Mythago Wood - 1 (34 page)

The avatar itself had carried him away from the city and set him loose in the
woodland fringes. It had been a warning to him. He was captured by a German
patrol and spent the rest of the war in a prison camp hospital. And after the
war he had been unable to find that ghost wood, no matter how hard he tried.

Concerning Magidion, there was little more to tell. The call had come a few
days before. Magidion had left the Jaguth and moved towards the heart of the
realm, to the same valley which was my own destination. For Magidion, and his
sword-kin, the valley was also a potent symbol, a place of spiritual strength.
Their leader lay buried there, brave Peredur. Each, on being summoned, made the
trek to the stone, before passing either inwards, through the flame and thence
into no-time, or back out again, as seemed to be Magidion's destiny.

She would triumph, of course. How could it be otherwise? Her legend would
have been meaningless unless she overcame her oppressor, to triumph, to become
the girl of power.

The valley was close. Magidion had already been there, and was now retracing
his steps across the inner realm of forest.

When the fire finally died down, I slept like a log. Keeton slept too, though
during the night I woke to the sound of a man crying. We rose together before
first light. It was bitterly cold, and even in the hut our breath frosted. A
woman came in and began to make up the fire. Magidion freshened himself, and
Keeton did likewise, breaking the ice that had formed on a heavy stone pot of
water.

We stepped outside into the enclosure. No-one else was about, although from
all the huts came the first thin streamers of smoke. Shivering violently, I
realized that snow was on its way. The whole Neolithic compound was bright with
frost. The trees that loomed around its walls looked like crystal.

Keeton reached into his leathers and drew out the pistol, holding it towards
me.

'Perhaps you should have this,' he said, but I shook my head.

'Thanks. But I don't think so. It wouldn't seem right to go against Christian
with artillery.'

He stared at me for a second, then smiled in a forlorn, almost fatalistic
way. He pocketed the weapon again and said, 'It's probably for the best.'

Then, with the briefest of goodbyes, Magidion began to walk towards the gate.
Keeton followed him, his pack large upon his back. His body was bulky in the fur
cloak. Even so, he seemed tiny next to the antlered man who led the way into the
dawn. At the gate Keeton hesitated and turned, raising a hand to wave.

'I hope you find her,' he called.

'I will, Harry. I'll find her and take her back.'

He hovered in the gateway, a long, uncertain pause before he called,
'Goodbye, Steve. You've been the best of friends.'

I was almost too choked to speak. 'Goodbye, Harry. Take care.'

And then there was a barked order from Magidion. The airman turned and walked
swiftly into the gloom of the trees.

May you find your peace of mind, brave K. May your story be a happy one.

A terrible depression swamped me for hours. I huddled in the small hut,
watching the fire, occasionally reading and re-reading the entries in Harry
Keeton's notebook. I felt overwhelmed by panic and loneliness, and for a while
was quite unable to continue my journey.

The old man with the white beard came and sat with me, and I was glad of his
studious presence.

The depression passed, of course.

Harry was gone. Good luck to Harry. He had indicated to me that it was just
two or three days' journey to the valley. Magidion had been there already and
there was a huntsman's shelter close by the stone. I could wait there for
Guiwenneth to arrive.

And Christian too. The time of confrontation was scant days away.

I took my leave of the enclosure in the early afternoon and paced away
through the thin flurries of snow that swirled from the grey skies. The old man
had marked my face with different ochres, and presented me with a small ivory
figurine in the shape of a bear. What purpose was served by paint and icon I
have no idea, but I was glad of both contributions and tucked the bear-talisman
deeply into my trouser-pocket.

I nearly froze to death that night, huddled under my canvas tent in a glade
that had seemed sheltered but through which an evil wind blew continually from
midnight to dawn. I survived the cold, and the following day I emerged on to
clear ground, at the top of a slope, and was able to look over the woodland at
the distant mountains.

It had been my impression that the valley of Peredur's stone lay between
those imposing, snow-capped slopes. Now I saw how wrong that belief was, how
misleading Sorthalan's map had been.

From this vantage point, I could glimpse for the first time the great wall of
fire. The land rose and fell in a series of steep, wooded hills. Somewhere among
them was the valley, but the barrier of fire, rising above the dark forest in a
band of brilliant yellow which merged with a pall of grey smoke, was clearly on
this
side of the mountains.

The mountains were in the realm beyond, the no-place where time ceased to
have meaning.

Another night, this time spent huddled in a sheltered overhang of rock, which
could be made warm by a small fire. I was reluctant to light that fire, since my
shelter was on higher ground and the flame might have been noticed. But warmth
was a precious thing in that bleak and frozen landscape.

During the night I heard a horse whinny. It was somewhere out among the
moonlit trees, below the overhang where I huddled. I moved in front of my
dimming fire to try to block the light. The sound had been muffled and distant.
Had there been voices as well? Would anyone be travelling on so dark and cold a
night?

There was no further sound. Shaking with apprehension I crept back into my
cave, and waited for dawn.

In the morning the land was shrouded in snow. It wasn't deep, but it made
walking hazardous. Among the trees it was easier to see the ground and avoid the
twisting roots and trap-holes. The woodland rustled and whispered in the white
stillness. Animals scampered within earshot, but were never visible. Black birds
screeched and circled above the bare branches.

The fall of snow grew heavier. I began to feel haunted by it as I pushed on
through the forest. Each time a branch shifted and spilled snow on to the.ground
I jumped out of my skin.

At some time during the morning a strange compulsion affected me. It was
partly fear, I suppose, and partly the memory of that horse, whinnying and
complaining in the frozen night. I became convinced I was being followed and
started to run.

I ran easily for a while, cautiously picking my way through the snow-bound
forest, careful of roots and covered pot-holes. Each time I stopped and stared
back into the silent wood I thought I could hear a furtive movement. The place
was a shadowy, confusing mix of white and grey. Nothing moved in those shadows,
save the sprinkle of snowflakes that drifted through the branches, a gentle
accompaniment to my increasingly panicky flight.

Now I turned towards the valley and began to run for my life. Behind me there
was soon no attempt to disguise the pursuit. The whickering of the horse was
loud and regular. The cries of the men hinted at triumph. When I glanced back I
saw shapes weaving through the forest. The rider and his horse loomed large
through the white veil.

I tripped as I ran, and stumbled hard against a tree, turning like an animal
at bay and bringing down my flintbladed spear. To my astonishment, wolves were
leaping through the snow on either side of me, some casting nervous glances at
me, but running on. Looking round, I saw the tall stag weaving between the
trees, pursued by this voracious pack. For a second I was confused. Had the
whole sensation of being chased been nothing but the sound of nature?

But the horseman was there. The beast shook its head as its rider kicked it
forward, each step sending the snow flying. The Fenlander sat astride it,
cloaked and dark, holding his own lethally-tipped javelin with arrogant ease. He
watched me through narrowed eyes, then abruptly urged the horse into a run,
bringing up the javelin to strike.

I darted to one side, tangled in tree roots, my haversack swinging awkwardly.
As I moved I blindly swung the spear at my attacker. There was an animal sound
of pain, and the spear was jerked roughly in my hands. I had caught the horse in
the flank, ripping its flesh. It shook, then reared, and the Fenlander was
thrown from its back. He laughed as he sat in the snow, still watching me. Then
he began to climb to his feet, reaching for his javelin.

I reacted without thinking, stabbing at him. The spear broke where Sorthalan
had carved his watching eye. The Fenlander stared stupidly at the stump of wood
in his breast, then looked up at my shaking figure, the broken shaft of the
spear still held towards him. His eyes rolled up and he toppled backwards, mouth
open.

Snow began to coat his features.

I left him where he lay. What else should I do? I threw the broken shaft
aside and walked unsteadily on through the woodland, wondering where the rest of
the pack were. And where Christian was hiding.

And in this way, trembling with the shock of the kill and lost in my nervous
thoughts, I emerged from the forest at the top of the valley, where a mournful
wind blew.

Peredur's stone rose from the snow before me, a huge, wind-scoured pinnacle,
towering above the land to a height of at least sixty feet. I walked towards the
grey megalith, awestruck and deeply moved by the silent authority of the
monument. Undecorated, the stone had been formed from a single hew, and had been
roughly dressed with the most primitive of tools. It tapered slightly towards
its top, and was leaning slightly towards the wall of fire at the far end of the
valley. Snow had drifted against one side of the stone and half obscured the
crudely etched shape of a bird, whose species was not clear. This was the
earliest symbol representing Peredur, the simple association with the myth of
rescue. Here, then, was Peredur's stone for all the ages of legend: a stone for
Peredur by whatever name he had been known, a place of quest for the girl who
had been rescued on the wing, in whatever form she had been known through the
centuries.

'I've missed you,' I said.

'My flintspear,'
she murmured, touching a finger to my nose.
'You have
the strength. My own precious flintspear

The wind was bitterly cold. It blew from the hills behind, feeding and
fanning the flame-talker's barrier to the innermost realm. Her voice faded, her
pale features became lost against the snow. I walked around the stone, wary of
surprise by Christian's Hawks, almost crying out for Guiwenneth to be huddled
there, waiting for me.

The first thing I noticed was the trail of shallow prints, leading towards
the trees and the far flame. The snow had almost filled them in, but it was
plain enough that
someone
had been to the stone, and had walked on down
the valley.

I began to follow them, hardly daring to think of the identity of their
maker. The trees were densely clustered in the deep valley bottom. The snow was
thick for a while, but soon vanished from the ground as the warmth of the fire
wall grew intense.

The crackle and roar of the flames mounted in volume. Soon I could see the
fire through the wood. And soon the whole wood ahead of me was a blazing wall,
and I stepped through a zone of charred and skeletal trunks, their blackened
branches like the stiffened limbs of fire victims. Small, charred remnants of
oak and hazel, and all the rest of the primitive wood, were silhouetted against
the brilliance of the flame; they looked like twisted human figures.