If Britain fell, or if it rallied and discouraged raiding altogether, the barbarians would look to Armorica soon enough, and where would civilized men escape to then?
The thought that fellow countrymen—our own kinsmen!—were deserting our land discouraged Merlin. He did not like to see it, nor did I. But I understood and forgave them their fear, whereas Merlin felt betrayed.
“Do they think to escape the Darkness simply by crossing a little water?” he asked, eyeing the rude settlement sadly. “I tell you the truth, Pelleas: When the sun goes down, the light fails for everyone, and all men will curse the night as one.”
He sighed and shook his head slowly. “And there will be no bringing back the light once it has gone.”
So it was not altogether a pleasant journey for us. But upon arriving at the edge of the forest we encountered a small holding—not more than a handful of mud-daubed huts and a briar cattle enclosure. The people living there were kindly and eager for news of the wider world. When we asked after the Fair Folk settlement, they were pleased to tell us where and how to find it, and would have sent someone to conduct us there if we had allowed it. The Fair Folk, they said, were solitary and did not welcome strangers. Nevertheless, they possessed the knowledge of many extraordinary secrets and helped the settlement from time to time as need arose.
In all, we found Broceliande to be very like Celyddon, and the Fair Folk settlement almost identical to Custennin’s. The forest, dark and deep-grown, hid the settlement from the world as surely as any enchantment.
The holding was built of timber on the steep rock banks of a broad forest lake—as at Goddeu in Celyddon they had chosen to build near a secluded lake. The forest had not been entirely cleared; the dwellings and storehouses were scattered among the standing trees. This aided the illusion of secrecy, to be sure; but it also gave the place an air of brooding and somber silence.
“This is a cheerless place,” said Merlin when he saw it. We had followed the narrow pathway into the forest for a fair distance, and ridden up a slow rise, pausing on the crest to look down at the settlement below. There did not appear to be anyone about, nor signs that anyone marked our arrival. “Well, let us go and make ourselves known to them.”
We urged our horses forward slowly, watching the settlement for any sign of life as we came nearer.
Sitting our horses before the foremost dwelling—a timber hall with a high-pitched roof of thatch—we waited, and a feeling of eerie foreboding crept over us. Merlin, frowning now, gazed intently at the dwelling as if to discover what had happened to its inhabitants. For neither of us reckoned anyone alive in the whole place.
“They are not here,” said Merlin at length, and made to dismount. “Let us go inside and see if we may discover what has happened to them, or where they have gone.”
The hall smelled of decay. The rushes on the floor were spotted with mould, and webs hung from the beams and torch sconces. Platters of food stood on the board—untouched but by mice. The ashes on the hearth were cold and damp.
Clearly, no one had entered the hall for some time. And those last there had left it hurriedly.
“It will be the same elsewhere,” Merlin said. “They are gone from this place—and in great distress, I believe.”
“Let us search the other dwellings. Perhaps we will find something to tell us where they have gone, or when.”
So we set about inspecting the other dwellings in the settlement. Everywhere there were signs of a hasty departure: food prepared, but not eaten; hearthfires allowed to burn untended; useful objects and utensils gathered, then discarded in haphazard heaps. In one dwelling a rushlight had been lit and set on the board where it smoldered a long while, leaving a thin black scorch mark in the wood before guttering out. And in another, an earthen pot set on the hearth to warm had broken from the heat, and its stew spilled out to char in the flames.
“How strange,” I said. “It is as if they expected to leave, but did not know when. See?” I swept the near-empty dwelling with my open hand. “There are no weapons or clothing, no treasure or objects of value left behind. Yet, there are no signs of destruction or pillage—I do not think they were attacked.”
“Yet they were attacked,” replied Merlin, his eyes narrowed as he gazed around the interior of what surely must have been the lord’s chambers. A candle tree stood by the bed-place, the tapers wasted into lumps of hardened wax on the dusty floor. “But not by Saecsens or any of their kind.”
“Who then?”
He simply shook his head and said, “Let us go from here.” He turned and led the way outside. As we emerged from the dwelling, I caught a flash of motion at the edge of my vision. I looked, but there was nothing. A moment later, my master and I heard a splash in the nearby lake—as if someone had thrown in a very large rock.
Merlin stopped and glanced toward the lake. Without a word, we turned and walked past the horses and down a path to the lakeshore. The surface was smooth and untroubled, but at the water’s edge we saw the indentations in the coarse-pebbled shingle. Merlin knelt and pressed his palm into one of the marks. “These were made by many feet,” he said. The sorrow in his voice made it husky and thick.
I followed the tracks to the water’s edge where they disappeared.
“Why?” I asked, my voice a whisper. I strained to see below the lake surface, thinking, I suppose, to see the tangled bodies floating there.
“This is what I saw in the Seeing Bowl,” Merlin murmured. “And I have come too late.” He glanced sharply at me. “Why? As soon ask the wind—it knows far more than I.” He stood and looked long at the smooth, glimmering water, calm in the deep solitude of the forest.
“But I can tell you this,” Merlin said quietly, “the scent of death is in this place…It lingers…like the stench of rotting meat in the ground…like a killing fog over the fen. Death is here…”
All at once he squeezed his eyes tight and pressed his palms flat against his temples. His mouth opened in a tremendous cry of anguish. “AHHH!” Merlin’s voice echoed over the water and was swallowed by the close-grown forest round about.
I took him by the arm to steady him. He opened his eyes slowly, the bright golden gleam now darkened with pain and sorrow. “Morgian!” he uttered, his voice strangled with grief. “It was Morgian…”
He turned at once and began climbing back up the trail to the horses. I stood for a moment longer, gazing into the clear water. The lake, cold and deep and dark, revealed nothing. But as I made to move away, the glint of metal caught my eye and I glanced down at my feet. A small silver brooch lay on the shingle where it had fallen.
I picked it up and held it in my hand. A simple shell-shaped disc with a hole through which to gather the cloth, and a long silver pin to hold the garment. The ornament was bent—trodden on, I thought.
As I turned it over, I saw a tatter of bright blue cloth still firmly held by the pin. It came into my mind that the brooch had been wrenched from the garment by force; torn from the body of the person who had worn it, and thrown down to be trampled underfoot. I looked once more at the unruffled surface of the lake, and at the marks made by many feet on the shore. Cold dread stole over me where I stood.
I tucked the brooch under my belt and hurried up the track to where Merlin waited. I swung into the saddle and wheeled my horse onto the trail well ready to be gone from this melancholy place.
We started back at once, wending through the shadows and gloom in silence, sensing with every plodding step the dull horror of the deserted settlement and wondering what atrocity had been committed there.
I led the way along the path, and Broceliande became even more forbidding than when we had entered. Neither of us spoke; Merlin kept his own counsel, and when I looked behind me I saw him wrapped in his cloak although the air was warm.
* * *
We stopped beside a clear, dish-shaped pool to make our camp for the night. The pool lay in an airy, open glade within the forest which ringed the glade like a tall, dark wa
ll. A small stand of beech trees grew near the forest wall, and around the pool a few small willows and elder bushes.
I watered the animals, unsaddled and tethered them—allowing an extra length of rope so they could graze as widely as possible among the trees. Then I set about making camp. Merlin sat a little apart, watching absently, lost in thought.
As daylight began to fail, I walked the short distance to the beech copse to gather dead wood for our fire. I fetched a sizable load in no time, and began making my way back to the pool. Halfway between the copse and the pool I stopped—
What is that? I wondered, listening.
Was it the breeze in the grass and barren branches that made the slight singing sound? I continued on my way. But the sound grew louder as I approached the pool.
I saw her in the same instant that she saw me. A maid with golden hair, dressed all in green—mantle, shift, and shawl—and carrying a leather bucket in her hand. Her skin was lightly freckled, hinting at various labors in the sun. She was finely formed and graceful; her eyes were large and dark as polished jet. Her free hand went to her mouth, and she stifled a cry when she saw me.
“Peace, lady,” I told her. “You have nothing to fear.”
She lowered her hand, but still held the bucket as if to throw it at me. “Who are you?” Her voice was low, and rich as cream.
“I am a traveler,” I told her, “and the steward of a nobleman who waits for me at the pool.” I indicated the willows ahead.
She glanced at the bucket in her hand and, as if offering it to me as proof of her words, replied uncertainly, “I have come for water.”
“And you shall have it,” I said. I started once more toward the pool. She hesitated.
“Come, there is no harm.”
Reluctantly, she followed two paces behind me. We came to where Merlin waited, resting, his back against one of the willows. Merlin opened his eyes when we came near, saw the girl, and stood.
“She has come for water,” I explained, dropping the firewood to the ground.
“I give you good day, lady,” Merlin said by way of greeting. “You must live very near. Yet we have seen no settlements hereabouts.”
“Oh, there are none, my lord,” the maid replied. “My father and I—we live alone,” she turned to point vaguely behind her, “just there.”
“Perhaps we should go and pay our respects to your father,” Merlin said, “as it seems we are passing through his lands.”
The girl bit her lip, her brow furrowed in concern. I did not like to see her in such distress. I reached a hand toward her and touched her gently on the arm. Her flesh was warm and soft. “You need have no fear of us,” I told her. “We are honorable men.”
She smiled, and lowered her eyes. “I meant no disrespect, my lord. It is just that…my father has gone hunting and I am alone.” As she said this, she raised her head and looked directly into Merlin’s eyes.
“What is your name, girl?” he asked.
“Nimue, my lord,” she replied softly.
“Your father’s?”
“Lord Meleagant,” she answered hesitantly.
“Are you often left alone, Nimue?”
“Often enough. But never for long, my lord,” she added quickly. “Hunting is difficult in this place, and my father must range far for our meat.” She smiled, becoming more at ease. “Thus, I am often alone, but I do not mind. I have become accustomed to it.”
“Are you never afraid to be alone, Nimue?” said Merlin, speaking my thoughts precisely.
She tossed her golden locks. “How should I be afraid? No one comes here, and there are no wild beasts to beset me. My father is not long away; I am well cared for. This,” she indicated the land with an upraised palm, “is not like other places; there is never any trouble here.”
“Neither will we trouble you,” Merlin replied, turning away, “save for a night’s rest beside your pool.”
She held him with the silky insinuation of her voice. “Oh, but you need not sleep beside this pool, my lord—not as long as I have a roof to cover you, and a hearth to warm you. You are clearly a man of renown; it is beneath you to sleep on the cold ground.”
“Your offer is kind,” said Merlin. “But as your father is away, we would not think to intrude upon you.” He made to dismiss her, but again she challenged him.
“Whether my father is here or away, the hospitality of our house is mine to extend to whomever I will. And as I believe you to be upright men,” she glanced at me and smiled prettily, “I would deem it an honor for you to accept my humble offer”—her eyes sparkled with good humor—” and an offense if you do not.”
Strangely, the maid spoke like a woman of high birth: forthrightly, and with courtesy. I found myself admiring her and wondering how she came to be living in this wilderness.
Merlin laughed. “Never let it be said that we have given offense where it might be prevented.” He turned to me. “Pelleas, we will accompany this maid to her dwelling.”
I gathered up our few belongings and turned to the horses. “It is not far,” Nimue said. “The beasts will fare well here.”
“We can leave them,” Merlin told me.
“But—” I opened my mouth in protest.
“It will be well,” insisted Merlin. “Leave them.”
I did not like to leave them unattended, but as the house was nearby and there was no danger, I did as I was bade. Tucking our weapons under my arm, I fell into step behind Nimue as she led the way.
Indeed, the house was not far. I do not see how we could have missed coming upon it, for if we had ridden but a few dozen paces further we would have seen it. Perhaps the pool held our attention, or the willows obscured it…
It was a solid house, built all of stone. A small yard lay before it, clean and carefully tended. To one side was a sheep enclosure, but I saw no sheep within. Inside, the floor was flagged with stone, and the walls were limed. In all it was neat and well-cared-for. Clearly, Nimue and her father lived well and took pride in their small holding.
A fire was burning in the hearth, and there was meat on the spit: three good-sized fowl of some kind. A black pot of porridge bubbled next to the flames. A great table of the sort often found in a king’s hall occupied much of the single room. An enormous white ox-hide concealed an alcove next to the hearth which served as a bed place. Another white hide hung across the further part of the room.
Behind this, Nimue disappeared upon entering the house, only to emerge a moment later bearing a wineskin and silver cups on a tray of polished wood.
She poured the wine into the cups and, after dashing a few drops over the rim in honor of the household god, offered the first to Merlin. “The guest cup, my lord. Health and long life be yours.”
She waited until he drained his cup before offering the next to me. I raised the cup to my mouth, but as the ruby liquid touched my lips I was overwhelmed by the urge to sneeze. I sneezed once, violently, and then again.
When I regained my composure, I once more lifted the cup to my mouth—only to sneeze yet again. Nimue glanced at me furtively. Was it concern? Or was it fear I saw in her eyes?
Seeking to reassure her, I apologized, saying, “Wine sometimes has an unfortunate effect on me. Think no ill of it, but I will decline.” So saying, I replaced my cup on the board.
The evening passed pleasantly. We dined on the roast fowl and porridge, and talked of the affairs of the realm. Nimue was most interested in the news we brought, and asked many questions—questions which revealed a lively intellect and a wide knowledge of the world beyond her door. Certainly, we were not the first travelers to have sheltered beneath her father’s roof.
After we had eaten and talked, it came into my mind to return to the horses. I was still a little anxious for them, and considered that it would do no harm to see them settled for the night. I stood up to take my leave, and Nimue came to me. Taking my hands, she said, “Do not go, my lord. It is dark, and you might fall into the pool.”
�
�I can swim,” I replied with a laugh and stepped outside.
It was a clear night, the moon bright overhead. I could see my way with ease and began walking along the path. The pool shimmered in the moonlight, glowing like an earthbound star. The horses stood flank to flank, heads down. They whickered softly as I approached. I stroked their necks gently and spoke to them. Then I examined the tether ropes, satisfied myself that they were secure, and started back.
I suppose I must have lost direction in the moonlight, for after walking a fair way I did not reach the house.
It is possible to become lost in unfamiliar places, especially in the dark. Yet I had no difficulty finding my way back to the pool. Then, as I sought to retrace my steps to the house, I heard singing—the same lilting voice I had heard before encountering Nimue—though I could see no one.
I continued on and inexplicably returned to the pool a short time later. I struck off once more along the path—certain that it was the correct path and not some other, for I was more careful to mind my way. Nevertheless, I soon found myself lost amidst a growth of elder bushes. And again I heard the eerie singing. I called out, but there was no answer. I waited and called again. The singing stopped.
Turning my steps once more to the pool, I marked that it took longer to regain it this time. The way had become confused and altered subtly.
At last I reached the pool, approaching it now from a different direction. This puzzled me, but instead of starting off once more, I sat down for a moment to think it out clearly.
The house was nearby—not more than a few hundred paces from the pool in any event. It did not seem possible that I could walk and miss the place: the moon was high and bright, the way easily marked.
Yet, thrice I had lost my way. Drawing a deep breath, I set off once more, careful to keep the pool at my back, ignoring the path and trusting my own quickly diminishing sense of direction.
Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle Page 8