Merlin's Mistake

by Robert Newman

  “Where are you going?” asked Brian.

  “Out there.” She hesitated a moment, studying them. “If you like, you can come too.”

  They went on together, along an aisle of trees whose branches met high overhead like the vault of a cathedral. The music swelled, reached a climax, and died away, but Maude continued on and they with her. Then, abruptly, the trees ended. They were on the edge of a heath and there, some hundred yards away, were the Standing Stones.

  They were awesome in the clear, cool light of the moon: a half-dozen huge gray stones set upright in a crescent with one slab lying flat before them like a table. More slowly now they walked toward them and, as they drew near, Brian saw that someone stood within the half circle of stones, behind the flat slab.

  She was tall: even with the huge stones behind her that should have dwarfed her, she seemed taller than a man. And she was beautiful with the cold, flawless beauty of moonlight on snow. She wore a flowing robe that was sheer and shimmering as gossamer. Gems gleamed in her hair, seeming to twinkle like distant stars as she moved.

  “You may approach,” she said in a voice that was low but clear as a silver bell. She watched them with great, gray eyes as they came toward her. When they were before her, Maude dropped to her knees and Brian and Tertius did her a deep reverence.

  “Rise, child,” she said to Maude, and there was nothing odd in her speaking thus to someone so old. Then, when Maude was standing again, “You of course I know, as you know me. You,” to Tertius, “I think I know. Do you know me?”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Tertius. “At least, I know who you are.”

  “Oh? Name no names—I have too many. But if you know, give me a sign.”

  Drawing his dagger, Tertius scratched a triangle in the bare, hard-packed earth, the point of the triangle downward.

  “Another,” she said.

  Next to the triangle he drew a circle set on top of a tau cross.

  “Now a third.”

  He drew three long-necked birds flying, either herons or cranes.

  “Yes,” she said. “Now I remember who you are. The third reminded me. That Merlin!” She smiled. “What about you?” she said to Brian. “Do you know me or aught about me?”

  “No, my lady. Only what my eyes tell me.”

  “And what do they tell you? No, you need not answer. That will do well enough. That and the company in which you come. Now what is it you wish?”

  “Nothing, my lady,” murmured Maude, and her voice was not harsh and hoarse as it usually was, but soft and musical.

  “Nothing? Then why did you come here to this place at this time?”

  “To pay you homage.”

  “I see. That’s very gratifying. But do you not have questions you would like to have answered?”

  “One always has questions, my lady.”

  “Naturally. Well, let us see what we can do.”

  She waved her hand and a cloud drifted across the moon’s face and in the dimness a strange transformation took place. The Standing Stones seemed to change into a half-circle of tall black boxes with spinning spools on their faces and winking, blinking lights; the boxes all humming and buzzing as if they were alive. The flat slab became smooth and on it there was a row of smaller boxes, also with blinking lights, and many curious knobs and buttons. “Is that a 501, my lady?” asked Tertius politely.

  “Why would I want anything that big?” she said testily. “But since I can’t possibly keep everything I’m supposed to know in my head, I have started using their information storage and retrieval system.” She looked at Maude. “You first, my dear. What is it you wish to know?”

  Maude returned her glance for a moment, then lowered her eyes.

  “Oh,” said the White Lady. “Of course.” She pushed a button, turned a knob and a bell rang. “The answer is yes. Now you,” she said to Tertius.

  “Will I find what I am seeking?” he asked.

  Again she pushed the button, turned the knob, and again the bell rang.

  “Same answer,” she said. “Yes. Your turn,” she said to Brian.

  “I may ask any question I like?”

  “Anything within reason. I don’t like ones dealing with immortality or squaring the circle.”

  “Then where shall I find the Knight with the Red Shield?”

  This time when she pushed the button and turned the knob, the bell rang many times and continued ringing until she pushed another button.

  “Erratum. Unprogrammed for,” she said severely. “You’ve asked the wrong question.”

  “I’m sorry. What’s the right one?”

  “The rule has always been only one to each. But since this is all new to you …” She turned a different knob, pushed the button. There was a rapid, clicking noise and a sheet of paper with some small but clear writing on it slid out of one of the boxes in front of her.

  “The right question,” she said, picking it up, “seems to be: How will I know the Knight with the Red Shield?”

  “Very well,” said Brian. “How will I know him?”

  Again the White Lady pushed the button. Again there was a rapid clicking noise and another sheet of paper with the strange, small writing on it slid out on the flat surface in front of her. She picked it up, frowned and snapped her fingers. The cloud overhead parted and a shaft of moonlight shone down, illuminating the paper.

  “You will know him by his sword,” she read. “For it was forged of steel that is not of this earth. You will know him by his look. For he will have drunk from the dragon’s horn and have known pity as well as fear. You will know him by his strength. For he will first have lost it and then regained it. And finally, you will know him because he does not know himself. And, accepting himself, he shall find that which he did not seek nor ever hoped to find.”

  She put down the paper. “Is that clear?” she asked.

  “No, my lady,” said Brian.

  “Good,” she said. “It’s not meant to be. I’d give you a copy, but I don’t think you’ll need it. After all, there are three of you, and among you you should be able to remember it.”

  “But …” began Brian.

  “I told you the rule was one question,” she said. “And your answer was longer and more detailed than most.”

  “We thank you, my lady,” said Maude, dipping low in a curtsy.

  “You’re welcome, my dear. Stop by any time when the moon is full.” She paused, looking at each of them in turn. “As you said when you two met, Tertius, it should be a most interesting quest.”

  She waved her hand again and an even darker cloud drifted by above them, hiding not only the moon but the stars as well. When it had passed and the moon shone again, the Standing Stones were as they had been before and she was gone.

  Brian glanced at Tertius, then at Maude. But Tertius avoided his eyes and Maude’s hood was pulled forward so he could not see her face. It was she who moved first. Turning, she started back across the heath toward the camp, and they followed.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They slept later than usual the next morning and when they finally broke camp, the sun was well up, almost as high as the treetops. They rode along the same aisle of trees that they had walked the night before and out onto the heath. To their left were the Standing Stones, looking smaller and less awesome than they had by moonlight.

  Feeling the turf underfoot and seeing the wide, open spaces ahead of him, Gaillard tossed his head and strained at his bit. Brian turned the pack mule over to Tertius and, when he gave the great stallion his head, he went into a thundering gallop, stretching his muscles. They galloped for some time, finally pausing on the top of a rise. Behind them, running north and south, was the dark green of the forest. Ahead of them, as far as the eye could see, lay the heath. It was somewhat rolling, dotted with low, rounded hills and an occasional small lake. The only trees were thorn trees, stunted and wind-warped, and the only other things that grew there besides the rank grass were heather and fern. It was lonely, barren, emp
ty country for nowhere was there a sign of human habitation.

  All that day they rode across the heath, camping at night near one of the small lakes whose water was dark and tasted of peat. There was a rabbit warren nearby and, while Maude and Tertius built a fire, Brian went over to it with his bow and shot two rabbits. On his way back he stirred up a heath cock and, loosing at it without thinking, he dropped it as neatly as Long Hugh might have done. So that night they dined well.

  The next day they rode on across the heath. But though it remained as empty and desolate as ever, about midmorning a strange feeling came over Brian: a feeling that they were being watched. As he checked Gaillard, he noticed that Maude had reined in her mare and was looking about also.

  “Anything wrong?” asked Tertius.

  “I’m not sure,” said Brian. He glanced at Maude, and she nodded.

  “There’s someone about,” she said.

  “What makes you think so?” asked Tertius.

  She shrugged, still looking around her, then pointed.

  “That hill to the left. In the gorse near the top.”

  The hill was some distance away, four or five hundred yards. Shading his eyes, Brian studied it. And as he wondered how Maude could see so far with her old, bloodshot eyes, he saw a slight movement in the gorse.

  “She’s right,” he said. “I’ll go look.”

  “Wait,” said Tertius.

  Reaching into his saddlebag, he took out a brass tube. It had a bit of polished glass at each end of it, like the glass of his spectacles. And it was apparently made of two sleeves, one fitting inside the other, for he pulled it out to twice the length it had first seemed to be.

  “What’s that?” asked Brian.

  “A spyglass or telescope,” said Tertius, raising it to his eye. “I had the goldsmith make it when he made my spectacles.” He peered through it. “It looks like one of the Old People.”

  “The Old People?”

  “They were here before the Saxons, before the Romans. Perhaps before the Beaker People. Here.” He handed Brian the brass tube.

  Brian looked through it as Tertius had done and stiffened, for the hill seemed to leap toward him until it was only a few yards away. Steadying the glass, he directed it at the top of the hill and caught a glimpse of a thin, dark face framed by gorse; the black eyes looking directly into his own. Then it disappeared.

  “A useful thing,” he said, handing the telescope back to Tertius. “He’s gone now, but I saw him. Friendly or unfriendly?”

  “He didn’t look very friendly to me,” said Tertius. “But he may just have been curious. We’ll see.” Then, noticing that Maude was looking curiously at the spyglass, “Would you like to try it?” he asked, holding it out to her.

  She took it tentatively, peered through it, and—like Brian—stiffened in surprise.

  “You say you got it from a goldsmith?” she said, giving it back to him.

  “I said I had him make it.”

  “Are you an enchanter?”

  “Far from it.”

  “And you knew the White Lady’s signs. You’re a strange young man.”

  “No stranger a young man than you are an old woman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tertius did not answer, merely looked at her, and it was Maude who dropped her eyes.

  They rode on. Late that afternoon they came to a narrow place between two hills, both overgrown with bracken and heather. As Brian led the way through it, Gaillard snorted and shied. Brian leaned forward to quiet him, and a spear whistled from the underbrush, passing just over his head. With an exclamation, Brian drew his sword and sent Gaillard crashing through the heather in the direction from which the spear had come. But though he beat the bushes halfway up the hill, he found no sign of the hidden attacker.

  When he returned to Maude and Tertius, they handed him the spear. The head was of flint, lashed to the shaft with sinew, but it was polished and sharp, a wicked weapon. They exchanged glances. Then, taking the spear in both hands, Brian broke the shaft over his saddlebow and tossed the two halves into the brush.

  They rode more warily after that, avoiding narrow places and thick cover, keeping to the open. And that night, camping in a rocky valley, they kept a fire burning and took turns standing watch.

  The next morning they made an early start, and by that afternoon, though the country through which they rode remained as desolate as ever, it became flatter and they caught glimpses of green to the south. They turned that way and, coming to marshes that bordered a sluggish river, went east again, riding parallel to the river.

  As the sun slanted down and their shadows became long, they began looking about for a place to camp.

  “What about that hill?” asked Brian, pointing to a grass-covered hillock of strangely regular shape.

  “I don’t think it’s a hill,” said Tertius. “I think it’s a howe or grave mound.”

  “Whatever it is, it will shelter us from the wind,” said Brian.

  They unsaddled on its lee side, facing the marshes; and after caring for their horses, they built a fire and had their supper. Since they had seen no enemy signs during the day, they set no watch; but Brian sat late over the dying fire, listening to the sough of the wind through the river reeds. It was an overcast, starless night, and finally his eyes grew tired of staring into the darkness and he slept.

  A shrill sound woke him. It was much like the scream that they had heard in the forest, but this time it was nearer at hand, only a short distance away. Brian leaped to his feet, reaching for his sword—and it was not there!

  As he fumbled with the empty sheath, bewildered and uncomprehending, the sound came again, and then he realized it was Gaillard neighing. Running to where the horse was tethered, Brian saw the great white stallion rearing and shaking his head, while a strange, slim figure clung to his halter. Hearing Brian’s footsteps, the stranger dropped the halter and turned to flee, but Brian seized him, wrestling him to the turf. Though smaller than Brian, he was wiry and strong, and it was several minutes before Brian could pin him down.

  Maude and Tertius were awake now also, calling to him.

  “I’m over here,” he shouted. “Bring a light.”

  Maude and Tertius came hurrying to him with a brand from the fire, and all three looked down at a man whose face was the twin of the one they had seen watching them from the gorse: thin and dark and with streaks of blue paint on his cheeks and forehead. His black hair was long and unkempt, and he wore a sleeveless sheepskin tunic. A stone axe hung from his belt, but there were bronze bracelets on his bare arms; these and the way he glared up at them despite his fear seemed to indicate that he was someone of consequence among his people.

  “Some rope,” said Brian, pulling him to his feet.

  Tertius cut a length of rope from his horse’s halter.

  “The mule is gone!” he exclaimed. “And the saddlebags with our provisions!”

  “That’s not all that’s gone,” said Brian grimly. “They took my sword, too.”

  He tied the dark man’s hands together and led him back to the fire, setting him against a rock.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “What’s your name?”

  The dark man bared his teeth at him in a wolfish grin that was a mixture of fright and fierceness, but he did not answer.

  “He doesn’t understand,” said Tertius.

  Maude had been putting wood on the fire, building it up to a roaring blaze. Now she came over and stood looking down at the prisoner.

  “I think he does,” she said. Drawing a small dagger from somewhere inside her ragged garments, she kneeled and pressed its point against his throat. “At least, he understands this, don’t you, my poisonous pet?”

  The small, dark man tried to draw back, but she advanced the dagger, keeping it pressed against his throat.

  “Yes,” she said. “He understands. Now what’s your name?”

  “Migbeg,” he whispered.

  “Very good,” she said.
“A fine Pictish name. Now tell us how many men you have out there?” She pointed to the darkness and held up her left hand. “Five? Ten?”

  Staring at her in terrified fascination as a cornered rabbit might stare at a stoat, he raised his hands, dropped them, and raised them again.

  “Twenty!” said Brian in dismay. “I could hold them off, even at night, if I were properly armed. But with my sword gone …”

  “I don’t think we need fear an attack, at least tonight,” said Maude, still holding the prisoner with her eye. “After all, we have a hostage. Perhaps you’d better tell them that, Migbeg. Tell them,” she jerked her head toward the surrounding darkness, “that if they attack,” she gestured, “you die!”

  Again Migbeg tried to draw back from the point of her dagger, but could not because of the rock behind him.

  “You wouldn’t really kill him, would you, Maude?” asked Tertius.

  “You think not? What do you say, Migbeg?”

  They read the answer in his face.

  “See?” said Maude. “He knows. Very well, then, my pretty poppet. Tell them!”

  For a moment Migbeg stared at her. Then, pushing the dagger to one side with his bound hands, he uttered a quavering call. Immediately there were answering calls from the darkness beyond the fire. Raising his voice, he spoke rapidly for a moment in a rasping, guttural tongue, ending on a rising, questioning note. There was a single, answering response from the darkness, and he nodded to Maude.

  “Good,” she said. “Now the two of you can sleep in peace.”

  “Why we?” asked Brian.

  “Because I shall be keeping watch on our friend here.”

  “You shall not,” said Brian. “If you like, you can keep the first watch. But you must promise to wake us and let us watch in turn.”

  “It is me he fears,” said Maude, “far more than either of you. But if you insist … Very well.”

  And so they took turns keeping watch, as they had their second night on the heath. The next morning they broke their fast on some bread that had been part of their supper the night before. Maude protested when Brian gave some to Migbeg, pointing out that it was all the food they had.