The Apex Book of World SF 2 (37 page)

Had I struck from
the ground it would have felled him. But it was from the mount. He didn't even
blink, as if he hadn't noticed that he was bleeding like a pig, squirting dark
crimson all over the saddle, the housing, the sand. The onlookers were shouting
their heads off. I was sure the loss of blood was taking its toll and, because
I was nearing my limits, too, I launched myself into attack, impatiently,
recklessly. I went for the kill. And that was my mistake. Unwittingly, thinking
perhaps that he would repay me with a similar, unfair cut from the side, I lowered
my shield. Suddenly, I saw the stars burst with light and…didn't know what
happened next.
I don't know. I don't know what happened next,
I thought,
looking at the white hands of Iseult. Was it possible? Was it only that flash
of light in Dun Laoghaire, the black tunnel and then the grey-white coast and
the castle of Carhaing?

Was it possible?

And immediately,
like a ready-made answer, like a hard proof and an irrefutable argument, there
came images, faces, names, words, colours, scents. It was all there, every
single day. The short, dusky winter days seeping through the fish-bladders in
the windows. Those warm, fragrant-with-the-rain days near Pentecost, and those
long, hot summer days, yellow with sunshine and sunflowers. It was all there:
the marches, the fights, the processions, the hunts, the feasts, the women, and
more fights, more feasts, more women. Everything. All that had happened since
that moment in Dun Laoghaire till this drizzly day on the Armorican coast. It
all took place. It all happened. It passed. Only I couldn't understand why it
all seemed to me so…

Never mind.

It didn't matter.

I sighed. This
reminiscing wore me out. I felt almost as tired as then, during the fight. Just
like then, my neck hurt and my arms felt like slabs of stone. The scar on my
head throbbed furiously.

Iseult of the White
Hands, who for some time had been looking out of the window, watching the
overcast horizon, slowly turned her face towards me.

"Why have you come
here, Morholt of Ulster?"

What was I to tell
her? About the black holes in my memory? Telling her about my black, unending
tunnel wouldn't make sense. All I had at my disposal was, as usual, the knights'
custom, the universally respected and accepted norm. I got up.

"I am here to serve
you, Lady Iseult," I said, bowing stiffly.

I saw Kai bowing
like that in Camelot. It struck me as a dignified, noble bow worth copying.

"I have come here to
carry out your orders, whatever they may be. My life belongs to you, Lady
Iseult."

"Sir Morholt," she
said softly, wringing her fingers, "I'm afraid it's too late for that."

I saw a tear, a
narrow, glistening trickle making its way from the corner of her eye till it
slowed down and stopped on the wing of her nostril. I could smell the scent of
apples.

"The legend is about
to end, Morholt."

"Branwen?"

"Yes, Morholt."

"How did you know?"

"I remember you from
Ireland, from the court. I remember you well. No, I doubt you remember me. You
didn't pay any attention to me then; although, I can tell you this now,
Morholt, I did want you to notice me. It's understandable; when Iseult was
around one didn't notice others."

"No, Branwen. I
remember you. I didn't recognise you today because…"

"Yes, Morholt?"

"Because then, in
Atha Cliath…you always smiled."

Silence.

"Branwen?"

"Yes, Morholt?"

"How is Tristan?"

"Bad. The wound is
festering, doesn't want to heal. The rot's set in. It looks horrible."

"Is he…?"

"As long as he
believes, he will live. And he believes."

"In what?"

"In her."

Silence.

"Branwen?"

"Yes, Morholt?"

"Is Iseult of the
Golden Hair…is the Queen…really going to sail here from Tintagel?"

"I don't know,
Morholt. But he believes she will."

Silence.

"Morholt?"

"Yes, Branwen?"

"I told Tristan you
were here. He wants to see you. Tomorrow."

"Very well."

Silence.

"Morholt?"

"Yes, Branwen?"

"There, on the dunes…"

"It doesn't matter,
Branwen."

"It does. Please,
try to understand. I didn't want, I couldn't let you die. I could not allow an
arrow butt, a stupid piece of wood and metal, to spoil… I couldn't let that
happen. At any price, even the price of your contempt. And there…on the
dunes, the price they asked didn't seem so high. You see, Morholt…"

"Branwen…it's
enough, please."

"I have paid with my
body before."

"Branwen. Not a word
more."

She touched my hand
and her touch, believe me or not, was the red ball of the sun rising after a
long, cold night. It was the scent of apples, the leap of a horse spurred to
attack. I looked into her eyes and her gaze was like the fluttering of pennons
in the wind, like music, like a stroke of fur on the cheek. Branwen, the
laughing Branwen of Baile Atha Cliath. Serious, quiet, sad Branwen of Cornwall,
of the Knowing Eyes. Was there anything in that wine we drank? Like the wine
Tristan and Iseult drank on the sea?

"Branwen…"

"Yes, Morholt?"

"Nothing, I only
wanted to hear the sound of your name."

Silence.

The roaring of the
sea, monotonous, hollow, carrying persistent, intrusive, stubborn whispers…

Silence.

"Tristan."

He had changed.
Then, in Baile Atha Cliath, he was a child, a cheerful boy with dreamy eyes,
always with that engaging little smile that sent hot waves up the maids'
thighs. Always that smile, even when we had bashed each other with swords in
Dun Laoghaire. And now… Now his face was grey, thin, withered, cut with
glistening lines of sweat, his lips chaffed and frozen in a grimace of pain,
black rings of suffering around his eyes.

And he stank. He
stank of illness. Of death. Of fear.

"You are alive,
Irishman."

"I am, Tristan."

"When they carried
you off the field they said you were dead. Your head…"

"My head was cracked
open and the brain out," I said, trying to make it sound casual.

"A miracle. Someone
must have been praying for you, Morholt."

"I doubt that," I
shrugged my shoulders.

"Inscrutable is
Fate." His brow furrowed. "You and Branwen…both alive. While I…in a silly
scuffle…I had a lance thrust into my groin; it went right through me, and it
snapped. A splinter must have got stuck inside; that's why the wound is
festering. God's punished me. It's the punishment for all my sins. For you, for
Branwen. And above all…for Iseult…"

His brow furrowed
again; his mouth twisted. I knew which Iseult he meant. My heart ached. Her
black-ringed eyes, her hand-wringing, the fingers cracked out of her white
hands. The bitterness in her voice. How often she must have seen it: that
involuntary twist of the mouth when he spoke the name of "Iseult" and could not
add "of the Golden Hair". I felt sorry for her—her, married to a legend. Why
had she agreed to it? Why had she agreed to serve merely as a name, an empty
sound? Hadn't she heard the story about him and the Cornish woman? Maybe she
thought it unimportant? Perhaps she thought Tristan was just like any other
man? Like the men from Arthur's retinue, like Gawaine, Gaheris, Bors or
Bedivere, who started this idiotic fashion to adore one woman, sleep with
another and marry the third without anyone complaining?

"Morholt…"

"I'm here, Tristan."

"I have sent
Caherdin to Tintagel. The ship…"

"Still no news,
Tristan."

"Only she…" he
whispered. "Only she can save me. I'm on the brink. Her eyes, her hands, just
the sight of her, the sound of her voice… There is no other cure for me. That's
why…if she is on that ship, Caherdin will pull out on the mast…"

"I know, Tristan…"

He fell silent,
staring at the ceiling, breathing heavily.

"Morholt… Will she…come?
Does she remember?"

"I don't know,
Tristan," I said and immediately regretted it. Damn it, what would it cost me
to confirm with ardour and conviction? Did I have to reveal my ignorance to him
as well?

Tristan turned his
face to the wall.

"I wasted this love,"
he groaned. "I destroyed it. And through it, I brought a curse on our heads. I
am dying because of it, unsure that she will answer my plea and come, that she
would, even if it were too late."

"Don't say that,
Tristan."

"I have to. It's all
my fault. Or perhaps my fate is at fault? Maybe that's how it was to be from
the beginning? The beginning born of love and tragedy? For you know that
Blanchefleur gave birth to me amidst despair? The labour began the moment she
received the news of Rivalin's death. She didn't survive my birth. I don't know
whether it was her, in her last breath, or Foyenant, later…who gave me this
name, the name which is like doom, like a curse? Like a judgement. La tristesse. The cause and effect. La tristesse, surrounding me like a mist… Exactly
like the mist swathing the mouth of the river Liffey when for the first time…"

He fell silent
again, his hands instinctively stroking the furs with which he was covered.

"Everything,
everything I did turned against me. Put yourself in my position, Morholt.
Imagine yourself arriving at Baile Atha Cliath, you meet a girl… From the
first sight, from the very moment your eyes meet, you feel your heart wants to
burst out of your breast, your hands tremble. You wander to and fro the whole
night, unable to sleep, boiling with anxiety, shaking, thinking about one thing
only: to see her again in the morning. And what? Instead of joy—la tristesse…"

I was silent. I didn't
understand what he was talking about.

"And then," he
carried on, "the first conversation. The first touching of the hands, as
powerful as a lance's thrust in a tournament. The first smile, her smile, which
makes you… Eh, Morholt. What would you do in my place?"

I was silent. I didn't
know what I would have done in his place. I had never been in his position. By
Lugh and Lir, I had never experienced anything like it. Ever.

"I know what you
would not have done, Morholt," said Tristan, closing his eyes. "You would not
have sold her to Mark, you would not have awakened his interest, babbling all
the time about her. You would not have sailed for her to Ireland in his name.
You would not have wasted love, the love that began then, then, not on the
ship. Branwen doesn't have to torture herself with that story about magic
potion. The elixir had nothing to do with it. By the time Iseult boarded the
ship she was already mine. Morholt… If it were you boarding that ship with her,
would you have sailed to Tintagel? Would you have given her to Mark? I'm sure
you would not. You would have rather sailed to the edge of the world, to
Brittany, Arabia, Hyperborea, the Ultima Thule. Morholt? Am I right?"

I couldn't answer
this question. And even if I could, I wouldn't want to.

"You are exhausted,
Tristan. You need sleep. Rest."

"Look out…for the
ship…"

"We will, Tristan.
Do you need anything? Shall I send for…for the lady of the White Hands?"

A twist of his
mouth:

"No."

We are standing on
the battlement, Branwen and I. A drizzle. We are in Brittany, after all. The
wind is growing stronger, tugging at her hair, wrapping her dress tightly
around her hips. It thwarts our words, squeezes tears out of our eyes, which
are fixed on the horizon.

No sign of a sail.

I'm looking at
Branwen. By Lugh, what a joy it is, watching her. I could look at her till the
end of time. Just to think that when she stood next to Iseult, she didn't seem
pretty. I must have been blind.

"Branwen?"

"Yes, Morholt?"

"Were you waiting
for me then, on the beach? Did you know…?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Don't you know?"

"No. I don't…I can't
remember… Branwen, enough of these mysteries. My head is not up to it. Not my
poor cracked head."

"The legend cannot
end without us. Without our participation. Yours and mine. I don't know why,
but we are important, indispensable to this story. The story of great love that
is like a whirl, sucking in everything and everyone. Don't you know that,
Morholt of Ulster? Don't you understand what an almighty power love can be? A
power capable of turning the natural order of thing? Can't you feel that?

"Branwen…I do not
understand. Here, in the castle of Carhaing…"

"Something will
happen. Something that depends only on us. That's the reason we are here. We
have to be here, whether we want it or not. That is how I knew you would turn
up on that beach. That is why I couldn't allow you to die on the dunes…"

I don't know what
made me do it. Perhaps her words, perhaps the sudden recollection of the eyes
of the golden-haired lady. Maybe it was something I had forgotten, journeying
down the long, unending black tunnel. I don't know, but I did it without
thinking, without any deliberation. I took her into my arms.

She clung to me,
willingly, trustfully, and I thought that, indeed, love can be an almighty
power. But equally strong is its prolonged, overwhelming, gnawing absence.

It lasted only a
moment. Or so it seemed to me. Branwen slowly freed herself and turned around.
A gust of wind pulled her hair.