Part One

 

Fifteen hundred years ago an old man struggled through the most terrible of winter storms. He should have known better. After all, he was wise to kings and counselors. His reputation extended throughout the greenwood kingdoms of ancient Britain.

He was more than wise – he was sly and immersed in the powers which today we have long scorned. But in those times such powers terrified. Why did some possess those powers? That was mysterious as the eclipse of the sun.

Soon, after certain events, this fortunate one wouldn’t feel strong or chosen, only responsible. He would be sure he had failed everything and everyone he’d come to treasure on this small earth.

 

 

Chapter 1

 

A hundred and forty-one times you’ve glanced over your shoulder, the old man chided himself silently, now that you are definitely in danger. Then he spoke aloud. “Because you are a special sort of fool.”

The bleak winter moor landscape, all lichen-covered rocks and gorse, didn’t help. His words jumbled against the saurian hills and died away.

His scrawny mount snorted and twitched his ears. The old man whipped his head in the other direction. His animal, too scrawny even for eating, at least possessed sure instincts.

But the old man discovered nothing, just more of the somber landscape he’d witnessed during a week’s steady travel on this lonely excuse for a road.

How far he’d gone didn’t seem that important. It was important that the journey, the travail, was almost done. His certainty came from shrewd guessing and, honestly, from his dreams. An old man on a bony horse could hardly expect anything better; nor could a plowman, smithy, baker, stone carver, or housewife, people who did all the work in the old one’s world. But the old man considered himself cleverer than most several times over. It was a severe weakness and he knew it.

The cleverness began with how hard he made journey. Strictly speaking, one with his powers didn’t have to suffer a long stint on a sway-back animal. But who would pay any attention to a grandfather on a broke-down nag?

He glanced in all directions one more time.

“So far,” he mumbled, “so good. Not great, but good enough.”

I am still in their world.

His shoulders sagged at the truth. Years and years, many of their lifetimes, brought him to this place on winter British moor.

“Fool,” he mumbled again because it seemed so right. “Fool, fool.”

For variety he added, “Idiot, idiot, idiot.”

He drew his threadbare cloak over his head. Suffering, he reminded himself, is what these beings do best. Now that you’ve thrown your lot in with them don’t expect much more.

He glanced ahead. He stopped and wiped his eyes.

Among the winter-stunted trees and heath, a spring-time eruption of purple, crimson, and golden carpeted the valley below.

His heart beat faster. Impossible, the old man thought, under normal circumstances. Somebody’s been fooling with things. But this is exactly what I want. And require. And I may demand.

He gave his animal a gentle kick.

The path led steadily downhill. They entered the narrow valley. The old man fell quiet and watched and listened more carefully than ever.

The path I’m following followed is barely wide enough for a dog cart, he noted. How does anyone around here feed himself? Where are the farms and pastures? Maybe they live off the air itself.

His horse snorted and stopped. A young lady, barefoot, wearing a green smock, stood in the road. She gave the old man a wide smile, as if she understood nothing, turned, and fled.

Around the next sharp turn he entered the village. It wasn’t much in term of numbers, only a row of stone cottages, perfectly hewn and sparkling clean. Each was identical. Beside every doorway a young man or woman stood, wearing the same smock of forest green as their neighbor. Everyone was smiling. There were no children or the old, only the very healthy young, quiet and yielding as the old man and his mount passed.

At the end of the village road a last building appeared. It was another matter altogether. It wasn’t large, a rectangle of stone sitting at an odd angle to the path. But its stone was pitted and weather-worn smooth and so deeply grown with moss that it seemed to have sunk deep into the ground. How can anything human-made be so old in the middle of this nowhere? The old man asked himself, but he felt fear and jubilation simultaneously.

A cathedral, he decided. He noted that the broad doorway and the walls where the moss hadn’t taken hold showed relief carvings. Not of the usual Celtic or Roman crosses either; these were of lizards, scorpions, spiders, wolves, foxes, wild horses, lions, and huge bears.

He shivered. You know, he accused inwardly. Twaddle, he accused right back and felt his heart thump against his ribs. It’s far, far too late. No, he argued back, pull this animal’s head around and give him your spurs. You are safe till you enter that place. Age and its suffering are worthy. At least compared to what you don’t know.

A crowd of villagers quietly surrounded the horse. A man politely but insistently took the reins from his hands.

“Mind you,” the old man sighed, “this is borrowed property.”

A striking woman, taller than the rest and wearing an elaborately embroidered costume, stepped forward. She gazed up, dark-eyed, and took his hand.

“Come along now. We’ve made a place for you.”

Her hand felt so soft, warm, and alive.

“Don’t you desire what we have? We know you do.”

He sputtered. “I am very weak.”

“Not at all. Look around. Where is the hurt and decay here? You are in pain now. Imagine – your youth returned, joined with your wisdom.”

“Scary indeed,” he mumbled.

“Must hurry,” she insisted. “Hurry, hurry now.”

She tugged and the old man slid from his horse. He stumbled. The young ones with their strong limbs held him upright.

“If only,” he said shakily, “I knew you were real.”

They laughed a little, not too much, but just right.

He was half-carried toward the cathedral doors. The old man started to make a wisecrack about needing a better maintenance crew, but a flash of distant light against the clouds caught his eye. He stopped cold.

“My lord?” the woman questioned.

“I am no lord,” he said quietly,

“Why are you distressed?”

“I am not sure. Give me a minute.”

She pulled him a little closer. “We have been preparing for you for many days.”

“Been keeping an eye on?”

“We shall not take you back.”

“Perhaps I have been too hasty. I am very sorry --.”

“No. Come along. Otherwise you will be very sorry,” she snarled.

He glanced over his shoulder. The dense clouds now concealed the horizon. You’re surrounded, the old man told himself sternly. Even if you bolted it wouldn’t do any good.

“Come along now,” the woman whispered.

He managed a bitter smile for each of his final escorts – two men and two women; each so similar that might have been hatched from the same clutch of eggs.

“Impressive place. All your idea?” Merlin managed.

He got a brief smile and no more.

The men held the doors open. The women held onto him firmly. The stone interior, wild and horrible creatures frescoed on its walls, seemed to be cut from one immense block of stone.

She stopped before a stone alter. Her friends hung back. She clapped her hands, shut her eyes, and intoned what to the old man seemed mumbo jumbo.

The stone, all several tons of it, opened up and revealed stone stairs.

He peered down; the stairs didn’t seem to be much. They led into pitch black. From below water gurgled and splashed.

The woman’s face glowed. “Don’t be afraid,” she purled, “It’s what you truly desire.”

And the old man felt his legs shake. Despite his better judgment, he prayed she was right.

“Don’t listen to your fears,” she continued. “Look at you…old and weak. You’ve been betrayed. Your spirit is meant to live as long as this universe.”

“A very tall order,” Merlin said quietly.

He felt his heart pound. Outside, he knew a winter sky was turning to cobalt. The moon shone with its eternal beauty. The earth would turn on its axis; the sun would burn tomorrow no matter what he did today.

All life on this planet, he told himself, lives no longer than a May fly, a single day, compared to the scheme of things. That was betrayal, he thought angrily. He cleared his throat. “I consent to whatever – what do I owe you?”

“You sound frightened. Why?”

“A reasonable notion, considering what I’m asking.”

“This?” She pulled her cloak aside. Her throat, shoulders, and arms gleamed smooth and healthy.

Surely not innocent, the old man noted, but youthful – yes.

The woman took him by the hand. “Your time is now.”

“But…” he sputtered.

The woman gave him a hard shove.

The old man grabbed the nearest stone pillar. “My mightiness is failing me,” he gasped. “How does this magic work exactly. Will my soul end up a warthog or tulip bulb?”

“You only need to believe.” She gritted her teeth and tried to wrench him lose. Her friends joined in, each taking an arm or leg desperately grasping the stone.

“Search,” the woman huffed as she yanked. “And yea shall find.”

“I did. I gave in to my vanity. I abandoned my post…my king…the boy…my people…my everything.”

Suddenly woman turned away red-faced in anger. Her escort scurried behind her.

Not me, not now, he accused silently, not this stooped, wrinkled thing. I have cities to build, the mighty to set straight…the young to teach…as I have so many times. I am owed my time. I have grown old and blind in their service.

“Stop!” He thundered.

The woman whirled around.

“Did I say please?” The old man managed.

“Quickly,” the woman hissed, “before you are lost.”

He took the first winding stair, then another. A dim light came from below; the walls glowed. Thoughtful, he remembered thinking before his legs gave way.

He struck many steps on the way down. At the bottom he rolled up like a pill bug and lay stunned. The stone opening above slid shut.

He blinked. A cave – that’s all it was, he noted, with a rushing stream bordering the far end and bare as a dungeon, which, of course, is the idea.

He struggled to stand. His knees still shook. He tasted the water, clear and cold, good for watering horses or making soup. Nothing seemed miraculous, say for one thing.

“Gravity,” he muttered to himself. “Totally earth-bound.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. He willed a stone nearby to wobble – nothing more.

Nothing. Again.

No.

Once more.

No.

What have you done?

Now, he though frantically, no blaming. Evaluate. Situation: seconds ago you owned the powers of a renowned and – frankly - feared wizard. Now that’s gone. You’re stripped clean. You’re weak as kitten.

Not exactly.

A kitten has claws.

Stripped clean.

How do fangless villagers trap tigers? They dig a steep hole and disguise it with leaves. They hang a goat carcass over the trap.

Does it work?

A tiger, immense, brutally strong and silent, can’t deny its nature.

His enemies know it.

One of them anyway.

“Mordred!” he roared.

The sound went nowhere. He felt his nicks, scrapes, and the boils on his feet. His felt his breakable bones, his fragile skull, and his thumping heart.

The glow from rocks faded. He stood in total darkness and felt the terror of the wholly vulnerable.

It hissed above his head. The old man backed away and kept his back to the stream.

“You win,” he said quietly.

A form uncoiled along the rock. It glowed faintly, just enough, the old man decided, so that I can see what’s about to happen.

It was made of dozens of segments, a pair of jointed legs for each segment. Each leg twitched and clacked against the rock. The head appeared last: Narrow eyes glared from a flat, bony skull. Protruding from the mandible, a double set of pinchers clacked and drooled.

The old man’s stomach churned.

“Can you speak?” he croaked.

For a few moments the creature slithered and coiled. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Just my prejudices…do you have a name?”

“Blut.” It hissed and slithered and extended its neck toward the old man. “What do you care? What power do you have over a name?”

“Me? Currently I can only dream. How mighty I once was till…your magus is too much for me. I am …vain.”

The creature hissed impatiently. “And I am hungry.” He coiled even closer. “Hold still. It’ll be much quicker that way.”

“Let me guess. You intend to tear my body into pieces, consume the delectable parts and gnaw the long bones and toss the leftovers into the stream behind me.”

“Excellent idea.”

“Last question before lunch. Who is your magus? Just to be absolutely sure.”

The creature hissed angrily. “ Mordred.”

It hurled forward, furious, its aim off in haste. The old man whirled sideways and dived head-first into the stream.

The frigid current shot him forward. He tried to swim. The current drew him deeper and deeper. His body struck one rock – all sharp – after another. His lungs burned for one impossible fatal breath. His skull smashed into what felt like an execution’s axe and he knew nothing at all.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Pain owned a color – orange and pale red. He gagged. Water flowed from inside to the sand. His eyes flew open; he struggled to sit upright.

He lay at the edge of a clear river. His skull throbbed. I hurt way too much to be dead, he sighed inwardly. He dragged himself a little farther up the bank and tested arms and legs. He saw that he was a harlequin of scraps, bruised and nasty cuts.

Slowly – very slowly – he stood and let the world settle.

The sun floated low in the east, near where it had been before he tumbled down the stairs. I have been lost for an entire day, he decided. Or maybe a week. Or maybe a year.

He studied the cliff where the river flowed from beneath the mountain. To the right the cliff rose gradually. He rested till he felt a little stronger and climbed hand over hand until he reached the top of the rise. That exhausted him. He rolled over and rested till he could walk again.

The cathedral, or whatever it should be called, stood nearby. He glanced around and crept close to it. Nobody appeared. He crossed to the village that he found completely empty, every perfect piece of furniture in place down to napkins on the tables. Crockery waited in the kitchen; clothes hung from hook; all, crisp and clean, was exactly identical to everything else.

The old man slowly climbed a low ridge behind the village. The village and church occupied the highest point in all directions. He stood and studied the southern horizon where Londonium and the Thames waited, so far away. The charcoal-colored winter landscape still lacked snow. “I can smell it,” he mumbled to no one in particular, “and it will come soon enough.”

Snow, with all its peace and beauty, would fall on certain hills where he longed to be.

His eyes grew damp.

He took a deep breath and felt, deep inside, a weak stirring of returning power. It makes a certain sense, he thought, now that I am no longer buried alive. Such places take on powers on their own. The rumors are true. I can swear to it now.

But caution is the watchword. I’ve never experienced this before, having such a vital part of me stripped away.

He took a deep breath. I am strong enough now, he told himself, and fully aware of what’s going on. Two old legs are better than nothing.

From the far horizon came a flicker of green and yellow.

He leapt up.

The colors flashed again and again, like summer lightning.

He stared at the horizon for the longest time.

He sank down. He tried to turn away.

Impossible.

He would never forget.

“Death,” he muttered.

He wasn’t sure about the next bit of time. He became aware that he was staring at a patch of ground with a single oak leaf decorating it.

“Now,” he sniffed, “Hate yourself. Feel free. But there is yet a chance. I won’t call it hope.”

He stood. His knees wobbled. He found a broken limb for a staff and awkwardly worked his way down the hill.

The stick seemed a good type, so he spoke to it. “I have a plan. I am still weaker than a newt, shorn of my powers, but – and here’s the great maybe – they may return. Bit by bit. Especially with fresh air and exercise. How far must I force these complaining knees to scamper? Why, two hundred good Roman miles. Utter defeat is one thing, hopelessness is another. Agreed? No? Too bad.”

He hobbled down the road double-time. At a hundred yards he halted. “Now,” he puffed, “let’s not get sassy. Give us a quick rest and we’ve got it beat.”

The world began to spin. What did the Roman Emperor joke on his deathbed? Merlin asked himself. I am becoming a god. Well, the old man thought, I am becoming a man.

He cackled at his joke. His realized that he had an audience. From the cottages and woods came a collective rustling. The perfect people emerged from hiding. He was surrounded on three sides.

That was the first thing. It lasted seconds. He barely had time to turn his head. Even he, a veteran of endless tricks, was surprised. A series of frames passed over where they stood. This is what happened to me, he thought quickly.

With every passing, quick as it was, perfection shifted. The beautiful people – their bodies stooped. Their faces elongated, especially the noses, and their hands grew long nails.

And tails.

The old man stood transfixed.

Populating the roads the fields, the hillsides were black-furred, nude tailed, slash-toothed rats. They hissed and snapped at each other, twitched their beady eyes and sniffed the air.

The old man backed away.

“Nice ,” he gulped.

Each was as big as a wolf. They focused their glistening eyes on him.

He did what he could do. He turned away.

And ran.

He ran for his life.

The slopes and fields teemed with oily backs. They gained ground to his left and right. They’re toying with you, the old man thought as he gasped for air. They’ll go for the eyeballs first. Counting down – five, four, three –

He never believed in luck. Fate was another matter. His bony mount burst from the forest, eyeballs rolling in terror.

The old man grabbed a handful of his scraggly main and swung himself aboard. The oily wer-rats squealed in rage. The roan, from sheer terror, managed to pull ahead – just barely.

The next steep hill saved them. At the top the man glanced over his shoulder. A storm cloud now swirled over the valley and the village. A twisting wedge descended from the cloud and struck the earth like a banshee. The valley disappeared into mist and debris. The funnel bounced back into the cloud and vanished.

The silver-blue winter sky shone clear again.

The old man let the roan trot. “A neat trick,” he said to her, “He lost sleep plotting that one. Such exaggeration. No sense of proportion.”

They rode through the night, out of the moon-haunted moor and onto a crumbling Roman road. Eventually the sweat-darkened animal let his head droop in exhaustion. The old man let him plod along. He caught himself nodding off in the saddle.

What day is it? He asked himself. He knew he hadn’t been gone too long. By the new Christian way of counting it was the year 539 and close to their savior’s birth. In the spring they always put on a fine show about his rebirth.

Rebirth.

What would the black-robes be thinking right now with fire and brimstone burning their ears? Evil, it was plain enough, though not from their devil, who seemed a stand-in for the darker nature of their flocks. It was too late, but Merlin imaged how he’d explain it to him. The fight is between Mordred on one side and the fine wizard you see before you and his price on the other. You know him, the scarred warrior living in the castle keep. I mean your protector and liege.

The old man imagined the astounded look on the priest’s face. Pagan, he’d mutter… your kind caused this.

Perhaps he’d think slyly. Therefore you can save us…Just this last time.

Maybe, the old man would have to sigh.

Then the priestly fellow, if sensitive, might throw up his hands and wail why?

The old man would have to shrug. The answer, such as I know, is far beyond your understanding. And though he couldn’t say it directly, it’s beyond me. I know this: we came here to teach, share, and learn. It was our nature.

Merlin’s chin bounced against his chest. Eventually he dreamed deeply. The warrior-king appeared in his dream, a grizzled middle-aged man. Once he’d been a boy. Merlin had personally chosen and got the boy anointed through the ceremony of the stone.

“Arthur!” the old man called in his sleep.

His dream eye saw Arthur with his armor stripped away, his tunic torn and blood-soaked.

At first he refused even to look at the old man. “Where were you?” he finally demanded.

The old man’s heart ached. “I was tricked. I was - .”

He stopped. He didn’t expect to be forgiven. He couldn’t forgive himself. He took a deep breath. “Are you passed over?”

“You mean am I dead? Don’t be a ninny. How else could you talk to me like this?”

“I had hopes -”

“Now, now. As you eternally lectured me, hope is no more than sausage.”

“Hope is all I have.” The old man’s face burned. He wiped his eyes with his bruised hands.

“Come now. Don’t make a fool of yourself.”

“At this age, maybe it’s what I do best.”

“And what is it you are doing now?”

“Riding like a bat from Hades to save what I can.”

“A bit behind the ball, aren’t we?”

The old man hung his head. Tears coursed down his cheeks.

Arthur sighed. “Look now. Once I was a homeless waif. I remember living behind the town dung heap. You came along, cleaned me up, taught me a few manners, guided me through the ceremony and the rest was history. A little abbreviated, true, but what can you do? From dung pile to throne. One pile to another. At least the scent was better… Anyway – why me? I mused about it now and then. I was not your first Arthur, as you explained. Can’t be the last…unless that Mordred thing is about to win the entire game. Of course – you and your kind: what do you need one of us mere human beings anyway? Don’t you want to be the top of the heap, too?”

The old man sniffed. “You underestimate yourself. All your kind do. A powerful and wise leader, brave to a fault, embroiled in human life – who else would lead your kind? ”

“But you - .”

“A great wizard? See how that’s turned out.”

“I see that you are still in a bloody hurry anyway.”

The old man gave his own great sigh. “I hurry because – because – you might be just a dream.”

The wizard’s eyes flew wide open. He glanced around once, and gave the tottering roan a last hard kick in the ribs.

If you happened to be a poor peasant in the year 530 or so – and that included virtually everybody – the sight along the road might have made you laugh, and in those flinty days laughter was hard to come by: A grizzly old man, wrapped in a threadbare cloak, mounted on a swaybacked animal as tired-looking as himself. Funnier still would have been the old man’s grim and determined face, in contrast to his thin legs and hollow chest. But Merlin was true to his word, as wizards had to be above all things: true to words and their power. After all, that was their reason for being.

Merlin, when he was new to the earth and humankind, use to worry about the details to such things. That was a long time ago. Now speed was all that mattered. They met no one as animal’s hooves pounded against the ancient pavers.

England, old Britain, was almost empty by then, not as it had been six hundred years ago, when the Romans kept order with a matter-of-fact attitude and an iron fist. The old British, the Celts really, were dispersed after the Roman withdrew. Blond, long-headed Angles, Saxons and Jutes, with their rough German words and bad tempers, raided from across the North Sea. Plunder was excellent as they tore apart the villas, the manors, the farmlands, the commerce, the forums, the Roman law, mostly from sheer misunderstanding. Raiding meant burning, stealing, and slaying the slow, stupid, or brave. Rooms filled with art of objects of silver and gold, soft clothing, glassware, sculptures, perfumes and so much more were simply too much temptation. Sitting down and thinking things through – reaching compromises, learning the local languages, and casting eyes about for peaceful profit and integration: not a chance.

From the far west, from the green hills of Wales, soldiers held to the high ground and wilderness. Their king, half Britain, half Roman, would be known as Arthur by the people he saved. Not that they were many. Their weapons, dress and training came from the Romans they once served. Those that could rode horses as an improvised cavalry to deal with the invaders flooding the landscape.

Generations and generations to come would make Arthur wealthier, more handsome, wiser, and, honestly, nobler than perhaps he ever really was. There were no knights of the round table. There were no knights actually, no courtly love, no grand castle, nothing more than fighting and surviving in a twilight world.

In the twilight world people came more and more strongly to believe in the world of the night, the moon, and magic. There was no other way to reconcile suffering and chaos. Merlin served Arthur, his king, to advise and protect him – anything to make sure he and his people survived. And that was enough: just to survive. Arthur, for his part, with his sharp eyes, scarred face and iron will, saw the old man, whose advice he listened to patiently, as much more than a strange necromancer, a self-proclaimed wizard. Arthur had no use for foul concoctions of lizards and bat’s wings and incantations in forgotten Latin. Arthur connected lines from A to B. He looked for practical solutions. He was human and so, as Merlin completely understood, everything was a mystery to him.

Merlin knew otherwise, or at least he knew more. Cause and effect, time and space, the boundary between life and death – all those were facts, or ideas, or fears Merlin could change with the powers at his fingertips. The danger, of course, lay with the power. Merlin knew that some wizards used their nature to live as rulers within the dimensions that made up life on earth. They took on the character of the human lives with which they merged. They learned to laugh, love, hate and want what they didn’t have. They knew jealousy, scorn, fear and joy. They forgave, forgot the forgiving, fought and made peace, and started the cycle all over again.

They weren’t many actually and if people actually knew where they came from, how right their intuitions were about those special ones, people would never be the same. Their world would turn topsy-turvy, as people would say one day.

Except for traveling through this universe and shuttling through the centuries, Merlin’s kind looked like everyone else. Some, like Merlin, devoted their existence to righting wrongs, defending the weak, and tending to humanity like devoted gardeners.

A few were bad – very bad. That’s worth repeating. The dark ones learned to conceal their true natures, as would be expected, as they roiled the human world with Merlin and his ilk, and the people the kindly ones came to think as their own.