Tegid led us to a small stone house in the shadow of the great hall. The hut was a storehouse for leather, wool, and other supplies, dry and smelling of sheep, with bales of fleeces and tanned oxhides rolled and stacked against the walls. There were also slabs of beeswax and bundles of carded wool for weaving. The roof was thatched with heather and moss; the floor was timber, and there were no windows.
In the center of the room stood a post, and next to it a square opening in the floor. Tegid moved to the opening, handed me his torch, and stepped down onto a wooden ladder. He disappeared into the square of blackness, and a moment later he said, “Hand me the light.”
I moved to the edge of the hole and handed down first one torch and then the other. Holding on to the post, I lowered myself into the darkness, feeling for rungs with my toes. Beneath the floor, the constricted hole opened into a narrow passage, almost—but not quite— high enough for a man to stand upright. “This way,” Tegid said, handing me a torch.
Two other passages opened off either side, but Tegid, head down and shoulders hunched, moved off along the central passage. It was dry, but cold. Our breath drifted in curling vapors to the stone ceiling above our heads. In thirty paces the passage ended in a larger chamber, where we could stand upright once again. At one side of the chamber there was a stone trough carved in the wall. A thin trickle of water seeping down a groove in the wall filled the basin, and the overflow dripped into a cistern. I could hear the pinging echo of the drips as they splashed into the cistern somewhere below. On the wall opposite the trough a knotted rope hung down into a round hole cut in the floor.
Tegid walked to the hole and gave me his torch. He then seized the knotted rope, stepped to the edge of the hole, and lowered himself down. “There are steps in the wall,” he told me when he reached the bottom. “Take the rope and throw down the torches.”
Following his instructions and example, I took hold of the rope and dropped the torches down the hole. Tegid retrieved them and held them high, so that I could see the clefts cut in the rock face. Half-dangling and half-climbing, I lowered myself down the vertical steps to find myself in a large, round, vaulted room which was the interior of the cistern itself. A rock ledge bordered the deep, dark pool of water. Without a word, Tegid handed me my torch, turned, and led the way along the ledge. We stopped at an opening halfway around the circumference of the cistern and half a man’s height from the ledge.
Two small holes bored into the stone at the side of this larger aperture held our torches, and we clambered up and into the entrance, and into another passage. Recovering our torches, we proceeded— first on hands and knees, then in a cramped crouch, and at last upright as the roof rose away into the darkness overhead. Though outside our small, wavering sphere of light the passage lay in darkness, I could tell that it was leading downward at a slight angle, and also turning slowly inward. The walls of this passage were wet. Water continually seeped, trickled, and dripped from the unseen ceiling. It may have been the exertion of our endeavor, but the passage seemed to me warmer, and I began to feel a clammy sweat on my face and neck.
How long this passage continued, I could not tell. I lost track of the steps and it seemed as if we might walk all night. At times the stony corridor narrowed so that we were forced to go sideways for some distance. Other times, the walls widened until lost to the light from our torches. As we followed the passage further, the way became steeper, and the floor beneath our feet smoother and more slippery— as if the passage had been carved into the heart of the mountain by an underground river. I also began hearing, faintly and far away, the sound of running water, like that of a brook splashing and sliding over its rock-strewn bed.
After some time, we arrived in a huge, hive-shaped chamber—naturally formed, not made by men. Through the center of the chamber coursed a stream, wide but not too deep, and Tegid followed it, making for a crevice in the wall through which the waterflow disappeared. This fissure spanned the height of the room floor to ceiling, and was wide enough at floor level for a man to enter.
“This is the womb of the mountain,” Tegid said, his voice echoing in the hollow chamber. “Here is where a bard is born. Beyond this portal the awen is awakened.”
He moved the torch to illumine the rock face at the edge of the crevice. I saw that a square patch of the wall had been smoothed and a design incised in the center of the square. It was a design I knew well, a common device seen throughout Albion: the circle maze whose elaborate, hypnotic loops and whorls could be found on arm rings, tattoos, brooches, shields, wooden utensils . . . almost anything. The circle maze also adorned standing stones and was cut into the turf on hilltops.
“That was on the pillar stone on Ynys Bàinail,” I said, indicating the carving. “What does it mean?”
“It is Môr Cylch, the maze of life,” Tegid told me. “It is trodden in darkness with just enough light to see the next step or two ahead, but not more. At each turn the soul must decide whether to journey on or whether to go back the way it came.”
“What if the soul does not journey on? What if it chooses to go back the way it came?”
“Stagnation and death,” replied Tegid with mild vehemence. He seemed irritated that anyone would consider retreating.
“And if the soul travels on?”
“It draws nearer its destination,” the bard answered. “The ultimate destination of all souls is the Heart of the Heart.”
Tegid moved to a niche carved in the wall, reached in, and brought forth two fresh torches which he lit from the one in his hand. He gave one of these to me and placed his used torch in a cleft beside the circle maze, directing me to do the same.
He turned and, hunkering down, stepped into the crevice. I heard the splash of his steps and saw the flame-flicker of his torch on shiny walls. Then he called out to me, “Come with me, brother. Here is where memory begins.”
I stooped and entered that narrow way, squeezed through a pinched opening and emerged into a high-ceilinged passage, wide enough to stand with hands outstretched to either side. The curved walls of the passage were smooth and shone as if polished. Along the floor ran the water from the stream. The turbulent crash of rushing water was louder here, though still distant-sounding and distorted, as if shunted and reflected by innumerable walls or baffles.
This was, in fact, the case, for we had entered an enormous maze— the likeness of which was carved on the wall outside—and the sound of the waterfall reached us through the many turns and curving pathways of the serpentine structure. We walked in water to our ankles, and soon our feet were wet and numb from the icy flow.
After wading for a little time in silence, Tegid began to tell me about the place and why we had come there. “This is very old,” he said, reaching out and slapping the smooth stone with his hand. “Almost before anything else in Prydain existed, this was made. This is the omphalos of our realm, the Navel of Prydain. It has been kept and protected by our kings from the creation of this worlds-realm.”
I had wondered why Meldryn Mawr required a fortress so far away from his lands. “But I thought the White Rock was the sacred center of Albion.”
“This, too, is the center,” Tegid replied, apparently unconcerned that there should be more than one sacred center. “And everyone who would become a bard must tread this pathway into the Heart of the Heart.”
We walked along the gently curving passageway and came eventually to what I first thought was a blank wall, but which, at closer approach, I saw was actually a close turn, doubling the passage back upon itself. We proceeded along this new corridor, holding our torches high to throw as much light before us as possible.
Despite Tegid’s guidance, I found the maze utterly disorienting. As we moved along the curving walls to the sound of rushing water all around, I felt like a lost soul stumbling alone, steering by my fitful light, hoping to reach I knew not what. And the water, swiftly flowing, was like time or the force of life, bearing us along on our journey.
The passag
e turned abruptly once more and we rounded the bend and started down yet another curving corridor, this one just slightly more sharply curved than the last. It may have been my imagination, but it did seem as if the bend became both a literal and symbolic turning point, a point of doubt requiring a decision. The way ahead was dark and uncertain, the way behind could no longer be seen. To go ahead meant to trust in the Maker of the Maze that the reward sought at the Heart of the Heart would bless and not curse.
The curves of the maze became sharper, the turns more frequent. By this I knew that we were coming to the center of the maze. The sound of rushing water grew louder as well. We would reach the central chamber soon. What would we find there?
The sound of water all around, the darkness, the cold, the hardness of the rock—I felt as if I had indeed entered into an initiation. Here is where memory begins, Tegid had said. Memory begins with birth. Was I being born into something? Or was something being born in me? I could not tell, but I felt the expectation growing with each step.
Tighter became the turns, quicker the steps. I felt my pulse racing and the surge of anticipation rushing through me. Water, fire, darkness, stone—a world of elemental simplicity exerting an elemental force upon me. I could feel the pull in my bones and blood. My mind quickened to a call older than any other, ancient, primeval: the summons to life which had called man forth from the elements.
We rounded the last bend in the maze and entered a circular chamber. It was empty—except for a large hole in the floor where the icy stream which had coursed through the winding pathways of the maze now disappeared. The roar of the water voice, like that of a god, came up through the dark hole as the falling stream shattered on the rocks somewhere below.
“We have reached the Heart of the Heart,” Tegid explained. “Here memory is extinguished.”
“Memory is extinguished in death,” I mused.
“That is so. But to die to one world is to be born into another. Therefore life, like all created things, though it ceases to flow in this world, continues its journey in the place beyond.”
The tingling I felt was the hair on the nape of my neck creeping. In the place beyond . . . the Phantarch sleeps . . .
Standing in the icy water, listening to the roar of falling water, I felt again the terror of that night on the sacred mound. In the darkness I saw again the looming maw of the Cythrawl and felt Ollathir’s arm tight on my neck and his breath hot in my ear. And I heard again the strange words the Chief Bard had bequeathed me with his dying breath.
“Domhain Dorcha,” I said, turning to Tegid. “The place beyond.”
Tegid’s eyes flicked sharp and quick over my face. Interest sparked the bard’s voice. “Where did you hear those words?”
“Ollathir told me,” I answered and told him what I remembered. “I did not know what he was saying, but I know now. I remember it now. In the place beyond, the Phantarch sleeps. That is what Ollathir told me.” I pointed to the hole where the water cascaded out of sight. “And there is where we will find the Phantarch.”
“Are you willing?” asked Tegid quietly.
“I am,” I answered.
Trembling with awe and excitement, we moved to the hole and held our torches low in an effort to penetrate the darkness beneath our feet. We could see nothing below the rim of the hole, however. The water spilling over the edge splashed into the unseen depths below. We stood for a moment wondering how far the water fell.
Then Tegid dropped his torch into the hole. The firebrand spun end over end, and for the briefest of instants there flashed the glassy walls and floor of a lower chamber before the torch doused itself in a pool. He raised his head and our eyes met and held the glance. “Well? What say you, brother?”
“There is no other way down,” I said.
“And perhaps no other way back up,” he pointed out.
True. We had no rope, no tools of any kind. We must decide what to do without knowing the outcome of our actions. If we failed there would be no second chance, no delivery, no rescue, no salvation. We were to risk all, to trust the tortured, perhaps confused word of a dying bard.
“If Ollathir was here and told you to go down into that hole,” I asked, “would you do it?”
“Of course,” replied Tegid, without hesitation. His faith in his leader was simple and direct. Tegid’s assurance was good enough for me.
I gazed into the darkness dense as dirt and blacker than oblivion.
It might well be our deaths awaiting us below. “Will you go first, or shall I?”
“I will go first,” he said, eyeing the round black void before us. “And when I call to you, hold the torch over the hole and drop it. I will try to catch it.”
Then he simply stepped into the hole and plunged from sight. I heard the splash as he hit the water and, for a heart-catching instant, nothing . . . and then a coughing, sputtering gasp.
“Tegid! Are you hurt?” I threw myself onto my stomach and lowered the torch through the hole.
“It is cold!” he roared, his voice echoing away into the depths below. I heard him thrashing in the water and then, “Throw the torch. I am directly beneath you.”
I tilted the torch fire-end upright as far as I could manage without burning myself. “Here it comes,” I said, and let it drop.
I saw it flutter and flare for just a moment, and I was certain it would go out. But, just before it touched the water, I saw a hand swoop out and Tegid was waving the torch and shouting, “I have it! I have it!”
I could see his upturned face in the torchlight, grinning up at me as if from a well. “Now you,” he called.
He moved aside, and I sat down on the edge of the hole, letting my legs dangle into the void below. The darkness closed upon me like a physical force; I could feel its pressure on my eyeballs and lungs—a vast, soft, invisible hand, squeezing me, suffocating me. Blind, breathless, cold water flowing all around and over me, I placed my hands on the edge of the precipice and pushed myself off the rim. The sensation of plunging through space in absolute darkness was more unnerving than I had expected. It seemed as if I fell and fell and would go on falling and never stop; I was beginning to wonder if I would ever hit the bottom, when I smacked the surface of the water.
Instantly, the water closed over my head, and I was plunged into the wet, dark cold. I sank until I felt solid rock beneath me. I pushed against the bottom with my feet and shot up, floundering and spewing, icy water pouring down on me from overhead. I dashed water from my eyes and looked toward the light. Tegid stood at the pool’s edge holding the torch high so that I could see him. I swam to him; he knelt and grabbed my arm and pulled me from the pool.
I stood, conscious of a subtle change in our surroundings—as if we had indeed passed from one realm into another. Tegid made to turn away, and, at the movement of the torch, I glimpsed a fleeting glimmer of light on the wall, the flash of a spark. “What next?” I asked. My voice did not echo but fell hushed at my feet.
“Let us see what we have found,” Tegid replied, and we began exploring. The chamber was round, we discovered, and carved in the living rock of the mountain. Opposite the pool was a low tunneled passage. The walls of the tunnel, like the walls of the chamber, were shot through with veins of silver crystal which sparkled as we passed. We entered the tunnel and began a long descent to a deeper room. Twice along the way I stopped. “Wait!” I told Tegid. “Listen!”
We would stop and listen but would hear nothing. Still, I thought I could hear something—a low rhythmic humming, like a big cat purring or an animal snoring. It sounded alive, whatever it was that we could not quite hear. I imagined tumbling from the tunnel into the den of a sleeping cave bear.
The tunnel wound down and down, our dark, slow way lit by the momentary flashes and sparkles of torchlight in the crystalline walls. Once I grazed the tunnel wall with my fingertips and found it warm to the touch. I imagined that we were descending into the very heart of the mountain, so far down that we were approaching the molten
core of the earth itself. And still we moved on.
Then, unexpectedly, the tunnel ended, and we stepped out into a dome-shaped chamber that appeared to have been hollowed from a single gargantuan crystal. The light from our single torch was reflected and magnified in a myriad of facets, blazing like a heaven full of flaming suns. After the darkness of the tunnel, such brightness hurt my eyes. And that is why I did not see the heap of stones lying in the center of the chamber—until Tegid directed my attention to it.
We stepped closer and saw what appeared to be a scrap of white cloth. Tegid held the torch near and we saw a human hand protruding from among the stones. The flesh on the hand was shriveled, the bones sharp through the pale, leathery skin.
“We have found the Phantarch,” Tegid said, his voice a choked whisper. I turned to where he pointed with the torch to the crude grave mound. “Cold as the stone that covers him. The Banfáith was right: the Phantarch is dead. And all hope with him. There is nothing for us here.”
34
DOMHAIN DORCHA
They have murdered him,” said Tegid in a hollow voice. “The Song is silenced and cannot be recovered.” He sounded lost and tired and defeated. “There is nothing for us here.”
He turned to go, but I stood there stubbornly, staring at the lifeless hand reaching out from the heap of stone.
Tegid started into the tunnel once more to begin the long walk back to the upper chamber. I meant to follow him, but my feet remained firmly planted where I stood. We had found the Phantarch. Yes, but someone else had found him first. They had killed him and entombed him in Domhain Dorcha, the place beyond the Heart of the Heart. Yet, we had come so far . . . and the need was so great. I had to see the battered corpse with my own eyes before I would believe what Tegid knew to be true.
“Are you coming?” the bard asked.
“No—not until I have seen him. I want to see him with my own eyes before I believe he is dead.”