15
SYCHARTH
I awoke to Simon’s foot in my ribs. “Wake up,” he said, prodding me with his toe. “We’re leaving.”
“What?” I came awake with a start—then experienced the sudden implosion of my skull into the empty space vacated by my brain. “Oooh! I drank too much!”
Simon favored me with his fox-bark laugh. “You’ll get used to it— if you live long enough.”
I opened my eyes and peered blearily around. My cup lay by my head, which rested on the unfinished haunch of meat that had been my supper. Someone had thrown a cloak over my bare torso, but otherwise I was as I had dropped the night before. I stank of ale and blood—my body was still daubed with gore. My face was rough; my eyes felt as if I had gravel sprinkled under my eyelids. My tongue seemed three times life size, furred and leathery. My bladder felt like a water balloon filled much too full—any movement would result in certain disaster.
“Kill me now and be done with it,” I moaned.
Simon took me by the arm and lifted me to my feet, where I swayed unsteadily. “I feel like death.”
“Come on. We can wash in the river.”
The sun had just risen, and the camp was barely beginning to stir as we made our way out the gate and down the steep track to the fording place. A few warriors were already washing downstream where the water was deeper, standing hip deep in the ice-cold stream, scrubbing themselves furiously.
“Get those clothes off,” Simon said, stripping quickly.
I folded the cloak and put it on a rock, then slipped out of my shoes, socks, and bloodstained trousers. The nearest warriors observed my underpants with interest—I guessed boxer shorts had yet to become a fashion force. I whisked these off as well and stumbled into the freezing water, slipping awkwardly over the round, loaf-sized stones.
Simon had waded out a fair way and was ducking and dousing himself with great gusto. Some of the warriors called out to him, and from the way they spoke to him, I could see that he was a favorite.
Meanwhile, I edged cautiously deeper into the river—the water pricking my flesh like ice needles. A nearby warrior waded over to me and, grinning and gesturing, handed me what I took to be a rock. It turned out to be a chunk of tawny soap, which smelled of tallow and some sort of herbal fragrance I could not place. He took the chunk back and showed me how to lather up. I suppose from the mystified expression on my face, he surmised I had never seen soap.
He washed himself thoroughly and with a zeal that approached fanaticism. When he’d finished, he rinsed himself, handed me the soap once more, and retreated to the riverbank. I had barely begun soaping myself when the warrior returned with a small curved blade that looked like a seashell. It was a razor. With much grimacing and gesturing he showed me how to shave with it. He rubbed the back of his hand against my disgraceful stubble and clucked his tongue, then pressed the slender blade into my hand and splashed away.
Once I got used to the water, I began scrubbing away, grateful for the luxury of soap to rid my hide of its odious markings. Watching my reflection in the water, I managed to shave without slitting my throat. I passed soap and razor on to a waiting warrior when I finished, and found myself much refreshed for a thorough scraping and scouring.
The horror of the previous day’s battle disappeared with the rusty stain streaming from my limbs; all fear and disgust dissolved in the blessed bath and flowed away. In no time, it seemed as if the carnage of the day before had never happened, as if the slaughter was but a troubled dream that evaporated in dawn’s clear light. I washed and felt absolutely reborn.
Indeed, I cannot remember ever spending a better time bathing: the air was crisp and clean, the day fresh as the first day of creation. The sun was warm and the western breeze soft and light. The clear water sparkled where the warriors sported and splashed, and the sound of their voices as they hailed one another filled me with contentment.
I lay back in the water and floated for a while, thinking: This is me in the Otherworld, and I’m taking a bath. I’m swimming. I’m happy.
Simon returned from his swim and said, “We should go up if we want something to eat. We’ll be leaving soon.”
I found my clothes and, though I loathed putting the filthy things back on, dressed, and followed Simon up to the caer. Breakfast was hard brown bread and cold meat from the night before, washed down with more ale. I went easy on the ale but wolfed down the bread and meat.
Then someone blew a long, sharp blast on a horn, and we decamped. Prince Meldron and his bard moved out first, followed by the other mounted warriors. The rest of us trailed along behind on foot. Three wagons bearing supplies and weapons came after. We did not move in ordered ranks, but ranged as we would—in clumps of two or three or more, tramping easily and rapidly through the low, wide valley along the riverside trail.
We walked a good while, and some of the warriors began to sing. Although I could not understand the words, I enjoyed their strong voices and the obvious pleasure they took in singing. The sun rose higher, and it felt good on my bare skin. As I walked, a contentment I had never known, and never would have believed could exist, drew over me, enfolded me.
What would I give, I asked myself, to stay with these people forever?
The thought was ridiculous, of course. I could not stay—would not stay a moment longer than necessary. I had come to find Simon, had found him, and now must find a way back to the real world.
“Where are we going?” I asked, falling into step beside Simon.
“We are returning to Sycharth.”
“The king’s place,” I said.
“Yes, the king’s place.”
“Is it far?”
“Nine days,” he told me matter-of-factly.
“Walking?”
“Walking,” he confirmed.
“Oh.”
“Something wrong?” He gave me a sidelong glance. “Another engagement?”
“It isn’t that. But—”
“I suppose walking is beneath you.”
“Give me a break! I’m new here, okay? I only wanted to know what’s going on.”
Simon frowned but did not reply.
“What’s got into you, Simon? I thought you would be glad to see me. Instead, you act as though I was your kid sister with a bad case of smallpox or something.”
“Sorry,” he grunted but did not mean it.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” I told him. “You wish I’d stayed away. But now I’m here, and you’re afraid I’m going to spoil your good time. Well, too bad, but I’m here, and you’ll just have to get used to it.”
He stopped walking and jerked me around to face him. “Look!” he said through gritted teeth. “Get this straight: I did not ask you to come here. I did not ask anyone to rescue me. I can look out for myself. But now that you are here, I strongly advise you to take it easy. I saved your neck once; I may not be able to save it again. Got that?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good.”
“But I’m not staying, Simon. Neither are you. We’ve got to go back—as soon as possible. The longer we stay, the worse it gets.” I reminded him of our previous discussion about the dangers of messing about in the Otherworld. “It isn’t safe, Simon. We could be doing irreparable damage.”
“I see,” he replied, nodding slowly. “You mean that just by being here, our presence could change things. If we change things here, it would change things in the real world.”
“Right—and there’s no telling what could happen.” I was glad Simon understood so readily. “We have to find out where the next portal is, and when it’s open.”
“That might not be so easy,” he said.
“Couldn’t we ask what’s-his-name—Ruadh, the prince’s bard?”
Simon gave a slight dismissive shake of his head. “Look,” he said reasonably, “leave it to me.”
“But—”
“Just until we reach Sycharth. We can’t do anything until then, anyway. Give it
a few days, okay? In the meantime, take it easy. Have a look around. You might get to like the place.”
“Well”—I paused, gazing at the bright world around me—“all right. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anything to wait a few days.”
“Good,” he said, flashing his famous smile. “Leave it to me.”
“You’ll take care of it?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he assured me. I felt the weight of responsibility lift from my shoulders. “Don’t worry. It’s really a fabulous place. It’s paradise.”
So we began our march through that shining valley, the silvery Modornn flowing in clear, glimmering ripples beside us. It was, as Simon said, a fabulous world—so fresh and unspoiled, immaculate and alive with beauty. The scenery moved me to rapture. As we walked along, I would catch a glimpse of mist-clouded hills, blue in the distance, or a stretch of sparkling silver water sweeping slowly around a stand of supple white birches. The sight of a brown speckled trout leaping in the water, or yellow lichen grown thick on a blue-black stone, or the sound of birdsong falling from the clear sky above . . . stopped me in my tracks.
I swear, more than once tears came to my eyes. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart was pierced time and again by pangs of longing— a hunger for completeness akin to worship. For, merely walking through that perfect glen, I was reminded of my gross poverty of spirit. That simple natural beauty could move me so, struck me as both a revelation and a shame. Was I really so bereft of wonder in my life that the sight of a sun-dappled hillside could provoke such powerful feelings?
In this radiant paradise of a world I felt deeply the privation of years of wandering through life blind to the beauty around me. And I regretted it bitterly. I was a blind man granted sight, and I both cherished the gift and lamented the waste and ignorance that it revealed. I walked as one drunk through a land at once alien and intimate in the smallest detail.
More than once, I caught myself muttering aloud: “This is it! This is how it is supposed to be.” Although, if anyone had asked me what I meant by that, I could not have answered. The experience was still too new, too fantastic for me to make rational sense of it. I could only walk and wonder.
And, as I walked, I felt the ineluctable tide-pull of the Other-world’s allure begin to bear me away. It wielded an irresistible enchantment; and the more I saw of its splendors, the weaker grew my will to resist. I became a willing captive to its charms, and soon found the thought of returning to the manifest world intolerable. So much so that I stopped thinking about returning and simply gave myself up to the splendor and richness of all I saw around me.
For seven days we traversed the generous Vale of Modornn, following the river south, moving quickly, camping beside the river at twilight and hurrying on at daybreak. At the end of the seventh day’s march, the valley spread and flattened to marsh and meadlowland bounded by woodlands which covered the gently rolling hills. We left the river and struck off across country. At dusk on the ninth day, we came in sight of King Meldryn Mawr’s southern fortress: Sycharth.
The settlement stood a little above the flat land, on a bluff overlooking the sea. The place was enormous; it could be seen from far away: a splendid crown surmounting the hilltop, glowing red in the fiery light of the setting sun like a city carved of gemstone. Even from a distance, it appeared the seat of a great and powerful king: imposing, grand, formidable. And yet, somehow, hospitable—as if the man who ruled such a place could be approached with some expectation of welcome.
The slopes leading to the caer had been cleared for fields, in which laborers toiled to ready the earth for spring planting. As the war band approached, the farmers downed tools and ran to greet us on the trail. From the warmth of the reception, I guessed that more than a few of the farmers were kinsmen to warriors.
We continued on up the trail to the caer, and had almost reached the entrance, when out through the wide-open gates rushed a welcoming party of women and children. The warriors on horseback dis mounted and were instantly surrounded. Those of us on foot trooped along to join them and were accorded the same enthusiastic greeting— laughing embraces, children taking our hands, and garlands of spring flowers placed around our necks. It was the sort of homecoming one always imagines, but which never happens in real life.
“Is everyone so young?” I wondered, seeing no one above a robust and youthful middle age among the welcoming party. I turned to Simon with a sudden inspiration. “Doesn’t anyone grow old here?”
Simon, winking at an arresting young lady with long chestnut tresses, confirmed my suspicion. “Not exactly. They seem to live forever— at least, they don’t age like we do.” Then he grew suddenly earnest, turned, and looked me full in the face. “You won’t get any older, either, as long as you’re here. Think of that.”
Never grow old! Before I could ponder the implications of this staggering revelation, the crowd began moving. We were all but lifted up and carried bodily into the caer. I resisted the surge, staying well back to the last; and as others streamed around me, I turned away. The gleaming arc of a wide sea arm shone darkly to the south, now deep violet in the dusky light. Yes, think of it, I told myself. Think long and hard, Lewis! What would you give to live forever in this shining land? Forever! I stood dumbfounded at the possibility, trying to take it in, and Simon stepped beside me.
“That’s Muir Glain,” he informed me, mistaking my dazed expression for awe. “It is a sea estuary. The king’s shipyard is in the inlet just there”—he pointed in the direction of the river—“between Sycharth and the Modornn.”
He turned away quickly and hurried to join the festive crowd trooping up to the caer. I followed reluctantly, all at once a little uncertain of my reception. Simon’s words reminded me how much a stranger I was after all. I bluffed away my uneasiness by scrutinizing the premises.
Two higher timber walls extended out from the towering palisade. The track passed between these walls before reaching the gate, forming a perilous bottleneck for any attacking force. Though black with age, the timbers were stout and in excellent repair—a secure haven for a powerful monarch.
We passed through the tall timber gate and emerged onto a flat, grass-covered yard, large enough to hold an army. All along the perimeter of the yard stood low round stone houses with steep thatched roofs. Some of these houses were larger than others, but most were small, little more than sleeping quarters, I surmised. I also saw among the houses two large oblong structures, and, from the smoke rising through the central smoke hole, I guessed that these were cookhouses containing the kitchens and ovens and firepits.
Across this yard rose the high-peaked golden thatch of the king’s hall: a massive barn of a building, easily dwarfing all surrounding it, made of oak beams and stone infill. The chinks were stuffed with green and orange moss, giving the walls a peculiar velvety appearance. Two doors large enough for horsemen to ride through two abreast stood open; and, before the doors, two great stone pillars from the top of which flamed two fires in huge iron baskets. The surface of the pillars were graven top to bottom with the most fantastically intricate designs—the heads and bodies of birds and beasts interlaced in endlessly elaborate knots and whorls.
We assembled in the yard before the fire pillars, where we were greeted by a happy throng of the king’s subjects and by the king himself, no less, in a handsome chariot. He appeared at the far end of the yard and drove toward the throng, the spokes of the chariot wheels glinting and the plumed heads of the matched team of black horses tossing proudly as he came. From the moment he stepped down from the chariot platform, I could not take my eyes off him. Authority and dominance streamed from him; he moved with supreme confidence and self-possession—a mountain anchored to the center of the earth could not be more secure. His mere physical presence was a command: honor me; obey me.
Meldryn Mawr—his name meant Golden Warrior, as near as I could work out in my rudimentary Celt, and the epithet “Mawr” designated him “Great”—a great golden warrior king
, much revered and honored among his people. And golden he was: the flashing torc on his neck was made from three thick strands of braided gold; his belt was a glimmering sash of golden disks woven in a cunning fish-scale pattern; his well-muscled arms sported wide rings of red gold in the shape of entwined serpents with glowing eyes of ruby; his cloak was yellow, with white emblems and edgework, shot through with threads of gold; the sword at his hip was gold-hilted. Behind the king stood a youth, bearing a round white shield, with a rim and center boss of white gold, and a long spear with a blade of burnished gold.
To observe this great king was to gaze upon the sun. His radiance dazzled and his magnificence burned. He was exquisite and awesome in his splendor: fair-haired, his long locks gathered in a manly queue, his mustache full and flowing, his dark eyes calm and grave. Meldryn Mawr’s features displayed his noble bloodline: high handsome forehead, straight nose, firm jaw and chin, straight dark brows, and bold cheekbones.
And when he opened his mouth to speak, the voice that issued forth was the voice of a very god—deep and mellifluous, tinged with warmth and humor, and bold in the strength of its authority. I had no doubt that such a voice, when raised in anger, could command the very elements themselves. But then, I had not yet heard his Chief Bard, Ollathir, speak.
The king’s bard stood close at his right hand, but a half step behind. Like Ruadh, the Chief Bard wore a simple garb of dun brown, although his cloak was rich purple and his brooch was gold, and he wore a slender torc of gold also. He was a tall, dour-looking man, who, alone among the citizens of the caer, seemed to have any age at all: not old, certainly not elderly, but possessing that air of immense gravity and dignity which sometimes comes to men of august age. Proud and solemn and wise, Ollathir stood serene beside the king, every inch as regal and imposing as any monarch. I had no doubt that here, truly, stood a champion among bards.
The king made a level, sweeping motion with his arm and the assembly fell silent. He spoke briefly; every now and then a word or two sounded familiar to me, and I guessed that he was issuing words of welcome. And then Prince Meldron approached; the two clasped one another’s arms and embraced. The prince said something and turned to indicate the warrior band, whereupon the prince’s bard stepped up before the king and, placing a fold of his cloak over his head, began singing loudly in a strange, jerky chant.