Weights seemed to be dropping from him, dragging weights that had held him to earth since birth. And his mind—never had it been so clear. With closed eyes he took a second sip—drained the goblet. It dropped from his fingers to shatter oil the hearth-stone as he swayed in a whirling, dancing vertigo of blinding light.
He opened his eyes, eyes that saw as they had never seen before. He glimpsed a reeling image of a man at his elbow. Then, no longer able to contain the bursting, joyous spirit within him, he sprang to the door, flung it wide and dashed into the open air.
When sanity returned, MacNair found himself standing on the bank of Loch More. He flung back his head and breathed deeply of the cool night air. An incredible sense of well-being coursed through every inch of his six-foot frame. Drunk? If he were drunk, blessed be drunkenness!
His restless gaze swept over the glittering expanse of Loch More. A windless dark had fallen upon loch and glen and brooding hills. A full moon rolled over the horizon like a great golden medallion, burnished to jewel brightness by wisps of scudding cloud. Its light sought out other clouds drifting down the flanks of Ben Hee, to mingle with the gray mist on the water, to lie there, eddying gently, like the smoke of old bat ties.
Then MacNair saw the isle in the middle of the loch, and his eyes grew large with wonder. He had seen it during the day, and it had been a rounded peak of earth rising above the water, with a few gnarled trees scattered upon its face. But now—now above the trees there rose the pointed towers of a castle, glittering frostily in the moonlight! A castle, ancient beyond telling, like a structure out of a dream.
He heard a faint, alien sound behind him, and he turned. Something stirred under a stunted bush. He glimpsed then a little round face with impish eyes and overgrown ears—a human face! A moment—and it was gone, the sound of faint laughter drifting back to him.
MacNair shook his head and grinned. A powerful drink, this pechtie brew!
He stood there in momentary indecision, heard clearly the sobbing of a burn, leaping and tumbling through a cleft in the brae. It was a voice, luring him. He thought of the lass who was fair beyond telling, and his heart leaped. He strode eagerly toward the sound of running water, seeking a great flat rock where burn and loch became one.
He circled a clump of trees growing close to the water’s edge, and before him lay the rock he sought. And more—upon its sloping face sat a maiden! And about her was an aura, as of moonlight shining through mist!
HESITANTLY, with bated breath, Rob MacNair moved toward the unearthly stranger, his thoughts confused, uncertain. Was she creature of a dream? A figment of his imagination, stimulated by the heather ale? Or had the brew of Piets awakened new senses, vision that perceived another realm of life?
She was clad, he saw, in a diaphanous robe of white, through which gleamed warmly exquisite curves. Her hair was palest gold, spun about her head in an aureate cloud of glory. And her face—her face was perfection.
She turned her head and saw him, and a faintly wistful smile curved her lips. With the smile, the ethereal aura vanished, and her face became all human, the face of one inexpressibly lonely, and all the lovelier for her humanity.
MacNair spoke a timid greeting, and her features froze in joyful wonder.
“You—can see me? Can hear me?”
She spoke in the Gaelic, and her voice was sweet as the music of the burn.
“Of course,” MacNair answered. Then, remembering, “You see, I drank heather ale, and it—”
“It opened your eyes!” she cried.
In a twinkling she had left the rock, light as a tendril of mist, and was at his side.
“Long and long have I waited,” she breathed, “long and long, hoping, despairing—always waiting for one who might see and hear—one who could bring release!”
She drew back, surveying him with the frankness of a child, eagerness and a growing warmth in her deep blue eyes. Suddenly she laughed, a joyous, lilting sound.
“Ay, and you can do it!” she cried.
“Who—who are you?” MacNair asked wonderingly, his eyes filled with her loveliness.
“I am Creirwy, daughter of Cerridwen, and Tegid who was once King of the World-Under-Water. I dwell upon yonder isle.” She whirled. “But come, sit with me upon the rock, and I’ll tell you all you would know.”
Like a wood nymph, she flitted to the top of the boulder. MacNair followed more slowly, picking his way over the rough ground. His mind was in a turmoil. Creirwy—even as his uncle had said! And where she was, there would be Tegid—and the Cauldron of Life! Yet the Cauldron seemed quite unimportant at that moment. Reaching the rock, he climbed upon it and sat down beside the girl.
“What do men call you, Man-with-the-hair-of-flame?” Creirwy began.
He told her; and she repeated his name slowly.
“I’ll call you Rob,” she said finally.
They spoke of many things, seated there in the moonlight. In moments MacNair forgot the strangeness of his companion, hardly noticing the unearthly aura surrounding her. Her laughter was so spontaneous, her words so—so alive that MacNair felt no desire save to listen while she talked.
She told him the tale of the Cauldron, memories of a childhood lived in the long-dead past. She told of the little family’s arrival at Loch More, of casting the Cauldron into the depths of the lake, of the attacks of the men of Matholwych. She told of her seemingly endless waiting there beside the burn. Many had passed during the years, men of different times and races. She had spoken to them, but none had ever heard her.
Oh, yes—the little folk, the Piets, they could hear. She could see them, as they could see her—but they could not help.
She had seen battles in the forests and upon the braes. Had seen much of life and much of death.
She spoke of her father, Tegid, and her mother, Cerridwen; of the castle they had built with the aid of the Piets; of how they lived there, served by the little folk.
Then she asked questions about Rob MacNair’s world—the world beyond the mountains. And MacNair told her of the works of men while she listened with shining-eyed wonder.
FINALLY Crierwy turned to him with a pleading look on her face. “Rob,” she asked anxiously, “would you aid us? Would you come with me to the isle?”
MacNair nodded. “I had planned to go out to the island. I came to Loch More seeking the Cauldron.”
Her eyes widened. “Then you knew of its power? Would gain it for yourself?”
“I know very little. I only know that I want to help you—that you are altogether lovely—and that when I look at you, I cannot think!”
He looked warmly into her deep blue eyes; then abruptly turned away, his face reddening. He arose in confusion and sprang from the rock. What ailed him? He was acting like the wee bairn his uncle had called him. Then Creirwy was at his side, smiling at him.
“Shall we go now to the isle, Rob?” she asked.
MacNair hesitated. What if the power of the heather ale failed him as it had his uncle on the night Jock Dougal had found it? He couldn’t take the chance.
“First,” he said, “I must go back to my uncle’s cottage. The effects of the heather brew may wear off, and then I would not be able to see or hear you. So I think I had better drink more of it before we start.”
Creirwy looked up at him searchingly, her gaze troubled.
“But you’ll come back?”
“At once,” MacNair smiled reassuringly. “Wait for me here.” And turning away, he sprinted toward the cottage, skirting the lake.
He reached the little dwelling and entered, to find the old Scot seated before the fireplace, smoking. Looking up, Dougal took the pipe from his mouth.
“An’ noo ye ha’e had a taste o’ heather ale.”
“Ay, Uncle Jock,” MacNair exclaimed, “and I want more of it! I’ve seen Creirwy—talked with her—and we’re going out to the island to get the Cauldron!”
Dougal peered at him sharply. “Ye’re no’ owerfu’ o’ pechtie b
rew, are ye, Robbie?”
“No, no, Uncle Jock! I tell you I saw her—and I don’t want to take a chance of having her disappear as she did for you.” Rapidly he described what had happened and all that had been said.
Dougal chuckled dryly. There was a bantering note in his words.
“I could mak’ guid use o’ some o’ the Watter o’ Life, Robbie, lad. ’Twad be unco’ odd to be a barin again!”
Yet despite his jocular tone, MacNair saw that his hand trembled as he knocked the ashes from his pipe.
“An’ ye’d gae back to her, Robbie?”
“Ay, Uncle Jock.”
“Knowin’ she’s naught but the ghaist o’ a lass wha’ died a thousan’ years bygane?”
For a moment MacNair hesitated. A ghost? It might be so. Then he saw a vision of Creirwy as he had first seen her, alone and forlorn, and again he nodded.
“Ay, Uncle Jock, even though she be a ghost.”
Abruptly the old Scot stood up and gripped his nephew’s shoulders with strong, blunt fingers.
“Tak’ the bottle o’ heather ale, Robbie, an’ gae back to the lass—an’ guid luck gae wi’ ye!”
Moments later MacNair was speeding down the slope toward the loch, a glowing bottle held tightly beneath one arm. As he ran, he could hear the ceaseless babble of the burn; and it was urging him to go faster, faster. Then he saw Creirwy on the rock, waiting, and he ran toward her, calling her name. She sprang to meet him, light as a breath, a joyful smile on her face.
“You have come as you said!” she said.
He reached for her hands, then, somehow, she was out of reach, shaking her head wistfully.
“You—you dare not touch me—ever!” Momentarily the joy faded from her face; as swiftly it brightened. “Unless—unless you find the Cauldron.”
“I’ll find it!” MacNair exclaimed impulsively. “I’ll find it, and then—”
He broke off abruptly. For an eternal instant their eyes locked; then Creirwy dropped her gaze and turned toward the loch. She pointed to an ancient pine.
“There lies a boat,” she said.
MACNAIR saw it beneath the low-hanging branches, half hidden in the black shadows. As he strode toward it, he tried to analyze the strange spell that had fallen upon him. It might be the heather ale—but he thought it was the witchery of blue eyes and smiling face and lovely form. Yet he knew that Creirwy, if she were not spirit, certainly could not be mortal.
He reached the boat and, stooping, placed the bottle of heather ale upon a bit of moss. Turning the craft over, he slid it into the water. Creirwy leaped lightly into it and seated herself in the stern. MacNair picked up the oars with one hand and the precious bottle with the other, and then took his place in the middle of the boat. With the heather ale safe between his feet, he began rowing across the moonlit waters toward the island.
A strained silence followed. Macnair’s mind was occupied with thoughts of what lay ahead. Creirwy seemed troubled, a cloud darkening her face. Finally, she spoke in a voice low and hesitant.
“Rob, there is something I must tell you. We are not as—as you are. Our bodies are not like your bodies. I told you that you dared not touch me, because I knew you could not touch me. For to your senses I do not exist, except as someone you can see and hear with the powers given you by the heather ale.
“If you find the Cauldron and can brew the Water, perhaps we may become as you are—or perhaps we can return to the World-Under-Water. Or, perchance, we may merely leave this realm for a higher one. We do not know; we can only hope. These things I have learned of my father; he will doubtless tell you more.”
Her voice softened, became vibrant. “But no matter what happens, no matter what you decide to do, I am glad you have come.”
A faint chill touched MacNair, as though a cold breeze had blown against the back of his neck. As old Jock had said, and as he had subconsciously believed, Creirwy was of those who had passed on. Yet not quite—for the Cauldron held her fast to earth. What should he do? There was still time to turn back.
He looked squarely at the girl, and suddenly all indecision was gone. He could not fear Creirwy, no matter what her physical form might be.
The boat scraped bottom. They had reached the isle. Grasping the bottle, MacNair stood up and leaped to shore.
“We’ve come to see your father,” he said, and smiled. In a breath Creirwy was at his side.
“Rob!” she cried joyfully, then checked herself.
The great white castle towered above them, its snowy walls glittering like slabs of alabaster. High into the heavens it reached, seeming almost to impale the great round moon upon one of its glowing spires. Lovely gardens lay between them and the castle, gardens with flowers and shrubbery and trees like none MacNair had ever seen before. Paths of white wound through the garden to the high, peaked door of the castle. It was a scene of unearthly beauty, like the fantastic painting of a master artist.
Two figures appeared in the doorway and stood there, looking at MacNair wonderingly. Cerridwen and Tegid, MacNair thought. In the woman he could see another Creirwy—older, not quite so lovely, but obviously Creirwy’s mother. But the man—at sight of Tegid, MacNair repressed an involuntary chuckle.
Tegid the Bald! He was well named, and ghost though he was, he was funny! Old King Cole with a bald pate! A little man, enormously fat, with a great, round belly and a round, hairless head. He was clad in a tunic that only half covered his thin, bowed legs. He spoke, and his voice was as deep and heavy as the booming of a kettle drum.
“Creirwy—ye have not—”
“Yes, Father, I have found a man who can see and hear us!”
Quickly she recounted her meeting with Rob MacNair, told of the heather ale, of his search for the Cauldron, and of his wish to help them.
WHEN she concluded, Tegid turned to MacNair, his round face beaming.
“I cannot tell ye how welcome ye are, Rob MacNair,” he said. “For more than a thousand years I have had no one to talk with save Cerridwen and Creirwy. And in all that time, we have been held here by the Cauldron, with release lying on the lake bottom only a few feet from shore. But there was naught I could do about it, for it requires physical strength to raise it from the water, and that I do not have. But ye have it—”
His voice rumbled on and on, but MacNair was only vaguely aware of it. He had become conscious of nausea writhing in his stomach, and his eyes were beginning to smart, as though he had stared too long at a bright light. Suddenly he blinked. He could not see the three glowing figures; and instead of a castle before him, he saw a scattered heap of ivy-covered stones, gray and drab in the moonlight.
Momentary panic seized Rob MacNair. Then he remembered the bottle beneath his arm, and though he could no longer see it, it reassured him. Hastily he removed the stopper and tilted the bottle against his lips. Literally poured the heather ale down his throat!
For a single timeless instant the world stood still, while living fire of ecstasy flared through every atom of Robert MacNair. He was deafened, blinded, paralyzed by the enormous draft of pechtie brew. Then dimly, through stunned consciousness, he heard a crash, an ominous crash that slowly drew him back to realization of his surroundings.
He opened his eyes to meet a look of consternation on the face of Tegid the Bald. He saw Creirwy staring with wide-eyed apprehension; saw her mother’s countenance mirroring her daughter’s expression. Then he looked down at the shattered fragments of a bottle that had once held heather ale!
It had a sobering effect, but it could not quell the leaping, reckless urge for action that possessed him. He grinned broadly at the Bald One.
“Don’t get excited!” MacNair exclaimed. “I drank enough of the stuff to last a long time, and before its effect wears off, I’ll have your Cauldron here, safe and sound.”
“Then ye must hurry!” Tegid exclaimed. “For ye must secure the Cauldron and I must tell ye how to brew the Water of Life ere your power dies.”
He hesitated f
or a brief instant.
“One thing I have not told ye. Ye should know that once ye have had ought to do with me and the Cauldron, ye fall under the curse—and are bound with us, no matter what befall. Knowing that, will ye help us?”
MACNAIR smiled at Creirwy, a reckless, eager smile.
“Where is the Cauldron?” he asked. Rapidly the three led him through the garden and around the castle to a little cove between two rocks. Tegid pointed downward.
“There it lies—and ye can see it even though ’tis dark, for it has light of its own, like the heather ale.”
In a moment MacNair cast off his shirt. His shoes followed, and he stood poised on the shore. With a brief smile at Creirwy, he filled his lungs with air and plunged into the depths of Loch More.
As the dark waters closed over him, MacNair felt the first pang of misgiving. Dull wonder at his actions struggled sluggishly through his mind. Then the heedlessness resumed control, and he drove himself downward with powerful strokes, ’til directly below him he saw the yellow glow of something half buried in the mud and silt of centuries.
He reached it, gripped a length of chain caught on a jutting rock, held clear of the mud, and he tugged mightily. Slowly the Cauldron moved, as though reluctant to leave its age-long resting place. Now he raised it free of the silt—a glowing vessel of gold, studded with gems. It was not very large—about a foot in diameter—but it was incredibly heavy.
MacNair gritted his teeth. He must hurry. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. His lungs—they needed air. Not much longer, he knew, could he hold his breath. Like a fish he twisted and sent his body within the loop of the chain fastened on opposite sides of the Cauldron. Turning, he drove toward the surface.
He hardly seemed to be moving his body! It was as though he were anchored to the bottom! And his lungs—his lungs—he must have air—must breathe! Panic gripped him. He fought madly to rise higher, higher. He thought of his Uncle jock, of Creirwy. Then for the briefest of moments, blackness—
Rob MacNair was shooting toward the surface, the weight of the Cauldron dropping away from him. Amazing relief swept over him. He reached open air, pulled himself up on shore.
Forgotten Fiction Page 55