The Ages Of Merlin: The Mage Returns
Christina Duncan Stewart
Contents
The First Name
Welcome Back
It was only a short drive
Merlin Finds His Staff
Merlin on the deck of HMS Victory
Tuatha Dé Danann
Security Sees Him
MI5 Involved
Ross Goes Home
Merlin Located For The First Time
Merlin In Library
Security Goes To Merlin's house
Discussion With Daghdha
Security finds him again
Merlin Gets Angry
Security conference
A Hamadryad Teaches Merlin An Important Lesson
Merlin Attacked By Gang
Merlin Declares War
Merlin Releases The Staff
Security Finds Him In Cardif
Merlin Wins One
Cambridge
Arthur Is Found
Security In London
Staff Learns Tech
Merlin returns to Scotland
Introducing Arthur
Ross Creates A New Search
Staff Can't Quite Get The Hang
Attention Deficit
Memory Exercises
Staff Sends False Signals
Ross finds Merlin
Ross Going To Catch A Fairy
Staff Makes Tech Breakthrough
Lawrence and Arthur Fight
Ross comes to Aberdeen
Gwen Moves Into Area
Security Tracks Merlin
Merlin Talks to Ross
Ross talks to Smithers
Lawrence and Arthur Discuss Gwen
Merlin Meets With Scottish Fae
Ross's Decision
Merlin's Response
Merlin Ross Talk
Ross Gives Report
Merlin Decides He's Not Old
Conversation with Daghdha
Afterword
"The first name that this Island bore, before it was taken or settled: Myrddin's Precinct. And after it was taken and settled, the Island of Honey. After it was conquered by Prydein, son of Aedd the Great, it was called the Island of Prydein"
Trioedd Ynys Prydein (The Welsh Triology)
Ed and translation Rachel Bromwhich
University of Wales Press 1961
Welcome Back
The lake could've been a medium-sized one or even a small one, nobody really knew because it was never visited. Surrounded by high rolling hills that were almost, but not quite, small mountains, the lake had been ignored or forgotten by locals for the past 10 centuries.
Over the centuries, the water had been described in various shades of blue and even light green depending on the account and the person who'd told the tale. Because there were stories of the lake scattered here and there through the various scholarly journals, it couldn't have been called "undiscovered" but it clearly was undeveloped with no humans within 10 miles. The corporation that owned it and the land for several miles around it appeared happy to leave it that way, and even though it was regularly approached by developers, the land was never offered for sale.
The lake itself had been studied in the far distant past and various attempts at colonization and settlement around the lake had been attempted. All had failed for one reason or another.
On this day, even though there was a small breeze blowing from the west the water was crystal-clear and dead calm without a ripple. That smoothness reflected a clear blue sky although an artist might have asked why there were slights shades of grey mixed in with the blue.
The songs of birds echoed out across the water and an observant person could see them flitting in amongst the massive oak trees surrounding the lake on all sides. There was nobody living who could explain why these oaks had survived when every other similar-sized oak in the country had been cut and used for ship's timbers by one king or other. There was still a very narrow and poorly defined pathway, wide enough for a very small car, leading through the hills. The edges of the path were right up against the trees so a normal-sized car would dent its doors if it tried to scrape a way through. Its centre was high with local weeds flowering profusely in the midsummer heat. It was only the two wagon-wheel tracks that remained open and grassed as if there were regular traffic on them.
This day dawned like thousands before it. The sun rose on a cloudless blue sky and the early, morning light filtered through the trees along the easterly edges of the lake. The smooth water bounced the light back to the trees reflecting their images and stretching them out across the lake. All had been silent with the exception of the bird songs, right to this very moment.
A few alarm songs were sung by the birds as the sound of a small laboring engine reverberated through the still morning air. Slowly, it became louder and louder as the tiny sports car, driving directly into the rising sun, approached the lake. As the sun rose over the tops of the trees to fully light the lake and begin its journey across the sky, the small green and black sports car bumped down the last shallow rise of the ancient track to stop ten yards away from the water.
The car, with two newly battered fenders, stopped with a squeal of the brakes, a shudder and forward lurch, as if the key had been turned off without disengaging the transmission first. A window rolled down; you could tell it was being hand-cranked because of the stuttering starting and stopping as the window glass disappeared into the door.
A large bony hand appeared, and this was immediately followed by a white shirt cuff with large monogrammed studs and a grey-suited arm. The bony hand patted the door as it reached and searched for the door handle. Finding it, the hand twisted to unlatch the door, and the arm snaked back inside. The door flew open, hit the limit of its hinges with a bang and started bouncing back. The old, but firm hand of the driver stopped it in its tracks.
The hand then reached up, turned back towards its owner and grasped the roof of the car in an attempt to aid the driver to swivel and get out of the car. First one shiny, black shoe with grey-socked foot appeared. This was followed by a leg encased in light-grey wool pants. Very shortly afterwards, the second shoe and leg appeared as the driver completed the twist to get himself out of the small car. As soon as both legs were on the ground, the driver's left hand grasped the door jamb. The right hand could be seen on the door and suddenly a head appeared. You could tell the driver was not built for getting out of such a small machine as he grunted and strained to pull himself up and out of the car.
Slowly but surely the rest of his body followed the head. Within a few seconds he stood bent over, breathing deeply, panting with the exertion of getting himself out of the small car. An observer, looking at his height might have wondered how he folded himself into it in the first place. His 6'6" tall frame was certainly far too large for such a small machine and his broad shoulders would have barely fit into the seat. He straightened. Stretched out his arms to loosen up his back, felt his neck crack with the sudden release of tension and space. He smiled. It felt so good to be released from the coffin-sized car.
It appeared to be an old man with a slight bald patch on the top of his head, but his age was not easily determined. His formerly red hair had given ground to grey and this was neatly trimmed at his shirt collar. In contrast to the grey hair, his sparkling green eyes danced with energy and were topped by generous eyebrows. And a closely trimmed grey beard softened the sharp jutting angles of his cheekbones and nose and hid any wrinkles.
He was not a handsome man, but women found him striking and unforgettable while he was with them. Afterwards of course, they forgot him quickly.
He glanced at the forest in front of him, took a step sideways, closed the door of the car with
a small slam. He knew it wouldn't stay shut unless he did.
And then, only then did he turn to look at the lake. He saw the crystal blue water with its green tint. He swivelled his head from left to right and took in the surrounding forests. He smiled softly as he walked toward the water's edge.
Raising his palm to the lake, he slid his arm sideways as if wiping off a window. He watched his hand move from one side of the lake right across to the other. And wipe off the view he did.
After the stroke, a small island appeared in the very centre of the lake. In his current condition he couldn't tell how large it was, couldn't tell how far away it was, and it was only through his remembered training that he understood and could see the island itself.
His voice when he spoke was deep, round, and full. It was a voice that would brook no interference, would cow the weak, and impress the strong. At the moment however he spoke in a soft, respectful way and his only words were, "My Lady."
Anyone listening might have thought they heard several chickadees singing in unison but the old, grey man, bowed his head and said "Thank you, my Lady."
A bluebird, flashing its blue foliage and red breast, flitted in front of him and then around behind him to land on the roof of the car. He turned to it, nodded his head, and smiled.
"My Lady?" he asked.
The bird trilled a sharp song.
"Indeed, my Lady. I have lived among men, I have created a rather large fortune, and yes, I own this land and have protected you and yours over the years. And yes, I know you know this and are grateful. Yes, my Lady of the Lake, I am still yours. After all these years, after all these trials, you still own my soul. And I have been your humble and willing servant for the past one thousand years," he said. He didn't take his eyes from those of the bird.
The bird was silent, but cocked its head and its black eyes seemed to grow larger as they drilled into the eyes of the old man.
It trilled again with a series of rising notes. The old man nodded in return and then hung his head. The bird flew away in silence.
The old man turned to the island and watched as a small unpainted, wooden rowing dory detached itself and silently floated towards him. There were no oars, indeed nobody was rowing, but the boat moved of its own accord across the water separating them.
The dory ground itself a few inches up on the sandy shore with a sandpaper-on-wood sound right in front of the old man. On its front seat a small crystal goblet was half filled with a deep purple liquid. The old man reached into the boat, picked up the glass swirled it in front of his nose, and smiled. He hadn't had wine like this for a very, very long time. Examining the clear crystal, he noted the rising sun sparkling off its facets only to disappear into the dark purple wine. A soft smile threatened to appear on his broad mouth as the sun, moving through the glass, created rainbows on the hand holding the crystal. He laughed out loud as a chorus of bird song broke the silence inviting him to take a drink.
He raised the crystal to his lips and slowly tipped the glass so the barest hint of the wine entered his mouth. He knew what would happen and smiled inwardly as the liquid crept over his tongue and down his throat. He stopped drinking, held the wine up to the sun and laughed with relief and pleasure as the warmth of the liquid spread through his body. He laughed even louder as all of his senses expanded, all of his powers returned, and he could feel the weight of the world leaving his shoulders. Laughing uproariously, he held the glass up to the island in salute and then in one large gulp, drank the rest.
As he did, the chorus of birds was matched by the deep tolling from an unseen bell tower on the island. He had not heard those bells in centuries, indeed ages. He knew the lady had blessed him, had released and forgiven him, and had just given her permission to reenter and participate in the world.
"Make no mistake about it my old friend," said the dark, angelic voice in his head. "You are mine, you are still mine, and will always be mine. You are mine to do with as I wish, but as long as you stay within the limits of our agreement, you will have full rein to do as you please."
The old man smiled. It was a gentle smile of acceptance, and not the uproarious smile and laughter of a good joke.
Something clicked in his brain, and worked itself down through every pore in his body, every cell of his being, and deep into whatever soul he had left. "I am indeed, my Lady," he said. "I am indeed."
Restored, Merlin turned back to the world.
It was only a short drive
Merlin hated freeways with a passion so he took the winding country roads for as long as he could. He knew teleporting himself would have been easy with his regained powers but he was loath to leave his car behind. He loved the 1933 Morgan F4, with its sleek racing shape and traditional green and black paint of the British sporting car. It had been the most magical thing he'd possessed this century; he'd even driven it around Britain and Ireland one summer.
With his careful driving, and knowing his mechanic would be very displeased with him, he'd driven the machine thousands of miles without it receiving as much as a single scratch on the paint until that trip up to the Lady's lake. Merlin wasn't looking forward to the scathing lecture that was sure to come his way as soon as that very talented man saw the damage to both fenders.
In the thousand years before this day, he had travelled the world avoiding wars, pestilence and famine as much as possible. It wasn't cowardice but a rather healthy sense of his own limited powers and the incredible leap in human technology. He had learned much, and slowly but surely had gathered everything he needed to help him survive in this modern age.
Merlin seldom travelled beyond the borders of London, and the car was often a hindrance rather than a help given the density of the traffic. But like many great love affairs, he never thought of leaving the car behind. A push of a button on his key chain - he did so enjoy some modern conveniences - and the wrought iron gates swung back to admit the small car into the fenced-in garage area. The tiny rumblings of the engine as he pulled into the garage in his London house became almost too loud for comfort. The garage was surely an extravagance in such as crowded city.
Had a neighbour been watching as Merlin walked up the short red brick pathway from the driveway to the lawn, that person would've noted a bounce, and a new life in every one of the nineteen short steps it took to go from that driveway gate to the front door.
The windows of his garage and house were not barred, nor were there any security decals on the dark green door or windows. The neighbours never noticed this and took the lack of crime and casual strangers on the street for granted. Members of the fae community could, of course, see Merlin's protective spells.
Merlin made a show of pulling out his keys, inserting them into the lock, twisting the tumblers and then turning the large black–painted ornate door knob. Had anyone else tried to open either of the two doors to the house by inserting something into the lock, they might have been discovered wandering confusedly up in the Scottish highlands. Or, they might not have be found at all. Merlin wasn't fussy about such things.
There was no squeak or squeal as the thick oak door swung open. The only sound an observant person would hear was the snick of the door closing behind Merlin. Had anybody else been home, they would have heard only the click of his grey leather boots on the uncarpeted, shiny oak floors.
The antique hat-rack just inside the door contained a collection of formerly fashionable hats from the last 50 years. Its brightly polished, brass hooks provided the space for Merlin's favourite hats, and he flipped his current favourite, a tweed Ascot cap, onto the top hook.
Merlin turned to his left and entered the library. The two windows were protected by richly toned purple drapes. Not a shred of light could enter when Merlin pulled them shut. He did so, from across the room, with a single flick of his wrist. The outer walls of the room had been heavily insulated and soundproofed between the brick and the dark brown wood panelling. The panelling used to reside in another of Merlin's homes in the 1840s when th
e house was originally constructed. But the panelling had been moved just before Merlin sold that house - he moved regularly - and now shone with a deep lustre behind the paintings and other bric-a-brac that was shelved in the numerous late Victorian furniture pieces taking up much of the wall space.
Merlin smiled as he walked into the room, gently pushed the door shut behind him and when he heard the door click shut, his grin grew larger. He turned to the door and waved a hand, almost negligently, to make the Victorian door panelling disappear. A solid wood door made of two giant planks appeared in its place. It was a solid door without ornamentation or openings of any kind. Even the door knob disappeared, leaving no obvious way to get out of, or on the other side, to enter the room. Turning to the wall just to the right of the door, Merlin made a gesture as if he was sweeping the wall from top to bottom. With a final flick of the wrist through the dust motes, the Victorian bric-a-brac furniture and the old paintings disappeared.
Had anyone been watching, they would not have believed that Merlin's grin could possibly get any larger. They would have been wrong. With almost frenetic energy, Merlin extended his arms to their full reach, his hands opened wide and he spun on one foot completely around the room once, and then twice. He stopped as the furniture began to dissolve and shimmer.
The Mage Returns Page 1