The Iron Grail (32 page)

Atalanta shivered. Tisaminas stood close by, his look at me one of warning. I wondered if his concern was that Atalanta, should she meet her distant kin, might take a memory of that meeting back to her life and her family, if her kolossoi was found and this nightmare extraction from Time was ended.

Instinct suggested that the living Atalanta, her spirit stolen, her life in suspension, would awake as if from a dream; a strange dream, of a woman from an age too far ahead to imagine, perhaps. It would be comforting, half real, more a delight than a burden.

I would arrange the meeting. I would ensure it was kept private. It would be important for Ullanna not to say too much about the history she knew. There is a dark and uncontrollable sorcery in such meetings across Time, for those who are not equipped to control it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Persuasion

It was Cathabach who came to me to consult on the nature of Ghostland, though I knew he represented Urtha. I had overheard several quiet discussions between the king and his retinue on the subject of the Otherworld’s unprecedented and vigorous attempts at conquest. It made no sense to the men of Taurovinda, to whom the Otherworld was the place of ultimate contentment, not a realm that was restless to the point of wishing to extend its boundaries.

‘If they raid for our cattle,’ I heard Morvodugnos say, ‘I’ll know that nothing I was taught in my foster home was true, since the bull meat in Ghostland is supposed to be equally tender from shoulder cut to rump, and requires only a hot word to cook it. Our cattle would not impress.’

‘If they raid for our pigs,’ Drendas agreed, ‘I’ll doubt all my beliefs and find another land to die in, since the pigs in the Land of the Shadows of Heroes shed their plump hams when pursued, only to grow new ones, milkier and sweeter than before. Our pigs would not impress.’

‘They are not raiding for bullocks, swine or horses,’ Manandoun pointed out, ‘since we have no stock to boast about. They are raiding for the land itself—for this high ground in particular.’

‘We must take the fight to them,’ Urtha said thoughtfully. ‘To wait for them to attack again would suggest we are weak, and we can’t have that.’

‘We
are
weak,’ Manandoun reminded the king, but Urtha rapped his sheathed sword on the round shield beside him.

‘An old ship and a handful of vagabonds sent that enemy scurrying back to their tombs,’ he continued. ‘We need to know why, when they are so numerous, an old Greekland goat can scare them as a full-faced moon rouses fear in hounds.’

The old Greekland goat was not present at this council.

Manandoun’s voice was calm and firm. ‘You are the warchief of this citadel, and High King of the seven clans who pay you tribute. And so far you have always listened carefully to my advice.’

‘I’m listening now,’ Urtha agreed, ‘though I know you disapprove of my proposal.’

‘Good. That you’re listening. Because what you propose is madness. Your own experience tells us that a man can enter the hinterland on the other side of the Winding One. But no man alive can enter the land of the Dead and Unborn. If it had ever been done, a bard somewhere would be drunk on ale and fat to bursting with boar flesh on the story!’

‘There may be reasons why no one has ever told the story. There may be a taboo on such accounts. Is that it? Or do you have more advice for me?’

‘More. Even if you enter the Otherworld, as we know from Merlin’s experience, the days and seasons run differently there. You might succeed in returning only to the future ruin of this fortress.’

Urtha pondered the idea. ‘That may explain why there are no stories of men returning from an adventure among the Heroes. They are still waiting to come back and tell the tale.’

‘An excellent point, Lord Urtha, profoundly made. To take a host of men to Ghostland would be to defy the gods to whom we pay tribute; and a senseless act into the bargain.’

‘Nevertheless, if I can find a way to do it, that is what I shall do. The fight to the enemy! I have an instinct for strategy, Manandoun, mostly learned from the Greeklanders.’

Manandoun laughed in amazement, though there was a sour tone to his humour. ‘Your words are the words of a man who will certainly be remembered for his deeds.’

‘To be remembered for courageous deeds is one of the Five Delights for our Children.’

‘The word “foolhardy” was the one I had in mind.’

*   *   *

Cathabach called me to the orchard. He had constructed a simple bower in a circle of fruit trees, a thatch-covered sleeping area with a low bench on each side. We sat opposite each other in the gloom, his speckled cloak spread between us. Furtive movement around us suggested the restless prowling of the resurrected argonauts, perhaps listening. In any case, Cathabach was uneasy and irritated with his unwelcome guests. He had protected himself with iron bracelets on his arms and a necklace of iron nails that hung below the fine torc of woven gold that gripped his throat.

‘Urtha wishes to attack those in Ghostland who ruined his fortress. The idea is unfeasible. Manandoun and myself will persuade him of the fact. But who among us
might
enter the Otherworld? To know our limitations is essential; to know our power over the Dead would be an advantage. The Old Divide is not as strong as it was.’

The druid’s comment was made with a meaningful look at me. He had come close to grasping one of the peculiarities of Taurovinda, I suspected; perhaps
the
peculiarity.

‘Not as strong as it was—when?’ I prompted.

‘When the stronghold was built. When the Winding One was deeper, wider, impossible to ford, by horse, by foot, by the shining chariot of the harsh god Llew, even if driven by his reckless sons.’

He had sensed the cause, but misread the signs. All his life the signs had been there to see, to question, to suggest the answer. Nantosuelta was indeed the reason for the weakness of the Old Divide, but greater gods than Cathabach’s had had a hand in the plot. Shaping had happened: the shaping of a land. I would show him what he had missed.

I led him to the river, among the evergroves. I pointed out that the ceremonial way was slightly dipped, hollowed out in the plain. Searching in the earth I pulled up rounded stones, not slingshot—water-rolled. We walked east along the nearer bank until the woods crowded to the water, stretching inland. A short distance further and the bank became shallow, wide, indented: I plunged into the gloom, following a wide depression, rock-strewn, its edges a tangle of the roots of willow and hazel. The place was damp—occasionally there were sluggish pools of water, insect-ridden, ferny, greened with slime. It was humid here. The hollow path wound through the forest, and suddenly widened into a glade of white willow, tanglethorn and trembling, silvery aspen. Two huge rocks rose on either side, mossy, green and glimmering in the sparse sunlight.

Cathabach stared at them in amazement. When the light intensified, casting shadows, the impression of a three-faced head could be seen on each rock, though fronds of ferns grew from the eyes like eerie emanations.

‘I know this place!’ the druid breathed. ‘This is the Ford of the Single Leap. It is legendary. It was lost in the far past, stolen by the god Brugos, guardian of deep water crossings, whose challenge to leap from rock to rock across the river was accepted by the youth Peradayne. Peradayne had been born lame. He used a long spear to propel himself across, and since Brugos couldn’t punish him for winning the challenge, he hid the ford for ever, denying Peradayne the chance to leap back.’

‘This
is
that ford,’ I confirmed.

Cathabach shook his head, though there was a look of wonder and comprehension in his gaze. ‘The Ford of the Single Leap separated the realm of kings from the Otherworld. These rocks were either side of the Winding One. This is an old river course. I see it, now. Where we entered the forest along this path, a spring sometimes rises, in very dry summers. The place is called “The Dry Woman’s Sudden Rush”.’

‘Then you understand the significance of Taurovinda.’

‘Yes,’ Cathabach said solemnly, laying his cloak of feathers on the thorny ground above the dead river. ‘It was once a part of the Realm of the Shadows of Heroes. Perhaps the very stronghold from which they watched the passing of seasons in the world of the living. There is a story about that place as well. “The Hill of Cloud and Air”. It was sometimes seen, sometimes invisible, searched for, never found. The strangeness of the tale, however, is that the champions who seek the vanished hill are adventurers from Ghostland, and their terrible and tragic stories come to us through the dreams of visionaries such as Urtha’s daughter.’

There is a country at the east of the world, a place of hills and deserts, rocky oases and briefly flowering fields, where rivers change their course in the span of two winters. They move like snakes, following favoured routes through the shifting land. The same river can flow through five or six different beds, but only ever one at a time—the rest are infertile and dry. No one can explain the reason for this fickle behaviour. On those rivers’ whims, men who should have died have lived, and families that have settled to farm have died.

Rivers in Alba were never so capricious, and Cathabach’s understanding of the force of change was all the more remarkable. But he had a pragmatic point to make.

‘Why now? Why after all these generations does Ghostland attack us now? Taurovinda was a hill before it was a citadel, but it was a hill in the world of warriors and priests. Ghostland has waited a long time since Nantosuelta cut off its eastern territory.’ Cathabach tied his cloak around his shoulders and gathered several rocks, mosses and small flowers from the Dry Woman’s bed. ‘But Urtha will not be able to penetrate beyond the hinterland. His notion is still flawed.’

We left the dank woodland before discussing Urtha’s determination to take the challenge into the Realm of the Shadow Heroes further, in the comfort of a shady glade at Nantosuelta’s edge.

The land as far as the Plain of MaegCatha served as a form of hinterland for the Dead and the Unborn, explaining their ability to enter it. On both sides of Nantosuelta, where she formed the boundary between the two worlds, they were vulnerable to iron blade, arrow and spear. Their second death would despatch them straight to Ifuren, an underworld of icy lakes and dull gloom, a grim extension of the world where I had found Aylamunda attached to the protecting Bull which journeyed down below, guarding such hapless spirits as Urtha’s wife. No such beast-helpers wandered through Ifuren, however.

As for ‘mortal’ entry into the Land of the Shadows of Heroes, I was certain that of the present inhabitants of Taurovinda, only a few—those estranged from Time itself—could safely make the journey, though they too would be vulnerable to
dismurthon
(second death) once across the Old Divide. Thus: an expedition could be mounted with Jason and his six blighted comrades; Rubobostes was less mortal than he seemed, far more ‘god-favoured’; and Niiv was so drenched with enchantment that I had no fears for her own successful passage—inwards, at least. Munda’s gushing prophecy gnawed slightly: doom for two of you, one a woman.

I could go, and certainly would, even without Argo. My help would be needed in locating the kolossoi of the ill-used Greeklanders.

The two sons of Llew, Conan and Gwyrion, would have been useful, but they had stolen one too many of their father and his cousin’s chariots.

Ten was not enough to take the battle to the enemy. Urtha would need the old ship. Argo might wrap her wooden walls around a few mortal men-of-feats, but her protective powers were surely limited. She was tired. Essentially, Manandoun was right: Urtha’s feverish enthusiasm was a child’s whistle being shrilled in the wind.

*   *   *

Again I descended through the well, again to the amusement of the three women who supervised its decoration and ritual.

I found Argo in a winter mood, silent and frosty. I told her of my discussion with Cathabach, of Urtha’s dangerous proposal to make a raid into Ghostland, an impossible act almost certainly unless he had greater help than I could give him. I asked her if she would consider making one last journey.

Such a journey would be madness, she replied. And she was tired of Jason. It was time for her to move on to other seas, other captains. For the moment, she would spend time where she was. And she urged me not to enter Ghostland.

‘I am more familiar with such places than you, despite your great age and long journey. Your path has been defined with great precision. Mine has not. You will possibly lose your skills, your powers, in that place. Be warned.’

I pleaded again, but she didn’t answer. I couldn’t even see Mielikki. Argo’s voice was a cold whisper.

Then she said, ‘This is the second time you have come down to me; and the second time there is a disturbance on the land above. Go up again.’

*   *   *

The day was well advanced when I returned to the surface, and I found a very different mood. The three women at the well were shrouded in green, kneeling in a neat, sorrowful row on one side of the shaft. Facing them, also kneeling, was Cathabach, wearing a cloak of black fur into which hundreds of yellow and white feathers had been stitched. His face was black with dye. His body was naked below the cloak.

One of the women raised a hand towards me, warning me off. She moved her fingers dismissively: go away. Leave us alone.

What was happening?

A group of riders thundered past the well, cloaks flying. One of them spotted me, wheeled round and shouted, ‘So there you are! Urtha is looking for you. The girl has been taken by those wolves!’

‘What wolves?’ I shouted.

‘Those who are the likes of you,’ he answered suspiciously.

When I found Urtha he was in distress, hair lank, face striped with clay, breast bared below the torn shirt. Ullanna, his comforting partner, had imitated the grieving ritual of the Celts and was similarly dishevelled, though less obviously in pain. Manandoun, armoured, stood behind them, watching carefully.