“That sword called Caliburn.”
“Excalibur.”
“That sword stolen from the nameless Lady.”
“Lady.”
“Of the Lake.”
“Of the Cauldron.”
“Of Rebirth.”
“Until that sword is returned to her from whom.”
“Stolen, it was.”
“Stolen and sullied.”
“Taken from its rightful owner.”
“But meant for kings.”
“Meant by its sorcery to bring peace and war in equal measure.”
“Meant for none but the Lady herself.”
“That sacred Lady.”
“Namtareth is blessed by her.”
“Namtareth, our mother-father.”
“Mother-father.”
“Namtareth, whom Hecate serves.”
“Namtareth, the Lady of Necramours, who lights the way with the dark lamp of the soul.”
“The Lady of Necramours who brings us the tongues of the dead.”
“Of those sacrificed in the dark bogs, dwelling with Arawn for hundreds of years, she brings us their eyes and their ears that we might know their secrets.”
“The Lady of Necramours, Namtareth the Terrible and the Beautiful, who blesses us with sleep-spirits and the voices of the dead.”
“Who teaches us to fly through the dreams of men that they we might love them.”
“That we might bring forth children of nightmares.”
“Blessed art though, Namtareth who brings terror in the night!”
The echoes of their words seemed endless, and as I stood there in twilight, the gloaming of mist around us, and the brightness of the ring of fire along the black water, I felt as if I had entered a holier place than ever before and yet it was the most fearsome of places.
When silence returned, I opened my mouth to ask a question, but the three Anthea sisters all opened their mouths and with my voice—my own voice—they asked the question. “If my mother is in danger, where might I find her? I have looked in all places.”
They closed their mouths, and the one upon the ledge leapt like a lion, splashing down at the edge of the ring of fire, and then leapt again toward me, knocking me down onto my back.
Her weight was heavy as she pressed her slimy hands against my shoulders. Her breasts hung down and nearly touched my throat. She brought her face close to mine, and looked me in the eyes. Spittle dripped from her lips onto me, and she whispered, “You must let her die, Mordred. She lies at the bottom of a chasm, offering herself to Arawn’s embrace. If she lives, she will never know peace. It is not ours to choose life or death.”
“I will not let her die,” I spat back.
“Her life will be your unmaking,” the one at the statue said.
“I do not care,” I said.
“Her death will bring her to you again,” said the Anthea pressing down on me.
“I do not believe that. Where is she? There are a thousand chasms, and quarries and cliffs in Broceliande. Where is my mother?” I cried out, trying to push her away.
“You may pay us for this.”
“If you tell me, I will pay anything,” I said.
“The Cauldron, then,” the one atop me muttered.
“The Cauldron,” the others repeated.
“The Cauldron of Rebirth.”
“The sacred Grail.”
Then they all three began speaking in echoes and across each other’s words until it was like the buzzing of flies over a dead body.
“It is held by the Lady.”
“She stole it.”
“From Arawn.”
“We do not want it for long.”
“A short time only,” said the one at the statue.
“I won’t steal it,” I said. “I don’t know where it is.”
“We can show you.”
“Yes, we know.”
“We have always known.”
“Oh!” they cried out at once, and all three pointed at me as if accusing. “You lie! You bastard prince of many lands! You lie! You have touched it! We see the burns upon your hand!”
More quietly, they whispered, “You have been blessed with your vision of it, Mordred. You could not touch it were it not meant for you to take. The Lady of the Lake adores you and Arawn thrice blesses you. Our goddess of Necramours blesses you and will bring you the tongues of the dead if you but bring her that Cauldron.”
“Our goddess Namtareth, the Queen of Necramours, who calls the dead to her service that they might not be reborn.”
“Nine times nine she kisses you.”
“Your mother lies dying.”
“Six times six, she touches your heart.”
“Morgan is bleeding into the earth, and her blood sings.”
“A beautiful song, like the hymns of the owl.”
“Like the sweet chirps of the ruby-throated frog.”
“Three times three, she whispers in your dreams.”
“It is a crime to steal from the Lady of the Lake,” I protested. “And I might never find it again. It was upon the soul-passing of an innocent!”
“Souls always pass,” they said. Then they laughed. “Unless the Lady of Necramours calls them to service as her lamp in darkness.”
“She might call your mother to service if she passes now, and she has but hours to live in that place where she lies bleeding.”
“It is not stealing, but borrowing,” the statue-clinger said. “The Cauldron will not go missing.”
“All law is meant to be broken,” said the torchbearer.
“And yet the sword was stolen and built a great kingdom,” said the one who held me down, low growls coming from her throat like she was a lion.
“She will understand.”
“She blesses Mordred, son of Morgan.”
“She blesses the Prince of the Wastelands and of North-Galis and of Cornwall.”
“She thrice blesses Mordred with the love of men that he may see the truth of life buried beneath the lies of the kingdoms.”
And then the Anthea crawled off from me, nearly slithering like a snake back toward the fiery water.
I sat up and looked into the burning flames, and saw the Cauldron of Rebirth, which was covered with the muck of the lake, and small fish that flashed silver and gold swam among the eelgrass surrounding it.
“It is at the deepest pit of the Lake of Glass.”
“We know you have touched it, Mordred. We are in dreams and see.”
“On a ledge, beneath where the healing waters bring rain into Arawn’s kingdom.”
“We cannot leave our grotto.”
“For we will die and never return.”
“For we have lived our thousand lives.”
“We share but one last soul between us.”
“Given to us by Namtareth the Beautiful.”
“The Lady of Necramours, the Terrible.”
“A soul shared by three, but the last of it is soon gone.”
“But the Cauldron will bring us the youth and beauty stolen from us.”
“Tortured from us by our own countrymen as they denied the old ways.”
“Denied and tortured.”
“Flayed our skin.”
“Buried us alive.”
“That we had to crawl up from the earth to breathe again.”
“In this, our final life.”
“Morgan le Fay lies dying.”
“The rightful Queen of Cornwall and North-Galis and the Wastelands, the mother of the future King of All, Mordred. The Faerie Queen Morgan, whose death will bless us.”
“She must die.”
“She must die.”
“Unless you pay the price.”
“The Cauldron.”
“It is but a bowl.”
“A chalice, nothing more.”
“Made of stone.”
“We may leave if we bathe in its waters.”
“Called Grail by Romans and Cauldron by your tribes, it ca
nnot bring harm to steal it.”
In my mind, I agreed to the bargain, for in those fires of the grotto I saw my mother’s face and its pain.
And the sisters heard me.
The fire died down into the water.
“By Midsummer’s Night, our payment is due.”
“You must swear to speak to no one of this.”
“Swear upon all the gods known and yet to be known.”
“Speak of this price you pay us and you will be cursed above all men.”
“But you do not have to pay us, virgin youth.”
“No payment is needed if you stay pure.”
“Remain chaste and you do not need the Cauldron.”
“Keep your sword in its sheath.” “Your cod in its piece.”
“Your flesh unyielded to another.”
“You are a man and have waited so long, surely you can wait longer, for you have outlasted your companions.”
“There are those who remain chaste their whole lives.”
“Men devoted to the goddess.”
“Like Attis, they castrate themselves for purity.”
“But you do not need to do this, youth, for you have mastery of the flesh.”
“A man among men.”
“If you remain so, you need not steal this bowl on our behalf.”
“We will forgive this debt so long as you are untouched by man or woman.”
“Untouched in that place where men hide their fury and seed.”
“Untouched and pure and virgin, then the debt is forgiven and the Cauldron forgotten.”
“But should you give that virginity.”
“In all ways that virginity may be offered, for it is a praise and a blessing to achieve manhood in that way.”
“And womanhood.”
“If you offer up your sword to another, and yield your body.”
“Then payment is due.”
“We will keep the Cauldron but a single night.”
“From sun to moon to sun.”
“And then you may take it back to the Lady that will not have noticed that it was taken.”
“She will not mind this.”
“No, for she is blessed, and blessing.” “Thrice blessed.”
“Nine times nine blessed,” they said.
“We send you this dream that you might find Queen Morgan,” a single voice said, though I did not know which sister had said it.
I saw in my mind where my mother lay as if I were dreaming with my eyes open.
Morgan le Fay lay against rocks and stream, to the western cliffs of the Valley of No Return, near where Viviane had been driven over the edge by the boars of Moccus.
Chapter Ten
1
I did not hesitate, nor thank these daughters of Namtareth whom they called the Lady of Necramours. I returned to my steed, and mounted it swiftly and pressed my heels to its flanks and whispered to it in the tongue of the Druids to fly as if with raven’s wings to the valley.
2
As if guided by those sisters, I found my mother by the time of the first stars in the sky. She lay as if dead, but I felt her breath against my hand, and her heart beat softly. I drew her up, and cradled her in front of me, with her head resting upon my chest as if she were my child.
When we returned to our cavern home, the wise women and the Druids gathered around her and began the medicines and healings. Viviane drew me aside to say, “She may live, Mordred. You must not far. But if she does, she may desire the peace of death again. Long has she been troubled, and long has her soul, in its suffering, wished to leave her body. Once a soul has decided to leave this life, it is nearly impossible to stop it.”
“I cannot believe that!” I shouted at her as if she were deaf. “She will live. I will bring her back. I will do what is necessary to cure her of this spirit-ache. All of us will, Viviane, and you also must.”
“I have seen many souls pass to the Otherworld, Mordred,” she said. “You cannot stop a soul’s journey, though you may bring an army to try and hold it back.”
“Crone, you may believe that, for you have lived long enough to know the breadth of life. But my mother is still young, and has not yet given up this fight to live, though she may have had a misguided thought along those cliffs. Or she may have fallen without intention,” I said.
“I do not mean to bring you pain,” Viviane said, and called for an initiate to come carry her to the healing circle. “I only mean to speak to you of the concerns of soul and the comfort you must find in it.”
3
Out on the lake that night, I saw the entreaties to the Lady, for the many boats were on the water, with torchlight upon them to light up the ancient paintings along the cavern roof, and below, to the floor of the lake, far below. The reds and gold and blues and greens of the Sacred Art of our ancestors seemed alive within the luminescence. As was the tradition during a great healing, the boatmen and women wore cloaks and the gold and silver masks of Cernunnos as well as of the Lady, whose face is unknown. The songs of old were sung by little children, whose voices have the purity of their passages from the previous life.
I sat upon the mat at the doorway to my home, and watched it all from that height, and prayed that my mother would live, though her bones were broken, and her spirit seemed to have nearly departed her flesh. The smoke from many fires moved like a storm cloud up through the caverns to the chasmic opening in the earth above, and in it I saw the faces, I thought, of those daughters of Namtareth to whom I had promised to pay a terrible price if my mother lived.
In the night, when others slept, and the boats still rocked gently upon the waters off the shore of the isle, Morgause came to me, wrapping her arms around me. “Thank you for finding her,” she said, kissing my forehead. “I could not live if she were to die.”
“She wanted to kill herself,” I said.
“But she did not,” Morgause said harshly, as if I had spoken a lie or had somehow wished my mother’s death. Then she softened again, and begged my forgiveness for her mood. “I was worried we would lose her, and I could not live without her beside me. It is a miracle that you found her before it was too late.”
“More than a miracle,” I said.
Morgause raised an eyebrow. “How did you find her, Mordred? Was it merely by chance? Did the goddess show you the way?”
“I am sworn not to tell.”
“What secret is this?”
“It is about the Well of Poison.”
“Those Romans,” she said, her nose wrinkling. “I should have known they’d have a hand in it.”
“I promised something terrible.”
“Promised?”
“They call themselves as one name, Anthea, and their goddess is called Namtareth.”
“Namtareth,” Morgause nodded. “An ancient name. She is a stealer of spirits, and it is said she lights her path with their darkening souls.” She looked at me, a crease in her brow as she tried to read my face. “Even dark places bring light for those who must live in shadow, Mordred.”
“I promised…” I began, but then remembered that I must tell no one of this price I had agreed to pay. “Have you ever promised something because you had no choice?”
“There is always a choice.”
“If the choice were the life of someone you did not want to lose?”
“Ah. And you cannot tell me of this choice, or of the price you must pay, for you are afraid it would hurt this someone?”
I nodded, and she wrapped her arms around me, kissing my forehead and my cheek. She drew her lips near to my ears and whispered, “For my sister, no price is too great. Life demands a great price for every breath, so do not fear this. If you, or I, suffer from this price that is paid, then I, for one, welcome the suffering.”
“As do I,” I said, but was still unsure of it.
She drew back again from me, keeping her hands on my shoulders, peering into my face as if able to read my thoughts.
“Those well-poisoners are tric
ksters,” she said. “They do not think well of men, and will lure youths to destruction if given the chance. Did they hurt you?”
“No.”
“Then you’re blessed.”
“They guided me to my mother in a dream. But they asked something of me that I am not sure I can give.”
“Pay whatever it is,” she said. “And then be done with them, for it is not good to be in debt to those grotto creatures. Though they serve the goddess, I do not trust them and believe they had a hand in my sister’s misery.”
4
Although my mother did not speak for many days, she began to heal.
The Druids had set her bones so that they might grow together like the oak sprig that is cut in spring and tied to the trunk of another oak so that the two grow into one. I went to her daily, and, as I had with Lukat, washed and fed her, and brought her news of the lake and of the approaching summer.
Morgan was kept within the Grove for healing, wrapped in a bed of herbs and sleeping upon the willow bark that brought such peace to the sick, and upon her, the ancient ram’s fleece that had come from distant lands and had old magick still within it. Morgause took a lover from among the charioteers so I did not see her for many nights. I remained alone in my chambers, and night brought dreams of the Anthea, and of that statue of Namtareth with her beast-faces, and the black water of the grotto, on fire. They were dream-hags, using the spirits of the dead to invade the dreams of men and women, and so they brought me back to their well and their water and that fearsome strange statue of the Lady of Necramours, Namtareth. I saw their snake eyes and their long hair and the gleam to their sharpened teeth.
Several nights, I woke crying out. Such dreams taunted me with the knowledge of the price I would have to pay for my mother’s life.
But as the nights passed, I began to dream of more soothing things, and forget the Anthea. Instead, I dreamed of great seas and distant castles. I dreamed of that man I had watched bathe and swim, and beauty of his body, like a god. I dreamed of Lukat, and the nights we held each other in warmth and comfort and love. I dreamed of the charioteer Danil, who had been my mother’s love for some years, and his thick-corded neck and that devilish mischief in his eyes as he went to my mother, though in the dream, he came to me. I dreamed of other men, too, faceless and beautiful, whose bodies covered mine like a cloak, drawing me to a blistering heat.
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