Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn

by Robert Holdstock

  Elidyr watched all this from the gloom of the woodland behind us. His arms were crossed, his body hunched, as he stood, his face drawn into a worried frown. The man seemed plagued by uncertainties and concerns. When Ironjacket carried the wine to him he nodded his thanks without a smile and took a drink. He bent his knees to tower over the Celt by a mere two feet. They talked for a minute or so and from the giant’s quick glances towards me I knew that I was the subject of that conversation.

  Agreement on something was reached between them, and Ironjacket went to Guiwenneth and quietly talked to her as well.

  I was too tired to be further wearied by all this mystery. I assumed that if something was happening that involved me, I would be told about it in due course.

  Ironjacket called to me. He was crouched by the shield, beckoning to me, grinning broadly, though I had to guess at that fact since his drooping moustaches were so enormous. I sat by him and he pointed to the various meats and fruits, naming them and indicating that I should eat. Everything smelled of decay! From the rancid stink of fatty meat to the heady, suspicious odour of failing fruit, this feast was stomach-churning. But I picked at it, and welcomed the wine, which was savoury, pine-scented, and slightly sharp; perhaps one of the resinous wines from the Aegean that I had read about but never tasted.

  And it must have been strong in alcohol too; soon, all of my companions were curled up next to each other, close to the fire, beneath the cover of a hastily erected tarpaulin.

  The embers flared and glowed, and the river beyond glittered with reflected fire. Drowsy, aware that Elidyr still watched from his place among the trees, I lay down behind Guiwenneth and tentatively let my head rest on the spill of hair that covered the roll of clothing she was using as a pillow.

  A voice called to me and I woke in the silent night to see Elidyr standing over me, his eyes bright with the moon. There was a strange atmosphere in the clearing, an ethereal presence in the trees, which reflected a pale, ghostly light. The others still slept, their bodies covered with dew, a sleep so still and quiet that for a moment I felt a touch of panic, and reached to Guiwenneth. But Elidyr stopped me, taking my hand in his and helping me to my feet.

  He beckoned me to follow him. When I walked it was an odd sensation, as if the ground were cushioned. Something was not right about this midnight rising. The big man walked ahead of me, passing into the gloom beyond the trees, and as I followed him, and glanced back, my heart skipped as I saw that the fire and my companions had disappeared.

  Elidyr said nothing. I experienced the sensation of being touched and stroked by tiny hands; it might have been insect wings. It alarmed me at first, then I grew used to it. From the corners of my eyes I seemed to see faces, eyes, movement, watching creatures, never there when I turned to look at them.

  The pre-mythago forms first appear at the edge of vision … Words remembered from Huxley’s journal. Was I being taken to see the place where mythagos were born?

  Suddenly the woodland brightened. Elidyr glanced back at me, his face friendly. The brightness grew stronger, and with it the verdancy of leaf and fern. We had passed into a summer wood, which burgeoned and ripened around me as I stepped deeper through its spaces.

  And then, remarkably, flowers started to erupt in increasing swathes of colour and bloom. They grew up from the ground, and out from the massive trunks of oak and elm. Reds and yellows, trailing greens, and vibrant whites, the forest bloomed until it was so rich with colour I was dazzled.

  A step further and a pricking on the skin of my face and hands made me realise that from these surfaces, too, flowers were sprouting. Elidyr was swathed in briar-rose, with lines of white petals down his back. Luxuriant, spongy tree fungus grew out from his legs; white-capped mushrooms from his shoulders – and from mine too! A step further and he was so swathed in red rose and green fern that I had to struggle to see his eyes when he turned to me. Archimboldo had never painted so strange a sight! I brushed at my hair and leaves shed their dew across my face.

  Elidyr spoke to me and the words flowed around me meaninglessly.

  Holding up hands covered with red orchids, I said, ‘I know people who would kill for a gardener like you!’

  And Elidyr sighed. He hesitated, looked in the direction of travel, then back the way we had come. He shook his briar-cloaked head and came to a decision, indicating that we should return. He had wanted to show me something but had changed his mind.

  ‘Where are we, Elidyr? What place is this?’

  He raised the mossy stumps of hands and shrugged. I turned again to follow him, shedding nature, returning to moonlight, to the fire, and to a sleep that took me faster than I could realise, Elidyr fading from my eyes even as I lay down by Guiwenneth, entering at once into the same dream of my mother that I had recently deserted …

  I was awakened in rude and painful fashion, Gwyr kicking me in the buttocks and grinning as he barked incomprehensible instructions. My face was wet with dew. The experience with Elidyr had taken on the strangeness and the insubstantiality of a dream, and I truly wondered whether that indeed was what the whole adventure had been.

  I had no time for reflection, though. Gwyr was holding the two ponies by their rope bridles and was certainly urging me to my feet.

  Already Issabeau was bathing in the river, and the Saracen was crouched at the water’s edge, his head stretched back as he looked at the sky. Guiwenneth and Ironjacket slept in each other’s arms, the tall warrior snoring loudly through open mouth, the long hair of his moustache fluttering like a leaf in the wind. I felt a long moment’s shock and irritation at this display of intimacy and Gwyr saw my look; he slapped me on the shoulder, still smiling, and shook his head.

  Was he saying: Just the way they ended up in sleep?

  More important to this man was that I got into the saddle and rode with him, and this I did, uncomfortable on the broad but drooping back of the smaller pony, my feet practically touching the ground. Gwyr showed me how to grip the rope rein with one hand and the creature’s mane with the other; a kick at the flanks made the ponies canter, but the blanket tied over the coarse hair was not thick enough to stop my bones from jarring, and my flesh from bruising.

  After a while he slowed the canter to a gentle walk, through sun-dappled glades, following a narrow track away from the river. At this point we began to exchange names for things, with Gwyr indicating or slapping those parts of nature or his own body that he wished me to describe. His own words, similar in sound and intonation to Guiwenneth’s, were forgotten by me as soon as I heard them, but Gwyr echoed what I said, sometimes frowning, sometimes laughing as if he had just realised a fact that should have been obvious to him.

  For an hour or more our conversation was a listing: ‘Arm, hand, chest, breast, or bosom … leaf, ivy, bark, twig … oh Lord, gallop, trot, snort – whinny? Sneeze! – sigh, weep, laugh … sap, sweat, blood!’

  He explored more difficult concepts by inviting the expression with gesture and play-acting.

  ‘That looks like love-making, making love; that’s cuddling or hugging … throat-cutting, beheading, disembowelling – you certainly change the subject fast! – um, duelling, sword-play, stabbing or cutting, admonishment, anger … affection, heart-throb, longing or needing …’

  The thesaurus came in a shifting, startling way, each phenomenon of nature that we passed causing a change in the direction of his questioning.

  ‘Sunlight, sheen or shimmer, rustling leaves, gloom … That might be a shady grove – that’s sudden movement, edge of vision … stink or stench, a fart, flatulence … I think you mean long ago, the past, history, time … the future … wildwood! Legendary figure? Understanding … language … communication, chatter … interpretation or interpreter? Interpreter of Languages?’

  And suddenly, my companion astonished me by talking to me:

  ‘Interpreter of Tongues!’ Gwyr said in English. ‘That is what I am. That is what I was born for. To take the knots out of gabble and see it for what it
is. And I am here at last, and you and I are together at last I have you, as the saying goes. I have you now. I have touched the magic in your tongue.’

  At which point of triumph he fell from his pony, thudding into the fresh fern. I jumped down to help him up; the man was shaking, his body drenched with sweat, his pulse racing. He was exhausted and I dragged him into the shade, propping him between the massive roots of a tree. I carefully pursued the ponies, which had run astray, and persuaded them back, leading them and tethering them close to where Interpreter of Tongues lay recovering from the effort of the past few hours.

  When at last he woke, he stretched and scratched, urinated with a great sigh of satisfaction, then drank from his leather gourd before turning to me, his face still showing the effort of his work.

  ‘Well, that was difficult, and I will not pretend otherwise,’ he said, dark eyes glittering as he watched me, dark beard still wet with sweat. ‘I am tired to my bones. But I was born with the ability to disentangle the tongues of strangers, and I have disentangled yours, and know you, now, for your thoughts and your words. I will instruct the others in your language and then they will be able to tell you their own stories, which have nothing to do with me, though of course I am aware of them.’

  ‘How do you do …’ I said, extending my hand, which he ignored.

  ‘For the moment,’ he went on, ‘you should know this: that you have been accepted by us, and are now a part of our group. We are known as the Forlorn Hope, because of what we do. We are at the head of Kylhuk’s Legion. We have had two terrible encounters, on each occasion with the Sons of Kyrdu, who are a malign and evil presence in this time. It is only by your arrival that we have survived, and for that we thank you.’

  ‘How do you do,’ I said again, dizzy with the spill of words, my hand waving towards him in a vain attempt to be courteous. He glanced at my fingers curiously, then again ignored me.

  ‘I, in particular, wish to thank you. Elidyr fetched me back from the pyre, where I was already charred bone and ash according to his own words, and this was a great deed and a great concession …’

  ‘Your arrival was a bit of a shock, I think.’

  ‘Indeed. They had been signalling to Legion. Because of you, though, Elidyr has looked kindly upon me. I have a reprieve from the pyre!’

  ‘You were the trumpet blower, I think. I saw you at the edge of the woods, near to Oak Lodge. A terrible sound. Like the dying of bulls.’

  ‘Somebody has to do it,’ Gwyr said, pain etching his face as he stared at me. ‘Blowing the war horn, that is. The “trumpet” as you call it. And I have the strongest lungs. It is said that I can make the call of the bull’s mouth speak to everyone who hears it.’

  ‘You certainly can.’

  He looked away from me. ‘I had thought the effect more musical than you seem to have heard.’

  I realised he had been stung by my comment. ‘I’m sorry. I have no true appreciation of music.’

  ‘Clearly. It’s of no consequence, however,’ he said with a smile. ‘My only objection is that the horn is so heavy! I’m glad it’s gone, lost in the river.’

  ‘You called Guiwenneth back from her raid on my house.’

  ‘The sanctuary?’

  ‘Call it what you like. I followed you into the wood, through a place that is a shrine to horses.’

  Gwyr shuddered noticeably, shaking his head. ‘That is a strange and evil place. At the edge of the world – I had heard of it and came to it without realizing it!’

  I didn’t know how to pursue that observation, so I completed my question. ‘You were together, then, the two of you. And all the others.’

  ‘Indeed, we were together then, the two of us. And all the others. And now I am here because of your arrival, and for as long as I am here I am in your debt. Truthfully! Despite your insults, your coarse appreciation, your lack of tact, your lack of—’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry for my lack of tact.’

  ‘Well said. Your words are accepted. And make no mistake,’ he went on airily, ‘you have friends with you even if they scowl and grumble and put you to the test.’

  ‘I hope I shall prove worthy of any and all tests to which I am put.’

  ‘I share that hope,’ he said with a serious look at me, and for a few moments I felt warmed by his companionship, but he quickly treated me to the comfort of Job, saying, ‘And be assured, a terrible time awaits you, and a terrible discovery if you fail to keep your wits about you. A strong arm would help.’ He glanced without much enthusiasm at my physique. ‘And we have time to improve on that, but you must be prepared to be strong in all aspects of heart and mind. That is the purpose of the Forlorn Hope, and it is why we scout ahead of the Legion.’

  ‘Am I part of the Forlorn Hope, then?’

  ‘I have told you that already.’ He peered round at my right ear. ‘The hole in your head appears to be open, but perhaps there’s a sparrow’s nest inside! Pull your horse round, now, and get on its back. It’s time to return to the others.’

  I stood my ground for a moment. ‘If you can talk to me in strange tongues, tell me what slathan means. The word is meaningless, but it gnaws at my neck like a bird of prey.’

  Gwyr scratched at the back of his own neck, perhaps in response to my metaphor, and thought hard before saying, ‘It’s a word that Kylhuk uses, but not a word from his own language. It’s older.’ Irritably, he added, ‘He’s always doing things like that. He thinks it gives him stature with enchanters.’

  ‘And does it?’

  Gwyr tugged at his thin beard. ‘Now you mention it … yes. I suppose it does.’

  ‘And slathan?’

  ‘Slathan. Yes, I’ll try and find out, if it’s important to you.’

  Truthfully, it is important.’

  ‘Put it from your mind, Christian. It is a question that will be a long time being answered. And now we have a long journey ahead of us and it will be bad for us if Kylhuk abandons all hope and changes his direction as a consequence. Without his Legion, we are all lost.’

  Seven

  Gwyr’s anxiety that we would be abandoned by Kylhuk and his Legion was unfounded, as I would shortly discover, for even as we rode back to the camp, the great beast that Kylhuk had formed around him, the entity of flesh, stone and legend that would soon become my home, was moving in its ponderous way towards us, tacking away from its steady progress through time and the forest, drawn, I am quite sure, by a scent from Elidyr, some otherworldly call from the Guide that attracted Legion (as I would come to know it) as powerfully as flame attracts a moth.

  It took us several hours to find Guiwenneth and the others, the paths Gwyr and I had ridden having subtly changed, causing us to lose our way on three occasions; but the river was there, and each time we reached it Interpreter of Tongues seemed to find his bearings. I was exhausted with the ride and the humidity of the moist wildwood, and fell gladly into Guiwenneth’s embracing arms.

  There was a buzz of excitement among the Forlorn Hope. Issabeau was almost in a trance, darting here and there around the boundaries of the glade, peering into the forest, snapping her fingers in quick, sharp rhythms, cooing and calling to her red bird, even as she shouted crisp observations and instructions to the Saracen, who responded in kind. Whatever difference in their magic, they were combining their talents expertly! Though the results, if any, eluded me.

  An air of anticipation, then, and indeed there was a crackling atmosphere around the small fire, as if the whole glade flowed with unseen energy.

  Guiwenneth left me and went to talk to Gwyr. Their conversation was animated for a while. Guiwenneth was listening hard, repeating words that I gradually understood were my own. Ironjacket was listening too, frowning at me as he concentrated. Jarag and his mangy hound were not around, and when Gwyr came over to me, dropping to his haunches and picking at the undercooked wildfowl that had been grilled on the wood, I asked him of the Mesolithic hunter’s fate.

  ‘No fate,’ Gwyr said. ‘
Just hunting. Without him our diet would be poor indeed.’

  I looked at the string and sinew on the charred bone of the moorhen and thought of times past when Steven and I had been instructed on how to distinguish between the birds of the riverways, the coots and moorhens, the ducks and the waders. I also thought of what I knew about the prehistoric past, and guessed that Jarag’s idea of a hunting trophy would be a pile of bivalves and a clutch of gull’s eggs.

  Ironjacket joined us and sat down, cross-legged, his arms folded across his belly. He stared at me solemnly, his voluminous orange moustache moving side to side as he chewed thoughtfully on the remains of his meal. Gwyr said, ‘Christian, I must make this man known to you, he has requested it. He is Someone son of Somebody, unnamed at birth because of a tragedy that you will soon hear about, though his true name runs before him, waiting only for the speed of the man to catch it and claim it.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you … Someone …’ I said, and extended my hand which the man looked at, then shook. He nodded with satisfaction, still staring at me, and scratched at his shaven chin before muttering a question which Gwyr translated.

  ‘He wants to know where you come from. Guiwenneth has said that you come from the same islands in the west as she does. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Someone son of Somebody would not recognise the name England, I guessed, so I said, ‘Albion. South of Hibernia? No, that’s Ireland. East of Hibernia! South of Caledonia? Britain. Prytain? Logres …? West of Gaul …?’

  Someone, listening to these words, suddenly indicated that he had understood. He spoke to me through Gwyr and I learned that:

  ‘Someone comes from the east of you, where two great rivers join near high mountains. The strongholds of his land are many, and the kings are rich beyond measure. Great war-chariots often raid across the rivers into Gaul, but his people take ships along the coast to your own country, where they celebrate at the great circles among the forests. His forefathers sailed further west, to the Island of the Great Boast, where five Queens ruled and may still rule and every head taken in battle can sing for five seasons after being severed.’