The Mists of Avalon

Morgaine thought often, in the bleak days which followed upon Kevin’s death, now indeed the Goddess had taken it upon herself to destroy the Companions of the Round Table. But why had it been her will to destroy Avalon too?

  I am growing old. Raven is dead and Nimue is dead, who should have been Lady after me. And the Goddess has laid her hand upon no other to be her prophetess. Kevin lies entombed within the oak. What of Avalon now?

  It seemed that the world was shifting, that beyond the mists the world moved at an ever-accelerating pace. No one save herself and one or two of the oldest priestesses could open the gateway through the mists, and there was now little reason to try. And there were times when she walked abroad and could see neither sun nor moon, and she knew that she had strayed over the borders of the fairy country; but she saw only the rarest glimpses of the fairy folk among the trees, nor did she ever again have sight of the queen.

  She wondered if indeed the Goddess had deserted them, for some of the maidens from the House of Maidens had gone again into the world, and others strayed into the fairy country and did not return again.

  The Goddess came forth for the last time into the world when she bore the Grail through Arthur’s hall at Camelot, Morgaine thought, and then, confused, she asked herself whether the Goddess had truly borne the Grail, or had it only been herself and Raven working illusion?

  I have called on the Goddess and found her within myself.

  And Morgaine knew that never again would she have the ability to seek beyond herself for comfort or counsel; she could look only within. No priestess, no prophetess, no Druid or councillor, no Goddess now to turn to; none but her unguided self. Now and again, when, as the habit of a lifetime bade her, she sought to call up the image of the Goddess to guide her, she saw nothing, or sometimes the face of Igraine—not the elderly, priest-ridden wife and widow of Uther, but the young and beautiful mother who had first laid these burdens on her, who had bidden her care for Arthur and given her into the hands of Viviane. And now and again she would see the face of Viviane, who had sent her to the bed of the Horned One, or Raven, who had stood at her side during that great moment of invocation.

  They are the Goddess. And I am the Goddess. And there is no other.

  She cared little to look into her magical mirror, but now and again when the moon was dark she went to drink of the spring and to look into the waters. But she saw only tantalizing glimpses: the Companions of the Round Table rode this way and that, following dreams and glimmers of vision and the Sight, but none found the true Grail. Some forgot the quest and rode openly in search of adventure; some met with more of adventure than they could manage, and so died; some did good deeds, and some evil. One or two, in piercing visions of faith, dreamed their own Grail and so died. Others, following the message of their own visions, went on pilgrimage to the Holy Lands; and others still, following a wind that was blowing all through the world in these days, withdrew into solitude and the hermit life, seeking, in crude caves and shelters, the life of silence and penitence—but what visions came to them, whether of the Grail or of some other thing, Morgaine never knew nor cared.

  Once or twice she had glimpses of a face she knew. She saw Mordred at Camelot, at Arthur’s side. Galahad, too, she saw as he sought the Grail; but then she saw him no more, and wondered if the quest had claimed him to death.

  And once she saw Lancelet, half naked, clad in animal skins, his hair long and ragged, without armor or sword, running in the forest, and the gleam of madness was in his eyes; well, she had guessed that this quest might lead him only to madness and despair. Still she sought him again in the mirror, from moon to moon, but for a long time she had no success. Then she saw him sleeping, ragged and naked, on straw somewhere, and the walls of a prison or dungeon rose about him . . . and then she saw him no more.

  Ah, Gods, has he gone too . . . with so many of Arthur’s men. . . .

  Truly the Grail was no blessing to Arthur’s court, but a curse. . . .

  And rightly so, a curse to the traitor who would have profaned it . . .

  And now is it gone forever from Avalon.

  For a long time Morgaine believed that the Grail had been taken away by the Goddess into the realms of the Gods, so that mankind might never again profane it, and she was content that it should be so; for it had been defiled with the wine of the Christians, which somehow was blood as well as wine, and she had no notion of how to cleanse it.

  Whispers came from the outside world to Morgaine through some of the old brotherhood of priests who came in these days to Avalon; Christians, some of them, of the old ones who had once worshipped beside the Druids, in their firm belief that their Christ had once lived here on Avalon and been taught wisdom. Now, fleeing from the enforced conformity of that new breed of Christians who would wipe out all other worship but their own, they came to Avalon, and from them Morgaine heard something of the Grail.

  The priests were now saying that it was indeed the true cup from which Christ had drunk at his Last Supper, and that it had been taken away into Heaven whence it would never again be seen in the world. Yet also there were rumors that it had been seen on that other isle, Ynis Witrin, sparkling in the depths of their well, that well which on Avalon was the holy mirror of the Goddess; and therefore the priests on Ynis Witrin had begun to call it the Well of the Chalice.

  And when the old priests had dwelt for a time upon Avalon, Morgaine began to hear rumors that now and again the Grail had been seen, for a moment, upon their altar. That must be as the Goddess wills. They will not profane it. But she knew not whether it was truly there in the ancient church of the Christian brotherhood . . . which was built on the very spot of the church on the other island, so that they said that, when the mists thinned, the ancient brotherhood on Avalon could hear the monks chanting in their church on Ynis Witrin. Morgaine remembered the day when the mists had thinned to let Gwenhwyfar through to Avalon.

  Time ran strangely now upon Avalon. Morgaine did not know whether that twelvemonth and a day to which the knights were vowed had passed or not, and sometimes she thought that indeed years must have passed in the outside world. . . .

  She thought long on the words Kevin had spoken: . . . the mists are closing on Avalon.

  And then, one day, she was summoned to the shores of the Lake, but she needed no Sight to tell her who stood in the barge. Avalon had once been his home too. Lancelet’s hair was all grey now and his face thin and haggard, but as he stepped from the boat, with only the shadow of his old light-footed grace, she stepped forward and took his hands, and she could see in his face no trace of madness.

  He looked into her eyes, and suddenly it seemed that she was the Morgaine of the old days, when Avalon was a temple alive with priestesses and Druids and not a solitary land adrift in the mists with a bare handful of aging priestesses, a few elderly Druids, a handful of half-forgotten ancient Christians.

  “How is it that you are so untouched by time, Morgaine?” he asked her. “All seems changed, even here in Avalon—look, even the ring stones are hidden in the mists!”

  “Oh, they are still there,” Morgaine said, “though some of us would lose our way if we sought them now.” And like a pain in her heart she remembered a day—ah, it was a lifetime ago!—when she and Lancelet had lain together in the shadow of the stones. “I think perhaps they will one day go altogether into the mists, and thus never be torn down by human hands or the winds of time. There are none to worship at them now . . . even the Beltane fires are no longer lighted on Avalon, though I have heard that they keep the old rites still in the wildnesses of North Wales and in Cornwall. The little people will never let them die while any of them survive. I am surprised that you were able to come here, kinsman.”

  He smiled, and now she could see the traces of pain and grief—yes, even of madness—around his eyes. “Why, I hardly knew it was hither I came, cousin. My memory plays tricks on me, now. I was mad, Morgaine. I cast away my sword and lived like an animal in the forests, and then there was a time
, I know not how long, that I was confined in a strange dungeon.”

  “I saw it,” she whispered. “I knew not what it meant.”

  “Nor did I, nor do I yet,” Lancelet said. “I remember very little of that time—it is God’s blessing, I think, that I cannot remember what I might have done. I think it was not the first time—there were times, during those years with Elaine, that I hardly knew what I did. . . .”

  “But you are well now,” she said quickly. “Come and breakfast with me, cousin—it is too early for anything else, for whatever reason you came here.”

  He followed her, and Morgaine took him into her dwelling; except for her attendant priestesses, he was the first person who had entered it in years. There was fish from the Lake, this morning, and she served him with her own hands.

  “Ah, this is good,” he said, and ate hungrily—she wondered how long it had been since he had last remembered to eat. His hair was as fastidiously combed as ever, his curly hair—all grey now, and patches of white in his beard—neatly trimmed, and his cloak, though shabby and travel-worn, was neatly brushed and clean. He saw her glance at the cloak and laughed a little.

  “In the old days I would not have used this cloak for a saddle blanket,” he said. “I lost cloak and sword and armor, I know not where—it may be that I was robbed of them in some evil adventure, or cast them away in madness. I know only that one day I heard someone speak my name, and it was one of the Companions—Lamorak, perhaps, though it is still very hazy in my mind. I was too weak to travel, but though he rode on the next day, I began slowly to remember who I was, and they gave me a gown and let me sit to table to eat with my knife instead of throwing me scraps in a wooden piggin—” His laugh was shaky, nervous. “Even when I knew not that I was Lancelet, I had still my accursed strength, and I think I had done some of them harm. I think I lost the best part of a year out of my life. . . . I remember only little things, and the main thought in my mind was never to let them know I was Lancelet, lest I bring shame on the Companions or Arthur . . .” He fell silent, and Morgaine guessed at his torment by what he did not say. “Well, slowly I grew strong enough to travel, and Lamorak had left money for a horse and goods for me. But most of that year is darkness—”

  He picked up the remaining bread on his plate and resolutely mopped up the scraps of fish. Morgaine asked him, “What of the quest?”

  “What indeed? I have heard a little,” he said, “here and there, here and there, as I rode in the land. Gawaine was the first to return to Camelot.”

  Morgaine smiled, almost against her will. “He was always fickle—to everything and everyone.”

  “Except to Arthur,” Lancelet said. “He is more loyal to Arthur than any of his dogs! And I met with Gareth as I rode hither.”

  Morgaine said, “Dear Gareth, he is the best of Morgause’s sons! What said he to you?”

  “He said he had had a vision,” Lancelet said slowly, “which bade him return to court and do his duty by his king and his lands, and not to delay, loitering about and seeking visions of holy things. And he talked a long time with me, begging me to lay aside the quest of the Grail and return to Camelot with him.”

  “I am surprised you did not,” Morgaine said.

  He smiled. “I am surprised too, kinswoman. And I have promised to return as soon as I can.” Suddenly, his face grew grave. “Gareth told me,” he said, “that Mordred is always about Arthur now. And when I would not return to court with him, he told me this—that what I could best do for Arthur was to find Galahad and bid him return at once to Avalon, for he mistrusted Mordred and his influence upon Arthur. . . . I am sorry to speak ill of your son, Morgaine.”

  Morgaine said, “He told me once that Galahad would not live to rule . . . yet he swore to me, by an oath I do not think he would dare break, that he would have no hand in his death.”

  Lancelet looked troubled. “I have seen many evil adventures that may befall on this accursed quest. God grant that I can find Galahad before he falls prey to one of them!” A silence fell between them, while Morgaine thought, I knew it in my heart—this was why Mordred refused the quest. She realized, quite suddenly, that she had ceased to believe that her son Gwydion—Mordred—would ever now be King from Avalon. She wondered when she had begun to accept that in her heart. Perhaps it had been when Accolon died and the Goddess did not stretch forth her hand to protect her chosen.

  Galahad will be King, and he will be a Christian king.

  And that may well mean that he will kill Gwydion. What of the King Stag, when the young stag is grown? But if the day of Avalon had ended, perhaps Galahad would take his throne in peace, without the need to kill his rival.

  Lancelet laid down the remnant of a piece of bread and honey and looked past her at the corner of the room. “Is that Viviane’s harp?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I left mine at Tintagel. But I suppose it is yours by right of inheritance if you want it.”

  “I play no longer, nor do I have any will to make music, Morgaine. By right it is yours, as are all other things which belonged to my mother.”

  Morgaine recalled words which had cut her to the heart—again, a lifetime ago!—I would that you were not so much like my mother, Morgaine! Now the memory held no pain, but warmth; Viviane was not gone entirely from the world if something survived in her. He said, stumbling, “There are now so few of us—so few who recall the old days at Caerleon—even at Camelot—”

  “Arthur is there,” she said, “and Gawaine, and Gareth, and Cai, and many more, my dear. And no doubt they ask one another with every day, Where is Lancelet? Why are you here, and not there?”

  “I said, my mind plays me tricks—I hardly knew I came hither,” Lancelet said. “Yet now I am here, I should ask—I heard Nimue was here,” and she remembered: she had told him this, once, when he had thought his daughter at the convent where once Gwenhwyfar had been. “I should ask, what has become of her—is she well, does she thrive among the priestesses?”

  “I am sorry,” Morgaine said. “It seems I have nothing but ill news for you—Nimue died, a year ago.”

  More than this she would not say. Lancelet knew nothing of the Merlin’s betrayal, or of Nimue’s last visit to the court. It could only grieve him to know the rest. He asked no questions, only sighed heavily, and cast his eyes on the floor. At last he said without looking up, “And the baby—little Gwenhwyfar—she is married, and in Less Britain, and this quest has swallowed Galahad. I never knew any of my children. I never tried to know them—it seemed to me they were all I could give Elaine, and so I left them to her almost entirely, even the boy. I rode for a time with Galahad when first we departed from Camelot, and I knew more of him in the ten days and nights we rode together than in all the sixteen years he had lived. I think perhaps he would make a good king, if he lives. . . .”

  He looked at Morgaine, almost pleading, and she knew he was longing for reassurance, but she had no comfort for him. At last she said, “If he lives, he will be a good king, but I think he will be a Christian king.” It seemed that for a moment all the sounds of Avalon were hushed around her, as if the very waves of the Lake and the whispering sound of the reeds on the border were silent to hear her say it. “If he survives the quest of the Grail—or if he should abandon it—still his rule will be circled about by the priests, and through all the land there will be only one God and only one religion.”

  “Would that be such a tragedy, Morgaine?” Lancelet asked quietly. “All through this land, the Christian God is bringing a spiritual rebirth here—is that an evil thing, when mankind has forgotten the Mysteries?”

  “They have not forgotten the Mysteries,” she said, “they have found them too difficult. They want a God who will care for them, who will not demand that they struggle for enlightenment, but who will accept them just as they are, with all their sins, and take away their sins with repentance. It is not so, it will never be so, but perhaps it is the only way the unenlightened can bear to think of their Gods.”
r />   Lancelet smiled bitterly. “Perhaps a religion which demands that every man must work through lifetime after lifetime for his own salvation is too much for mankind. They want not to wait for God’s justice, but to see it now. And that is the lure which this new breed of priests has promised them.”

  Morgaine knew that he spoke truth, and bowed her head in anguish. “And since their view of a God is what shapes their reality, so it shall be—the Goddess was real while mankind still paid homage to her, and created her form for themselves. Now they will make for themselves the kind of God they think they want—the kind of God they deserve, perhaps.”

  Well, so it must be, for as man saw reality, so it became. While the ancient Gods, the Goddess, were seen as benevolent or life-giving, so indeed had nature been to them; and when the priests had taught men to think of all nature as evil, alien, hostile, and the old Gods as demons, even so they would become, surging up from within that part of man which he now wished to sacrifice or control, instead of letting it lead him.

  She said, remembering at random something she had read when she had looked into the books of Uriens’ house priest in Wales, “And so all men will become even as that apostle who wrote that they should become as eunuchs for the Kingdom of God . . . I think I care not to live within that world, Lancelet.”