46
THE FISHER KING
On the way to Gwynedd, Percival’s party stopped at the fortress of Caerleon, standing on a hill above the River Usk well inland from the Severn estuary. It had been a military fortress since the Romans rebuilt it and had been fortified before that time out of mind. Arthur had enlarged it and built a fine house there on the ruins of a villa. Here Percival and all his train were welcomed by Sir Lukan, the commander, who was delighted to have such armed strength around him. It was harvesttime, and the country roundabout had been beset by bandits who stole from the hard-working villagers and then seemed to vanish into the woods and fens. But now, with six kings visiting and all their retinues, and with the fearsome Sir Galahad as well, they might be able to get through the harvest in better shape than they had for years.
“Pray stay, my lords. Rest and refurbish your provisions. The country hereabouts is rich with game and waterfowl.”
“We can’t stay long,” Percival replied, looking around with satisfaction at the orderliness of the compound, at the old barracks all in good repair, at the roadways new-laid with stone and the new thatch on the stable buildings. “We can’t stay long, but we’d be more than happy to bide a while. You’ve done well, Sir Lukan. The place looks as it did in Arthur’s day.” This was the highest compliment one soldier could give another, and Sir Lukan bowed low.
While the northern kings were getting settled in their quarters, and their troops in the barracks, Percival pulled Galahad aside. His eyes danced and his whole body trembled with suppressed excitement. “Galahad, you must come with me tomorrow—early—on a secret journey. I have something wonderful to show you!”
“A journey? We just rode in. ”
“You will count it worth your while, I wager.” Percival grinned. “But I will not tell you more ahead of time. That would spoil the surprise. We’ll start at dawn.”
“How far away is this wonder?”
“Half a day’s ride up the Usk. If you balk, I shall go without you. Mark me, nothing can keep me from it.”
Galahad looked at him closely. “You act as if you were off after a woman.”
Percival blushed faintly. “I cannot tell you another word. If you want to know my secret, you must come with me.”
Dawn broke through a rose mist that hugged the trees and lightly kissed the calm, slow-moving river. Dewy grasses soaked the horses’ fetlocks as the young men rode along the bank in silence, listening to the early birdsong and the occasional splash of an unseen fish. The sun lifted, tinting the leaves orange and yellow; the day lightened; the land grew steeper and the going slow. Near midmorning they came to a swift-flowing tributary and turned to follow it upstream, picking their way through the tangled overgrowth with care, swords held ready. Nowadays bandits were always a danger off the best-traveled roads. The path grew steep and rocky and the roar of the tumbling river filled their ears.
Just when Galahad felt numbed from the beating sound, without warning the dense forest fell back and they rode out onto a grassy verge. In the middle of the river stood a castle on an island. Galahad’s mouth went dry. He recognized it. Percival rode forward, but Galahad could see no bridge, nor any fording place. The river swept by, deep, swift, and silent, and the castle beckoned.
At the edge of the river, Percival turned in the saddle and waved him forward.
“How are we to cross?” Galahad cried. “The ferryman’s not here!”
Percival stared at him. “How did you know there used to be a ferryman? They haven’t kept a ferryman for years—too many bandits in the forest.”
Galahad shook his head to clear it. “I don’t know . . . I saw him once, I think—”
“Saw him! Then you have been here?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know. What place is this, and how do we get across?”
“This is the home of Pelleas, King of the River Isles. When he dispensed with the ferry he built a bridge. But it is invisible, and can carry only one at a time. You must follow me carefully.”
“What do you mean, invisible?”
“Don’t excite yourself; it’s not magic. He built it underwater. There is a path to the island, but you must be given the secret to know the way. Follow me, but follow me exactly. Your horse is not afraid of water?”
“Farouk? He’s not afraid of anything. Lead on.”
In single file the horses entered the flowing river. The current frothed and swirled about their legs, but they walked through the water knee-high on a zigzag path, heading first this way and then that, eventually climbing out on a gravel beach. Grooms appeared, saluted the men, threw blankets on the horses, and led them away. Percival turned to Galahad, his eyes shining. “A neat trick, is it not? Keeps the king’s enemies away and his knights sober. Come on, I will take you in. We are expected.”
“How is that? Did you send a message?”
“No need.” Percival grinned. “I see you do not remember. Good King Pelleas has the dubious honor to be wed to an enchantress.”
Galahad paled. “Oh no! Not—”
“Yes. You do remember. The Lady Niniane.”
“By God, Percival, I’ll have your hide for this!”
“You can’t get back without me, cousin, so make the best of it while we’re here. You won’t regret it. This is Corbenic. You must know the legend: In this castle you will find your heart’s desire.”
Percival strode up the stone steps and rapped loudly upon the door. After a long moment it swung slowly open.
“Sir Percival!” the porter rasped. “Be welcome, my lord! And Sir Galahad, good day to you. The king and queen await your coming. My lords, follow me.”
The porter was an old man with a bent back who leaned upon a staff. His wrinkled face was familiar, too.
“Thank you, Hector. It’s good to see you.” Percival clapped a hand upon the old man’s back. “Is my lady well? Tell me now—I cannot bear the waiting!”
Hector grinned, showing gums. “Aye, my lord. Nothing ails a maid her age but loneliness. She’ll be well enough presently, I’ll be bound.”
Percival laughed and followed him into the darkness of the corridor beyond. Galahad hesitated, looking around the hallway, up into the rafters, back out the door. It was all just as he had dreamed it. He knew the walls, the stones, the corridor; he knew the turns and steps and bridges; he knew the labyrinthine path to the hall of the Fisher King. He did not need to follow Percival and the porter. His heart began to thud as excitement coursed through him. For the first time in years he began to hope.
“Come on, Galahad, hurry up. The way twists and turns. You’ll get lost if you don’t follow closely.”
Galahad smiled to himself. “Not even blindfolded.”
They came at last to a pair of gilded doors. Hector stopped, pushed them open, and bowed low. “Sir Percival and Sir Galahad.”
Within, it was just as Galahad remembered: a cavernous hall with the rafters lost in darkness, a long table set upon a dais, a white cloth laid upon the table, and candles everywhere. King Pelleas and his lady rose to greet them. Galahad recognized the man at once, the silver hair and beard, the blue-green eyes, the left arm hanging lifeless in its sling.
“Sir Galahad, how good of you to visit us.” Tall, dark, still lovely, the enchantress Niniane looked at him with eyes that read his soul.
Galahad struggled to mask his face in the hope of deflecting that powerful gaze. He bowed politely. “Lady Niniane.”
The knowing eyes narrowed in amusement and Niniane smiled. “I remember well last time we met. I am afraid the memory is not pleasant to you.”
Under the pressure of her gaze Galahad forced his lips to move. “Nor to you.”
Her smile saddened. “No fault of yours, my lord; you were the Harbinger of Doom. You trailed behind you the first dark shadows of Camlann. Morgaine and I saw them hunched like vultures on your shoulders. . . . But let us not talk now about such great grief. Tell us instead about the battle at the Giants’ Dance—who was killed an
d who survived, and how Britain stands.”
Galahad stared at her blankly. This was the woman who had inherited Merlin’s powers—how could she not know these things already?
“Do not chide me, sir,” she said gently, laying a hand upon his arm, “for as my lord Merlin bequeathed to me, so did I bequeath my gifts to the Lady Morgaine. With Arthur died my power. I know no more of events than you choose to tell me.”
With more relief than regret, Galahad joined Percival and Pelleas at the table. Servants brought them cool water in silver cups, bowls of fruit fresh from the vine, and loaves of new-baked bread. While they ate, Percival eagerly recounted everything that had passed upon the Great Plain, naming the princes who had fought, and with how many soldiers, using cups and bowls to draw Pelleas a map of the battlefield and demonstrate the armies’ dispositions. The two kings talked about terrain and battle strategy while Niniane gazed covertly at Galahad.
For three long years she had held hard to her patience and waited for the next chance to draw Galahad to her. But Constantine, that arrogant Cornish maggot, had not only robbed her of success three years before, but had kept the Breton busy fighting Saxons in the east, south, and north, far from the borders of Wales. As time passed and the reaches of her power shrank until she was barely able to see or summon beyond the lands Pelleas controlled—a bitter gall, indeed, for a woman who had once had all Britain at her command—she had paced hour by hour in a frenzy of frustration. Lately even her crystal had gone blank and quiet. She knew the gods did not wait forever. She knew that time was running out. And now, today, with hope gone, with ashes for memory, and without so much as a breath of omen, here the man was on her very doorstep. She managed to keep the excitement from her face but could not still the frantic racing of her heart. Here he was, a gift of the Goddess, and she must be ready—today, now—for her last act of power, if she could summon it. The future of Britain lay again in her hands.
Suddenly Percival broke off in midsentence. His face flushed and then instantly paled. Galahad turned to follow his glance. A maiden stood in the doorway, breathless from exertion, a sheaf of bright chrysanthemums in her arms. Her skin shone white as alabaster, her hair as black as a raven’s wing. Her rosy lips parted in a delighted smile.
“My lord Percival!”
Percival leaped to his feet, upending his water cup. “Blodwyn!”
She made him a pretty curtsy and Percival glanced sideways at Galahad, his face aglow. When he pressed her fingers to his lips, he lingered, bending toward her, and whispered something. He was rewarded with a shy smile. She wore a necklace of tiny, polished seashells and earrings of mother-of-pearl. Her gown was the color of the waters that passed outside her door: blue-green and gray, ever changing in the dappled light.
“Galahad,” Percival said softly, “this is Princess Guinblodwyn. In Welsh that means ‘white flower.’ Is she not aptly named? She is the girl I have seen in my dreams ever since Avalon—I knew her at once. We have been betrothed since midsummer.”
Galahad bowed low to hide his face. He had seen her in his dreams, too, carrying the Grail! “You have kept your secret well, cousin. And you have an eye for beauty. My congratulations.”
The girl dimpled charmingly. “You did not tell me your cousin was so handsome, Percival,” she murmured.
Percival eyed him warily. “I allow that he’s grown. But he doesn’t smile—he can’t be handsome.”
“Why, then, you are blind.”
“Put it, rather, that I have eyes only for you.”
She smiled and blushed and Galahad politely looked away. The girl was pretty enough, and certainly highborn; but he ached for the old days—how long ago they seemed!—when he and Percival had sworn brotherhood together and had no use for women. And yet, this was not just any woman, if dreams held true.
Niniane’s finger brushed against his hand. “Come, my lord. Accompany us for a moment. These two would cherish a moment alone, and Pelleas and I have something to show you.”
Obediently, Galahad followed her out the door and down a short hall, Pelleas behind him. Niniane led him to a kind of porch built on stilts over the river which encircled a deep pool of still water. She leaned against the railing and stared down into the glimmering depths, while silent Pelleas stood at Galahad’s side.
“I see you are wounded in your shoulder,” Galahad began, pressured by the awkward silence into saying the first thing that came into his head. “In what battle did you fight?”
“In all of Arthur’s battles,” Pelleas replied gravely. “But this wound I received at his last. Camlann.”
“Camlann! Why, that was full seven years ago! Is it not yet healed?”
“No,” Pelleas said lightly. “It may never be whole. Niniane tells me it is beyond her power to heal.”
Galahad glanced in amazement at Niniane, who straightened defensively.
“I told you I relinquished my powers to Morgaine.” Then her voice softened. “It is a wound of the spirit as much as of the flesh. He was cut that day by the sword that killed Arthur. And when the life went out of Britain, the life left his arm. He will not be whole until . . .” She paused, holding his eyes.
Galahad found that he could not breathe. “Until?”
Ninane’s gaze slid back to the water and her pupils widened. Her voice wavered on the edge of sound. “Until Britain is whole. Until Arthur comes again.”
Galahad trembled and held hard to the railing. “Arthur is dead.”
Niniane’s eyes fluttered closed. In the complete stillness the only sound was the wayward chuckle of the river passing. Niniane’s whisper floated across the deep eddy between them. “Not dead. Sleeping.”
“That’s impossible,” Galahad said. “I saw him. I buried him. You yourself just now admitted he was killed.”
Without speaking she beckoned him forward and his feet moved. She pointed down into the pool and his head bowed. Deep in the green depths he saw a great golden stone, dim and wavering at the bottom of the pool. Watch. The command, unspoken, claimed him and he obeyed. Gradually the great stone grew brighter, as though lit from within, although Galahad could perceive no ray of sun, no source of light, through the dark, shifting depths. As it brightened the unevenness of its surface began to emerge, lines and curves with shadows thrown into deep relief. It began to take on the image of a human face. Galahad bit his lip to still the sob that rose from the center of his being. The face that seemed to rise through the light to greet him was a well-loved face, strong-featured and warm, with a smile of welcome on the lips and a laugh already forming in the wise, brown eyes. His heart went out to greet it. Arthur! My lord King!
Close in his ear he heard the unvoiced words: Look for me, Galahad. I am coming. Britain’s future lies in my hands. I will return.
Speechless, Galahad gazed into the pool as the face receded and the light slowly died. When Niniane touched his arm he jumped. His joints were stiff from straining and his face was wet with tears. She said nothing, but her wide, dark eyes soothed him, balm on a burn.
“Is it true?” he croaked.
Niniane nodded imperceptibly.
He cleared his throat. “How? How can I know this vision is real and not just a trick of your magic?”
She smiled briefly. “The line between life and death is not so absolute as you Christians believe. And even Christians believe it can be bridged. Did not your suffering God rise from his burial place?” Her eyes slid past him to the river. “I know several who have returned from the Otherworld. Merlin himself did, if you remember, to safeguard the rest of Arthur’s reign. Wherever Arthur is, he speaks to me and he speaks to others. Ask your father, when you see him, if he has not heard his voice.”
She turned to link her arm through Pelleas’s. “You are the only one, Galahad, who can bring about the High King’s transformation. Without you he will never be seen again by living eyes.”
“Me?” Galahad turned white. “How?”
“Only you can find what is lost. On
ly you can restore him and so preserve us all.”
Restore. Preserve. His eyes closed. He did not need to ask her what she meant.
Her lovely, low voice washed over him in a gentle wave. “When all three are in his keeping—the Vanquisher, the Preserver, the Restorer— Arthur will return. It was foretold long, long ago. Now the time is upon us.”
She exhaled slowly and Galahad opened his eyes. Niniane seemed to glow with an ethereal light, a shining skin. The slender arm that stretched forth to touch the coming future wavered in his vision, like a staff underwater. “Find them, Galahad. I will give you the key. Attend me.”
His heart racing, unable to move or speak, Galahad listened.
“The Vanquisher lies dark and deep; the Restorer and the Preserver lie in brilliants. Find them, Galahad, these otherworldly treasures. Then will Pendragon return to us as Merlin foretold it. The once and future King.”
Galahad trembled. “What brilliance? Where? You speak in riddles— how can I understand you?”
“Take heart, Galahad, and believe. This is your destiny.”
Her voice sank to a whisper that nonetheless reverberated over the sound of the river’s passing. “Go, and seek the Blessed Gifts for Arthur, for all of us. My power is waning fast. Had you come to me three years ago— But let be. Trust Morgaine for the Sword. Direct your single-eyed strength to finding the Grail and Spear. Time is running down and you have not much left.”
She read the question in his white, pinched face and tried to smile. “Follow your heart. That is the key. You are being carefully forged in a withering fire and your aim will be true. Follow your heart and you cannot go astray.”
Pelleas tugged at her arm. “Take care, my dear. Do not say more than is permitted.”