Taliesin: Book One of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  TWO

  GWYDDNO GARANHIR STOOD AT THE GATE OF HIS HILLTOP caer and looked out across Aberdyvi, the sea estuary of the River Dyvi, at the seabirds circling and chattering in the blue, windswept sky, diving for fish trapped on the mud flats by the receding sea. His eyes scanned the horizon for danger: the square, blood-red sails of Irish raiding ships.

  There was a time, not long past, when the sight of sails on the horizon sent the clan into a frenzy. The alarm would sound and Gwyddno would take up his spear and bronze shield and lead the men down to the beach to await the attack. Sometimes it came; and sometimes, seeing the jeering, gyrating warband waiting for them in the shallows, the ships sailed by in search of easier pickings elsewhere.

  But the horizon sparkled clean and clear; the village was safe for another day. Although it had been years since any sea raiders had dared attack, Gwyddno had not forgotten those bloody battles of his youth and his vigilance was as keen as ever.

  Below on the tide-exposed strand a few of his kinsmen waded through the shin-deep muck searching out blue mussels and oysters—oysters with the rare tiny pearls which were saved and sold by the hornful to the equally rare trader venturing far west into the wild mountain fastness of the Cymry. He saw them, bent-backed, coarse-woven sacks trailing in the mire, laboring with their long-handled wooden forks…and a thought occurred to him.

  Further up on this same river Gwyddno maintained a salmon weir which, in season, kept his table in fish and provided a good income out of the surplus. Perhaps, he thought, the weir could be made to provide more than salmon this year.

  Lately Gwyddno had been feeling his age, and as king and lord of six cantrefs of Gwynedd he had begun giving thought to who might be his heir. He had had two wives, who between them managed to produce only one son, Elphin. "Would that my wives were as fruitful as my weir," he often lamented to himself.

  Elphin was widely regarded by the clan as the most unlucky youth who ever lived. Nothing he set his hand to flourished, and nothing he ever attempted came to good. Stories about his astonishing bad luck were told from one end of Gwynedd to the other—like the time he had set out one morning with five others on horseback to hunt wild pigs in the dells around Pencarreth.

  The hunting party returned an hour after sunset with three horses missing, two men badly injured, one small pig between them, and all five blaming Elphin—though how he had caused the misfortune, no one was prepared to say precisely. But all agreed it was his fault. "It is no more than we deserve for going out with him," they said. "From now on, either he stays back or we do."

  Once he traveled with his father and a few kinsmen to a nearby village for the burial of a revered clan chief. Being Lord Gwyddno's son, Elphin was given the honor of leading the horse-drawn bier to the cromlech where the body would be laid to rest. The trail to the burial place passed through a beech copse and up a steep hill.

  As the bier crested the hill, a screech went up and a flurry of wings resolved itself into a covey of terrified quail taking flight. Although Elphin held tight to the reins, the horses reared, the bier tilted, and the body slid off to roll down the hill in a most startling and undignified manner. Elphin barely managed to escape joining his host in the cromlech.

  Another time Elphin was out on the estuary in a small boat, fishing the tideflow, when the anchor line gave way and the boat was swept out to sea. His kinsmen thought they had seen the last of him, but he returned the next day, tired and hungry but unharmed, having lost the boat—nets, catch, and all—on some rocks a fair distance up the coast.

  Other catastrophes large and small visited Elphin with dependable regularity. It was as if the day of his birth had been cursed so that he lived under a dark star, although no one could recollect any such spell. And as Gwyddno was a just and respected lord, there was little reason why anyone would want to curse his issue.

  Be that as it may, Elphin's chances of succeeding his father as lord were exceedingly slim. No one would follow a man known to be unlucky; and for such a man to become king would betoken certain destruction for the clan. In fact, the clan had begun to discuss the problem among themselves and some of the older members were now seen making the sign against evil whenever Elphin's back was turned. It was clear to Gwyddno that a solution would be needed soon.

  Gwyddno, who dearly loved his son, was determined to help him all he could. What was needed was a clear demonstration of a reversal of Elphin's luck. This was where the salmon weir came in.

  In a few days it would be Beltane, a most propitious time of year. A day when herds and fields would be blessed and the Earth Goddess importuned and appeased for a plentiful harvest in the fall. A day of strong magic. If a wealth of salmon were taken from the weir on this day it would be a portent of good fortune for the year to come. And if Elphin were the man to take the salmon, no one could call him unlucky.

  As it was Gwyddno's custom to give the take of the Dyvi weir to a clansman on this day each year, he decided that this year the man would be Elphin. In this way, the world would see whether his son's fortunes would ever improve or if he would go to his grave as luckless as he had come from his mother's womb.

  Gwyddno fingered his torc and smiled to himself as he turned away from the workers on the estuary. It was a good solution. If Elphin succeeded in a good catch, his fortunes would change; if not, he was no worse off than before and the tribes could begin searching among Gwyddno's younger cousins and nephews for an heir.

  The king walked back among the clustered dwellings of the caer: sturdy log-and-thatch, most of them, but here and there one of the low, round houses of an earlier time still stood. Nearly three hundred kinsmen—members of two related fhains who could trace their descent back to a common ancestor—called Caer Dyvi home and sought refuge behind its encircling ditch and stout wooden palisade.

  Gwyddno moved through the village, greeting his people, stopping now and then to exchange a word or hear a comment from one of them. He knew them all well, knew their hopes and fears, their dreams for themselves and their children, their hearts and minds. He was a good king, well-loved by those he ruled, including the lords of the outlying cantrefs who paid tribute to him as overlord.

  Red pigs rooting for acorns squealed and scattered as he came to stand beside the council oak in the center of the caer. An iron bar hung by a leather strap from one of the lower branches. Taking up the iron hammer, Gwyddno struck the bar several times. In a moment clansmen began gathering to his summons.

  When most of the older tribesmen were present, he said, speaking in a loud voice, "I have called council to announce my choice for the take of my salmon weir two days hence." This news was greeted with murmurs of approval. "I choose Elphin."

  The murmurs ceased. This was unexpected. Men looked to one another and several made the sign against evil behind their backs. "I know what you are thinking," Gwyddno continued. "You believe Elphin ill-favored—"

  "He is cursed!" muttered someone from the crowd, and there was general agreement.

  "Silence!" someone else shouted. "Let our chief speak."

  "The salmon weir shall be Elphin's test. If he brings back a great catch, the curse is broken."

  "If not?" demanded one of the clansmen.

  "If he fails, you may begin searching for an heir. I will not remain king beyond Samhain. It is time to choose a new leader."

  This last and more important news was received in respectful silence. Elphin's luck was one matter, choosing a king was another. "Return to your work. That is all I have to say," said Gwyddno, and thought: "There, it is done. Let them chew on that."

  As the tribe dispersed, Hafgan, the clan's bard, came forward, wrapped in his long blue robe although it was a bright spring day.

  "Cold, Hafgan?" said Gwyddno.

  The druid twisted his face and cast an eye toward the sun, now standing at midday. "I feel the chill of a snow that will be."

  "Snow? Now?" Gwyddno looked up at the high clouds floating across the sun-washed sky. "But it is nearly
Beltane—winter snows are past."

  Hafgan grunted and pulled his robe around him. "I will not argue about the weather. You did not consult me about this matter of the salmon weir. Why?"

  Gwyddno turned his eyes away. He disliked entrusting too much to a druid—one who neither fought, nor married, nor devoted himself to anything normal men might do.

  "Your answer is slow in coming," observed Hafgan. "A lie often sticks in the throat."

  "I will not lie to you, Hafgan. I did not consult you because I did not think it wise."

  "How so?"

  "Elphin is my only son. A man must do for his true sons what he can to advance their fortunes. I made up my mind that Elphin should have the take of the weir this year. I did not want you to gainsay the plan."

  "You believed I would interfere?"

  Gwyddno looked at the ground.

  "There was your mistake, Gwyddno Garanhir. Your plan showed wisdom, but the weather will go against you. I could have told you."

  Gwyddno's head snapped up. "The snow!"

  The bard nodded. "A storm is coming. Wind and snow from the sea. The salmon will be late and the weir empty."

  Gwyddno shook his head sadly. "You must not tell Elphin. There may still be something for him."

  The druid huffed and made to turn away. "The Great Mother is ever generous."

  "I will make an offering at once. Perhaps it will help."

  "Do not think you will turn aside the storm," called Hafgan over his shoulder.

  Gwyddno hurried away to his many-roomed house. "If she will not change his bad luck, perhaps the goddess will ease it a little."

  * * *

  On the morning of the eve of Beltane, dark clouds obscured the sky and icy blasts struck the land, bringing sleet and snow from over the sea. Nevertheless, Elphin rose early in his father's house, donned furs against the cold and went out to join the weir wardens, two of his father's kinsmen who had charge of the salmon weir.

  The men muttered to themselves and made the sign against evil as they threw extra furs on the horses, mounted, and rode upriver. Elphin ignored his clansmen's rudeness and gnawed a bit of hard black bread as he rode, wrapped in his hunting cloak and thoughts of what the day might bring.

  Elphin was a sturdy young man with a broad, good-natured face and soft brown eyes; his hair was mouse brown, as was his drooping mustache. He liked to eat and, even more, to drink, and his voice was often raised in song. If his hands were never overbusy, neither were they ever too full to help another. In all, his manner was as open and guileless as his countenance.

  Unlike those around him, Elphin seemed not to mind his bad luck, appearing almost oblivious to it. He could not understand why people made so much of it. Anyway, there was nothing to be gained worrying about it, for all matters of fortune were in the hands of the gods who gave or withheld as they pleased. In his experience, matters tended to turn as they would and nothing he did or did not do made any difference.

  True, the weather might have been better. Wet snow and wind were not the best conditions for taking a fortune of salmon from the river. But what of that? Could he shut up snow in the sky or stop the wind from blowing?

  The trail from the caer wound along the Dyvi's clear waters, now gray and cold, mirroring iron-dark heavens. Snow clung to the trees, weighing down their new-leafed branches. The shrill wind burned exposed flesh and the men hunched their shoulders against the chill; their horses, winter coats partly shed, bent their heads and plodded on.

  They reached the weir by midmorning, and although the clouds remained as solid and grave as ever, and snow still fell steadily, the wind had lessened. The weir wardens dismounted and stood looking at the net-strung poles across the shallows. Snow topped the poles, and the nets themselves were traced in white where they showed above the black water. Across the river a stand of larches stood like a group of white-mantled druids gathered to watch the proceedings.

  "There's the weir," said one of the wardens, a bull-necked young man named Cuall. "Get on with it."

  Elphin nodded. With an amiable shrug, he began to strip off his clothes. Naked, he made his way down to the water, lowering himself carefully over the wet rocks. He entered the water, clamping his arms around his chest to stop the shivering, and waded toward the first net.

  The net came heavily from the dark water and Elphin pulled with spirit. But the net was empty.

  He cast a look shoreward, where his kinsmen stood unmoving, their faces creased in scowls, shrugged, and made his way slowly to the next pole, his flesh prickling with cold. The next net was empty, as was the one following and, save for a snagged stick, so was the one after that.

  "An evil day," grumbled Cuall. The man's voice carried over the water. Elphin heard him but pretended otherwise and continued with his task. "No reason we should freeze," replied Ermid, the second warden. "Let us have a fire."

  The two set about gathering dry kindling and the next time Elphin looked back he saw a merry blaze in a clearing on the bank. He turned and rejoined the others who sat hunkered over the flames.

  The young man knelt before the fire and sighed with relief as the flames began to thaw his frozen limbs. "Had enough of salmon already?" asked Cuall. Ermid laughed sharply.

  Elphin stretched his hands to the warmth and said through chattering teeth, "I w-would say the salmon have h-had enough of me."

  This answer angered Cuall. He jumped to his feet and shook his fist in Elphin's face. "All your ill luck aforetime was nothing compared to this! You have destroyed the virtues of the weir!"

  Elphin bristled at the accusation but replied calmly, "I have not yet finished what I came to do."

  "What is the use of it?" bawled Cuall. "Any man can see you'll be getting nothing for your trouble!"

  Once more, the young man braved the icy water and made his way among the poles and nets, working his way slowly across the river. Cuall watched him and then said to Ermid, "Come on, we have seen enough. Let us go back."

  They scooped snow with their hands and tossed it onto the fire until it sizzled and died, then climbed back into their saddles. They had just turned their horses, however, when they heard Elphin's shout. Cuall rode on, but Ermid paused and looked back. He saw Elphin striding through the thigh-deep water toward the bank, pulling a black bundle behind him.

  "Cuall, wait!" Ermid shouted. "Elphin has something!"

  Cuall reined up and squinted over his shoulder. "It is nothing," he snorted. "A drowned carcass."

  Elphin shouted again, and Ermid dismounted. Cuall watched the two of them with impatience and swore under his breath, then urged his mount back along the trail. He arrived just in time to see Elphin and Ermid haul a large leather bag from the water.

  "Look what Elphin's found," said Ermid.

  Cuall remained unimpressed. "A watersogged skin that's not worth spit."

  Ermid took out his knife and began hacking at the bag. "Careful!" warned Elphin. "You will damage my fortune."

  "Your fortune!" Cuall barked, climbing down from his horse. "Aye, your fortune right enough. Every year to this, the weir yields the value of a hundred in silver, and all you get is a castoff bag."

  "Who knows? There may yet be the value of a hundred silver inside," said Elphin, and he took the knife and began carefully slitting the leather skin. Then he and Ermid opened the bag and pulled out a bundle wrapped in thick, gray seal fur and tied with leather thongs. The thongs and the fur were dry.

  "See here!" cried Ermid. "The water has not come inside."

  Elphin lay the bundle on the ground and, with trembling hands—shaking as much from excitement as from cold— began untying the carefully knotted thongs. When the last knot was freed, he lifted his hand to unwrap the bundle, but hesitated.

  "What are you waiting for?" growled Cuall. "Show us this fortune of yours so we can tell the clan."

  "Go on," said Ermid and reached to pull away the fur wrapping.

  Elphin caught his hand. "Why so eager to share this bad luck, cousi
n?" he asked. "Allow me."

  With that Elphin took the corner of the sealskin and pulled it back. There on the ground before them lay the body of an infant.

  "Scrawny thing's dead," observed Cuall, rising.

  The child lay still, its fair skin ghostly pale, its cold, tiny lips and fingers blue. Elphin stared at the infant, a man-child, exquisitely formed. Hair as fine as spider's silk and the color of gold in the firelight fell lightly across a high forehead. The closed eyes were perfect half moons, the ears delicate shells. There was not a flaw or blemish on the tiny body anywhere.

  "A beautiful child," whispered Elphin.

  "Who'd be throwing a babe like that in the river?" wondered Ermid. "He looks fit enough to me."

  Cuall, holding the horses, sneered. "The child is bewitched, like as not. Accursed he is. Throw him back and be done with it."

  "Throw away my fortune?" scoffed Elphin. "I never will."

  "The babe is dead," said Ermid, not unkindly. "Throw it back lest the curse cling to you for finding him."

  "What of that? As I am cursed already, it will not matter." Elphin gathered up the babe in its bundle and cradled it to his naked body.

  "Do what you like," growled Cuall and swung himself up into the saddle. "Are you coming, Ermid?"

  Ermid rose and fetched a fur from his horse, draped it over Elphin's shoulders, and remounted.

  Elphin held the child for a long moment and felt the tiny body warm against his skin. Snow swirled down through the overarching branches, casting a pall of silence over the surrounding forest—a silence that was broken by a small, muffled cry.

  Lowering the bundle, Elphin watched in wonder as the child in his arms drew a deep, shuddering breath and cried again, stretching out its tiny hands. The infant's voice seemed to fill the world with its cry.

  "By the Mother Goddess!" exclaimed Ermid. "The babe lives!"

  Cuall just stared, his fingers instinctively making the sign against evil.

  "Here," said Elphin getting up and holding the child out. "Hold him while I dress myself. We must get him to the caer quickly."

  Ermid sat frozen in the saddle. "Hurry!" commanded Elphin. "I mean to take him back alive, that all may see my fortune." At this Ermid dismounted and took the babe gingerly in his hands.