Merlin's Last Days

by Greg Krehbiel

  Marianne still had no memory of that fateful walk from Professor Anthony’s office to Merrell’s bed, and it troubled her. Had he drugged her? Had he hypnotized her? Was she under some sort of spell … whatever that would mean? And what was she still doing with him?

  Or … was she herself to blame? Had she blocked it out of her memory because she didn’t want to admit, even in her own mind, that she desperately wanted him to take her home. She knew from her studies of rape cases that it’s common for people to block memories they didn’t know how to deal with.

  Paul’s comment also reminded her that she hadn’t considered that other people had seen her walking across campus with Merrell. Maybe some of her friends.

  She wasn’t sure how she should feel about Paul’s concern. He was doing exactly what one of her professors said the men on campus should be doing – keeping an eye on predatory males and making sure they weren’t taking advantage of the women. But according to another of her professors, that very attitude was an example of patriarchy. Why did Paul think it his business to protect her – as if it’s the business of all the men to be the guardians and protectors of all the women.

  “I can take care of myself, thank you,” she said stiffly, with a touch of anger in her voice.

  “You can?” Paul said, pretending amazement. “Will you please teach me, because I need lots of help?”

  Marianne’s hard expression melted into a reluctant smile.

  “Okay, you’re good,” she said, with a little laugh. “I appreciate your concern, Paul, but everything’s fine. Really.”

  “Alright,” he said. “I won’t impose on you. But if you need anything, look me up. Ask for Paul Atubo in Uganda East. Everybody knows me.”

  “Because you’ve been bugging them all about their immortal souls?” she asked good-naturedly.

  “Something like that,” he said with a wink. “It was very nice to meet you, Marianne. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  Then he took his coffee, and she followed him with her eyes as he walked away.

  * * *

  Life as a peasant was hard, but Marianne learned a lot from living as one for so many nights. She felt she knew what life was like in Arthur’s time, but she was completely unprepared for what she found when the crone showed her how to direct her way to a Roman-style villa. The contrast in lifestyle was astonishing. There were cobbled streets, wells of clear water, public baths, clean garments, good food and drink, and even running water in some of the homes.

  Her first trip to the walled town was in drone mode, as if her consciousness were hovering over the buildings and the people. On her second trip she learned to approach and gently probe a potential host’s mind. It was a little gross at first – like reaching into a large bowl of oatmeal with bare hands. On first touch she would sense how the person responded to her intrusion, and then she would decide whether to go deeper or not.

  “Can I use a man as a host?” she had asked the crone.

  “It’s possible,” the crone said, matter-of-factly, “but I wouldn’t try it. The only woman I know who tried went mad from the effort. You’d have to be very powerful before you tried something like that.”

  “Why, are men stronger than women or something?” she asked contemptuously.

  “Heavens no,” the crone cackled. “A man would have the same trouble in reverse. But put it out of your head, and don’t try it. The adept can do many things that would amaze you, but even the best among us can’t do that.”

  The crone wouldn’t explain further, and Marianne wondered what it would be like, but she was content to limit herself to the women. At least for a while.

  After a few days of gentle prodding and experimenting she learned there were three basic types. The first were the soft people. They were like the peasants, and hardly noticed her presence in their mind. She would touch and probe, encounter no resistance, and then she’d just slide in.

  While the initial probe felt like reaching in with her hands, the feeling of plunging into the body reminded her of a scuba trip she’d taken the previous summer. Slipping into someone’s body was somewhat like putting on a soaking, skin-tight and slightly cold wet suit.

  Once she plunged in her perspective would immediately shift so that she saw the world through the eyes of her host. At first, the change was shocking. Every person’s body had different physical capabilities, and she could sense them as her own. Some were weak, some were quick and nervous, some were active and vigorous, while others seemed to glide about in a haze. She’d always attributed such things to the mind, or spirit of the person, and not to the body.

  From the first moment she possessed a body she would be assaulted with all the smells, aches and pains, and sometimes even a generalized sense of the feelings of her host, which also seemed to have some relationship to the body itself. One woman was so depressed that Marianne had to leave after just a few minutes.

  Having such intimate knowledge of different people, from the inside, radically changed her notions of mind and body, and made her much more sympathetic with the sorts of struggles different people faced.

  While she was inside a body, the mind of the host felt like a different voice in her head, but with the soft people it would recede into the background and simply observe, leaving Marianne in complete control. She often imagined what that mind was doing back there. Her best guess was that the mind was asleep, or thought it was having a waking dream.

  Once she entered into a “soft” host for an hour or two, then left for a while and came back to see if she could get a sense for how the host dealt with the experience. This particular woman had such a weak sense of self that she regarded all of Marianne’s actions as her own, and she simply accepted them. The lack of introspection was almost unbelievable.

  Other potential hosts could immediately sense her when she tried to touch their minds, and they resisted her attempts to enter. She found that she could force her way in, but that was an unpleasant experience, and required constant effort. The host’s mind would try to reassert itself, and simple tasks became a battle.

  The crone encouraged her to work through those experiences.

  “It’s the only way to become stronger,” she said during a training session. “And you have so much potential. You’re much more powerful than I thought. We’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

  Of the three groups Marianne had identified, there were only a few of the last kind, and they were completely untouchable. She couldn’t probe their minds at all.

  “You’ve taught me to pick my host, and my location,” Marianne said to the old woman. “Will you teach me to pick the day?”

  The old woman was somewhat cagey in her response, and Marianne began to wonder – if she can go to 6th century Britain, why not 12th century China, or 1st century Russia? What were the limits here?

  “Based on your progress, I’m not sure I could say,” was all she could get out of her. But the medallion seemed to be the key. It helped the crone to guide Marianne, and it sharpened her experiences in the dream. Perhaps it also narrowed the focus to a certain place and time.

  After three training sessions with the old woman, Marianne gave it a try on her own. She found a host that was almost perfect. She was pretty, and she had a bright and cheery disposition. Getting into her body was like taking a vacation. She was one of the leading ladies of the city, and the day Marianne visited her there was a celebration in the middle of town over a major victory on the western edge of Arthur’s ever-expanding empire.

  While she was in the head of the socialite, Marianne didn’t know any of the people’s names, or any of the dances, but her host did, and she played a delicate game of allowing her host’s mind to come to the fore when she needed it. After a while they achieved a kind of détente, and they cooperated in making the most of the day.

  In the evening there was a party at the home of the leading man of the city. It was a far cry from life among the peasants, and while the party was lavish and almost modern i
n some ways, it certainly wasn’t home. The customs were strange.

  The wine was like nothing she’d tasted before. It wasn’t the weak and slightly sour wine that had poured like water all day during the celebration. This was the special wine that the wealthy reserved for parties. It had a wild taste to it, as if it had been made from grapes that a modern vintner would never consider for wine. It was a little sweet, a little strong, and had a pleasant, floral aroma. There was also just a touch of honey. After a day in the sun, it went to her head quickly.

  Later in the evening a few of Arthur’s captains rode in, and they were welcomed with ceremony by the master of the house.

  One of the captains caught Marianne’s eye. He was a large man, with a fierce head of hair, a bushy beard and scars on his face and arms. But what grabbed her attention were his eyes. They had a knowing look, as if he saw and understood more than anyone in the room. She was about to rise and go speak to him, but a pretty young girl in a revealing dress beat her to it.

  The girl sat in the large man’s lap and whispered in his ear for a moment. They played back for forth for a bit, but eventually he smiled, then stood to address the room.

  “What news?” the people called out when they saw him rise.

  “Arthur has broken the power of the druids,” he said, and the room fell immediately silent.

  The remnants of the Roman people of Britain were getting desperate. The legions had long since departed, and the small islands of civilization that were able to hold on were increasingly beset by aggressive invaders. Arthur had rallied a few of the local kings and pushed back the Saxons, but the lands to the west were completely under the sway of the druids, who saw Arthur as a threat. Merlin knew the druids were the old power in the land, and they were establishing their influence among the newcomers as well, creating their own alliance to drive the remnants of Roman Britain into the sea. Or the grave.

  Arthur had pushed the boundaries of his territory north, south and east, but the lands to the far west had never seen Roman rule. He had to break them there, before they could form their alliance. If all the pagan tribes united under the druids, Arthur and Roman Britain had no chance. There were simply too many of them.

  “Who is that?” Marianne whispered to one of the ladies beside her.

  “Gawain,” she whispered back. “He’s one of Arthur’s best knights. Not the most handsome,” she continued, “but one of the bravest and strongest.”

  Marianne thought Gawain handsome enough, and she smiled when their eyes met.

  “There is a line to the west,” Gawain explained to the group of about thirty of the town’s elite. “The druids have marked it, and the local people say they have protected it with spells, incantations and sacrifices.” A few of the ladies expressed mild shock. “Human sacrifice, I mean,” Gawain continued, and the expressions of revulsion grew. They had all heard stories of the barbaric practices of some of the tribes, but this brought it close.

  “Even our own men were afraid to cross that line,” Gawain continued. “Our army was assembled in five cohorts, and Arthur was drawing up his plan of attack, but the captains were wary. None of us feared the druids. Not with Merlin on our side,” he said, to laughs and applause. “But we weren’t sure our men would follow us.”

  “Arthur had us paint a large cross in red, and he, alone, with none of his knights, carried the heavy cross across the line and planted it in the ground to defy and taunt the pagans. Five druids came out to meet him, to the delighted screams of their folk. They were sure the druids would deal with this upstart.”

  A few of the knights behind Gawain laughed.

  “The druids had their staves in their right hands, and with their left hands they were making warding signs. Some of my people knew what those hand motions signified, and they were scared to death. They thought this would be the end for Arthur, and they were getting ready to run.”

  “I moved my knights a little closer, in case we had to ride to his defense, but that left my infantry alone, and they started to break up. My army was about to fall apart.”

  “The druids started to chant, and the Welsh were beating on their shields and crying out for Arthur’s blood. The druids came closer, and the Welsh moved forward, but Arthur stood there, waiting for them at the foot of the cross, all alone.”

  Gawain paused for a moment and looked around the room with an expression that showed how desperate they were all feeling.

  “The druids formed a half circle around him, and they were casting their spells and chanting and doing all sorts of things I didn’t understand. They didn’t see that Arthur’s great sword was resting against the back side of the cross. Arthur turned his back on them, and the Welsh screamed and laughed. They thought he was retreating.”

  “He grabbed his great sword and charged the druids to the right. He cut off both their heads in one blow. The other three might have had a chance if they had fought with their staves, but they relied on their spells. They held out both hands and magicked their incantations.”

  He paused at this point and took a drink from a great tankard the girl had brought him. He bent over and kissed her.

  “What next?” someone finally said.

  “I’ve sparred with Arthur,” Gawain continued, “and he can wield a sword like no other. And I’ve seen him do things on the battlefield that would amaze you. But I’ve never seen anyone swing a great sword with such precision. While the druids were hopping and dancing and whirling, casting their spells and screaming curses at him, Arthur cut off their hands. In one, fluid motion he cut off six hands on three bodies, while they were all moving. It was … astonishing.”

  Gawain took another long drink, and the girl eased herself in closer, trying to get her slender arm around his waist.

  “We charged immediately. The Welsh were crying out in anger and dread, and many of them were undone by the loss of their leaders, but some were advancing, and many of their archers were shooting at Arthur. I’m sure Arthur heard the roar of my cavalry, and you would think that he would have had the sense to wait for us, but … not Arthur. He charged. One man against a thousand. Our forces rallied, and all that pent up fear of the druids turned into a fighting rage like I’ve seldom seen. We swept through them like a fast tide, and within an hour we had won the day.”

  While the small crowd erupted into cheers of joy, one man in the back was shaking his head in disapproval.

  “You don’t approve, Bishop?” a strong voice called out over the din from among the knights.

  “All this bloodshed,” the bishop objected. “Can’t there be another way?”

  “I pardon you for misunderstanding the ways of war and violence,” the voice said, and several in the group gasped. Who had the temerity to ‘pardon’ the bishop? But then they looked and saw a tall, sturdy man arise from the back of the group. He was a bloody mess, but from his stance and his swagger there was no mistaking it was other people’s blood, not his own. Marianne’s heart stopped beating the moment she saw him. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and his eyes blazed with a fierce light.

  “Fewer men die in battle when there is peace,” he said. “And peace is gotten through victory, and the more overwhelming the victory, the fewer men have to die to achieve it. On both sides. It’s mercy that drives us to swift, decisive victories.”

  It was Arthur speaking, and all the men in the room except the bishop took a knee before him.

  “I take no pleasure in slaughtering the Welsh,” Arthur said. “They will be my people just like all the other tribes of this land. Even the druids. Do I not have a druid in my counsel? But I tell you this – no one will stand before me. I will restore Roman rule to these lands, and then I will take my place as emperor in Rome. And under my banner, all people will know peace and security, and the Gospel of Christ will thrive.”

  Marianne hardly heard what Arthur was saying. She was completely overwhelmed, and had never felt such desire for a man. She started to swoon, and she lost the concent
ration required to maintain contact with her host. Her mind slipped away, and for about a minute she experienced a terrifying mix of confusion and delirium. The crone’s face figured prominently in her visions. Eventually it passed and she found herself back in bed, clutching the medallion.

  She lay in a cold sweat, looking at the ceiling. She knew exactly what she had to do. And the crone was right. She would enjoy it.

  * * *

  “Merlin, I’m glad you’ve come,” Arthur said as soon as his chief counselor came into the room. Arthur was pacing the stone floor, but Guinevere and Meurig were sitting at a small table, nervously picking at cheese and grapes.

  Merlin bowed slightly to the king. Not the bow of a subject. Merlin insisted that he was subject to no man. It was the bow of respectful greeting.

  “What can I do for you, Arthur?” the wizard asked.

  Arthur paced a bit more, looking about the room uneasily.

  “Arthur,” Guinevere said, “does Meurig have to hear this?”