The Paradise War

Chapter 22 Liew

I do not remember sleeping. I do not remember waking. I remember only this: Goewyn softly singing, her voice like a ;ilken cord gently tugging me back to my senses and to nyself. Sight returned to me, and I saw Goewyn's fair face ibove me and felt my head cradled in her lap. I lay on a Fleece-covered pallet in a small, rush-lit room, soft otterskin covering me.

I drew breath tosp~, but before I could utter a sound she placed her fingertip to my lips. «Hush, my soul,» she whispered, «say nothing yet.» She raised my head and offered a cup. «Drink this, and you will find your voice.»

I sipped the warm liquid-tasting of honey and herbs– and it soothed my dry throat. I drained the cup and Goewyn lowered my head to her lap once more. «What has happened?» I asked. «Why am I here?»

«Do you not know?» She held her head to one side, her long tresses slid from her shoulder to fall in a curling cascade above me. I smelled the scent of heather in her hair, and it made me ache with longing.

«I know only that I am where I always want to be,» I replied. I spoke my heart without inhibition. And, taking a handful of her hair, I drew her face toward mine. Her lips were warm, her kiss sweet as the honeyed mead. I did not want the kiss to end.

«You have returned, indeed,» Goewyn murmured. «I feared you had left us.»

«Where am I?»

«Do you not remember?»

«I remember nothing, I-« Even as I spoke, I was assailed by a confused rush of images and sensations-but muted, as if dulled by great distance and greater time. I dimly remembered leaving Ynys Sci, the sea journey to Ynys Ocr, the gorsedd of bards, and the fearful battle with the evil horror that took Ollathir's life. I remembered lying crumpled in the bottom of a boat, being tossed about on dangerous waves, and screaming-I remembered screaming unknown words at the top of my lungs, hurling garbled abuse at the four winds. I remembered, but it all seemed obscure and of little consequence compared with the look of love in Goewyn's dark eyes.

«Yes,» I told her, «I remember now-some of it. But I do not recall leaving the sacred mound, or returning-if I have returned-to Ynys Sci.»

Goewyn stroked my forehead. «You are with me in my mother's house. My sisters and I have been caring for you these many days.»

«How many days?»

«Three threes of days since you came here.»

«And how did I come here?»

«Tegid brought you.»

«Where is he?» I asked.

«He is well. I will bid him come to you when you wish.» She smiled, and I saw the fatigue behind her eyes. She had been watching over me day and night.

I attempted to rise, and found the effort greater than I had imagined. My muscles were stiff; my stomach, back, and legs cramped the instant I stirred. «Aghh!» I cried out in pain.

Goewyn carefully shifted my head to the pallet beneath me. «Lie still,» she commanded, rising quickly. «I will bring help.»

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming as the spasms racked my body. In a moment Goewyn returned with one of her sisters. Govan hurried to where I lay doubled over on the pallet and said to Goewyn, «Leave us. I will attend him now.»

Goewyn hesitated. «Go now,» Govan insisted. «I will send to you when I have finished.»

As soon as Goewyn had gone, Govan brought out a green jar which she placed amidst the burning coals of the iron brazier. Then she unwound the belt from around her waist, put it aside, and drew her arms through the neck of her mantle, pulling it off. Taking up the green jar once again, she pulled the clump of moss from its mouth and poured some of its contents into the palm of her hand. The room filled with the fragrance of scented oil. She replaced the jar in the brazier and rubbed her palms together. «Do not resist. This will soothe and heal you.»

She stripped away my otterskin covering, took hold of my shoulders and gently rolled me onto my stomach. My flesh warmed where she touched me, and in a moment I felt the same soothing warmth spreading across the knot-tight muscles of my back. Govan sang softly as she worked over me. Her strong fingers stroked the pain away, applying the healing balm, kneading life into my knotted, wooden flesh.

She massaged my shoulders and back, thighs, legs, and feet; then she rolled me over and rubbed my chest and stomach, arms and hands. When she had fmished, every part of my body felt loose and lank. I smiled though a lazy haze of pleasure, warm and relaxed from head to heel. I had no desire to rouse myself, and did not care if I never moved again.

Govan pulled the otterskin over me. «You will sleep now. And when you awake you will be hungry. There will be food awaiting you.» She dressed herself and departed. I was asleep before she left the room.

I woke again almost at once-or so it seemed. But I had slept, for someone had come in while I dozed and left me bread and ale, and a little cheese. I drank some of the ale, and then, overcome by an almost ravenous hunger, tore the loaf in half and stuffed as much of it in my mouth as I could. I ate the cheese and the other half of the loaf likewise, and drained the cup.

Besides the food, someone had also brought clothing and left it folded neatly at the foot of my pallet. I rose slowly and climbed unsteadily to my feet. I took up the siarc and thrust my arms into the sleeves, admiring the color and quality: scarlet, the hue of winter-ripe nightshade berries; the fine-woven breecs were checked with shades of russet and brown. The leather of the wide belt and buskins was thick and soft, without blemish or mark, the color of sand; the cloak was feathery gray, the color of dove down, and the intricate knotwork of its hem bright silver. The brooch was silver too, large and round, its surface inset with bright blue stones.

Never had I owned clothes so fine. It was the raiment of a wealthy chieftain. Why I should be so favored, I did not stop to consider. I dressed gladly, praising the generosity of my unknown patron-Scatha herself, no doubt. When I had arranged the cloak over my shoulders, I fastened the silver brooch and went out.

I was weaker than I thought, for the small effort at crossing the threshold made me lightheaded and dizzy. I staggered against the doorpost and paused there until the house stopped spinning. The sun had slipped below a gray, hardcast sky briefly to illumine a dying day with a pale yellow light. Cold, with a raw wind off the sea, the air was sharp with the tang of salt.

Some of the older boys who were staying on the island through Sollen had gathered nearby to play hurley. The low sun stretched their shadows long on the field. They stopped their game when they saw me, each one staring at me. None called Out a greeting, though I knew them all and they knew me.

Goewyn appeared on the path outside the door. She saw me clutching the doorpost and hurried to my side. The brash sea wind caught her unbound hair and blew the long golden tresses across her face as she gathered my arm in hers. «I was coming to sit with you while you slept. I did not think you would rise so soon.»

«I have slept enough. I want to walk,» I told her. Supporting me, her arm beneath mine, she steered me past the gawking boys in the yard, and out towards the sea cliff.

«How do you feel?» she asked.

«I feel new-made,» I said. At these words Goewyn hesitated-only a small falter in her step and a sidelong glance, both of which she covered instantly. But I noticed.

«Why did you look at me so?» I asked. «Is something wrong?»

She smiled, but again I sensed the merest hint of indecision lefore she answered. «You looked like someone else just then,» she replied. «It must have been the light.»

Indeed, the fading afternoon light cast a golden glow over the sea and rocks below us, and turned Goewyn's honey-wed hair to spungold, and her fair skin to finest amber. The wind was fresh off the sea, flinging waves against the rocks and kicking up a mist that glimmered in the air. Too soon the golden light began to fade. Overcome by a sudden urge to touch her, I stopped on the path and raised a hand to her Face, cupping my palm to her cheek. She did not resist.

«Tegid is waiting,» Goewyn said after a moment, but did riot draw away. We stood a little longer, then turned and made our way back to the cluster of dwellings.

We found Tegid in the hall and joined him at the hearth where he stood before a fire, holding a horn of ale. Upon seeing me, he affected an expression of indifference; but the relief in his voice was real enough. «So, you walk the land of the living yet a little longer. I feared we had lost you, brother.»

Goewyn refuted this happily. «He told us from the first that you would return,» she said. «Tegid never doubted.»

Embarrassed, Tegid gave a deprecating shrug and pressed the ale horn into my hand. «Drink! I will bring more.»

He hastened away, and I turned to Goewyn, taking her hand and pressing it. «Thank you for… for watching over me, for caring for me-for saving me.»

«Tegid is the one who saved you,» she replied. «He endured much to bring you here. Compared to that, we did nothing.»

«It was not nothing to me,» I insisted. «I am in his debt, and yours. But it is a debt I look forward to repaying. Until then, accept my thanks.»

«Truly,» she replied, «there is no debt.» She pressed my hand earnestly and stepped away. «You and Tegid will have much to talk about. I will leave you now.»

She moved across the empty hall and I watched her, surprised by the sudden surge of feeling for her. The hall seemed to grow visibly darker as she moved away, and I felt a chill creep into the air. I almost called her back to sit with me, but Tegid returned with cups and a jar of brown ale.

When we had seated ourselves at the hearth, I asked him to explain what he remembered of that freakish night on the White Rock. My own memory-so full of weird and frightening impressions, and incredibly grotesque images– was not to be trusted. «I remember little of what happened,» I told him. «And that which I do remember is not certain.»

Tegid drank from his cup and then set it aside before answering. «The Gorsedd of Bards failed,» he said at last, beginning well before the events in question.

«The gathering-yes, I remember.» And I remembered something else, too. «Yes, but what I want to know is why? Why was I there at all? What was it all about?»

«As I explained to you aboard the ship-«

«Explained!» I scoffed. «You explained nothing. You said I was there because Ollathir and Meldryn Mawr wished it to be so. But you did not tell me why they wished me there.»

«Ollathir intended to tell you after the gorsedd, but. . .» He shied from saying the words.

«But he died. Soyou must tell me, Tegid. Now.»

Like a man composing himself, trusting his weight to an injured limb, Tegid paused, assessing the damage his words might inflict. «There is trouble in Albion.» he said simply. «The three realms are divided: Prydain, Llogres, and Caledon-each looks only to itself and prepares for war with the others. The Day of Strife has come.»

«Oh yes, this mysterious Day of Strife. I remember. Go on.,'

«Even the noble clans are divided, royal houses are torn apart from within.»

«Even the royal house of Meldryn Mawr?»

Tegid did not deign to answer, but I knew I guessed correctly. «You have lived in Sci these seven years,» he continued. «You have been absent from Sycharth, so you could not have joined in the treacheries against the king. For this reason, you were chosen to attend the gathering. Ollathir and Meldryn Mawr determined to have you there to bear witness to all that happened at the gathering.»

«But I did not attend the gathering,» I reminded him, feeling cheated because I had not been better apprised, and slightly insulted because I had not been fully trusted. «No one told me anything about this.»

«To tell you beforehand,» Tegid explained patiently, «would have poisoned your discernment.»

«So you say;« I grumped, remembering the cat-and-mouse game we had played aboard ship on the way to the island. Perhaps the bard had insinuated as much as he dared.

Tegid did not attempt to defend the judgment. He merely continued, saying, «Fear had already claimed the souls of many good men, bards among them. Ollathir suspected treachery among the brotherhood and planned to expose the traitors and purge them. But his plan failed. He had no choice but to conclude the gorsedd, lest he warn the traitors that he knew of their betrayals.»

«So the thing I was watching for-whatever it was-did not take place.»

Tegid held his head a little to one side, appraising me. «I do not know-but you do.»

«Do I?»

«Did you see anything during the gorsedd?»

«I saw nothing. Everyone went up to the mound, and I stayed below. I waited, walking around the mound from time to time, and then everyone came down again. Nothing happened. Everyone left, and I. . . No, there was something.»

Tegid leaned forward. «What do you recall?»

In my mind's eye I saw again the figure hurrying away across the plain, moments before the gathering concluded. «No doubt it is of little importance,» I said slowly. «But just before the bards came down from the mound, I saw someone leaving the assembly.»

«Was it Ruadh?»

«The prince's bard?» I thought for a moment, but I could not be certain. «It could have been Ruadh. I do not know.»

«Ollathir would have known,» Tegid said with conviction.

«Then why did he not ask me?» I demanded. This made no sense. I hated these petty intrigues; I lacked the patience.

Tegid looked away, his face closed as a slammed door. This was hard for him. It came to me that he loved Ollathir, his master and guide. I relented. «Why did Ollathir want to go back to the mound that night? Was it to do with this traitor?»

«Yes, and all the traitors,» Tegid replied solemnly. «The Chief Bard sought knowledge of how far the treachery had spread.» He halted, swung his eyes to me and then away again. He frowned into the deep-shadowed hail. «Ollathir believed the king was in danger,» he said at last. His voice struck a hollow note in the empty hall. «That is why he returned to the sacred mound that night. He hoped by means of the Sight to learn whose hand was raised against the king. But he did not reckon on the. . . the. . .»

Tegid's voice trailed off awkwardly, and I knew why: the hellish creature on the mound. «Tell me, Tegid,» I demanded, gently, but firmly. «What was it that we saw up there?»

Tegid's mouth twitched with revulsion. «The Dweller of the Pit of Uffern, the Ancient Evil, the Spirit of Destruction. You saw the force of death, decay, and chaos. Cythrawl is its name, but it is not a name spoken aloud save in dread.»

I knew exactly what he meant. I felt my heart go cold within me as I recalled my unwitting rout of the monster. «Why did this thing, the Cythrawl-why did it attack us?»

«Oliathir summoned it-« began Tegid.

«What!» The ale jar nearly slipped from my fingers. «Are you saying he called it on purpose?»

«No,» the bard replied. «He did not know that the Cythrawl was loosed, or he would never have gone up to the mound. He only thought to summon knowledge of the evildoers.»

«And this monster answered instead?»

«Yes, and once the Cythrawl appeared, he had no choice but to force the confrontation. He hoped to bind it before its power in the land grew too great to defeat. He had no idea how powerful it had already become.»

I could only shake my head in disbelief. «Was he insane? Why would he do such a thing?»

«We stood in the most sacred place in Albion. If the Cythrawl had succeeded in defeating us there, no force in this worlds-realm could prevent the destruction to follow. Albion would fall back into the void,» Tegid added. «It would be as if our world had never existed.»

Tegid became suddenly earnest. «But you drove the Cythrawl away before it could destroy the sacred center of Albion. Come the worst, some small part of Albion will remain.»

«Would that I could have saved Ollathir,» I mused aloud. «I am sorry, Tegid.»

«No doubt you did all that could be done,» he replied unhappily. We lifted our jars to the Chief Bard's memory and drank in silence, whereupon Tegid put his aside. «Now you must tell me what happened up there on the mound.»

«You know as well as I do what happened,» I told him.

«I know some-not all. I was not with Ollathir when he died, but you were. You must tell me how it was. I must hear it all.»

I made to answer, but could not. What had happened up on the mound? I hardly knew. I saw images-confused and grotesque-a bizarre flood of hideous impressions and nightmare sensations. I closed my eyes and tried to force the hateful vision from my mind. When I opened them again, Tegid was watching me expectantly. But how could I tell him what had happened when I did not know myself? «I cannot say,» I said at last, shaking my head. «I do not know.»

«You must tell me,» Tegid urged.

«I cannot remember.»

«Tell me,» he insisted. «It is important!»

«I tell you I do not know! Leave it!»

Tegid stared hard at me, as if willing me to answer. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it, biting back the words before he uttered them. We sat for some moments at impasse while Tegid scowled at me. Then, all at once, he stood. «Come,» he said quickly, motioning for me to rise. Follow me.»

«Why? Where are we going?» But Tegid did not answer; he was already moving towards the door.

He led u~ o~j~ from the ball. The sun had gone, and the wind with it. Still, the night would be cold. I regretted leaving the warmth of the hall, and pulled my cloak more tightly around me as we hurried across the darkening yard.

We paused at the door of one of the small, round houses that stood within the caer. «Wait here,» he said, and entered. I stood outside until he returned. After a while he emerged. «You may go in to her now,» he said.

«Who?» I said, catching his arm.

«Gwenllian.»

«Why? What is happening?»

«I think you should speak to the Banfбith.»

«I do not want to speak to her, Tegid,» I whispered harshly. «Why are you doing this to me?»

«You must speak to her,» he replied firmly. «She is waiting.»

«Come with me.»

«No.» He took my hand from his arm and drew aside the black calfskin at the doorway. «I will await you in the hall,» he said, and all but pushed me across the threshold. «Come tome when you are fmished.»

He turned and retreated across the yard. When he had gone, I stooped and entered the stone house. It was bare, like all the others, but Gwenllian had a low, iron brazier burning in the center of the room, and the floor was piled thick with reeds, and covered with skins and fleeces of shaggy goats and brown sheep.

Gwenllian herself was sitting in the center of the dwelling's single room, her cloak gathered at the neckand spread around her so that only her head showed above it. Her long auburn hair, deep hued in the emberglow, fell unbound and smooth over her shoulders. Her large eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. She seemed a sleeper on the verge of waking. I crept in to her presence quietly, lest I disturb her meditations, and sat down cross-legged on the skin of a tawny calf.

After a moment, I heard her sigh-a long exhalation of breath, followed by an equally long inhalation. She opened her eyes and inspected me without utterance. I returned her gaze placidly, content to remain silent in her presence until she granted me leave to speak.

There came a movement from inside her cloak, and Gwenllian stretched forth a bare white arm towards the brazier. She held a cluster of dry oak leaves in her hand, and these she placed on the burning coals. The dry leaves smoldered and burst into flame, filling the small room with a sharp scent that reminded me of another time, and another place, now far, far aivay.

Smoke curled into the air; she inhaled the scent, drawing air deep into her lungs. When she finally spoke, I did not recognize her voice. When Gwenllian sang, her voice was supple as a willow wand, sweet as summer's golden mead, passionate, and eloquent, and charming. The voice that addressed me now, however, though serene, was somber and distant; yet the authority behind each word was absolute and infallible. It was Gwenllian the Banfбith, the wise prophetess, who sat before me now, watching me with fathomless, green eyes.

She said: «The stranger's foot is established on Albion's Rock. Clothed in beauty, richly arrayed, is he who defends the Dagda's fair race. Hail, Silver Hand, your servant greets you!»

I inclined my head in acknowledgment of her strange greeting, but gave no other sign, for I had not been granted leave to speak. Also, I was not at all certain it was me she was talking about. Silver Hand? The name meant nothing to me.

The Banfбith drew out from beneath her cloak a torc made of dozens of thick silver strands, each strand twisted and plaited. She placed the costly neck ring on the floor between us and intoned stiffly, «Ask what you will, the truth will be revealed to you. In the Day of Strife, nothing will be hidden from Samildanac's chosen.» Then, in a softer voice, she added, «Speak your heart, Silver Hand; you will not be turned away.»

Once more I inclined my head. There were so many things I wanted to know, so much I needed to ask, I was some time deciding which of the questions jostling one another on the tip of my tongue I should ask first.

«Banfбith,» I blurted at last, «you have called me Silver Hand. I would know why I have been addressed by this name.»

Although she had promised that nothing would remain hidden, her reply did little to enlighten me. «He who would wear the torc of a champion must a champion be. When the Cythrawl is loosed in Albion, Lleu Liaw Gyffes, the Lion of the Sure Hand, returns to defend Dagda's children.»

«Banfбith,» I said, «I am trying to understand. If nothing prevents you, please tell me how this came to be.»

«Nothing prevents me, and I will tell you gladly: from time beyond remembering, the name Lleu belongs to the Dagda. Since the champion is raised by his call, therefore is the champion named Llew LIaw Eraint.»

She answered my questions readily, but her answers only served to deepen the mystery and confusion. I tried again. «This champion,» I said, «this Llew Silver Hand-how is he raised?»

«Goodly-Wise is the Many-Gifted One,» Gwenllian replied cryptically. «He sees all, knows all, establishes all with his Sure Hand. The Swift Sure Hand chooses who he will.»

«Wise Banfбith, do you think I am this champion?» I asked once more.

«The Dagda Samildanac has chosen. Now it is for you to choose what you will.»

That made no sense to me either. However, not to appear contrary, I thanked the Banfбith for helping me understand, and tried another approach. «The Day of Strife,» I said, «is not known to me-I would gladly hear all you could tell me.»

At this the Banfбith closed her eyes slowly and withdrew into herself. I heard the soft tick and snap of the charcoal in the brazier as she searched the scattered pathways of the future for a word or sign she might impart. When she spoke again, her voice held a note of anguish that pierced my heart tohearit.

«Hear, 0 Silver Hand; heed the Head of Wisdom,» she said, raising her hands, palms outward, in declamation. «The Destroyer of the North shall loose his rage on Three Fair Realms; with tooth and claw will he rend flesh from bone.

His white minions will defeat the fair forces of Gyd. A pall of white lies upon the land, famine both young and old shall devour. The Gray Hound has slipped his chain; the bones of children he shall crack. The Red-eyed Wanderer shall pierce the throats of all who pursue him.

«Sorrow and be sad, deep grief is granted Albion in triple measure. The Golden King in his kingdom will strike his foot against the ~ock of Contention. The Worm of fiery breath will claim the throne of Prydain; Liogres will be without a lord. But happy shall be Caledon; the Flight of Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens, and ravensong shall be her song.

«When the Light of the Derwyddi is cut off, and the blood Df bards demands justice, then let the Ravens spread their wings over the sacred wood and holy mound. Under Ravens' wings, a throne is established. Upon this throne, a king with a silver hand.

«In the Day of Strife, root and branch shall change places, and the newness of the thing shall pass for a wonder. Let the sun be dull as amber, let the moon hide her face: abomination stalks the land. Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast; let the sound be heard among the stars. The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds; the essence of Albion is scattered and torn among contending winds.

«The seas will rise up with mighty voices. Nowhere is there safe harbor. Arianrhod sleeps in her sea-girt headland. Though many seek her, she will not be found. Though many ~ry out to her, she cannot hear their voices. Only the chaste kiss will restore her to her rightful place.

«Then shall rage the Giant of Wickedness, and terrify all with the keen edge of his sword. His eyes shall flash forth fire; his lips shall drip poison. With his great host he will lespoil the island. All who oppose him will be swept away in the flood of wrongdoing that flows from his hand. The Island Df the Mighty will become a tomb.

«All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass, who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe both great and dire. Rise up Men of Gwirl Fill your hands with weapons and Dppose the false men in your midst! The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.

«Hear, 0 Son of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of Spirit and with Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.»

Seized with a terrible sorrow, the prophetic voice broke. «The Phantarch is dead!» she sobbed. «Dead! … The Phantarch is taken from us and the Song is silent…. The Cythrawl destroys the land!»

Gwenllian sat for a long time with eyes closed, weeping inwardly. I wanted nothing more than to slink away, to flee her presence so that I would not have to hear more of her pronouncements. But she opened her eyes and held me with her mournful gaze.

«Banfбith,» I said, my own heart troubled with the torment of her terrible vision, «I know nothing of this Hero Feat, or how it may be accomplished. It seems to me a task more befitting a bard. Yet, what may be done, that I will do. Only tell me one thing more. How is the Cythrawl to be defeated?»

«Before the Cythrawl can be conquered, the Song must be restored.»

«This song of which you speak-am I to know it?»

The Wise Banfгith regarded me sadly, solemnly. «No one knows the Song, save the Phantarch alone. For it is the chief treasure of this worlds-realm and not to be despoiled by small-souled creatures or unworthy servants. Before the sun and moon and stars were set in their unchanging courses, before living creatures drew breath, from before the beginning of all that is or will be the Song was sung. You have asked me to name the Song. Very well, know you this: it is the Song of Albion.»