Avilion (Mythago Wood 7)

by Robert Holdstock

  Standing on the saturated bank, feet buried in the mud surge, Arthur waited, breathing shallowly; and Bydavere, trusted Bydavere, waited equally calmly.

  The reeds were suddenly disturbed. With a double birth cry, the waters were broken and two women surged into the air, rising suddenly and spectacularly, their bodies draped with black cloaks, their hair spraying widely as they shook their heads. One was young and one was older. Waist deep among the reeds, they met each other’s gaze and laughed, then turned their look on Arthur.

  They walked through the reeds, stepping ashore, the lake draining from them, the brightness in their eyes and smiles extending as their gazes embraced both the men who waited for them.

  The younger woman winked at Bydavere who whispered, ‘By Brigga! I’m in love. Quite suddenly!’

  ‘Easy,’ Arthur warned, and the lake nymphs laughed again.

  The older woman, so sure in her gaze, so certain in her posture as she lifted her cloak and squeezed the lake from its fabric, said to Arthur, ‘Do we seem lovely to you?’

  ‘Yes. Of course. Yes.’

  ‘And yet you know we are carrion eaters. You saw us as ravens, now you see us as women. Which are we? How do you see us?’

  Arthur thought quickly. ‘As ravens, terrifying. As women, beautiful. As woman-ravens, terrifyingly beautiful. I know why you’re here.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘You came for me before. You took the wrong person.’

  ‘Then who are we?’

  ‘Two of the three who will take me to Avilion.’

  ‘And in Avilion?’

  Arthur took a deep breath, holding his chest where Morthdred’s spear stroke was still hurting but had not yet taken his life. ‘I will go to Avilion. The island of Avilion. In Avilion my wounds will be healed.’

  ‘Will they indeed?’

  The woman had pulled back her hair, wringing out the water, watching Arthur all the time. There was a hawk’s look in her eyes, no beauty now, sharp and bone-drawn. She said, ‘I am Narine. This is Uzana. We are two of the three. Where is the third?’

  Confused, Arthur thought hard. Bydavere was frowning. Uzana had turned her youthful, mischievous smile to a grim look, and was also appraising Arthur.

  Narine repeated the question. ‘Where is the third?’

  In a dream vision, when he had come of age, and had listened to the words of older men who had been able to see beyond his own world, and had listened to the words of women who had communicated with past and future, Arthur had been told - and had spent his life believing - that on his death three women from the isle of Avilion would come for him, and take him, and heal him. He had never questioned the nature of that healing. He had assumed that he would live again, but beyond the human realm.

  As if she could hear his memories, Narine said, ‘You have dreamt the dream of kings. You never questioned the consequences of that dream; nor the dilemma of the dream; nor the life that lies beyond the dream.’

  There was power in her gaze; it was as hard and sharp as a sword. But Arthur would have nothing to do with her statement.

  ‘You talk in riddles. I’ll have nothing to do with that sort of talk. The consequences of my dream? Only that I’m dead. The life that lies beyond it? The life I find when I get there.’

  ‘What makes you think that you’re going there?’

  Narine came up to Arthur, took his long hair in her hands and tugged it, pulling his face back, playing with him. Her hands were weapons, manipulating the king. As she twisted him this way and that, her gaze following her movements - Arthur remained calm - she whispered, ‘The dilemma?’

  ‘That,’ Arthur agreed, ‘is what I do not know.’

  ‘The third?’ Narine asked.

  ‘Again: I do not know.’

  Narine kissed him. Her breath smelled of carrion but he didn’t recoil. She kissed him for a second time, her gaze holding his own, and this time her breath had the perfume of flowers.

  She said, ‘Uzana is the bright road that begins. I am the quiet grove where it ends. Between us is the stealer. The third one always steals, then steals away.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Her name is Yssobel,’ Uzana murmured, with a frown. ‘I liked her.’

  Arthur responded at once. ‘I’ve seen her in my waking hours. I see her from the corner of my eye. She has hair the colour of copper, and a face of pale beauty. Is that this Yssobel?’

  ‘She is everything you dreamed at dawn. And she stole your death.’

  ‘I know.’

  He released himself from Narine’s grip and walked to the lake’s edge, looking up at the rise of the island, the green of the forest. He threw off his cloak and stepped among the reeds, wading into the lake until it was deep enough that he could submerge. He held his breath for as long as possible, his hands in the mud. When life called for it, he emerged, gasping for the scented air, shaking the water from his hair.

  Arthur returned to the crows, cloaked himself again and crouched to feel the stolen armour. Looking up, he asked Narine, ‘What are my choices?’

  Although Uzana giggled, Narine looked pained. Behind her, Arthur’s companions were standing in a line, armed and nervous, watching events unfold. Narine took her own damp robe and lifted it, brushing at his body, drying him. ‘A difficult question. Why did you immerse yourself in the lake?’

  ‘Practice,’ he said with scarcely a thought. But there was humour in his eyes. ‘At taking the plunge. Which I imagine is what I’m about to do. What are my choices?’

  ‘Same answer. A difficult question.’

  ‘I shall give you my answer in an instant. Give me the options.’

  Narine smiled. Grey-green eyes held him hard. ‘You can stay here, alive. Why not? Life has been returned to you. You are still a handsome man. You will live a long life, but at the end of it you will not be remembered. You will be a king covered in earth, lost among all the other forgotten kings, bone white below the chalk mound, below the grass, one more shallow shape in the land. If you choose to come with us to Avilion, to walk into the yew forest, to find the third of us - the stealer of death - then you must take back your death by taking her life.’

  ‘And the consequence of that?’

  ‘To be remembered. To be remembered well.’

  Arthur glanced at Bydavere. ‘Do I go alone? Or may I take a shield-man? This man.’

  ‘Alone, of course,’ Narine said.

  Without taking his gaze from Bydavere, Arthur said, ‘That saddens me. We were born four years apart, but we have fought side by side, we have suffered the same bleak winters, we have each lied to protect the other; we are brothers.’

  ‘Shadows in the mist,’ Narine said, and Arthur agreed.

  ‘You have my answer.’

  ‘Which is?’

  He looked at Avilion, at the loom of the island. ‘To be remembered.’

  ‘A man in every way.’ Narine laughed. ‘But that is what we are tasked for. We don’t just gather the dead, Uzana and I. We gather memory. We gather eternity. You’ll need to dress.’

  Arthur collected the armour. Without a further look at his men he returned to the lake, flung the metal and leather into the barge and hauled himself onto the deck. The boatmen rose from their sleep. The beautiful crows took their form again and settled on the prow, wings spread to catch the breeze, watching as Avilion was approached, finally flying up and seeking among the narrow paths for Arthur’s best route through the tangle of the trees.

  As the barge slipped onto the water, Arthur looked back at his brother. Bydavere reached behind his back and drew the sword that he had kept. He raised it high. The sun caught the iron.

  ‘Use it well!’ Arthur shouted.

  ‘I have every intention of doing so!’ Bydavere called back. ‘I will slice through the mist. I will make shadows in your name! Though in another land.’

  Field of Tartan

  Jack was walking in fear of the Iaelven. He could not understand their click-whistle language, but it
was clear they were discussing him, and their options. The boy was subdued. Perhaps the very fact that Won’t Tell had ceased to be a nuisance to them had made them question the point of this expedition.

  Silver ran ahead of them as they progressed, then hid in the rocks or the woods, darting out to make brief contact as the party moved at a swift pace down the pass, through imarn uklyss. The Amurngoth hardly ever paused, and the stench they exuded was sometimes overpowering. They walked as a group, two abreast at the front, two a long way behind them watching the flanks, two behind Jack and Won’t Tell, slender spears and bows held ready. And talking all the time. When Silver came back into the ranks they listened to her eagerly, though they never seemed satisfied with what she reported.

  They slaughtered as they moved. Muurngoth blood stained their clothes. Muurngoth flesh was threaded on thin branches and the hafts of their weapons, for later use in eating. They had cut thick slices of liver and haunch for Jack and the human boy, but Won’t Tell was growing weaker because of his resistance to this frugal, brutal fare.

  Now they are standing at the stone, the marker of Peredur. The death stone. He sees the rune snakes, the marks within the pattern, the life within the coil.

  Silver reached and touched: ‘These are stories,’ she said. ‘These are a man’s life.’

  ‘They are. They are my grandfather’s life. And this is where Yssobel found her way to Avilion.’

  The Iaelven formed a circle, gazing at the monolith. They too seemed overawed, fascinated. The boy crouched against the face that could be seen from the valley, the edge that looked towards the villa. Silver walked dreamily around the stone, her slender fingers tracing a line through the enigmatic marks that shaped the story of Peredur.

  It was night, and she gleamed. She was bright frost in darkness, and yet the air was warm.

  The Iaelven chattered. Silver waved a finger: don’t worry. ‘Nothing of importance,’ she whispered.

  When the sun came, the shadow came, and the path was shown.

  Silver danced in the dawn, a simple movement, arms outstretched, her voice a thin song. Won’t Tell laughed as he watched her, but when she dragged him from his sitting position and made him dance he complied. The Iaelven regarded this calmly and without comment. They weren’t curious. In their own tradition, dancing was not strange.

  Silver came to Jack and whispered, ‘I can’t go much further. But this is the crossing place. This is hinterland. Do you understand me?’

  ‘The region between regions.’

  ‘I can go so far and no further. But I would like to go a little further. The track is open. The Amurngoth will take you so far and then abandon you. They are afraid of Avilion.’

  ‘They agreed to take me.’

  ‘To get rid of the boy. Without a name he is useless to them.’

  ‘Their time is past.’

  ‘They know it. They don’t accept it. But only their time at the edge. There are more lands to explore than you can imagine.’

  ‘And they will steal, of course. They will take life.’

  Silver cocked her head as if she were watching a child. ‘Jack. Jack. It’s what they do. It’s Iaelven. It’s what they do. Why do you question it?’

  ‘Because I don’t understand it.’

  ‘Jack: I don’t understand you! What did you find at the edge? An answer?’

  He looked at her, dazzled by the moon-bright glow of skin and hair and eye and smile. This was a beautiful woman, and she was from a time long past. ‘I saw a strange world.’

  ‘You didn’t understand it.’

  ‘I saw life, reflection of life. I saw stone and loss, anger and gentleness; I found hospitality.’

  ‘Did you find Caylen Reeve?’

  The question startled Jack. Silver’s look was cunning, searching. ‘Well, did you?’

  ‘Yes. I met him. How do you know of him?’

  ‘Because I know of him.’ She turned away, then danced again around the monolith. ‘I can’t see how he looks, your Peredur! But he lived well, and lives well now.’

  The sun had shown the way. The Amurngoth were restless. Won’t Tell had eaten and was looking gloomy. He was very smelly. They needed water: a lake. The tallest of the Iaelven was waiting where the stone’s shadow cut its path into the trees. Whatever the chatter sound it emitted, it was clear that they were now ready to move on.

  Silver came with them as far as the lake. She disappeared like mist once they’d arrived there, though not before a whispered word to Jack. ‘Courage.’

  Before that they had passed the field of tartan.

  How Jack knew it was hard to say, but he knew that Yssobel had passed this way before. It wasn’t her scent, or message, or any trace of her: just knowing. And in knowing, he came close to her; and in coming close to her he could feel her anguish.

  There had been a battle somewhere here, a dreadful force of arms. There was no blood smell, but the trees were silent with the watching crows.

  The track was old. Silver whispered: ‘I smell water.’

  It was Won’t Tell who came scampering down a high bank, cut with briar and bruised, eyes wide. ‘Skeletons!’ he cried. ‘Hundreds of skeletons.’

  The Iaelven led the way, pushing back the underbrush as they climbed, until they all emerged onto the low hill.

  This battle had occurred a long time ago.

  Banners of all colours had become entangled with the dead. Bone white, the fallen revelled and remained in tartan. The wind made a restless performance of the tattered cloth. A spirit dance, woven in the breeze. Colour and movement in a field of silence.

  The Iaelven gathered trophies, mainly skulls. Silver stood in the shadows, arms crossed, mournful. Jack circled the hill before walking to its centre, gathering the strips of kilt and shirt and banner, tucking them into his belt. Yssobel’s presence was everywhere, as if she were watching even now. She had seen this field. She had been shocked by it.

  Sitting down among the bones, Jack rammed fingers into the earth. One of the Amurngoth noticed this and came towards him, breathing raggedly, curious, holding its trophies in the crook of its arm, but perplexed at Jack’s forlorn expression. The creature crouched and click-whistled.

  ‘If I knew what you were saying, I’d answer you. I think - I’m certain - that this is where a king met his end. Do you smell the lake?’

  Click-whistle.

  ‘The lake is where he crossed to Avilion. My father told me the story. Three black-robed queens in a beautiful barge. He went to the place where he would be healed.’

  Click-whistle. The cat’s eyes narrowed, the grim mouth pursed. The Amurngoth rose and departed.

  Jack watched it go. It walked to Silver and spoke briefly.

  She beckoned to him after a while. She would not leave the thin shelter of the brushwood that circled the hill.

  ‘I will have to leave you at the water’s edge,’ she said. ‘This is an old place. The Amurngoth will have to go under, but there is something about this valley that they don’t understand. They are prepared to take you under, but they are walking beyond their limits. They have asked me to ask you: if they have to abandon you, will you keep the boy? They have made a promise that nothing will be done to harm him, not now, nor if they go to the edge again.’

  Jack agreed. ‘How do I get back to the edge?’

  ‘The one you spoke to, the old Iaelven . . .’ Silver used her eyes to signal the creature she referred to, the mournful Amurngoth who stood among the bone ruins. ‘He will take you back. If you can find him again. He will be in the hill.’

  ‘Is he dying?’

  ‘Dying? He’s already dead. They all have time after death to create a time to be remembered. A story, if you like, in human language. He was the Iaelven who found you at the old house. At the edge. He would like to be remembered for that journey. It was his own change that was left behind. He would like him back.’

  Jack stayed silent. He risked a glance at the ageing creature. Was it possible to feel sa
dness and sympathy for such a being? He could still smell the sour stink of whatever it was that had flowed in the Change’s veins as Caylen Reeve had struck it in two.

  What should he say?

  Silver was touching his chin, her finger’s stroke as light as a breeze. ‘I’ll come with you when you go. I would like to see my land again.’

  ‘That land has changed.’

  ‘To you, perhaps. But nothing changes. Not if you know how to see it.’

  ‘And you wish to see Caylen Reeve.’ It was a rude and testing assumption, and Jack immediately regretted his words.

  There was the smallest of smiles on Silver’s lips, the quickest glance that said she knew that Jack knew.

  ‘Yes. How clever you are.’

  She was suddenly alarmed. One of the younger Amurngoth had appeared from the path. Its long, sinewy grip was painful as it grasped Jack’s shoulder. Click-whistle as it shook lake water from its hair. The stink was abominable. It looked at Silver as it spoke.

  ‘We have to go,’ she said. ‘There is something you must see.’

  The Iaelven gathered up their bones, threading ivy through the sockets, slinging them over their backs. Jack took Won’t Tell’s hand. Silver came behind. They walked the long track to where the lake was quiet and calm. There was no horizon, but the wood that bordered the sloping bank was a dense stand of yew trees, branches high, trunks thick, a grove so tightly packed that it seemed and looked as unnatural as it was.

  Other sparkles of steel gleamed and glinted from the rough wood as Silver weaved her way between them.

  Masks in the form of helmets; and in the helmets, sleeping faces.

  Silver played a child’s game, appearing and then disappearing as she darted between the trees. The Iaelven were not amused. They crouched, all eight of them, watching her antics. Two seemed more intent on the lake. Won’t Tell stood in front of one of the helmeted faces.

  ‘They’re dead. Not sleeping. They’re dead.’

  Silver heard the boy’s words and came running to Jack. ‘There has been a change here. He’s right. These are dead. But something, someone . . . I don’t know . . . I can only feel it. Someone has been taken. A death has been stolen for a life.’