Merlin's Blade (14 page)

“Told you before … Can't you remember?”

Dybris paced back and forth. “We remember, but you —” He threw up his arms.

Owain stiffened under Merlin's hand. “Want to see it again. The Stone is calling …”

“Tas,” Merlin said, “remember Kifferow. Don't go back!”

Merlin's father shook his head. “Kiff … That was a long time ago. Better now. Saw him just yesterday.”

Dybris stopped pacing and whispered in Prontwon's ear, “Why are we wasting our —”

Prontwon shushed him. “Dybris, if we cannot defeat the power … this Druid Stone has over Owain, how can we have … hope for anyone else?”

“Why can't we Christianize it?” Dybris asked. “Like the standing stone by the abbey spring?”

“A pagan stone … that the people formerly worshiped … yes, and we carved upon it a cross to point them to Christ. But how do you … propose to do that to this Druid Stone?”

“I've been thinking about it —”

“Some things cannot be changed,” Prontwon said, his voice weakening. “Owain, you're a … respected elder in the village.”

“Respected?” Owain slurred. “Not the way
my
tas was. He saved the whole fortress once … Snuck up on those filthy Prithager.”

“Who is
your
enemy, father?” Merlin asked.

“Meddling monks. Mônda's telling me … telling me to leave here! Where is she?”

Prontwon shook his head. “We need … to pray. Let us anoint Owain with oil and lay our … hands on him.” He fumbled through a bag and handed his oil flask to Dybris.

Dybris held the tube upside down, and not even a drop was inside.

“It must have leaked … Well, we can never run out of prayer, thank God.”

They bowed their heads and laid hands on Merlin's father and prayed. After some time, Merlin thought he heard a noise beyond the closed chapel door. He turned his head to listen over the earnest words of the abbot but heard nothing more.

A moment later the chapel door creaked open a little.

Merlin concentrated on the sound. Something scraped.

“Come in,” he called, interrupting Dybris.

Outside he heard the fading sound of footsteps running away.

F
or his evening meal, Garth sat with the druidow near the Stone and ate roasted grouse with a chunk of tangy goat cheese. The fili named Caygek sat next to him, but Mórganthu had cuffed and threatened this man once, so Garth tried his best to keep their interactions short.

“You're from the northern coast?” Caygek asked while he braided his long, curly blond beard.

Garth thought it'd be fun to grow a beard like that one day, only his would be red. He stuffed his mouth full of cheese and nodded.

Caygek pointed to Vortigern's camp near the village meeting house. “Seen warriors like those before?”

Garth went on admiring the horses, which grazed near the warriors. Fine, strong horses, those. He wished he could ride one.

“I live far from a village,” Caygek said, “so I haven't seen fighting
men in a few years. My father was a warrior, and I learned from him but haven't had much chance to use my skills. See my sword?”

The blade reflected the man's blue tunic. It was of fine workmanship, long and sharp. Much better than the other druidows' weapons but not as fine as Merlin's dirk, which Garth had held a few times. Now that was a real beauty, with razor-sharp edges and a surface like a fine mirror. Even the hilt of Merlin's dirk was amazing: the guard tipped with silver, the handle of black leather interspersed with silver rings, and a round pommel that held a small green jewel.

Garth bit off a hunk of greasy meat, tastier than the boiled mutton they'd had last night. The druidow had stolen the sheep from the monks, and it served those brown-robes right for selling his bagpipe. He hated them for it.

“Do you like it here with the druidow?” Caygek inquired.

Garth closed his eyes and swigged from his waterskin. Oh, how he liked it. No more tending the sheep. No hoeing or planting. No milking the goats. No sneaking tuck from the barrels in the cave. Now it was one adventure after another. And no more being teased for looking like a monk!

And the Stone made him feel strong and important. Why did he need parchment learning when he could see wonderful things in the Stone? And now he even dreamed about it during the day, which was kind of strange. Even stranger, he'd snuck a peek at Dybris earlier, but a floating image of the Stone blocked his vision.

Just as well … He'd never forgive that man for stealing his bagpipe.

“So I hear your father was a fisherman,” Caygek said. “Do you like the sea?”

Garth almost groaned. Would the man ever stop pestering him?

Thankfully someone ran up, calling for Mórganthu.
Connek
. Garth's lip curled. Why they allowed this thief with them, he didn't understand. Maybe the druidow, in their kindness, were helping him.

Connek, out of breath, ran to Mórganthu and Mônda and gave
them some news. Connek pointed up the mountain toward the east side of the village.

Mônda pleaded with Mórganthu, but he shook his head. She sobbed and grabbed his arm so tightly, Mórganthu couldn't pry her off. Finally she spoke in his ear, and Mórganthu blinked and smiled. Garth liked it when Mórganthu smiled. He wished he could hear what they were saying. Maybe if he snuck behind, he could —

“Gather!” Mórganthu commanded the druidow. “We will fight our enemies! They move against us, and so we will call on Lugh with the
Galow Golm
. With the power of the Stone, perhaps we may destroy them.”

Most of the men rose.

Garth stood too, but Caygek whispered to him.

“Only druidow proper form the Knot of Calling. Filidow and brihemow aren't allowed. And you don't want to take part, trust me.”

Garth searched the nearby bag for another fatty grouse leg, but finding none, he sat down with a small wing. He thought back to that first day when he had stolen the chicken leg and was thankful he didn't have to sneak anymore. But where did that Trothek fellow go? The one Caygek knew. It seemed like forever since the old man had stood up to Mórganthu.

A few druidow had been sent away, and they sat down near Garth. One of them spoke, a squat man with a cloak the color of lobsters. “When someone needs pushing, Podrith the novice always get pushed.”

“What do you mean?” Garth asked, but Podrith just grunted and shuffled through the bag of meat.

Caygek squinted at the novice and whispered in Garth's ear, “If you're ever in trouble, come find me.” He got up and slipped away.

Garth wondered what
that
was supposed to mean, but the activity around the Stone distracted him. The druidow formed two concentric rings. Then they interlocked hands in such a way that their arms crisscrossed the rings and formed a knot.

They all started walking in a jerky rhythm by ducking under
raised hands or stepping over lowered hands. The drummers started, and the druidow chanted in their foreign tongue.

Mórganthu stood in the center, shook his staff before the Stone, and looked to the sky, where a few wispy clouds swirled.

Garth wiped his mouth with his sleeve and turned to Podrith. “What's he doin'?”

The man stared back with bloodshot eyes. “Yer a fool jus' like them filidow. Watch and learn the power of the druidow.”

The living druid knot pulsed to the beat of the drums. Garth rubbed his eyes, for the men seemed to fade. When he looked again, they had been replaced by the apparition of a monstrous white snake. The creature's rippling muscles propelled it through its own knotted coils. The shiny head passed in front of Garth, having swallowed its own tail. The fangs dribbled a track of blood on the pressed grass, and the eyes gazed at him with a pale blue light.

Garth's arms jerked to his sides and stuck there. His legs clamped together, and he fell over. He struggled to sit up but could only wriggle on the grass.

Mórganthu shouted, and the daylight disappeared as storm clouds blew in. Wind gusts sucked at Garth's hair. Branches ripped off, crashing from their ancient moorings. Garth wanted to grab hold of the grass, but his arms wouldn't obey him. Men shouted, women screamed, and horses whinnied.

Above the coiling snake, the shadowy figure of Mórganthu struck his staff into the blue fire of the Stone. Lightning burst upward from it, and Mórganthu fell back even as the apparition of the snake blew apart, and individual druidow arose where the chunks of flesh had been.

The lightning shot into the sky like an arrow and struck down on the east side of the village.

Merlin sat on the floor next to his father and held on to his sweaty hands. He could feel Prontwon's torn sleeve against his knee as the old man finished his breathless prayer.

At that moment the hairs on the back of Merlin's neck prickled. His scalp tingled, and even his hands felt strange. What was happening?

He looked up as an ear-splitting explosion sliced open the roof of the chapel, and a blazing arc of lightning struck Prontwon. The room exploded with blinding light. Merlin was knocked back, along with his father and Dybris.

Pulling himself up, Merlin saw the lightning split apart, surround Prontwon like a brood of parasitic worms, and sizzle into his chest. A fading wail escaped Prontwon's lips. The room darkened as thunder rumbled across the mountainside. “Where are the candles?” Dybris called as he fumbled around. Hail stung Merlin's face as it shot through the newly formed hole in the roof. He tried to cover Prontwon's head, but the hail ended as quickly as it had come. A smudge of daylight showed, allowing him to find the older man's trembling hands.

“I see oaks … beautiful firs,” Prontwon whispered.

“You're here, Abbot, in the chapel,” Merlin said, his stomach sinking with dread.

“A mist is rising … leaves … trunks … Why is it all gray?”

Dybris found a place next to Merlin. “We're beside you.”

“The sun … it is setting …”

Merlin held Prontwon's hands tighter, shaking his head against the tears stinging his eyes. “No, the sun's come out again. Look at the light. Even I can see it!”

“So dark …”

Dybris placed his hands on Prontwon's heart and bowed his head.

“I see two trees … with a light shining between …”

Merlin held Prontwon's right palm to his own cheek.
Please, God, don't let him die! We need him here … You know we do
.

“I hear the voices … of my mother and father calling … calling me to come.” Prontwon's voice grew fainter, but Merlin could hear his smile.

Dybris put an arm around Merlin.

“And there … a cross. I see a cross.”

Prontwon moved his hand to the top of Merlin's head as if in blessing and held up his other arm to heaven. With a final exhale of joy, he called, “Jesu, I come to you …” And with that, his arms fell limp.

Tears coursed down Merlin's cheeks.

His father groaned from beyond the fallen benches.

“Go to him,” Dybris said.

Merlin crawled away, searching for his father, and found him curled against the wall, shuddering.

“It hurts,” Owain whispered.

“Where, Tas? Where did the lightning strike you?” Merlin's fingers brushed over his father's torso, seeking the wound. A tight fear clenched his heart.
How bad is it?

“Ahh … my armband. Why does it hurt?”

There was something strange about his father's band, and Merlin was more than glad to get rid of the druidic thing. “Here, let me take it off.” He reached out and felt the icy metal of the covenant armband.

“Leave it alone!” Owain pushed Merlin in the face and scrambled to his feet, kicking him in the stomach in the process.

Doubled over on the floor, Merlin reached out toward the shadow that was his father. “Tas!”

But Owain didn't turn.

His father ran outside just as hail began pouring down once again.

Owain ran, not knowing where he went as the hail stung his flesh like a shower of sparks from the forge. Nowhere did he run, and yet everywhere, as his feet thrashed through the ice-pocked dirt of what seemed like all the tracks and paths of Bosventor. Nowhere did he find shelter, and yet all around, the fading hearth fires of his neighbors called to him.

As he ran, his fingers clawed at his armband and then caressed it. Though his path meandered, inevitably and without reason he found himself in the pasture of the Druid Stone once more.

And there stood his wife, Mônda, with her goodly father who smiled on Owain as a prodigal come home. All else blurred but their sweet faces as he fell sideways to the turf. “Take it off … Take it off. In the name of mercy, take it off!” he called.

Mônda bent down and, with her long black hair covering his face, touched his covenant armband, whispering words that took away the pain.

Owain relaxed … until his fingers curled against his will. His elbows jolted straight, his legs numbed, and his back went rigid. He wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn't obey.

“My daughter,” Mórganthu said, “your spell of binding has grown strong since the first days of your union. Here is one of my enemies, and what shall I do with him?”

Mônda looked at Owain in love, and this gave him hope. She would help him, she would —

“To the Stone. Take him to the Stone,” she said. “Then he will
always
be mine.”

M
erlin sat on his hands, leaning against the wall where his tas had left him. “Go and tell the brothers about Prontwon. I'll stay and keep vigil.”

“I'm sorry about your father, Merlin,” Dybris said.

“Nothing can be done now. He's gone.”

Dybris helped Merlin stand up and gave him back his staff. “Don't give up. You can pray. All of us can pray.”

Merlin nodded.

“And don't forget Garth. Keep praying for Garth.”

“I will.”

After Dybris left, Merlin pulled up a bench so he could sit near Prontwon's body but decided to stand instead. He found the old man's hands and folded them upon his chest. How could he have died just when Merlin needed him most? When everyone needed him?

Then Merlin did something he'd never done in life. He reached out and felt the shape of Prontwon's face. He knew the man's voice. Knew the gruffness when the abbot coughed to rebuke an improper joke. Knew his earnestness when he corrected Merlin's thoughts about God or the Scriptures. Knew the abbot's kindness when he held Merlin's hands in greeting.

Yet Merlin couldn't remember the man's face, since his family had little to do with the monks before Merlin became interested in following Jesu.

Thus, he had never seen Prontwon smile or laugh, nor had he seen the twinkle that must have been in the old man's eyes when he teased.

Warm sunshine filtered through the hole in the roof, and there Merlin stood, feeling the old man's stubble and the shape of his nose. The forehead that held such intelligence, such wit, framed by his balding head and his surprisingly thick eyebrows.

Merlin held back a sob, for only in the coldness of death did he now understand Prontwon in a way God had intended him to be known and yet had always been hidden from Merlin. He patted Prontwon on the shoulder and sat down to pray for his own father, whose face he knew.

The room grew dark, and Merlin pulled his cloak about him, feeling suddenly chilled and alone. He tried to imagine the shape of his father's eyes, and he begged God to open them.

But the wind began to whip through the rasping chapel door. A small animal pawed through the crack and jumped onto an unsteady bench several feet in front of Merlin.

The creature began to purr.

Soon the cat fell silent, but Merlin felt it watching him. He held his staff between himself and the black shadow where the cat wisped its tail. He kept praying, but it was hard to keep his mind on the words.

More cats arrived. One by one, they crept hush-clawed into the chapel until Merlin was surrounded by a coven of silent felines.
Some on benches, some on the floor, and some on the table near the far wall.

Fear crawled into his heart, but he kept praying for his father despite the unnerving presence of the abbey's sudden guests.

They hissed. Then they began to yowl, and the din of it unnerved Merlin. If the cats attacked, what would he do? He wanted to make a mad dash for the door and slam it closed behind him. That would leave the animals locked inside with … with … Prontwon's body! The desire to defend the poor abbot and the desire to flee overwhelmed him. His stomach began to burn.

“God,” he called amid the angry spitting of the cats. “Protect me now. Protect your servant.” Even as the words died on his lips, a melody came to him, an old song Prontwon had written based upon a psalm.

Merlin hadn't tried to memorize it, but the monks had sung it many times. He slid his harp from its bag, and with shaky hands plucked out the melody. His voice rose above the vehemence of the cats.

Yet their hissing grew louder, and their paws crept closer.

Merlin imagined their angry claws digging into his flesh. He drew his harp tighter against his body and continued to play the notes. Flaming his courage with a spark of love for his father, he sang the song with a wavering voice.

A cat landed on each side of his bench, and Merlin flinched. They let forth a terrible screech so that he almost fled — only his commitment to the abbot kept him firm. His heart pounded as they scratched at the wood and splintered its surface like an old bone dug up from a grave.

Owain lay on the grass, rigid and unable to move. Two druidow grabbed his wrists and stretched his arms above his head. They pulled him onto his back and slowly dragged his heavy frame across the grass.

One of the druidow swore. “Why do we get all the lugging jobs? ‘Take him to the Stone,' the arch druid says, and so we do, but why pick someone as thick-limbed as this lout?”

Owain's head slung backward, and he saw their heels kick, kick, kick. Finally a heel bashed him in the nose. The blood ran down his cheek and onto his ear. He blinked and through the haze saw the Druid Stone draw closer as they heaved his body forward.

Strangely, Owain felt relief that his struggle would soon be over. Twice before in his life he'd felt this way. The first time he was very young — the day after Whitsuntide when his family had been visiting relatives who lived in a
crennig
built out on a lake for the natural defense it offered. That day, while playing on the house's ledge, he'd tripped and sunk into the cold water. He had flailed and kicked, sure, but nothing brought him up to air. He gave up the struggle then too … but why couldn't he recall the rest of the story anymore?

The druidow dragged him closer to the Stone, and, upside down, he saw another man kneeling with his hands on it. Brioc. Upon his head sat his tricornered leather hat.

As if reacting to Owain's presence, the Stone raged forth bright blue fire. Brioc yanked his hands away from the Stone and held them before his face.

Owain smelled burning flesh. He closed his eyes and wished his ears were covered too, as Brioc shrieked and ran away.

The druidow dropped Owain's leaden arms onto the grass. “Get a gander at the Stone,” one said. “Mórganthu's right that a man should never anger it!”

“Stop gawkin', fool, and roll this ‘un over. We've orders to lay
his
hands on the Stone.”

Merlin's jaw trembled as the cats scratched closer, their shrieks so near that his arms felt the spit from their fangs.

But a memory flickered like a candle, brighter than his fear. It was his mother, visiting him where he lay in bed crying from his
father's chastisement. Her oval face bent down to him, framed by her wavy red hair. She smiled and placed her warm hands on his cheeks. He could smell the sweetness of heather on her clothes.

“Merlin, sweet bairn, do ya ken how much Father loves ya? Gruff like a bear he is, but don't shut yer heart to him. He needs ya! And he desperately loves ya. Always love him.”

Her face faded like a phantom, and in her memory he sang out the last verse of the abbot's hymn with all his strength. When the song was finished, Merlin called out before the evil assembly of felines, “Begone! In the name of the Lord God of Hosts. In the name of Jesu the Messiah. In the name of the Sanctifying Spirit. Leave this place!” He set down his harp and picked up his staff. Gripping it in the middle, he jerked it left and right to knock the cats off the bench.

But nothing was there.

The howling and manifest switching of their tails faded, and the room became silent. The cats had vanished. The sun shone again through the hole in the ceiling, lighting up Merlin where he'd fallen on his knees in sweet praise to God.

He pleaded again in earnest for his father.

Someone shoved Owain facedown in the moist grass.

“Here, Podrith, pull him forward a bit more. Don't grab his sleeve; you're just tearin' it. C'mon, like this.”

They grasped his hands, and Owain's mind flashed back to his near drowning. The water had filled his lungs, and the light above had faded. But someone grabbed his hand. His own father pulled him from the water to the bright day and the sweet air. His father had found him. There was life. And air!

Only because of his father's love did he survive to tell the tale to his own son. To Merlin.

Why had he forgotten his son?

Merlin's face appeared before his darkened eyes. He could see the handsome curly black hair, his grin, and the innocent mischievousness.
He could see the man Merlin was becoming. The strength in his back, legs, and arms. The self-assurance despite his limitations.

And Owain could see the scars — the scars that stabbed at his own heart every time he looked at them.
Failure. You failed him. You didn't protect him that day
. But oh how he loved his son. If he could just say it instead of hurting him. Instead of insulting Merlin's God.

God?

Was it God who gave Merlin the ability to resist? To keep struggling for air? To cling to life even when it beat him down? Owain had always puzzled over his son's inner strength. His own power was fueled by anger at the injustices he'd suffered, as well as the fear of failure. And his fear stoked the anger like fire heating iron until he was able to bend those emotions to his will. Able to survive the calamities of his life.

But what of the Christ — the Messiah — whom Merlin professed? When he was young, Owain had known Jesu. Or so he'd thought. Had he believed only because his father believed?

When the prayers of the monks failed, and he'd been forced to accept that his beloved Gwevian had drowned, he'd given up his own slim faith. Blamed God. Just forgotten. Why
had
he forgotten? Had not the Christ suffered for him? Had not the Christ —

The armband burned with renewed fire, and the Stone rose up before his darkened vision. His hands floated so close, he could feel its frozen heat sucking the life from his bones. Chilling his heart and suffocating him so he no longer felt the love of his friends, his family, his God.

His
God!

It was as if something snapped, releasing his imprisoned body. Owain yelled, kicked, and fought once more. Just as in the water when his father had taken his hand and given him hope.

There was hope. There was always hope.

He fought like a man possessed, and the druidow let go. More of the beasts surrounded him and tried to hold him down, but he climbed onto his knees and burst up with strength forged from
long hours pounding out iron. Lashing out, he struck down one druid with the side of his arm and smashed another with his elbow. Flailing his fists, Owain soon scattered them and, rising, sprinted away.

He had to get to the one place he thought safe: his smithy. But the covenant armband from Mônda burned hotter and hotter, and her voice and footsteps haunted him from behind.