Merlin's Mirror Page 15

  Merlin settled then with his back against the half-toppled wall of rough stones and looked back over the Place of the Sun. As the light fast faded the wind came. When that blew around and over the pillars there rose a weird wailing sound; the imaginative might well read into it the lament of men and women now long vanished from the earth, yet still somehow alive and longing for a safe return.

  Not for the first time Merlin wondered about the Sky Lords. What did they seek here that they were so determined to come again? If they were mighty enough to travel from one of those stars now shining above him to another, why could they not have found another world which would welcome them?

  Was there some quality found only here which they must have in order to endure as a race? Did they need mankind in order to survive? The mirror had been evasive whenever he had tried to probe into that. He had often been overwhelmed, when it poured forth information, with much he could not begin to understand because his world had no names for the strange artifacts, the complicated machines those others used with ease. But some of the most simple questions appeared in turn to silence the voice, as if it in turn were baffled by such searching on his part.

  Though he did not close his eyes now, but continued to watch night engulf the Place of the Sun, Merlin was at work inside himself, drawing out scraps of knowledge, summoning energy to buttress all his power. This would be no fashioning of an hallucination, it would be a real act.

  He was a general as supreme as Arthur, but his troops were not men. Down and down he delved into his own memory and mind. And then, with a sudden start, he recognized a picture which that memory supplied. There was Nimue in this place, her body white, her hair tossed by the wind. He could hear the honey smoothness of her voice, almost reach out to touch the hand she extended to him. No!

  Resolutely Merlin fought that memory which was so troubling. He was a little apprehensive ... could he perhaps actually touch Nimue now by recalling her too plainly? Out of his mind—he must thrust her safely away.

  The mirror, he must concentrate on the mirror, as if it stood full-length before him now. He grew calmer and his turmoil faded as he visualized the mirror. And its voice was in his ears so that he could sort out words, phrases, fit such together to reinforce his knowledge of what must be done here at sunrise.

  He was no longer tired. Power was growing steadily in him, filling his body, his mind. He must hold it so contained until the moment came to release it to do his will. Time for darkness—time for light—but he did not mark the hours. Nor was he any longer cold. Power furnished heat in his body so that he threw off his hooded cloak in spite of the frost-breathing wind.

  Chancing to glance down at his two hands resting on his knees, he was not surprised to see that his flesh was giving off a kind of glow. Why shouldn’t it? He was afire with force, and now he had only to contain it until the moment to come. His lips moved but not even a whisper emerged from between them, only in his mind did the archaic words echo in the proper patterns.

  Merlin rose when the sky grayed. Though he had been sitting through the night his limbs were in no way stiffened. He felt instead like a runner advancing to the starting post, eager to be gone. His left arm cradled the beacon against him. His right hand held the belt knife, drawn and ready.

  Long strides brought him to the King Stone and he stood behind that block ready to face the rising sun. He placed the beacon on the ground between his feet. And now he stretched out his hand, began to bring the knife blade ringingly down on the stone, while from him poured all those words he had gathered out of memory, arranged in the right pattern, ready for this great moment in his life.

  Beat—beat—ever increasing in tempo. The sky showed the fore banners of the rising sun. His voice sing-songed an invocation older perhaps than even the stones about him. Beat—chant—beat—

  The stone—it was coming alive, reluctantly, heavily, in grudging answer. But it was coming! The beat had increased to a flashing of metal; sparks flew from that meeting of rock and iron. Merlin’s voice rose as he called on the force which was imprisoned in the stone to answer to his will.

  The block stirred, not as quickly as it had under the summons of the sword, but it was answering! His will harnessed the force—he raised the knife blade—one end of the stone followed.

  His tunic clung damply to his body. In spite of the cold he was feverish with heat, sweat pouring from him. Up and up. Until that block stood on end. Then he said the single word he had never dared use before, one of the Great Bindings of Power. The stone remained on end, the place where it had lain was bare.

  Merlin dropped to his knees. He began to dig with the knife point in the uncovered oblong of earth, working as fast as he could, for he had no idea how long that Word would hold an inanimate object Dig, scrape loose the soil, dig again, deeper, deeper, faster—

  At last he had the pit ready and he fitted the beacon into it, standing erect, its lighter end pointing to the sky. Now he worked even faster, pounding back most of the earth he had excavated, hammering the soil down with both palm of hand and butt of knife. Finally he threw aside the knife and, with his earth-stained, broken-nailed hands, he touched the top of the cylinder at a certain place, turned it so that the cover itself slid around to the left under the pressure of his fingers.

  Trembling from near exhaustion, Merlin threw himself back from the bed of the stone. He got to his knees, looking up at the towering block. In his mind he released the Word. The stone fell with a crushing force. He only hoped that his pit for the beacon had been deep enough to preserve it. But now he was so spent that he could only lie, one hand against the King Stone, only half conscious that he had finished his task.

  It was the touch of the stone which aroused him at last He had always been able to feel the force imprisoned in this mighty block, but this steady throb was new. Merlin gave a cry of relief and joy as understanding reached him. He had succeeded. The stone itself was charged by the beacon—he had indeed lighted the way. But when would the ships come? How far, how many, when?

  He was too weak to rise to his feet at once, but sat there, his head drooping on his breast, his hand resting on the rock, aware most of all of that steady beat.

  What roused him this time was an alert of danger, as if some warning or foul stench had carried down the wind. He groped in the withered grass for his knife, his only weapon. Now he heard the thud of hooves, a shout which could only have come from a human throat.

  Saxons? Outlaws? He was sure only by that warning of his heightened senses that those who came were enemies. So he did not rise to his feet, rather crept on his hands and knees into the shadow of a standing stone. From there he could see the party milling about They were not advancing directly toward his insecure hiding place, he thought they were reluctant to enter the enclosure of the Place of the Sun.

  One of them came riding swiftly from the direction of Lugaid’s hut, urging Merlin’s horse before him. He could hear their excited voices but not make out the words. He was near enough, however, to see that the two who appeared to command the party wore the robes of the priests from overseas, while their followers were plainly liege men to some tribal lord.

  The priests were urging the warriors on. But, in spite of commands impatiently delivered, as far as Merlin could read their gestures, the tribesmen were not about to enter the ancient sacred place, which was a clue to their mission. For the oldest law to which all the tribes bowed was that no blood could be spilled within, no fugitive pursued into one of the Places of Power.

  He was sure that he was their quarry but he could not guess the reason for their hunt. Arthur gave room at his court to the believers in the Christ and many of his people were worshipers, but he also followed the liberal policy established by Ambrosius, asking no man what god he paid homage to when he came armed and ready to join in the harrying of the invaders. There were still some of the old Roman breed who bowed knee to the Bull-Slayer Mithras, and others who served older gods of Britain.

  Who had
granted these hunters permission to come after him? Merlin would swear that it was not the doing of Arthur. Though the King had never been kin-close as Merlin had once hoped, he respected and sometimes listened to the man who had put the sword of Britain into his hand. No, Arthur would not turn against him. But someone had sent these hunters, and his guess fastened on Modred. Had the “nephew” come out of nowhere gained this much ascendancy at Camelot?

  The priests were still urging on their followers, but the warriors drew back. So now the gray robes themselves came forward alone. One held aloft the symbol of his god, a cross of wood, and they were both chanting. Merlin saw that the sturdier of the two had drawn a sword, though that was foreign to the very teachings he was supposed to uphold: a man who was a priest was not a warrior.

  Hiding like a hunted animal revolted Merlin so he now rose to his feet on the far side of the stone behind which he had taken refuge. When he stepped into sight he was as erect as a warrior awaiting an enemy’s charge.

  Now that they were closer Merlin could see their features and he recognized one. He was the priest to whom Modred had been speaking in the feasting hall at Camelot So his suspicion was confirmed. This meeting was of Modred’s doing.

  “Whom do you search for, men of a god’s service?” Merlin came into full view.

  The one who held the cross chanted, in the tongue of Romans, an invocation against the forces of Darkness. Now he stuttered over a word, but continued his chant valiantly. His companion did not quite raise his sword. Though his eyes were those of a fanatic, he seemed not yet ready to ride down an unarmed man.

  “Demon spawn!” he spat, his voice rising above the chant.

  Merlin shook his head. “You stand now,” he said quietly, “in a place which has known many gods. Most are now long forgotten, because those who called upon their names in times of peril are also gone. As long as men realize that there is some greater Power outside themselves, a force which will aid them to better lives, to good will, and to peace in time, so there will be gods. What matter if some men call that Power which is the greater Mithras or Christus or Lugh? The Power is the same. Only men differ, being mortal, while the Power was, is and will be— beyond even the death of this earth on which we now stand.”

  “Blasphemer!” was the cry from the priest. “Servant of the Evil One—”

  Merlin shrugged. “You take upon yourself my role, Priest. It is for a bard to call names, though he does it with greater ease and skill, being well able even to insult kings to their shame in open courts when he chooses to sing them down. I have no quarrel with you. What I have heard of your Christus tells me that he is indeed one who holds true Power. But I say he is not the only one who has—or will. To each tribe of men a god arises in his own time. I salute your Christus as one who has seen the Great Light. But would such a one welcome the hunting of men who do not follow his road? I think not, for if he did, then truly he is not the Great One to whom all roads are made open and plain.”

  The older priest’s chant had dwindled into silence. He studied Merlin with an odd appraising look on his old face, for it was a face wrinkled and much worn by time.

  “You say strange things, my son,” he said.

  “If you have heard much concerning me, Priest, then you know I am a strange man. If you wish to match powers with powers—that is the game of a child who plays with the truth and does not use it worthily. Behold—”

  He pointed with his forefinger, moving it quickly from side to side. Small flames danced for the space of three breaths on the crown of four of the blue stones.

  The older priest watched this with calm. His wild-eyed companion flushed a deep red and cried out: “Devil’s work!”

  “If that be so then, as evil yields to the force of good, banish it, Priest!” ordered Merlin as again the flames danced.

  The priest pointed and spoke in Latin. But the flames remained until Merlin snapped his fingers, when they vanished. Now the priest’s face swelled with scarlet wrath.

  “The nature of evil,” Merlin observed slowly, “lies not outside a man, but in. Within himself he makes room for hate, fear and all the things which are spawned in darkness. If he does not give such room, then he does not give birth to demons. I use no force to harm and never have. Nor will I do so. For if I put my talents to such a purpose, then they shall in turn be lost to me. What god I hail when I use his Power, that is my own concern. I strive not to make any other man believe in him. It is enough that I know such Power exists, that it was, is and shall be!”

  The old priest studied him for a moment and then said: “Stranger, your road is not ours. But from this moment I shall not believe what has been told us, that you are an active agent of evil. You are sadly mistaken, and I shall pray for you, that your mind may be turned to the truth and away from the error you believe in.”

  Merlin bowed his head for a moment. “Priest, all prayers made in good faith are noted by the Power. It matters not in what name they may be said. I mean you no harm, let it be that you shall say the same—”

  “No!” The cry came out as if the younger priest were strangling with anger, or perhaps some fear. “This demon breed is a threat to all believing men. He shall die!”

  He made a sudden lunge with the sword, not awkwardly but with ease. Merlin thought that perhaps he had been a warrior before he had put on the priest’s robe. But Merlin was ready, for he had noted the small change in the other’s eyes. His own hand swung up, empty. The sword was dragged to one side, as if caught by a giant magnet, to crash against the nearest stone. The blade shattered.

  “Go in peace,” Merlin said as the priest stared incredulously at the jagged scrap he held. “I say the truth, I mean harm to no man. But you would do well to ride from this place. For the old ban remains here: no man coming in wrath and with a bared weapon once lived within these circles. The worshipers who enforced that law are long gone, but there is still the force of their prayers. Go and be glad that the stones do not rise up to answer you in kind.”

  “Brother Gildas,” the older priest said quietly, “under your obedience to God, do you come. This man walks his own road and it is not for us to question him.”

  Then he reached down and caught the dangling reins of the other’s horse and turned away, leading the second mount behind him, while the rider sat silent as if shocked beyond speech. When they joined the waiting warriors the older priest gave an order. The tribesman who held Merlin’s horse loosed it. And they rode away with a haste on the part of the escort which suggested that if the priests did not believe in the force of the ancient holy place, they certainly did.

  Merlin watched them disappear. Again the great fatigue born from his efforts seemed to fasten leaden weights on his limbs. He must have sleep and soon. But would it be wise to linger here?

  He thought that he could trust the older priest, and from the results of their trial of strength, he was superior to the other. Besides, it had been plain that the warriors were not minded to ride into the Place of the Sun to take him. He returned to the King Stone. The sun generated some warmth here and he had his cloak for a covering. Also the wind had died. He pulled together the coarse, dead grass to fashion a nest in which he settled to sleep.

  It was late afternoon when Merlin awoke. The noise he had heard was the plaintive whicker of his horse. It had grazed its way among the stones and now waited nearby. The man wished he could fill his own belly so well. He had eaten the last of his provisions the night before and this was not the season when one could glean berries or herbs to stay hunger. He would have to try his luck in the old way of his boyhood with sling and stone, perhaps he could bring down a rabbit.

  Selecting some pebbles which seemed suitable, he set out and found that his old skill was indeed not lost. But he did not leave the circle of the stones, building a small fire instead, striking sparks with a piece of flint and his knife blade. There, beside the King Stone, he roasted the rabbit, eating it down to the last fraction of flesh which could be sucked from
its bones.

  In spite of the dark Merlin went to sleep again in the same grassy nest as the shadows grew, united and spread darkly. It was as if in his mastery over the stone, his planting of the beacon, he had achieved the freedom of the circles; now there was nothing which could threaten him. And his sleep was without dreams.

  Sun in his eyes awoke him. There was no reason to linger here. He had the impression that it would be long before the beacon brought any answer, but before he rode away he again laid a hand to the stone to assure himself that that steady beat continued.

  He was riding to Camelot. Modred’s setting the priests on him was such an outright declaration of battle that Merlin knew he must not allow it to pass. The youth must not think that he had won even in a little way, that he had brought about what might be termed Merlin’s flight. And this time he could enter the court with an unfettered mind, ready to turn to his own purposes any chance which would bring Arthur to listen to him. He had set the beacon, and that great labor the mirror had placed on him was now out of his hands.

  Before he reached the court he heard the news of the King’s victory in the skirmish over the Saxons at the shore. He had guessed from the first that it had been a skirmish only, but even so small a victory, when Modred had taken part in it, would establish the boy well among the warriors.

  Merlin had his own small chamber within the sprawl of the three-story inner building which was ringed about by a stone and earth wall. He went to it, stopping on the way only to order a servant to bring him a kettle of hot water for washing. For his clothing and his body were salty with the dried sweat of the ordeal at the Place of the Sun.

  As he stood in the middle of his small room, he looked about him and felt an odd unfamiliarity with it. There were his containers of medicants, the bunches of dried herbs laced on thin thongs across the wall, the few books he had assembled, all in the Latin tongue. There were some queerly shaped stones whose oddity of appearance had appealed to his eye. But there was no wealth, no show or ornament or color. His bed was like a rough box with linens and woolens for covering, and there were no hangings on the walls, no cured skins for rugs. As he looked around him he remembered those other rooms—those of his dream cities and the wonders that furnished them, adorned their walls, covered their floors.