Merlin's Last Days

by Greg Krehbiel

  “But there was nothing sexual between you?” she asked.

  “Of course it was sexual,” Merrell said, almost laughing. “I’m male and she’s female. We took baths together and washed each other. But we never had intercourse, if that’s what you mean. Even she had some limits. But she taught me a lot about my own body.”

  “And hers?”

  “And hers, yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Merrell, but that gives me the creeps.” Marianne was certain something very dark had happened, more than Merrell was saying, or that he even knew. She looked in his eyes and imagined the darkness lying there in wait, somewhere in the back of Merrell’s mind.

  “Whatever,” he said, and took another sip of wine. “Have you decided on dessert? I’m in the mood for something warm and chocolate.”

  Part Two

  “We are close to their territory now, my lord,” Gawain said to Arthur as the king, Merlin and ten of his knights came out of a patch of pine into a field of clover. The men dismounted and let their horses feed while they discussed their next move.

  “This field is too small for a battle,” Lancelot said, looking about. “Are there any better places nearby?”

  “We can’t always choose where we fight,” Tristan said.

  “No,” Lancelot agreed, “but I’d rather fight on a field with some space for cavalry.”

  “There’s a much larger field to the south,” Gawain said. “And it’s close to a druid holy place, I’ve been told.”

  They all looked at Merlin, who was trimming his nails with a pocket knife. He looked up and nodded.

  “I would be best not to fight there,” Merlin said.

  “Why? Is it protected by magic?” Tristan asked jokingly.

  “No. The ground is too soft for Lancelot and his cavalry,” Merlin said, and a few of the knights chuckled.

  “My lord,” Gawain said, “a woman approaches.”

  Lancelot was just preparing to relieve himself, but at a harsh glance from Arthur he straightened up.

  “See what she wants, Gawain,” Arthur said. “And give her food and drink.”

  Gawain met the woman a stone’s throw from where Arthur and his knights were resting. They could tell from the animated conversation that the woman was vexed about something.

  “I believe Gawain may need me, Arthur,” Merlin said, and he walked over to where the two were talking.

  “Thank you, Merlin,” Gawain said when the wizard arrived. The woman fell on the ground in terror when she heard the wizard’s name, but when Merlin spoke to her gently in a strange language that Gawain didn’t understand, she looked up hopefully, then through sobs she poured out her concerns.

  “Would you ask Arthur to join us?” Merlin said to Gawain, and continued speaking with the woman.

  When the king arrived, the woman prostrated herself on the ground.

  “You have nothing to fear from me,” Arthur said kindly. “Please, have something to eat and tell me what you seek.”

  She sat back on her feet and looked up at the king. Gawain offered her some bread and a flagon of wine. She took a mouthful, then started to pour out her complaint all over again. Merlin gave a running translation as Arthur’s eyes grew steely and his jaw clenched in anger.

  “Is she talking about one of those accursed wicker torches the druids use?” Arthur asked Merlin.

  “Yes,” the wizard explained. “A wicker idol in the form of a man, filled with living men. Then they set it ablaze as a sacrifice. Her husband and her son were taken this morning, and the sacrifice is to occur at moonrise.”

  “How far?” Arthur asked, then he signaled to Gawain to have the men mount up.

  “A couple miles northwest. But Arthur, I thought this was a scouting mission. If you disturb this sacrifice, you’ll alert the druids that you’re in this area, and they’ll start gathering their forces for war.”

  “So be it,” Arthur said. “I won’t sit back and let them murder this woman’s family. Tell her to follow us on foot as she may, and that we’ll release her husband before the hour is up.”

  Two minutes later the small company galloped off with all speed. The woman called out after them, but only Merlin could understand her.

  As the company crested a hill they saw a column of smoke rising ahead and to their right.

  “I thought you said the sacrifice would be at moonrise, Merlin,” Arthur said in anger.

  “So I did,” Merlin said, pointing towards a spot on the horizon where a sliver of moon was barely visible. “Did you forget that the moon can rise in the daytime?”

  Arthur whipped his horse and charged forward. Lancelot and Meurig, being the lightest of Arthur’s knights, quickly overtook him and took up positions on either side of the king. The rest followed in pairs.

  When they reached the place of sacrifice they could see the wicker idol standing in the middle of a clearing. It was a hideous thing, stitched together from bits of wood and rope, standing 30 feet tall and hollow on the inside, with ladders and handholds. Men with spears were stuffing it with a string of captives, who were climbing their way into the arms and head of the thing. Most were resigned to their fate, but a few were crying out in hideous wails.

  The men with the spears broke into two groups when they heard the horses approaching – one to guard the captives, the other to confront the newcomers. But when they saw the armor and lances of Arthur and his men, several of them broke ranks and ran into the woods.

  Arthur and Lancelot charged towards the remaining men, who immediately dropped their spears and ran. A few others who had been working on the idol stood by and watched, uneasily, and one or two of them called out in some strange language.

  “Cut those men out and burn that thing,” Arthur commanded, and Lancelot, Tristan and Gawain hurried to the task.

  “We can’t stay,” Merlin said quietly to Arthur. “The druids will be here soon, along with the spectators. There will be hundreds in this field in minutes, and with the druids urging them on, they won’t run.”

  Arthur nodded that he heard Merlin’s words, but he rode forward to where the men who had been doomed to sacrifice were gathering as the knights pulled them out of the wicker idol.

  “The only sacrifice God has ever required has already been offered on your behalf,” he called out in a loud voice. “Escape the druids and this madness. Come with me and we’ll find land for you where you and your families can live in peace.”

  Most of the men didn’t understand his words, but the few who did interpreted for the rest. Many looked to Arthur with hope, but others shook their heads and wandered off into the woods. In a few minutes there was a group of about thirty gathered in front of the king.

  “Set that thing ablaze, Lancelot, and you and Tristan watch our retreat,” he ordered. “Call out if you’re in need.”

  “They’re asking about their families, Arthur,” Merlin said quietly, so only the king could hear. “How will they join up with us if we march away?”

  “I can’t save all of Wales in one day, Merlin,” Arthur complained. “Tell them to come with us now and we’ll send for their families as soon as we can.”

  At that moment the woman who had given them the news of the sacrifice came running across the field and threw herself into the arms of one of the men. Arthur smiled at the sight, and once the man peeled his wife off his neck, he went down on one knee before Arthur. The woman ran to Merlin’s side and started talking to him very rapidly.

  “Get these people moving,” Arthur said to Gawain. “Back the way we came, and push them as hard as may be. We’ll stop and feed them once we’re a safe distance from this horrid place.”

  Gawain started herding the former captives as Arthur indicated while Lancelot was setting fire to the wicker man.

  “This brave woman has an idea,” Merlin said a moment later. “She knows these men and their families, and the druids won’t bother her. She can slip away and gather the wives and children. But she needs to know where to meet us.”


  “Can you explain it to her, Merlin? Tell her to meet me at sunrise in two days on that small hill we passed this morning. The one with the white rock on the north face. Give her my blessing, and tell her that she will be rewarded for her bravery.”

  As Merlin spoke to the woman, a group of about twenty armed men came out of the woods from the direction that the former guards had fled.

  “Meurig,” Arthur yelled. “Give Lancelot and Tristan a hand with that lot, and the rest of you, get these people out of here.”

  For the next two hours, small groups of Welsh fighters shadowed them, and occasionally crept out of the woods to shoot arrows, or shout threats at Arthur. One of the men they had rescued was killed by an arrow, and an arrow pierced Tristan’s leg as he and Lancelot rode down a group that tried to get in front of the retreat. But by nightfall the pursuit dwindled off, and under the light of a full moon they continued their march until midnight.

  * * *

  Marianne stayed with Merrell that week, retrieving things from her dorm room as she needed them, but she never brought her sketch pad to Merrell’s house. When she awoke from her dreams in his bed in the middle of the night, she would lay still and mentally paint what she had dreamed on the white ceiling of his bedroom, trying to commit what she had seen to memory.

  Several times a night she would start out of sleep, and even cry out, but Merrell never woke. Once she jerked so violently, and cried out in such a loud voice, that when she found him stone cold still in bed she feared for his life. She very reluctantly reached over and touched his body, and to her dismay it felt cold and clammy. But she could feel the slightest breath coming from his nose, so she assumed he was in some sort of deep trance. She lay on her side in the dark for close to an hour watching him, wondering where he was and what he was doing.

  The two of them settled into an easy routine. Every evening about five he’d take a bottle of wine into his den and write until close to eight. He didn’t allow any interruptions, so she used most of that time to study. He expected dinner to be ready by eight thirty, and he expected sex every night.

  “How did you feed yourself before I came along?” she asked one night as she struggled with a pork recipe she’d found online.

  “I managed,” was all he said. She wondered if she was just the next in a long line of live-in help, and sometimes she would wonder why she put up with any of this. But after dinner they would sit on the couch and he would tell her the most amazing stories, not only of Arthur and his knights, and the peoples of their day, but stories of the animals in Britain at the time. It was a much wilder place than she had ever imagined, and Merrell – or Merlin – seemed to know the ways of the creatures as well as he knew the doings of Arthur and his court.

  She was becoming addicted to Merrell’s stories, and to her own visions, and she suspected there was something about this house, or about being close to Merrell, that made her dreams more frequent and more vivid. Rather than simply being an observer, she was starting to feel and smell and taste a little of the world of her dreams.

  Most of her dreams involved the simple humdrum of peasant life, and after a week she wondered why she wasn’t constantly exhausted. The 24 hours of her day fell very roughly into three shifts. She was a full-time student from about eleven to seven, a full-time live-in maid / girlfriend from seven to three, and a full-time peasant from three to eleven.

  The drudgery of fetching water, gathering and preparing meals, minding children and trying to keep some kind of order in a daub and wattle hut made her realize how incredibly hard life was back then. She had resented it when her father told her that indoor plumbing, the grocery store and kitchen appliances had done more to liberate women than anything any feminist ever did, but now she was realizing he had a point.

  In addition to the back-breaking work, she marveled that human beings could live in such filth. While she lived in the body of a 6th century woman, she retained her modern senses and sensitivities, and she wished she didn’t. Sometimes the stench was overwhelming, and as she progressed in the visions and was able to feel a little bit of the body of her host, she felt gross and dirty.

  In one of her dreams she was in the mind of a farmer’s wife, and she could hardly believe when their son brought the sheep into the hut to sleep with them on the rushes that served as their bed.

  The food was mostly tasteless, and the drinking water was filthy. Everyone had rashes and strange skin problems that she didn’t understand. A few times she had to pick worms out of her children’s mouths, and she wondered what horrible things were growing in her own body. Or, rather, in the body she was living in.

  In the middle of one night the farmer pressed himself against her and pulled up her tunic. She was surprised to find that she was less afraid of penetration than that he might try to kiss her. Ordinary life was blessedly free of serious kissing, but she was learning to endure it all stoically. It wasn’t her body, after all, and in a way the whole experience felt liberating, which troubled her for days afterward.

  After weeks of visions she found that she was no longer merely living in the mind of the body she possessed. She was learning to direct the behavior of her host, and even what she said to some extent – although she was still very limited in her vocabulary.

  Sometimes she was able to wander from the homestead, learning what she could of the countryside, and of the ways and manners of the people. And if she found a farm boy alone in a field, what was the harm in it?

  * * *

  “You’re becoming more adventurous,” Merrell said one morning after a particularly vexing dream left her craving male attention.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, afraid that somehow he knew, or could guess, the content of her visions.

  Merrell looked at her long and hard, as if he had something important to say, but then he got up from the bed.

  “Let’s shower off,” he said. “I have a faculty meeting at nine.”

  “On a Saturday?” she asked, but he didn’t reply. He started the water and shaved the stubble on his neck.

  “Do you mind if I hang out here today?” she asked. “My roommate likes to bring her boyfriend to the dorm room on weekends, and I’d rather avoid that scene.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, without a care.

  Her roommate didn’t have a boyfriend. She was looking for an excuse to be in the house alone, which, despite ten days of fairly regular residence, she hadn’t managed.

  “Make us some coffee while I dress,” he said, handing her a robe after their shower. “I’m late.”

  She resented the way he issued commands, but she was freeloading, after all, so she slipped the large robe over her slender, wet body and crept down the stairs in bare feet to start the coffee pot.

  He found her rummaging through the refrigerator when he came down a few minutes later in Dockers, a golf shirt and a plaid jacket.

  “I don’t have cream, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “I was hoping to cook you an egg.”

  “Thanks, but coffee will be fine.”

  He pulled an enormous mug out of the kitchen sink, gave it a perfunctory rinse, then filled it with half the pot of black coffee.

  “I expect to be back by noon, but there’s no telling. Expect me when you see me.”

  “Okay. Good luck, I guess. Tell the faculty your illicit student lover says hi.”

  Merrell gave her a curious stare, then rolled his eyes and headed for the door.

  Once Marianne was sure he wasn’t coming back, she started walking around the house, getting a better feel for its nooks and crannies. The object she searched for was small, but she didn’t want to start rummaging through drawers and things until she was satisfied it wasn’t laying out in the open.

  She could still see it clearly in her mind. An old woman in the village had shown it to her. Somehow they’d been able to communicate despite Marianne’s limited grasp of the language. The woman told her that if she slept with this medallion
close by – preferably touching her skin – that she would have more control of her dreams, and the crone would be able to guide her and help her have more intense visions.

  It was only now that Marianne paused to wonder how the woman knew that she was dreaming. As far as the old woman knew, she was some young village girl. And how did she know that Marianne would have any way to find this object? Still, she had no doubt that the woman was right, and by some intuition of her own she knew this was an object Merlin / Merrell had recovered from the past.