Merlin's Wood (Mythago Wood) (13 page)

Without a further word, the priest clambered into the prow of the canoe, picking up one of the paddles. Martin pushed the boat afloat, splashing through the muddy shallows, then flinging himself aboard. The mist parted before them, even as the sun dropped from view and the whole lake, the whole wood, became grey and silent.

It took less than fifteen minutes to float, rowing gently, to the farther shore, pulling the boat onto the bank and turning it over, to make a crude shelter for the rest of the night, close to the thin trail they could see leading inwards.

The stone cairn had spread under its own weight and, of course, the weight of time. Perhaps it had once been as high as the man whose dismembered corpse, represented in blue-stone, now probed obscenely from the spill of boulders, earth and weeds. The cairn, now, was no more than a hump, half-filling the curious glade with its eight confining oaks, its single stone, a piece of grey stone, fallen, resting heavily against the broadest of the spreading trees. There was room, in this clearing, to sit, to camp. The flowers were yellow, the thistles high, the
branches draped with old, old rags. The canopy was heavy, but left a clear space to the sky and the light, as the day began, gleamed on the blue torso of the stone statue.

‘Are you feeling fit?’

Father Gualzator grinned as he rolled up his shirtsleeves, responding to Martin’s question with a shrug. ‘Soon find out. Statue first?’

They scrabbled the stones away from the broken statue. The eyes in the sharply carved face stared blindly; the mouth gaped as if in death. It was made of green and white marble, and the skin of the naked form was covered with tiny marks, a complete tattoo of designs and symbols which the priest examined with fascination.

‘Everything, from cuneiform … see? Here, the little wedges … to ogham, over here, over most of it. These are a sort of rune, these … only the Lord knows. Interesting man, below, our Merlin.’

Together they managed to prop the statue against the leaning grey-stone. By day’s end they had cleared the cairn to expose the stone slab that covered the shaft and fixed up the winch, which made the tree sigh as weight was taken. The stone slab was a foot thick, and the metal hook could hardly grip it, but as the last of the dark birds returned to their nests, and Father Gualzator’s small fire, with its jug of coffee, began to signal the end of the first day’s work, so Martin got the stone to rise, exposing the compacted earth below. The priest came to lend a hand and they pushed the slab away
from the shaft. It fell heavily. The earth felt as cold as ice.

‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ Martin whispered, digging his fingers into the hard soil.

But the genie below remained quiet.

In the morning, Martin discovered the priest sitting shivering, terrified, cold and puffy-eyed. The man had not slept during the night, or rather, he had fallen asleep, only to be woken by the sound of terrible screaming.

‘Whilst you slept, I saw the murder. She used an axe and a great knife. He was a small man, young, dark-haired, dark-bearded, trim and tidy, like a prince. He lay motionless, as if helpless, as she hacked off his limbs, then blinded him. I have never seen such fury, such triumphant fury. This woman, like death in a white and green robe, raced into the wildwood, came back with a tall thin tree and lopped off its branches. She sharpened the point of the tree and drove it through the body in the glade until a full four feet extended from the skull. She made a pit, the air around her was filled with spinning earth, and into that pit she flung the body.

‘And then she screamed, and the vision faded, save for the sound of fury and despair.

‘When the screaming passed away there was an hour or more of silence, but there was movement here, movement I can’t understand. Even my Old Eye wasn’t sufficient to show the process by which the people came to be on the path. But they came, I know it. The wood, while you slept, became alive with activity. I heard children’s voices, I think I counted seven in all, and a
man’s voice intoning in a lost language. At last a man appeared, the ghostly white image of a man, who seemed at first bemused by the glade, then behaved as if he had been struck, holding his eyes, his head. For a while he had walked normally, despite his ethereal thinness. Now he began to flow, that sublimely delicate movement which you will remember from your childhood visions and which I can still see at times. He left the glade towards the lake. I followed him along the trail. He became immersed in the fog that sits on the water, but flowed away from this glade, across to the path by Rebecca’s grave.

‘After he had gone I couldn’t sleep, and about two hours ago I began to be tormented by a voice, and by the feeling of pain in my ears and eyes, as if fingers were gouging at me. I’m not wanted here, Martin. Whatever lies in the shaft, it doesn’t want me here. I don’t belong, and it will not let me stay.’

Martin comforted the older man. The glade was dew-wet, webbed with silk, quite silent. He pushed wood onto the fire and set light to a wax block, pouring coffee grounds into the jug, with water, and setting it to heat in the flames that crackled from the wood.

‘I need you to help me dig. When the digging’s done, then go, by all means. But please stay till then. I need you to help with the digging. If you get attacked again, refer them to me.’

The priest laughed, pushing his hair back and shaking the moisture from his hand. ‘Don’t take on—’

‘More than I can handle? I’ll try not to. Just stay. This
thing wants to be let free. It will understand that I need you to help that process.’

‘You’re very confident, all of a sudden.’

‘I’m desperate,’ Martin said with a glance across the glade. ‘I’ve got less than thirty days to bring them back—’

‘Forty days before the spirit leaves the corpse? That’s Church-lore. We’re outside those rules, now.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. How can I tell? All I know is, I want them back, father. I want them back.’

‘I know you do, Martin. And I’m sure they want to come back. But you are aware, of course …’

‘What? Aware of what?’

‘That they can never come inside the hill again. They can never come inside the church.’

‘Yes. Of course. Of course I’m aware of that. The sacrament must come to them. I know that.’

‘As long as you do remember. It’s the first time I’ve been faced with such a possibility. It will be very hard to deny Daniel. I don’t relish the thought. But of course I’ll stay and dig. When the digging’s done, though, please let me go.’

‘When the digging’s done, I may not have any choice in the matter.’

Six feet into the shaft Martin’s shovel struck against wood, a thick cut of oak, a round sliced from a wide tree. It was sealing the shaft below. He scraped the black soil from one small arc, then an arc on the opposite side. The lid was six feet in diameter and the winch should lift it
easily. The wooden platform was set upon more earth, from the dead sound it emitted when struck by iron.

With the winch hook in place, Martin gouged the earth from the rim of the wheel, then ascended to the grove to assist with the hauling. The wheel came up, an undecorated piece of oak, and the stony soil below was revealed, as was the pointed tip of the tree that was buried there.

As he dug down, so he found the evidence of offerings, from fragments of pale red terracotta figures to carved wooden animals and bits of metal. Gold flashed, a thin crest with holes for a chain; then silver, beaten into the now battered shape of a boar with long legs and a delicate filigree of spines along its back.

The tree was a tall, thin hawthorn, its limbs lopped short.

His own length below its tip, Martin found the broken skull of the man impaled upon it, the jaw broken where the thrust of the trunk had carried it through the mouth. He passed the skull to the priest, then excavated as much of the skeleton as he could, noticing as the bones were brought to light how all of them were delicately carved with just the same signs and symbols, runes and letters as the skin of the statue. When at last he had found the long bones of the leg, and the yellowed game tiles that might have been the feet and toes, he tied the winch hook to the tree and clambered out of the shaft.

‘Bring her up!’

The tree came out of the grave. Father Gualzator had dug a hole in the clearing to receive it and they planted it anew, then arranged the bones at its base, with the
bits and pieces of gold, silver, stone and wood that had been resurrected during the excavation.

It was late, again, and the grove stank of mud and fresh earth. The priest gathered up his pack and Martin went with him to the lake, helping him to the canoe.

‘I’ll go home and wash, then come back with a second boat. It’s by far the easiest way. I don’t mind waiting for you, by Conrad’s grave, but you might be some time and I have the hill to think of, the church and all.’

‘If I need you, I’ll tie a white flag by this landing place.’

‘If you remember …’

‘Don’t cross unless you see me, or see the flag.’

‘We’ll see. Goodbye, Martin. I’ll be praying for you. To Old Provider …’

‘Thanks for your help.’

He watched the priest paddle away, soon lost by distance and vapour.

He returned to the grove and sat by the open shaft for a while, smelling the earthy stink of time. Then he crawled to his shelter and blew fire into the embers below the pot of coffee.

The bottle had been uncorked, the genie loosed.

In the dead hours of the morning the darkness around Martin became filled with the sound of children. If there was a moon it was hidden behind the heavy overcasting of clouds, and only the dull glow of embers gave a touch of light in the gloom. He sat up and listened to the dancing in the grove, the laughter, the language, the curiosity of these creatures who explored him from another realm.

He sensed a particular excitement in the grove of trees, and watched the tall thorn, and caught glimpses of the bones that he had arranged about the tree. If his ear was tweaked, it could easily have been a breeze, an insect or his imagination. He had long lost the sight of the ghosts that were shed from this place, but he was delighted that he could hear them.

At length, they withdrew into the forest, although the sudden flight of herons, away towards the lake, and the sudden splash of wings on water as a duck was disturbed
suggested to Martin that something, someone, had gone that way.

Then with dawn came the feeling of being breathed upon, closely scrutinised. As light turned the canopy to a series of stark branches, the grey stone to a wraithed figure leaning against a tree, as dawn brought the sense of old sight to this grove, so the smell of stale breath, the presence of an old man in front of him, grew more strongly.

‘I know you’re there,’ Martin whispered to the grove.

The sour breath was still heavy in the air, the almost-sound of breathing, as if a man crouched before him, trying to keep as quiet as was possible.

‘I know you’re here,’ Martin repeated. ‘I need your help.’

The presence went away.

An altar bell was ringing, a thin tinkling sound but quite insistent, coming from the direction of the lake. Martin stirred from sleep – he had been two days here, now – and trotted through the forest to the reedy shore.

The priest was there in the larger canoe, but he had hauled across a kayak, which was pushed into the mud. ‘It seemed like a good idea,’ he said from the water. ‘And I’ve brought you more coffee, some fresh bread, cheese, various things. Here. Catch!’

He flung a rucksack which Martin caught easily. There was the clink of full, glass bottles. ‘Thanks.’

‘Has he come?’ Father Gualzator asked, wobbling unsteadily on the lake.

‘Yes. I think so. But he doesn’t want to talk. He hasn’t talked yet, anyway. I’m going to stay on.’

‘For your information,’ the priest called finally as he rowed the heavy canoe away, back to the village, ‘the body of the old bosker is no longer in its shelter. I don’t know what that means, exactly, but there is no sign of an animal having dragged it away.’

The dead body of the woodsman, Conrad, came across the lake in the late afternoon. It was slumped forward in the canoe, an oilskin over its shoulders and lowered head like a shroud. The corpse was not rowing. The thin craft glided silently on the grey water, pulled by unseen hands, and by the time it reached the rushbed, Martin was back in the grove, huddled and apprehensive.

Whatever he had expected to see next, the thin, youthful, naked man who walked quickly among the trees and came across to him did not meet that expectation. And yet, for a moment as the vibrant figure stooped to touch his eyes, Martin saw the grimace of the fleshy skull, the faded eyes, the yellowing flesh of the old bosker. It was a glimpse only, and it was a reflection of the dead man that would haunt him through the days, when the light was just so, perhaps when the enchanter’s glamour faded for a second.

The traveller in the corpse said, ‘I don’t know how much you loved this man, and if it disturbs you to see him like this, then say so. I can change its look.’

‘No. No … I’m not disturbed.’

‘The body of the woman was more tempting to use, but I think you would have been more disturbed …’

‘Yes,’ Martin murmured, watching as Conrad walked easily to the bones, squatted and rumbled among them. ‘Conrad?’

‘Not Conrad. The harder you try to see him, the more you’ll see the decay. Concentrate on the conversation and the … what do you call it? Glamour? Charm? The charm will help. It’s a simple magic, but I’m still quite weak.’

Martin shivered with a growing understanding. ‘From the way you speak I suppose you must be …’ he glanced at the shaft. ‘Are you the spirit from the tomb? Are you … Merlin?’

Conrad seemed to be amused, but all he said was, ‘Thank you for releasing me.’ He looked round sharply, saying softly, ‘Why
did
you release me, I wonder? No doubt you expect something in return.’

‘I don’t expect anything. I have a hope, a dream, that’s all.’

The ‘glamorous’ body was crouching, again facing Martin, Conrad aglow with life, despite his years, holding in his hands the yellowed skull that Martin had lifted from the pit. Gaze met gaze, curious, searching, considered.

Then Merlin smiled, glancing away to where the path led to the lake. ‘The drowned woman. The drowned boy.’

‘Her name was Rebecca. She was adopted by my
parents when she was thirteen or so. We loathed each other as children. At first. Then … didn’t. No-one ever knew, but we were each other’s first lovers. We came to love each other very deeply when my mother died. We had a child, Daniel. They both died by drowning a few days ago. It had been a terrible few years. Daniel literally drained her, took all her sense and senses. I found them in the lake, on the other side of the lake.’

After a long while of curious watching and thinking, Merlin rose and walked to the pit, where for two thousand years he had been entombed. The robust flesh of the glamour was like a halo around the racked and shrivelled corpse, and Martin remembered Conrad’s tale of Rebecca, wolf-shadowed and shimmering.

Merlin said, ‘And you believe I was a part of this?’

‘Yes. It’s all I can think of. The man in whose body you are travelling thought so too. Some part of you was in Rebecca. You fought against an enchantress who travelled in my son. The battle was fought to the death. You both lost. But I implore you, since I’ve found you, if you can do it, bring them back to me.’

‘How?’

‘Rebecca
sang
to her dead lover. He’d been drowned. The water left him and he recovered. That singing magic was a part of you, wasn’t it? If she could do it, you can do it. Sing them back to me … both of them!’

Merlin turned quickly, frowning. He moved back to the fire, head low. ‘But what you don’t understand, when you ask something so reasonable, is how much damage would be caused. There would be a great deal of
damage done! I don’t think so. I don’t think it would be wise to help you.’

‘I beg you. If it’s possible …’

‘But the damage. Singing magic, as you call it, is very powerful. It has always been the hardest magic to control. I repeat – I don’t think it would be wise to help you.’ He shook his head, crouching and prodding at the flames with a small stick. After a moment he smiled, still staring at the fire, and whispered, ‘It was the hardest magic to deny the woman, I remember. She wanted it so much!’

‘The woman?’ Martin echoed. ‘Vivien?’

Merlin glanced up at the name, thoughtful for a second, then amused. ‘Vivien. Yes. Vivyana … ivanyavok … evunna … evye … The name has always been attached to her, always means the same thing.’

‘The Lady of the Lake? As in the Arthurian Romances?’

Again the man had to think, then seemed to comprehend some connection or other. ‘
Vision of magic
,’ he said. ‘Her name approximates to that: the vision of magic. But the word that stands
behind
her name was often used to mean whirlpool, or sucking waters. Yes. She was often associated with lakes. But The Vision of Magic goes closer to the heart.’

‘Is there more than one Vivien, then?’ Martin asked.

Merlin laughed, genuinely amused, now. The sparks flew from the fire as he prodded the embers. ‘It depends what you mean. Is there more than one of you? Apparently not. And yet there’s a line inside you that
connects you with the past and the future, a line running from your fathers to your sons, your mothers to your daughters. All different from you. All of them you, though, just as you are all of them. But each of you is short lived. For the likes of Vivien and myself, the line runs along a path that is
outside
ourselves. It is the path that changes, not the spirit. We live a lot longer than you. Why are you frowning?’

‘Your words: lines, paths: it’s the language that Rebecca used. It brings back memories.’

‘The land is criss-crossed with lines, paths, channels and hollowings. The people who live among those lines are crossed and criss-crossed also. I am not unaware of Rebecca …’

Hope surged furious: ‘Then can you bring her back? You travelled in her, you were there when she died. Can you bring her back? Can you help me bring back Daniel?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been trapped a long time. When you say I travelled in her …’ Merlin shook his head. ‘You’re right, yet you’re wrong. You don’t really understand.’

Martin collapsed forward, tears surfacing, despair in control again. ‘How do I make it
clear
to you? I had a life. Now I’m in hell. I loved a damaged boy. I watched him get better. I loved him more. I watched my lovely Beck decline. I couldn’t love her more, I just felt helpless. Then I realised … Not Beck, not Daniel … not them at all.’ He raised his head and stared at the impassive corpse. ‘You! You and your
own tormentor! You fucked with my life! You used us for your games!’

‘They were not games …’

‘I don’t care! How can I care? I had a
life
. You and your tormentor took that life from me, took it from the two people I loved, left them dead, drowned in the lake.’

He had started to cry, missing Rebecca so much, missing the sweet boy, terrified of what was happening, aware that he was in a cold glade talking to a dead man, aware that his hope was no more than a dream, that waking dream to which one clutches, not wanting it to go away, holding on for fear of the coming light, because for a moment, just for a moment, there is a little hope.

After a while he ceased to cry. He was shivering. The fire had burned low. He looked up, rubbing hands against his eyes, and the cowled form of the young-old man was there, head low as if thinking.

‘Help me …’ Martin whispered. ‘If I can have them back … help me …’

‘How long are you prepared to wait?’ the woodsman asked quietly. ‘Two thousand years?’

Martin’s hopes had risen, but he collapsed again when he heard those taunting words.
Two thousand years?
‘No,’ he said. ‘You know I can’t.’

‘Two hundred, then.’

‘You’re playing games. You know I can’t.’

‘Twenty years? Can you wait that long?’

‘That’s the worst of all! That’s like being in hell. No. I can’t wait twenty years. I love them. I want them
now
, not when I’m a husk.’

Merlin laughed below the cowl, but it was a sinister echo of despair and frustration. ‘Then twenty days.’

Martin sat up quickly. ‘Twenty days?’

‘Time enough to talk to you. Time enough to warn you. Time enough to decide what I can do for you. You
did
let me out. But you’re asking something very damaging. I have to think. I have dreams too. I have needs. You find it hell to wait twenty years, yet I’ve waited two thousand.’

‘You live longer.’

‘I die more slowly. Anger has time to flourish. But you
did
let me out … but where is Vivien? In the boy still? Or has she found another place? What to do? Which one to help? What to do with you …?’

Martin said nothing, waiting desperately.

‘We’ll begin tomorrow. I think I’ll talk to you. I think I’ll tell you something about the path, and something of the magic that Vivien lusts for. We’ll begin tomorrow. We have twenty days. But at the moment, the shadow is going from the wood.’

It seemed that Merlin drew for his strength upon that time of change in the forest when the sun was descending, leaving behind a swirl of its own power, which circulated freely and randomly for a while and was a source of energy. Soon after, the earth took control again, and at that moment Merlin could not exercise his will. The ‘window of opportunity’ – an expression that Martin had learned as a child from watching the various shuttle launches into space – varied according to
the brightness of the day, the conditions of the atmosphere. Magic was in this way barometric, and Merlin’s ability to coat the corpse of the old bosker with glamour, and then use it to communicate, was severely limited.

‘We’ll begin tomorrow.’