Avilion (Mythago Wood 7)

by Robert Holdstock

  ‘I’ll play the game. But not where we used to play it. I’ll play it here. The fire is still too fierce for silver.’

  ‘Then we’ll play it here.’

  The fire had dropped to a glow. The winter was coming in fast, as it usually did, and in the darkness Jack could see flakes of snow. He had put out the torch, and rearranged the coals with tongs. Yssobel was curled in the corner, waiting for him, a blanket of stitched sheepskin covering her against the wind from the valley. Jack found a small crucible and embedded it in the heat.

  ‘I’ll melt the silver now. How big a ring do you need?’

  Yssobel had already released her hair and tossed him the strap. He fitted his fingers through the loop of skin, stretched them out. ‘You do know that silver won’t be as strong as this. I’ll have to make it thicker; heavier.’

  ‘Do you have enough silver?’

  ‘I’m sure I do. But it will weigh on you. You’ll notice it.’

  ‘That’s what I want. As long as it keeps my hair out of the branches.’

  He scrabbled through the hoard. The diving woman. A figurine of a lost god; two coins, quite large; an actual silver ring, with poor decoration, designed for a large finger. And two arrow points, though clearly weapons that had been symbolic and not practical. One of these he kept back. He placed the rest in the earthenware crucible, used the bellows on the coals beneath it, let heat and metal meld and melt. Silver would start to run at a lower temperature than iron. He blew air over the surface for a while to help bring impurities out of the true metal.

  Wrapping his own sheepskin around him, he dropped down by his sister, shivered and reached for the water jug. ‘I’m ready. For the question. Who goes first?’

  ‘Same rules?’

  ‘Same rules. One question, two answers. One answer truthful, one answer not.’

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Yssobel said, leaning forward to bring her face close to Jack’s. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Why do you want to go the edge of the world? First answer.’

  ‘I long to go to the edge of the world because I will find a life there that belongs to me. Now you: why do you want to go to the centre of the earth?’

  ‘I want to go to the centre of the earth because I think I will find there who I am. Why do you want to go to the edge of the world?’

  ‘Because I will find my way home there. I will find someone I care for.’

  Yssobel sat back, frowning. ‘That’s a strange answer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just . . . strange.’

  ‘The game requires that we don’t question the answers,’ Jack said with mock severity. ‘Now you: why do you want to go the centre of the earth?’

  ‘Because . . . because there I will find an answer to the question; the question of why what should be dead is alive again. I will find everything I care for, everything that ever mattered to me, and will always matter to me. I will find Avilion. And you, Jack, brother Jack? Will you find everything that matters to you at your world’s edge?’

  ‘That’s outside the rules of the game. And talking of strange answers ...’

  ‘Forget the game. Will you find what you’re looking for? At your own world’s edge?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t have your confidence, Yssi. I wish I did. When I get there, I’ll know better.’

  Yssobel made a sound of disapproval. ‘You didn’t play the game. Both of your answers were true.’

  The silver had melted. Jack could tell by the sound it made that it was ready to be cooled, ready for the reshaping. He dragged his sheepskin around him. It was cold in the forge, despite the fire. Yssobel huddled, watching her brother. He lifted the crucible carefully and inspected the contents. The silver hadn’t been pure. Though it gleamed like moonlight, he could see the tarnish of copper, and black specks of sand.

  ‘It will have to be skimmed. And I’ve melted too much. I’ll make you a second, smaller ring.’

  ‘Just as long as it doesn’t drag me backwards off my horse.’

  ‘What pattern do you want?’

  ‘I have said already. Any pattern you think fit.’

  Jack tipped the crucible this way and that. The hot metal shone at him, despite the impurity that stained its surface. He had a ring mould to hand, but it would be too large for his sister’s needs. Placing the crucible back on the coals, he broke the mould, snapped off part of it and pushed it back. The mould was clay. The silver would leak from it, but silver could be shaped, beaten into shape, marked.

  He skimmed the silver, let it heat again, skimmed it again. All the time he thought of the hand that had made the small figurine; the hand that had shaped the arrowhead, though a point that was unusable; the hand that had struck the shape into the coin. They were echoes of other lives, condensed into what would soon become an echo of his own.

  Jack poured the silver into the mould. Snow blew into the forge, a thickening blanket of cold, helping to cool the coals, though the fire still gave heat enough for the task.

  It was a rough-looking ring of silver when, later, he eased it from the mould. Yssobel had left by then, tired and thoughtful. Jack took a small hammer and began to work the metal. As the sky brightened with dawn, he took an awl and began to engrave it.

  Hurthig came into the shelter. He inspected Jack’s work and by the raising of eyebrows signified that Jack was doing well.

  —A bracelet?

  —A hair ring. For my sister.

  —Then don’t close it completely.

  The young Saxon turned away and began to use the bellows to fire up the crude furnace.

  They were making blades and horseshoes. Everything in the villa had its time, and this was forge time, and Hurthig was an expert at iron-making.

  What to say? What idea to put on the small, thin ring? He would do it in runes. He and his sister understood rune-writing. But what to say?

  After a while he gave up the struggle and just carved the silver with the only thoughts he could summon.

  Yssobel looked at the ring, peered closely. On one side she read: Avilion is what we make of it.

  She was thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. ‘I like that. I wonder if it’s true.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘Avilion belongs to you, not to me.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘It’s your dream, Yssi. It’s you that sees it from the edge of vision.’

  ‘From the corner of my eye.’

  ‘The gleam in the corner of your eye. Whole worlds are there.’

  ‘I know.’

  She turned the ring round, peering hard at what Jack had rune-scrawled on the other side. What we remember is all the home we need.

  With a shake of her head she said, ‘That’s a bit . . . what does dad say? Corny.’

  ‘Best I could come up with. Anyway, not as “corny” as your birthday song about me.’

  Yssobel laughed. ‘How long do you expect to live?’

  ‘Twenty years more at least.’

  ‘Twenty more verses. I don’t think I can bear the thought.’

  ‘You can’t bear the thought? Who’s the one who has to sit there listening as he’s dissected by his sister’s tongue? Anyway, you’ll find a way. Just make the last verse count.’

  ‘Thank you for the hair ring.’

  Jack tossed her the smaller ring. He had not formed it completely, not joined it. It was ragged and uneven. Broken. He had inscribed: Here to there. There to here. Yssobel clutched it and held it and smiled.

  ‘I like this very much. I’ll find a use for it.’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s just raw silver, twisted. Nothing to it.’

  Yssobel stood and glanced out into the growing storm of snow. Walking away from her brother, she said, ‘That’s what I find good about it. Goodnight, Jack.’

  Winter came in. And with winter came a brief greeting from the past, welcome in its way, yet unwelcome for the news it brought.

  The
Jaguth came. Only Guiwenneth was there to receive them at the time, and Ealdwulf and Egwearda. So that when Steven came home, and his son came home, and Yssobel came home, they found a villa that had changed.

  Ghost Rising

  The stink of hounds was on the wind, the stink of fear. Bright in the moon, the villa was outlined in snow. Ealdwulf had closed the gates, but Guiwenneth pulled on her boots, wrapped herself in a sheepskin, and walked to where the ageing Saxon was trying to secure the grounds.

  ‘Leave them open.’

  ‘Something’s coming.’

  ‘I know. Leave them open.’

  ‘I don’t trust the night. Something is coming. I heard hounds calling. Can you smell that stink?’

  ‘They’re friends, old friend. Just friends. Leave the gates open.’

  ‘It’s blood, my friend.’ He took her by the arm. ‘They are not coming with good news.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘When my father died, there was a storm of wolf’s breath on the wind. There was blood shadow. There was crow calling. And the moon was bright, like this moon.’

  ‘This moon doesn’t frighten me. I’ve been expecting them. Ealdwulf, I am not afraid. But, please, old friend: stay beside me.’

  ‘Will you protect me?’

  Why was the Saxon so anxious? He was a strong man, a carpenter of skill, well fed and in robust health. And yet suddenly he looked drawn and was breathing hard, his face creased by the harsh silver light.

  ‘Ealdwulf. There will be nothing to protect. Not from what is coming. Later? Yes. Then there may be some difficulty.’

  As Ealdwulf faded, Guiwenneth strengthened. The snow-storm began to blow hard again, and the moon disappeared. They shivered in the villa; the heating was beginning to fail.

  The women from the river had come scurrying in, hooded, cloaked, carrying their belongings in their arms. Three of the horsemen who had recently been using Dun Peredur as a temporary haven on their journey also turned up at the gates, laying their weapons down and leading their animals through the snow to the stables when Guiwenneth indicated they could come in. She had met them before, and was easy with them, though they were of a later age to her. She was glad to see the ancient old hunter she called Flint, wrapped in his furs, making his way to the kitchens. He glanced up as he passed, a miserable remnant of many a savage winter in a land far from his own. He was carrying wood on his back, and Guiwenneth directed Ealdwulf to go and help him. The two couldn’t exchange words, but soon there was a better fire, the sound of laughter, and the welcome smell of simple food.

  Rianna approached Guiwenneth. ‘Where is Steven?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Your children?’

  ‘With their father. Serpent Pass, I imagine. But I don’t know.’

  ‘Let me go and find them,’ the older woman said, resting her hand lightly on Guiwenneth’s folded arms.

  Guiwenneth shook her head. ‘Too dangerous.’

  ‘I can shift my form. I can run. I can fly. I’ve not tried it for a long while, but the memory is there.’

  ‘And be taken by a moon eagle before you make the valley? No.’

  ‘Moon eagles? Have you seen them.’

  ‘I’ve seen one. He’s above the snow. With this storm, you can’t see him, but he’s there. And you wouldn’t have a chance. Thank you, anyway.’

  ‘Then the drums.’

  ‘I was thinking of that. But Ealdwulf says there is movement in the earth. I’m not sure the signal would get through.’

  Rianna crouched down, placed her hands, then her face against the bare ground, where the snow had been cleared.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Movement in the earth.’

  And quite suddenly Guiwenneth felt it too. A tremor that she had experienced before, nothing alarming, nothing threatening; a vibration that seemed to have a rhythm. She was always reminded of an army on the move.

  ‘Try the drums anyway.’

  Rianna disappeared. The snow began to ease. Darkness had taken the land, sliced through by the bright curve of the moon. Ealdwulf’s guttural voice, and Rianna’s insistent commands, sounded from the drum enclosure and almost at once the drums began to beat their own rhythm. The Saxon himself had made them, as he had made almost everything that was new and useful in the villa, and the sound managed to echo in the dark. Would it carry far enough to alert Steven and the others?

  It certainly alerted the hounds that had been approaching stealthily. They began to run.

  Two of them leapt onto the wall, one each side of the gate. They were huge, grey-backed, white-bellied, howling, hanging onto the stonework with their front paws, peering hard at Guiwenneth. Two more came through the gate, bounding through the snow, slowed by the snow, but determined to reach the woman who waited with open arms. When they reached her they almost struggled to get the first embrace, and Guiwenneth was left wet, licked, pushed over and laughing with the fierce and fond attention of the beasts.

  ‘Enough! Enough! Good to see you, but you’re rough!’

  They sat down beside her, panting. The hounds on the wall scrambled over and approached; younger, leaner, they simply watched, eyes curious and wide, waiting for their masters.

  Torches were flaring beyond the gate. A horn sounded, strident and deep, blasted in rhythm with the drumbeat from the signal shed, where Ealdwulf was still frantically signalling to the valleys.

  Men approached. Guiwenneth stood and counted the dark shapes against the snow, counted the torches. Only five!

  And the villa shook, almost throwing her off balance again. The drumming stopped. The dogs leapt up and looked to their masters, unnerved and alerted. Tiles were shaken from the roof of the villa. One of the women from the river came running through the cloister. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  And then another. ‘There’s something happening in the field behind the villa. Ghosts. Rising.’

  What should she do? Old friends coming from the south. A mystery rising from the north.

  ‘Stop that damned drumming!’ Guiwenneth screamed, and her voice made the distance. Ealdwulf appeared, ashen in the moonlight, shambling, terrified by the hounds, which merely stared at him.

  The torch bearers had stopped beyond the villa’s gates. What to do?

  ‘Something in the field. Come with me!’

  The old man ran with Guiwenneth, through the villa, out into the gardens, to the low wall which separated the enclosure from the field and the wild wood beyond. White, and gently rising, the field was host to figures struggling into the early evening. They came, all silver, some bright, some dark, some on horses, some dragging carts, some burdened with packs of supplies; an army, surfacing from the underworld.

  Tall riders struggled up through the snow. Horse breath misted. Riders looked around. The whole field was filled with men-at-arms, all shivering, shouting, laughing. Flames flared as some went towards the wood, others towards the villa, most just huddling.

  The army seemed to be moving east, towards Serpent Pass, but there was confusion, clear confusion.

  A rider came through the churned snow, a heavy-set man wearing furs and leathers, his hair piled on his head and bound with two copper rings. He was young, though hard of feature. But his smile was easy. Two others followed him.

  ‘I didn’t expect winter,’ he said

  ‘Winter happens,’ Guiwenneth replied. ‘And too often in this place to get comfort from it.’

  The young man looked to the east, standing in the stirrups of his horse. Then, looking back across the wall, he said, ‘If I asked you for food for this rabble?’

  ‘We have enough food for only twice the rabble you see standing before you. That’s ten at most. We have enough for a few days; fire for a few days more. I’d offer hospitality to a band of twenty, but so many?’

  ‘I understand. Believe me. I understand very well. I’ve lost count of how many we are. Several hundred for sure. We move through strange realms. We move through w
orlds defined by time. We have, I have to tell you, seen very strange sights.’

  ‘Good sights? Bad sights?’

  ‘A lot of both, my shadow lady.’

  ‘Delights?’

  ‘Oh yes. But to surface in winter? That’s no pleasure.’

  ‘Some love winter, some don’t.’

  ‘Summer is a feast. Winter?’

  ‘A beast. I know. Our beasts are dead, all but a few. I will gladly give you food and drink for a few of you. I can’t do more than that. Unless you take it by force.’

  The young man smiled, dipped his head. ‘Lady, the man who commands this Legion would scour land for the last blade of grass. But he’s old now. We’re still confined to our movement through the world, sinking, surfacing, fighting in wars that we don’t understand. There is something about us that is beyond our comprehension. But that is what we are. Legion.’

  ‘Lost.’

  ‘I suspect so. But when I referred to “rabble”,’ he added brightly, ‘I meant just my own small group of companions.’

  ‘A friend of mine,’ said Guiwenneth, ‘makes good beer. A barrel is at your disposal.’

  ‘Accepted gladly. I don’t suppose . . .’

  ‘A little food?’

  ‘Enough for a few. If you can spare it.’

  Guiwenneth looked at Rianna. ‘A ham. Fetch a ham.’

  The woman gave a look of surprise and scurried away. ‘How do you feed your Legion?’ Guiwenneth asked.

  ‘It’s hard. We didn’t expect to surface in winter. But something, something beyond my understanding, sustains most of them.’

  As he waited for the gift, the young man beyond the wall looked down at Guiwenneth, leaning on his horse’s neck, half aware of the rise and fall of the Legion behind him as they surfaced and descended.

  ‘I’m not going to ask your name,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t give it.’

  He grinned. ‘And I’m not going to give you mine.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask it, though perhaps I already know it.’

  He laughed. ‘Once your hair was as bright as copper, gleaming. I can tell that.’