The Paradise War (26 page)

I think this had to do with the language itself: there were no dead words. No words that had suffered the ignorant predation of a semiliterate media, or had their substance leached away through gross misuse; no words rendered meaningless through overuse, or cheapened through bureaucratic doublespeak. Consequently, the speech of Albion was a valued currency, a language alive with meaning: poetic, imagaic, bursting with rhythm and sound. When the words were spoken aloud they possessed the power to touch the heart as well as the head: they spoke to the soul. On the lips of a bard, a story became an astonishing revelation, a song became a marvel of almost paralyzing beauty.

Tegid and I spent three weeks on the trail—I call them weeks, although the bards did not reckon the passage of days that way— three weeks, living and breathing the language of Albion: by the fire at night when we camped, in the saddle when we rode, by the cold-water streams and hilltop bowers when we stopped to eat or rest. By the time we reached Ffim Ffaller I was speaking like a Celt—albeit a somewhat laconic Celt.

I learned much about the new world around me. Albion was an island—which I had surmised on my own—occupying roughly the same place and shape in its world as the island of Great Britain occupied in the real world. Tegid drew a map in the dirt to show me where we were going. Though the similarities were many and striking, the major difference was in size: Albion was many times larger in every way than the tidily compacted Britain I had left behind. Judging from the distances traveled, Albion was immense; both the land and the world that contained it were far more expansive than anything I could have dreamed.

I also learned something of wood and wildlife lore; Tegid proved a veritable fountain of information. Nothing escaped his notice—in the sky above or the earth below. No single detail was too minute, no occurrence so trivial it could not become a lesson. The man was indefatigable.

Yet, able teacher though he was, Tegid showed no interest in where I came from, or how I had come to be in Meldryn Mawr’s court. I was asked nothing about my own world. At first, I thought Tegid’s notable lack of curiosity strange. But, as the journey wore on, I became grateful for his indifference. I grew more and more reluctant to think about the real world. In fact, I forgot about it for whole days at a time, and found the forgetting liberating.

I gave myself wholly to Tegid’s tutelage, and I learned a great deal about Albion—more than I would have discovered in years on my own. In the process, I learned much, too, about my guide and companion.

Tegid Tathal ap Talaryant was a bard and the son of a bard. Darkly good-looking, with eyes the color of mountain slate, a deep-clefted chin and a wide, expressive mouth, he looked like an artist’s idea of the Brooding Poet. Tegid was of noble blood—and it showed in every line of his well-knit frame—born of a southern tribe which had produced bards for the kings of Llwydd for ten generations or more. In his company, I was conscious of my own undistinguished appearance: I must have seemed very ugly to such a handsome people—with my lumpen mug and weedy frame.

Although still a young man, by Albion standards at least, he was already a Brehon, only three notches lower than Penderwydd, or Chief Bard. Brehon was that phase of a bard’s training in which he was expected to master the intricacies of tribal life—everything from the rules governing the choosing of a king and the orders of precedence in court, to the latest land squabble among farmers and how many cows should be paid for usurping a man’s place in his bed. When he had become an authority on all matters public and private, the bard would become a Gwyddon, and then a
Derwydd
.

The degrees of bardship were elaborate and formal, their roles well defined through eons, apparently, of unaltered tradition. The candidate progressed from Mabinog—which had two distinct subdivisions,
Cawganog
and
Cupanog
—and proceeded up through the various degrees:
Filidh
, Brehon, Gwyddon, Derwydd, and finally Penderwydd, sometimes called the Chief of Song. There was also a Penderwydd over the whole, the Chief of Chiefs, so to speak. He was called the
Phantarch
, and was chosen by acclamation of his peers to rule over the bardship of Albion.

According to Tegid, the Island of the Mighty was protected by the Phantarch in some obscure way. The way he described it made it sound as if the Phantarch literally stood underneath the realm, supporting it on his shoulders. A quaint poetic image, I assumed.

All that first week I was saddle-sore and exhausted from the rigors of our journey. By the end of the second week, I was speaking to my horse again and optimistic about my chances of a full recovery. When the time came to exchange the horses for a berth aboard ship, I was sincerely sorry to see them go.

One afternoon toward the end of the third week, we halted atop a rocky headland on the western coast, and Tegid pointed out a settlement far down in the misty vale below. The sea inlet formed the valley floor between two towering headlands, creating a deep folded pocket which made for a nicely protected bay. The small settlement served the harbor there. “That is Ffim Ffaller,” he told me. “There we will meet the ship which will take us to Ynys Sci.”

“Will we have long to wait?”

“Not long. A day or two, perhaps a little longer. But I think not.” He turned in the saddle to face me and put his hand on my shoulder. “You have done well, brother. The king will be pleased.”

“And you have been a good teacher, Tegid. I am grateful for all you have done. You have given me eyes to see, ears to hear, and a tongue to speak. For that, I thank you.”

He shrugged off the compliment, saying, “You would have learned it all sooner or later. If I have helped you, I am happy.”

We started down the steep hill track to the settlement then, and said no more. The harbor at Ffim Ffaller was little more than a wooden jetty and a boatyard on the pebbled shingle. The jetty was large enough for three or four ships, with space in the bay for only half a dozen more. In short, the place appeared only what it was: a midway stopping place for ships bound further north and south.

The settlement consisted of an assortment of round wattled houses, a livestock pen, and a few outbuildings. Add to these the four brown huts on the shingle which formed the boatyard and that was all of Ffim Ffaller, home to perhaps thirty folk.

We ambled into the settlement and received a warm welcome, being the first visitors of the season. The headman of the holding confirmed that the ship was expected tomorrow or the next day, and gave us the use of the guesthouse and a woman to cook for us. Tegid gave him a bit of gold, broken off from one of the thin sticks he carried in a leather pouch beneath his belt. The headman accepted this payment, protesting that it was not at all necessary: they were only too glad for word of the realm.

I understood then how lonely such isolated places could be for a gregarious people. Word of events in the outside world was a precious commodity, and travelers were merchants of no mean status.

Indeed, we paid for our lodging many times over before our stay was out, telling and retelling the tidings we brought with us.

That Tegid was a bard further heightened our popularity. The settlement had not so much as a filidh, or master of song, among its members. There had been no songs or stories all the long, cold winter—save those the people had told or sung themselves. This may not sound like much of a hardship, but winter nights are long and winter days dark. And the songs of a bard can transform life lived before the hearthfire into a sparkling enchantment.

It was in Ffim Ffaller that I first heard the true genius of a bard. Tegid sang for the settlement, and it is a wonder I will treasure forever.

We had all gathered in the headman’s house, around the central firepit. It was after the evening meal, and everyone had come to hear Tegid sing. To my surprise, he had earlier produced a harp from his leather bag and taken it down to the jetty to tune its strings. The moment he entered the hut, a palpable thrill stirred the people.

He made his way to the far side of the firepit, where he took his place, standing straight and tall before us, his cloak falling in graceful folds from his shoulders, harp nestled against his chest, his handsome features illuminated by the flickering firelight. He bent his dark head and drew his fingers over the harpstrings, sending a shimmering cascade of sound spilling like a shower of silver coins over those huddled round about.

Then, drawing a long breath, he began to sing—simply, expressively. I followed the song as best I could, but lost much in the tight-woven tapestry of his words. What did that matter? What I gained far outweighed the loss. It was magic.

Tegid’s story—a tale about a lonely fisherman who woos a woman from the waves, only to lose her to the sea—was sung in such an eloquent and compelling voice, and with such a poignant melody, that tears spilled from my eyes to hear it. I could comprehend but a fragment of all he sang, and none of the sublety, yet the intensity of the song struck me with a power undiminished for all that. The haunting melody filled my soul with longing.

When he finished, the people sat in rapt silence. And, after a moment, Tegid began another song. But, like a poor man who has feasted on food far too rich for his humble appetite, I was glutted. More might have killed me. So I silently crept away and took myself off, alone, to walk along the water’s edge.

There, in the deep-hearted darkness of the night, I strolled the pebbled beach, gazing up at the brilliant stars and listening to the play of the water on the shore. I was astonished. Never in all my life had I been so moved—and by a simple song about a mermaid. I could neither believe nor understand what had happened to me. For it seemed that something inside me had been awakened, some long-sleeping part of me had been roused to life. And now I could no longer be who I was before. But if I was no longer to be who I
was
, who was I to
be
?

Oh, this was a fearful paradise—full of fantastic raptures and alarms. Terror and beauty, undiluted, cheek-by-jowl—and me as defenseless against one as against the other. How could I ever go back to the world I had known before? Truth to tell, I no longer considered going back a possibility. Here I was, by some miracle, and here I would stay.

I walked for a long time along the strand, and I did not sleep that night. The thing in me that had been wakened to life would not let me rest. How could I sleep when my spirit was on fire? I wrapped myself in my cloak and walked again along the water’s edge, as restless as the tide flow in the bay, my mind ablaze and dancing, my heart racing in an agitation of delight and dread.

Daybreak found me huddled on the jetty, watching the silver mist avalanching down the steep hillsides to spread across the cold blue black water of the bay. The early-morning sky was dull and hard as slate, but the clouds angling along the coast blushed pink with dawn. Out in the bay, a fish leaped. And the place where it splashed became a rippling ring.

The sight of that silver ring spreading on the peaceful water pierced me to the marrow. For it seemed to me an omen, a portent pregnant with meaning, a symbol of my life: a once disturbed surface stirred into a glimmering, ever-widening circle. The circle would expand until it was swallowed in the vastness of the bay—and then there would be nothing left, nothing to show that it had ever existed.

18
S
CATHA’S
S
CHOOL

T
he spear in my opponent’s hand had a smooth, rounded wooden head instead of a metal point. But it still hurt like fury when he poked me with it. I was bruised purple, head to heel, and I was growing mighty tired of getting jabbed every time I turned around. The smug little brute at the other end of the lance considered himself my superior in everything but age.

Cynan Machae was fifteen summers or so, large for his age, and already a formidable combatant. He was the very portrait of the spoiled royal darling: hair like a roof-thatch set to flame, small deep-set eyes of cornflower blue, a white skin lightly specked with rusty freckles. He wore his arrogance like the thick silver torc of which he was so insufferably proud.

And he had been getting the best of me, ever since we had been paired by our instructor, Boru—a tall, reed-thin genius with a javelin. Boru, himself a student under Scatha’s tutelage, could throw a spear further than most people could see, and clip an apple from a tree as it fell. Most students listened well to Boru, whenever he deigned to offer instruction.

My problem, this particular day, was to save my battered pride— somehow to prevent another disgraceful drubbing at the hands of my pompous young antagonist. It was the same problem as every other day. But today I meant business. Things were not going my way, however, and time was running out. Spear practice would be over soon, and I had yet to ransom my self-respect.

Ten paces off, Cynan stood with the habitual haughty smirk on his freckled face. He held his lance across his body with both hands. Whoever initiated the last challenge, we knew it would end as it always ended: me on my backside with a sharp pain in the ribs or chest or shins or shoulders—or wherever else that little prig felt like poking me.

I glared at him—so smart, so cool, so pompous—and my blood boiled. I would, I vowed, wipe that insolent smirk off his face once and for all. As I hefted my practice spear, an idea thrust itself into my battered skull.

I took a step forward. Cynan squared off.