Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn (Mythago Wood)

by Robert Holdstock

  He frowned and went on: ‘He could not go back to Lord Pwyll, though Pwyll, being the man he was, would not have hesitated to help. But the consequence to Kylhuk would have been too great in terms of the repayment of the favour. This has all to do with courtesy and honour, as I believe you are beginning to understand in your simple way …’

  Gwvr waited for my response, but I kept a prudent silence.

  He frowned and went on: ‘There was only one other stronghold with sufficient brawn to supply Kylhuk’s needs – an army of swordsmen and spearmen, charioteers and horsemen, runners and jumpers, madmen and brutes, strategists and the far-sighted, those who are sound in hearing and vision, smellers, sniffers and frighteners of the shadows that occupy this great wilderness, these old trees, these timeless woodlands, and that stronghold was held by …’

  I leaned towards him questioningly, as courteous as I could possibly be.

  He leaned towards me and concluded: ‘Uther.’

  ‘Uther?’

  ‘Uther!’

  ‘Arthur’s father?’

  ‘The father of all the Arthurs, Uther Pendragon himself.’

  ‘Arthur’s father Uther. No other?’

  ‘No other. Only Uther.’

  ‘Uther and his little Arthurs.’

  ‘Yes. Are you mocking me?’

  ‘I’m joking with you. It’s not the same thing.’

  But unfortunately, to Gwyr it was.

  As he stood, he struck. When I had regained consciousness it was to the awareness that my lower incisors were loose and my mouth was full of blood. Gwyr stood over me, looking anxious. Kylhuk was by me, holding out a hand, which I accepted. I was hauled to my feet.

  Looking around, I saw that the whole of the host, that feasting host, those who had come to say goodbye to Manandoun, were gathered around in a ring. I took silent comfort from Gwyr’s earlier information that at the funeral of a friend blood should never be drawn in any personal combat. I resolved not to let Kylhuk see that blood was flowing from my battered gums. It might be the worse for. Gwyr.

  ‘Are you ready for the fight?’ asked Kylhuk, and I mumbled: ‘What fight is that?’

  ‘Gwyr has counted it against himself that he struck you in anger, and therefore you may have the first blow.’

  I mumbled through my swelling jaw something further to the effect that I was sorry, very very sorry for any insult that might have been perpetrated on a man whom I needed in my life like air itself, and that I was simply under the influence of strong drink and not in control of the lively horse called ‘impatience’ that was currently bucking below me.

  Kylhuk laughed.

  ‘Well said, Christian! Well said indeed … Whatever it was you said,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘But I have decided that Manandoun would want to see this fight, and would want to see a head taken, since the two men who have decided to fight during his long ride to the Island he has chosen are such fascinating men, and each with different skills and different tricks …’

  He looked at me as he said this. A very pointed comment!

  ‘… tricks which can be tested one against the other.’

  ‘Please don’t ask me to fight,’ I said, bitterly regretting my earlier conversation with Gwyr, or had it been Manandoun, about my combat skills.

  Kylhuk ignored me. ‘I am relaxing all rules of courtesy and hospitality in order for you to have this fight which I know is important to you both, though I have changed my mind and will not allow a head to be taken, nor more blood to be drawn.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But I expect this matter to be resolved, and at the end of it I will expect to have two friends who are still friends with each other, even though their bones may be broken and parts of their body twisted into strange shapes.’

  ‘By Olwen’s hands, I hope that does not happen,’ I said, and Kylhuk went white, giving me a look that combined alarm with unwelcome memory. He stepped up close to me.

  ‘That is a good thing you say,’ he said softly. ‘I had forgotten about Olwen’s hands in the excitement of seeing the two of you about to fight.’

  ‘So the fight is off?’ I asked hopefully.

  Gwyr was waiting impatiently, stripped naked, all weaponry out of reach. ‘Hurry,’ he said to Kylhuk. ‘I want to get at him.’

  ‘That is a discourtesy you do to me, asking me to hurry!’

  Gwyr fell silent.

  Kylhuk scratched at his beard as he stared at me, then said, even as he was thinking, ‘Why are you still wearing your weapons? Take them off.’

  I unbuckled the belt which held my sword. But the further look he gave me made me realise that I was expected to strip naked, and I performed this task with as much indifference as I could muster, which was not very much at all, since Guiwenneth and Issabeau were watching from the outer circle.

  Guiwenneth smiled at me. Issabeau whispered in her ear. Guiwenneth giggled. I felt humiliated and let my stomach relax. Guiwenneth watched me with affection.

  ‘There,’ said Kylhuk. ‘We are ready for the fight. But I still have to decide on the rules.’

  I spoke quickly. ‘Knowing Manandoun for the short time that I did, I would nevertheless say that he would want us to fight only with our feet.’

  Kylhuk stared at me in bemusement. Gwyr frowned.

  Kylhuk asked, ‘Why would he want to see that?’

  I thought very fast. Very fast indeed. ‘Because of Cryfcad his mare, his great horse, that great beast that is now in my charge and which has taken to me gladly though with sadness, but will allow me to ride her. She is a feisty creature, and her kick can disable four men, one behind the other. I’m sure Manandoun would want us to use only our feet. It would amuse him.’

  ‘I am impressed with this explanation,’ Kylhuk said, and it was Gwyr’s turn to look shocked.

  ‘Go to it,’ said the Overlord, and slapped his hands together.

  Gwyr approached me. I summoned all my strength, remembered the training in unarmed combat I had been given in ’42, and kicked out to disable him when he was least expecting it. He went down, stunned, conscious, and in pain.

  ‘I have never seen that done before,’ Kylhuk said thoughtfully as he stared down at Gwyr’s groaning figure.

  ‘It is not often that I have done it,’ I said in triumph.

  I should more truthfully have said, ‘I’ve never seen it done before either. And I’ve certainly never done it, except to a straw-filled dummy.’

  So that was that, and Gwyr and I became friends again, and everything went on as if nothing had happened, except that afterwards he nicknamed me ‘Quick Foot’.

  I would never come to a full understanding of the way nicknames were used in Legion, those at least among Kylhuk’s Celtic gathering. For example:

  ‘Carried a King’, ‘Fought in the River’ and ‘Survived Gae Bolga’ had all done these things.

  ‘Leapt over Trees’, ‘Savaged the Boar’ and ‘Makes Women Sing’ were named because the opposite of these events had happened.

  ‘Face of Stone’ was a woman who never looked at the man who had let her down. ‘Face of Shadow’ was the man who had slighted her. ‘Face of Moon’ was a woman who aspired to greater things. ‘Face of Horn’ was a woman who had passed her prime but would not accept the fact. ‘Spear of Horn’ was a man with the same reluctance to accept his age, the reference to Horn being to ‘the truth that is there for all to see’.

  (Horn for truth, Ivory for the lie. If I noted these things at the time, I let them pass.)

  Everyone had many nicknames and by those nicknames you could summarise an individual. If you were a man you were named by your children, by your wife, by your parents and your wife’s parents. Also, by your closest friends, by the chief, by the chief’s first wife and by the druid and any tale-teller who might be passing.

  Respect for an individual was often reflected in the balance of courteous nicknames (‘Reliable Spear’) to discourteous ones (‘Stabs his own Foot’). If the balance wa
s unfavourable, a combat could be arranged to win back an unfavourable nickname and convert it to a favourable one. No nickname ever stuck for long and new ones were adopted constantly. Everyone seemed to be attuned to these changes. Indeed, to refer to someone with a nickname that was out of date was an insult.

  After death, one nickname would linger and would come to reflect the person, and around this particular name the ‘bright story’ would be told, which is to say, the story of that person’s life. ‘Wise Counsel’ for Manandoun, for example. (‘Thinner than the Willow’ for Kylhuk, I wondered idly?)

  But in short, it was best to think of people as they had been named at birth, although this might cause problems, since if a nickname was used in a conversation about a third party, and you failed to recognise that party, the man or woman who was doing the talking could accuse you of discourtesy.

  In short, the less said about anything the better …

  A few minutes after our brief combat, however, Gwyr had relaxed again, taken a drink, and concluded his summary of the formation of Kylhuk’s Legion.

  During the years following that first encounter with Uspathadyn, Kylhuk completed all but a few of the tasks set him by Olwen’s father, but had turned Legion into an industry, accumulating and accomplishing the quests set to others, and exacting a very heavy fee, though always inheriting the consequences. Bedivyr had died because of one such screeching Nemesis. Legion itself had become dedicated to one thing: finding the Long Person; opening the gate to the rescue.

  Early on, he had negotiated with Uther, and Uther had supplied horsemen, charioteers and runners, all well-trained and eager for adventure, and they had been a great help in the beginning. But none of Uther’s knights could resist undertaking their own quests whenever the opportunity arose, and more often than not the tragic or sinister consequences of their actions came to burden Kylhuk.

  Uther’s sons – the Three Arthurs, all of them identical – were particularly difficult to handle. They had been born fighting, Gwyr told me, little fists in faces, tiny feet in mouths, and it had taken nearly a week for the midwife to separate them and stop the squabble.

  Because Uther had prepared only one name for his son, only one child ever spoke at any one time. They passed a small sword between them to indicate whose turn it was to voice his opinions on this or that, usually a criticism of their father, or an expression of love for their father’s sorceress, whom he had housed in a cave below the hill.

  As they grew up, the Three Arthurs rode together to the far north and south of the land and gained a reputation for great actions, great battles and great conquests. They joined Kylhuk’s legion for a few years, then one day had a fierce argument with each other and rode off in different directions. But because they were identical, their exploits far and wide became known as the exploits of one man only, and Arthur’s name became associated with magical appearances and the ability to ride the length and breadth of Albion in a single night.

  Kylhuk had been glad to see the back of them. I was fascinated, but Gwyr was unforthcoming on any further details of this unlikely legend.

  By this time, Legion was already like a great whale, nosing through the ocean of the forest, sensing for danger ahead, trailing behind it a great wake of angry ghosts, the armoured dead and vengeful sanctuary spirits. Riding among these, using the powers and insights of this spectral army, came Eletherion and his brothers, Kyrdu’s sons, seeking the entrance to the Underworld, to begin a course of plunder and outrage in the caverns of the earth that, according to legend, would change the earth itself.

  Kylhuk tried to shake them off, but the Sons of Kyrdu were jackals that had found the scent of prey. They stalked around the marching garrison, attacking at the front, sometimes at the flanks, sometimes from the rear, killing and taunting, holding on to Kylhuk with teeth of bronze, because they had seen that Kylhuk’s quest contained the answer to their own!

  The Underworld.

  Gwyr used the word deliberately where usually he expressed the idea as ‘Otherworld’. He seemed unhappy at the thought of a place so dark and dismal. Being Celtic, his own afterlife would be an Island of his choice, endless hunting, endless pleasure, occasional returns to the world of his birth to check on the behaviour of his family. The gloomy, ghastly caverns of Hades were not at all to his liking, and he was confident that only Greeks, Romans and the Sons of Mil would go there.

  I intuited that Gwyr had little time for Greeks, Romans and the Sons of Mil.

  But his mention of the Underworld brought back thoughts of my mother, and the strange thing Elidyr had said to me. Her death, was not as you think. I imagined her there, in the dark caverns, walking with the other shades.

  And if the rescue of Mabon could unlock the gate to that Underworld … what chance, I wondered, of bringing her out of the Valley of the Crow, back into the light?

  Was that what Gwyr had meant by ‘the rescue of Mabon will have wonderful consequences for each man and woman who participates’?

  Despite everything I had come to know, I chose to believe so.

  Fifteen

  I had paid my visit to Kylhuk, and my respects to Manandoun. I had fought with a man whom I regarded as a friend, and agreed to a fast that I had no intention of keeping. I had become almost anxious at the realisation that my father was abroad in this wilderness, and melancholy at memories of my mother, dizzy with the thought that she might be rescued. I might then understand what she had said that day, when she had dangled from the tree.

  At the moment, however, I wanted to be with Guiwenneth. I needed her. I imagined she needed me as well.

  I found her by the narrow river, half a mile from the centre of the camp where the bank was clear. Her feet were in the water and she was leaning back on her elbows, staring at the night sky. Issabeau sat beside her, idly flicking at the stream with her carved staff.

  As I approached, Someone rose from where he had been keeping watch and greeted me softly, clearly glad to see me.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Doleful,’ he replied. ‘But the tears have dried. And she will be pleased to see you.’

  ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Hungry. But not for Kylhuk’s plums and water.’

  ‘There’s meat as well.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. But I’m not interested in eating, now.’

  He stood before me, an imposing figure, gently stroking the luxuriant moustaches that framed his mouth. He was a man scarcely a year older than myself, and yet he carried weight and authority, from the steady gaze to the careful thinking, to the immaculate state of his garb, a simple kilt of green cloth, an open deerskin shirt, skin boots tied around his calves with twisted gut … and his sword, slung from a shoulder belt, its ivory pommel carved to suggest a bull.

  He said, ‘You have paid a great respect to a man you didn’t know.’

  ‘Manandoun? I did as I was told to do.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you showed a great respect.’

  ‘I feel as if I know him without ever having known him. I have a picture of him. It would have been nice to have known him better.’

  Someone touched his right hand to his breast, a gesture of affirmation. But he said, ‘Manandoun’s death is terrible for us all. He was close to Kylhuk. He kept Kylhuk in hand. Without Manandoun, Legion is in a greater peril than even Issabeau suspects.’

  He had pronounced ‘peril’ in the way of the Frenchwoman. And it was clear that Manandoun had been a controlling influence on Kylhuk, and that Someone – perhaps everyone – now feared Kylhuk’s behaviour.

  ‘Shall we send for Elidyr? The guide?’

  ‘Elidyr has gone,’ the Celt said bluntly.

  ‘Do I have a role in this?’

  ‘We all have a role in this.’

  Someone looked away, frowning. ‘If I could just find my name – if I could just understand the taunting words of the hawk. It sits on my chest while I sleep, pecking at me, and its demands are strange and frightening. Until I understand them
…’

  Again, that bright, hard stare at me. ‘Until then, Christian – you must stay close to Gwyr, and think hard after everything you say or do with Kylhuk.’

  ‘He is a fat man …’ I began to say, but the Celt cut across me.

  ‘He is no such thing. Neither fat, nor a man, in my opinion. He has played a fine game with you. Don’t always believe what your eyes tell you. And if I could explain more then I would, but like you, I am a stranger in this Legion. But enough of that for the moment. Come and be with Guiwenneth. She’s been waiting for you.’

  We walked to the river. Issabeau looked up at me, then at the Celt. She reached out a hand and Someone took it, helping her stand. Issabeau looked at him and smiled, then said to me, ‘Bonzoire,’ before she and Someone walked away.

  I sat down on the damp grass by Guiwenneth and put my arm around her. She nestled into me and sighed.

  ‘So that is that,’ she said, presumably meaning the departure of Manandoun.

  ‘So that is that,’ I agreed.

  ‘I know he will be happy. But I shall miss him so much.’

  ‘I know you will. But as you once held on to him, please now hold on to me. I am not wise, and I am not old, and my beard itches rather than grows, and his horse tolerates me, but only just. But I love you, I know it. It’s a true feeling, Guiwenneth. Whatever happens to you, I want to be a part of it.’

  She turned to me, put a hand on my cheek and urged me closer. Her lips on mine were sweet and soft. The kiss deepened. She sighed suddenly and lay back, her grip becoming firmer on my hair.

  I sighed too. For all my inexperience, my hands found her, and my mouth found her, and nothing happened that needed to be thought about; everything that happened by that river happened as if we had known it all our lives.

  A splash, a laugh, and the sound of ‘Hoosh!’ made us sit up suddenly, drawing Guiwenneth’s cloak around our naked bodies to block the chill of the night air.

  ‘What was that? I asked.

  She looked at me delightedly. There was mischief in that glance.

  ‘Quickly,’ she said, and pulled on her clothes, shaking the grass from her long, auburn hair. Silencing my chatter with a finger to my lips, she led the way along the river, to where the stream widened and formed a pool.