The Paradise War Page 38

  “It is over!” he roared. “This is the end. There is nothing for us here.”

  “I will not leave until I have seen him,” I stubbornly insisted. “Go if you wish, but I am staying.”

  “Fool!” he bellowed angrily. “This is your doing! We have come for nothing!”

  I did not blame Tegid for this outburst. At my coaxing, he had allowed himself to hope, and now that last, precious hope had been snatched from him. In the end, we had only proven what he had maintained all along: the Phantarch was dead, and there was no escaping the doom that awaited us and all the rest of Albion.

  “Tegid, please,” I said, “we have come so far.”

  He pressed his mouth into a firm, straight line but did not deny me. I stepped into the mound, and, bending down, began to shift the stones one by one. Tegid watched me for a while, and when he saw that I meant to uncover the whole mound, he gave in and came to help me. Propping the torch between two rocks at the head of the mound, we began carefully pulling away the stones.

  We worked without speaking, and in a short while I glimpsed a bit of dirty white cloth. I shifted a few more stones, and saw a gray crumpled hand. We continued removing the rocks until the corpse was completely exhumed—then stepped back to view our labor’s sorry yield.

  The Phantarch appeared to be an old man, an ancient man of years beyond counting, dressed in robes of white with a corded belt of woven gold. He wore a wide, flat neck ring that covered the upper part of his chest. In his right hand he carried a ceremonial knife of glassy black stone; a rod of gold nestled in the crook of his right arm. His left hand was empty, and his feet were bare.

  The flickering torchlight gave his face the appearance of life, but the sunken eyes and cheeks told a different tale. And though battered and broken terribly by the stones, that head still held a high nobility; white-haired, with a wide brow and hawklike nose, a strong chin and firm jaw covered by a low, flowing white beard—it was the visage of a prophet. Even in death the Phantarch retained his dignity and something of the reverence his presence must have inspired.

  He had been dead some time, but the corpse showed little sign of decay or putrefaction. He seemed to be asleep—as if I might touch his cheek and he would awaken once more. But the flesh was woody and cold when I stooped to touch it. I withdrew my hand as if I had touched hot iron. Until that very moment, until I brushed that cold and waxen skin, I believe I had imagined that the Phantarch would yet live somehow. But I knew now that Tegid was right.

  As for Tegid, he did not utter a sound—either of rebuke or scorn. He merely gazed at the broken body before him with mournful eyes. When he had looked his last upon the corpse, he turned and walked to the tunnel, taking the torch with him.

  As the torchlight disappeared, I was overcome by a despair so black and hopeless that I fell to my knees before the grave mound. I felt stupid and cheated and abused. If only I had been quicker, I thought, and smarter. My cheeks burned with shame and anger at my sloth and stupidity. But no. The Phantarch was murdered long before I thought to look for him, before Nudd destroyed Sycharth. The night of the Cythrawl was the night the Phantarch died.

  So we were doomed from the beginning; before we had even set foot on the trail to Findargad our destruction was sealed. Tegid was right—there was nothing for us here, and I was a fool. I could have screamed with the unfairness of it. We had never had a chance.

  I wanted to kill Lord Nudd and the demon Coranyid, to crush them beneath my fury. I wanted to destroy them, to rid the land of their vile presence. I wanted to smash them into the filth and ooze from which they arose. I reached out, seized a crystalline stone in both hands, and lifted it above my head. With a mighty groan, I heaved the stone, smashing it down with all my might as I would have if the Dread Lord’s face had been before me at that moment.

  I threw it so hard that the jagged rock shattered. Sparks flew from the fractured stone, and all at once the entire chamber exploded with a dazzling light. In that splintered instant, I heard the most incredible sound.

  It had a musical quality—like that of a tuned harp struck by the bard’s skillful hand. As if an unseen hand had plucked a triumphant chord, the last strain of a joyous song that swelled the heart to hear it. The wondrous sound filled the chamber, rising and swirling and penetrating every crack and fissure, every crevice and corner of the underground caverns, reverberating in the very rocks themselves. The crystals in the walls of the chamber began to glow with a rich and steady light, as if kindled from the sparks of that fractured rock.

  And all at once, with the sound of that struck chord filling my ears and the light dazzling my eyes, my mind was engulfed by a sudden flood of bright images. I saw as one drunk on golden mead—through a dizzy, dimly comprehending haze—a magnificent array of images, a sparkling vision of a fantastically rich and wonderful world: a world infinitely alive and full of beauty and grace; a blessed world clothed in green and blue—the matchless greens of grass and trees, hillsides and forests without compare; the radiant blues of fair skies and moving water; a world made for humankind and adorned with every good thing for food and comfort; a world made luminous with peace, wherein every virtue is proclaimed and extolled by the very substance of which it is made—from the smallest leaf to the largest mountain, all things declaring a great and powerful benison of glory, goodness, and right.

  My vision became keen and fantastic. I saw shimmering rainbows around each particular I chanced upon: whether tree or mountain, bird or beast. I saw all things clean, clear, and sharp as new spearpoints, burning with the brightness of the sun and arrayed in that dancing rainbowed light. My hearing became acute: I heard the shriek of the hunting eagle as it circled in the airy heights above Ynys Sci; I heard the rustle of a wild sow’s feet in dry leaves as she tramped the wooded trackway of Ynys Oer; I heard the low thrumming of the blue whale as it churned the shadowed water trail of the wave-tossed deep.

  Above and through all this I heard music—such music! I heard the wild skirl of pipes and the charming enchantment of harpsong: ten thousand pipes, a thousand thousand harps! I heard the voices of maidens blending in sweet, willowy harmonies, too fair and beautiful to bear without heartache. I heard the clarion call of the carynx and the sharp blast of the hunting horn. I heard the rhythmic beat of the drum, the booming bodhran, urgent, compelling. I heard all that passed in this worlds-realm—but high and lifted up, magnified into an exaltation of infinite strains and interwoven strands, ever changing, ever new, ever fresh as its first beginning, preserved in innocence forever.

  I realized, even as the wealth of this extraordinary display washed over me, that I was seeing Albion itself, but higher, nobler, and purer than the Albion I knew. It was Albion perfected in unutterable purity, immaculate, without fault or blemish. It was the rarest essence of Albion, distilled like a priceless elixir into a single, shimmering atom of excellence unequaled.

  Heady and rich, this marvelous revelation made me swoon. It made me giddy with delight. I opened my mouth to laugh, and my mouth was instantly filled with a surpassing sweetness—not cloying like honey, but delicate and clean—as rare and fine a taste as anything I have ever known. I licked my lips and tasted the sweetness on them. It was in the air itself; it was everywhere.

  Sight, sound, and taste combined to unmake me, and I laughed out loud. I laughed until my laughter dissolved into tears, and I do not know which gave the greater release. I felt as if I was caught up into an ecstasy of light and music. I was one with the sound that swirled endlessly around me. I was as a solitary drop merging with the vast ocean of the miraculous sound. Like a fleck of foam swept away by the tiderush, I was borne along by the tremendous, all-sustaining power of the music. It flowed all around me and through me; I merged with it, melded with it, became one with it—as the sound of the flute becomes one with the breath that fills it. I became the sound. I was the sound.

  Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the glorious sound ended.

  I drifted for an instant, as
if falling, then snapped back to myself with a jolt. I heard the echo of the harp-sound fading away as the glowing light of the chamber dimmed. And I understood that all I had seen and heard and felt had taken place in the briefest of instants, the fraction of a heartbeat—the small space of time occupied by the snap of a breaking rock. And yet, in that fleeting moment while it endured, the sound was timeless and whole and eternal. I understood then the meaning of the brilliant vision contained in the ineffable music I had heard.

  I had heard the Song of Albion. Not the whole song, not even the smallest fragment of the song; a sliver of a single note only, that is what I had heard. And that tiny fragment had filled me with strength and wisdom and power behind my imagining. I had been touched by the Song, and though it was but the slightest touch possible, I knew myself changed; deeply and profoundly changed.

  I knew not how deeply or profoundly I had been changed, nor in what manner the change had been wrought—until Tegid returned with the torch. “What was that?” he asked, stumbling into the chamber. “What happened?”

  “Did you hear it?” I turned my face toward him.

  He almost dropped the torch in surprise. He fell back and thrust a hand before him in fear.

  “What is it, brother?” I asked, rising to stand before him.

  But Tegid did not answer. He continued to stare as if he had never seen me before.

  “What do you see, Tegid?” I asked, and when he did not answer, I became annoyed. “Stop staring, and answer me!”

  He stepped nearer then, but warily, his face half-turned away, as if he feared I might strike him down. The torch wavered in his hand; so that he would not drop it, I took it from him. Tegid cringed and released the torch. “Please, lord!” he cried. “I cannot bear it!”

  “Bear it? What are you talking about? Tegid, what is wrong with you?” I made to move toward him.

  He shrank away, burying his head in his arms. I stopped. “Why do you behave so? Tegid! Answer me!” I demanded, my voice rising. My shout filled the crystal chamber and rolled through the subterranean halls with a sound like a peal of thunder.

  Tegid dropped as one stricken. I stepped toward him, and it seemed that I observed his huddled body from a great height. I began to shake; my limbs trembled and I was seized with a violent shuddering— every muscle and inward organ shivering, twitching uncontrollably. “Tegid!” I screamed. “What is happening to me?”

  I fell writhing upon the ground, grinding my teeth and drooling out of the corners of my mouth. Strange words—words which I did not know—bubbled from my throat and touched my tongue with fire. At each utterance, I felt my body melting away. I was a spirit shedding its confining bonds, loosing its gross fetters, expanding, rising within my body as if passing through layers of denser atmosphere, soaring up into higher regions of clarity and light until I was a spirit only, free to fly the peculiar prison of the clumsy and cumbersome earthen vessel that contained it. I was a spirit and I flew— high, high, as high as the highest headlands above the surging sea, as high as the peaks of Cethness, as high as the golden eagle above Ynys Sci . . .

  And then I plunged into the soft, dark heart of an all-sustaining silence. And this was to me a blessing more wonderful than the glorious music and light of my previous revelation. For I heard within the silence the enduring stability of creation’s solid foundation: eternal and unchanging, unyielding and unassailable, inexhaustible in its wealth of abundance, complete and absolute, upholding all that was or would ever be.

  I sank into the blessed silence and let it cover me with its patient, enduring tenderness. I gave myself up to it, and it received me as the great wide ocean receives the grain of sand which falls through its fathomless depths. And I was established within the motionless center around which the dance of life revolves; I became one with the perfect peace which is the wellspring of all existence. I drank deep of the all-enduring solace of the silence I had penetrated and which now pervaded me. I drank, and felt myself gathered in an eternal, infinite embrace—gathered and held by loving arms—like a lost child in the soothing, healing embrace of its mother.

  I woke, if waking it was, in darkness black as pitch. I had dropped the torch and it had gone out. I lay on the floor on my side, knees drawn up, head tucked to my chest. I raised myself up slowly. At my movement, Tegid called out, “Where are you, lord?”

  “I am here, Tegid,” I answered. My face hurt, and my head and limbs. I had thrashed around so much I was bruised in a hundred places; I ached all over.

  I heard a rustle of clothing in the darkness and then felt Tegid’s fumbling hand brush my shoulder as he reached for me. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “I do not think so,” I said, wagging my sore jaw back and forth. “Nothing is broken. I think I can stand.”

  “I have found the torch, but it is burned out. I cannot light it again,” the bard answered and added in quiet despair, “I do not know how we shall find another.”

  I climbed gingerly to my feet and stood swaying for a moment. Strength returned . . . and sight. I do not know how it was, but I could see. What had been darkness total and absolute was now merely dim—like the interior of one of Meldryn Mawr’s storehouses. I could see in the dark. I could see!

  However, this did not strike me as anything more than merely remarkable at that moment. Perhaps it was an after effect of the light that had dazzled me. I was grateful for the benefit of sight, but not overcome with amazement. It seemed strangely appropriate that I should be able to see, that my eyes should penetrate the darkness so easily.

  “All is well, brother,” I said. “There is nothing to fear.” Then I told him that I could see well enough to find the way back.

  I turned to the heap of stone on which lay the corpse of the Phantarch. He was dead, but the song—the Song of Albion—had not died with him. The wise Phantarch had seen to that. I suppose the murderers, hardly daring to rouse one so powerful, had simply heaped stones upon his inert body, slowly crushing the life from the sleeping Phantarch. But not before the canny bard found a way to save his precious treasure.

  With strong enchantments the helpless Phantarch must have bound the Song to the stones that covered and killed him. The Song was not lost. The stones at my feet vibrated with it.

  I walked quickly to the far side of the chamber and began inspecting the wall. About halfway round the circumference I discovered what I had not been able to see by torchlight: a low passageway, the entrance of which was littered with stone chippings and broken rock. It came to me that perhaps the Phantarch’s murderers had not come to the crystal chamber the way Tegid and I had come. It looked as if they had broken into the chamber from the outside, and then used the loose stone from their tunneling to heap upon the Phantarch and kill him where he lay.

  “Tegid,” I said, dashing back to the gravemound, stripping off my cloak as I came. “Quickly now, take off your cloak and spread it on the floor.”

  “Why?” he asked, staring blankly in the direction of my voice.

  “I will explain while we work, but just do exactly as I say, and do it quickly. We must hurry, and pray to the Goodly-Wise that we are not already too late.”

  35

  SINGING STONES

  I do not know how long we were in Domhain Dorcha, the place beyond the Heart of the Heart, deep inside the mountain. We made our way to the fortress above as quickly as we could, but the going was torturously labored and slow. Our burdens were heavy, and our way twisted and steep. We followed the path the murderers had used, and each of us carried on our backs a bundle of stones from the Phantarch’s gravemound.

  A few dozen paces outside the Phantarch’s chamber, the tunnel opened onto a natural cavern which had been cut in the softer rock by a swift-running underground river. The river sped by, tumbling recklessly down and down into the depths of the earth, its cascade booming loud in our ears. While the river rushed to its secret destination below, we struggled upward, step by weary step, our cloaks slung on our backs, straining u
nder the weight of the stones we carried.

  It was more difficult for Tegid. At least I could see well enough in the darkness to find our way, but he had to trust my directions. He followed blind, holding to the tail of my siarc, placing his feet in my footsteps. Still, we stumbled and fell, bruising already sore muscles, rising each time slower than the last. We struggled, we grappled for every handhold, hauling ourselves and our heavy packs up and ever upward— up from out of the heart of the mountain, as if from out of the pain and darkness of the very Pit of Uffern.

  Our hands, gripping the knotted hanks of our cloaks, chafed and bled from the unrelenting abrasion. The rocks battered our shins, elbows, and ribs; the sharp-edged stones in our crude packs pummeled our backs and gouged our shoulders. Our feet slipped constantly on the water-slick rock; our toes were battered, our knees scuffed raw.

  “Please,” I groaned with every weary aching step, “please, let us reach the end.”

  But the end did not come—only more shadowed passages and dim tunnels filled with the sense-numbing roar of rushing water, and countless stumbling stones to be dodged, clambered over, squeezed under. Each twist and turn in the cavern corridor brought disappointment; every hump and slab of stone brought pain.

  Tegid, bless him, never once cried out in his anguish nor questioned my lead. He bore his pain without a sound; he suffered in silence. He trusted me completely, and I loved him for it. I had heard the Song—or part of it—and I knew what it was we carried with us, but Tegid did not.

  Once, when he stopped to rest, I asked him if he had heard the sound I had heard in the Phantarch’s chamber. He said he had heard me call his name. I did not remember calling out his name, although I might have. “But you do believe that I heard something?”

  “I know that you heard something, lord,” he answered. His conviction was unyielding as the rock beneath our feet. I asked him how he knew, but he declined to answer. Besides, talking used up too much energy, and it was difficult shouting over the noise of the crashing water. So we lay in the darkness, weak and exhausted, wondering how much further we still had to go.