Avalon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “What is more important than finding out what happened to Donald?”

  “Dissolving Parliament,” Embries answered. “Schedule your meeting with the Prime Minister for around three. Rhys should have no difficulty looking after you.”

  James resisted. “But I want to do something. I want to help.”

  “Then pray!” he snapped. “And do as I say.”

  Embries softened somewhat and placed a hand on his shoulder. Looking into James’ eyes, he said, “You are the King, the life of your people. It is not for you to mourn.”

  At his words the ancient vision flickered, and James glimpsed again that moonlit battlefield. The air was heavy with smoke and the stink of blood. All around him men were moaning softly, but his Wise Counselor was right: there was work to be done. Hardening his heart to the grief he felt for his fallen Cymbrogi, James returned to the house, and to his duty as King.

  Thirty-eight

  The drive from London took longer than Embries anticipated, but he did not hurry. There was plenty of time before dark to do all that was required. Upon approaching the town, he turned off the busy highway and proceeded along the single-track farm roads. He much preferred the old, low, winding lanes when traveling in this part of Britain. Some of those deep hollow ways dated from Neolithic times, and he felt the immense age of the place seep into him whenever he used them.

  He stopped a little way off from the hill itself, retrieved his staff and rucksack from the boot, locked the car, and continued the rest of the way on foot. The sky was dark and brooding, overcast with a single mass of formless cloud the color of ancient pewter. The wind out of the northwest had a damp, icy scent — rain at least, perhaps sleet in the offing. The sound of the crows gathering in winter-bare trees across the empty fields filled him with a strange melancholy — a lonely nostalgia for all the times he had come to this place.

  And then he saw it — rising suddenly before him, green and looming against the blank sky — the Tor, with its solitary tower, like an omphalos pole marking the center point around which the entire world revolved. The sight alwaysmade his breath catch — not because it was so arresting in itself but for how he remembered it to have been long ago. Perhaps for this reason he always felt more at home here than anywhere else in all Britain.

  Glastonbury Tor… Ynys Witrin, the Glass Isle of old… the curious conical hump of earth and stone had worn various names throughout the ages. Some even called it Avalon. Embries knew it first as Ynys Avallach, and that is the name he still preferred.

  He let himself through a rusty iron gate, and walked across the field below the Tor. Once the field would have been under water; if not for the extensive range of drainage ditches, the Tor would still be surrounded on three sides by lake water even now. Looking across the field to the low hill sheltering behind the Tor, he marked the place where the shrine had been and, near it, the first abbey. Those ruins were long gone; constructed of timber, wicker, and mud, there was little more than a bump on the hillside where they had been.

  Reaching the end of the field beneath the Tor, Embries climbed the stile and walked along the road until he came to a tiny, quick-running stream. There, he stopped and took off his shoes and socks; stepping into the icy water, he waded into the middle of the stream, feeling with his feet and toes in the soft mud of the streambed for the stones he knew were there. Whenever he found a suitable stone, he retrieved it, rinsed it, and put the smooth, egg-shaped rock into a net bag he had taken from the rucksack on his back. By the time he had collected enough, the dim, misty daylight was beginning to fade.

  Returning quickly the way he had come, he climbed from the stream, put on his shoes and socks once more, and hurried on to the Tor. He pushed through the lopsided metal gate the National Trust had put up generations ago, and entered the sacred precinct of the hill. Squatting on his haunches, he waited, watching the road and listening to the mournful moan of the wind as it flowed over and around the smooth grassy heights above. When he was certain he would not be interrupted, he took up his staff and began the firstcircuit of the Tor, walking quickly in a sunwise circle around the base of the great mound.

  The completion of his first round told him there was no one either on or near the Tor — the place had become such a magnet for New Age hippies, neo-druid wannabes, crypto-feminist Earth Mother goddess worshippers, magic mushroom devotes, and latter-day pagan revivalists, he was never sure he wouldn’t encounter someone coming or going on the hillside. The presence of these airy-fairy dabblers was more than irksome to him; it was potentially dangerous — not to himself but to the cheerful ignoramuses who might stumble into far more than they bargained for.

  The second circuit confirmed the fact that he had the place to himself. The third circuit was accompanied by a chant of isolation, and upon its completion, he relaxed. He would not be disturbed or interrupted now.

  Opening his backpack, he carefully withdrew three bundles. The first was a voluminous, long-sleeved blue tunic, seamless, woven of hand-twisted linen, which, once he’d drawn it over his head, reached from his chin to his ankles. The tunic was gathered in by a wide cloth belt — also blue, also woven of hand-twisted linen — which he passed three times around his waist before tying.

  The second bundle was a cloak — so old and ragged that it hung about his shoulders in straggling, featherlike tatters that rustled and fluttered as he walked. Lifting it onto his shoulders, he fastened it at the neck with a silver brooch and pin. And then, taking up the oaken staff, he tucked the third bundle under his belt and started towards the Tor, leaving the rucksack behind but taking up the bag of stones he had collected.

  A path leads up the side of the Tor, with improvised steps cut in the turf, for those visitors who care only to bolt to the top for the view. But there is another, far older pathway, the remnants of which form a series of deep, sinuous ridges around the flanks of the hill. This can be trod by anyone who wishes to take a more leisurely climb, but it is effective only to those of the Learned Brotherhood who know the proper chants and invocations to make along the way.

  For the old path is in reality a maze — a means of concentrating both the mind and spirit to the task at hand. Through seven circuits the Seeker, or Initiate, winds his slow way around the hill, moving in a sunwise direction, only to double back the opposite way on the next circuit. At various places the Initiate pauses to make ablution, propitiation, or invocation as necessary, depending on the nature of his particular quest.

  Embries moved to the foot of the Tor and, taking his staff in both hands, raised it before him. “Great Light!” he called. “Creator of all that is moving and at rest, hear me now! The path grows dark before me. Illumine my steps with the light of your presence, and guide me in the way of truth.”

  So saying, he put his foot upon the path and began walking with slow, deliberate steps along the deep-grooved ridge. At the end of each circuit of the maze, he stopped and offered up a rune of protection: “Michael Valiant, Protector and Defender of souls, draw near me this night, and shelter me beneath your strong shield. Put your fiery sword between me and all who wish me evil; guard me with a mighty protection.”

  A murky, howling darkness swarmed out of the wintry sky, swiftly descending over the Tor. The wind hissed through the long grass, spitting tiny ice pellets over him. Hardening himself to the gale, he moved on, repeating the old, old pattern of the eternal dance traced out on the rising slopes of the Tor.

  He finished the climb in complete darkness, and came to stand inside the tower to escape the buffeting of the wind. St. Michael’s Tower, as it was known to the locals, was the sturdy remnant of a medieval church which had once occupied the auspicious site. The square stone room was empty, and open at either end, but allowed some small protection from the elements. What is more, among the dank odors of damp earth and decaying stone, the odor of stale smoke still clung to the walls. He could smell dog’s urine, too, and knew that someone — tramp or traveler — had recently spent the night atop the T
or and lit a fire to keep warm.

  Stepping into the center of the tower, he bent down and put his hand to the floor. After a moment’s search, he found what he was looking for: a small heap of soggy ashes from the twig fire the tramp had made. He rose and, stretching his staff over the damp heap, began speaking in a low voice. As the words of the Dark Tongue echoed in the hollow chamber, the ash heap began to warm. Raising his voice, he repeated the charm, and embers awakened and began to wink and glow like the eyes of nocturnal animals.

  Moving the staff slowly over the ashes, his voice ringing in the chamber, he saw the first slender blooms of flame appear — one, then another, and more. Pale and weak, they fluttered to life, gathered strength, and finally burned with a firm and steady light. In a few moments, the fire was reconstituted from the ashes it had formed. Lowering his staff, Embries squatted down to warm himself.

  He sat a long while, listening to the snap of the flames and the vacant shriek of the wind as it restlessly circled the tower. He thought about the ordeal before him, rehearsing each movement in his mind. When at last he judged it was time to begin, he rose and went outside, taking the stones with him.

  Pacing off thirty steps from the tower’s entrance, he dropped the net bag and, holding the staff in both hands, drove it down into the soft earth of the hilltop. He retrieved the bag of stones and paced off three more steps from the standing staff, laying the first stone where he stopped. Raising his right hand over his head, he spoke a rune of protection: “As I place this stone, I am placing myself, body and soul, beneath your protection, O Lord of Hosts.”

  Retracing his steps, he walked three paces from the staff and placed another stone directly opposite the first, repeated the rune, and returned to the staff. In this way, he quartered the circle, placing a stone at each point of the compass; when that was finished, he proceeded to quarter the quarter. After establishing the eighth stone, he repeated the rune twice. Then, taking up the bag, he moved around the circle laying a stone between each one already placed until the bag was empty.

  Satisfied with the circle he had created, he returned to the center and, taking hold of the staff, he looked to the storm-wracked sky and called aloud:

  “High King of Heaven! My shield, my defender,

  be the strong tower of my strength

  This night, this hour, and always.

  “Be Thou the cloak of Colmcille over me,

  Be Thou the cloak of Michael militant about me,

  Be Thou the cloak of Christ, Best Beloved, safeguarding me.

  “High King of Heaven! Great of Might, hide me in the hollow of your Swift Sure Hand, in the hour of my torment and travail.

  “An isle art thou in the sea,

  A hill art thou on the plain,

  A well art thou in the wilderness,

  A tower art thou in the camp of the enemy.

  “High King of Heaven! Brother of the Helpless, be near me, uphold me, place your angel host around me, encircle me with Heaven’s bright war band: this night, this hour, always and forever.

  “As thou wast before

  At my soul’s shaping,

  Be thou too

  at my journey’s close. Amen!”

  Lowering his hand, he turned his face to the wind, gathered his cloak around him, and sat down with his back to the standing staff. Eyes closed, he sat motionless, slowing his breath, calming the inner turmoil of his heart, clearing his mind of every thought save one.

  He repeated the thought over and over until he could feelthe rhythmic pulse of power begin to ebb and flow within him. He gathered the power to him, holding it, until he could not contain it any longer. Then, placing the full force of his volition behind this single concentrated thought, he put forth his hand as if flinging a bird into the teeth of the storm.

  In the same instant, he released the thought: Come, Morgian, I summon thee!

  The gale howled, scouring the bare hilltop, but he pulled his cloak more tightly around him and hunkered down to wait for an answer. Far above the all-obscuring cloud, the cold stars wheeled through their ceaseless courses, revolving slowly around Heaven’s Nail, which itself was pierced by Embries’ staff.

  She gave no warning of her arrival.

  Embries sensed a subtle quickening in the storm-wrent air, and opened his eyes to see her walking towards him: a young woman, wrapped head to foot in a heavy black coat so that only her face and one pale hand showed where she clutched the coat at her throat.

  His heart froze as he beheld her. His hands grew numb and his spirit shrank back in dread and revulsion.

  She smiled when she saw him, her smile as mocking as her glance. Although her appearance had altered since he’d last seen her — her hair was red now, her youthful face more round, her features more generous — she was as beautiful as ever.

  He climbed quickly to his feet and put up his hand to halt her. “Stop there,” he said. “Come no further.”

  Glancing at the circle of stones, she halted. “A chaim — why, I haven’t seen one of those for ages. How quaint.” She laughed, her voice sultry and low. “But then, you always were something of a romantic old fossil.”

  “This is not about me, Morgian — or should I say, Moira?”

  She laughed again, and the darkness seemed to contract around her. “Oh, well done, Merlin. It took you long enough,” she said brightly. “Don’t tell me you are afraid of me, dear heart.”

  “No,” Embries said softly. “I do not fear you.”

  “Maybe you should,” she replied. Embries marveled; she had lost none of her arrogance… and none of her venom. She turned and began walking around the stone circle. “You know, I’ve been to Llyonesse. I couldn’t wait. I wanted to see it before it was crawling with tourists.”

  “There’s nothing there for you anymore,” Embries told her, trembling inwardly.

  “Are you certain?” she said, arching an eyebrow provocatively. “I wouldn’t stake my life on it if I were you, Merlin. You’re bound to be disappointed. But then, you always were something of a loser, weren’t you? Perhaps that’s why I find you so irresistible.”

  “It won’t be like last time,” he warned.

  “Oh, don’t be tedious, Merlin. I can’t stand it — I really can’t.” She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Look at you, hiding like a hermit inside your pitiful stone circle. You poor, deluded little man. Do you think I have not anticipated this moment?”

  “Listen to me, Moira,” Embries said, “I will only say this once: the killing will stop. It is me you want. Leave the others alone.”

  “Is it getting to you, pet?” Her voice took on a steely edge. “Oh, dear, oh, dear” — she clucked her tongue in mock sympathy — “and here I was just getting started! You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “Take me, kill me — if you can. But leave the others alone.”

  “My, how you do flatter yourself,” she replied. “Do you really think your pathetic life means anything to me? Your delusions will be the end of you, I really do believe. Anyway, I could have had you a thousand times, dear heart, but the truth is, your insignificant existence does not interest me in the least.”

  She began walking again around the chaim. “I have other plans for you, Merlin, dear heart. I want you to live long and watch the destruction of all your fondest hopes. And then, one by one, I will destroy your happy little band of dreamers.”

  “No. It is finished.” Raising his right hand, palm outward,Embries declared, “In the name of Christ, I do bind you, Moira.”

  “Stop it!” she screamed, losing her temper. “How little you know me if you think that tired old singsong will restrain me.”

  “In the name of Christ, Lord of this world and the next, I do bind you.”

  “Bloody idiot!” she sneered, her voice savage and raw. There was a movement around her like a rush of unseen wings. The darkness seemed to shudder and writhe, tightening around her. “You cannot stop me. No one can.”

  All at once, her demeanor ch
anged. As if remembering herself, she said, “Put aside your childish tricks, and I will give you one last chance. Join me, Merlin. We could rule together, you and I. We could restore Llyonesse. The Lia Fail is still there — I know it is. We can find it, and the world would be ours for the taking. Come, cousin, what do you say?”

  She extended her hand, and her coat fell open, exposing an exquisite white flank and rose-tipped breast. “Why go on denying what you’ve always wanted? Come to me, Merlin. Take me. Love me.” She held out her arms and beckoned him to step outside the protecting circle of the chaim. “Worship me.”

  Poor, demented Morgian, he could almost pity her, forever relying on the same crude tricks. Unmoved, Embries doggedly repeated, “In the name of Christ Jesus, King of Heaven and Earth, I do bind you and compel you to desist.”

  Moira turned her hands, thrusting them out in front of her as if to ward off blows. Embries noticed that a crude eye had been carved in the flesh of each palm. Raising her arms, she crossed her hands over her head, and began spitting words at him. “Exis velat morda! Exis velat morda!”

  The wind shrieked, swirling down from the black sky as from the pit. Hair streaming out from her head like living snakes, her eyes wide and bulging with loathing and disgust, she screamed her incantation at him, loosing the power of her fury. “Exis velat morda! Gorim exat morda!”

  The raw force of her malice hit him like a gale gusting hot from some godless desert waste, arid and empty, withering the very flesh on the bones. He staggered back a pace, and felt his staff at his back. Closing his eyes, he turned his face away and put out a hand, took hold of the stout oak and gripped it hard. Here in Britain’s sacred center, the center of the world, he would not be moved. Holding tight to the oaken staff, he faced the corrosive blast of Moira’s hatred. “In the name of Christ Triumphant,” he cried — the wind seized his words and hurled them back in his face — “I do bind you and compel you to desist!”

  Moira screamed. Whether in frustration, rage, or pain, Embries could not tell. But it was the sound of a wounded animal that knows it must either fight to the death or flee.