The Paradise War (35 page)

After a moment, I heard her sigh—a long exhalation of breath, followed by an equally long inhalation. She opened her eyes and inspected me without utterance. I returned her gaze placidly, content to remain silent in her presence until she granted me leave to speak.

There came a movement from inside her cloak, and Gwenllian stretched forth a bare white arm toward the brazier. She held a cluster of dry oak leaves in her hand, and these she placed on the burning coals. The dry leaves smoldered and burst into flame, filling the small room with a sharp scent that reminded me of another time and another place, now far, far away.

Smoke curled into the air; she inhaled the scent, drawing air deep into her lungs. When she finally spoke, I did not recognize her voice. When Gwenllian sang, her voice was supple as a willow wand, sweet as summer’s golden mead, passionate, eloquent, and charming. The voice that addressed me now, however, though serene, was somber and distant; yet the authority behind each word was absolute and infallible. It was Gwenllian the Banfáith, the wise prophetess, who sat before me now, watching me with fathomless green eyes.

She said: “The stranger’s foot is established on Albion’s Rock. Clothed in beauty, richly arrayed, is he who defends the Dagda’s fair race. Hail, Silver Hand, your servant greets you!”

I inclined my head in acknowledgment of her strange greeting, but gave no other sign, for I had not been granted leave to speak. Also, I was not at all certain it was me she was talking about. Silver Hand? The name meant nothing to me.

The Banfáith drew out from beneath her cloak a torc made of dozens of thick silver strands, each strand twisted and plaited. She placed the costly neck ring on the floor between us and intoned stiffly, “Ask what you will, the truth will be revealed to you. In the Day of Strife, nothing will be hidden from Samildanac’s chosen.” Then, in a softer voice, she added, “Speak your heart, Silver Hand; you will not be turned away.”

Once more I inclined my head. There were so many things I wanted to know, so much I needed to ask, I was some time deciding which of the questions jostling one another on the tip of my tongue I should ask first.

“Banfáith,” I blurted at last, “you have called me Silver Hand. I would know why I have been addressed by this name.”

Although she had promised that nothing would remain hidden, her reply did little to enlighten me. “He who would wear the torc of a champion must a champion be. When the Cythrawl is loosed in Albion, Lleu Llaw Gyffes, the Lion of the Sure Hand, returns to defend Dagda’s children.”

“Banfáith,” I said, “I am trying to understand. If nothing prevents you, please tell me how this came to be.”

“Nothing prevents me, and I will tell you gladly: from time beyond remembering, the name Lleu belongs to the Dagda. Since the champion is raised by his call, therefore is the champion named Llew Llaw Eraint.”

She answered my questions readily, but her answers only served to deepen the mystery and confusion. I tried again. “This champion,” I said, “This Llew Silver Hand—how is he raised?”

“Goodly-wise is the Many-Gifted One,” Gwenllian replied cryptically. “He sees all, knows all, establishes all with his Sure Hand. The Swift Sure Hand chooses whom he will.”

“Wise Banfáith, do you think I am this champion?” I asked once more.

“The Dagda Samildanac has chosen. Now it is for you to choose what you will.”

That made no sense to me either. However, not to appear contrary, I thanked the Banfáith for helping me understand and tried another approach. “The Day of Strife,” I said, “is not known to me—I would gladly hear all you could tell me.”

At this the Banfáith closed her eyes slowly and withdrew into herself. I heard the soft tick and snap of the charcoal in the brazier as she searched the secret pathways of the future for a word or sign she might impart. When she spoke again, her voice held a note of anguish that pierced my heart to hear it.

“Hear, O Silver Hand; heed the Head of Wisdom,” she said, raising her hands, palms outward, in declamation. “The Destroyer of the North shall loose his rage on Three Fair Realms; with tooth and claw will he rend flesh from bone. His white minions will defeat the fair forces of Gyd. A pall of white lies upon the land; famine both young and old shall devour. The Gray Hound has slipped his chain; the bones of children he shall crack. The Red-eyed Wanderer shall pierce the throats of all who pursue him.

“Sorrow and be sad, deep grief is granted Albion in triple measure. The Golden King in his kingdom will strike his foot against the Rock of Contention. The Wyrm of fiery breath will claim the throne of Prydain; Llogres will be without a lord. But happy shall be Caledon; the Flight of Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens, and ravensong shall be her song.

“When the Light of the Derwyddi is cut off, and the blood of bards demands justice, then let the Ravens spread their wings over the sacred wood and holy mound. Under Ravens’ wings, a throne is established. Upon this throne, a king with a silver hand.

“In the Day of Strife, root and branch shall change places, and the newness of the thing shall pass for a wonder. Let the sun be dull as amber, let the moon hide her face: abomination stalks the land. Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast; let the sound be heard among the stars. The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds; the essence of Albion is scattered and torn among contending winds.

“The Seas will rise up with mighty voices. Nowhere is there safe harbor. Arianrhod sleeps in her sea-girt headland. Though many seek her, she will not be found. Though many cry out to her, she cannot hear their voices. Only the chaste kiss will restore her to her rightful place.

“Then shall rage the Giant of Wickedness and terrify all with the keen edge of his sword. His eyes shall flash forth fire; his lips shall drip poison. With his great host he will despoil the island. All who oppose him will be swept away in the flood of wrongdoing that flows from his hand. The Island of the Mighty will become a tomb.

“All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass, who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe both great and dire. Rise up Men of Gwir! Fill your hands with weapons and oppose the false men in your midst! The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.

“Hear, O Son of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of Spirit and with Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.”

Seized with a terrible sorrow, the prophetic voice broke. “The Phantarch is dead!” she sobbed. “Dead! . . . The Phantarch is taken from us and the Song is silent. The Cythrawl destroys the land!”

Gwenllian sat for a long time with eyes closed, weeping inwardly. I wanted nothing more than to slink away, to flee her presence so that I would not have to hear more of her pronouncements. But she opened her eyes and held me with her mournful gaze.

“Banfáith,” I said, my own heart troubled with the torment of her terrible vision, “I know nothing of this Hero Feat, or how it may be accomplished. It seems to me a task more befitting a bard. Yet, what may be done, that I will do. Only tell me one thing more. How is the Cythrawl to be defeated?”

“Before the Cythrawl can be conquered, the Song must be restored.”

“This song of which you speak—am I to know it?”

The wise Banfáith regarded me sadly, solemnly. “No one knows the Song, save the Phantarch alone. For it is the chief treasure of this worlds-realm and not to be despoiled by small-souled creatures or unworthy servants. Before the sun and moon and stars were set in their unchanging courses, before living creatures drew breath, from before the beginning of all that is or will be, the Song was sung. You have asked me to name the Song. Very well, know you this: it is the Song of Albion.”

23
T
HE
D
AY OF
S
TRIFE

I
did not sleep that night. And I did not return to the hall. I stalked the cliffs above the restless water in the dark, little caring whether I struck my foot and plunged headlong to my death on the sea crags below. Then let the Dagda choose someone else. I wanted no part of it.

I stomped along the clifftops for a long time—anxious, fearful, tormented by the prophecy the Banfáith had given me, and angry at Tegid’s goading. So I stormed the coast track, cursing to the wind and shouting my defiance to the surging sea. In the end, I perched myself on a rock overlooking the tide-washed shingle and settled to watch the sun rise. That was where Goewyn found me, watching the pearly sunlight seep into the sky and stain the sea with blood. She came so quietly to stand behind me that I did not hear her. I simply knew that she was there, and then I felt her warm fingers on my neck.

She stood for some time without speaking, pressing her body against my back, stroking my hair and neck. At last she said, “Tegid tells me you must leave.”

“He is determined,” I muttered morosely. “Determined to get us frozen to death and drowned.”

“Sollen is not begun in force. You may yet sail with some assurance.” She stepped around beside me and settled next to me on my cold rock.

“Nothing is assured,” I muttered. “Nothing ever stays the same.”

She leaned against me, resting her head lightly on my shoulder. “So gloomy,” she sighed. “Yet you are strong, and life is yours for the taking. Why think the worst?”

Because the worst and the inevitable are often one and the same, I considered. But I did not want to provoke Goewyn, who was only trying to cheer me, so I said nothing, and we listened to the waves churn the pebbles on the strand. Four white gulls sailed low across the water, their wingtips touching the waves.

“When a bard like Ollathir dies,” she said after a time, as if we had been discussing the subject at length, “he must breathe his
awen
into another, so that it will not be lost. Once lost, the awen is never recovered, and its light passes out of the world forever.”

“Yes, and what else did Tegid tell you?” I snapped, regretting the remark at once.

“Tegid would have given his life to save Ollathir,” Goewyn continued, ignoring my rudeness. “But it was not to be. Yet when the time came, you were with him to receive the Chief Bard’s awen.”

The awen . . . so that was on Tegid’s mind as well. The awen, I knew, is considered the source of a bard’s insight, the all-inspiring spirit of his art. It is that which nourishes, clothes, and shelters the people of his tribe. The awen is the breath of the Dagda which guides and instructs, and which sets a bard apart from other men.

“But why give it to me?” I demanded, my anger flaring again. “I am no bard! I do not want it. I cannot use it.”

“It was given to you because you were there,” Goewyn soothed.

“And I would give it to Tegid if I could,” I declared sharply. “I want no part of it!”

I felt her hand on my cheek as she turned my face to hers. “You have been chosen for great things,” she said, and although she spoke lightly her tone was edged with an iron conviction.

“You have been talking to Gwenllian too.” I turned my face away.

“I know nothing of what Gwenllian has told you. But it does not take a Banfáith’s vision to see it. When Tegid returned with you in the boat, I thought you dead. But one look, and I saw the hero light on you—and I knew that the Dagda had covered you with his hand.”

“I never asked for it,” I muttered bitterly. “I never wanted any of this!” I looked toward the rising sun. Already, the day’s fresh light was fading behind black clouds, and the wind was lashing the waves to froth. Soon Tegid and I would set forth on that cold sea to return to Sycharth, and I would never see Ynys Sci again.

As if reading my thoughts, Goewyn replied. “The future is reached by many pathways. Who is to say where our ways may meet?”

We sat for a while longer, and then she departed, withdrawing quietly, leaving me to my selfish misery.

The boat that had borne us to Scatha’s island was small. Without a pilot and crew, we would not have been able to handle a larger boat. So the small sturdy craft served us well, where another would have foundered in the Sollen swell. Indeed, our little black boat rode the wind-driven waves like a feather.

Still, it is tempting disaster to trust too much in the fickle and inconstant Sollen weather. One moment the sun can be warm and shining, the next an icy northern blast is slicing through your winter wool and freezing your flesh. We knew that we could not reach Sycharth by boat, though that would have been much the quickest way. Tegid was not intent on suicide; he only thought to reach the harbor at Ffim Ffaller where we could obtain horses and provisions to continue our journey overland. Or, failing that, to put in at Ynys Oer and make our way to the mainland from there—much the slowest way.

The weather was not a friend to us. The second day out, a storm swept down from the north, and we were forced to take refuge in a sheltered bay on the rock-bound coast of the mainland. We found a cave in the cliffside and managed to gather enough driftwood to make a fire. The cave was home to us for five endless days while we waited for the wild wind to exhaust itself.

The evening of the fifth day the wind fell, and as the moon rose we put to sea once more. The air was cold, but the sky clear and bright. Tegid had no trouble steering by the stars and by the softly silvered coastline. We sailed through the night, and through all the next day, and the next—taking it in turn to sleep.