Taliesin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Rhonwyn gave her mother a cross look, but Elphin encouraged, "Please, I would enjoy a song. Do you play?"

  "Does she play?" answered her mother. "Her music is as sweet as Rhiannon's birds, to hear people talk. Fetch your harp, girl, and play for young Elphin here."

  Rhonwyn did as she was told and went to the back of the house to a nook where she brought forth a small harp in a leather wrap. She took her place by the fire and tuned the harp, then began to play. Elphin settled back in his chair.

  Her voice was pure and melodious, like clear spring water ringing in a sun-filled glade, her fingers deft on the strings of the harp. Elphin closed his eyes and let the music fill his heart with gladness. "Such a woman," he thought; "a rare treasure to be sure…"

  He awoke some time later to find himself still sitting in his chair, but wrapped in a woolen blanket, the fire burning low on the hearth. Rhonwyn and her mother lay asleep on a thick bed of rushes in a corner of the house. He stirred, and Rhonwyn awoke and came to him.

  "I am sorry," he said quietly, so as not to disturb Eithne, for he wished to speak with Rhonwyn privately. "I must have fallen asleep while you played."

  "You were tired from your journey," she said. "But you must not sleep in that chair all night or you will be stiff as a root in the morning. Let me prepare you a place by the fire."

  "Please, do not trouble yourself further."

  "It is no trouble, and I do it gladly, for it is that long since my mother has smiled. I know nothing of your errand here in Diganhwy, but at least you have made my mother happy."

  "What would make you happy, Rhonwyn?" he asked.

  She looked at him a little sadly. "I was never meant for happiness, it seems."

  "I will not believe that. Surely, there is something that would make you happy."

  Rhonwyn did not answer but busied herself arranging a bed of rushes before the hearth and brought a calfskin and placed it on the bed. "Good night to you," she said and returned to her bed.

  "Rest well," whispered Elphin, and he lay down before the fire to sleep.

  * * *

  When Elphin awakened the next morning, he heard Rhonwyn singing, and so lay quietly just to hear her voice once more. When he finally rose, he saw that she had prepared a breakfast for him. Eithne was nowhere to be seen.

  "My mother has gone to tend the sheep," Rhonwyn said, following his eyes. She wore a simple white tunic and a wide woolen girdle with shells woven in spiral designs, and Elphin noticed her body still bore witness to her recent pregnancy. "I know nothing of your business, but it may go better with a meal under your belt."

  "First a song and now a meal," remarked Elphin happily. "I am twice blessed this day already and the sun is not yet up."

  Rhonwyn blushed and lowered her head. "I did not mean to wake you."

  "I am glad you did, for now we can talk. I have something to ask you."

  "Shall we sit?" she asked, indicating the table. Elphin helped her move it to the center of the room and sat. Rhonwyn served him and then seated herself. He put a chunk of cheese in his mouth and gazed thoughtfully at the young woman beside him. A fresh wind off the sea whispered in the thatch of the roof and carried the bleating of sheep on the hill.

  Rhonwyn lifted a piece of bread to her mouth, lowered it again, and looked at Elphin, her glance direct and unafraid. "Why do you look at me so, lord?"

  "Why do you call me that?" he asked.

  "Why? Your father is a lord and you are his son. You will be a lord yourself one day."

  "It is not always so."

  "No, not always," Rhonwyn agreed amiably. "But often enough these days. My mother tells me your father is a renowned battlechief with many heads won by his hand. Your kinsmen must look favorably on your succession."

  Elphin placed his hands on the table. "Would you think less of me if I were never to be lord?"

  Rhonwyn considered this. "The ambitions of men are of little interest to me."

  The directness of her answers surprised Elphin. Here was a woman who spoke her mind; this intrigued him. Rhonwyn studied him for a moment and said, "You wished to ask me something?"

  Elphin nodded. "As you are a woman who appreciates simple speech, I will speak simply. Three days ago on the eve of Beltane, I found a babe in my father's salmon weir. I came thinking to ask you to be nurse to the child. That was my intention."

  "Was? Have you changed your mind then?"

  "I have."

  Rhonwyn bent her head and put her face in her hands. "What people say about me…I do not deny it; indeed, I cannot—it is true."

  This response mystified Elphin. "I know nothing of what men say about you, and care less. But I know what I have seen with my own eyes."

  Rhonwyn kept her eyes downcast but lowered her hands to her lap. "You need not explain."

  "Yet, I will explain. You are speaking to one who has suffered long because my kinsmen believed me accursed. Evil fortune has followed me all the days of my life until now."

  Rhonwyn sniffed and raised her head. "I will not believe it. Your kinsmen must be the dullest men in the world."

  Elphin smiled. He liked her way of putting things squarely.

  "My own misfortune cannot be denied," she continued. "My womb is poisoned and no man will have me."

  "Rhonwyn," said Elphin softly, enjoying the soft sound of her name, "it does not matter. I am a man without a wife who has a child without a mother. I came seeking a wet nurse, and instead I am pleased to find a wife."

  The young woman's eyes grew round. "What are you saying?"

  "Let me ask it plain." He stretched his hand toward her. "Rhonwyn, will you be my wife?"

  It took a moment for his words to have their effect. She smiled through tears of happiness. "I will," she said, taking his hand. "And I will serve you gladly as long as I have breath in my body."

  Elphin smiled broadly and his heart swelled. He rose and pulled her to her feet and kissed her. She put her head against his chest and he held her. "I will be a wife such as will make other men envy my husband," she whispered.

  "Then truly I will be a lord," replied Elphin.

  Leaving Rhonwyn to gather her belongings, Elphin left in search of Eithne. He found her sitting on a rock, gazing out over the hillside and the sea beyond. A small flock of sheep nibbled the new grass at her feet. She turned as he approached and smiled wistfully.

  "It is cold up here when the wind is off the sea." She pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. "And lonely. Lonelier still for a woman without a man."

  Elphin heard the sadness in her voice and said, "I have asked Rhonwyn to be my wife and she has agreed."

  Eithne nodded slowly and turned her eyes back toward the sea. "She will make a good wife, but I have nothing to give you, save my blessing."

  "Give that then and do not worry about a dowry."

  "I would not have people speak ill of me for lack of property wherewith to benefit the marriage."

  "Your daughter herself is dower enough, and I will accept nothing more."

  Eithne was pleased with this answer, although she was saddened to be losing Rhonwyn. "I like you, Elphin. But if you will not accept goods or property, perhaps you will accept an old woman's service in your house."

  "You have a house here."

  "A house but no life when Rhonwyn leaves me."

  "Then come with us. My mother will rejoice to have a kinswoman near. And as I intend to have a big house of my own now, you will be welcome."

  They spent the remainder of the morning packing up the women's belongings. Many of Diganhwy's residents gathered to see what was happening and Eithne boasted to one and all that Elphin was King of Gwynedd, who had come to marry her daughter, and that she herself was going back to live in the king's house and serve the king.

  The people wondered at this and were inclined to disbelieve such a story; yet it appeared to be so. For his part, Elphin assumed a distinctly noble bearing and behaved as would a future king, ordering idle hands to help
carry and load the women's possessions. He spoke to Diganhwy's chief and offered him Eithne's house as a token of past and future goodwill between the people of Diganhwy and Dyvi.

  Then, with the sun climbing toward midday, Rhonwyn and her mother joined Elphin, and the three started back. Rhonwyn and Elphin shared a mount, and Eithne rode the red mare which was loaded with household goods. A rope was tied from the cantle of her saddle to the neck of a ram and the rest of Eithne's flock followed, bleating as they went. In this way, they proceeded to Caer Dyvi, all three happy at their prospects and eager to begin new lives.

  FIVE

  ON THE PROCESSIONAL WAY, THE MAGI SLOWLY ASCENDED the steep slope of the sacred hill, whose smooth green sides were scarred with crisscrossed outcroppings of white stone. Their shadows, stretched thin by the late afternoon sun, followed them up the side of the hill as, wrapped in their purple ceremonial cloaks, they climbed the red-tiled Way to the top to gather in a circle around the great stone altar. Sometime in the long-vanished past, the top of the hill had been flattened and a circular dais of stone erected. More recently, slender columns had been placed at the astral points corresponding to the various astrological houses, whose symbols were cut into the stone dais. There was no roof over this sacred place so the light of Bel and Cybel might shine full upon the altar at all times.

  Behind the Magi, walking alone, strode Avallach. He, too, wore the purple star-covered cloak. Well back from the procession, Charis walked with her mother and Elaine. Only persons of royal birth, and those fortunate enough to be specifically invited by the king, were allowed to attend the sacrifice. The populace watched and waited below while their king performed the rites atop the hill.

  As usual, Avallach had been more than generous with his invitation, and by the time all assembled on the hill the dais was quite crowded. Charis wormed her way into a place beside one of the columns. She pressed her back against the cool stone and saw seven robed Magi standing in a circle around a tripod holding a large orichalcum caldron. The caldron's surface was chased with divine symbols, and around the rim were words engraved in the ancient mystical script.

  The Magi stood with their hands upraised, palms outward, eyes closed, murmuring in a droning natter. One of the Magi—whose robe shimmered in the light with a silver cast and whose cylindrical headdress was taller than any of the others—lowered his hands and touched the rim of the shining basin with his fingertips. Instantly gray-white smoke swirled from the cauldron.

  The Mage, whom Charis decided must be the High Mage of the temple, then went to the altar and removed an orichalcum ewer and approached the king, who had taken his place before the altar. The High Mage poured water over Avallach's outstretched hands and proceeded to do the same with the other Magi. When the ceremonial cleansing was finished, the High Mage returned the ewer to the altar and took up a gleaming orichalcum bowl which he placed in the king's hands.

  "Father is so handsome," Charis whispered to her mother.

  "Yes," Briseis answered, and then added, "Shh!"

  The High Mage took his place beside the smoking basin and stretched his hands over it as the vapor rose to the heavens. He held his hands in the smoke and uttered a short incantation, then turned to one of the other Magi, who placed in his hands a trumpet shaped like a curved tusk of an elephant, graven with the image of a great, winding serpent coiled around its length. The High Mage raised the trumpet to his lips and blew a long, low, resonant note, repeating it to each of the four quarters of the wind.

  As the last note drifted away on the air, three Magi mounted the dais, two of them walking on either side of an enormous bull ox, the third leading the beast with a golden rope knotted lightly around its neck. The creature was white as the snow on Mount Atlas' high crown, and its horns had been painted gold, as had its hoofs. Its white-tufted tail swung docilely.

  The ox was brought to stand in the center of the dais before the altar, and the golden rope was tied to a ring set in the stone. The High Mage turned to the altar and picked up an odd-looking knife; it had a long handle into which was set a curving half-moon blade of shimmering orichalcum worked in sun signs. Raising the knife to the quickly-setting sun, the High Mage raised his voice in the ritual prayer, which he repeated once and again before turning to offer the prayer to the pale rising moon.

  When the prayer was finished, the Magi leading the ox touched the animal's forelegs lightly with a prod and the beast knelt obediently; the golden rope was pulled through the ring and tightened. The Magi around the caldron began their chant as the High Mage stepped to the bull's head and raised the long-handled knife.

  Charis turned her face away and closed her eyes. She held her breath and waited for the death cry of the ox. When it didn't come, she opened one eye and looked around. From across the dais there arose a commotion; onlookers muttered and the crowd shifted. What was happening?

  A way opened through the crowd, and she saw someone or something approaching—dark and hairy, lumbering like a wounded bear. With a gasp of surprise, Charis recognized him:

  The strange man who wore the fur pelts; whose beard and hair was a black, filthy mat; who stumped along the road bareheaded in the sun, carrying the odd staff with the great yellow crystal mounted in its head; who stared out at the world with the eyes of a crazed animal. The man she had glimpsed in the Lia Fail.

  Now he was here and his presence halted the sacrifice. The High Mage moved as if to apprehend him. The man gave a wag with his staff and the Mage stopped. The other Magi stood rooted in their places, mute.

  The stranger came to stand in the center of the dais. He raised his staff in his hand and brought it down. Crack! The man glowered around him and opened his mouth to speak, white teeth flashing in the mat of beard.

  "Throm, I was," he said, his voice cracking as if, like a road seldom traveled, it had fallen into disuse. "Throm, I am and will be." He raised the staff into the air "Princes of Atlantis, hear me now!"

  The people looked at one another, and Charis heard the name on their lips. Throm! Throm is come!

  Who is this Throm? she wondered. Who is he and why has he come?

  The strange man raised his leather-bound staff in the air. The yellow jewel flashed weird fire in the dying light. "Hear me, O Atlantis! I am the speaking trumpet; I am the waxen tablet; I am the tongue of the god! Hear-r-r.…" His voice trailed off into unsettling silence. The people gawked, features frozen in expression of astonishment.

  "You—all of you!" He glanced around him wildly. "You have seen the signs in the sky; you have heard the sounds in the wind and felt the earth tremble with its secret, and you turn to your neighbor and ask what it means.…" The rusty, cracking voice trailed off again.

  His hand made a circle in the air, and he leaned forward on his staff as if confiding a secret. "The earth is moving, Children of Dust. The sky shifts and the stars stream from their courses. The waters…ah, the waters are hungry. Oceanus, my children is hungry, she is restless; she heaves in her bed…She writhes. The worm eats at her bowels and she screams. Do you hear?" His hands gripped the staff as if he were strangling a snake; he swung his shaggy head around. "Do you hear, Atlantis?"

  The unwilling spectators stared back dumbly. Throm's words writhed and heaved in her ears and Charis felt dizzy—as if the stone beneath her feet had lost its solidity. Her fingers found the edge of the stone column and she held on tight.

  "Throm I am and will be. Hear, O Atlantis, the words of your son, Trumpet Speaker. Bel's light dies in the west." He held his staff to the red-gold sunset glow. "And we die with it, children. We die. You princes—" He thrust a finger at Avallach and Belyn. "Make ready your houses. Make ready your tombs!"

  Avallach stepped forward, scowling. He moved toward the madman, but Throm turned on him and lifted the staff high, bringing it down with a sharp thrust onto the dais. The resounding crack was like thunder. The king stopped and stared.

  "Listen!" Throm hissed. Once more his hands described a great circle. "The tongue of the g
od speaks: seven years will you wander blindly, seven years will you contend with one another in vain striving; seven years will your blood soak the ancient earth; seven years will you sow and reap in futility, Children of Dust; seven years will the wind blow through your empty palaces.

  "Hear me, O kings! I, Throm, have seen the face of the future. I, Throm, have witnessed the events of which I speak. I, Throm, have heard the cries of the children… lost. All is lost. All is …lost. "

  The great shaggy head dropped, the powerful arms went limp. He swayed on his feet, apparently asleep. His hands trembled on the staff. The tremor became a shudder which passed through his body. His head snapped back and his eyes flew open. He stared unseeing into space, his face tight in a rictus of ecstacy, lips flecked with spittle.

  Charis watched horrified as the prophet collapsed, eyes rolling in his head, limbs jerking uncontrollably as convulsions wracked his body. A thick, unintelligible sound came from his throat—as if words were being torn from his throat before they could be formed. His teeth gnashed and ground against one another, his tongue between them. Blood trickled at the corners of his mouth.

  Throm jerked himself upright and his eyes bulged as if from fright. He loosed a throat-tearing scream that pierced all who heard it, and then slumped back unconscious. The tension melted from his muscles and he lay as one dead.

  The High Mage, able to move once more, glanced worriedly at his attendant Magi. Avallach came forward to stand over the body and stare, as if unable to believe what he had seen.

  "Take him from here," he commanded at last. Several Magi leaped forward and seized the insensible prophet, dragging him roughly away.

  "My people," said King Avallach, turning to the bewildered onlookers, "do not allow the empty words and ravings of a madman disturb our holy purpose. We have gathered to renew the bond of fidelity between king and kingdom." He raised one hand to the setting sun, the other to the rising moon. "Bel begins his underworld journey, and fair Cybel ascends to her throne. This—this is how it has always been and will always be. Let us now fulfill the ancient and honorable rite."