Art felt mildly uncomfortable. Merlin had never subjected him to that kind of silent scrutiny before. It was embarrassing…especially as he did not know why the priest stared with such intensity. Measuring him up. Judging.
Eventually Merlin spoke. Night was drawing in now; the thin fingernail of the Moon hung suspended above in a swaying web of ghostly branches. “Art’igen, what do you know of the making of Khor Ghor?”
“Only what the storytellers sing. That the first Merlin…blessed be his spirit…” He glanced anxiously at the older man, who was possibly—who knew?—reborn with the spirit of that much Esteemed Ancestor. “The first Merlin brought the stones from the West by magic, after winning them from Ibherna in a terrible battle! It is said that he floated them through the air all the way to the Great Plain!”
Merlin’s eyes were hooded. “A pretty tale, but just a tale. Wiser lore-masters will tell you how he dismantled the stones with cunning devices, and raised them again in the same way—with the wisdom of his thought, not any magical art. Ardhu, come follow me. We will not be long. Ka-hai will be quite safe.”
Merlin got up and entered another section of the darkling grove. Art’igen followed, carefully picking his way between snarled roots and animal burrows. Up ahead he spotted a stone, furred with moss: the capstone of a mighty burial cist, a chamber to contain the bones of some great warrior, his knees drawn up in foetal position as he awaited rebirth, his long-fleshless face turned toward the rising Sun in the East. It was not a particularly pleasant place to visit in the dead of night, with the wind rushing and dancing about, keening through the moving branches of the trees. What if the old barrow-man was lonely, hungry, seeking to draw the unwary living into the Lands of the Dead?
“Art’igen,” said Merlin, “do you think you can move that stone?” He gestured to the capstone with its cupmarks that held the tremulous Moonlight.
Art stared at him as if he had gone mad. “Of course not! Many men would be needed to drag such a heavy slab!”
“So it may appear…but watch me, Art’igen.” Merlin approached the stone and set his hand upon it. He shut his eyes; the wind lifted his hair, Moonbeams turning it to a mist of silver and shadow. His lips moved soundlessly, invoking who knew what beings. He gave the capstone a small but sharp shove… and the stone moved. It swivelled round, grinding on pebbles beneath its underside before settling again with a dull thud.
Art was silent, but his mouth was hanging open. He forced his jaw to shut, afraid that he looked like the village fool, gawping and incredulous. “Great is the magic of Merlin!” he gasped.
“Magic? Some would see it as such,” said the priest. And then, leaning close to the youth, his eyes hollow as those of a skull: “Others would call it an art. Remember this, Art’igen, and if I ever ask you to move stones for me, do not hesitate and have faith. Remember this night, and cast all doubts away.”
Merlin was so ardent, so impassioned, that Art felt a thrill of fear run from head to toe. But he bowed his head gravely, and said, “Whatever is the will of the Great Merlin, my mentor.”
They returned to the encampment, where Ka-hai still snored beneath the tree, and the horses contentedly cropped grass beneath the Moon. Merlin eased himself onto the mossy ground with a groan—already he suffered the chronic bone-ache that afflicted almost all older folk in Prydn—and soon he was snoring as loudly as Ka’hai, his cloak thrown over his head.
But Art’igen could not sleep, not after seeing that huge stone moved by one man’s hand. In silence he sat staring at the changing sky, thinking on what he had witnessed, while growing excitement knotted the pit of his belly. It was only after Moonset, when the wind sank to a sigh and the little grove was black with unbroken shadow, that he finally allowed himself to sleep.
And as he lay curled on the grass, Merlin got up and sat over him, singing and humming, casting his spells, treating with the spirits and elements that they would protect and assist this dark young bear, son of the Head Dragon.
*****
The three travellers reached the henge of Marthodunu early the next day. The sky was fair and the huge banks towered high and bright beneath the Sun. Unlike Deroweth, there were timber building actually built upon the earthworks, their roofs shining in the early light. On one side of the settlement, the coiled snake of Abona made a natural watery boundary before winding its way across the flatlands: following its course, a traveller would eventually reach Deroweth and the Place-of-Light. It was the umbilical cord that bound the holy places of the land together.
Merlin entered Marthodunu first, through the great Northeastern gap. Art’igen and Ka’hai followed, all eyes, trying not to gawk at the unfamiliar sights around them. To one side, a priestess sat moaning and incanting, her face blue-grey with clay, mimicking a corpse’s pallid visage. She squatted above the unmarked tomb of the guardian of the gate, a young girl whose stunted bones had marked her as chosen many centuries ago. Merlin tossed a chip of bluestone at the priestess and she smiled a toothless grin and bowed, swaying on her bony painted legs before placing the chip on a gathered pile of offerings given by incoming travellers—shells, pebbles, bones, flints.
Further on, at the heart of the huge complex, was a mighty mound, raised by the hand of man, but nearly as big as a natural hill. A ditch surrounded it, and water glistened palely at its foot, a sheet of blue mirroring the morning sky. Beyond the mound stood more timber buildings and an earthen enclosure that resembled a small arena or amphitheatre. It was here that most of the people were heading.
It seemed that many of the chiefs of the Five Cantrevs and their wives and warriors had arrived during the night or around dawn. They clustered by the amphitheatre surrounded by crude wagons heaped with furs and grain to offer to the priests of the henge and to use for barter with each other.
Ka’hai and Art were now staring openly, unable to feign adolescent disinterest any longer. These people, men and women alike, were as magnificent as the tellers-of-tales had painted them. One highborn woman had fire-red hair, caught up in golden wires, and a crescent necklace of imported jet from the north. Another was almost impossibly old, her wrinkled face dominated by tribal scars and a lip-stud that distended her mouth, but she appeared to have much power and prestige— thick cones of pure, decorated gold fastened her dress, and amber droplets swung from the ends of her grey braids. One lord was tall as a spear, with tattoos of beasts on his body, and he shaved his face and the sides of his head, which left a huge tufted plain of grain-golden hair on top, waving like a flag in the breeze. Yet another was muscled and dark of aspect, with a plate of fine gold stretched out upon a linen tunic and jet plugs in ears and the bottom of his nose. They all jostled and shouted, trying to establish dominance, along with their equally bright contingents of warriors, all boasting, bragging, and strutting in their finery, while their less lordly companions, wrapped in undyed sheepskins, unloaded the carts and started bargaining with the crowds of onlookers who had come in from the nearby farmlands. Some had even brought girls to marry off—the maidens giggled and tittered, making eyes at the handsomest, most gold-rich warriors.
A lanky priest in a brown robe approached Merlin and spoke to him earnestly. A moment later he came over and beckoned to Art’igen. “Come,” he said in a sharp voice. “You must prepare yourself.”
Art was led away by the priest, but not before Ka’hai has whispered, ‘Good luck to you, little brother!” in his ear. He was taken across the great enclosure, up to the earth-turfed house that squatted like a crouched beast on its lofty banks. The house had a low door, its gable painted with chevrons. The priest thrust aside a screen barring the doorway and pushed the lad inside.
The interior of the hut was boiling-hot; Art had never felt anything like it, even on the hottest summer’s day. A huge fire roared in a pit sunken into the ground, and around it clustered half a dozen lads, stripped and shining with sweat, all looking decidedly uneasy. Behind them clustered some priests, greasy-haired in the heat, faces florid ab
ove their long beards. They chanted and sang; one drummed. Behind them, where the flames from the pit cast little illumination, were a row of bowed heads…bald heads, heads devoid not only of hair but flesh: Ancestors brought out of old tombs to witness their children’s children ten times over become men of the tribe. Some were merely bones, on others drying had caused bone and skin to fuse; some of the latter were dressed in clothes, as if they were living men, with ochre rubbed on their bony cheeks to give the semblance of renewed life.
“You—take off your tunic,” ordered the head priest, turning to Art’igen. Art quickly obeyed, and the priests clustered round inspecting him for any flaws. A boy with a shrivelled arm, a clubbed foot or a sway back would never be a proper man…though he could sometimes find a haven amongst the priests and shamans.
“He will pass,” said another priest, nodding. “He is sound and hale.”
“Kneel,” the chief priest ordered, gesturing to the other lads to also get down on their knees.
Art knelt down, sweat starting to trickle along his spine. The priests were chanting loudly now, lifting up great switches made of bound willow withies. Crying out, they struck the bare backs of the kneeling youths over and over again, beating any evil spirits from their flesh, making them pure before the watching Ancestors and the ever-present spirits that resided in the earth, the air, the water and the holy fire.
When they were finished, they cast the bloodied branches into the fire and danced around it as they were consumed. Then they took the hot ashes and rubbed them over the boys’ wheals and painted symbols on their brows with them. Through all of this, the young men remained silent, not a sound passing between them—one groan of pain, one tear in a smoke-filled eye, and that lad would be considered a failure, to be returned to his mother’s hearth for another year.
Once this face-painting was completed, the boys were led from the hut by the head priest and herded across the grass to the circular arena, the ring within a greater ring, which Art had noted when he arrived. It was still thronged with the visiting chiefs, who sat on sheepskin rugs in the fore; behind them clustered the humble people of the surrounding lands, craning to see the display. For boys from the outlying farmsteads and small settlements, this parade was a good thing—often, if they showed themselves worthy, they would be invited to join a chief’s warband. This was Art’s great hope…as much as he honoured his foster-father, he wanted to go beyond the forge, to see the great temples spoken of in song, to fire the bow and wield the axe in defence of the green hills of his home.
Inside the earthen amphitheatre, small and cramped in the shadow of the Great Barrowhill, the boys began to march in a circle. Pipes wailed and drums thumped and the youths danced with wild abandon—the fire-warrior’s first dance in honour of the Risen Sun. High they leapt, nimble as the deer, supple as the salmon, reaching toward the Bright Lord of the Everlasting-Sky. The men and women on the banks shouted and catcalled, choosing favourites, jeering at those who were not light of foot or pleasing to look at. Art was glad he didn’t hear any insults thrown his way.
The drums and pipes died suddenly and a cudgel was thrust into his hand. One older lad, already an adult, was coming toward him from amid the gaggle of priests and their followers. His face was painted in red and black stripes and his oversized mouth was grinning nastily. In his hand he held a spiky blackthorn club which he swung menacingly.
On the banks the tribesfolk and foreign visitors began to chant and stamp their feet. The dull thudding made the ground reverberate beneath Art’igen’s bare soles, almost as if the earth itself had gained an audible heartbeat. Art’s own heart speeded up, as both fear and excitement blazed through him, and then he made a rush for the older youth.
The lad sneered and hopped easily out of the way and Art stumbled past him, almost falling with the impetus of his rush. The crowd booed. Face burning, he whirled on his heels and lashed out again at his smirking opponent. He was obviously quicker than the other lad expected, and this time Art’s cudgel met with his wrist. He jerked back in surprise and then red rage filled his eyes. He was very tall and long-legged, and he sprang high into the air, a warrior’s leap, and aimed a vicious blow at Art’s head with his foot. Art’igen anticipated his move; he had seen a horse kick out under an unwelcome rider many times on Ech-tor’s holding. Dropping his weapon, he grabbed the other youth’s leg and tipped him over backwards. He fell with a crash on the sandy soil, breathless and gasping in shock and dismay. Art’igen hurled himself onto his chest, pinning him down, and tore the blackthorn club from his fingers, holding it menacingly above him as if to strike a deathblow.
Behind him he could hear the chiefs and warriors from the Five Cantrevs shouting and clamouring: “Finish him, boy! It’s an honour to be blooded on your first day as a man! Kill the weakling!”
Art looked down at his adversary, his face paint smeared, his chalk-whitened hair filled with dirt. He was only perhaps a year older than Art himself. His eyes were still defiant but fear had crept into them. Art raised the club, to an accompanying roar from the audience. It would be an honour; he could gift the youth’s spirit to the ever-eager Ancestors who always welcomed new faces in the realm of the Not-living.
But no. He could not do it. It seemed too great a waste… He looked down at his vanquished adversary and prodded him with his foot. “What is your name?”
The young raised his head. “Betu’or. Of the people of Marthodunu.”
“Betu’or—a name of two meanings, am I right? King of Battle and Knower-of-Graves. Well, Betu’or, you will live this day and the knowing of graves may not be for many years yet. Be glad this day, for I give you back your life, which was mine to take. Some would not show mercy but I say it is better to keep a valorous man of the tribe to fight our true foes. Rise now, and go. ”
Betu’or scrambled up and sped from the enclosure. Some of the men in the crowd booed in disappointment, but the women were laughing and clapping, and eventually their menfolk put their bloodlust aside and followed suit.
The chief priest of Marthodunu swept towards Art’igen and took hold of his arm, raising it on high. “This one today shall be proclaimed a Man-of-the-Tribe, free to wed, to wield arms, to participate in rites to please the Old Ones and the spirits. He is born anew, his life as a man just begun, and a new name he must have. What shall it be?”
“He fought like a bear out there!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Like a bear!”
The priest inclined his snowy head. “He was Art’igen…the bear-that-is-to-be. A true Bear he is now. From this moment forward let him be known as Ardhu—the Dark Bear.”
“Ardhu, Ardhu!” chanted the crowd, and the sound of Art’s new adult name echoed round the steep walls of Marthodunu and reached up to touch the very vault of heaven and the realm of Sun and Moon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ardhu and Ka’hai spent the rest of the night getting very, very drunk on beer and fermented honey-mead. It was the first time Art had been permitted to drink alcohol, which was deemed fit only for adult males, and he was going to make the most of it. The Merlin kept an eye on them both from a perch high on the henge bank, and pretended to give them disapproving glances (although he was secretly amused.)
Finally, when Ardhu fell over, clutching his belly, and started to retch, the shaman wandered over and poked him with the tip of his staff. “Enough for now,” he said. “You need some rest. When the chiefs meet tomorrow to choose a High Chief, I want you to witness the event with a clear head and undimmed eye! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Merlin,” said Ardhu meekly. “But I really haven’t drunk that much…”
He rose to prove his steadiness to the older man, and promptly fell over with a yelp. Ka’hai bellowed with laughter, his big bluff face red and shiny.
“Come on, Ka’hai, help me lift him,” Merlin ordered curtly, and together they carried the protesting Ardhu to Merlin’s tent, which was pitched by the river. The tents and yurts of the lords of the West were all ar
ound, brightly decorated, some billowing pungent smoke from their smoke-holes. Torches and rush lights flared, while warriors paraded by with huge hounds trundling at their heels and beautiful sloe-eyed women on their arms. It seemed a magic world of nobility and splendour to a youth who had spent nearly all his days at Ech-tor’s smithy, away from even the normal daily life of the local villages. “Merlin…” he said suddenly. “Now that I am accounted a man…I want to be a warrior. Like them!” He flapped his arm wildly in the direction of the men with their dogs and daggers and haughty amber-draped women.
A chunky man with a nose flattened by many a fight and a face as coarse and lumpen as a slab of weathered sarsen, scowled in Art’s direction. “You looking for a good thumping? What are you staring at, boy?
“Not your ugly face I’m sure, Bohrs!” Merlin retorted, peering over Art’s shoulder at the squat warrior. “Actually, my ward was… admiring you! Now come and help an old man, and cease your bluster.”
The scowling warrior, not daring to cross a priest, especially one from Khor Ghor, scowled ever deeper but obeyed without question. Joining Ka’hai and Merlin, he grabbed one of Ardhu’s arms and dragged his dead weight over to Merlin’s tent. “My thanks, noble Bohrs!" gasped Ardhu, clutching feebly at Bohrs' cloak, while the older man curled his lip contemptuously and tried to rip the cloth free. “If I ever become a great warrior, I would have the likes of you in my band!”
“That’s about as likely as a flying sow!” snorted Bohrs, and he stumped off with great aplomb, his dignity hurt by the familiarity of this silly, young drunk.
Merlin dragged his ward inside the tent and pushed him down on a pallet of dry grass; his eyes shut almost as his head hit the floor. Ka’hai, exhausted by lugging his little brother about the henge, fell forward in a drunken stupor, half over Ardhu’s bed, like some giant, shaggy guardian dog. His jaw dropped and the usual ear-splitting snores came out.
Stone Lord: The Legend of King Arthur (The Era Of Stonehenge) Page 13