Tales of Avalon Read online

  “What is it, Lady? What do you want me to see?”

  The pole stood perhaps an arms length out of the water, where earlier only a handsbreadth had been visible. Because of the slant of the lake bottom, the tidal effect was greater on the north side where she stood than over in the southern marshes, but the principle was the same. As the water level rose, the mooring remained anchored in the mud, and the surface of the lake climbed higher and higher up the pole.

  “What do you want me to see?” Doeth asked again aloud in the moonlight.

  Gobaith’s boat. Look at Gobaith’s boat.

  Doeth stared. It was nearer the bottom of the pole than before, yet riding still upon the surface of the water, held fast by the length of rope. It was always that way. As dawn approached and the tide began to rise again, the boat would rise higher up the pole. But it would always be resting on the surface of the lake. The surface of the lake! Suddenly Doeth realized even if the lake level rose above the top of the pole and it disappeared from sight, the boat would rise with the water and keep its user dry!

  “My Lady,” she breathed, “If we cling to the land, the rising water is our enemy. But if we embrace the rising water, it will support us and keep us safe.”

  Doeth, came the reply. It was not in vain that your mother named you “Wise.”

  Doeth had always looked to the tenacity of the marsh sedge for hope against the water. But it was the changeful water itself in which the answer lay; the lesson of Gobaith’s boat that brought them all hope.

  ~

  “Well, that does it,” Gobaith proclaimed, as he pulled tight the last of the lashings joining the hut of Bugail and Tresglen to the rest of the small floating island. Most of the clan was finally connected, with six huts resting upon logs lashed to a series of flat bottomed marsh boats. The whole was loosely moored to several large wooden pilings set in the lake bed, and sat on the water about twelve boat lengths offshore. The clan’s new island rose and fell twice a day, about an arm span, with the tide. More importantly, there was room for the general rise that would occur over time with the rising lake level. Nearby, up and down the shore, the other clans of Ynys Calchfaen had formed five more islands. right, was the same distance from shore. farther out, but all sat close together. stretching between them, though they relied on flatboats to reach the land. A feast was held that evening onshore, with offerings and prayers of thanks to the goddess for the hope given through Gobaith, builder of the first floating island. But he and Doeth both knew it was to her the Lady had granted the gift of wisdom.

  For generations after, the Dwrtrygydd made the lake their home, living on the floating islands when water levels left Ynys Calchfaen too small to sustain the community. To their old skills they added those of lake knowledge: fishing, and trading with tribes far off across the water. One day, when the tides turned again, the floating islands settled on the marsh bed and became the great lake village of Pentreflynn. There the clans would often tell this tale around their fires, debating whether old Doeth had used her own wisdom to solve the riddle of Gobaith’s Boat, or the Lady of the Lake had truly spoken to her. But whatever that truth may be, it is because of Doeth that the Dwrtrygydd, like the sedge, remain to this day.

  One, to Gobaith’s The other four were Two had walkways

  Chapter Nine

  IV. The Lost Land of Iwerydd

  This is a tale of the coming of the Wise to the Salis Plain beyond the eastern marshes. Drwyds, they are sometimes called in error, for it was thought they bore the wisdom of the ancient oak trees. Some say they came from an emerald isle in the west, others that they once lived in lands beside a great sea in the middle of the earth. Still others claim they had their origin in four mystical cities at the far corners of the world, and are children of the goddess Danu, or that they began along the banks of an eastern river sacred to that goddess, which flows into wide black sea. Here is the tale the people of the marshes tell, and no one knows from whence it comes, for the land it describes is forever lost. The marsh people call this lost land Iwerydd, for the great sea that circles our Brythonic island. But those who once lived there knew it as Atlandes, the Fatherland.

  The realm of Iwerydd was an island to the east in the cold northern sea. It was several days’ journey across on swift foot from north to south, and longer from east to west. Its central plain was circled by a ring of coastal hills, and cut in half by a high plateau. In the center of all rose the ancient city of Arian, whose solid walls stood on the plateau like the circling hills. Those who dwelt in the land were called the Iweryddon, and they were reputed to be wise. They worshipped the bright disc of the sun, who they called the goddess Huan, and in whose honour they built great temples of stone with tools of iron that were unknown in our marshes. In those days, Lisinde was 932nd in the line of the High Priestesses of Huan, serving the Great Temple at the heart of Arian.

  There were also priests of Huan, but no High Priest, and they served no ritual function except to search the skies for omens and to trace the journeys of Huan as the seasons came and went. Countless generations of this work had made them scientists as well as priests. They gained great knowledge in the motions of the stars, the turnings of the seasons, and the movement of Huan through the circling star-pictures that stretch across the night sky. When they built the Great Temple to aid their observations, they became architects, a new kind of stonemason, free from mere labor, who understood the esoteric secrets of geometry and the mysteries of fitting stone upon stone. The Great Temple had been the first wonder of Iwerydd, with six hundred stone steps climbing nearly to the clouds. Its summit was an observatory for the priests, from which they traced the movements of Huan across the sacred peaks of the circling hills. In this way they marked times and seasons, proclaimed to the priestesses the arrival of festivals, and advised farmers and herdsmen in their labors.

  But the summit of the Great Temple served a more sacred purpose than this. For there, high above the city of Arian, lay a great stone altar: the Marriage Bed of Huan where Lisinde and her ancestors before her carried out the most sacred of all their duties.

  So it was that just before midday on the longest day of summer, Lisinde climbed the Temple steps, taking with her Eagil, Prince of Iwerydd. They wore brief loincloths of sheepskin, and their bodies glistened with sweat and sacred oils in the summer sun. For three great cycles of Huan they had made this ascent together, as had Princes and High Priestesses for generations before them. The fruit of their joining provided priestesses for the temples and officers for the fleet of seagoing ships. But of more import was the summoning of Iwerydd to the Marriage Bed of Huan, providing growing warmth for the land as the ancient wall of Ice made its retreat.

  Indeed, Huan had blessed them with her warmth since before the time of Lisinde’s great grandmothers. The high Ice of the old tales had withdrawn far to the north, no longer visible from Iwerydd’s shores. But that had brought a new trouble, for with the retreat of the Ice came the rising of the circling sea. In only a few generations it had swallowed much of the earth, separating the Brythonic lands from the great continent to the south, and turning Iwerydd into an island.

  As they climbed, Lisinde knew this would likely be her last Great Marriage as High Priestess. She had served with several Princes in the years before Eagil. Last summer their joining had produced no offspring, and she knew her time of bearing children was past. Her long hair still flashed its coppery blaze in the sun, sweeping over her shoulders and hanging loose about her hips. Her body was still strong, her breasts high, her proud countenance still took away the breath of even young men. But each summer it was harder to climb the temple steps. Her breath came shorter, her heart pounded a bit faster each summer. The ravishing beauty of youth had already turned to the regal beauty of maturity. Soon it would become the classic beauty of age, and then another High Priestess, one of Lisinde’s daughters, would be needed for this task. She had borne several daughters. One, Miamir, would likely replace her before the next Great Marriage
.

  From the high top of the temple Lisinde looked out at the horizon. The old tales told of fertile plains as far as the eye could see, the ancient realm of Daggerlanden filled with game and fruit-bearing trees. But now there was only sea, sparkling in the high sun. To the south she could just see the dark coast of the great continent. To the west, our mist shrouded Brythonic shores. At the summit of the temple a stiff sea breeze dried the sweat off her body with refreshing coolness. Below lay the green fields of her people, and the circling hills. White gulls glided around her, calling their presence, diving to the blue waves for fish.

  Eagil watched her and grinned. He was nearly young enough to be her son, yet old enough to be moved by her sensual beauty. He was dark skinned, with shining black hair nearly as long as hers. It was gathered and tied in the royal knot atop his head, with a stallion’s tail hanging down his back to just below his left shoulder blade. Like all who were chosen Prince of Iwerydd, Eagil was trained for battle even though there had been no war in anyone’s memory. His muscles were strong and hard, his loincloth hiding nothing. With the arrogance typical of a young Prince he mistook the response of Lisinde’s breasts to the cooling breeze as a passion for him. His own flesh answering proudly, he removed his loincloth and dropped it to the floor. Far below, the sounding of trumpets and pounding of drums heralded their imminent union, as the people of Arian looked on and shouted their encouragement. Many of them began to pair off in quiet corners or in the open sunlight to copy the joining of Prince and Priestess, adding their own magic to the union of Huan and Iwerydd.

  In recent generations this ritual had taken on new purpose and expression. The old tales told of days on end that were wild with the lustful celebration of Huan; the couplings of leaders and people encouraging her to grant the heat of her passion to Iwerydd for the banishing of the Ice. But now the ritual expression of lust was brief, followed by a dance of separation, and a bowing of respect. Huan had expressed her passion too well. The circling sea had risen too high and Iwerydd was in danger of being consumed. So when Lisinde’s great grandmother had become High Priestess she declared the unbridled revels to be at an end. While the union of Land and Goddess was still useful for the fertility of herds and crops, Huan must be urged to propriety and circumspection for the sake of general survival.

  As the sun rose brightly over Ing, easternmost peak of the circling hills, Lisinde lowered herself upon Eagil’s loins to the shouts of approval from below. He thought of the old tales and envied his grandfathers, whose desires would have been indulged for days rather than the few brief moments he could expect as his due. He liked to imagine Lisinde feeling the same way, and perhaps it might have been so, if he had been a bit less arrogant.

  ~

  That night Danien, Priest of Huan and Captain of the

  Fleet, stood in the moonlight on a long stone quay that moored the largest of his ships. He was ankle deep in the rolling waves of high tide where, as a child, he would have been well above the water. For too long he had argued this very point with Eagil. He allowed himself a sneer. To him, it was Eagil who was still the child. The old priest had served twenty-seven years in the fleet, the last seventeen as Captain. His face was weathered by the wind and salt, his hands calloused by years of ropes and helms. He may once have been handsome, before he gave himself to the sea.

  The time had come for him to act on his own. Sailors were loading supplies on board, taking advantage of the fleeting darkness provided as scudding clouds flew across the moon. He thought back to the afternoon’s council meeting which had, unknown to Eagil, brought the final parting of their ways. It had begun calmly enough, the two men seated across from one another in the stone room that served as council chamber. Leaders of the major Iweryddon families sat around the walls on either side, forming the High Council. Danien had been speaking with a quiet determination that masked his sense of urgency.

  “We cannot stay,” he concluded. “Already the sea overwhelms the quays at high tide in our one remaining harbor.”

  “What do I care of quays and ships?” retorted Eagil. “Surely the sea cannot break through the circling hills! Are you telling me all of Iwerydd is in danger of drowning?” His dismissive laugh was echoed by his followers among the council.

  Danien was stone-faced. It was the same argument he had heard from Eagil time and again. “That is not the point, Sire,” he answered with forced respect.

  “Then tell me, please, sea-captain, what is the point?” The title was intended as an epithet. If the Eagil had been a stronger, wiser man, this exchange would have resembled a chess match. As it was, the Prince was merely being petulant. It was the same question he always asked, and Danien always gave the same stupid answer. The Prince was in no mood for further frustrations after the all too brief ritual with Lisinde on the temple summit earlier in the day. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremonial of being Prince of Iwerydd. He did not cherish the responsibility.

  Still Danien held his anger. He fixed his gaze upon a spot high on the opposite wall that had become his focus for calm whenever Eagil was unreasonable, something that happed with more and more frequency. “Of course we do not know what plans the sea may have for us in the future,” he explained again. “But if we lose the last remaining moorings for our fleet we lose all hope of escape, should that ever become necessary.”

  Eagil’s short supply of patience ran out. His chamberlain had secured a roomful of young women who awaited his presence and who would, if not with genuine enthusiasm, at least on his command relieve the frustration that had been building in his mind and his flesh. “No more talk of leaving Iwerydd!” he shouted, rising to leave the chamber. “I am tired of talk!”

  “Sire,” Danien urged in a final effort, “perhaps just a scouting ship to the wilds of the Brythonic lands to see where we might one day form a colony.” He paused, then added as a caution, “Should we ever need one.”

  “No!” shouted Eagil toward the doorway as he stormed from the chamber. The council was ended.

  So it was that Danien stood on the quay, ankle deep in the tide, and watched as a company of sailors, engineers, and priestesses boarded the ship. Among those who were heeding Danien’s alarm was Miamir, heiress to the High Priestess Lisinde. The secrecy of their departure was painful to her, for she wished to have had the chance to reconcile with her mother, and to say goodbye. Disagreement between them had grown nearly to the point of estrangement. Lisinde believed her own calling to lie with the realm of Iwerydd, come what may. Miamir felt called to protect the welfare of the people. By the time of the sailing neither had been able to convince the other. Neither had guessed at the finality of their last heated parting.

  Danien had been planning the move since the previous midwinter, in anticipation of Eagil’s intransigence. They would sail before the turning of the tide, even as the final days of Iwerydd approached, unexpected and unheeded by the Prince ... ~

  It had been a full cycle of the moon since they had landed on the Brythonic shore, During those days they encountered only small bands of hunters, for the land was mostly uninhabited. Danien led his small band inland until they reached a high plateau of grassland stretching far into the distance. Sightings taken on the stars, and charts made on many sea journeys, told him they were near the center of the island, far from the sea, and this satisfied him. Salis Plain it was called, as they learned from local hunters. There they built roundhouses of sod thatched over with tall grass, and began to settle in for the dark of the year, hoping to find enough local game to supplement the stores they had brought by boat. Most of Danien’s company would never look upon the circling sea again. Certainly none would ever return home, for it was during their first winter that Iwerydd met its terrible end, sooner and with greater catastrophe than Danien might ever have imagined. Miamir was chosen first High Priestess of the colony, severing forever her ties with the isle of her birth.

  ~

  At midwinter came the celebration of Sunreturn in the city of Arian on the high
plateau of Iwerydd. Fires roared in every hearth. Evergreen boughs and bright banners decorated the city, and there was feasting in every great hall. Eagil sat with Lisinde at the center of a long table in the palace, heads of the leading families and their wives or husbands spread out on either side of them. Eagil had an actual wife. But he considered her of no consequence for celebrations of state, so she was not present. And Lisinde was wed to Iwerydd, so it was she who sat beside the Prince. As usual he missed no opportunity to remind her of their midsummer ritual, graphically recounting the pleasure he had felt, asking if she also had been sated, suggesting several ingenious ways in which he might please her better next time. Lisinde smiled constantly and tolerated him as she would a child. Old Wattling, the Chamberlain, was seated on her left. She spent as much time as possible turned towards him, pretending to be engrossed in the minutest details of running the palace.

  The wines of Iwerydd’s southern plain flowed freely, and the night soon grew late. Eagil, knowing he could not command the affections of the High Priestess, summoned several young revelers to join him in his bedchamber. They left the hall singing bawdy songs about Princes, cattle, and courtesans. With the Prince’s departure the celebrating quickly came to an end, and the palace sank into the deep darkness that comes before first light.

  Lisinde wished not to remain at the palace, nor to return alone to her apartments. For a time, she wandered the empty streets of Arian. It was a regular practice for her, to the constant dismay of the Captain of the Nightwatch. But she was known to all Arian, and no one would dare lay hands on the High Priestess without her permission. Near dawn on the shortest day of the dark season she climbed the steps of the Great Temple and looked out across the sea. Far to the north, along the horizon, a strange band of silver flashed brightly in the light of the setting moon. She could not tell what it was, but it was something she had not seen before and it should not have been there.