphin’s stronghold when I was a small boy, I recognized it at once: the fine-honed steel, the bronze hilt wrapped with braided silver, the great eagle-carved amethyst winking purple in the pommel—there is not another like it in all the world.

  How he had come by it, I could guess. How he had managed to keep it was the real marvel. If Vortigern, or anyone else, had known about it, he would not have lived to see this day. Old Gosselyn saved the boys, and he saved the sword; in so doing, he preserved more than he knew.

  Aurelius looked me over carefully as I came to stand before him. The expression of vague disdain tugging at his features gave me to know that he thought little of the intrusion of an unexpected madman into his plans.

  But like it or not, Aurelie, my lad, we were stuck with each other. For neither of us, was there anyone else. It all came down to us. I could accept that, but I did not know if Aurelius could.

  “I am glad to meet the famous Merlin at last,” Aurelius said, trying out his best diplomacy. “Your fame precedes you.”

  “As does yours, Sire.” I used the newly-adopted epithet to show my support of his claim to the High Kingship. This pleased him immensely, and the light came up in his eyes.

  “Does it indeed?” He wanted to hear it from my lips.

  “How should it not? You have vanquished the usurper Vortigern and have collected the blood debt owed you these many years—and this in most impressive fashion. All the world is singing your praises.”

  If he was true High King material or not, this little speech of mine would tell.

  He smiled, but shook his head slowly. “Not all the world, surely. I can think of a fair few who are singing their own praises even now—and some were men who marched with me but a few days ago.”