Taliesin

CHAPTER FIVE

On the processional way, the magi slowly ascended the steep slope of the sacred hill, whose smooth green sides were scarred with crisscrossed outcroppings of white stone. Their shadows, stretched thin by the late afternoon sun, followed them up the side of the hill as, wrapped in their purple ceremonial cloaks, they climbed the red-tiled Way to the top to gather in a circle around the great stone altar. Sometime in the long-vanished past, the top of the hill had been flattened and a circular dais of stone erected. More recently, slender columns had been placed at the astral points corresponding to the various astrological houses, whose symbols were cut into the stone dais. There was no roof over this sacred place so the light of Bel and Cybel might shine full upon the altar at all times.

Behind the Magi, walking alone, strode Avallach. He, too, wore the purple star-covered cloak. Well back from the procession, Charis walked with her mother and Elaine. Only persons of royal birth, and those fortunate enough to be specifically invited by the king, were allowed to attend the sac- rifice. The populace watched and waited Below while their king performed the rites atop the hill.

As usual, Avallach had been more than generous with his invitation, and by the time all assembled on the hill the dais was quite crowded. Charis wormed her way into a place beside one of the columns. She pressed her back against the cool stone and saw seven robed Magi standing in a circle around a tripod holding a large orichalcum caldron. The caldron’s surface was chased with divine symbols, and around the rim were words engraved in the ancient mystical script.

The Magi stood with their hands upraised, palms outward, eyes closed, murmuring in a droning natter. One of the Magi-whose robe shimmered in the light with a silver cast and whose cylindrical headdress was taller than any of the others-lowered his hands and touched the rim of the shining basin with his fingertips. Instantly gray-white smoke swirled from the cauldron.

The Mage, whom Charis decided must be the High Mage of the temple, then went to the altar and removed an orichalcum ewer and approached the king, who had taken his place before the altar. The High Mage poured water over Avallach’s outstretched hands and proceeded to do the same with the other Magi. When the ceremonial cleansing was finished, the High Mage returned the ewer to the altar and took up a gleaming orichalcum bowl which he placed in the king’s hands.

“Father is so handsome,” Charis whispered to her mother.

“Yes,” Briseis answered, and then added, “Shh!”

The High Mage took his place beside the smoking basin and stretched his hands over it as the vapor rose to the heavens. He held his hands in the smoke and uttered a short incantation, then turned to one of the other Magi, who placed in his hands a trumpet shaped like a curved tusk of an elephant, graven with the image of a great, winding serpent coiled around its length. The High Mage raised the trumpet to his lips and blew a long, low, resonant note, repeating it to each of the four quarters of the wind.

As the last note drifted away on the air, three Magi mounted the dais, two of them walking on either side of an enormous bull ox, the third leading the beast with a golden rope knotted lightly around its neck. The creature was white as the snow on Mount Atlas’ high crown, and its horns had been painted gold, as had its hoofs. Its white-tufted tail swung docilely.

The ox was brought to stand in the center of the dais before the altar, and the golden rope was tied to a ring set in the stone. The High Mage turned to the altar and picked up an odd-looking knife; it had a long handle into which was set a curving half-moon blade of shimmering orichalcum worked in sun signs. Raising the knife to the quickly-setting sun, the High Mage raised his voice in the ritual prayer, which he repeated once and again before turning to offer the prayer to the pale rising moon.

When the prayer was finished, the Magi leading the ox touched the animal’s forelegs lightly with a prod and the beast knelt obediently; the golden rope was pulled through the ring and tightened. The Magi around the caldron began their chant as the High Mage stepped to the bull’s head and raised the long-handled knife.

Charis turned her face away and closed her eyes. She held her breath and waited for the death cry of the ox. When it didn’t come, she opened one eye and looked around. From across the dais there arose a commotion; onlookers muttered and the crowd shifted. What was happening?

A way opened through the crowd, and she saw someone or something approaching-dark and hairy, lumbering like a wounded bear. With a gasp of surprise, Charis recognized him. The strange man who wore the fur pelts; whose beard and hair was a black, filthy mat; who stumped along the road bareheaded in the sun, carrying the odd staff with the great yellow crystal mounted in its head; who stared out at the world with the eyes of a crazed animal. The man she had glimpsed in the Lia Fail.

Now he was here and his presence halted the sacrifice. The High Mage moved as if to apprehend him. The man gave a wag with his staff and the Mage stopped. The other Magi stood rooted in their places, mute.

The stranger came to stand in the center of the dais. He raised his staff in his hand and brought it down. Crack! The man glowered around him and opened his mouth to speak, white teeth flashing in the mat of beard.

“Throm, I was,” he said, his voice cracking as if, like a road seldom traveled, it had fallen into disuse. “Throm, I am and will be” He raised the staff into the air “Princes of Atlantis, hear me now!”

The people looked at one another, and Charis heard the name on their lips. Throm! Throm is come!

Who is this Throm? she wondered. Who is he and why has he come?

The strange man raised his leather-bound staff in the air. The yellow jewel flashed weird fire in the dying light. “Hear me, O Atlantis! I am the speaking trumpet; I am the waxen tablet; I am the tongue of the god! Hear-r-r…” His voice trailed off into unsettling silence. The people gawked, features frozen in expression of astonishment.

“You-all of you!” He glanced around him wildly. “You have seen the signs in the sky; you have heard the sounds in the wind and felt the earth tremble with its secret, and you turn to your neighbor and ask what it means.…” The rusty, cracking voice trailed off again.

His hand made a circle in the air, and he leaned forward on his staff as if confiding a secret. “The earth is moving, Children of Dust. The sky shifts and the stars stream from their courses. The waters… ah, the waters are hungry. Oceanus, my children is hungry; she is restless; she heaves in her bed… She writhes. The worm eats at her bowels and she screams. Do you hear?” His hands gripped the staff as if he were strangling a snake; he swung his shaggy head around. “Do you hear, Atlantis?”

The unwilling spectators stared back dumbly. Throm’s words writhed and heaved in her ears and Charis felt dizzy- as if the stone beneath her feet had lost its solidity. Her fingers found the edge of the stone column and she held on tight.

“Throm I am and will be. Hear, O Atlantis, the words of your son, Trumpet Speaker. Bel’s light dies in the west.” He held his staff to the red-gold sunset glow. “And we die with it, children. We die. You princes” He thrust a finger at Avallach and Belyn. “Make ready your houses. Make ready your tombs!”

Avallach stepped forward, scowling. He moved toward the madman, but Throm turned on him and lifted the staff high, bringing it down with a sharp thrust onto the dais. The resounding crack was like thunder. The king stopped and stared.

“Listen!” Throm hissed. Once more his hands described a great circle. “The tongue of the god speaks: seven years will you wander blindly, seven years will you contend with one another in vain striving; seven years will your blood soak the ancient earth; seven years will you sow and reap in futility, Children of Dust; seven years will the wind blow through your empty palaces.

“Hear me, O kings! I, Throm, have seen the face of the future. I, Throm, have witnessed the events of which I speak. I, Throm, have heard the cries of the children… lost. All is lost. All is… lost”

The great shaggy head dropped, the powerful arms went limp. He swayed on his feet, apparently asleep. His hands trembled on the staif. The tremor became a shudder which passed through his body. His head snapped back and his eyes flew open. He stared unseeing into space, his face tight in a rictus of ecstacy, lips flecked with spittle.

Charis watched horrified as the prophet collapsed, eyes rolling in his head, limbs jerking uncontrollably as convulsions wracked his body. A thick, unintelligible sound came from his throat-as if words were being tornjrom his throat before they could be formed. His teeth gnashed and ground against one another, his tongue between them. Blood trickled at the corners of his mouth.

Throm jerked himself upright and his eyes bulged as if from fright. He loosed a throat-tearing scream that pierced all who heard it, and then slumped back unconscious. The tension melted from his muscles and he lay as one dead.

The High Mage, able to move once more, glanced worriedly at his attendant Magi. Avallach came forward to stand over the body and stare, as if unable to Believe what he had seen.

“Take him from here,” he commanded at last. Several Magi leaped forward and seized the insensible prophet, dragging him roughly away.

“My people,” said King Avallach, turning to the bewildered onlookers, “do not allow the empty words and ravings of a madman disturb our holy purpose. We have gathered to renew the bond of fidelity between king and kingdom.” He raised one hand to the setting sun, the other to the rising moon. “Bel begins his underworld journey, and fair Cybel ascends to her throne. This-this is how it has always been and will always be. Let us now fulfill the ancient and honorable rite.”

He returned to his place at the head of the assembly. The High Mage grasped the knife and, stepping to the ox, placed his hand on the side of its neck. Then, in a single fluid motion, the knife circled once and bit into the ox’s flesh. Wine-red blood spurted over the snowy hide; the stupid beast did not so much as blink.

One of the attending Magi placed a krater beneath the wound to catch the vital fluid as life gushed from the animal in a crimson torrent. In a little while the beast’s head nodded, then sank to the stone and the ox rolled onto its side. Three Magi put off their robes and mantles and fell upon the carcass with knives and axes. The High Mage raised the krater filled with blood and went to the king, who held out his bowl.

The High Mage poured, and when the king’s bowl had been filled he placed the krater on the altar and turned to Avallach. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am the land,” he answered.

“Whence comes your life?” the High Mage demanded.

“From the people.”

“Before Bel the All-Seeing, and Cybel, the All-Knowing, renew your life,” the Mage instructed. “Drink.”

The glimmering orichalcum bowl rose to the king’s mouth and he drank the still-warm blood. The three Magi, having butchered the animal, now began stacking the quartered pieces upon the altar in a mound, reserving the liver, which was placed in a basin and set aside for augury. The ox’s head was placed last upon the heap, horns outspread, huge lifeless eyes staring emptily upward.

Two Magi, bearing long poles between them, moved to the tripod and, placing a carved pole on either side, lifted the boiling and smoking caldron. They carried the vessel to the altar and lifted it high, tilting the caldron over the dismembered ox. Fire poured out in a sheet of liquid flame, igniting the flesh. Heat licked Charis’ face and hands.

The fire crackled and the meat burned, sending up heavy, blue-black smoke. After a time, the High Mage took tongs and, reaching into the fire, withdrew small pieces of roast meat, placing each sizzling chunk on a platter. Then he carried the platter to the king and held it before him.

“What is your food?” the Mage asked.

“To serve the people,” came the answer.

“Before Bel the All-Seeing, and Cybel the All-Knowing,” the Mage intoned, “eat and be filled.”

Avallach reached out and took a piece of meat, ate it, and took another. The animal’s liver was brought forth and the High Mage lifted it from the basin for examination, sniffing it and feeling it with his hands. Another Mage appeared to hold the liver while the High Mage brought out a golden dagger and with practiced strokes laid open the organ. The crowd gasped as the tissue parted to reveal a mass of long, squirming white worms that spilled through the Mage’s hands and onto the stone where they squirmed horribly.

The High Mage, his face dead-white, turned terrified eyes toward Avallach. “Burn it!” the king said tersely. “Burn the vile thing!”

The Mage grimaced and scooped up the diseased organ with its obscene parasites and threw it into the flames.

The greasy black smoke rolled up and flames leaped high into the twilight sky. The smell of burning meat filled the air. Charis coughed and raised her eyes to see a trio of stars winking through the pall of smoke. She stood watching a ritual she had seen many times before, yet which now seemed odd and extremely archaic; as if everything-the hill, the ox, the Mage, the caldron, the king, the people looking on- everything Belonged to a time so far awaw’so obscurely ancient that it could no longer be comprehended, only felt in the pulse of blood that flowed through her veins.

The moon rose, bulking large and pale as it hovered on the horizon, bound to the earth by a silken thread, its disk looming through the haze as a featureless face, or an eye gazing sightless on the night world it surveyed.

And Charis felt a tremble beneath her feet, a vibration in the stone, seeping into her bones, into her heart, into her brain until she tingled all over, from the soles of her feet to the tips of her delicate fingers. She felt energy flowing from her, surging up and through her from earth to Cybel’s disk and back again. She felt as if she must shine-as if ends of her hair streamed sparks of moonbeams into the night.

Charis observed those around her, saw the faces she knew so well. She gazed out from the hilltop to the city Below, Kellios, royal city, lights shining from myriad windows like stars burning in a firmament of stone; and beyond, the deep blue crescent of sea shimmering beyond the curved arm of the harbor. All appeared achingly old and familiar-as if she had stood on this hilltop and looked upon this unaltered scene for ten thousand years until it inhabited her most intimate being, more a part of her than her name.

And yet… it was changed. There had been a subtle yet profound shift. Like a shift in the wind that indicates the long dry spell is broken and the rains will come, like the step that takes a traveler over the unseen boundary into another land, Charis knew the anticipation that comes when something unknown is expected.

After, the ceremony, when the bones of the ox were nothing more than scattered ashes and its blood a thickening river seeping among the ancient altar stones, the celebrants walked down the hill by torchlight. Charis moved as one in a dream, her feet drifting, every movement languid and slow. She floated, rising as if from icy, turgid depths through numbing fathoms, surfacing to breathe fresh air for the first time. She felt as if she had lived her life thus far asleep and now was about to awaken. With every airy step she felt the past receding, becoming more remote, falling away from her like worm-eaten clothing, a burial gown grown wispy and rotten with age.

Her heart beat in her chest and her pulse drummed in her ears. Every object that met her gaze appeared needle-bright and surrounded with a halo of cold, shimmering light. Her mind was opened to vistas unimagined, as if the wisdom of the ages had been breathed into her soul. She knew things she had never learned, and this knowledge swirled around inside her like a giddy whirlpool.

Charis walked down the hill to the city acutely aware of everything around her and yet oblivious to all. She drifted, feeling the wash of Oceanus’ restless tide as its waves tugged at her; she breathed the sharp salt air deep into her lungs, and it was like breathing a rare and subtle ether.

Words formed in her mind as if written in flame: I am the Mother of Nations; I am the Womb of Knowledge… I am Atlantis.

It was very late, but Avallach and Briseis shared a quiet moment before going to bed. The lamps burned low, and the moon shone full through the open door to the balcony. They spoke in low tones as Briseis cradled her husband, her arms around him as Avallach stroked her neck and shoulders.

There came a soft knock on the door and Avallach rose reluctantly.

The king opened the door, and the light fell on Annubi’s face. The seer apologized at once. “Forgive me, Sire. I would not disturb you but…”

“What is it?”

“It is about the bull girl-earlier today.”

Avallach shook his head. “I do not understand.”

“I asked him to bring me word,” explained Briseis as she joined him. “What of the girl?”

“I am sorry, my queen.”

“Dead?”

The seer nodded. “The wound was deep, and she was overweak from loss of blood. There was nothing to be done.”

“Did she suffer?”

“She resisted to the end. There was pain, yes, but I think she preferred it that way.”

The queen nodded absently. “Thank you, Annubi.”

With a nod to the king, the seer turned and disappeared. Briseis closed the door after him and turned to the king. “Such a waste, when you think about it.” Briseis put her head against her husband’s chest. They held each other for a long moment.

“It has been a long and eventful day,” said Avallach at last. “I am tired.”

“Go along to bed. I will just blow out the lamps.” The king kissed her and moved off to the bedchamber. Briseis made her way around the room, extinguishing the lamps. As she passed the balcony, she paused: a soft melody floated up from the garden Below. Someone was singing. The queen stepped to the balustrade.

On the moon-drenched lawn Below stood Charis, wearing only a thin nightdress, turning slowly around and around, arms raised to the sky and eyes to the moon, the strange song on her lips and a look of pure rapture on her upturned face.

Briseis opened her mouth to call out, but thought better of speaking and listened instead. It was a long moment before she could make out the words. What she heard made her breath catch in her throat.

“Mother of Nations, Womb of Knowledge, I am Atlantis… Atlantis… Atlantis… I am Atlantis.”