Avilion

by Robert Holdstock

  ‘Peredur,’ he said, thinking hard. ‘I turned this army round because I saw a woman I once . . . loved. She was alive again. And yet - this is difficult to explain - she was not the woman I had known. The same, but different. When I first met her, under strange circumstances, I was drawn to her at once, attracted to her very powerfully; though in the end I was denied her, which was heartbreaking. But now I’m drawn again. Can you understand this? I feel she is close again. I turned Legion round. Yes, yes, yes! For my own ends. But when I find her, we will return to the task. How do I convince this vast army to follow me on such a personal quest?’

  Peredur laughed and stroked the bristles on his chin. ‘Well, I’m not sure that you can. Therefore perhaps it would be better to say nothing. Is she here, then? This woman. Where are we?’

  ‘Lavondyss. Avilion. Call it what you like. When we crossed the void, we entered a different world.’

  Peredur nodded sagely, still half smiling. ‘I think we’d all realised that. Let me ask again: is she here? This woman? This ghost?’

  ‘She has copper-coloured hair, eyes as green as oak leaves in spring, a pale complexion, and a smile and a laugh to take your breath away. And yes: I believe she is here. Quite how, I don’t know. But she is close. Peredur, find her for me. I need to be rid of the ghost.’

  ‘She sounds beautiful.’

  Christian turned away, staring into the past. ‘She was.’

  And the young rider asked, ‘If you find her, will she know you?’

  With a wry laugh, Christian answered, ‘I imagine she will remember me. Yes.’

  A while later, one of the young ‘gatherers’ walked slowly towards the awning, and the grouped men who commanded Legion. She was almost ephemeral. Peredur had slipped away, and though Christian was puzzled by his absence he put it down to the young man’s agreement to look for Guiwenneth, though he would not have known the name.

  The gatherer was dressed simply in green and black, the lower half of her face covered with a veil. Christian didn’t recognise her. There were hundreds of such entities in Legion. Scourers, recruiters, gatherers, alert to the loss of life and the importance of bringing in the best of any broken forces to be a part of the army.

  ‘Those who called to us for help are now dead,’ she said simply. ‘They called many times. The siege was fierce. The walls were broken and the besieging army took the town, and took all life that had not at that time taken itself, all but the women, who are now without family or home and are in chains. The last call was a dirge of despair. They had seen us, summoned us, put hope in us, and too late realised that we had abandoned them. You should know this. You turned Legion around. I hope there was purpose in the action.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The woman’s eyes were angry, perhaps because of Christian’s dismissive words, his lack of explanation. Her gaze was unblinking. ‘There is another call. It is from Time future. When you are ready, my father and I will describe it to you.’

  She turned without bowing and walked away, a stiff and angry creature, betrayed in her talent by the man who led her.

  The three men who crouched with Christian stared at the ground, hardly breathing. The hilts of their swords were pointed towards him. He wished the young rider was here. This would be a difficult time.

  Maelin said, ‘My lord, I will not consider the consequences of your wound to me if you tell us why we have turned around. Tell us what you have come to find.’

  Christian considered the statement, but shook his head. ‘I have nothing to say on the matter. In due course, Maelin, we will discuss your grievance in the company of the others. And in due course we will turn round and resume our duty. For the moment, we rest.’

  ‘While you search for a ghost,’ said Aelroth bitterly.

  Christian rose to his full height and pulled his sword belt round his waist, bringing the sheathed blade to his right hand. Staring down at the man he felt a flush of blood and anger. His skin sharpened and his vision cleared. ‘Yes! Yes! While I search for a ghost.’

  Aelroth stood and faced the warlord. Hard gaze met hard gaze, uncompromising, challenging; there was no friendship here, no sense of respect.

  ‘And this ghost is? Describe the ghost, and we’ll search for her. We’ll bring its flimsy carcass to you. Throw it at your feet. Let it become dog feast. Anything for you, my lord. Anything that will help us get to war.’

  The others stood, picking up their swords, holding them by the scabbard. Christian decided that he had no choice.

  ‘Her name is Guiwenneth.’

  He repeated the description he had given to Peredur. ‘I do not wish her harmed if you find her.’

  They backed away, each bowing briefly and without sincerity. Christian summoned his personal guard, watching through the thin rank of men as the warlords on whose support he counted, and which he was losing, talked briefly among themselves, then went away in different directions.

  When he thought he was at a safe distance, Peredur stopped and looked back at the guarded but open-walled camp where Christian lay, brooding and angry. He was puzzled. The description of Guiwenneth was not a description of the woman he knew. Then again, Christian might have been remembering the past.

  He found his horse and rode the long way across Legion to where he had last seen the woman. His two comrades were there, restless after being abandoned for so long, and they greeted Peredur with sullen smiles. ‘You’ve been gone a long time.’

  ‘I’m a commander. It took some persuasion, but the man at the head of this army is open to persuasion.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’s desperate to feel protected. It would be a simple matter to challenge him, but there is something - I can’t define it - something that keeps him in charge of his own life, and of this army. He’s an outsider. That probably accounts for it. Guiwenneth? Don’t tell me she’s abandoned the place.’

  One of Peredur’s men jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s a lake. The women and children are bathing. Don’t try to get past the guard if you value your masculinity.’

  ‘And please cease this charade of not knowing each other’s names! We’re tired of pretending. It’s tiresome, especially for not knowing the reason for it.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  The lake was beyond a narrow defile. Peredur could hear the laughter of children as they swam and jumped into the fresh water. Four women crouched at the entrance, playing a game of dice and shouting with each throw. As Peredur approached, they looked up, two of them standing and gripping short fish-hook spears. Their eyes narrowed, one of them holding his gaze, the other looking him quickly up and down, assessing him.

  ‘The men bathe later. This is the time for the children and their mothers.’

  ‘You don’t pass.’

  He smiled and raised placatory hands. ‘I’m looking for a friend. Red and white hair, a leather band stuffed with hawk’s feathers, bone-scale cuirass, blue tattoos or paint all over her arms. Unmistakable.’

  ‘Who is she to you?’

  Peredur wondered what to say, then decided: ‘My mother. Guiwenneth.’

  ‘Leave your weapons here. Call to her.’

  He walked through the defile. The lake was below a high wall of rock, shaded by overgrowing trees. The water was so churned by the pleasure of the youngsters who travelled with Legion that it might have been the frenzy of a fishing expedition. Peredur saw Guiwenneth and beckoned to her. She was dressed, drawing a wide-toothed comb through her hair. When she saw him she gathered up her belongings and walked towards him; there was irritation in her look.

  ‘I’d thought you’d abandoned me. Do you know how long you’ve been gone?’

  ‘You look refreshed. I could do with a swim myself.’

  She glanced back. ‘I hadn’t realised there were so many children with this army. And these are just a handful. Here.’ She squeezed water from her hair and smoothed his cheeks, smiling impishly. ‘The lake is very deep. And cold? It’s freez
ing!’

  As they passed the guard, one of the women looked up from the game and said, ‘If your son’s available, he’ll know where to find me.’ There was laughter. The young rider bowed. It was not like him to feel flattered. A moment’s weakness, manipulated by the guile of his peers.

  As they drew away from the lake, Guiwenneth looked up quizzically, not necessarily without amusement. ‘My son?’

  ‘A small lie to allow me to find you.’

  She shook her head, a half-smile on her lips. ‘Strange to say, I do feel an affinity with you. But my son is Jack.’

  ‘It was a lie.’

  Guiwenneth was very quiet as they walked through the wood, and through the groups of waiting men at arms. Eventually she said, ‘I wonder who you are. I don’t know your name. You don’t know mine . . . Or do you?’

  They had stopped. The older woman, not much shorter than Peredur, engaged his look powerfully. ‘You know who I am,’ she stated.

  ‘Guiwenneth.’

  ‘I’ve known it all along. I’ve known it all along,’ she repeated. ‘From the moment you surfaced, that strange conversation: the crossing place. Strange poetry from the mouth of a young rider; you were so knowing.’

  ‘I didn’t know immediately. Earth voices call. I remember being called to that villa; I had dreamed of the encounter. In this world, we don’t follow our dreams - dreams are the path we take.’

  ‘But I am not your mother.’

  ‘No. Far from it.’

  ‘Although, when we met at the wall, I felt as if I knew you. There was something familiar about you.’

  ‘There is a twist in fate here that I can’t reconcile. What I can tell you, though, is that I have found your man. Why have I been gone so long? Because your man now trusts me. I am one of his commanders.’

  Guiwenneth crossed her arms uneasily, turning away from the young rider. ‘You are talking about Christian. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course. You discovered that he leads Legion. I have made myself close to him. He doesn’t trust me fully, but he listens to me.’

  Guiwenneth stared at Peredur, confused, her heart racing as her suspicions were confirmed. She was suddenly anxious. ‘Why have you done this? I thought I could trust you.’

  ‘You can!’ he insisted. ‘You must. Guiwenneth, what you have in your heart cannot be expressed with vengeance. He’s too strong. I know what you intend. But you can’t succeed. Not alone.’

  ‘I told you what he did to me.’

  ‘You told it to me. And it breaks my heart to think how very few wonderful years you had when you were found again by your Steven. You’ve lived a life in the shadows. I’ll help you change that. But you can’t do it alone.’

  Guiwenneth watched him carefully for a moment. Then she dropped her gaze, thoughtful, coming to a decision. She laughed quietly. ‘Your companions keep trying to call you by name, then biting it back. “Poet” sounds amusing, but that’s their way of keeping the secret that I know already.’

  She looked up at him quizzically. ‘Your name is Peredur, of course. My father’s name. And a younger version of him than my daughter once dreamed and painted when she was a child. And you are the same age as my daughter. We have all been drawn together. You are right: there is a twist in fate here.’

  ‘There will be an iron twist in your guts if you try to take on Christian,’ Peredur said bluntly, expecting a rebuff. He was surprised when Guiwenneth looked away and almost seemed to agree.

  PART • FOUR

  Avilion Alive

  Fire Dance

  ‘You cannot steal someone’s death!’

  Odysseus paced around the camp, stepping over the reclining Athenians who watched him with some alarm as he raged in a muted, uncomprehending way. Yssobel watched him silently.

  ‘You can steal someone’s life. You can steal their land. Their home. You can steal their wife, their animals, their children. You can even steal their dreams. You cannot steal someone’s death. It makes no sense.’

  Why was he so angry? ‘That is what he said. “You have stolen my death.” ’

  ‘A flash of vision. A moment’s glimpse.’ Odysseus shook his head. ‘This is your own guilt talking, not this Arthur.’

  ‘It was him. I know it,’ Yssobel replied, remembering the way that Arthur had been cut down in battle, and the tranquil, scarred features beneath the facepiece of his helmet.

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  ‘It was him. I’m certain.’

  Odysseus sighed, shaking his head again. ‘But how can you be certain? Did you see his face when you borrowed his armour?’

  ‘Of course I saw his face. I took his helmet along with his armour. I kissed him for thanks.’

  Odysseus frowned at that, arms folded across his chest. He was breathing very deeply.

  ‘You kissed him?’

  ‘Yes! I spent time with him, as he lay dying.’

  ‘Time with him,’ he repeated, almost sarcastically. ‘It sounds so innocent.’

  ‘It was innocent, it was guilt-free. Apart from stealing his death. Are you jealous?’ Yssobel’s smile mocked him.

  Odysseus waved her quiet with a gesture that said everything about his annoyance. ‘But a mind in turmoil,’ he went on, ‘can conjure fear. How can he have spoken to you? Here? No shield, no reflecting wall. Voices don’t just come out of nowhere.’

  Yssobel replied simply, ‘I made this place. Not Legion itself, but the place we’re in. Avilion. I dreamed it as a child, from what my father called my “red side”. The human side of me. It’s all a reflection of my memory of the stories he told. I can summon what I want, what I imagine, though I don’t wish to. This is not the true Avilion. This is my dream.’

  Odysseus laughed. He crouched down to face Yssobel as she sat, huddled. ‘I’m a pragmatic man, Yssobel. I’m learning two things that will help me to live to an old, old age.’

  ‘Lessons, always lessons.’ Irritable in her turn. ‘Strategy; the man lives for strategy.’

  ‘Yes. I do. And so should you.’

  ‘And what have you learned?’

  ‘That pragmatism is nothing without imagination; and imagination is wasted without pragmatism.’

  She stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head. ‘What does that mean?’

  He shrugged, half smiling. ‘Would you create a goat so tall you couldn’t milk it, only hang on to its tail? Would you create a horse so huge you couldn’t ride it, only hang on to its belly?’

  Yssobel was so confused that she almost laughed out loud. ‘Are you mad? I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Odysseus took her hand. ‘We must try to imagine where in this confusion your mother is hiding; and where it is likely that this Christian has his guarded enclosure. Then we think of the best way to find them both.’

  ‘Strangely, I’d already come to that conclusion.’

  There was something else, though. The way he looked, the way he frowned, these were clear signs that he was the same Odysseus she had known in the villa; older, yes, but not a recreation here. He was the same. How he had come to be here she didn’t know, but he remembered her, and had almost certainly recognised her when she had first seen him on the beach, his shield in the water.

  ‘Did you truly not remember me when I came to your palace?’

  ‘It took a while,’ he confessed. ‘But it came back to me. All those years, Serpent Pass, that warm and cosy cave, your visits; your silly but engaging songs. Your family. And everything else we had. Yes. I remembered you.’

  ‘That warm and cosy cave in Serpent Pass?’

  He leaned forward and kissed her gently, eyes gleaming. ‘There’s a word for it in my language. It implies “the opposite of what is being said”. That said: your presence there, under the furs when you were young but old enough to put flesh to flesh, did make it warm.’

  With a wan smile, Yssobel replied, ‘And a well-remembered warmth. But not to last.’

  ‘I know.’

&
nbsp; ‘I’m tired. I don’t know where to begin.’

  ‘Where we begin is here. Well, not exactly here. Every one of these bastards has his eye on you.’

  Yssobel glanced quickly at the Athenians. ‘They look formidable. They look ferocious. But they can look all they want. When they have to fight, eyes will be on the enemy, not on me. We start here, then. And we go - where?’

  Before Odysseus could respond to this moment of challenge - a question that Yssobel could see he had not anticipated - from somewhere deeper in Legion came the sound of a stringed instrument. It was tuneless, in the process of being tuned. A drum thumped like the call for the dead, another rattled as if in a mad rage; a woman’s voice quavered, wavered, coughed and tried again. Quite soon the murmur of voices and laughter suggested that something was happening: a wedding, perhaps, or a birth, or just pleasure in the peace between missions.

  ‘Let’s dance,’ said Odysseus. ‘Just for a while. Let’s dance.’ They went into the forest, darting among the camps, following the sound trail.

  All but two of the Athenians followed.

  And they found a strange party but an exciting one, with a ring of torches arranged around a central fire, and between the two sets of flame a pirouetting, swirling game of ‘come here/get away’, with bronze-bright discs around the necks and waists of the women, and much clapping of hands and shoulder-shrugging by the men, and a movement of bodies that was hungry and passionate, at the same time suggestive and amusing, a feast of movement in the pause in Legion’s ever-onwards tracking through Time and the call to war.

  Five musicians pulsed out the rhythm and the string tones, and the drum tones, and the delicately voiced words. Odysseus was in his element, as was Yssobel, and they leapt across the torch ring, turning to face each other, finding an embrace, a lissom shift of limbs that matched the hard, fast movement of the music.

  The green side of Yssobel felt rather than understood the words: Can you hear the music move you? Can you feel alive today?

  And in this sudden vibrancy - the smells of torchwood, of cooking, of spilled wine, of sweat and breath and pure ebullience - she indeed felt suddenly very alive.