“Is that why folk regard the full moon as having particular properties?” Medhbh had been told something of the Realms beyond the Earth by Corum. “It is not simply superstition?”
“The moon itself has no power,” said Goffanon. “It is merely, in this case, a measuring instrument. It tells us roughly how the different planes of the Earth move in relation to each other.”
“Strange,” said King Mannach, “how we are inclined to reject such knowledge simply because it becomes corrupted by primitive minds. A year ago I should not have believed in the legends of the Sidhi, in the legends of Cremm Croich, in the folk tales of our people or in any of our old superstitions. And in a way I would have been right, for there are those who have an interest in using legends and superstitions for their own ends. They cherish such notions not for their own sake but for the use to which they can be put. Poor wretched people who cannot love life seek for something beyond life, something they prefer to regard as better than life. And as a result they corrupt the knowledge they discover and, in turn, associate their own weaknesses with this knowledge—at least, in the minds of others like myself. But the knowledge you have brought us, Corum—that extends our appreciation of life. You speak of a variety of worlds where mankind flourishes. You offer us information which brings light to our understanding, where the corrupt and the lost speak only of mysteries and dark superiorities and seek to elevate themselves in their own eyes and the eyes of their fellows.”
‘ ‘I follow you,” said Corum, for he had some experience himself of what King Mannach meant. “Yet even when the minds are primitive and the knowledge corrupt, this can spawn a huge and ugly power of its own. And can the power of Light exist without the presence of the power of Dark? Can generosity survive without greed, or knowledge without ignorance?”
“That is ever the puzzle of the Mabden dream,” said Jhary-a-Conel, almost to himself, “and that, doubtless is why I am encouraged to remain in that dream, wherever in all the Fifteen Realms and beyond it manifests itself.’ ‘ Then he spoke more briskly: “But this particular dream will fade very soon unless we find a means of reviving Amergin. Come, let us bear him swiftly to this place of power, this Cremmsmound.”
And it was only as they prepared to leave for the mound in the oak-grove that Corum realized he had a profound reluctance to accompany them.
He realized that he feared Cremmsmound, despite the fact it was the place he had first seen when King Mannach and his folk called him from their past, from Castle Erorn and his brooding and his memories of Rhalina.
Corum mocked himself, realizing that he was both tired and hungry, and that when he had rested a little and eaten a little and spent a little time in the company of his lovely Medhbh he would no longer experience such silly feelings.
Yet they remained with him until the evening when King Mannach, Medhbh of the Long Arm, Jhary-a-Conel, Goffanon the Dwarf, Ilbrec of the Sidhi riding on Splendid Mane, Corum and all King Mannach’s folk from the fortress city of Caer Mahlod took the near-dead body of the High King Amergin forth and bore it towards the forest where, in a glade, rose the mound under which, according to legend, Corum—or a previous incarnation of Corum—had been buried.
A little faint sunlight lingered among the great trees of the forest, creating dark and mysterious shadows which seemed to Corum to contain more than rhododendrons and brambles, more than squirrels or foxes or birds.
Twice he shook his head, cursing his own weariness for putting stupid notions into his mind.
And then at last the party reached Cremmsmound in the oak-glade.
They reached the place of power.
THE THIRD CHAPTER
THE GOLDEN OAK AND THE SILVERN RAM
For a moment, as he entered the oak grove, Corum felt a cold enter his body which was even more profound than that which he had experienced at Caer Llud and he felt that this was the coldness of death.
He began to remember the prophecy of Ieveen the Seeress whom he had met on the way to Hy-Breasail. She had told him to fear a harp—well, he did fear a harp. She had told him to fear a brother, too. Did his ‘brother’ rest under the grass-grown mound in the oak-grove, under the artificial hill surrounded by oaks of all ages, the holy place of the folk of Caer Mahlod? Was there another Corum— the real hero Cremm, perhaps—who would rise from the earth to slay him for his presumption?
Was it Cremm he had seen in his dream while he slept at Craig Don?
The mound was a silhouette against the sinking sun and the moon was already rising. A hundred faces turned upwards to look at the moon, but these were not the faces of superstitious men and women. Each face reflected a curiosity and a sense of impending wonderment. It was quiet in the oak-grove as they stood in a circle about the mound.
Then Ilbrec lifted the puny body of the High King in his great arms and Ilbrec walked up the mound and placed the High King at the very top. And then Ilbrec, too, turned his face up to look at the moon.
Ilbrec walked slowly back down the mound to stand beside his old friend Goffanon.
Next came King Mannach to the mound, walking slowly up and holding the open casket in his arms. From within the casket gleamed gold and silver. King Mannach placed the Golden Oak at Amergin’s head, where it faced the fading sun, and the oak shone brightly, seeming to absorb all the remaining rays. And King Mannach placed the image of the silver ram at Amergin’s feet so that the rays of the moon would fall upon it, and already the Silver Ram burned white and cold.
Corum thought that, save for their size, those two images could be a living tree and a living ram, so fine was their workmanship. The gathering pressed closer around the mound as King Mannach descended, all eyes upon the prone body of the High King and the Oak and the Ram. Only Corum hung back. The cold had gone from his body, yet he still shivered, still fought the fear which sought to fill his mind.
Then came Goffanon the Smith, his double-bladed axe which he had forged himself centuries before upon his broad shoulder, the gold of the Oak and the silver of the Ram reflected in his helm, greaves and breastplate of polished iron. And Goffanon walked half-way up the mound and paused, lowering his axe so that the blade rested upon the turf and his hands rested upon the shaft.
Corum smelled the rich and subtle scents of the trees, the brambles, the rhododendrons and the grass of the forest. Those scents were warm and good and should have lulled the sense of fear in Corum, but they did not. Still he did not join the throng, but remained at the edge of the gathering wishing that Medhbh had not pressed forward with the rest, wishing that she stood beside him to comfort him. But none knew what Corum felt. All eyes were upon the figure of the High King, upon the image of the Oak at his head and the image of the Ram at his feet. And Corum became conscious of a silence descending upon the forest; there was neither the sound of animals nor the rustle of leaves. There was a stillness as if nature itself waited to learn what events would now come to pass.
And Goffanon lifted his huge and bearded head towards the moon and he began to sing in the clear, deep voice which had earlier sounded his own death-song, when he thought that the Brothers of the Pines would slay him. And though the words were spoken in the Sidhi tongue, which was related to the tongues of the Vadhagh and the Mabden, Corum heard many of them and understood them.
Ancient were the Sidhi ‘Ere before the Calling.
They died abroad In noble circumstance.
Binding vows they made,
Stronger than blood, Greater than love,
To aid the Mabden race.
In clouds they came
To the Islands of the West, Their weapons and their music
In their arms.
Gloriously they fought,
And nobly died In battle and in grief,
Honoring their vows.
Ancient were the Sidhi, Proud in word and deed;
Ravens followed them In alien Realms.
Ancient were the Sidhi!
E’en in death They swore the fulfillment
Of all oaths.
Chariots and treasures, Mounds and caverns,
Are their monuments, And their names.
Of these heroes few remain To guard against the Pines.
The oaks are dying.
Unearthly winter slays them.
Ancient were the Sidhi,
Brothers to the Oak, Friends of the Sun,
Enemies of the Ice.
The ravens grew fat On Sidhi flesh.
Who is there now To aid the Oak?
Once Oak Woman stood amongst us,
Sharing her strength; Her knowledge brought us courage
And the Fhoi Myore fell.
The Fhoi Myore fell.
Sunlight swept the West, And Oak Woman slept.
Her work was done.
Ancient were the Sidhi!
Few there were who lived. Prophetic voices spoke,
But the Sidhi would not hear.
Oak Woman stirred,
Pledges she made. If cold returned,
She would wake.
Mystic talismans
She fashioned, Against the Winter’s might,
To save her Oaks.
Sleeping, Oak Woman smiled,
Safe against the snow, Her oath ensured,
Her word made strong.
In nine fights the Fhoi Myore fell;
In nine fights died the Sidhi; Few heroes left the final field.
Manannan died and all his throng.
Dying, great Manannan knew peace.
In vain he had not fought, For he recalled Oak Woman’s vow
To aid tomorrow’s race.
Oak Woman slept in sanctuary.
A word would wake her. The tenth great fight grew near.
The word was sought.
The word was lost.
Three heroes sought it. Goffanon sang a song.
The word was found.
None moved as Goffanon’s song ended. The Sidhi Smith lowered his head and rested his head upon his chin, waiting.
From the prone figure who lay upon the crown of the mound there came a small, weak sound, at first little more than the familiar, tragic bleating.
Goffanon raised his head, listening carefully. The note of the bleating changed for a brief instant and then faded.
Goffanon turned to face those who waited. He spoke in a low, tired voice: “The word is ‘Dagdagh.’ “
And as he heard the word Corum gasped, for an awful shock ran through his whole body and made him stagger, made his heart pound and his head swim, though the word meant nothing to his conscious mind. He saw Jhary-a-Conel turn, white-faced, and stare at him.
And then the harp began to play.
Corum had heard the harp before. It was the harp which had sounded from Castle Erom when he had first come to Caer Mahlod. It was the harp he had heard in dreams. Now only the tune was different. This tune was rousing and triumphant; a tune of bounding confidence, a laughing tune.
He heard Ilbrec whisper in astonishment: “The Dagdagh harp 11 thought it stilled forever.”
Corum felt that he drowned. He drew great gulps of air into his lungs as he sought to control his terror. He looked fearfully behind him amongst the dark trees, but he saw nothing save the shadows.
And when he looked back at the mound he was half-blinded, for the Golden Oak was growing, its golden branches spreading over the heads of those who watched and emitting a marvelous radiance. And Corum’s fear was forgotten in his wonderment. Still the Golden Oak grew until it seemed to cover the whole mound and Amergin ‘s body could just be discerned beneath it. And all who watched were transfixed as from the oak there stepped a maiden as tall as Ilbrec himself; a woman whose hair was the green of oak-leaves and whose garment was the deep brown of an oak’s trunk and whose skin was as pale as the flesh of the oak which lies beneath the bark. And she was Oak Woman, smiling and speaking:
“I recall my pledge. I recall the prophecy. I know you, Goffanon, but I do not know these others.”
“They are Mabden, save for Corum and Ilbrec. They are a good folk, Oak Woman, and they revere the oaks. See, oaks grow all around, for this is their place of power, their Holy Place.” Goffanon spoke almost hesitantly, seeming as impressed by this vision as were the Mabden. ‘ ‘Ilbrec is your friend’s son, Manannan’s son. Of the Sidhi only he and I remain. And Corum is our kinsman, of the Vadhagh race. The Fhoi Myore have returned and we fight them, but we are weak. Amergin, High King of the Mabden, lies at your feet, enchanted. His soul has become the soul of a sheep and we cannot find the soul he lost.”
“I will find his soul,” said Oak Woman, smiling slightly, “if that is your need.”
“It is, Oak Woman.”
The Oak Woman looked upon Amergin. She bent and listened to his heart, then listened near his lips. “His body dies,” she said.
There was a groan from all who watched save Corum and Corum was listening for the sound of the terrible harp, but it sounded no longer.
Then Oak Woman took the Silvern Ram from Amergin’s feet.
‘ ‘This was the prophecy,’ ‘ she said,’ ‘that the Ram must be given a soul. Now the soul of Amergin begins to leave his body and provides a soul for the Ram. Amergin must die.”
“No!” a score of lips shouted the word.
“But you must wait,” said Oak Woman chidingly with a smile. She placed the Ram at Amergin’s head, crying:
Soul speeding to the Mother Sea;
Lamb bleating at the rising moon; Pause soul, silence lamb!
Here is your home!
Now the bleating began afresh, but this time it was a lusty bleating, the bleating of a newborn lamb. And the voice came from the Silvern Ram as the moonlight fell upon its silver fleece and even as they watched they saw it grow and the bleating grew deeper and turned to a deep, lowing sound. And the Silvern Ram turned its head and its eyes had the same intelligence which Corum had witnessed in the eyes of the Black Bull of Crinanass. He knew then that this animal, like the Bull, was one of a flock which the Sidhi had brought with them when they came to this Realm. The Ram saw the Oak Woman and it ran to her and nuzzled her hand.
Then Oak Woman smiled again, turning her head towards the sky, calling:
Soul dwelling in the Mother Sea,
Leave your tranquil haven. Your earthly destiny is yet unfinished.
Here is your home!
And the body of the High King stirred as if in sleep. And the hands crept to the face and the eyes opened and upon those blank features there was now written an expression of peace and wisdom. Where age had lined the flesh there was now youth, and where the limbs had been feeble there was now strength. And a cool, well-timbred voice said with faint astonishment:
“I am Amergin.”
Then the Archdruid rose up, tearing off the sheepskin hood and releasing his fair hair so that it fell upon his shoulders. And he ripped the sheepskin clothing from his body to reveal a form that was naked and beautiful and clad only in bracelets of hammered red gold. And now Corum knew why the folk had mourned for their High King, for Amergin radiated both humility and dignity, wisdom and humanity.
“Yes,” he said, touching his breast and speaking wonderingly, “I am Amergin.”
Now a hundred swords flashed in the moonlight as the Mabden saluted their Archdruid.
“Hail, Amergin! Hail, Amergin of the family of Amergin!”
And many men were there who wept for joy and embraced each other, and even the Sidhi, Goffanon and Ilbrec, raised their weapons in salute to Amergin.
The Oak Woman lifted her hand and she pointed a white finger through the throng to where Corum stood, still full of fear and unable to join the others in their joy.
“You are Corum,” said Oak Woman. “You saved the High King and you found the Oak and the Ram. You are the Mabden Champion now.”
“So I am told,” said Corum in a small, tortured voice.
“You shall be great in the memories of this folk,” said Oak Woman, “yet you shall know little lasting h
appiness here.”
“I understand that also,” said Corum, and he sighed.
“Your destiny is a noble one,” continued Oak Woman, “and I thank you for your dedication to that destiny. You have saved the High King and enabled me to keep my word.”
“You have slept all this time in the Golden Oak?” said Corum. “You have waited for this day?”
“I have slept and I have waited.”
“But what power kept you upon this plane?” he asked, for this question had been puzzling him since Oak Woman had appeared. “What great power was it, Oak Woman?”
“The power of my pledge,” she said.