Voices of the Stars

by Rowena Whaling

  Gwyddion and I worked together, sending runners to find the most damaged ones – but only those whose Death was not inevitable.

  Other runners had already been sent from Arthur’s command post that were combing the field to find the mortally wounded ones. Their orders were to speak words of comfort to these, listen to their words, if any, and then to hasten their Deaths by humanely slitting their throats. As to the ones who might live, they were to be brought to the Healers in the camp.

  All the Healers worked for many hours, struggling against their own exhaustion and frailty. Gwyddion and I worked on into the Night by torchlight.

  When finally we were forced to rest, the scene and conditions of the encampment were thus: Many bonfires had been lit to try to ward off the Clutchers of Life and the cold. But with the fog, dampness had penetrated into everything, even where Firewood had been stacked and loosely covered. Where rain could not have wetted, the tendrils of Fog entered. There was no protection from the merciless damp. The Snow had ceased now, yet all the Firewood was wet and slow to catch and so each log popped, sputtered and smoked a great deal. The stinging, acrid smoke, which was everywhere, burned my eyes, my throat, and the back of my nose. I could not stop coughing and tearing. Gwyddion told me that he had experienced these same conditions on the Night before the first battle he had ever seen. Most people were coughing, which caused much pain to those who had been run through – or had a chunk cut off or out of their bodies. But there was nothing we could do for it. We needed the Fires for warmth and cauterizing.

  There were moments when I thought I could not go on because the fingers of my hands were so cold that I could barely feel them. This was bad, as there were many cuts to sew. But I did go on until slowly I realised that there were fewer Warriors crying out than had been. Had we mended so many? Or was it just that Death was dealing her silence. I realised that I was needed more now to “Sing the dying to Death” and to give the gift of Love and peace.

  “Gwyddion,” I said, “it is Time...”

  ”Yes, I know, Morgan. Go.”

  The first man whose bloody hand I held whispered his name to me.

  “I am Rhodri ab Llewellyn, from Rowen in Gwynedd. Please,” he coughed – a stream of blood coming down his chin from the corner of his mouth – “tell my wife, Enead, that I leave all I have to her and I Love her. Tell my daughter...” He coughed once more, grimaced, and his expression froze.

  “I will, Rhodri.”

  He wore a silver ring on his hand. I took it off to give to his wife. I would find her somehow. I felt his Spirit watching from above. I turned my eyes upward and repeated.

  “I promise Rhodri ab Llewellyn. Now let you rest easy and be joyful in the Summerlands.”

  I Hummed an ancient tune for a moment and then went to the next dying one.

  This man was of Clansmen blood and beliefs as well. His leg had been cut off at the thigh.

  There is a powerful river of blood that runs through that area of our bodies. The Healers had tried to stop the flow by burning it with hot irons, but it was too late and of no use... I wished that they had not tormented him further by doing so. I also knew it had been well meant. The river had slowed to a trickle, but he had lost too much blood not to die.

  I held his head in my lap, brushing the dirt from his face and caressing his hair with my hands. I saw the light of life yet clinging to him. No words passed between us. I sang his song of Death.

  “I Chant your song of Death

  Let it float upon the Air...

  Way high up to the Starry Night

  I sing it as a prayer...

  I sing it as a comfort

  I sing it soft and low

  I will sing ‘twixt twilight’s mystery

  And new Sun’s golden glow...

  I sing it with respect

  I sing it all in care

  To lead you to the Misty light,

  ‘til Loved ones meet you there...

  Until you loose the cord of life

  In this thing you can trust

  I will sing it on and on and on and on and on I must...

  I Chant your song of Death

  Let it rumble in the Earth

  Way down below the roots and rocks

  To celebrate your worth

  I sing it as a comfort

  I sing it soft and sweet

  I will sing twixt Daylight’s first Birds call

  And Sundown’s Lambs do bleat...

  I sing it with respect

  I sing it all in care

  I call your kin in the Fields of Green

  That they will meet you there...

  Until you let your Spirit go,

  In this you can believe

  I will sing it on and on and on until you leave...

  Until you loose the cord of life

  In this thing you can trust

  I will sing it on and on and on and on... I must...”

  He clung hard to life and so I sang the old song again and again. Finally his eyes caught mine in a look of wonder and recognition. Good... he understood. He smiled so faintly that I almost missed it. Then he inhaled and was gone.

  “Bless you, brave sir, and your Loved ones wherever they are...” I began to walk away, but then saw a strip of dyed cloth tied to his neck torque. Was it from his lover or wife? I hesitated, but then removed them and took them with me. I would journey to the upper worlds to ask the Spirits where to find his lady, to tell her he had died bravely and give to her this token he cherished, that she might wear them to keep him close.

  So on and on I worked until I realised that it was getting late. I knew that Arthur must know by then that I was here and that he would wait up for me upon this Night that he most needed rest. My heart needed to see him, too. I went to his pavilion.

  I opened the flap and entered. Gwyddion was there with him. His cut was clean, sewn, and bandaged of course, but he was lying down resting with dark circles beneath his eyes.

  “Bear,” I said in a soft voice. He kept his eyes closed but smiled.

  “So they could not keep you away? Still so stubborn a rule breaker, I see”

  “Me? I have always seen myself as a stanch traditionalist, an obedient...”

  “Oh, yes, yes – when it suits you. Even when we were children, Morgan, would you not bring me to your Woods to teach me the Latin and history and the ways of other peoples. Did you ever tell Igraine how you spent those Days?”

  “Well,” I said, “Not completely.

  “Are you angry with me for coming?”

  “Angry? No. I fear not for your doom, Morgan. Gwyddion will protect you, if even you need protecting by another. Oh, Morgan, let me hold you in my arms.”

  I went to him, knelt beside his pallet and lay my head upon his chest. He caressed my hair.

  “You know, now that your hair has so much silver mixed with the black, I think that it is more beautiful than ever.”

  I laughed.

  “No, I mean it. You will pass your forty eighth year-turn this year, no? And you are just as beautiful to me as when we had all those blissful Days in the Woods together, so long ago.”

  “Time has dulled your memory, Arthur. You were but a boy when I left for the Isle of Apples.”

  He grew serious.

  “Morgan, please, no more pretenses. I have always Loved you. I remember every moment we have shared. I have watched you grow and change in Spirit, strength, and body, and your beauty grows deeper and deeper in my eyes, as does my Love for you. You know that all of these years I have contrived every way of staying close to you. The first years of training I spent with Gwyddion were the longest Time I have ever gone without seeing you. So think what you will – as I know you will – but your beauty never fades, nor does my Love.”

  I sighed but had no retort.

  “Does it hurt much, Arthur?”

  “The cut?” he smiled… “No, not the cut.

  “Morgan, there is so much to say yet I have not the words. I have hear
d all the rumours. I know that Mordred’s heart and feelings toward me have been warped by Morganna. He believes all her despicable lies to be truth. Time has run out. Will I kill my only son? Could I?”

  “Is that rhetorical, Arthur, or do you seek Divination?”

  “No, no, Morgan. What will be, will be.”

  “I tire you Arthur. You must rest now. Gwyddion, have you a simple?’

  He shook his head yes.

  “Here, my dearest, drink this – be valiant and strong tomorrow.”

  “Never fear Morgan, I will meet you in your Dreams. Goodbye.”

  “No, no, never goodbye – only goodnight, Arthur” said I.

  I could not run from there fast enough, beyond his hearing, if he was not in fact already asleep. I fell to my knees in the Snow with my hands covering my eyes and face, as if to block out the world... and broke into deep sobbing.

  “It will never be goodbye, my Bear. Never.”

  Gwyddion found me thus. His long graceful hands were wrapped around my arms, pulling me from the frozen ground.

  “Come my sweet, you have need of a simple too – and a long rest as well...”

  Lucian

  The horns of awakening sounded on both sides of the perilous field. It was almost Dawn of the second Day. A clear, beautiful morn it would be.

  A clanging and a roar of bustling and talking filled the camp. Armour, weapons, and shields were being made ready.

  I was to command the left flank, which stood to the Northwest of the Vanguard.

  The Picti, who were more numerous than any could have guessed, were crowding my men out. They were ready for a fight. What a spectacle they made – their faces were painted blue with Woad and red with Madder. Black symbols covered their necks, backs, buttocks and faces. Seeing them standing there – so proud and naked, with matted hair standing straight up and out from their heads – reminded me of our last great battle against the Saxon, Jute, and Angle invaders. Our greatest campaign, our great victory – what a Day of glory that had been!

  Now I fear that the outcome of this Day will bring naught but sorrow.

  Rome, where I had grown up, was as if another life to me. Seventeen years old I had been when I came to these shores to participate in the great Games of Lleu.

  There had been my so-called battle with Arthur and then my absolute loyalty to him. How long ago was that? Arthur was not yet twenty at the Time of his crowning, so now he must be forty-two years. That would make me thirty-nine…

  I have only been back once to see my family in Rome. It was during the seventh and eighth years of peace. There had been a plague in Rome and almost everyone in my immediate family had died. Only my sister, who had been two years old when I left home was still there. Of course she did not know me, nor I her.

  I did see some of my Father’s and uncle’s military friends and even their sons, who had followed in their Fathers’ careers. One was a statesman of high degree. They all asked me to stay but I declined. The stories of Arthur – or was it Ambrosius? who could tell?... had even reached Rome. They all told me that I would be welcomed back at any Time to resume a career with them there. I thanked them, but I returned to Arthur.

  I must admit that there have been many Times during this long peace that I have found myself bored. I had always been used to discipline, training and battle, or at least competitions. A few Times I had thought about returning to Rome to take them at their word, but I did not. I could not.

  Now, as I await the call to the field I wonder if anyone – but perhaps Morganna Le Faye and her whelp, Mordred – would find pleasure in this. If Arthur falls then... no, I will not even think of that. “Gods above and below, may it not be so!” I spat on the ground.

  To be truthful – as I write this sitting astride my mount, waiting – I do this only for you, Morgan. You will find it if I am dead. Or I will give it to you when the Time is right – if I live.

  My true Love and loyalty for Arthur aside, everything I have done, I have done for you. I first desired and then Loved you from afar. Never would I speak of it. Did you know? If so, we are both good secret keepers.

  I know of the sad twist of the Fates that has befallen you and our beloved Arthur. I know of your undying Love and loyalty to him. I also once thought I caught a longing in your eyes for The Merlin – no? Now he is with Nimue. I wonder if ever you, or I, will share a Love like theirs with another.

  I am forever caught in a web of conflict. I dared never wish you could be mine, for the fulfillment of that wish would probably mean that Arthur had gone to his Ancestors. Perish that thought. I Love Arthur better than any other friend, brother, or Father. And yet, for this Love of him, I have never even spoken of my Love for you. There it is. I have given it voice.

  I give this to the boy helping me.

  “Go, boy. Should I fall, give this to Lady Morgan of the Isle of Apples. Put this in my quarters for now, where none but she will find it.”

  Morgan’s note

  I have inserted this here for the chronology of this being written, however I never saw it until two years after Lucian returned from his second visit to Rome, which was many years later.

  The Merlin

  Naught but sorrow...

  I now have the third Chronos. Owls do not live the span of a man. They have been so like each other that I have many Times thought that perhaps my old first companion, Chronos, had come back to me in new flesh each Time – and I do believe that this might be true. Had she not said that we would be together for the rest of our lives? Or else, perhaps I am a foolish old man, always wanting things to be the way I would have them.

  The way I would have them? Upon this cold, clear Dawn, awaiting this battle, nothing is the way I would have it. Nothing, that is, but for my heart, Nimue. And even that you, my Love, felt the need to be here on this saddest of Days, is not the way I would have it. But of course, I have known from the beginning that you are a woman of your own desires. I have given thanks for each moment that you have been with me. Never a one taken for granted.

  In this moment, frozen in Time, with bated breath, I await an outcome that can bring no joy – no matter which way it turns.

  Arthur is devastated. If he wins, it means he must kill his only son and perhaps his sister too, for neither of them would let it be made right. If he refuses to do what he must, he will either be dead, or disgraced and broken.

  I have read this in Arthur’s thoughts, over and over: “How has it come to this?”

  But never is there a satisfying answer. We thought we were doing the will of the Gods. Morgan believes the point of all that we have done, is that men remember The Dream. I hope that men remember to dream.

  Of a sudden there arose a dreadful din of yelling, drumming, horns blowing and Picti war pipes and then the whooshing sound of thousands of arrows.

  I could see clearly – with the Sight – two great thick walls of men, shaking their spears, beating their defiant swords against their shields and yelling curses toward their enemies. Then they began to run, like two great waves rolling ever closer to one another. With a shock of unbelievable impact, they clashed together. I saw men’s bodies fly into the Air from the force. Yard after yard they pushed the one ahead of them ever deeper into the fray of carnage. There was nothing else for them to do but to kill or be killed. It was so like the first battle I had seen, long and long ago...

  On and on it went, with the advantage seeming to shift first to one side, then the other, for hour upon hour – maiming, killing, crushing, then more maiming, killing, crushing... it was horrid.

  Then from Mordred’s side came the Horses and their riders. They were so impatient that they rode over their own men – beating living Humans into the ground by massive hoofs and muscular legs. Their wounded howled in agony and rage to be betrayed thusly – but Mordred’s Commanders continued to send up signals as more and more war Stallions stomped, tore and bit everything in their way.

  Arthur did not send his Horsemen into the battle. Ins
tead he ordered a daring counter-attack.

  “Ride around to the South! Attack from the side, where the ground is open!”

  Most of the melee then turned to the South and still raged on. But Mordred had spotted Arthur and his Guard – who always stood staunchly at Arthur’s side. He saw that they had dwindled by then to only eight.

  I watched as Mordred, with his core Guard, moved closer and closer to Arthur.

  Morgan and I fled through the Trees toward Arthur, staying always behind Mordred, lest his company see us.

  By then, it was well into the Day. A low Mist had risen again. It hovered close to the ground, in places only to the height of a man’s knees. It was a thing of such beauty in this hour of judgment and finality. Do the Gods mock us? – or do they remind us that all things, such as happenings, beginnings, and endings – when seen from Their greater view – are never as important or stupendous as they seem to us?

  Morgan

  We were running as quickly and quietly as we could behind the Tree line, toward what I knew would spell the final outcome of the Day. The Woods were growing thicker. Finally we came upon a clearing just ahead of us and to our left. If we hid here amidst the Trees, we would be able see everything clearly. So there we stopped.

  As the last rays of Sunlight were streaming into the clearing, shadows were descending between the branches overhead, to then be swallowed up by the knee high Mist. They cast a menacing look. Everything was quiet. Everything was wrong... wrong! Chaos! Even Great Nature seemed as though masked – turned inside out – just as were my breath and stomach. Was the God of Misrule holding court over this Day? Had I heard someone laughing... an evil laugh – a laugh of triumph? Morganna! It is so like you to have your seven directions covered – just in case.

  Oh – Arthur, my Bear, be strong and do what must be done.

  Suddenly intruding upon the silence was a rustling and a crunching. It was the sound of Horses approaching. They were coming toward the clearing, where we waited. But, we would not be captured – for Mordred’s band would encounter Arthur before coming upon us.