“I know you’ve been lonely since your father sent you here to marry Arthur. I know it’s hard, very hard, to find yourself among strangers who can’t understand you.”
Guinevere sighs.
“I know the peace treaty is good, and necessary. Both our peoples benefit. My tribe was lucky to make a truce with Arthur. We didn’t want to fight, we just wanted to settle. Arthur didn’t assume we came as enemies, like the rest believe. We’re lucky to have Arthur—many other Saxon tribes invade western Albion by force, and not many can see that we are different.” She lifts her chin. “I am proud I can help bring peace to my tribe.”
“Of course.” I study her face. Her eyes dart to mine and look away. “But still. I understand that it is difficult nonetheless.”
Guinevere’s back is stiff. Her next words are halting, despite speaking in her native tongue.
“Do you think Arthur will ever forgive me?”
It is my turn to sigh.
“I don’t think forgiveness is the problem,” I say. Guinevere jerks her head involuntarily, but keeps her eyes fixed into the distance. I pause—should I say what’s really going on?—and decide Guinevere needs to know.
“Honestly, Arthur just doesn’t have much confidence in himself, at least not regarding women.” Guinevere frowns. This is not the answer she expects. I continue. “He’s gaining renown on the battlefield and respect from the chieftains for strategy, but he’s still very young. When you turned to Lancelot for love and companionship, he assumed he wasn’t worthy of your regard. He doesn’t expect anything now. He only sees you hurt and in pain, and he doesn’t think that he could ever change that for you.”
Guinevere releases her breath in a rush and slumps, covering her face briefly. She looks at me for confirmation.
“Really? Is that what he thinks?”
I shrug.
“Not that he’s told me as much. But I’ve known him a long time.”
“I just wanted someone I could talk to. The loneliness was unbearable. I felt so lucky that Lancelot knew a little of my language and could teach me yours. Everyone was behind a barrier of words that I couldn’t break through. Even my new husband only looked at me with worried eyes and made hand gestures.” She gives a heartfelt sigh. “I wish you had been here then, Merlin.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t. But those first few months of your marriage were so precarious in the north that Arthur had to send me to lead the defenses.”
“Well, at least you’re here now, and Lancelot is far away on the eastern borders.” She bites her lip and nods decisively. “I am glad of it. I want to make this right. What can I do to fix this? Advise me, Merlin.”
I switch to Brythonic.
“Let’s work on your words. Communication is vital between husband and wife, or so I’m told.”
Guinevere puffs out her cheeks in resignation and squares her shoulders, ready for her lesson.
***
It’s a sweetly domestic scene—Arthur mends a belt as he sits on a bench in front of the fire, and Guinevere stitches the hem of a cloak beside him. On the surface they’re the very image of marital comfort.
I play with the lauvan of the fire absently, making the flames rise and fall at my whim. Guinevere catches me changing one of the flames a deep cherry-red and smiles. She likes my little tricks, thinks they’re funny, and doesn’t question much beyond that. It’s not that she doesn’t understand that I’m strange and different, it’s that she doesn’t seem to care. I’m just Merlin to her, her only friend in this new life.
Arthur clears his throat.
“Did I tell you, Merlin, that Morgan’s husband Idris was at the conclave yesterday?” He eyes the new hole he made in the leather of his belt.
“What did he have to say? He’s always plotting some big push to get the Saxons out of Gwent for good.”
“Yes, and he always expects me to join him, as his brother-in-law.” Arthur shakes his head. “My marrying Guinevere was a real blow to him. I still don’t think he understands why I did it.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” I say. Guinevere looks up at the mention of her name, but I know she’s following the conversation.
“He’s been traveling around the countryside, drumming up followers. He’s making a big push to get all the Saxons as far away from the borders as possible, and people are starting to listen.”
“But there are thousands of settlers already in the far east, and hundreds more on our borders. Some of them are the grown children of settlers. I understand wanting to defend against pillaging and destruction, but is he really planning on forcing the settlers out of their homes?” I shake my head. “At this point, it seems like a fool’s errand.”
“It’s only talk at the moment, but people are starting to listen. By the end of the conclave two factions had emerged—mine and Idris’.” Arthur sighs. “Hopefully the harvest will be good this year. Fear of another bad winter is what’s driving some of the warriors to follow Idris, I’m sure of it. Everyone gets anxious when there’s not enough food.”
“Especially when there’s an easy target to blame,” I say.
“Excuse me, my lord,” Guinevere says. Her cheeks are colored and her eyes dart from mine to Arthur’s, as if she searches for her words in our faces.
“Yes, Guinevere?” Arthur says, his voice polite but distant.
“Morgan—sister Morgan—she is here, month before. Yes?” I nod at her encouragingly. Morgan and Idris visited Arthur’s villa for the midsummer festival. Morgan sat with Guinevere and the other women during the day while the men hunted. She looked as annoyed as ever to be left out of the action. Guinevere continues. “She is to say all Saxon leave now, we are bad people. She say to all women. She think I do not know Brythonic. Women…” Guinevere nods vigorously in pantomime to indicate the other women’s approval of Morgan’s words. “She say Idris at Samhain to make Saxon go.”
Arthur stares at Guinevere, a look of surprise and pleasure on his face. I don’t think Guinevere has ever spoken so much Brythonic in his presence before. She blushes with pride and confusion, and looks to the fire to avoid his gaze.
When the content of Guinevere’s words finally sinks in, Arthur’s face becomes grim.
“So, Idris is planning a concerted attack at Samhain. Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He clenches his fists in anger. “What is Morgan doing? I wish I’d known the way she treated you, Guinevere. I’m sorry for that.”
Guinevere lifts her shoulders. I don’t know if it’s a sign of resignation in response to Arthur’s words, or whether she just doesn’t understand. Arthur turns again to me.
“There’s trouble ahead, Merlin.”
“And we’ll be ready for it.” I feign a confidence I do not feel. A sense of foreboding is growing in my mind. Things are coming to a head, and I’m not sure which path we should take.
Arthur smiles.
“Yes, we will.” Arthur’s confidence in me is gratifying. I hope I’m right.
Guinevere puts her sewing down on the bench and stands up.
“Good night, my lord,” Guinevere says to Arthur. He nods in reply. She wavers on the spot for a moment, then bends down to kiss him on the cheek. She pulls back to search his face as if evaluating his reaction.
Arthur looks a little stunned. Guinevere turns to go, and Arthur grabs her hand.
“Wait,” he says. She looks at him quizzically. He clears his throat then says in Saxon, “Good night, Guinevere.”
Guinevere flushes with pleasure at hearing her native tongue on Arthur’s lips. She bows her head and leaves. Before she passes through the doorway, she looks back at me with a question in her eyes. I nod at her and she smiles back. Of course I taught Arthur the phrase. Why shouldn’t the learning go both ways?
I let Guinevere’s footsteps fade across the courtyard before I speak.
“Arthur.”
“Mmm?” He picks up his dagger with a pensive air and starts to sharpen it against a whetstone. The snick of the blade pe
rcusses our words.
“Are you ever worried I’ll follow Lancelot’s example? With Guinevere, I mean?”
Arthur lets out a bark of surprised laughter.
“No. Should I be?” He laughs some more and continues to sharpen his dagger.
I neither laugh nor answer him. He looks at me, a little confused, and puts down the dagger and whetstone.
“Should I be?”
“No.” It’s true. I would never touch Guinevere. I would never do that to Arthur. But I don’t expect him to know that.
“Well, then.” He picks up the whetstone again but only plays with it absentmindedly, passing it back and forth between his hands. “Why the question?”
“Surely once bitten, twice shy. And I don’t have the best reputation when it comes to other men’s wives.”
“But I trust you, Merlin.” He looks at me with frank openness. “I trust you with my life and I trust you with my woman. You’re my most valued advisor, my old tutor, and my best friend.” He leans back on the bench, propped up by his hands. “It’s that simple.”
I turn away and stare into the fire so he can’t see my eyes glisten.
***
I awake to shaking.
“Merry. Merry, wake up.”
I open my eyes, groggy and dazed. Jen’s face is close to mine, her expression troubled.
I sit upright. The movie credits are playing in the darkened room. Night fell while I was asleep.
“You started twitching in your sleep—totally missed a great car chase, by the way—and then, well, you seemed really distressed. I thought I should wake you up.”
Only then do I notice the wetness in my eyes. I dash the tears away.
“Sorry,” I say. “I guess I wasn’t that into the movie.”
Jen looks at me with questions in her eyes, but says no more.
CHAPTER VIII
Up with the birds today. I have a hard time sleeping this morning, but can’t place why. I finally roll out of bed and throw on a T-shirt and pajama pants. Maybe the newspaper has arrived. My slippered feet pad out the door on my way to the mailboxes. It’s too early for anyone to be up and about, so my pajama bottoms should go unnoticed. Not that I really care—I lost modesty and embarrassment centuries ago—but Merry Lytton should care, and it’s important to keep up appearances.
Maybe when I get back I’ll give my friend Braulio a call. He’s always up early and we’re overdue for a chat. I’ve known him for years and years, but these days he doesn’t get around much. We keep in touch via phone and my occasional visits to his home in Costa Rica. Yes, the newspaper and a chat with Braulio sound like a pleasant morning. It’s far too early to start marking yet.
I only have time to flip through the headlines coming out of the elevator before I bump into Gary.
“Morning, Merry! Up early today, are we?” Gary pats me on the back.
“Yeah, well, early bird, worm, you know the drill. What’s shaking?”
“Ho! What’s shaking. Is that what you kids are saying these days?” He laughs heartily. Nothing seems to faze Gary—if you looked up genial old fart in the dictionary, his picture would be there. I admire his ability to not let trials in life bring him down. I’ve never been able to learn that lesson for myself.
Gary points to the headline below the fold of my newspaper. “Oh, have you heard the latest on the volcano?” He jabs at the page when I flip it over to look. “It’s looking bad. Them scientists, they don’t even know what’s going on. They says it’s all a big surprise to them. But you got to believe your eyes, and I sees on the TV that there’s smoke. And I guess when there’s smoke, there’s fire!” He laughs at his witticism.
I scan the article with a shake of my head.
“It says here that Wallerton might be on the path of the lava flow, if it erupts. Not just a bit of ash. They’re comparing it to Mt. St. Helens in terms of ash input to the atmosphere. Maybe even global weather changes.”
“It’s a bad business, all right.” Gary nods his agreement. He nods for a while before saying, “But life goes on. So, are you up for some chess later? What’s shaking this afternoon?” He chuckles to himself.
I only manage a strained smile. My focus is on the newspaper article, and my mind whirls. “Do you mind if I take a rain check on that? There’s something I need to look into.”
“Oh, sure,” Gary says. “I’ll go bother the wife instead. I expect she can find something for me to do. She’s good at that.”
I laugh and say goodbye. Once inside I head straight to my bookshelf. Out come the maps, hastily put away last night after Jen’s prying, and I extract the West Coast chart. My pulse races.
My eyes close for a brief moment to get into the headspace I need to retrace my journey from Cypress Mountain to the center. I open my eyes and focus on the map, where the start of the Coast Mountain Range is clearly sketched on the chart. Vancouver’s distinctive geography makes Cypress easy to find, even though there are no towns or political boundaries marked.
I locate the lauvan-cable that travels up and over Cypress and trace its progress north with my finger. A few finger-widths along, my cable is joined by others to create a swelling of the line. The reference point helps—I remember at which point they joined. Just above, a thick black dot indicates the sick center I’m looking for. It’s located on a peak in the middle of a mountain range. It’s unnamed.
I pull out my phone and look at the map, still open from yesterday. Mt. Linnigan is central. I place the phone faceup on the map, gingerly. I almost don’t want to know.
The maps are a match. The peak is clearly Mt. Linnigan.
I reach for a chair without looking and sit down slowly.
“Dammit,” I say out loud. My voice sounds deadened and tired to my own ears. Mt. Linnigan is a powerful, potent center, and it is seriously out of balance. This isn’t natural—I’ve felt the lauvan of natural disasters before and they never had Mt. Linnigan’s horrible foulness, its palpable sense of imbalance. Scientists are bewildered because science has nothing to do with it.
I stare at the black dot, feeling very lost and very alone. I’m the only one who knows what’s actually happening. I’m the only one who stands a chance at preventing this disaster.
There’s just one problem—I have no idea how.
CHAPTER IX
I sink into the dining room chair, lost in a fog of dread and trying to consider my options. Nothing in my vast experience springs immediately to mind.
There’s only one thing that’s certain—I can’t restore the center while sitting in Vancouver. I need to actually see and feel the lauvan in person. My trick at Cypress was no more than a viewing, a thumbnail of the file that is Mt. Linnigan. It’s time to roll.
This conclusion is so obvious that I’m almost surprised to find myself still in pajama bottoms. I half-expected my thoughts to manifest themselves into a fully-dressed me. Unfortunately, that’s a trick I haven’t mastered.
Now that I’ve decided on a course of action, I move swiftly through my apartment—spare clothes and a toothbrush into my satchel, pajamas off and jeans on, keys in hand. I grab my lauvan map as a guide.
The pile of unmarked papers on the coffee table catches my eye, and I hang my head in defeat. When do I mark the blasted things? And I’m supposed to pick up the newly handed-in essays from my literature class today. They’re in my mailbox and the admin assistant is sure to notice and report to my superiors if I don’t pick them up soon. The admin’s nose has been bent out of shape ever since he found me chatting up his girlfriend at the end-of-term barbeque.
But honestly, the girl mentions nothing about having a boyfriend and is very friendly, and he gets shirty with me? I think he’s looking to the wrong person if he wants answers.
So, a quick stop at the university to collect the papers and then I’m off. Marking will have to wait until I’m done. Thousands of lives at risk, versus dozens of angry students? I’ll take my chances with the student mob when I get home.
<
br /> The admin gives me the evil eye after I empty my mailbox, but says nothing. His lauvan wave menacingly at me. I’m tempted to tweak one and give him a fright. Before I can do so, my name echoes in the corridor.
“Merry!”
I leave the bristling admin to stew in his own agitation and step out into the hallway. Wayne, my fellow instructor in the department and sometime lunch buddy, saunters down the hall.
“Hi, Wayne.” I greet him with a forced calm that I don’t feel. I’m on a mission—it’s a long drive to Wallerton. The floating strands of my own lauvan start to dance with impatience.
“I thought maybe you’d snuck away early after term ended.” Almost, Wayne. Almost. “Lucky bastard, with no exams to invigilate. I’ve got three next week.”
A thought occurs to me.
“Hey, do you know when we have to hand in our marks?” How long can I spend in Wallerton?
“They’re due end of next week.”
“Good.” I shove the papers into my bag. “Then I have time.”
“Time to do what?”
I clap Wayne on the back.
“Time to procrastinate, of course. See you next week.”
***
The highway empties once I leave behind the busyness of the city, and it’s just me and my car barreling up the two-lane road, occasionally passing other vehicles that obtusely go the posted speed limit. Once in a while, I drive by magnificent streams of lauvan-cables running alongside the highway. At one point a cable looms into view, crossing the road ahead.
“Uh oh,” I mutter. I grip my hands tightly on the wheel and brace myself for impact. When it comes, my body twists spasmodically and my eyes roll back with the heady sensation, but I manage to avoid swerving into an oncoming car. I’m quite pleased with the miss, although from the honking, I gather the other driver isn’t as impressed.
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