Shadowland (21 page)

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 star-filled 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.

‘Clarise?’ Quickening his step, he called to her
again. ‘Clarise! Clarise, 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
Clarise, but he also recognised that the small girl before him was now far more
than the eight-year-old child he had so recently come to know.

‘Are you well, Clarise? Have they... hurt you?
Clarise, 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; Clarise 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.’

Clarise 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 Clarise 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. T
he 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 a banshee possessed as it wrapped around them, chilling them despite all
efforts to keep warm. T
he 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?’