by Ruth Kaufman
He rested his elbows on the table. “I warn you, Annora, what you about to hear will shock and scandalize you,” he said. “There is every chance you won’t believe one word I say, though I swear to you it will be the truth.”
She met his gaze, a small frown wrinkling her forehead.
“I need you to be absolutely certain that you are ready to know,” he continued. “I beg you to think this through. Do you realize you risk our friendship by asking this of me?”
Chapter 12
Morgan looked so solemn and sounded so serious that Annora’s heart raced painfully. Her hands grew cold. She slid them inside her sleeves and clutched her arms. “I’m ready to hear whatever you have to tell me.”
“I’ve feared telling you the truth,” Morgan said. “You didn’t believe Jankyn ap Lewis’s version of it, which pleased me. As time passed, explaining became all the more difficult because I didn’t want to lose our special closeness. Recall how you feared telling me all that Roger had done to you because of what I might think. ’Tis almost the same. But I think my qualms are worse.”
“What is it, Morgan? How bad can the truth be?” Her mouth went dry.
Here it comes. Annora braced herself, nails digging into her skin. Why had she persisted in learning his secrets? Should she stop him before it was too late?
“Not bad, necessarily, just beyond your imagining. Ap Lewis had the right of that.” He looked away, as if struggling to find the right words. “I’ve seen you praying. You are a Christian. So I assume you embrace a Christian’s view of the unknown? Of the supernatural?”
“The supernatural?” Annora’s voice came out a whisper. She cleared her throat. “I’ve been raised to believe such things as magic or wizardry, should they exist, are unorthodox and thus against my religion. Are you going to tell me you believe differently?”
“I’m going to tell you I know differently. Can you grasp that?”
“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “If what you tell me goes against lessons I’ve been taught all my life, how do I know which other beliefs of mine are correct? What truths will I have left if I can’t trust what priests have told me?”
“That’s the risk you must take. Are you willing? Can you, for me?” He rose, then leaned against the wall and crossed his arms as if he had all the time in the world, though she could sense turmoil within him.
Supernatural. The word alone sparked uneasiness, made her want to cringe. She cared so much for Morgan she couldn’t let natural resistance to things outside her scope stop her. “For you, of course I’ll try. I’ve been waiting so long to hear what you have to say, how can I not listen?”
“Very well, then. I hope neither of us regrets this.” He watched her like a hawk scoped its prey, monitoring her every move. “I am the son of Merlin,” Morgan confessed.
“Merlin,” she repeated. “As in King Arthur’s Merlin?”
“Yes.” He studied her more intently, clearly awaiting her reaction.
“Merlin doesn’t have a son.” Annora reared back, completely confused. “Wait a minute. What I am I saying? Merlin didn’t even exist. He’s the stuff of legends,” she scoffed. “Of stories passed down through the years.”
His bright eyes dimmed, revealing his hurt. “I told you my tale was curious and strange. That you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Everyone knows of King Arthur and his knights. One of my favorite books is Historia Regum Britanniae, History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth’s rendition of the fascinating and sad tales. But that’s all they are. Tales, not reality. Not history.”
“There are many versions of the chronicles of Arthur. The Welsh were the first to write of him. The French and others have added to our lore, and I’ve no doubt more will follow. I had to read them. All are different, and none completely true.”
Monmouth had written that Merlin was the son of a princess, who either lived with or became a nun, she couldn’t quite recall, and an incubus, a demon who takes the male form.
Could Morgan be related to the devil?
She shook her head as if she had water in her ears. There she went again, believing events she’d read about Merlin’s life had actually taken place. “Monmouth wrote another book, Vita Merlini, Life of Merlin, in which Myrddin lived in the Caledonian Forest after succumbing to madness.” She shivered. “Morgan ap Myrddin means Morgan, son of Myrddin…and couldn’t Myrddin also be read as Welsh for Merlin?”
Morgan’s father, a madman? What did that make him?
Her head spun. It couldn’t be true. For some reason Morgan wove a story as fantastical as those so familiar to her she, too, could almost believe they were real.
“I know you think I’m making this up,” he said. “Now you see why I was so reluctant to tell you about myself. Do you think me from the devil and unnatural, as opposed to supernatural? There is a difference.”
Annora’s mind snapped shut. She’d have to force it open to give Morgan a chance to explain. If she didn’t, she’d be no different than those who refused to listen to her tell them she wasn’t a lunatic because they thought they had proof to the contrary.
But Morgan wasn’t making any sense. She had been. Her heart skipped a few beats. She thought she might faint.
Was he a lunatic? At the very least, he suffered from delusions. Was Jankyn ap Lewis after him, not to kill him, but to restrain him for his own good? Just as Roger had said he was doing for her? Both she and Morgan had fiercely resisted and escaped their pursuers, certain they were in the right. She’d learned the hard way that “right” was in the eye of the beholder.
Like attracted like. Somehow her link to madness, false as it was, had drawn this madman to her. How could she help him when she couldn’t help herself?
Just as she needed proof of her own wits, she needed proof of his.
“Will you hear more?” he asked.
There was more? She still didn’t have the answers she needed about his family. “Who was your mother? Where did you grow up? Merlin, if he is your father, lived a long time ago. How could he still be alive? You said your feud with ap Lewis had to do with your father.”
He closed his eyes. Was he making up more lies? Uncomfortable defending his past? “I’ll answer as best I can. My father, Merlin, is alive, but grows ever weaker. The woman he loved used his magic against him and trapped him in a cave of crystal. He lived long ago and lives still because he is immortal.”
“Immortal,” she repeated. Like the Greek gods she’d read about? She couldn’t keep sarcasm from her voice. “If you’re Merlin’s son, I suppose that makes you immortal, too?”
“Yes. I am.” He nodded, calm and immovable as marble.
Shock stole her speech. She simply didn’t know how to handle his supposed confessions. “You’re trying to convince me you’ve lived for hundreds of years. That isn’t possible. Everyone dies, from old age, disease, or getting killed in battle.” But Morgan’s wounds had healed so rapidly…. “Why did I bother to stitch you? Why did you send for Ninian? Was it a ruse so I’d hide you longer? If what you say is true, you wouldn’t have died from those arrow wounds.”
“No,” Morgan admitted. “But as with mortal men, severe injuries combined with significant loss of blood would have laid me low for a long while. Your care saved me a significant amount of recovery time.”
How could she fathom his words as truth? Yet she wanted to know more. “How old are you?”
He tilted his head, as if counting the years. She had to give him credit. He could spin a convincing, logical explanation for something completely implausible. Could he manipulate people like Roger?
“Nine hundred and fifty-two, give or take a few years. I’ve lost count.”
“But you don’t look much older than I do.”
“We age at a much slower rate. I estimate thirty mortal years equals one year in the life of an immortal, which makes me thirty-two in your terms. Eventually I’ll become a wizened old man, barely able to move. Then I’ll be revered
among immortals, for the eldest possess the largest repositories of knowledge and experiences to share.”
Morgan had a swift, thorough answer for every question. But he was making every detail up. He had to be.
The small room seemed to spin. She pushed herself back in the chair and gripped the sides. “You have quite a vivid imagination, Morgan. I appreciate your going to such lengths to amuse me. But I must know the real truth. Now.”
Again disappointment filled his gaze. He went to the window, his back to her. As if he couldn’t bear the sight of her. “I have spoken true. I’ve never lied to you, Annora. Concealed information, yes, and evaded issues on occasion. Lied, no. I am Merlin’s son. I will free him. Soon after, the time will be right for Arthur to become king once more.”
Each revelation hit her like a physical blow. Morgan thought King Arthur would regain his throne. Another myth he held true.
But then, she and other Christians believed Jesus would return. That he was the long-awaited Messiah. Was that really so different? What proof had she ever seen of Jesus’s existence? She’d never doubted what the Bible or priests said was verifiable, but simply believed. She had faith.
If Morgan was waiting for King Arthur, did that mean…?
Thoughts of the trio they’d met in Llanarglyn flashed. Percy. Lance. No. Just a coincidence. It had to be.
“Are you telling me you’re one of the Knights of the Round Table, like Lancelot?”
“Taliesin be praised. You do understand.” He turned, his eyes brightening to a dazzling shade of aqua. “Yes. That I am. ’Tis why I bear the image of Excalibur on my shoulder. All Knights of the Round Table have the sword given by the Lady of the Lake permanently imprinted on our skin.”
“King Arthur’s sword.” Her voice was flat, she knew, clearly suspicious. Because she couldn’t accept Morgan’s personal involvement in the tales of Arthur or life of Merlin, which weren’t real in the first place.
“Yes. You know some of my family history. That pleases me greatly. Though as you said, the stories have been passed down through the ages.”
Annora had never seen Morgan like this. Happy and relieved, as if his disclosures lifted a great weight from his shoulders. As if it were important to him for her to believe his astonishing tale. Being believed was very important to her, too. Except for one difference: her tale was true. She shook her head, wishing she could clear it of contradictory thoughts even for just a moment.
“Forgive me for not telling you sooner,” he said with a smile. “I should’ve listened to Ninian. I misjudged your willingness to comprehend. I can admit when I’m wrong,” he added with a slight nod.
Morgan reached for her, but she backed away. She didn’t comprehend. How could anyone who seemed so normal, so rational and in control of his wits, live in a world of fantasy?
“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “This is so unreal, so far-fetched.”
“Are you afraid of me?” His hands dropped to his sides. In defeat? The color of his eyes faded rapidly as if hope drained out of him.
She licked her dry lips. “I believe you believe you speak true, but how can I believe it? Who else will accept a word of this?”
“I hoped you were different.” Regret laced his tone. “My kind endeavors to lead a quiet life until the world is ready to accept us again. As it did centuries ago when Arthur was king. If not for ap Lewis’s men shooting me and setting these events into motion, I’d not have come in contact with as many mortals as I’d normally see in a mortal man’s year as I have in the few weeks I’ve known you.”
What had she done? Given her trust to an incredibly handsome man who seemed kind and strong, but possessed fewer wits than she. A man who lived in a daydream where Merlin was his father and King Arthur would return to his throne. Morgan needed as much help as she did.
Who was going to believe either of them?
Annora doubled over. Something sour and bitter rushed to her mouth. The pain, the doubt, was far greater than anything she’d felt at Roger’s hands. For she’d never trusted or cared for uncle as much as she had Morgan. She’d opened her heart to him only to have it slammed shut.
Instantly he was at her side. “Annora, let me help you. Sit.”
He eased her to the bed, then crouched beside her as she sank into the thin mattress. She closed her eyes, willing nausea to recede.
How deceiving illnesses of the mind could be. In detailing her supposed ailment to all and sundry, Roger had unwittingly taught her many signs and symptoms. Morgan’s display this morning would surely lead many a physician to brand him a lunatic.
No wonder Morgan had been so reluctant to share his past. How well he had concealed his true, mad self. The web he’d spun couldn’t hold up under scrutiny, yet he staunchly defended it.
Unbidden, Jankyn ap Lewis’s warning again floated back to her. “Morgan ap Myrddin is rumored to have abilities beyond your imagining.”
Somehow she knew an important piece of his imaginary puzzle remained concealed. Did he possess mystical powers? Of course not. But he couldn’t be immortal either.
There had to be a reasonable explanation. Rumors spread faster than fire and created impressions potent as poison. The power of rumor led her people to take Roger’s word over hers. Mayhap Morgan provided enhanced tales of his own prowess to keep his enemies at bay.
“Morgan, why have you been helping me?”
“You know why.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because you so selflessly helped me, and in the face of danger. An honorable man always pays his debts.”
“It’s more than that. Why else? You’ve said your journey is urgent, yet you abandoned it for me.” Then it hit her. She sat up. “Because you, too, know how awful it is to have people not believe what you think is real. How frustrating it is to prove yourself yet still see doubt in others’ eyes, suspicion in the way they treat you if they talk to you at all. You know the pain of being avoided. So you wanted to help at least one person escape that misery and be accepted again. Is that it?”
* * *
How could Annora, a mere mortal, be so skilled at reading him? She’d put his scattered thoughts into words better than he could have. Her insights stung as they called up painful memories.
“My reasons don’t matter,” he said, pricked by the same unease as when immortals commented on his mixed race. He wished he didn’t have to defend his existence to her.
But Annora was right. He did want to save her from hurtful stares, the awkwardness of seeing people whispering to their neighbors behind their hands, crossing themselves or looking the other way when he passed. He wanted her to have a normal, happy life and know she belonged.
Annora sat with her head in her hands, swallowing hard. Suddenly she jumped up, went to her bag and searched through the contents.
“Here. You lost this.” His necklace dangled from her fingers by the chain. “The clasp came undone.”
Morgan was mortified. He’d been so caught up in thoughts of Annora he hadn’t even realized he’d lost his necklace. He’d grown careless. Thank the gods she found it.
Immortals were obligated to wear their unique necklaces at all times. ’Twas one of the only means of identification of his kind. In the wrong hands, it’d raise significant speculation, because mortals hadn’t yet discovered the metal or means used to make it.
“My thanks.”
As he snapped the clasp shut and put the necklace on, his mind went far back in time, when he first received it. Back to when it all began.
The trouble started when he turned twelve and grew from a boy into a man. Once Morgan got angry with a boy in his village for beating a child smaller than he. Lightning struck a nearby tree and set it afire. When his favorite hound pup died, rain suddenly began to fall, though seconds before the sun had been shining.
At first, he thought these were just odd coincidences in his land’s changeable weather. But soon he noticed a frightening pattern. Strange things happened whenever h
e experienced strong emotions.
Morgan hadn’t been able to control the occurrences, which burst forth at the most inopportune times. He didn’t know what they were or why he could summon a storm or call lightning from the sky when no one else could.
He lived with the gripping fear that he’d hurt someone without meaning to or damage or destroy someone’s cottage or barn. But who could he ask for help? He couldn’t lay another burden on his mother, who had four other children by her second husband to care for. His father had died just after he was born.
Then the ridicule began in earnest, as if his silver hair and changeable eyes hadn’t brought enough teasing to his door. When a disease broke out among the chickens, one of the boys blamed Morgan. Other children picked up on his accusation. After that, anything that went wrong in the village was Morgan’s fault. They thought him cursed.
Next came a drought.
“The crops are failing.”
“That strange boy, Morgan, is to blame.”
Shortly thereafter, plague descended. Villagers, healthy and sick alike, blamed him, and crowded around their small cottage to throw stones. One hit his mother in the head. A rivulet of blood dripped down her cheek. She collapsed, tumbling to the ground.
“Mother!” Morgan ran to her, trying in vain to keep his emotions in check. Why were people so cruel? How could he fix things?
He helped her to sit, then ran to fetch a rag.
The crowd dispersed. In the cottage, his brothers and sisters wailed.
She held the cloth to her head, rocking back and forth as if she’d lost her wits or the world was coming to an end. “Morgan, I waited too long. I have something to tell you.” Tears filled her eyes. “I’m not your mother.”
“What?” Morgan willed himself not to scream. If he wasn’t careful, lightning might strike.
“An old man brought you to me when you were a baby. He gave me money, a lot, and promised to send more if I took you in. I had no children and thought I never would, so you seemed a gift.”