'Steady, girl… whooo there, steady now.' The younger of the two mares was
jumping and shuffling nervously, making the chariot creak and shake as Meryn
tried to calm her. 'Hush now. Don't you go listening to those ol' noises, that's just
those druids playing their games.'
As he held the harness, stroking and patting the horse's neck, its eyes rolled
and it snorted, and then with a sudden flick of its head, it pulled away hard and
he struggled to keep hold. Beside it, the older more experienced mare held her
back, trembling but still trusting in Meryn to guide her. The archer drew a deep
breath, unable to blame the horses for their discomfort and gazed about, trying to
calm his own beating heart.
It was late, the sun was setting, and a thin mist was beginning to rise over the
marsh rushes. In the fading orange light, it was getting harder to see where the
track ended and the marsh began. It was becoming dangerous. Meryn wondered,
and not for the first time, about going back and making camp some distance
away until morning rather than continuing, but then gathering his courage, urged
the younger mare on with a tug on her harness towards a large standing stone
which marked the end of the path and the start of the Isle. This, he decided, was
where he would leave them and seek the druids.
The beating of drums continued to build, floating along with the deep
melancholy wail of the horns that were rising and falling in great waves of
sound, rolling down the Tor over him, then out across the reeds. The chanting
was also getting louder, and didn't seem to be coming from any one direction.
The eerie sounds were helping unnerve both Meryn and the horses.
'Calm down, my lovelies… there's nothing here to hurt you.' He cast about,
trying to see where the voices were coming from. They sounded close, but only
reeds, trees and the Tor stared back at him.
Tying the horses to a convenient branch, he continued to mutter assurances
as they danced from side to side, the younger one still seeking an opportunity to
bolt. Using lengths of cloth to cover their eyes and ears to lessen the distractions,
he secured grain bags round the horses' necks. The younger mare shied at first,
but then as she smelled the grain she quietened down and began to eat, ears still
twitching at each change in the sounds as Meryn unhitched the chariot ready to
push it a safe distance away.
Meryn gazed up the hill towards the Tor, and began to walk. The top
remained hidden from the base of the hill because apple trees, planted to either
side of a narrow path that wound its way upward, obscured his view. The trees
had lost their leaves this late in the year, and the only evidence that they were
actually apple trees was the few rotting black remains scattered amongst sodden
brown leaves beneath.
A figure stepped out, stopping Meryn with a jolt.
'Be welcome here at Avalon,' intoned the druid. 'You may pass and walk the
path to enter the first world of spirit.' The druid's face was gaunt. He was
bearded and smeared with ash and mud. His eyes held a vacant, distant
expression. A long grey piece of cloth cinched at the waist with a belt of twisted
bark was his only article of clothing. It was dirty and torn, and appeared to offer
minimal protection from the cold, yet the druid showed little concern. The
chanting became louder, joining the drums and horns in a crescendo, and then
stopped abruptly, dropping silence like a weight upon the Tor. Before Meryn had
opportunity to speak, the druid waved him past, and then placed a hand upon his
arm as he drew level.
'There is no place for edged steel upon the path of Avalon.' His eyes slowly
dropped to the sword at Meryn's waist. He stood unmoving as Meryn untied the
sword and placed it, together with a long knife, into his outstretched arms. 'Walk
in peace upon this sacred Isle, Brother.' The druid bowed his head and walked
backward, fading from sight amongst the copper-toned mist that wove through
the apple trees.
A cool breeze caressed Meryn's face and his fears rose threatening to
overwhelm him. Digging deep to gather his resolve, he walked on.
The path continued to lead upwards, the drums, horns and chanting
accompanying him with every step. Twice he passed druids standing silently
amongst the trees, each time he expected them to approach but they ignored him,
their minds apparently otherwise engaged. Then, as he rounded the second turn
of the path, a young woman stepped from between the trees and held her palm
out towards him, firmly blocking his progress.
'There is no room upon the path of Avalon for material beliefs, nor delusions
of self. Shed them now and walk on, healer of the flesh, guardian of the dragon
line. Pass now into the second world of spirit.' Reaching up, she gently touched
his forehead, and then her arm dropped and she stepped to the side, casting her
eyes to the ground as she backed into the mist.
Meryn waited a moment, unsure of what her words could mean, and then
walked past, studying what he could still see of her as he did so. She appeared
young, but maybe not as young as he had first thought. Long golden hair tied in
heavy braids framed a pretty face with a thumbprint of blue woad set in the
middle of her ash-smeared forehead. The last thing he did as he passed was to
look down and notice that her feet were bare, muddy and wet.
By now, the last remnants of daylight had all but disappeared. The sunset
was no more than a bruise on the distant horizon. Gazing ahead through the
gloom, he could just make out figures setting burning torches, drifting through
the trees, parting the mist like spirit wraiths. When he glanced behind him, the
girl had gone.
He trudged on, moving higher, and as he did, the chanting rose and fell,
before dropping to little more than a whisper that seemed to dance amongst the
trees, born on the freshening wind. The drums and horns also became fainter,
and he was more aware of his own laboured breathing as he strode ever upwards.
As he reached the first of the flickering torches, another druid stepped out in
front of him. It was an old man this time, bearded, wearing a wrap of dirty linen
with a hood of the same material covering his head. His eyes gazed past Meryn,
out into the gloom, staring at something that only he could see. He was leaning
upon a heavy staff, with shells, leaves and polished amber hanging from the top.
By now, Meryn was feeling light-headed and was actually glad for the rest. He
stood swaying slightly, regaining his breath as he waited for the druid to speak.
'You awaken into the third world of spirit.' The druid passed the staff to
Meryn who took it gratefully and leaned his weight upon it. Beneath his fingers,
the smooth wood felt familiar and comfortable in his grip, he began to feel a
little stronger. 'Time occurs within an instant,' continued the druid. 'Past, present
and future, within time, we are all as one, split amid experience, forever striving
to return home.' The druid bowed his head. 'Walk on, Brother.'
'Gibberish,' muttered Meryn, and then pushed on.
The path was becoming even narrower, each shadow the spluttering torches
cast seemed to rise up and writhe about him, dancing to the sounds on the Tor
like creatures born of nightmare, taunting him and distracting his progress,
challenging his belief in the reality of his surroundings.
At three further points on the path, druids stopped him, welcoming him to
different levels of the spirit world. He had long since abandoned any attempt at
trying to understand what was happening. It had all become a dream from which
he could not awake. So far, he had been given, a crude clay cup filled with cool
refreshing water to 'cleanse his mind of barriers and borders' a linen wrap to
'shelter him from fear and prejudice' and lastly, a crown of thorns to 'remember
every lesson humanity has learned, and then suffer the pain of man as we
continue on in ignorance.'
Meryn had winced and almost stumbled as the druid placed the crown on his
head, but he had leaned on the staff and allowed the druid to push it firmly into
place. Now, as he struggled on, blood running down his face and his breath
laboured in his ears, he felt waves of emotion building deep within him. It was
all becoming too much, too confusing. The drums, horns and chanting were
battering his senses and despite the chill wind, he felt his flesh was burning up; it
was all he could do to place one foot in front of the other and stagger onwards.
Using the wrap to wipe blood from his eyes, he squinted around, trying to
see how far he had come. It was dark. Little was visible beyond the path. A starfilled sky stretched overhead and the moon was rising in the distance, its light
reflecting upon a distant lake far away towards the horizon. Then he noticed a
halo of colours surrounding the flames from the torches, and as his eyes sought
further, he saw a similar aura of light flickering around the apple trees. Gazing
about, the phenomenon was repeated around every object within sight. He stared
at his staff as it pulsed with a purple and blue light, then down at his hands,
which reflected the same colours but the edges were tinged with orange and
yellow. The chanting rose once more and, drawing a breath deep into his lungs,
he forced himself on, the cold wind blowing even harder, compelling him to lean
forward as he struggled to place every step.
Towards the top, where the path began to level, a smaller figure appeared.
She stood, waiting for him to approach, arms crossed in front of her and a blue
and purple aura of flickering light surrounding her. Meryn wiped at his eyes
again, and then blinked to clear his vision, his mind struggling to settle.
'Nineve?' Quickening his step, he called to her again. 'Nineve! Nineve, is
that really you?' He knew the wind was robbing his voice of any power even as
he shouted out to her, but to see her after fearing her lost for so long, he couldn't
stop himself trying.
As he drew closer, she put a finger to her lips and stepped forward.
'Welcome back to Avalon and the seventh world of spirit, Merlyn.'
He gazed down at her, trying to understand. It was Nineve, but he also
recognised that the small girl before him was now far more than the eight-yearold child he had so recently come to know.
'Are you well, Nineve? Have they… hurt you? Nineve, why… ?' The girl
rose up on her toes and pressed a finger to his lips to silence him.
'All is well, Merlyn. You have travelled the world of earthly illusions for
many long years and now, you have walked the path into spirit in search of me,
just as you promised long ago that you would. Past, present and future, all are as
one, do you remember? It is here, upon Avalon, long ago, that you chose you
would awaken… let go, Merlyn. Your mind still struggles to hold onto earthly
beliefs. Let… go…' her voice seemed to echo through his head. 'Remember your
spirit, Merlyn… remember.' Reaching up, she lifted the woven thorn-branch
from his brow, and then smeared ash down his cheeks and across his forehead.
'You are the druid Merlyn, and now is the time for your spirit to reclaim its
memories… for the circle shall soon be complete.' She drew him along the path
to the top of the hill, and then towards an altar of large forbidding stones.
He stumbled forward in confusion, peering round through bleary eyes as he
allowed her to lead him, his mind frantically grappling to make some sense of
everything that was happening. Surrounding the central stones, slowly closing
towards them, were some thirty druids. The air was filled with chanting, the
beating of drums and blowing horns of every description. They reached the altar;
Nineve took his hand and placed it gently against the largest stone. He felt the
cold rough surface beneath his fingers and memory hit him like a thunderclap.
Several moments went by. He didn't remember falling to his knees, but there
he was with the cool stone upon his forehead, the only sound was the whispering
of the wind. Hauling himself up with the help of his staff, he turned to regard the
circle of now silent druids.
'I am, once again, the druid Merlyn. I thank you for the awakening of my
spirit. It has all been an… interesting experience. The circle will soon be
complete.'
Nineve walked towards him, a smile lighting her face. 'Welcome back,
Merlyn. We find ourselves, once again, amid interesting times, you and I.'
Merlyn drew in a deep breath and gazed about him. He felt the wind upon
his face, saw the stars in the sky, felt the weight upon his bones, and recalled
now how all this had been so necessary, would be so necessary. The rebirth of
souls was a serious business, and as Nineve had rightly pointed out, these were
indeed interesting times. 'I thank you, my Lady of the Lake. It is good to know
you once more, and to know also that the spirits have brought us together at the
appointed time; for soon the dragon shall arise.'
* * *
Dinas Emrys, Vortigern's stronghold, was hewn from the same dull grey
stone as the ragged mountains that surrounded it. In summer, it stood cold, damp
and drafty, a bleak colourless monument that rose in testament to the fears of its
owner. Now, with winter setting in, it had become positively inhospitable. The
occupants, gathered in the large hall, were wearing their thickest furs as
protection from the cold wind that whistled freely through the numerous gaps in
the stonework, howling like spirits possessed as it wrapped around them, chilling
them despite all efforts to keep warm. The fireplace was huge, but then so was
the room. Twelve people sat watching from the heavy oak table as Vortigern,
flanked by two dark robed mages, raged and vented his disappointment at his
guests. Eight of the twelve present were Saxons.
'What good are you to me? Constantine's brat, Ambrosius, gathers his army
and the tribes rally to him, it sickens me. His brother and the girl have still to be
found and, for all we know, they may already be with him.' Vortigern, his face
contorting in barely controlled anger, paced beside the large open fireplace, his
voice echoing around the stone chamber. 'Did I really ask so much?'
The man who claimed the right to rule the Britons wasn't a big man. In fact,
he had a thin frame and carried himself with a slight stoop. What he did possess,
however, was a temper that once unleashed could break a man twice his size. He
felt no fear for the giant Saxon and his men. Deep-set eyes, grey and as cold as
his fortress, stared out at the Saxons over a cruelly hooked nose and a short black
beard.
'Sit down,' growled Hengist; throwing the bone he had been gnawing over
his shoulder. Two large dogs that had been waiting patiently, drooling with
anticipation, pounced on it, growling and fighting over the offering. Sucking the
meat juices from his fingers, the Saxon leader stared up at the glaring Vortigern,
clearly unimpressed by the King of the Britons. 'Sit down. You are blocking
whatever heat the fire offers.' He wiped his hand down his heavy tunic, adding to
the variety of stains already upon it. 'We will keep looking for the children,
although I still fail to see why. I place little store in the visions of these mages.'
His eyes flickered to the two hooded figures. 'We should just meet with this
Ambrosius and drive him into the sea. My men are warriors, while most of his
rabble have never even held a sword!'
'You gather the children because I wish it so!' stormed Vortigern. 'When we
kill Ambrosius and you leave, I do not want any other members of his line
remaining to threaten my rule. We shall find the brat and end the line of
Constantine for good. As for the girl, I have it on good authority that she is
important to my enemies, she must also die. Do not question me, just do what I
have paid you for, and find them. Also, be aware that my intention is to march
upon Ambrosius within one cycle of the moon. Be sure that you and your men
are ready!' He turned and strode from the hall with the four other Britons
hurrying after him.
'We should kill them all now and take this land for ourselves. Enough of this
searching for children and making happy with blustering fools.'
'Hush, brother.' Hengist scowled at Horsa across the table. 'We shall claim
this land but only when the time is right. For now, we shall accept their gold, eat
their meat,' he picked up a rabbit's leg and waved it at his brother, 'and bide our
time. Let us use them for a while. Allow them to kill each other before we grind
what remains of their warriors into submission.' He pushed the platter of meats
to his brother then lifted his tankard of ale and tipped it back. The little that
didn't dribble onto his chest made it down his throat and he belched loudly
before slamming the tankard back down onto the table. 'Nothing has stopped us
so far. We control nearly all land between these gods-cursed mountains and the
eastern coast. The tribes of the Britons are pathetic; any backbone they may once
have possessed has been bred out of them by the Romans. This Ambrosius will
fold as all the rest have.'
'So why pander to this fool Vortigern?' Horsa slammed his fist onto the table
and rose unsteadily to his feet. 'Why, dear brother, do we remain in this rat hole
of a fortress freezing our arses off? Why haven't we stretched his miserable
carcass across a rock, cut the living heart from his chest and fed it to the crows?'
Hengist glanced up at his brother and then picked over the plates for another
piece of meat. Satisfied with his choice he gestured for his brother to sit down
and then reached across and patted his arm when he did. 'We do what we do
because I say so. I lead and I say it is better to unite with Vortigern against the
rest of the Britons and then, when our boats arrive with the spring thaw, we can
play a different game. For now, eat and drink! Our hosts would expect nothing
less. Later, we get to hunt. Our host complains of wolves in the area scaring
away the game and I have promised we will rid him of this inconvenience.'
'More likely his foul moods and sour expression have scared all the game
away.' A rare smile split Horsa's face. 'That or it's more probable that these
cursed mountains hold little of any nourishment for game. Beyond the forest
there is nothing more than rocks, wind and rain. We are the only things skulking
up here. I doubt there are wolves here at all; he's simply running from shadows
again. However, if there are wolves, they will at least prove a diversion until we
get to kill…' The sentence was left unfinished as three servants entered and
hurriedly dropped more food onto the table. They were obviously frightened of
the Saxon guests, which pleased Hengist and his men. They backed out as
quickly as they could, followed by a string of threats and laughter. As the heavy
door slammed shut, the dogs resumed their squabbling and the Saxons returned
to their feast.
* * *
'They were hard times for all, what with the Romans leaving. It left our
Britain open to all sorts, but then I have Saxon blood in my veins, as do many
here, so I can't complain about that.' There were murmurs of agreement in the
room and Uther glanced up, only just realising he had been interrupted again.
'Sorry?'
'Your story, I remember my grandfather talking about it when I was a child.
Course it were long before his time as well, but I like the way you tell it as if you
were really there.' There was silence around the fire as Uther blinked across,
trying to make out the old woman's face. It was the farmer's wife this time, her
husband smiling quietly, beside her.
'I was there.' Uther looked across at Calvador Craen who had turned around
to observe the exchange.
'I'm sorry, storyteller, but the times of which you speak were…'
'Please allow my old friend to continue with his tale,' interrupted Calvador.
He stood up and placed a hand protectively on Uther's shoulder. 'I promise you
won't be disappointed.' Thunder boomed outside and the sound of a loose shutter
banging came from another part of the inn. The storm was getting closer.
'Don't you worry none, sir, I'm happy to listen to the tale; I was only pointing
out where it just couldn't be right, but don't you mind me.' She settled back down
and her husband whispered something in her ear that made her smile.
Ignoring them, Calvador Craen addressed his friend. 'The Saxons led a fine
wolf hunt, eh, Uther? Tell us about that. I for one would like to hear more about
the wolves.'