The moon rose full, immense, over the eastern range as Favonius started down Aquilonian Way. Night became yet the more luminous, dazzlingly; but now there were fewer stars and many crooked shadows. The stallion slowed, for scattered or broken paving blocks, holes, and brambles made this part of the road treacherous. Below the thuds and the vaporous breathing, his rider began to hear the sea.
Tide was about two hours into ebb, water still well up the bay. Radiance ran across it where wave crests caught moonbeams. The wet strand shimmered. He could make out the last few rubble-bulks as blacknesses unstirring amidst that mercury fluidity. Right and left, the cliffs also denied the light. Their brutal masses shouldered into a sky that Ocean walled off afar.
He came down onto level ground and turned again west. The amphitheater huddled in its congealed marsh under a ragged blanket of snow. He glimpsed stars through gaps in the sides. Demolition had continued since he fought his battle here. By the time of his death, likely no trace whatsoever of Ys would remain.
That was supposing he reached a fairly ripe age. He might die this hour. No fear of it was in him. He had dropped such human things on the journey from Confluentes. They waited for him at home.
The amphitheater fell behind. Snow dwindled to patches and then to naught, washed away by sea-spray. Frost sparkled on rocks and leafless shrubs. The murmur he heard from the heights had become deep, multitudinously whispery at the shore, rumbling and roaring farther out. Phantoms leaped where combers broke on skerries.
“Whoa,” said Gratillonius, and drew rein. He sprang from the saddle and tethered Favonius to a bush at the rim of the beach. His cloak he unfastened and laid across the horse’s withers for whatever slight warmth it might give. It could hamper him. He wore simply Gallic tunic, breeks, soft shoes that let his feet grip the soil. Roman sword and Celtic dirk were at his belt, but he did not think he would have use for either.
Favonius whickered. Gratillonius stroked a hand down the head and over the soft nose. “Good luck, old buddy,” he said. “God keep you.”
He turned and walked over sand and shingle toward the water. They gritted. Kelp coiled snakish. Cold such as this deadened most odors, but his nostrils drank a sharpness of salt.
Two hillocks marked where High Gate formerly stood. Passing between, he saw more. On his left, that one had been the royal palace; on his right, that one had been the Temple of Belisama. A vague track and two or three cracked slabs told him that he betrod Lir Way. Moored to a stump of stone lay a boat—aye, the lifeboat from Brennilis.
At the water’s edge he halted and looked outward. Receding, Ocean nonetheless cast small waves that licked around his ankles. He did not mark their chill. Froth roiled around pieces of wall and a single pillar.
Here I am, Dahut, his spirit called. I have come in answer to your bidding.
For a span that seemed long, nothing stirred but the waves. He was without expectations. How could a mortal man foreknow what would travel through this night? Witchcraft had told that she would be in her Ys, but Satan was the wellspring of untruth. Gratillonius had arrived at moon-rise to make doubly sure, and to see as well as might be, little though he wanted to. He was himself burdened with sin, and unbaptized; she ought not to fear him. Though she had knowledge of where those were whom she hated, he did not believe she could hear their thoughts; else she would scarcely have sent her token to him. But what did he know?
His task was to keep her heedful of him; how?
He waited.
A wave, yonder where the gate once opened to the sea? A riptide? Seal-swift it flowed his way. A wake shone brokenly behind. Now he saw an arm uplifted, now he saw the thick, rippling hair. She reached the shallows, a few yards from him, halted, and stood.
The tide swirled around her waist. The light poured over her face, her breasts, the arms she held toward him. White she was as the snow or the waves that shattered on the skerries, save for the mane that he knew was golden and the eyes that he knew were summer-blue. So had he last seen her, demonic at the Bridge of Sena, and the worst horror of it had been the lust that raged aloft in him.
But tonight it was not thus at all. She was merely and wholly beautiful. The whiteness was purity. Her sea had washed her clean; she was renewed, Princess of Ys, and she smiled across the water like that little girl for whom he carved a wooden horse. She was his daughter, born to Dahilis, and she needed him.
Her song went high and sweet over the shout and thunder below the cliffs.
“Out of this moonlight on the sea,
Sundered from you ashore,
Father, I call you, come to me
And give me your love once more.
“Though I have left your world of man,
Flung on the wind like foam,
Do you remember how I ran
To meet you when you came home?
“Lullaby now is wave on reef,
Hollow and comfortless.
Yours was the laugh that healed all grief,
And there was no loneliness.
“Cold were those years when I at sea
Longed, and yet could not weep.
Father, I call you, come to me
And rock me again to sleep.”
By the mercy of Christ. No, he could not judge that. He must not utter it.
She stood waiting for him. If he stayed on the land that was forbidden her, she would soon swim away, alone forever.
He waded forth. The bottom sloped steeply. A few feet past her, he would be over his depth. Salt drops stung his lips.
Joy pulsed from her. She leaned forward, as if she could go no higher. The hands trembled that reached for him. Her smile outshone the stars that wreathed her hair.
He opened his arms. She fell into them. He held her tightly against him. Her embrace around his neck, her head on his breast, stabbed with chill. “Dahut,” he said, “oh, Dahut.”
She wrenched herself loose. Her scream clawed. Never had he beheld such terror on any face.
Not looking around, he knew that his follower Corentinus had reached the strand and begun the exorcism.
Dahut dived. She had time to flee.
Gratillonius snatched after her. His fingers closed in the streaming tresses. Her strength hauled him under. Blind, the breath gone from him, he tumbled with her, outward over the deeps. His free hand found solidness, curve of flesh. He locked a leg around those that kicked at him.
Heads came above water. He saw her eyes wide, mouth open, before the struggle whirled him toward the moon and its whiteness dazed sight of her. He gasped air full of froth churned up. Her nails raked him. It smote through his awareness: Once she cried for me to draw her from the sea. Tonight at last I do.
The voice resounded through the surf: “I exorcise you, unclean spirit, in the name of Jesus Christ, Who did cast forth demons, and by the power that He gave unto His holy Church, against which the gates of hell shall not prevail. Begone, creature of Satan, he the enemy of God and of mankind, he whose rebellion brought war in Heaven and whose falseness brought death into the world, he the root of evil, discord, and misery. Begone to him. Begone. Amen. Amen. Amen.”
Dahut shrieked. It echoed off the cliffs and flew out over Ocean. She writhed and slumped.
Gratillonius felt hardness underfoot, a fallen shard of Ys. He regained balance and stood there on it, the tide up to his heart, in his arms a dead young woman.
4
At dawn the sea was withdrawing anew, gray and white between darkling cliffs and among the rocks. It drummed an undertone to a silence otherwise broken by only the earliest of the gulls. A breeze blew sharp down the valley.
Stiffly, Gratillonius rose. Corentinus did too, and gave him an anxious look. The bishop had built and tended a small fire above the strand. He had gone after his own mount and the pack animal, with dry clothes which he forced his companion to don. Afterward no word passed from one of them to the other. Corentinus prayed through the night while Gratillonius sat beside that which he had wrapped in his cloa
k.
“You really should get some sleep before we start back,” the bishop said.
“No need,” Gratillonius replied.
“Food?” Corentinus gestured at their rations.
“NO.”
“Well, then, let’s load our stuff.”
“Not that either.”
Corentinus raised his brows. “What?”
Gratillonius pointed to the object at his feet. “Dahut. I have to bury her.”
“I thought we’d bring her with us.”
Now the voice clanged: “Slung over a horse’s rump? To be jeered and cursed and lie like a beast in unhallowed ground? No. She’s going home to the Queens of Ys.”
“But without that shown them, will the people believe?” Corentinus protested. “They may think she haunts these waters yet.”
“Let them. Some bold sailors will take our word. When no harm comes, the rest will soon take ship likewise.”
Corentinus stood meditative a while before he sighed, “Ah, well. … So be it. They’ll remember her with Ys, a legend, a hearthside story on winter nights.”
Gratillonius stared at the bundle. “That’s all that will be left.” Corentinus blinked hard. “My son—” He must try afresh. “I can barely guess, old childless I, what wounds you carry. May they heal in you. The scars of them will be a pledge of your reward in Heaven, my son.”
“My daughter—” Gratillonius lifted his head and met those eyes. “There at the end, she told me she loved me.”
The response was rough. “Another snare of hers.”
“I don’t know,” Gratillonius said. “I never will, unless after I’m dead myself. Should I have held her for you?”
Corentinus nodded. “You should. No matter what. It was your duty.”
Gratillonius spread his hands. “If she did speak the truth—if she did—is she in hell? Might God have taken her to Him after all?”
“It is not for us to set bounds on His mercy,” Corentinus answered low. What else could he say? Louder: “But in His name, Gratillonius, and for everyone’s sake, do not brood on this.”
The father grinned. “Oh, I’ll have enough else to do. There will be war again in spring.”
He bent down at the knees, gathered the body, bore it across the strand to the water. The lifeboat still floated at a few inches’ depth. He laid his burden within. Searching about, he found a stone of the size he wanted. It was off the capital of a pillar, the eroded image of a flower. He put it in the boat and hauled himself after. Unstepped mast, yardarm, furled sail, oars were neatly lashed in place. He freed the oars, cast off, and bent to the rowing. The ebb tide helped. Corentinus watched from shore till he must go sit down. His years were heavy upon him.
Past the ruins, over the sea gate, and on outward Gratillonius went. Oars creaked and thumped between their tholes, for the wind stiffened, to make the boat roll and pitch. Waves tramped by, gray-green and wrinkled, spindrift blown off their crests. They snarled and crashed on rocks, flinging whiteness high for the wind to catch. It was a chill morning, the sun wan above the snow.
Presently he reached the funeral grounds of Ys, where the bottom plunged to depths unknown. He shipped his oars and let the boat swing adrift. Far off to the west he spied a streak of darkness that was Sena.
He cut a length from the lashings, made stone fast to ankles, wound the line up the shrouding cloak but stopped short. Ys had had her own service for the dead. Gods of mystery, Gods of life and death, sea that nourishes Ys, take this my beloved—But he must not say such words. Nor would he if he might.
A prayer to Christ? Somehow that wasn’t right either.
He folded back the cloth. The hours had smoothed her face. With eyes closed and jaw bound, she lay in that inhuman peacefulness which dwells for a time before dissolution begins. He kissed her brow. She was no colder than the wind.
He covered her again, made the cord secure, and on his knees—because to stand would have been dangerous, and he had duties—lifted her up and dropped her over the side. She sank at once. A gull mewed.
He settled onto his thwart, took the oars, and rowed back.
It was a long haul against the flow of air and water, that brought him a blessed weariness. When at last he grounded, he could roll into a blanket and sleep an hour or two.
Rousing, for a moment he was full of gladness. Then he remembered. But miles lay ahead, to Audiarna where he and his companion would rest before going on to Confluentes. When he was at home with Verania he could weep; and she would make all things good.
Favonius pawed the ground, eager to be off. Corentinus had gotten the baggage ready. The men departed. Sundown at their backs, they rode into night.
Would you know the dog from the wolf? You may look at his paw,
Comparing the claw and the pad; you may measure his stride;
You may handle his coat and his ears; you may study his jaw;
And yet what you seek is not found in his bones or his hide,
For between the Dog and the Wolf there is only the Law.
NOTES
Although we hope our story explains itself, it may raise a few questions in the minds of some readers, while others may wish to know a little more about the period. These notes are intended for them.
I
The plight of the Ysans: While the Osismii were friendly enough, it should be remembered that the concept of foreign aid did not exist. True, the Roman Empire often supplied grain (or money) to client states, but this was a subsidy and depended on their being perceived as useful.
Suffetes: Members of the thirteen aristocratic Ysan families. See the earlier books.
Emain Macha: The central stronghold of the Ulati. See Dahut.
Gess (now geas): A kind of taboo; a prohibition laid upon an individual or a class. See Roma Mater.
Corentinus’s warning: As we have remarked before, the early Christian Church did not deny that most pagan gods were real, but tended to consider them demons intent on misleading men. Euhemerism sometimes provided an alternative explanation, as in the Heimskringla.
Kilt: This was originally no mere skirt, but a garment—often a poor man’s only garment—ample to cover most of the body and to serve as a bedroll at night.
II
Chorepiscopus: In the early Church, a cleric with rank between that of a priest and a bishop. See the notes to Roma Mater. Corentinus had been the chorepiscopus at Ys.
Iron ore: This was generally bog iron, collected rather than mined.
Garrison troops: According to an extant record, as of about 425 A.D. there were fourteen units of limitanei, totaling less than 10,000 men, in Sequania, Moguntiacum, Belgica, and Armorica. It seems unlikely that there were many more a quarter century earlier. To be sure, they were supplemented by native numeri (regulars) and other outfits, but these had nothing like the effectiveness of the old legions.
Comet: The comet of 400 is known to have been visible from 19 March to 10 April (Gregorian dates); the actual span may have been longer.
Robin: The European bird, smaller than the North American and of a different genus, is meant.
Summoning the gods: Gallic beliefs and practices, especially on extraordinary occasions, are scarcely known; one must guess. Besides, they probably varied with time and from tribe to tribe.
Crossbow: Versions of this weapon existed from quite ancient times, though its use did not become widespread until the Middle Ages.
Britannic Sea (Oceanus Britannicus): The English Channel.
The Islands of Crows (in Latin, Corvorum Insulae, this word order being preferred in such cases): The Channel Islands. Almost nothing is known of their history prior to the medieval period. There are traces of Roman occupation, but slight, indicating that it was nominal and came to an end before the Empire did. It is our own idea that they thereupon became a haunt of pirates and so acquired the nickname we use.
German Sea (Oceanus Germanicus): The North Sea.
Celtic languages: Through closely related, these
had enough differences from each other to make them distinct. We suppose that a speaker of the Irish tongue could acquire a Continental one fairly easily, and vice versa.
Danes (Dani): For a brief discussion of this people, see the notes to Dahut. While the viking era would not commence for several centuries, it is reasonable to suppose that some Scandinavians joined the Western Germanic sailors already harrying the Empire.
Tungri and Continental Belgae: Tribes inhabiting what are now the Low Countries and the adjacent part of France. Belgae had also established themselves quite powerfully in Britain before the Roman conquest.
III
Liguria: A region of Italy which at this time included what is now Lombardy. Modern Liguria is only a seaboard strip.
Mediolanum: Milan. Very little is known of its layout or appearance in Roman times.
Alaric: Visigothic king whose armies repeatedly invaded Italy, beginning as early as 401. In between hostilities there was occasional uneasy alliance with the Romans.
(The next few entries repeat, briefly, explanations made in earlier volumes.)
Ruirthech: The River Liffey. Today it does not mark the border of Leinster, but we suppose that the Tara dynasty carved most of Mide out of the latter.
Kings: Each tuath in early Ireland had its own king, who was little more than a wartime leader and peacetime arbitrator. Such kings generally owed allegiance to more powerful ones, among whom the strongest might dominate a realm; but he was in no sense a monarch.
Mumu: Approximately, Munster. At this time the chief king was Conual Corcc, whom we suppose to have been friendly toward both Niall and Ys.
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