Avilion (Mythago Wood 7)

by Robert Holdstock

  ‘Soon your hair will be grey, bright in the moon.’

  ‘That’s true. But not yet. Not until the bull turns and charges.’

  ‘I think I understand. I’m not sure.’

  The ham came, and Flint and two women from the river carried a barrel of Egwearda’s ale. The young man stepped down from his horse and leaned over the wall, taking the ham first and then, with the help of his two companions, the barrel.

  They rode away. He looked back, raising a hand in respect. ‘It’s the old song,’ he called. ‘When you’re young, the bull pounds the dirt, but at a distance. Later, the bull and you are equals. Then, later still, the young bull is charging at you. What once was easy is now a challenge. As I said, it’s the old song. And when you find the music, you’ll find the words! I can’t remember the poet who wrote it, but he was right. And what keeps us alive, beyond our time, is keeping that old bull at bay.’

  ‘I’ll find the music,’ Guiwenneth called back against the noise of the rising Legion. ‘And I’ll keep the old bull at bay.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  ‘Are we threatened?’ she shouted.

  The young man’s voice was faint. ‘Not now. Not this time. We’re in the wrong place.’

  The earth shuddered again, throwing Guiwenneth off balance. The wall against which she stood cracked, bricks fell. The villa itself twisted. The whole land seemed to distort. And in that moment, this strange army of disparate and moonlit men surged down into the snow, drowned by the earth - carts, horses, fires, all of it, all of them, moving away.

  Rianna was tugging at Guiwenneth’s arm, the look on her face one of panic. ‘Strange men at the gates. I can’t understand what they’re saying, except that they keep saying your name.’

  Guiwenneth consoled the older woman, though she herself was shaking.

  She returned to where the Jaguth were waiting and beckoned them in. They waded through the snow and their hounds stood up, stretched and yawned, moving back as the men came forward in their heavy clothing. Five. Only five. Where were the other four? They were so heavily bearded, so lank-haired, so grimed with travel that they all looked the same, but one said, ‘You’ve aged well.’

  ‘Thank you. Magidion?’

  ‘I’m Magidion.’

  Guiwenneth cried out, ‘I didn’t recognise you! But I’d recognise that voice!’ And she ran to him and tried to embrace him; the hounds growled. Her arms wouldn’t reach around the broad body and bulky clothing of the man, so she tugged his beard. The others laughed at the action.

  ‘Come into the villa. There’s a fire there, and food.’

  Magidion shook his head. The five crouched down in the snow, working the torches into the hard earth so that they were a semicircle of figures, eerily illuminated by the tar flames. They seemed exhausted, sad. Guiwenneth went to them and sat within the half circle, but not before she had signalled to Rianna for broth and bread. The old woman was certainly terrified of these tall, ragged apparitions, but she did as she was told and scurried back to the villa. After a while of silence, Rianna returned with a wide bowl of stew. She placed it on the ground. For a woman normally so resolute in the charge of adversity, she was strangely worried. She had brought two large heavy loaves as well, and Guiwenneth broke them with her hands, passing the chunks to her friends, who scooped the fragments of meat and vegetable from the bowl, ate quietly, and at last relaxed.

  ‘Have you come from imarn uklyss?’

  ‘From the valley? Yes. An army was ahead of us, but it seems to have passed you by.’

  ‘I saw it. Legion. They seemed lost.’

  ‘They’re not lost,’ Magidion said, licking his fingers. ‘They just don’t know where they’re going. We came to warn you of the danger, but you are indeed Peredur’s daughter. They moved around you and left you standing. Sometimes,’ he added, with what Guiwenneth just discerned as a smile below the huge moustache, in the middle of the beard, ‘Sometimes I wonder why we bother.’

  ‘Bother with what?’

  ‘Watching over you. As Peredur instructed us.’

  ‘If you’ve been watching over me for the last few years, I haven’t noticed much watching.’

  ‘Then you were looking in the wrong direction.’

  She smiled. Then she said, ‘I’ve been happy, you know. Not always. Not recently. I have two children. I have a man in my life that loves me and has stayed in this place, this wood heart, because he knows I can’t leave it. He gave up his world for me.’

  ‘A good man. I remember him. But he’s not enough, not strong enough, to hold you now. Not enough to protect you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Legion passed you by. We saw it. We were too slow in the following. We should have been here first. But it passed you by. You were lucky this time.’

  His words echoed the parting words of the young rider.

  Guiwenneth scooped up snow, made a ball and tossed it at the man. It shattered on his head. ‘I’m glad to see you.’

  He shook the ice from his ragged hair. ‘This has been a long walk. We’re glad to find you in good spirit.’

  ‘Better now that you’ve come. But tell me what has happened. Peredur, my grandfather, died on the wing. I know that much.’

  ‘Shot down, carrying you,’ said Magidion.

  ‘But the others? I can’t make you out through the whiskers and hoods. Who remains here?’

  One of the Jaguth rose to his feet. ‘I am Amri’och. This is Cunus. This Orien. And here is Oswry.’

  ‘And the others . . .’

  She stood and looked at them, her heart racing as she remembered how young they had been when she had been in their charge, and how they had been transformed into creatures as wild as the wildwood itself. ‘You’ve been halved in numbers since I saw you last.’

  ‘The Jagad is taking us back,’ said Magidion. ‘It was the agreement we made with her for holding you safe as a child.’

  ‘I know. But why have you come?’

  ‘To take you with us, if you wish. To protect you from what lies at the heart of Legion.’

  ‘Your time here is done,’ said Amri’och.

  ‘My time is done?’ Guiwenneth shook her head emphatically. ‘I don’t think so. What time I have left, I need to spend it here.’

  Even as she spoke the words she felt their falsity.

  Bread was thrown into the empty bowl. The Jaguth rose to their feet, shaking snow from their clothing. Magidion looked forlorn.

  ‘The choice is yours. Whichever of us is left will watch for you.’

  There was no anger in his voice, though Guiwenneth heard disappointment. She stood up and reached out for him. When he entered her shallow embrace, he smelled strongly of earth.

  ‘I must go my own way,’ she said.

  ‘You are that man’s daughter.’

  ‘And his granddaughter lives here now.’

  She added: ‘When Peredur was shot down, when he dropped me, you were the one who caught me. Would that be right?’

  ‘Lady, we all caught you as you fell. It’s not the order that matters, it’s the saving. The Jagad is taking us back, one by one. But as long as one of us is left . . .’

  ‘If I fall, there will be one to catch me.’

  He bowed his head in agreement. ‘Perhaps this wasn’t such a wasted journey after all.’

  ‘Just to see you has given me courage. Please stay longer.’

  But Magidion raised his hand, declining the invitation. He drew his torch from the snow.

  ‘Then goodnight.’

  None of the Jaguth responded except with a nod of their heads.

  They turned. The hounds rose, yawned, shivered, shook the snow from their hides, looked mournfully at the empty bowl of broth but quickly turned to the gate, leaping through the drifts, leading their masters back into the winter wilderness.

  The Crossing Place

  We held and held until we broke, and in the breaking we found Avilion.

  For
a while Guiwenneth sat and stared at the torches as they dimmed with distance. She cried a little, then Ealdwulf stopped the drumming. The sudden loss of sounds startled her. She stood. The old man came towards her, his face flushed with effort and fatigue. ‘I need to rest. I hope they heard the drums.’

  ‘I’m sure they did. Thank you. Use my room, it’s warm.’

  He entered the villa.

  What had she been thinking of? Why had she sent her protectors away? Her time here was done: she’d known it for several winters without really thinking about it.

  Guiwenneth sighed. She walked into the back garden, went to the low wall where she could see the churned field, where the army had surfaced and descended. And for reasons that she didn’t understand but which seemed completely natural, she called for the young rider. She felt very calm.

  The snow parted, the earth parted, he came up, his horse struggling, finding its balance. He was attentive to the animal, no eyes for Guiwenneth until horse and rider had made the hard ground. He shifted his shield onto his back, reached down and stroked the broad cheeks of his mount. Behind him his shield companions surfaced, one of them leading a bridled, harnessed, saddled mare, bringing her forward to the wall, leaving her there before retiring.

  The young warrior said, ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d call, but I waited.’

  ‘I’m glad you waited. I wasn’t sure if I would call.’

  ‘I shan’t give you my name,’ he said.

  ‘I shan’t give you mine.’

  ‘Not yet, at least.’

  Guiwenneth clambered over the wall and hoisted herself onto the ice-cold saddle, holding the horse’s mane, reassuring her. A fur-lined cloak was thrown to her by one of the companions and she hauled it around her shoulders, securing it at the neck with the heavy bronze clasp.

  The young rider asked, ‘Are you sure? Are you sure you want to come?’

  ‘No. Not at all. But for some reason it feels right.’

  ‘You have a husband, children.’ It was a statement, not a question. He knew who she was, then.

  She stared at the villa for a moment, then slumped across the horse’s withers, crying softly. ‘I know. I know. I belonged with them for a long while. Now I don’t know where I belong.’

  ‘There is an answer to be found. I’ll help you find it. Be strong. Hold your ground.’

  Hold your ground?

  ‘Who are you?’ Guiwenneth whispered, and he answered, ‘I’ve already told you: that I’ll not tell you. But I’ll tell you this. It’s a song I know, though I’ll not sing it. My singing voice is terrible. And it’s a terrible tune.’

  His companions made a low sound, almost like a muttered cheer.

  ‘But I like the words, and I like them partly because I don’t understand them, not all of them. Shall I speak the song to you before you freeze to death?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, do.’

  One of his shield men leaned so far back in his saddle, groaning, that he fell from his horse. The young rider watched him for a moment, then turned back to Guiwenneth.

  ‘Since I’m not permitted to indulge in story or song by those who claim to protect me, let me say just this . . .’

  He reached out his hand; she took it. His gaze was inquisitive and uncertain and pleasant. He said, ‘It’s as if I’ve met a ghost; and know at once I know her.’

  Guiwenneth shivered but laughed. ‘Well, strangely, I feel the same.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I could ask the same of you.’

  He let go of her hand and stared across the winter hills. ‘This is my world. Isn’t it? I feel that it is, and yet . . . I’m not sure.’

  ‘It’s mine too,’ Guiwenneth responded. ‘And yet - I’m not sure either.’

  ‘Then we’ve met where, at what? A hinterland?’

  She looked at the villa, at the moonlit ridges of the hills, at the dark road to the valley, to imarn uklyss. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘A crossing place. A place of meeting. And of parting.’

  He stared at her, curious, before smiling; he glanced round at his companions, then back at the woman. ‘Ghost - will you come with me?’

  ‘Will you keep me safe?’

  ‘In Legion? I wouldn’t volunteer that promise! My best is all I can promise; and the strong shields of my men here. And your own courage.’

  Guiwenneth sighed. ‘I wonder if I’m dead.’

  ‘I can’t answer that. You look “quick” enough to me. So now decide,’ he said in a formal tone. ‘Shall I step aside? Or hold you?’

  Guiwenneth now reached out her own hand, which was quickly taken. The horses were feeling the cold, the stillness. Riding was needed. Warmth.

  ‘That’s from your song,’ she said, and he agreed. ‘Hold me,’ she went on. ‘You say you’ve met a ghost. I feel the same. I’m not sure if you’re from my own world of dreams, or you from mine.’

  ‘Who is the ghost - who the host?’ he responded with amused understanding.

  His companions rode up, restless. Each acknowledged Guiwenneth politely again, but frowned at the young rider.

  One of them said wearily, ‘We have to go. We know you like words. You’re better than the two of us put together in just about everything; when it comes to words. But for the moment, for all our sakes, stop the mead-hall romancing!’

  ‘And we’ll never catch up unless we go now,’ said the other.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. One of you ride at the front, one stay at the rear.’ He looked at Guiwenneth. ‘Until we’re settled, perhaps you should ride ahead of me.’

  Snow began to fall again, though lightly. A torch flared and circled in the grounds of the villa, though Guiwenneth couldn’t see who was waving it. She started to sing, a song she had always loved. The Song of the Islands of the Lost.

  The four made their formation and found their way back into the earth.

  Parting

  During that same night, Ealdwulf and Egwearda died. Yssobel, Steven and Hurthig rode back the next day to find Egwearda on her knees in the snow, face pressed hard into the ground, as if grieving, as if to freeze her tears.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ Yssobel whispered.

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s not good.’

  Jack was elsewhere, but Yssobel was certain that her brother had also heard the summoning of the drums and was finding his way home.

  She dismounted, took the horses and led them to the stables. Steven went to the Saxon woman. He put his arms around her, to raise her up. He imagined she was in pain.

  ‘Egwearda ...’

  The woman didn’t move. She was cold and hard, like rock. He sighed, then lifted her from the snow and carried her to the villa. Yssobel came running, shedding her cloak, a quick glance telling her father that she had understood the situation.

  ‘Find your mother,’ Steven said.

  Yssobel went to Guiwenneth’s room and it was there that she found Ealdwulf. He was lying on the bed, quiet, cold. Now she understood the reason for Egwearda’s grieving death. She knelt beside him for a moment, then realised with a moment’s profound shock that something was wrong beyond the death of the Saxons. Nothing was missing from the room itself; but the room had begun to turn grey: surfaces and walls were shedding a light ash.

  It was Rianna who brought the news, arms crossed, face distraught as she stood in the doorway. Yssobel rose slowly to her feet, face darkening as she saw the look in the old woman’s eyes.

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘She went with them,’ Rianna said softly, on the verge of tears. ‘I watched the whole thing. A young rider and his companions; out on the hill. We gave them food and drink as they passed, just enough for a few. But they came back later, during the night. They took her with them.’

  ‘They took her with them? Where were they going? Do you know?’

  ‘I don’t know. How can I know?’ The woman was crying. ‘Downwards. Into the earth. They seemed to melt into the earth. Riding east, towards Serpent Pass.
I saw the whole thing. She was unhappy, I could tell that; but she was not taken against her will. She didn’t struggle. It was almost as if she wanted to go.’

  Yssobel was silent. She touched the cold, calm face of the dead man. Inside, she too was feeling cold and dead. What have I done? There was a long silence as she thought about what to do. Then to Rianna:

  ‘I dropped my cloak in the snow. Fetch it, please.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to my quarters.’

  Yssobel covered the body of the old man, looked around at her mother’s private room, once a warm place where she had told stories, combed hair, made clothes, cried whilst awake, cried whilst asleep. All, now, becoming dust. Yssobel walked about the chamber, searching. She found something of importance and folded it, tucking it inside her heavy clothing. Then she went out into the frost, walked round to the wall at the back of the villa and stared at the hill. It was churned up and rough, as if a battle had been fought there. Among the trees on the ridge, a few torches glowed, the ever-watching Iaelven.

  She shouted at them. Then she shouted at the night sky, at the stars she could glimpse. Then she screamed and struck the wall with her fists until she felt them bruised.

  ‘What have I done? What have I done? Gwin! Mother! Come back, come back.’

  Tears of anger flooded her face. The red side of her was in a fury, but at herself. The red side felt guilt. Argument was remembered. Her mother’s anxious anger that her daughter might be summoning Christian from the deep. Her own unwillingness to accept anything other than a sad and needful nature in the resurrected man.

  Her mother had ‘gone willingly’. Or had she? She had taken nothing, no winter clothing, no personal items, no supplies. She had just gone.

  Yssobel slumped against the wall, head between her outstretched arms.

  ‘We must not lose you. We must not lose you.’

  After a while, she returned to her own rooms, her anger gone, a strange pain inside her still insistent.

  When Steven found her, she was slumped on her arms on her table, painted and unpainted parchments scattered on the floor, swept there with indifference, only the image of Peredur in place; and her hand was on the painting. Her hair was a veil across a woman who was clearly weeping softly.