Day 393

 

Dee and I have resumed our excavations at the rear of my cell.

Today, upon removing the camouflaging stones, I was astonished to see how far we have progressed. Our tunnel has already pierced four courses of hard granite blocks! Delighted, I took up my tool with a buoyant heart. My tongue, too, was unusually light and free.

“Yesterday,” I said as we worked side by side, “you spoke of Galahad and the Gral quest. You said that Galahad brought the Sword to Montsalvat. Can you tell me anything of his dealings with the Stone?”  

Dee regarded me cautiously. “I said naught of a Stone.”

“But the Gral is the Stone,” I said, keeping him in the tail of my eye.

“Is it?”

“Surely I am not the first to have surmised a connection between the Gral and the Philosopher’s Stone?”

He shrugged. “Belike not.”

“Yet now I believe my suppositions were somewhat misguided.”

He turned and raised an eyebrow.

“I have already told you,” I explained, “that the New Birth is the true Philosopher’s Stone. It follows that genuine alchemical transmutation is not what the wise have always believed it to be.”

“What then?”

“Jacob Boehme said it: ‘The eternal fire is magical, and a spirit, and dies not. It moves out of a painful desire into a love-desire.’”

He pondered. “Love-desire. Is not love painful as well?”

“Without doubt. Because love never gives up.”

“As I learned,” he observed bitterly, “when Kelly would have taken my wife from me.”

“And I, when I was taken from my own,” I responded. “But don’t you see? Galahad exemplifies that relentless purity of heart. For purity of heart is to will one thing—even when the will goes astray.”

Dee smiled knowingly. “Galahad was a fool.”

“Yes and no. In a sense his quest went unfulfilled. It spelled the end of the Table Round. My quest too has failed. Yet somehow, during my long months in this darkness, I have come to believe that it will all come right in the end. That’s grace. That’s the true Elixir of Life.”

As I spoke Dee’s chisel rebounded off the wall with a hollow ringing sound.  

“Did you hear that?” I cried. “We must be getting close!”

Again he shrugged, as if indifferent to my remark.

* * * * *

 

“Help!” wailed Baxter, clinging to the net with one hand and reaching up with the other.  His pockets were bulging with jewels.  Morgan’s lost bolg, which hung drooping from his waist, dripped with rubies and diamonds every time he made a move.  “Get me out of here!”

“You traitor!” said Morgan.  “You disgusting thief!”

“I’m sorry!” whimpered Baxter.  “Really and truly!”

“You took my bag!  And my sword!”

“I can explain!”

“I don’t want an explanation.  I want my stuff.  Hand it up now, or I’ll leave you to the crows!”

“Don’t!  Please!  I’ll do whatever you say!”

“On second thought, maybe I’ll just cut the net.  I can pick up my possessions down there!”

“No!  Hold on—you can’t!  I’ve got both our swords!”

Morgan hooked a thumb over his shoulder.  “There are lots of sharp stones back down this passageway.”

“Wait!  I’ll give it back!”  Quickly Baxter undid the bolg from his belt and lifted it above his head.  “Here!  I haven’t touched it!  I never even took it out of the bag!”

Morgan knelt on the ledge.  “Why did you do this, Baxter?  And after I promised to let you come along!”

Baxter lowered his gaze.  “I couldn’t help myself, I guess.  It’s got some kind of power over me.  Ever since I saw it for the first time—that night of the storm and the earthquake in Santa Piedra.  I saw what it did for you, Izaak.  You weren’t the same kid anymore.  After that I wanted to—to be your friend.”

“That’s not friendship.”

“Why not?  You’ve got something I need.  I said I’d help you.  You can help me, too.”

“How?”

Baxter raised his head and looked straight up into Morgan’s eyes.  “My dad hates me,” he said.

Morgan stared.  “Hates you?”

“He thinks I’m worthless.  He called me lazy.  He said I’d never amount to anything.  According to him, I’m a blot on the Knowles name.  But if I had that kind of power—”

Morgan couldn’t help pitying Baxter.  He knew what his own dad meant to him.  More importantly, he knew what it was like to be without a dad.  He understood what Baxter would be up against if Mr. Knowles stayed in New York City and never came back.  A strange, sad warmth welled up inside him as he looked down at the boy in the net.  “What if you had that kind of power?” he said.  “What then?”

“I’d use it.  I’d show him that I could be something after all!  I’d make him love me!  That’s what!”

Morgan lay flat on the narrow ledge and stretched his right hand down as far as he could reach.  “Give me the bag,” he grunted.  “I don’t think you can make anyone love you.  But I will help you up if you give me the bag.”

“Take it!” said Baxter with a grin.  “I’ll never steal from you again!  I promise!”

Morgan hauled the bolg up, opened the flap, and ran his fingers tenderly over the smooth roundness of the sword’s golden pommel.  Mine again, he thought with a sense of profound relief and satisfaction.  During the time it took to draw a single breath he felt strongly tempted to get up, strap the bag to his belt, and head back down the tunnel.  But then he thought about Baxter and his father.  He thought of own dad languishing in the Morrigu’s dungeon.

Morgan shook his head.  Baxter was an idiot, but he couldn’t possibly leave him in this fix.  The problem was, how to get him out of that net?

He leaned further over the ledge and stretched out with his fingers.  “It’s no use!” he groaned.  Your hand is just beyond my reach!”

Baxter looked back at him with an expression of fear in his pale gray eyes.  For the second time since he’d been in the Sidhe, Morgan thought about the miraculous powder inside the pommel of Paracelsus’ sword and wondered whether its transportative powers might help him in this situation.  He drew out the hilt and tried again to unscrew the golden ball from the handle.  It refused to yield.

“What is this place anyway?” he heard Baxter say.  “What are all these nets for?”

“I have no idea,” Morgan responded.  “Probably the work of the Tuatha De Danann.  A trap for their enemies.  I wish we hadn’t left that rope hanging in the tree.”

“Hold on a second!” said Baxter, a light dawning in his face.  He grasped a corner of the net and shook it.  “We’ve got all the rope we need!  And I’ve still got my Danaan sword!”

“Brilliant!” said Morgan.  “Cut a piece from the edge.  Only be careful you don’t do it in a spot where you might fall through.  Then toss the end up to me!”

In a few moments they were standing together on the narrow ledge at the top of the precarious stone stairway.  At their feet the country beyond the mountains stretched away into a dim blue distance.  On the left, two forks of a glittering stream played hide and seek among the silver-edged hills and rills of a yellow plain.  On the right a long, glassy, serpentine lake glittered in the sunlight.  Far beyond the lake a dark-blue finger of the sea zig-zagged up into the land at the base of a misty promontory.  And out beyond the promontory, rising up out of the hazy ocean like the fluttering hem of an approaching shadow, lay the long, dark line of what appeared to be an island sleeping at the edge of the world.

Squinting and shading his eyes against the sun, Morgan stared hard at this island.  The longer he stared, the more firmly convinced he became that he could see something like a sharp spike or a thin spire sticking up from the crest of its jagged spine.  He thought he knew the name of that island.  He thought he knew what that spike must be.  He turned and looked at his companion.

“Thanks,” said Baxter, offering his hand to Morgan.

“No time for that now,” Morgan answered.  “Follow me.  We don’t have a minute to lose.”

And with that he spun on his heel and went leaping down the stairway in the face of the cliff.

Retreating into the cave, Morgan switched on the flashlight and plunged into the gem-studded corridor, determined to follow the winding tunnel wherever it led.

And follow it he did:  on and on, hour after hour, until it seemed that his descending footsteps must have brought him beneath the very heart of the mountain.  And the deeper he went, the richer and gaudier, the more stunningly brilliant grew the dripping stalactites, the elephantine stalagmites, and the jewel-encrusted walls of the passage.  Precious stones protruded in clusters from the rock-face, hung down in bunches from the ceiling, jutted up from the floor like petrified bubbles of transparent color.  Everywhere he turned he saw sapphires and rubies, amethysts and carbuncles, emeralds, topazes, and diamonds.  Brighter and brighter they glowed, pulsating with a luminescence of their own, until the beam of Morgan’s flashlight faded away completely before their radiance.

Eventually he came to a place where so many gemstones lay scattered across the pathway that he had to slow his pace simply in order to avoid tripping over them.  Here he saw signs that many treasure-hunters had passed this way before.  There were broken shards of crystal on the ground, deep glassy scrapings and scorings in the walls, and a confusion of footprints in the ruby-red dust.  Morgan was strongly tempted to follow their example by stopping to load his pack with precious stones, but he dared not take the time.  The jewel he was seeking—the jewel of the miraculous sword—was of far greater worth to him than any gem.  That jewel, he firmly believed, was going to help him find the greatest treasure of all:  his father.  And with every passing moment it was slipping further beyond his grasp.  He closed his eyes to the dazzling beauties of the underground passage and pressed on.

At last he turned a sharp corner and found himself confronting what looked like a patch of blazing daylight at the end of a long, straight corridor.  The door to the outside!

Picking up his feet, he bounded over a pile of glittering gold nuggets and began to run.  But no sooner had he made the jump than the floor of the passage suddenly dropped and pitched steeply forward.  A few steps more and it became as smooth and as slick as a sheet of ice or polished glass.  Morgan slipped, fell, and began to slide.

“I can’t stop!” he cried as he hurtled forward at a great rate of speed.  The square opening at the end of the tunnel lay straight ahead.  With all his might he thrust his arms and legs sideways in a desperate attempt to brace himself against the wall.  And then, in a second, it was over.

Not far off a shower of gravel was hissing and skittering over a hard rocky surface.  To Morgan’s ears it sounded as if it were falling a long way.  He opened his eyes and looked around.  The strap of his backpack had caught on a sharp spur of limestone just inside the cavern door.  Unhooking himself, he crept forward on his hands and knees and peered out.

The end of the passage, which stood high in the face of a steep, craggy mountainside, opened onto a little stone ledge no more than two feet wide.  From this ledge a narrow stairway descended sideways along the cliff to the bottom of a deep gorge.  Far, far below, at the base of the scarp, he could see heaps of sun-bleached skulls and bones glinting dully in the slanted autumn daylight.  And higher up the bluff, between him and those grim piles of pale death, stretched a series of long, deep, thick-corded nets.  These were laid out with great care and cunning along the face of the precipice, just as if someone had set them on purpose to catch greedy trespassers and gemstone-gatherers.

Many of the nets contained quarry.  Among the trapped were several long-necked cranes; an eagle, a fox, and a highland goat; some squirrels and rabbits; a bandy-legged Fir Bolg mountaineer; and a couple of round-headed Fomorians.

Some of the prisoners squirmed and fought and struggled.  Some howled and screeched at the top of their lungs.  Some lay limp in the thick rope meshes, looking as if they had long since given up the ghost.  But the victim that caught and held Morgan’s attention was the one that occupied the net nearest to the opening where he crouched—the one that hung just below the narrow stone ledge.

It was Baxter Knowles.

(To be continued …)

Morgan awoke in near total darkness.  His arm was numb.  His neck was stiff and sore.  He winced as he shifted his weight and felt a stabbing pain shoot down his spine like a bolt of lightning.  Apparently he had fallen asleep with his head propped against a rock wall and his backpack jammed awkwardly under his left shoulder.

“Ow!” he moaned, rolling onto his side and unslinging the pack.  For a few moments he couldn’t remember where he was or what he had been doing.  He sat up and rubbed his eyes.  And then, like a scene from a forgotten movie, it all came back to him:  the wild flight from the Baile; the harrowing descent from the tree; the beast with the sharp teeth and the rainbow monkey-face; the rain and the flashing sword and the hasty retreat into the cave.

He blinked and looked around.  It was hard to see anything.  The only illumination came from the cavern’s mouth, which was low and screened from his view by an outcropping of jagged rock.  Opening his backpack, he took out his flashlight, switched it on, and swung the beam from one end of the chamber to the other.

Baxter was nowhere to be seen.

“Baxter!” he called, his voice rebounding hollowly down a long, empty corridor.  “Baxter!  Are you here?”

No answer.

“Baxter!”

The name went echoing into the shadows until it died somewhere deep in the interior of the hillside.

Morgan got up and stumbled further into the cave.  It seemed to go back for a long, long way.

“Baxter!” he cried again, shining the light up and down, peering into rocky nooks and crannies, stopping every so often to look behind big boulders and gleaming stalactites.  “Where are you?”

And then, as the light slid over a deposit of sparkling emerald crystals in the wall, sending a splash of green brilliance up to the ceiling and down across the front of his tunic, he suddenly noticed something else.

His bolg was no longer hanging at belt.

His heart racing, Morgan retraced his steps.  Back he went to the place where he had been sleeping beside the wall.  There he got down on his hands and knees and examined every inch of the floor.  Again he flashed his light from one side of the cavern to the other.  Five times he crawled around the chamber in search of the bag.  But there was no trace of it.  It was completely gone.  And gone with it was the precious Sword of Paracelsus!

That rat! he thought.  I should never have trusted him!

There was only one thing to do.  Hunt the culprit down.  He couldn’t have gone far.  He didn’t know the terrain, and he obviously wasn’t cut out for hardship and danger.  Probably hiding under a bush somewhere, smirked Morgan as he peered out through the cavern door.

Outside it had stopped raining.  Birds chattered in the wet shrubbery below the dark gray-green hillsides.  Spiral-shaped fall flowers, orange, red, and yellow, bent their heads together in the shaded spaces between the rocks.  The sun was still below the horizon, and two very bright stars gleamed white between pink and lavender bands of cloud.  He glanced to the right.  He glanced to he left.  And then he saw it.

Halfway down the muddy slope that he and Baxter had climbed the previous afternoon sat the horrid monkey thing.  Its arms were raised above its head and its long multicolored snout was tilted upward to the heavens.  It did not notice Morgan, for it had its back towards the cave.  But Morgan realized at once that there was no possibility of slipping past it unseen.

Not this way, he thought.  I can’t possibly fight that thing without the sword.  Baxter must have found some other path.

(To be continued …)

Quickly she drew the knife from the bag and cut the cords binding her feet. Then, after chafing her wrists and ankles to get the blood flowing, she attached her bolg to her belt and pulled out the Feth Fiada.

Fodbgen groaned, raised himself on one elbow, and looked around. Eny threw the invisible cloak over her head and got to her feet. As she watched, the giant’s bewildered black eyes turned towards her. They seemed to linger on her face momentarily, then swept blindly past. She took one hesitant step, then another. She moved towards the narrow opening in the rock.

Just then Fuat blundered into the dell with a wineskin over his shoulder.

“I’m back!” he cried. “Had to go all the way to our stash on the other side of the mountain. Never thought that—”

Suddenly his eyes popped and his mouth fell open. “Where is it?” he blurted, scanning the grotto from one end to the other before casting a pleading look at his partner. “Where’d she go?”

Fodbgen’s face was red as a beet. “I’m skewered if I know!” he shouted. “Why in Balor’s Evil Eye did you let her get away?”

“Me?” fumed the other. “I just got back! What’ve you been up to, pig?”

“Who’s calling who a pig?”

“Ate her all up yourself, did you?”

“Why, you—!”

Eny slipped past the two squabbling Fomorians and crept out between the two stone pillars at the edge of the circle. She heard Fuat screech in pain as they grappled and fell into the simmering coals of the dying fire. I’ve made it! she thought. I’m home free!

But no sooner had she stepped outside the ravine than something behind her caught at her cloak and twitched it away. Suddenly she felt naked. Snagged it on a rock, she thought, looking back to see what had happened.

The first thing she saw was a pair of burning green eyes.

In the next moment a couple of pointed black ears took shape just above the eyes. Then a sleek black tail could be seen flickering over the ground.

At last the entire cat took shape before her eyes, emerging as if out thin air. It was sitting on its haunches, staring at her serenely with the Feth Fiada in its mouth. Apparently the two Fomorians could see it too, for they stopped their scuffling and slowly approached the rocky portal. There were expressions of mute terror on their pale, flabby faces. At the sound of their footsteps the cat dropped the invisible cloak and turned to face them

“Just checking,” it said—and as it spoke, it reared up on its hind legs and assumed the form of a beautiful, dark-haired, green-eyed woman in a long, black robe.

“A simple test,” she continued in a calm, soothing voice. “To see if the system works. I’m afraid you two failed.”

As Eny watched, the woman lifted her right hand. Instantly the Fomorians were reduced to two piles of smoking ash at her feet. Then she turned and smiled, her eyes glowing like two green moons. Eny knew her at once.

It was Madame Medea. It was the Morrigu.

“How pleasant to see you again, my dear,” she said.

Directly opposite the place of her landing gaped a broad opening in the dark, craggy cliff above the shore. Packing her bag, she made her way towards this shadowy gap, shells and pebbles crunching beneath her feet. The opening led to a path that rose steeply through a twisting gorge to a notch high in a rocky ridge. Maybe I’ll be able to see the tower from up there, she thought.

She began climbing at once, but the way was longer than it seemed. By the time she reached the pass at the head of the trail, sweating and panting and burning with thirst, the sun was high and the morning was nearly spent.

I wonder if there’s any water around here? she thought. Leaning against one of the two tall rocks that stood up like grim, gray sentries on either side of the path, she dipped into her bolg and ate a handful of raisins. Then, eager for a peek at the landscape on the other side of the ridge, she tightened her belt and stepped through the stony portal.

That was when she heard the voice—a deep, gruff voice that echoed as if it were coming up out of the depths of a cave:

“Well, now! What have we here?”

Eny stopped in her tracks. She knew in a heartbeat that she’d walked into a trap. There was no vista to be seen beyond the narrow gateway—just a rough, rocky dell under an overhanging cliff, circular in shape and half-open to the sky. Below the cliff, in the middle of a gravelly space, burned a smoky little campfire. And on either side of the fire sat a hulking, bug-eyed, bulbous-nosed giant, each one dressed in a long shirt of dull gray ring-mail, each with a heavy club of knotty oak at his feet. Fomorians!

Her first thought was of the Feth Fiada. Where was it? The terror and excitement of her perilous sea-crossing had driven the invisible cloak clean out of her thoughts. Until that moment she had entirely forgotten it—along with all of Brighid’s careful warnings and instructions!

Instantly she made a frantic grab for the bag at her waist. But before she could open it and lay hold of the gossamer mantle, a crushing weight struck her in the back with all the force of an avalanche, slamming every particle of air out of her body. Then a pair of huge, thick-fingered hands grasped her by the shoulders and threw her face-down in the gravel. A shadow fell across her as she lay there gasping for breath. Rolling onto her side, she found herself looking up into the heavily-jowled face of her Fomorian captor.

“Danaan?” growled his partner, a no-necked, hunchbacked, black-browed brute who sat gnawing a bone on the other side of the fire.

“S’pose,” answered the first Fomor, who stood looming over her, his huge misshapen head tilting to one side, his left eye squinting maliciously at his prey. “Too big for Bag-Folk—toting some of their gear, though.”

“Have a look inside,” said the other, tossing down the bone and picking up another from a pile beside the fire. “Anything we want?”

Wrenching the bolg from Eny’s belt, the first giant tore it open and peered eagerly within. Almost at once she saw his expression change from greed to disappointment. “Empty!” he spat, flinging the bag against the wall.

Empty? Eny groped in her mind for an explanation. And then it struck her: Of course! The Feth Fiada! It’s at the top of the bag!

“What are you?” said the bone-chewer, eyeing her hungrily. “Fairy or Fir Bolg? Pinch her good if she don’t talk, Fuat.”

Eny sat up straight and brushed the hair from her eyes. “I’m the Maiden of Perfect Purity.”

The giant’s mouth dropped open. “The what?”

“You heard me. I came to Tory to see the Morrigu. She’s looking for me.”

The Fomorians burst into an echoing guffaw.

“You heard her, Fodbgen!” roared Fuat. “She wants to see the Morrigu!”

“Hoity toity,” grumbled the other. “Too bad you came to the wrong place. This is Ara. Not Tory.” His black eyes narrowed as his dirty yellow teeth champed down on the bone with a loud crack!

“Well, then, take me there,” demanded Eny.

“Sorry,” said Fodbgen, sucking out the marrow. “We don’t take orders from nobody.”

“Not even from her, eh?” winked Fuat.

“You have to,” Eny insisted. “She’s your Queen.”

“Maybe,” grinned Fodbgen. “But what she don’t know won’t hurt her.”

“And tomorrow’s another day,” offered his comrade, this time with two winks. “And another meal. Right?”

Again they burst into a fit of raucous laughter. Eny sat staring at them, trembling from head to foot, wondering what was going to happen next.

That’s when she noticed the cat.

It was a sleek black cat. A cat of unusual size and appearance—as large as a big dog, she thought, and as subtle and sensual in its expression as a princess of the Nile. It was lying beside the fire, just behind Fodbgen’s bone-pile, stroking itself with its long pink tongue, casting its great green eyes slowly from one end of the rocky dell to the other.

As Eny watched, those piercing green orbs suddenly swung round and fastened themselves upon her. All at once the blood drained away from her face. She felt as if she was going to faint. She looked away and tried to fix her attention upon Fuat’s round red nose.

“Tie her up!” ordered Fodbgen. “Then go and get me something to drink.”

A coil of rope lay atop a heap of spears, knives, pots, pans, sticks of firewood, and assorted garbage. Fuat lumbered across the open space to fetch it. As he did, the black cat arose, arched its back, and stepped out directly in front of him. To Eny’s great surprise, he didn’t seem to notice. For an instant she thought he was going to trip over the creature. But at the crucial moment the cat lightly avoided the giant’s feet and scampered around to the front of the fire right under Fodbgen’s nose. The bone-cruncher went on with his meal as if completely oblivious to its passage. Then, with a toss of its head, the cat strutted out between the two stony pillars and disappeared from the ravine.

Didn’t they see it? wondered Eny.

Fuat brought the rope and bound her tightly hand and foot. Then he picked her up and dropped her like a sack of meal beside her bolg.

“I’m off, then!” he grunted, and away he went.

Fodbgen, in the meantime, tossed his bone aside and sprawled at full length on the ground. Almost immediately Eny heard him begin to snore.

The cat had gone. So had Fuat. Fodgben was sound asleep.

Eny was left alone with her thoughts.

Why? she wondered. Why do I see the cat while they can’t?

It was a mystery she could not unravel, though she revolved several theories in her mind. She thought of her blue eye. She recalled the tale of Eithne and Moira’s many other stories of the Second Sight. She remembered that the Fomorians were shape-changers. She pondered the possibility that the cat might be one of them in another form. She looked from one end of the little grotto to the other, frantically searching for some means of escape. And then, as the slumbering Fodbgen rolled over with a snort, another thought suddenly occurred to her:

There’s a knife inside my bag.

Raising herself to a sitting position, she scooted sideways until the bolg was directly behind her. Reaching back with her bound hands, she fumbled blindly with the latch for a few minutes, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the sleeping Fomor. At last she succeeded in opening the flap and reached inside. The airy, cobwebby texture of the Feth Fiada tickled her fingers as she shoved it aside and thrust down deep into the bag. She wiggled her fingertips this way and that. She pushed past the cloth-wrapped packet of food. She cringed and held her breath as one of the strings on her fiddle emitted a muted plunk! And then she touched it—the smooth bone handle of the knife.

Now comes the hard part, she thought as she gingerly drew it to the top of the bag. How in the world do I use this knife to cut these cords?

Just then her hand brushed against the sack of sling-stones. Suddenly she had an idea. Taking great care not to cut herself, she turned the knife in her hands and drove the handle down into the sack of stones. When it seemed secure, she began to rub the cords on her wrists against its sharp edge.

Slowly and gently she moved her hands, up and down, up and down, worried at every pass that the force of her motion might dislodge the knife from the anchoring stones. As she worked, the sun slipped beyond the edge of the serrated cliff. The autumn afternoon began to fade. Everything seemed to shift into slow motion. Her nose began to itch and a drop of sweat trickled down her cheek. And then—

Got it! The rope parted and fell away from her hands.

(To be continued …)

 

When Eny awoke, Brighid was nowhere to be seen. She had disappeared without a trace. Not even the fallen leaves at the base of the tree where she had been sitting the previous evening showed any evidence of her presence. There were no tracks, no footprints, no broken twigs or trampled grasses to indicate which way she had gone. Eny searched the wood, calling her friend by name, but there was no answer. At length she was forced to give up the quest.

Sad at heart and weary of limb, she gobbled two oatcakes from her store and drank from the cold, clear rivulet that flowed nearby. After that, she struck her tent, packed her bag, and set off through the trees.

Tiptoeing warily to the edge of the little grove, she peered out from between the trunks of the pines and saw the endless ocean glittering blue-green and white at the bottom of a steep sandy slope. Over the ground between the wood and the beach nodded a few sparse patches of thin, dry grass. Above her head the trees were alive with birdsong. The sky was as clear as a pane of polished glass. Off to the west a fingernail moon was setting on the far side of the Firth. And out across the water rose the dark hump of an island, gray-green in color and round as the back of a whale.

Is that Tory? she wondered, gazing hard at the barren heap of stone. She remembered seeing Tory Island from the hill above Rury’s dun. It seemed to her that, on that occasion, she had clearly discerned the tower of Tur Morraigu rising up like a spire of obsidian from its highest ridge. Guess I’m seeing it from a different angle today.

Leaving the wood, she went down to the water’s edge where the breakers boomed and hissed on the shining sands. There she unlatched her bolg from her sheepskin belt, dumped its contents, and began to undo the folds of leather once more, this time shaping them into a small boat or currach like the one she had learned to navigate on the bay of Luimneach near Semeon’s dun. When the boat was finished, she loaded all her possessions and equipment into it, found a piece of driftwood to serve as a paddle, and shoved out into the deep.

Once beyond the surf, she rowed vigorously for the island. It was tiresome work, for the choppy waves were against her. “Unh!” grunted Eny, digging deeper and harder with every stroke of her awkward paddle-stick; and then, all at once, with a jolt and a jerk, a stiff current seized the coracle and sent it skimming like a leaf around the edge of a circular coral reef.

Suddenly an image rose up before her mind’s eye: swirling green waters, gyrating winds, a funnel that pierced the ocean floor itself. “No!” she screamed, remembering the Morslogh and the terrors of that dark passageway between the worlds. She pulled with all her might, fighting desperately to drag the currach clear of current. But this time the powerful surge did not plunge her into the trough of a whirlpool. Instead, it swept her far out to sea, past the reef and all the way around to the distant side of the island.

Round and round in a series of wide circles spun the frail little craft. At last, dizzy with the relentless motion, Eny shipped her oar and pitched forward into the bottom of the currach. A moment later the current died just as suddenly as it had arisen. Opening her eyes, she saw the vast blue dome of the sky wheeling lazily overhead.

Slowly she sat up looked around. She was lying in a calm, glassy bay just within the shadow of the island’s beetling cliffs. Well, thought Eny, taking a long, deep breath, that wasn’t so bad! Then she paddled to shore, jumped out into the rippling water, and dragged her little boat up onto the sand.

(To be continued …)

Day 392, continued

 

I gazed at him with a feeling of compassion such as I have never felt for anyone. It seemed to me that he had grossly understated his case. He was not merely unutterably old and weary—he was fading away before my very eyes. He was, in fact, the closest thing to a ghost I had ever seen: thin as water, attenuated as air, frail as an ancient parchment.

The look of him reminded me of my dear wife in the days of her lingering illness. That illness came and went with her as the ebbing tide: always returning, never far distant. I wondered how it was with her now. I wondered how she was faring with our infant son. “He will be more than a year old by now,” I thought. I reached out and touched Dee’s arm.

“You did well to cast the sword away,” I said. “I cannot but think that it will go well with you in the end because of the choice you made.”

He turned to me with a look of gratitude in his eyes.

Then I said, “You told me that you made inscriptions on the sword before you let it go.”

“Yea,” he answered. “Upon the quillion. In the Enochian tongue.”

“What did they say?”

He compressed his lips said nothing. But in a while I heard him mutter, “Mine were not the only markings. There were others on the blade.”

“Yes,” I said. “In ancient Ogham. ‘To Divide and Bind.’ That much I know. Can you tell me what it means?”

“Nay,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I know naught of Ogham, nor of the history of the sword before my time. I know only what Paracelsus told me: that it was brought to Montsalvat by the knight Galahad when he came questing after the Gral.”

“The Gral,” I said smiling. “And what do you know about that?”

“Little enough,” said he.               

                               

* * * * *

 

Even as Morgan spoke, Baxter’s expression changed from one of slavish solicitation to abject horror. What a baby! thought Morgan. But in the next moment he realized that Baxter’s terror-stricken eyes weren’t focused on him at all. They were riveted on something high above his head—something in the tree.

“The rope!” screamed Baxter. “What’s that climbing down the rope?”

Morgan looked up. Never had he seen a creature like the one that was at that very moment rapidly descending the wildly gyrating rope like a frantic, furious, agile ape. Its multi-colored proboscis was something halfway between the muzzle of a mandrill and the beak of a toucan. Its flaccid lips rippled over its sharp yellow teeth like two flaps of rubber. Its wiry body was covered with tangled red fur. Its long fingers and toes ended in deadly curved black talons.

“Run!” shouted Morgan as the thing prepared to jump. Without looking back to see if Baxter was following, he snatched up his backpack and took off down a long, broad avenue through the majestic trees.

There was a pale light at the end of that aisle. As Morgan pounded over the carpet of fallen needles, his breath coming hot and fast, he realized that he was nearing the edge of the forest. Breaking out from beneath the redwoods, he found himself running through a downpour. Ahead of him lay a narrow stream, dark beneath the gloomy sky. Beyond it rose a range of gentle hills, gray and indistinct behind the veil of cold rain.

Over the stream splashed Morgan, up the muddy bank on the further side, and straight ahead into the dim and rocky highlands. As he entered a narrow defile between the roots of the lower slopes he saw what looked like a cave or a black hole in the side of the hill. At the same instant he heard the voice of Baxter hailing him from behind.

“Use it!” Baxter cried hoarsely. “Why don’t you use it?”

Use what? thought Morgan.

And then it hit him. Stopping dead in his tracks, he spun on his heel, drew the sword, and swung it up over his head. He could hear it crackle and snap as the raindrops struck the searing steel, bouncing off in little puffs of steam. He could see the face of Baxter, mouth wide, eyes like half-dollars, as he came charging up the slope with the ape-like creature hard on his heels.

“Into that cave!” he shouted as Baxter ran past. Then, gripping the hilt with both hands, he whipped the sword around in a bright, sizzling circle. The monkey-thing stumbled backwards and threw up its hands in self-defense.

For a moment Morgan stood facing his snarling foe, panting and shaking, the marvelous sword vibrating in his hands like a live wire. Then the creature dropped on all fours and slunk off sideways down the hill.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Morgan climbed the slope and ducked into the dark hole in the hillside. There, after carefully returning the sword to its place inside the bolg, he collapsed against a wall and fell into a deep sleep.

Swaying in the wind at the top of the great redwood, Morgan suddenly remembered that, among other things, the “miraculous powder” concealed inside the pommel of Azoth—or whatever the sword was called—was supposed to be able to “transport bodies from one place to another.”

Maybe it could “transport” me to the ground, he thought. I’m not sure if there’s any other way down.

He was glad the Fir Bolg’s satchel was still attached to his belt. Reaching inside, he felt for the sword and drew it out halfway into the dim and shifting light. Dark-edged clouds were racing overhead.

Bracing himself against the bole of the tree, Morgan gripped the pommel with both hands and strained to twist it. Nothing happened. Maybe the other direction, he thought. Still it didn’t budge.

Rain was hissing and skittering through the treetops in fitful bursts. He could see his backpack dangling from a branch of a neighboring tree about five feet below him. Just beneath the backpack, perched precariously in a fork between two creaking boughs, sat the pitiable figure of Baxter Knowles, clinging to the trunk with both legs and arms.

“Baxter!” he yelled down through the intervening screen of twigs and needles. “Can you reach my backpack?”

“What backpack?” was the muffled reply.

“Right above your head! Reach up and you’ll feel it!”

“I can’t let go!” whined Baxter.

“Yes, you can! There’s a rope in the pack. We can use it to climb down.”

To Morgan’s astonishment, Baxter did as he was told. Desperately grasping the tree trunk with his left arm and pressing his face into the rough bark, he raised his right hand, slowly and hesitantly, until his fingers touched the bottom of the pack.

“Good!” shouted Morgan. “Grab the strap and yank it down!”

“But it’ll knock me out of the tree!” bawled Baxter.

“Just do it!”

Hardly were the words out of Morgan’s mouth when a fresh blast of wind set the backpack swinging violently. A second later it snapped the branch and came crashing down, one of the straps falling neatly over Baxter’s arm and catching in the crook of his elbow.

“Help!” screamed Baxter, tottering this way and that as he grappled the pack to his side.

“You did it!” laughed Morgan. “Open it and toss me the end of that rope.”

After several attempts, the terrified Baxter, whose pudgy face was as pale as paper and whose hand was shaking so badly that he could barely control it, succeeded in flinging the line up and over a branch just above the one where Morgan was sitting. Looping it around the branch, Morgan made a tight knot and gave the rope a good pull.

“Seems solid,” he called down to Baxter. “Now drop the backpack, grab the rope, and let yourself down. I’ll follow when you reach the ground.”

“I don’t like this!” Baxter shouted back. “It’s too much like that rope climbing business in P.E. class,”

But again Morgan was pleasantly surprised when, a few moments later, he saw Baxter gripping the rope and rappelling slowly down the great fluted column of the tree’s vast trunk. I’m sure glad this rope was long enough, he thought as he swung off the branch and began his own descent.

Not five minutes later he was standing on the springy needle-carpeted floor of the redwood forest, wiping his hands on the hem of his tunic.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said, brushing a strand of wet straw-colored hair from his eyes. “Looks like my plan’s right on track.”

“What plan?” said Baxter, loosening his Danaan sword in the scabbard and examining the blade. “What’s this all about anyway? Why did you bring us out here? Where are we going to find anything to eat? And how do you expect to get that rope down out of the tree?”

“You ask too many questions,” Morgan shot back. “I’m the one who should be interrogating you. Why do you follow me everywhere I go?”

“I already told you. I want to help.”

“Well, I don’t think you’re going to want to help me this time. I’m headed straight into the jaws of danger.”

Baxter scowled. “So what? I can handle anything you can handle.”

“Not the Morrigu.”

“The what?”

“Madame Medea—oh, never mind. You wouldn’t understand. The point is, I’m going to rescue my dad.”

“The sorcerer?” Baxter’s grin was mocking. “Why does he need rescuing? He bailed out on you, didn’t he?”

Morgan felt his blood beginning to boil. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said thickly. “My dad was taken.”

“Taken?” laughed Baxter. “By what?’

“You’ll find out soon enough if you come with me. But you won’t. Because you’re a simpering, self-centered coward. Just like your dad.”

Baxter was on him in an instant.

“Take that back!” he hissed, gripping Morgan by the throat. “Take it back or I’ll pound you!”

Out flashed the Sword of Paracelsus in a blaze of blue fire.

“You won’t pound anybody!” shouted Morgan, shoving Baxter off. “I know you better now! You’re a big nothing without your gang of goons! And I know all about your dad, too! I heard your mom talking to my mom!”

Baxter sprang back, hid his face, and burst into tears.

Instantly Morgan was smitten with a deep pang of shame and remorse.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Stop your blubbering. I didn’t mean it. You made me mad, that’s all.”

Baxter peered at him between his fingers. “Really?”

Morgan’s cheeks were burning. His mother’s pale and gentle face rose up before him. He heard her words echoing in his mind: Everything that happens to our friends and neighbors concerns us.

“Really,” he said. “You can come with me if you want to.”

Baxter uncovered his eyes and looked up plaintively. “Then could I also … What I mean is … could I hold it? Just for a minute?”

“Hold what?”

Baxter nodded toward the sword. “If I could just touch it,” he mumbled, almost apologetically. “Just for—”

“Of course you can’t!” said Morgan, hot fury welling up in the pit of his stomach. “What do you think I—?”

He stopped, appalled at the force and power of his own words. For even as he spoke, Baxter’s expression changed …

(To be continued …)

All afternoon they plodded forward, the ground rising steadily and growing rougher and scrubbier as they went. By the time the sun was dipping into the west they had reached the top of a narrow ridge high above the water. From here they had a clear view of the firth widening out into the open sea far to the north. To her left Eny could make out the white foam of the breakers. To her right, at the end of a long, gentle slope, lay a dark patch of woodland crowning a little hill overlooking the sea. In the sky there were no fewer than fifteen pairs of great black wings wheeling above their heads.

Brighid shot Eny an earnest look. “Can you run?”

“Yes,” she answered, sensing that the birds were circling lower.

“Good,” said Brighid. And with that she picked up her skirts and bounded down the incline like a deer. But before Eny could take a single step to follow, even as the sun touched the horizon, something like a multi-colored star came blazing out of the eastern sky and drove straight into the midst of the circling flock. In an instant the birds had scattered to the four winds, their distant cries fluttering down through the air amid their drifting feathers.

“What was that?” gasped Eny as she and Brighid plunged beneath the shadowy branches of the wood beside the sea.

“A ship.” Brighid leaned panting against a smooth-skinned tree. “One of the flying ships of the Tuatha De Danann.”

“Do you think they saw us?” asked Eny, casting off her Feth Fiada and loosening the bolg from her belt.

“No.” Brighid slipped her cloak over her head and ran her fingers through her hair. “No, I don’t believe that what we just witnessed had anything to do with us. Still, I ought to take back something I said to you yesterday.”

Eny unlaced her bag and emptied it of its contents. “What’s that?”

“She may be expecting you after all. I fear she is watching.”

“The Morrigu?” Eny glanced up. “Well, I don’t care if she is.”

“Don’t say that. You must proceed even more warily from this point forward. You must go with eyes wide open.”

“But why?”

“Because she is not one to keep her promises.”

Eny shrugged. “I can’t help that. I don’t have any other choice.”

 

* * * * *

(To be continued …)

At first light they rose, breakfasted, and struck camp. Using the skills she had learned among the Fir Bolg, Eny swiftly smoothed, tucked, tied, and refolded the yards of flapping leather until the tent was a small bolg once more. Then she refilled the wondrous satchel with gear and supplies, last of all stowing her sling, her sack of stones, her fiddle, and the shadowy Feth Fiada. Then, hitching the bag to her belt, she followed Brighid down the rocky slope.

Ahead of them and just above the western horizon glimmered the crescent moon, pale and moist behind a veil of melting mist. Behind them and to their right stretched the eaves of the Hill Forest. In the distance, beyond the waving yellow grasses of the plain, Eny could see the early sunlight running like flame across a rippled sheet of liquid silver and blue.

“Is that a river?” she wanted to know.

“An arm of the sea,” answered Brighid. “The Firth of Eochaill. It juts up into the plain of Tuiread from the curving headland of the same name in the north. If we follow it we should come by nightfall to a small patch of woodland atop a gentle rise overlooking the ocean. It’s a lonely place, unlikely to be frequented by Fomor or Fir Bolg.”

As they drew nearer to the water Eny could make out the cries of sea-birds. Squinting against the glare of the sun she saw flocks of gulls wheeling in the rainbow-spattered air—gulls similar in shape to those she had known in Santa Piedra, only bigger and with feathers of glittering purple and green. In amongst the gulls dipped and soared great silver herons, blue-green cranes, and yellow cormorants, their long, graceful necks ringed with glittering gold, their broad wings skimming the tips of the laughing waves as they flew.

“Those big birds!” exclaimed Eny, pointing at the cranes and herons, her scalp tingling with a sudden twinge of alarm. “I’ve seen birds like that twice before. Once in the Sidhe and once in my own world—Only they weren’t really birds at all. They were Fomorians. Do you think these are safe?”

Brighid shaded her eyes and studied the darting and diving waterfowl. “I don’t suppose they are anything more than what they seem,” she said thoughtfully. “But you are right. It is broad daylight. We ought to go veiled.”

With that, she produced her own invisible cloak from the folds of her gown. Casting it over her head, she instantly vanished from sight.

“How do we stay together,” said Eny, “if we can’t see each other?” But the moment she donned her own Feth Fiada, she discovered that she was able to see Brighid again, only in a shadowy, ghostly form. The rest of the world, however, looked sharper and brighter than ever.

Above the beach they hit a rough, stony path and followed it northward. Huge green rocks rose up in broken and serried ranks along the sandy bank. Down below, in the middle of the firth, stood three sharp, steep piles of stone, white as snow and teeming with braying seals and squawking birds. A salty breeze came up, tossing the hems of their cloaks about their ankles as they walked. Eny wondered if watching eyes might be able to see their feet.

On and on they trudged, one hour, then two, while the sun sailed higher and higher, hiding from time to time behind scattered shreds of ruddy cloud. At length it grew so hot that Eny was compelled to throw off her Feth Fiada long enough to shed the woolen jacket she had put on in the cold dawn.

It could not have been more than a minute later that Brighid touched her arm. “Look up,” she said. “Do you see?”

Eny gazed up into the searing blue dome of the sky. High in the upper air, directly above them, wheeling in slow, lazy circles like a patient, hungry hawk, soared a great black bird.

“Do you think it saw me?” whispered Eny. “Is it dangerous?”

“I cannot say,” Brighid answered. “But I do not believe we will be in any great peril as long as we remain covered.”

But the next time Eny looked up there were two black birds circling overhead. And not long after that there were three.

At noon they came to a place where a chattering brook cut across their path and fell in a silvery cascade over the edge of a low cliff before emptying into the firth. There, in a fragrant earthy dell between cliff and stream, grew a low-spreading tree of a kind Eny had never seen. Those of its leaves that still clung to their stems—and there were many—were of a deep scarlet color. But those that had fallen to the ground glittered like piles of gold coins around the thick, twisted roots. Here on this rich carpet under a canopy of shifting red they stopped to rest and take their midday meal.

When they stepped out on the road again there were five great birds in the sky.

“What does it mean?” said Eny. “Are they following us?”

“It is odd,” said Brighid. “I have never heard of any creature that could see through the Feth Fiada. But perhaps we should get off the high road and walk in the shadows beneath the bluff. The Fomor may be stupid, but they have many powers and abilities—some granted to them by the Morrigu. It would be best to take every possible precaution.”

So they left the path and slid down the steep embankment amid a skittering landslide of pebbles and sand. Upon reaching the bottom they glanced up and saw eight black birds soaring overhead.

(To be continued …)