Avilion

  ‘What is it?’ Steven asked after a moment. ‘What are you thinking? About the Lodge.’

  ‘I was wondering if it was not everything it seemed. It was ramshackle, yes, and damp, but could have been abandoned only a season or two ago, not thirty years in outside time.’ Jack turned to look at his father. ‘I think your old home lies in a sort of “tidal” zone. Not that I’ve ever seen the waves on a beach. But there was that feeling of the house being first swamped, then exposed - a slow, steady movement.’

  ‘Not that slow when it’s exposed, from what you say. But what are you saying? Oak Lodge . . . a mythago?’ It was clear to Jack that Steven had never considered this possibility.

  But then, Jack was not sure of his own reasoning; all this was coming from his encounter with an Iaelven food gift.

  ‘It just did not seem to belong there. Right there, at the edge of the strangest forest. Why would it have been built? Why does Ryhope hide it, then release it?’

  After a moment, Steven sighed, turning back to the villa. ‘I wonder if that’s right? If that is right, then it must have changed its shape over many thousands of years.’ He took a breath, then looked hard at Jack. ‘When my father moved in, when he took the Lodge, it was to write a book analysing the ideas of Charles Darwin on evolution. I taught you about him, if you remember: as much as I could, since I didn’t really grasp the principles myself.’ He smiled, recollecting his own dreadful ignorance as he had tried to give a reasoned and careful heartwood’s education to his offspring. ‘He very quickly dropped that task and started to explore Ryhope. That was when it all went wrong, for him and for us. He was a changed man. His language was all “zones” and “vortex” and “ley pathways and matrices”, all short cuts through the forest, defences against intruders, and manipulators of the weeks and months and years. He aged very rapidly when he should have aged very slowly. I wonder if you’re right? Perhaps Oak Lodge was Ryhope’s way of communicating with the world beyond its edge. A passage in, a passage out; a connection between the first forest and the ever-evolving world.’

  Jack was lost now. But it occurred to him that if his father had grown up inside a house that was the evolved version of such a gate, then perhaps it had been the Lodge itself that had called back George Huxley.

  But these were wild thoughts, perhaps made wilder by the chemical brew that he had ingested, courtesy of the Iaelven.

  They stood in silence for a long time, cool in the breeze, each of them thinking of a different world, each sensing the passing of this one. Finally, with a sigh and clapping his hands together, abandoning nostalgia, Steven said loudly, ‘But I can assure you, I’m all human, and so was George. It’s only my children who can step in and out of the shadow of the forest. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Very well.’ Jack hesitated. ‘Steven?’

  ‘I like you calling me Steven. Better than Dad.’

  The young man smiled acknowledgement. ‘Steven: when this is over, when I find Yssi - and I will find her, I promise - when it’s done, would you like to go home? Back to the edge?’

  ‘Let’s go in, Jack. I’m getting cold. Would I like to go back? With Gwin gone . . . you know what? Yes. Yes, I think I would. But that is for later.’ He glanced solemnly at his son. ‘For the moment, I’m guessing it’s goodbye again.’

  Jack kissed his father on the cheek, taking the older man by surprise. ‘You don’t belong here, Steven. Nor do I. I can’t speak for Yssobel, but I inscribed a small broken silver clasp for her. Rune writing, of course.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘What we remember is all the home we need.’

  His father frowned. ‘Not exactly an encouragement to return, then. Where did that sentiment come from?’

  ‘Ealdwulf. He was doomed to wander, though his son is likely to find his own land and establish his own kingdom. He’ll be gone soon, I’m sure of it. He has that faraway look.’

  Steven had noticed and said so. ‘It’s true; this place is beginning to decay. Its life-force is fading. We built it up from ruins, but the ruins were from memory, shaped by need. Now the villa is being reclaimed, brick by brick. This is part of the land the Amurngoth claim as theirs, and I suppose they will have it back.’

  Jack had noticed earlier how much the villa was in disrepair, despite the young Saxon’s efforts, as if it had been storm-battered on too many occasions. The Amurngoth had been tolerant. They had hardly ever used the track that led from the hill through the villa’s grounds, though perhaps they had used it at night. The Huxleys had avoided the hill, and the two communities had lived in respectful coexistence for many years. But now, as Steven was aware, everything that could sustain this particular landscape within Ryhope Wood was fading, weakening.

  It made Jack’s task more urgent. Haunter was a constant whispered voice of warning: that Yssobel was walking into danger. The green and the green were in distant, frail, but vital communication.

  PART • THREE

  Yssobel in Avilion

  Armour of the King

  As she reached the head of the valley, Yssobel turned for a last sad look at the villa. In the dawn light, it seemed so peaceful. She tried not to imagine the sorrow that would soon transform that silence into anguish.

  She noticed that she had left no tracks, nor had the packhorse. Patting Rona’s narrow neck she gave a silent thanks to Rianna. The High Woman’s gift was endowed with a certain charm: it was as if Rianna had known that Yssobel needed not to be followed.

  With a wave of her hand she turned again and rode into imarn uklyss.

  After several days, she lost the packhorse to a band of Muurngoth but managed to save some of the supplies before galloping away from their stinging arrows. The journey was hazardous. She rode through the shallows of the river wherever possible, and camped where she could see in a wide arc.

  And at last she came to the monolith.

  It was taller than she had expected, taller than she’d painted it, but she recognised the rune snakes, each coiled serpent containing one of the four tales of Peredur. The monument seemed to whisper to her, to greet her. As she walked towards it in the night, it seemed to lean slightly, as if to embrace her. The illusion of welcome.

  ‘I’ve found you,’ Yssobel said quietly. ‘And when the sun rises I know you’ll show me the path to Avilion.’

  Before she slept she ran her fingers over each of the rune snakes, puzzled to read Peredur and the Song of the Islands of the Lost. She didn’t recognise it, though the song was familiar, a sad piece which her mother had often sung when she had thought she was alone and not being overheard. Peredur and the Nine Eagles was familiar. And Peredur and the Shield of Diadora, Peredur’s prized shield, able to reflect what had been and what might be to come.

  The fourth rune snake puzzled her again: Peredur and Yssobel.

  ‘That can’t be right,’ she whispered to the stone. ‘I don’t belong to your time. This isn’t the rune of my dreams. I dreamed of you at The Crossing Place of Ghosts.’

  But she was too tired to think about it now, and after tending to Rona she curled up in the moon-shadow of the monolith and entered her own world for a few hours.

  In the morning Yssobel stood for some while in the shadow of her grandfather’s memorial, staring at the forbidding darkness of the forest to which the shadow pointed. Then she clicked her fingers and Rona came up to her. She stroked the horse’s cheeks for a while, then, with a last glance at the monolith, she heaved herself into the saddle and galloped towards the wildwood.

  As if she were a ghost, she passed into the gloom; as if she were a ghost, she rode through the frontier, red side surging with determination, green side drawing on the sap and succulence of the wood.

  And she emerged onto a track, a holloway, that was deserted, unused, yet not overgrown. She could see the traces of stone, laid carefully in that road. Old, then, shaped for a purpose. Where would it lead her?

  Yssobel rode for most of the day and was about to rest when she c
aught the scent of a lake. The wind had freshened. The smell of lake water was clear and sharp and clean.

  The wind shifted and she stopped suddenly. In the distance, she could hear the scream and cry of battle.

  The trail began to curve as Yssobel spurred Rona on. The horse was straining slightly. She could smell the lake as well. Rona was thirsty, no doubt. The ride had been long, but Yssobel hauled her back. The battle was very close now, and its sounds made Yssobel’s stomach clench and her senses sharpen. The drumming and clash of shields, the ringstrike of iron, the wailing of men as limbs were slashed and life began to fade, the screeching triumph of killers, the noisy protesting of horses ridden through the fury; these signs of a vicious struggle waxed and waned on the air.

  Yssobel’s copper hair billowed out like a cloak behind her as the wind strengthened suddenly, bringing with it the sharp tang of blood. She took a moment to gather it and knot it to the side, using the silver ring-clasp that Jack had made for her, tying her hair as he had shown her. She briefly ran her fingers along the inscription he had made.

  Avilion is what we make of it.

  ‘Oh yes, brother. Oh yes indeed.’

  She was about to kick forward again when a horse burst through the undergrowth above the bank and stumbled its way down and across the track. A man lay slumped on its back, arms dangling, features obscured by a small helmet that covered half his face, which now was red from a strike. As the horse leapt up the opposite bank, so he fell heavily to the ground, rolling back to the road. For a moment gleaming eyes watched Yssobel, a hand moved towards her. Then brightness became blur.

  She rode on. The battle was loud now, and she dismounted, crawled stealthily up the bank and through the sparse woodland until she could see the hill, and the swarm of men on that hill. The sky filled with streaming pennants and clouds of fine yellow hair, blowing across the site of battle, glittering elementals engaged in the fray.

  She saw the man at the centre of the action. His face-helm was black, his banner green. He was bloodied and raging. He rode with others as a troop, but was suddenly engaged in single combat with a bronze-armoured man whose white hair streamed from below a demon’s helmet. This fight was contained within the ring of horsemen who rode at the centre, nose to tail, a mix of armies containing and respecting the duel.

  There were no arrows in the air, just the forward surge and backward press of ranks of warriors, struggling at spear- and sword-point. Men fled from the wide, low hill, others seemed to appear from nowhere, shields sparkling, bone, bronze and iron shining, sometimes reddening.

  Why did she recognise this fierce encounter?

  In her red heart she knew why - the story she had been told often by her father. It took the green side to hear the sorrowing voices crying: ‘Arthur - take care! Withdraw. He is too strong for you.’

  ‘Stay with me!’ came Arthur’s reply, the cry of all war-chiefs who are certain that the moment of triumph or passing has come close and must be encountered.

  And even as Yssobel recognised Arthur, so he plunged his blade into his opponent, who reeled for a moment, then struck back with his javelin.

  The narrow spear found a home in Arthur’s breast. He was pushed back. A sword strike followed, cutting through the face-helm.

  As Yssobel watched, so he was struck again by the javelin, pushed back on his horse, falling from the saddle.

  The protecting circle broke.

  Ravens rushed towards him and the struggle over his body became fierce. The tone of the conflict had changed. It became static, pressing, urgent.

  Yssobel pulled back. She had seen enough. But as she sat, huddled, at the top of the bank, she began to realise just what it was that she had seen. She looked towards the lake, remembering the stories she had been told by her father, remembering the dreams she had inherited from her mother. Quickly, she returned to the fallen rider and stripped the corpse of its armour and face-helm.

  Yes, she would stay here tonight, in hiding, and watch events unfurl.

  With a thunder of hooves, a dozen or so men rode away from the battlefield. Dusk was close. Yssobel watched them as they struggled down the bank, onto the old track, a rider on each side of a man slumped in his saddle, holding him in place. They raced off towards the lake and Yssobel, armoured and masked in the dead man’s war-cloth, followed at a distance.

  The track was rich with blood, the air heavy with its sour smell.

  The horsemen thundered out of sight, two of them suddenly turning back, unmasked, hair flowing freely, spears held low and at the ready. They were youthful men, shields on their backs, eyes bright as they came rapidly at Yssobel, who reined in and galloped up the bank and among the trees. They pursued her for a while, shouting in gruff voices, but the shadows contained her and when she stopped and looked out into the light she could see them sitting there, silhouettes, searching the gloom but failing to locate her.

  They turned and disappeared and after a long while she cautiously urged Rona back to the holloway and at a gentle trot moved again in pursuit.

  The lake was suddenly there. There was no sign of the escaping party, but Yssobel could hear the whinny of horses and the clatter of shields being discarded. A wooded knoll rose to her right. She dismounted and led Rona again into the gloom of the trees, tethered the horse and crept to where she could see down to the wide shore and the vast expanse of gleaming, reed-fringed water.

  Her green side eavesdropped as she watched events unfurl.

  Gwei eased the helm from Arthur’s wounded face. The blow had cut through the cheek metal to the cheek itself, splitting the bone. Arthur’s eyes were narrowed with pain, his wild red hair clotted. Emereth cradled him, kneeling behind him, glancing frequently at Gwei as his companion unlaced the chest armour. He put a finger in the first of the wounds there, then leaned down to kiss the cut, holding the flesh closed with his fingers as his tears fell upon the drying blood.

  ‘It’s done,’ Arthur whispered. ‘This is the dream. For me, it’s over.’

  ‘The wound is horrible,’ Gwei said. ‘Morthdred found the killing mark all right. You’re done for.’

  ‘I knew it when the point went in. But we held for a long time, didn’t we, Gwei? We held strong.’

  ‘We broke,’ said Emereth.

  ‘A battle too far,’ murmured one of the others, who were all crouched in a semi-circle around the dying war chief.

  ‘Morthdred was always going to break us,’ said another.

  ‘No!’ Arthur shouted, then gasped with the agony of the wounds in his chest. ‘No . . . he was never going to break us. Not all of us. Don’t you understand? For me, it’s finished. For you, far from finished.’

  ‘Then why are we sitting by this lake,’ whispered Bydavere angrily, ‘refugees from a blood- and shit-stained hill?’

  Red rage grew fierce in the dying man’s features. He had eyes for Gwei, and a severe look for his closest shield man, Bydavere.

  ‘Who are these whimpering men?’ he said to the sky. ‘I don’t recognise them. How many whimpering men? How many survived the iron task? How many fell? Answer me, Gwei.’

  ‘Fallen?’ said Gwei. ‘Many! Scattered? Many! Of your shield ring, twelve are fallen. Twelve survive. We came out of it well.’ He spoke with enthusiasm, recognising, perhaps, that his dying friend needed to be surrounded by men who were still strong.

  ‘Twelve dead,’ Arthur sighed. ‘Twelve ahead of me, then. Into Avilion.’

  ‘You’ll meet them there,’ Bydavere said.

  ‘However they got there,’ Emerith added.

  ‘And all of us, in time,’ Gwei whispered, ‘wherever it is you’re going.’

  A new strength came into Arthur. Through pain-hardened eyes he looked at Bydavere. ‘Morthdred has broken me, but only me. Do you understand what I’m saying? I do not wish to die in the presence of whimpering men. The sword at my side has his blood on it. There is a mark on his body, a cut as deep as his bone, that is Arthur-marked. The sword will find that place ag
ain. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bydavere replied.

  ‘Take it, then, and don’t rest until the sword mark in Morthdred is opened, and opened to the crows.’

  Bydavere reached over and unbuckled Arthur’s sword belt. He drew the blade; it was dulled with Morthdred’s blood.

  ‘Take it to the lake and wash it,’ Arthur said. ‘The blood is failure. It will find the place of failure, and fail again. The cleaned iron will find the traitor and pierce him true to its purpose.’

  Bydavere rose and walked along the lake’s edge, then waded through the reeds to clean water. He returned, the blade sheathed, and knelt among his companions.

  ‘What’s going to happen next?’ asked Gwei, looking around him. Geese flew out across the lake. Evening was approaching fast and the wind was beginning to blow.

  ‘Of that, I’m not sure,’ Arthur said with a pained laugh. ‘Except that I’ll be dead before they come for me.’

  ‘And coming for you? That’ll be what?’ asked Bydavere, staring back across the lake.

  ‘A boat, a barge. The dream I had as a child wasn’t clear. I believe there will be women in the barge, women of rare beauty and great kindness.’

  The shield men laughed. One said, ‘May I share your dreams? I’ll pay.’

  ‘I’ve always loved my dreams,’ Arthur said when the laughter had subsided. ‘There is promise in them, and pleasure.’

  ‘So we wait with you . . .’ Bydavere murmured.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For a boat or barge, you say.’

  ‘Yes. You wait and watch.’

  ‘To take you where? What is this Avilion?’

  ‘The land of healing, Bydavere. I’ll meet you there one day.’

  Arthur caught Gwei’s frown. ‘What is it, Gwei? Old friend.’

  Gwei took a deep breath. ‘It isn’t over. Morthdred’s men are scattering. You fell, but the battle didn’t end. Can’t you hear the crows? Half of them are still hungry. I can’t wait to get after Morthdred. Stay alive long enough for me to bring you his head.’