ACCLAIM FOR STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD’S PAST WORKS
“[T]he narrative has the excitement of a fantasy novel, a vivid historical setting, and a lengthy, credible, and satisfying plot—just the right elements, in fact, that have made Lawhead a commercial success time and again.”
—Publishers Weekly review of Byzantium
“In a style reminiscent of Tolkien, Lawhead presents a world of vivid imagery. This book is a delight.”
—Bookstore Journal regarding The Paradise War
“Patrick is unfailingly sympathetic and believable, and his story of losing and finding his faith will resonate with a wide spectrum of readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Celtic twilight shot with a brighter, fiercer light, and tinged with modern villainy . . . savagely beautiful.”
—Michael Scott Rohan, author of the Winter of the World trilogy regarding The Endless Knot
“Though Lawhead brilliantly creates an authentic and vivid Arthurian Britain, he never forsakes the sense of wonder that has graced the Arthurian legend throughout the ages.”
—Publishers Weekly regarding Pendragon
“Lawhead invests his often poetic vision of a Celtic land living ancient laws with charm and dignity.”
—Publishers Weekly review of The Silver Hand
“An epic struggle between Light and Darkness . . . well paced, exciting and well researched.”
—Mick Norman, author of Forbidden Planet regarding The Silver Hand
“This graceful combination of Atlantean legend, Celtic myth, and Christian message [is] reminiscent of C.S. Lewis. Highly recommended.”
—Library Journal review of Taliesin: Book One of the Pendragon Cycle
“Lawhead’s [The Iron Lance] displays the author’s deep convictions as well as his storytelling expertise.”
—Library Journal
“Rich in historical detail and peopled with a wide variety of believable characters, this novel of simple faith and high adventure should appeal to fans of Christian fantasy.”
—Library Journal review of The Black Rood: The Celtic Crusades Book 2
“Lawhead pulls off a genuinely moving parable of good and evil.”
—Publishers Weekly regarding Avalon: The Return of King Arthur
THE PARADISE WAR
OTHER TITLES BY STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD
The Dragon King Trilogy:
In the Hall of the Dragon King
The Warlords of Nin
The Sword and the Flame
Dream Thief
Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra
Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome
The Pendragon Cycle:
Taliesin
Merlin
Arthur
Pendragon
Grail
Avalon
Song of Albion trilogy:
The Paradise War
The Silver Hand
The Endless Knot
Byzantium
The Celtic Crusades:
The Iron Lance
The Black Rood
The Mystic Rose
Patrick, Son of Ireland
Hood
SONG OF ALBION BOOK I
THE PARADISE WAR
Stephen R.
LAWHEAD
To Ruby Duryea
Visit www.stephenlawhead.com
© 1991, 2006 by Stephen Lawhead.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail:
[email protected] Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lawhead, Steve.
The paradise war / Stephen R. Lawhead.
p. cm. — (Song of Albion ; bk. 1)
ISBN 978-1-59554-219-9 (softcover)
1. Mythology, Celtic—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Lawhead, Steve. Song of Albion (WestBow Press) ; bk. 1.
PS3562.A865P3 2006
813'.54—dc22
2006014185
Printed in the United States of America
09 10 11 12 QW 16 15 14 13
CONTENTS
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
1. AN AUROCHS IN THE WORKS
2. DOOM ON THE HALFSHELL
3. THE GREEN MAN
4. AT THE DOOR TO THE WEST
5. THE CAIRN
6. THE BIG JOKE
7. MAD NETTLES
8. SUNWISE CIRCLES
9. THE ENDLESS KNOT
10. THE SERBIAN
11. THE CROSSING
12. PARADISE
13. BLOOD BAPTISM
14. CAER MODORNN
15. SYCHARTH
16. LLYS MELDRYN
17. THE ROAD TO YNYS SCI
18. SCATHA’S SCHOOL
19. SOLLEN
20. THE GORSEDD OF BARDS
21. CYTHRAWL
22. LLEW
23. THE DAY OF STRIFE
24. TWRCH
25. THE PARADISE WAR
26. THE BEACON
27. THE FLIGHT TO FINDARGAD
28. THE HUNT
29. NIGHTKILL
30. THE BATTLE OF DUN NA PORTH
31. KING’S COUNCIL
32. THE CAULDRON
33. HEART OF THE HEART
34. DOMHAIN DORCHA
35. SINGING STONES
36. THE SONG
37. THE KING’S CHAMPION
38. THE JOURNEY HOME
39. THE RETURN
ALBION FOREVER!
AUTHOR INTERVIEW
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Many of the old Celtic words and names are strange to modern eyes, but they are not as difficult to pronounce as they might seem at first glance. A little effort—and the following rough guide—will help you enjoy the sound of these ancient words.
Consonants – As in English, but with the following exceptions:
c: hard — as in cat (never soft, as in cent)
ch: hard — as in Bach (never soft, as in church)
dd: a hard th sound, as in then
f: a hard v sound, as in of
ff: a soft f sound, as in off
g: hard — as in girl (never soft, as in George)
ll: a Gaelic distinctive, sounded as tl or hl on the sides of the tongue
r: rolled or slightly trilled, especially at the beginning of a word
rh: breathed out as if h-r and heavy on the h sound
s: soft — as in sin (never hard, as in his); when followed by a vowel it takes on the sh sound
th: soft — as in thistle (never hard, as in then)
Vowels – As in English, but generally with the lightness of short vowel sounds
a: short, as in can
á: slightly softer than above, as in awe;
e: usually short, as in met
é: long a sound, as in hey
i: usually short, as in pin
í: long e sound, as in see
o: usually short, as in hot
ó: long o sound, as in woe
ô: long o sound, as in go
u: usuall
y sounded as a short i, as in pin;
ú: long u sound as in sue
ù: short u sound as in muck
w: sounded as a long u, as in hue; before vowels often becomes a soft consonant as in the name Gwen
y: usually short, as in pin; sometimes u as in pun; when long, sounded e as in see; rarely, y as in why)
The careful reader will have noted that there is very little difference between i, u, and y—they are almost identical to non-Celts and modern readers.
Most Celtic words are stressed on the next to the last syllable. For example, the personal name Gofannon is stressed go-FAN-non, and the place name Penderwydd is stressed pen-DER-width, and so on.
Since all the world is but a story,
it were well for thee to buy
the more enduring story rather than
the story that is less enduring.
THE JUDGMENT OF ST. COLUM CILLE
(ST. COLUMBA OF SCOTLAND)
1
AN AUROCHS IN
THE WORKS
It all began with the aurochs.
We were having breakfast in our rooms at college. Simon was presiding over the table with his accustomed critique on the world as evidenced by the morning’s paper. “Oh, splendid,” he sniffed. “It looks as if we have been invaded by a pack of free-loading foreign photographers keen on exposing their film—and who knows what else—to the exotic delights of Dear Old Blighty. Lock up your daughters, Bognor Regis! European paparazzi are loose in the land!”
He rambled on a while, and then announced: “Hold on! Have a gawk at this!” He snapped the paper sharp and sat up straight—an uncommon posture for Simon.
“Gawk at what?” I asked idly. This thing of his—reading the paper aloud to a running commentary of facile contempt, scorn, and sarcasm, well mixed and peppered with his own unique blend of cynicism—had long since ceased to amuse me. I had learned to grunt agreeably while eating my egg and toast. This saved having to pay attention to his tirades, eloquent though they often were.
“Some bewildered Scotsman has found an aurochs in his patch.”
“You don’t say.” I dipped a corner of toast triangle into the molten center of a soft-boiled egg and read an item about a disgruntled driver on the London Underground refusing to stop to let off passengers, thereby compelling a train full of frantic commuters to ride the Circle Line for over five hours. “That’s interesting.”
“Apparently the beast wandered out of a nearby wood and collapsed in the middle of a hay field twenty miles or so east of Inverness.” Simon lowered the paper and gazed at me over the top. “Did you hear what I just said?”
“Every word. Wandered out of the forest and fell down next to Inverness—probably from boredom,” I replied. “I know just how he felt.”
Simon stared at me. “Don’t you realize what this means?”
“It means that the local branch of the RSPCA gets a phone call. Big deal.” I took a sip of coffee and returned to the sports page before me. “I wouldn’t call it news exactly.”
“You don’t know what an aurochs is, do you?” he accused. “You haven’t a clue.”
“A beast of some sort—you said so yourself just now,” I protested. “Really, Simon, the papers you read—” I flicked his upraised tabloid with a disdainful finger. “Look at these so-called headlines: ‘Princess Linked to Alien Sex Scheme!’ and ‘Shock Horror Weekend for Bishop with Massage Parlor Turk!’ Honestly, you only read those rags to fuel your pessimism.”
He was not moved. “You haven’t the slightest notion what an aurochs is. Go on, Lewis, admit it.”
I took a wild stab. “It’s a breed of pig.”
“Nice try!” Simon tossed his head back and laughed. He had a nasty little fox-bark that he used when he wanted to deride someone’s ignorance. Simon was extremely adept at derision—a master of disdain, mockery, and ridicule in general.
I refused to be drawn. I returned to my paper and stuffed the toast into my mouth.
“A pig? Is that what you said?” He laughed again.
“Okay, okay! What, pray tell, is an aurochs, Professor Rawnson?”
Simon folded the paper in half and then in quarters. He creased it and held it before me. “An aurochs is a sort of ox.”
“Why, think of that,” I gasped in feigned astonishment. “An ox, you say? It fell down? Oh my, what won’t they think of next?” I yawned. “Give me a break.”
“Put like that it doesn’t sound like much,” Simon allowed. Then he added, “Only it just so happens that this particular ox is an ice-age creature which has been extinct for the last two thousand years.”
“Extinct.” I shook my head slowly. “Where do they get this malarkey? If you ask me, the only thing that’s extinct around here is your native skepticism.”
“It seems the last aurochs died out in Britain sometime before the Romans landed—although a few may have survived on the continent into the sixth century or so.”
“Fascinating,” I replied.
Simon shoved the folded paper under my nose. I saw a grainy, badly printed photo of a huge black mound that might or might not have been mammalian in nature. Standing next to this ill-defined mass was a grim-looking middle-aged man holding a very long, curved object in his hands, roughly the size and shape of an old-fashioned scythe. The object appeared to be attached in some way to the black bulk beside him.
“How bucolic! A man standing next to a manure heap with a farm implement in his hands. How utterly homespun,” I scoffed in a fair imitation of Simon himself.
“That manure heap, as you call it, is the aurochs, and the implement in the farmer’s hands is one of the animal’s horns.”
I looked at the photo again and could almost make out the animal’s head below the great slope of its shoulders. Judging by the size of the horn, the animal would have been enormous—easily three or four times the size of a normal cow. “Trick photography,” I declared.
Simon clucked his tongue. “I am disappointed in you, Lewis. So cynical for one so young.”
“You don’t actually believe this”—I jabbed the paper with my finger—“this trumped-up tripe, do you? They make it up by the yard—manufacture it by the carload!”
“Well,” Simon admitted, picking up his teacup and gazing into it, “you’re probably right.”
“You bet I’m right,” I crowed. Prematurely, as it turned out. I should have known better.
“Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out.” He lifted the cup, swirled the tea, and drained it. Then, as if his mind were made up, he placed both hands flat on the tabletop and stood.
I saw the sly set of his eyes. It was a look I knew well and dreaded. “You can’t be serious.”
“But I am perfectly serious.”
“Forget it.”
“Come on. It will be an adventure.”
“I’ve got a meeting with my adviser this afternoon. That’s more than enough adventure for me.”
“I want you with me,” Simon insisted.
“What about Susannah?” I countered. “I thought you were supposed to meet her for lunch.”
“Susannah will understand.” He turned abruptly. “We’ll take my car.”
“No. Really. Listen, Simon, we can’t go chasing after this ox thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s nothing. It’s like those fairy rings in the cornfields that had everybody all worked up last year. It’s a hoax. Besides, I can’t go—I’ve got work to do, and so have you.”
“A drive in the country will do you a world of good. Fresh air. Clear the cobwebs. Nourish the inner man.” He walked briskly into the next room. I could hear him dialing the phone, and a moment later he said, “Listen, Susannah, about today . . . terribly sorry, dear heart, something’s come up . . . Yes, just as soon as I get back . . . Later . . . Yes, Sunday, I won’t forget . . . cross my heart and hope to die. Cheers!” He replaced the receiver and dialed again. “Rawnson here. I’ll be needing the car this morning . . . Fifteen minutes. Right. Thanks, awfully.”