Consequently, it was not until very much later that I was able to find the ever-elusive Myrddin. “A little sudden, this Fellowship—is it not?” I said, coming upon him as he poled the small boat to the shore. He had been fishing on the lake below the Tor, a pastime much favored from his childhood, I believe.
“Is it?” Myrddin wondered. “Walk with me, Gwalchavad.”
Taking me by the arm, he steered me onto the narrow lakeside path. Night was seeping into the still, quiet evening. The sky was fading gold, and the first of the stars were already alight.
“I think it sudden,” I replied.
“Whenever was there ever a better time?” he asked, stooping to pluck a reed from the bank. “Must goodness stand forever in the shadows, waiting for her opportunity to shine?”
“Heaven forbid,” I answered. “Yet it seems to me that no sooner have we made peace with the Saecsen than we are forced to fight the Vandali. And if that were not enough, we must also face a season of drought and plague which drives our people to abandon their homes and quit these shores for foreign lands. I had thought we had enough to occupy ourselves without…”—the words eluded me—“without all this!” I waved my hand vaguely in the area of the Tor to signify what had taken place there.
Myrddin regarded me with his keen golden eyes for a long moment. When he spoke at last, he said, “You speak my thoughts exactly.”
“Truly?”
“Does that surprise you?”
I confessed that it did, and said, “But you are his Wise Counselor.”
“Our king has a mind of his own, or have you never noticed?”
“Yes, but—”
“He is impatient!” Myrddin retorted before I could finish. “He is impetuous and stubborn. I tried to tell him. ‘Wait just a little, Arthur,’ I said. ‘We have come so far. The quest is nearly at an end. It would be wrong to force our way now.’ Will he listen? No, he will not. ‘The Summer Realm is aborning, Myrddin,’ says Arthur. ‘We cannot hold it back. The world has waited long enough. It would be a sin to withhold that which can do so much good.’ And so it is as you have seen,” Myrddin concluded. “He rushes from one thing to another, full of holy zeal and heavenly ambition. And no one can tell him anything, for he will not hear, much less heed.”
“What of Elfodd?” I asked. “The king seems to have more than enough time for the good bishop. Perhaps Elfodd might prevail—”
“Save your breath,” Myrddin interrupted. “Elfodd is just as bad as Arthur. After Arthur’s healing, the bishop is convinced that the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand, and that the High King is God’s instrument for establishing it here and now. It is hopeless; the two of them goad each other.”
“And Gwenhwyvar? Might the queen find a way to persuade her husband to reason?”
Myrddin sighed wearily. “Ah, she might—if it were not that she had seen her husband lying at death’s gate in this very place not so very long ago. Gwenhwyvar is only too pleased to have Arthur hale and whole once more, so, in her eyes at least, this overzealous Arthur is preferable to the other. No, she cannot bring herself to reproach him.”
Well, it was no worse than I suspected. Arthur, miraculously healed and delivered of his enemies for once and all, was suddenly ablaze with virtue and good works. Where was the harm? Who was to say he was wrong? Might not Arthur, the one to whom the miracle had happened, possess a keener insight? Might not the one who had seen the vision be best able to describe it?
“I thought the Summer Realm was earth and stars to you, Myrddin,” I said as we resumed our walk. “I thought you wanted it above all else.”
Swift as a hawk swooping from the sky, the Emrys fell upon my remark. “I do! I do!” he exclaimed. “No one knows how much I crave it, nor what its advent has cost me. Truly, Gwalchavad, I desire it more than my life,” Myrddin said, growing solemn. “But not like this.”
I waited for him to continue, and he did, after biting the tender end off the reed and sucking the juice. “The Kingdom of Summer is near, Gwalchavad, nearer now than ever—of that you can be certain. But it will not be compelled. If we try to force it, I fear we can only do great violence to it and to ourselves. We have a chance now—a chance that may never come again—and my best instinct tells me we must proceed with all caution.”
“It does seem the soundest course,” I concurred.
“Ah, but what if I am wrong?” Myrddin murmured, and I heard the anguish in his voice. “What if I am wrong, and Arthur is right? What if God’s hand is on him to accomplish this great and glorious feat? To oppose it, even by so much as the merest hesitation, would be to hinder God himself. I ask myself: does God now perform his works in this worlds-realm only with Myrddin’s permission?”
I let the question hang.
Myrddin continued, slashing the air with the reed in his hand. “Can it be that I, who have labored so long to advance the Summer Kingdom, cannot recognize it now that it is upon me? Is it possible that it is God’s good pleasure to reward his faithful servants even before they have completed their labor?”
I did not know what he meant by this last statement, but before I could ask him, he declared, “There is one certainty, or none at all: if this thing flows from God, nothing can stand against it.”
“And if it is not of God?”
“Then it cannot stand,” he concluded simply, flinging the reed into the lake.
Wise is Myrddin, and keen of insight. He had not only discerned the heart of my own feelings and perceived my objections, but offered lucid consolation as well.
Moving to the matter uppermost in my mind, I said, “Have you discovered anything more about Morgaws?”
“Only that she is a noblewoman of Caer Uintan,” he replied, his face hard in the dusky light. “Or so it is said.” I could almost hear the gates slamming shut to keep me out. Why? Ignoring his reluctance, I pressed on regardless.
“Llenlleawg seems to have reversed his opinion of her,” I observed. “Before she disappeared, he could not abide her. Now that she has returned, he cannot bear to have Morgaws out of his sight.”
“Yes, it is all very strange,” agreed Myrddin.
“Is that all you have to say? You seemed more than concerned before.”
“Was I?”
That was all he said, but I suddenly felt foolish for having involved myself in matters that did not concern me. After all, if there was anything amiss, the Wise Emrys would know; ever alert to the subtle shiftings of power and the hidden meanings of events, Myrddin would know.
“Well,” I conceded, “no doubt I was overhasty in my judgment. She has done no harm.”
Nodding, Myrddin resumed walking, turning back the way we had come. The palace atop the Tor was black against the pale purple sky. “Watch and pray, Gwalchavad,” Myrddin said absently. “Watch and pray.”
He returned to the Tor then, leaving me to my thoughts. It came into my mind to visit the shrine—the old shrine where the tin merchant Joseph erected the first church in the Island of the Mighty, and where the Grail was first seen in this worlds-realm. No more than a hut made of sticks and mud, it stands on the place of that first small church on the hill above the lake.
The good brothers of the abbey often say prayers in the shrine, and I wondered if I should meet any of them, but as I approached, I saw that I had the place to myself, which is how I much preferred it. See, now: I am faithful in my own way. It is not that I dislike the good brothers, God knows, but I have not their learning, and I always feel a pagan whenever I encounter monks at prayer. The brothers are not to blame for this; I own the fault right readily. Perhaps the purity of their example shames me; such virtue and devotion as they demonstrate is to be lauded, but I am not cut of that cloth. My days are spent on the back of a horse with a shield on my shoulder and a spear in my hand. So be it!
The shrine was black against the fading sky, and I stood for a moment just looking at its looming shape and feeling the immense age of the place. Slowly, and with mindful reverence, I m
ounted the slope of the hill and went inside the shrine. It is a simple, bare room, large enough, perhaps, for three or four, but no more. A single, narrow window opens above the altar made of three shaped slabs of stone. There was a candle on the altar, but it was not lit, and the interior of the shrine was dark as a cave.
Dark it might have been, but I was aware only of an immense and restful peace which seemed to fill the tiny chapel with a serenity as deep and wide as the sea. Entering, I knelt and closed my eyes, plunging myself into this ocean of calm; the irresistible tide pulled me down and down and down into its fathomless depths.
I did not pray—that is, I said no words aloud—but allowed my mind to drift along on the deep-flowing current of peace. If I had any thought at all, it was merely to bathe myself for a while in the calm of all calms, and perhaps touch for a moment the source of all serenity. Perhaps this is prayer by a different name; I do not know.
Neither can I say how long I remained like this; time was swallowed in eternity, I think, for it seemed to me that I had inhabited the shrine for a lifetime of lifetimes—in all that time knowing nothing of earthly strife and clamor, knowing nothing of desire or striving, knowing nothing but blissful contentment, and the desire that I might abide like this forever. To stay just as I am, I thought, would be joy surpassing all pleasures.
I held that thought in my mind, clung to it, and, clinging, cried out in my heart of hearts: Great King, cast me not aside! The cry arose unbidden, but I knew it as my own, for I had uttered my deepest fear. Nor was the reply long in coming. For all at once my hands and face began to tingle with an exquisite sensation, and I imagined beams of light, or flames, dancing over my flesh. I was immersed—not in water, but in living light! The notion grew so strong in me that I opened my eyes, and saw the shrine awash in a pale, golden luminescence, shifting and shimmering over the interior walls like the reflection of light on water.
Another time I might have been amazed at this wonder, but not now. In my present mind, it seemed wholly natural and expected that this should be. The only curiosity was that the dancing light had no point of origin: it simply shone of itself, and was everywhere manifest, gilding the rude-built shrine with glimmering gold. Ah, but to see it gleam and shine was pure delight, and I was seized by an inexpressible rapture. My heart soared and I felt as if I were a child once more, enfolded by a bliss which surpassed all understanding.
And then…and then: a miracle. The light intensified, its radiance growing bold and sharp, taking substance, as it were, and I felt a warmth steal over me—like that which arises when the sun breaks through the concealing cloud and all the earth warms of an instant beneath the all-pervading strength of its rays. At the same time, I heard the sound of silver bells hung from the branch of a tree for the wind to strike one against another. The sound was the light, and the light was the sound; I understood that they were both but emanations of a thing I had not yet perceived.
The sound, like the light, grew and hardened, too. And when I thought all the world must hear the ringing of the unseen bells, a word formed. I heard it as a word breathed, not spoken, a resonant word which seemed as much a part of me as my very bones.
Behold!
I searched within myself what this command might signify, but I saw nothing save the bare stone altar. And then, even as my eye lit upon the stone, it began to gleam with a golden sheen, the rough stone gilded by the light. The bellsong quickened and I heard again the breathless command: behold!
Even as I looked, it seemed as if something like scales fell from my eyes and I saw, radiant upon the altar, the Grail.
Chapter Eighteen
The Grail!
My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the sacred object, ablaze with the fiery light of glory. The intensity of its radiance burned my face; it felt as if my eyes were coals of fire. I held my breath for fear of singeing my lungs should I dare inhale the searing air. Blood pounded in my ears with a roar like that of the ocean; beyond the throbbing pulse in my ears was a sound like that of a harp pouring out a heavenly sound, the incomparable melody falling like holy rain from heaven.
Transfixed by the beauty of the Blessed Cup, I made to raise my hand to shield my eyes, but could not lift so much as a finger. Neither could I look away. The Grail filled my vision, was all my vision. I began to see as I have never seen before. I saw the path of my life stretching out before me, and it went on forever.
I thought within myself to follow the path to discover where it might lead next, and suddenly I felt a presence with me in the shrine—a mighty force, towering in the strength of its vitality, majestic in its power—like a storm at sea where gales blow and great waves clash. Oh! the weight of it! The weight! It was as if a mountain had shifted and settled upon my pitiable frame, and I was being crushed out of existence. I could not endure.
I knew my last living moment had come. My poor heart labored in my chest, faltered, and then stopped. I closed my eyes.
Mercy! I cried inwardly. Mercy, Lord.
These words had but fled my mind when the weight vanished. My heart began beating, and I could breathe once more. Cool air, like a soothing balm, rushed into my lungs and I drew it deep, almost choking on it. No longer gripped by the power that had held me, I fell on my face before the altar.
My chest ached; my limbs quivered. I lay gasping like a fish flung from the water. But, oh, the air revived me wonderfully well, for it tasted as sweet on my tongue as the richest mead; the delicious scent filled my head and mouth and I gulped it down in great, greedy draughts, feeling as if I had never drawn breath before. When I at last raised my head, I was dizzy with the fragrant intoxication of the air.
The Grail had gone, as I knew, but the shrine still held a glimmer of the heavenly radiance of the sacred vessel, though that, even as I watched, faded quickly away, leaving the room in darkness once more. I lay for a time, placid, unmoving, my spirit at ease with the stillness of the night. And when at last I heard, as a summons from another realm, the abbey bell toll the midnight prayer, I rose unsteadily to my feet. At the doorway, I paused and looked back, hoping, I think, for a last fleeting glimpse of the holy object, but the altar was bare stone, hard and cold. The Grail had moved on.
I did not return to the Tor that night, but remained on the hillside near the shrine, wakeful and curiously agitated; I could not hold a thought in my head for a single moment before it slipped my grasp and flew away. Try as I might, my thoughts scattered far and wide like birds a-frighted from the field. Now and then, one of them would return to roost—I must tell someone! I would think—and then flit!…It would vanish, and another would take its place. I have seen it! I have seen the Grail!
In this way the night passed. At last, as the sun rose above the line of tree-topped hills to the east, I rose, too, and made my way back to the Fisher King’s hall. The inner yard was already stirring as the Cymbrogi made ready to go out to their day’s labor at the shrine. I entered the yard to the open stares of those who were preparing to leave; most of those gaping at me smiled, some laughed outright and I wondered what they thought amusing. Was it that I had, as they imagined, lost my way in the dark and was forced to spend the night outside? Or did they believe me to have slept in a serving maid’s bed?
Ignoring their derisive smirks, I proceeded to the hall, and was met while crossing the yard by Bedwyr and Cai as they came to see the work party away. “Good day to you, brother,” said Bedwyr; then, looking at me more carefully, added: “Though it appears you have had the best of the day already.”
Cai was more direct. “Man, next time get yourself beneath a bush to nap,” he advised, and they both walked off, shaking their heads and laughing.
I stared after them; the inexplicable behavior of everyone around me was rapidly sapping my lingering tranquility—I could feel my pleasant, peaceful mood melting away like dew before the midday sun. I vowed to myself that the next person to make jest of me would answer for it. As it happened, the next person was Arthur.
The king came bolting out the doorway as I stood watching Cai and Bedwyr. He slapped me on the back and said, “Greetings, brother! I have missed you these past days. I am going to the shrine. Ride with me.”
“Nothing would please me more,” I said, took two steps with him, and remembered that I must attend the council instead. “Forgive me, Arthur, I am forgetting myself,” I said, and explained that, owing to my duty to the council, I could not accompany him.
“Ah, well, tomorrow, then,” he said, then stopped abruptly and looked me in the face. “The Fellowship is important, Gwalchavad. It will soon take on an eminence of the highest order. Wherever men hear of the Grail Fellowship, their hearts will burn within them. It will become a beacon fire, and all Britain will be illumined by the blaze.”
He smiled suddenly. “Speaking of fires, it seems you have stood too near the flame, my friend. Farewell!”
Bewildered and annoyed by my baffling reception, I proceeded into the hall in search of bread and a little ale. The Cymbrogi had broken fast, but there was plenty of their leavings to make a meal, so I gathered a bit of this and that onto a platter and settled on one of the benches to eat in peace, and to see if I might recover my former good cheer. I took up one of the small loaves, tore it, and began to eat—only then remembering that I had missed my supper last night and was famished. I was washing down the bread when I saw Myrddin sweep past the entrance to the hall. Hurrying as he was, I had time but to shout his name as I leapt to my feet and started for the door, thinking to catch him before he vanished again.
But before I had taken half a dozen paces, he reappeared at the doorway. “I have been searching for you,” he said, hastening to meet me. “They told me you did not return from our walk last night, and I thought—” He broke off, staring at me as he stepped nearer. Then his golden eyes widened and his face assumed an expression of knowing wonder.