Author’s Note: This story is based on the Medieval Scottish version of the Merlin Myths.
~
The body started to sink.
He squinted through diaphanous layers of crystal to get a better view of it. Was that a rope around its neck, trailing past locks of wetted hair? Yes. The offering to air. Even through distortions in the scrying stone he could discern a red trail from the side of the corpse, darkening the stream’s waters. Stab wound, an offering of life force returned to its source.
The oblation to water was obvious; even half-blind, he would have seen the body as it settled into the shallows. Sometimes, the scrying stone showed what was happening now, but distant in location. Other times, it showed the future – either fixed or potential. This time the old man knew with certainty. This is what must happen.
Ordinary people would recoil at the sight of their own body, disfigured by choking, stabbing, and drowning; but not this venerable shaman. Laughter traveled from his lungs to his throat and erupted into the stillness of the cave. Then his words came aloud, “Ho, that is the way, that is the end of this form of me.” He let out another peel of mirth. It was not a bad way to go, a sacrifice to the elements, the way of his ancestors before the religion of the nail-riven God came upon these lands. And he was tired of living.
As a youth, thirst for knowledge had impelled him to travel, study, and adventure. For two-score years he labored as apprentice to an arch-druid of the Picts, absorbing the mysteries gained by countless generations of these shaman-priests. The Order of the Oak-Wise had bestowed on him the bard’s torc, the height of honors, but even that did not sate his lust for knowledge. He hired an Irishman, of Fenian lineage, to teach him war-skills until he was unbeatable with sword and buckler.
But then came the day that shattered all he loved. After that, he lived a new cycle of existence – with new names, new powers, and a different kind of prestige. The crags of Hart Fell replaced the halls of human lords, mountain brooks took the place of mead, and wild berries served as nourishment in place of beef. The “chak, chak” of jackdaws grew sweeter to his ears than the conversation of humans. He knew the languages of the winged ones, discerned when predators were near, or food was available – all from the birds’ chatter.
The high toned “whoo-ooh” of wolves did not frighten him, but rather kept him abreast of news – whether a lamb’s life had ended, or a new pack had arrived from over-hill. Even the susurration of pines spoke to him, revealing the wisdom of vastly long lives, unconcerned with the petty affairs of humanity.
At first, it was only in the dark of mid-winter, when food became scarce and he subsisted only on dried herbs and smoked hare meat, that the pictures began to form for him in the heart of a crystal. Then the pictures came more easily, and finally, a certainty about what was happening, even in lands far distant – places his mortal body had never seen.
He began to hear the other realm – that dimension of reality which so closely overlays the tangible world. Sometimes, he could discern the melodies of the Sidhe and other times the snarls of creatures he’d rather not see.
He discerned changes in the destiny of the cosmos by means of senses that he couldn’t even articulate, energies beyond detection by ordinary human organs.
Sometimes humans would overcome their terror of him and climb to the heights, where they would bow before the dark hole of the seer’s cave. They brought gifts, in exchange for knowledge. Some were useless to him, like gold coin. Other gifts were far more valuable, like a fresh-slain sheep, or pail of milk. He answered their questions, but things of great import to his fellow humans – the fate of their spouse, future of their crop, or rise or fall of their kingdoms – mattered no more to him now, than the fate of an eagle’s hatchlings, or the finding of buried roots by the local sounder of boars.
As the seasons passed in his mountain abode, the distinctions between dimensions vanished in the seer’s mind. The elements, insects, birds, four-legged and two-legged mammals were all equal members of the solid world, and the divide between the seen and unseen domains became thinner. All beings and natural objects formed a pattern like Pictish knotwork, an intricate tapestry of being, so clearly discerned that he could sense the places where it might unravel.
Since he possessed all this wisdom, was there any new knowledge to gain? He thought not.
Grunting slightly, he transmitted power along his fingers into the lucent mineral, and a new scene appeared. Just moments before, the seeing had been from a human point-of-view, but now images appeared through a soaring raptor’s eye.
Oft-times he had sent his life force into other beings. He knew how the world looked from the ground-level view of a tiny mouse, could see with the night-eyes of a wild cat, and once had cast his being into the vast space of a whale. The great emotions and wisdom of the leviathan had practically been the seer’s undoing. It took him days to fully extricate his awareness from the sea beast.
Now, the crystal revealed a broad landscape covered with forest canopy. He exerted more life-force, and the vision came into sharper focus, disclosing a broad river, and a smaller rivulet flowing into that. Now he could see a hill overlooking the broader tributary, with tiny white dots – sheep, he realized – on its sides. A stone fortress topped the hill.
From a bird-of-prey’s point of view, the picture in the crystal zoomed in-and-out again, revealing features of the landscape more closely: the sparkling current of the broad river, water bubbling over rock in the lesser rivulet, the grey stone and hearth smoke of the fortress. He furrowed his brow, raising eyebrows like twin ravens, closing his eyes to plumb the great depths of memory within.
The great forest, sloping hills, the shifting contours of cloud and sunlight, were very familiar…he certainly beheld his native land of Caledonia. And the waterway flowing so delightfully, surely that was the Tweed. Other details required a deeper mining of memory. There were many duns – hill forts of minor kings and chieftains – along the bends of the Tweed and countless places where lesser channels disgorged into the mightier stream. How would he recognize this creek?
He opened his eyes and again focused life force into the crystal, peering at the minute details. Ah! that banner, Three boars atop a hill. The sigil of Galam, ruler over Maenor Glenn, in the Kingdom of Forest Wild. And the rivulet running from fierce chief’s lands into the Tweed, he recalled that as well, the Powsail Burn.
He chuckled again, more softly. Not a bad place for his passage to another physical form. Standing, he pulled his overcoat from a ledge. Why keep destiny waiting?
***
“Mungo! Mungo, you have an important visitor.”
The holy man didn’t move or respond. He stood, as he had throughout the afternoon, arms spread wide, sweat pouring down his alb, with face upturned toward a rough stone cross that stood in the center of the monastery.
Somewhere on the periphery of his consciousness he heard the young clerk’s voice, but an iron will kept him sealed within his accustomed devotion.
His mind scrolled through the words of the Psalms. He had learned them as a lad, and threescore years later the repetition was almost unconscious. Come and see what God has done, for He is awesome in his deeds among mortals.
Sometimes, a phrase of holy writ would stick in his mind, churning over and over, a persistent message from Spirit that had inspired the text and similarly ignited the heart of this abbot. Come and see what God has done. The words grew louder in the inner silence of his mind, became the sweet voice of the Beloved spoken now, spoken directly. It was a message, a summons. And then, with a sudden burst of insight, he realized that God was calling him out of the trance-state; something was happening in the physical space around him, now.
He forced his eyes open and saw his brother monks gathered around silently watching…what? Then he saw the stranger just paces away. The visitor’s face was craggy, like cliffs battered by the elements. His long hair was silver, and his scraggly beard reached almost to his waist. The man’s clothes—could he even call that clothing? His overcoat and robe were brown as the earth, with bits of feathers and fur attached. Despite his hoary age, the stranger was imposing, a good hand’s length taller than most men. Gnarled fingers holding a thick wooden staff, topped with a shimmering amber orb, and atop that sat two bronze dragons, posed as if in combat.
Despite the stranger’s outlandish appearance, it was his eyes that drew the holy man’s attention. They were grayish, infinitely deep.
Abbot Mungo had spent a lifetime pursuing the most stringent practices of mystical growth and could see deeply into the windows of men’s souls, so he realized that this figure before him had traveled far into the sacred realms: even some, he felt with a chill, where no Christian should sojourn.
The nearby clerk stammered, “Your reverence, “This-this is…”
Mungo raised a finger commanding silence. The abbot had long expected this day to come, and sometimes pondered what would he say? What would he do? He had decided to let the Spirit guide his words when the encounter arrived.
“You are the one called ‘Myrddin,’ the Seer.”
“And you are called Mungo; you are the leader of those who have given allegiance to the Nail Riven God.” The tall man replied with a thick Pictish accent.
The abbot shrugged; “Iossa alone is Lord and Master, I am only a sinful and unworthy servant.”
Myrddin gave a wild chuckle, ending in a cough “You servants of the new religion always put yourselves down.” He strode past the abbot and indicated with hooked finger to follow. He did so. They came to the side of the sloping hill where a grassy henge around the monastery delineated sacred space, then the wizard drew close to Kentigern and spoke quietly, so only the breeze could share their conversation. The scent of the seer’s breath reminded Mungo of heather-covered hills.
“I have foreseen my passing,” Myrddin said.
“All men are as grass,” The abbot replied, quoting from a Psalm.
“Quia omnis caro ut fœnum,” Myrddin affirmed.
Kentigern gasped. “You know Latin!”
“You are surprised? Have they not told you of the Druid ways? They taught us much of Latin, and Greek, along with the languages of the Gaels and Englisc. And we know, as well, portions of sacred writings from other lands.”
“But you are a Pagan!”
“You think that Pagans must be ignorant?” The wizard’s voice had an ominous tone.
“Forgive me, Sir. I mean you no disrespect. But to your point, you have foreseen your own death—and that occasioned your visit?”
The mage paused, his eyes darting back and forth across the sky, and his nostrils smelling the breeze, as if awaiting a sign in the air. Then he pointed toward a distant, tree-covered hill. “Do you know the altar stone, the old one that is there?”
“Yes.”
“Meet me at the stone at this time, in three days. Bring a loaf of your sacred bread, and the cup of wine that you say is blood.”
Kentigern was again surprised. “You wish to partake of the Eucharist? Do you desire to confess Christ before you leave this world?”
“Was not your Iossa also the Logos, the one Greeks say is the All-Soul?”
“He is.”
“Then he is also Neart, the All-Soul of the Oak Wise.” Kentigern nodded.
The wizard continued, “The people of our land need to believe in something greater than themselves; lacking faith, people perish. Few of us are left now with knowledge of the old ways, and soon that will be lost. When I am gone, the people will seek another source of wisdom.” He turned his gaze directly at the Abbot. “You still have much to learn, but you do hold understanding. I will share in the cup and bread with you, so that the the people of Caledonia will look to you for illumination after I am gone.”
***
Fedelmed NicCoran pulled the wool of her mantle over her baby’s head, where the bairn sucked contentedly at her breast. He was a quiet one, little given to crying throughout the day, but she was minded to keep the drizzle of rain from disturbing him, and she didn’t want a sound to disturb the hush which had settled over the gathered crowd.
She glanced up at Coran, her man, beside her. He stood unmoved by the rain, used, as he was, to a lifetime herding cattle in the wind and cold, up and down the hills and glens. While his face was expressionless, she could see that his thoughts dashed to and froe. Like everyone else in this crowd, he was transfixed by this encounter.
Two men sat opposite each other, between them the ancient flat-topped boulder that been called – from before the most aged elders’ time – “The Altar.” Fedelmed had seen many chickens and, in harder times, sheep, with their entrails strewn across its unyielding surface. Never had she beheld in this place such imposing figures as these men leaning on its rim.
One man was Myrddin. The name alone sent chills down her spine. No one in her village had actually seen the mage – but some had spoken to those that had. There were tales of Myrddin transforming himself into a deer, or a bird of prey. Parents warned their children, “Stop your whining, or the Old Man in the hills will get you!” Young couples wishing to be with child were as likely to whisper his name in invocation, as they were to call on the deities.
There were other things said of the mage, whispered, as if in fear that he could hear their conversation. He had been the chief warrior and druid of a king, but had failed to turn the tide of battle against the hosts of his foes at the battle of Arfdrydd. His three brothers and his liege all had died, and the druid had been forced to slay his own nephew who fought on the enemy side. They said that the shock of it all had driven Myrddin mad, and Fedelmed was unsurprised at that part of the tale, for she had seen stalwart men changed by the horrors of battle.
For years after that, no one saw the druid warrior, and then there were rumors of a hermit – or was he a wood spirit? A being belonging to the gorse and the pines, as much as to mortal humans. Fedelmed had heard tales of how Myrddin the Seer saw everything from afar. She’d wondered if she would ever lay eyes on him and now – just paces away – sat the man of power himself.
The other one at the altar was almost as renowned, though more familiar. Twice she’d seen the one called Mungo. Her neighbors and she had been surprised when this priest of the new religion, clad in a white robe, the top of his head shaven, strode into their modest settlement. Only rarely did anyone make the hard climb from the valley up to their remote village.
He spoke with animation that exceeded his grasp of their dialect, but his meaning was clear. He told of one named Iossa, who wielded power greater than all gods, and who could change people’s lives like the transforming of a pupa into a butterfly. Mungo’s bravery and enthusiasm were infectious, so some villagers came under the priest’s spell and went with him to a nearby brook to be magically reborn.
Her man Coran was not one who followed the new god Iossa. Coran was little given to rash movements of any kind. Words came slowly from his lips, but they were wise and well weighed. Folks looked to Coran for life words when needed, and she glowed inwardly that he was her man and father of the precious one sucking at her breast.
Now Coran, like all those of her village, stared intently at the two holy men leaning toward one another over the blood stone.
Not only village folk were here; two warriors had trekked up, all the way from the valley fortress of Lord Galam. The villagers stood well apart from them, frightened by the sight of their polished helmets and swords.
Then she heard the priest intone, “Hoc est corpus meum,” and with these strange sounding words he broke a piece of bread and handed it to the seer.
All eyes were fastened on the mage, as he slowly took the bread then chewed it deliberately. His expression was inscrutable.
The little one pulled back from her nipple and Fedelmed patted its back, hoping that not even a burp would disturb the absolute hush of the gathering.
“Hic est enim Calix Sánguinis Mei,” Mungo exclaimed, and handed a cup to the seer.
He drained it.
Then Myrddin stood and addressed the crowd. “In past years, you have come to me when you have needed a word, or a healing. I have been a steward of people, as I have been a steward of the fish, fowl, and beasts of this land, until this day.” Myrddin set the fingers of his right hand on Mungo’s forehead. “Listen now to this man, respect him as your father, for very soon my voice will be stilled.”
There were gasps from the onlookers.
“Sir, where are you going?” Fedelmed almost fell over hearing her husband’s voice.
The mage turned his gaze – oh, what eyes! Toward her Coran, and then he laughed – a frightening cackle, the like of which she’d never heard.
“I go to visit a windbag of a chieftain in his pile of stones in the valley,” Myrddin replied.
The two steel-helmed warriors exchanged glances, then turned and jogged quickly down the hillside.
“I doubt the sage will get a warm reception,” Fedelmed whispered to her husband.
The crowd began to move now, and voices were heard above the soft drizzle of rain on the grass. Some – those who had previously converted – came to speak with Mungo. Others – determined to resist the way of the new god – started back to the village.
Coran stood motionless.
Fedelmed rocked her baby and looked intently at her husband’s face. “My heart, what do you think of this?”
“The seer is leaving, and he has given us to the hand of this one.” He gestured toward the abbot. “We must walk the path of the new god, Iossa.”
Fedelmed felt suddenly dizzy at these words. “Our bairn will grow up then in a new kind of world, a strange way of being, that our parents and their parents never saw.”
Coran put his arm over her shoulder and with faltering steps they moved toward the altar.
***
“You worthless piles of offal!” Galam screamed at the trembling men. “He insulted me like that and you let him live?
You didn’t even take him prisoner? My hounds would serve me better than you two dalcops”
“Bu-bu-but your lordship…” stammered the braver of the two. “He was Myrddin…the great mage…we’re certain.”
“A worthless old dotard of a man, a crazy fool that lives alone in the hills…and you sons of swine were afraid to touch him?”
The chieftain’s eyes bulged and he shook with anger. “Breth!” He yelled, and another warrior, clad to his knees in an armored jerkin, ran to his side. “Escort these men to the pit. Let them think overnight of how they’ve failed their lord.
In the morning, have them whipped to death.”
The one called Breth whistled and the other guards dashed into the hall, seized the two unfortunate men, and dragged them away.
Galam grunted, then hauled his ponderous frame up a short flight of stairs to settle back onto his throne. He ordered a servant to bring him mead, and – when the request was promptly fulfilled – emptied half of his drinking horn.
Myrddin. Galam had hated that man since the first time he heard of him. He didn’t believe in wizardry; didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t buy, kill, impregnate, or eat. The old skamelar, Myrddin, had been a warrior once, from what Galam had heard. He must have been a coward as well, for he lost a battle and ran like a spineless hare into the forest. And yet…the people feared this bumpkin fortune teller. They went to him for advice and cures, the hedge-born sods. When a person whom others respect speaks ill of the chieftain…something must be done.
He chugged down the rest of the horn and called for another fill of fermented honey. This time, a servant girl came.
What was her name? Oh, yes, Iled. Her parents had died, leaving the young woman without land or means; she had come to the fortress for work, and Galam’s wife had urged him to take her in. As Iled made her way back to the kitchen the chieftain had a sudden, comforting thought. She was not unpleasant looking; bedding a new servant might make things feel better. He was about to call the girl, when he heard the sound of a horn from outside the hall. Breth ran back in.
“My Lord Galam, a visitor approaches. He is…Myrrdin.”
Galam spat. “Then he’s more of a bampot than I thought he was. Seize him and bring him here.” He settled back in his throne, quaffed more mead, and belched.
Soon, the mage stood before him, held tightly between the chieftain’s strongest men, but still clutching his staff topped with its oddly glowing stone.
“What sort of salach scarecrow is this?” the Chieftain sneered, a dribble of mead trickling down his beard.
“Is this the way that a great lord shows hospitality?” replied the mage.
“Hospitality? You insulted me in public! I’ll have your head on a post!”
The mage chuckled, infuriating the ruler even further, then asked: “Is it not the ancient custom—followed in every hall of this land—that any traveler requesting food and drink should be served, with courtesy, before any question or demand is made of him? Surely the great Lord Galam is rich and generous enough to grant a weary traveler a bit of pork and horn of drink?”
The chieftain’s lip sneered but he thought to himself, why not? I can watch him squirm at my table, toy with the mouse before I pounce? Galam gestured toward a table, and motioned for his servants to comply with the seer’s request.
The guards let go of the mage’s arms, but stood close behind when he sat.
Servers headed for the table, and Galam spied Iled among them. He was in no mood, now, to delay gratification.
“You! Girl!” He motioned toward her. She came and bowed.
He grabbed her arm roughly and stood to pull her out of the hall.
“My Lord, what are you…?” And then she realized, screamed and tried to pull away. He slapped her and she spat in his face. The hall went silent.
Galam froze for a moment, shocked at this open act of defiance, then yanked a dagger from his belt.
“YOU WILL NOT!” A voice like thunder declared, as a blinding flash of light exploded in the hall and Myrddin’s staff struck the knife from Galam’s hand. “Run, girl – run far and start your life anew” Myrddin shouted at Iled.
She did not hesitate.
Galam staggered backward, tripped over a stair and crashed onto the floor.
Myrddin spun, glared at the cowering courtiers and guards, and strode back out of the fortress.
But Galam’s anger quickly overcame his shock. He pulled himself up the stairs and onto his chair then called for Breth, who appeared before the throne, though a bit more slowly than before.
“After him! Slay him.” Breth hesitated. “Did you not hear? How dare you delay? He’ll get away.”
The warrior still balked. “Uh…my Lord…his staff, his powers…”
Galam rethought the command. “The three assassins are they in residence?”
“They are.”
“The old fool drank from the cup of the Nail Riven God, did he not, today?”
“He did, my Lord.”
“So he despises the gods. Well then, tell the assassins to make a sacrifice of him – the elements will have revenge for his betrayal, though the offering is but an old crow.”
***
Stunted oaks lined the footpath from the fortress to the riverside. Myrddin walked slowly, savoring his surroundings. The moist breeze tousled his hair as he paused to listen to a robin sing and watched a leaf spiral down from a tree. After walking a score of paces, the path came abreast of a lesser creek, the Pwsail. It was a happy rivulet, he thought, with perfectly clear water lapping over brown and reddish stones. A heron flapped lazily along the course of the burn. He waved at it, and the bird veered off its course, circling once around him in recognition.
His mystical senses connected the sounds and sights of the forest, the consciousness of creatures nearby, and the distant sound of a harp, echoing from the other realm. It was all in harmony, aligned with the great song of the All Soul.
Myrddin felt wonderfully light and free.
The path came out of forest onto a riverside field where the Pwsail flowed into the Tweed. At the place where the rivers met he stood still, feeling the peace of the tall grass, the peace of the rushing river, and the peace of the cooling wind…
The assassins crept up behind him noiselessly, but he sensed their every footfall and turned when they were almost upon him. One was stocky and held a noose, the one in the middle was slight and carried a double-edged sword, and the third man, a tall one, wrung his hands together—these were obviously his weapon of choice.
They drew back when the mage faced them, then glanced at one another and, as one, stepped forward.
“So, we have a hangman, a swordsman, and one to push me beneath the waters – the triple death is it?” They stepped closer, and one nodded slightly.
“’I thank you for this service, I’ve been waiting a long time for the day of my passing.” Myrddin could see the swordsman’s face twitching, as if a question were almost on his lips. “You have something to say, before that blade finds its mark?”
The man blurted out, “How do you die, as Pagan or Christian? Will you be in Tir-na-nog, or the Christian’s heaven?”
The seer chuckled. “Your concern is practical – you wonder if the elements will accept this sacrifice you make of me.
Know then that I have always served Neart, the Great One who inhabits all living things, as the druids taught me years ago. Yet, I believe that I have unknowingly served Iossa as well. Does that confuse you? Perhaps you should exchange the study of murder for philosophy?”
They set upon him. He was only dimly aware of the pain of choking, the sword sliding through his ribs, and the sudden cold of the river. His life force had already flown.
The body started to sink.