CHAPTER 12
TOUCHING FIRE
No!” Merlin yelled as he kicked Kifferow and twisted out of the big man’s grasp. He flung himself forward and rammed his father in the side, knocking him away from the Stone.
Owain yelled and turned back with a ferocity that astonished Merlin. A fist hammered him in the gut.
Merlin fell back from his father’s blow, and his right hand landed on the Druid Stone and stuck fast, as if it were covered in soft pine tar. The Stone felt warm to the touch, its surface partly rough, partly smooth. And it quivered like a wolf ready to pounce.
Merlin’s body stiffened, and the ground tilted. He jerked his left hand up to prevent himself from falling over, and now both hands were stuck to the Stone.
The Stone grew larger and then melted away, his body seeming to plunge inside, as if the Stone had become a hole leading to a creature’s lair. He fell into silent darkness, it seemed, for hours.
Without warning he felt cold flagstones under his fingers. His groans echoed off walls that appeared from nowhere, and the dense air smothered him like frozen spiderwebs. Where had his father, the grass, and the Stone gone? He looked around, and his blurred sight sharpened. Once again he could see clearly.
He lay in a chamber made of solid granite, with neither window nor door. A bluish light flickered from torches held by intricately forged iron holders. Cold smoke poured from the torches, filling the lower half of the room. Merlin coughed.
In the center a square stone pillar rose from the smoke. The top was draped with a blue cloth decorated with dizzying spirals and symbols. From where Merlin knelt, he could tell that something rested on top.
He wanted to see what was on the pillar, but his legs ached and he couldn’t stand. The desire burned within, and in desperation he cried out, “Will anyone help me?”
A cold voice answered him: “Rise and see!”
Merlin’s numb legs obeyed and lifted him up to see four drinking horns placed at the corners of the pillar. Each was fashioned from the long curving horn of a ram, spiraling inward and downward and held by an iron stand shaped like the cruel talons of some giant creature.
The first horn was red as blood, the second bright golden, the third sickly white, and the fourth pale silver. Each was filled with a different liquid.
The bodiless Voice called out again, “Take and drink!”
Merlin leaned forward to peek inside the dark-red horn. It held what appeared to be the purest of water, so clear and fresh he could see down into the depths of the horn. As he stared, the water flickered with visions of vile, base, and godless things. The images kept changing, and Merlin desired to take up the horn and fill his body, soul, and spirit with the wicked degradations.
He called out to God for help, and a revulsion of sufficient strength finally rose up that forced his eyes shut. The images fell away into darkness. The desire left him.
He pulled himself away from the horn and opened his eyes to see the golden horn before him. A bubbling, creamy brown liquid filled it, and he listened to its frothy sound. As each bubble burst, he heard soothing words issue forth. He strained his ears to hear, and every utterance called him to lie and deceive. Drums began to beat in his ears until the horn shook and he felt his head would burst with the vibration.
Stopping up his ears did nothing; the calling would not cease. The temptation grew to embrace the horn, let the deceits fill his soul, and make the raging words go away. He reached out his hands, hoping for relief.
Then a memory arose of his father. With downcast face, he spoke to Merlin, saddened because of a childhood lie Merlin had told. His father implored him to choose the right and turn from falsehoods. At first Merlin wanted his father to go away, and he swept his hands to dispel the image, but his father’s face remained. Slowly, Merlin’s heart broke. The desire to take up the drinking horn faded, and Merlin was free again.
The third, a whitish horn, now stood before him, but he distrusted it. This time he wouldn’t look inside. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward to determine if he could smell it, and a sweet aroma drifted deep into his lungs.
He felt stronger, taller, and wiser, filled with his own greatness and ability to lead. Visions appeared of men bowing as his kingly torc was placed around his neck. It smelled so wonderful that he found himself staring at the liquid in the horn. It flowed green as the nectar of garden flowers, and with just a taste he could do any task, no matter how difficult. One sip from the horn, and he could have anything he wanted. He would be the supreme authority once this sweet liquid coursed down his throat.
In joy he grasped his own smiling face, and there he felt the scars. Deep and thickened. And he knew that few could love the gross disfigurement he’d been cursed to carry. His pride drained away, and he was once again the normal, scarred Merlin.
He approached the final corner of the stone pillar and the last drinking horn, which stood so tall he couldn’t glance inside. Its silver glimmered in the light of the blue torches, and it was magnificent. Even a great king would be proud to drink of the heady ale lurking there. A longing to see what was inside overcame him.
He hefted himself up onto the pillar, now strangely widened into a table, and knelt in the middle. There he peered over the silver horn’s filigreed edge. Inside lay a black liquid, thick and rich. His hands reached to the horn and stuck to its sides.
Small bolts of lightning shot through his arms and across his chest. There, in his pain, a terrible vision engulfed him.
He was the adviser to a king and led warriors beyond count across Britain. Each battle brought death. His warriors’ limbs lay hacked at his feet. His enemies’ heads lay piled as a mountain. No matter where he wandered, all had been slain. Death and ruin abounded. Merlin stood alone, a curse on mankind. His hands lifted the terrible horn with the slop of dark liquid toward his lips.
Closer it drew until Merlin cried out, “God, save me from this curse!”
His hands dropped the horn with a crash upon the table. Before the liquid slimed across the surface and touched him, he leaped to the ground.
And there, amid the hiss of the torches, the Voice himself rose from the ground. His robe enshrouded him in darkness, and his flaking claw held a sword as pale as dead flesh. He lifted it to strike the head from Merlin’s body.
“Bow and worship!”
Defenseless and with nowhere to run, Merlin yet found strength welling up inside. He shouted, “I’ll never worship you. Though you slay me, I will hold fast to Jesu!”
Malicious laughter echoed through the room.
“You shall worship me! This village shall worship me! This island shall worship me! All shall worship me!”
Merlin backed up against the wall. “Never!”
In a rage, the Voice sliced his sword at Merlin’s neck, and all went black.
With Offyd tending the sleeping Prontwon, Dybris closed the chapel door and walked down the path to the village pasture and the gathering of the druidow. As he passed the houses and gardens of the villagers, he wondered if Offyd was right. Had any of the brothers besides Herrik fallen victim to its temptation? They were often scattered in different fields, and it would be easy to succumb, to sneak away, maybe even to worship the Stone.
But the main thing was to find that rascal of an orphan.
Dybris himself had felt the tug on his own heart as he looked at the Druid Stone the evening before. Had felt the desire to touch its rough surface and see what secrets it contained.
His thoughts were cut short by footsteps hastening toward him from behind. It was Tregeagle’s wife, Trevenna, and her daughter, Natalenya.
“Dybris!” Trevenna called. “Offyd told us you were on your way to the gathering.”
Dybris hesitated. “I’m checking to see if any of the brothers are there.”
“Will you stand up to Mórganthu as Prontwon did?”
He winced. “No, I was only going to —”
Trevenna grasped him by the elbow and faced him. “But it is needed.”
Dybris did not know what to say. Trevenna looked at him with fearful eyes, her chin uplifted and her brown-gray hair tousled by the light wind. Here was the proud wife of the town magister and who was he to gainsay her?
“The people need you … need someone!” Trevenna said. “With Prontwon ailing, they have no one to guide them. Who will tell them the truth?”
“Arguing with the druidow won’t accomplish anything. Really now, I just want to find Garth.”
Natalenya stepped forward. “What if the villagers leave the faith?”
All this talk made his head hurt. He desperately needed a little sleep. “I confess that I haven’t given it much thought. I’ve been concerned about Garth and the other monks.”
The women continued to plead with him as they walked down the hill toward the gathering on the village green. When they reached the gate, Dybris saw a thick crowd of people around the Stone. From their midst came shouts and the sounds of a scuffle.
“It’s Merlin!” Natalenya cried out, and she ran ahead of them into the throng.
Through the cold fog, Merlin heard someone call faintly. Warmth shocked his face, and he sucked in the air.
“He’s breathing,” someone said from far away.
His shoulders warmed and his arms tingled.
“He’s waking,” said another.
Merlin opened his eyes. Light shone between two darkly smudged forms.
“Oh, God … Oh, God!” someone cried nearby. Was it his father?
Merlin’s legs tingled, and he tried to sit up.
“Help him,” someone wailed. It was Natalenya’s voice.
Hands supported him. He rubbed his face and rose up on an elbow. “Natalenya?”
Her voice trembled. “Oh, Mother, don’t look —”
Merlin’s father was crying.
“What’s happening?” Merlin asked as a choking smell filled his lungs. “What’s wrong?”
Natalenya spoke. “We pulled your hands off the Stone, and a big man yelled at us, and he …”
Trevenna continued from his right, dignified in spite of the trembling in her voice. “We saw the struggle and how you accidentally touched the Stone. We pulled you free, but that man touched the Stone too. He said, ‘This is how,’ and then he caught fire and burned to death.”
Owain’s sobs grew louder. “Kifferow!”
Natalenya helped Merlin sit up. “It was terrible. He yelled but couldn’t pull his hands away.”
As Merlin crawled over to his father, the smell of burning flesh made him gag. He placed an arm around his father’s back but found Mônda’s hand already there.
She jerked her arm away and hissed at Merlin. “Leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s suffering?”
Merlin ignored her, holding tighter to his father, whose body heaved as he knelt before the smoking body of his friend. “Tas … Tas, I’m sorry.”
“Why’d you interfere?” his father snapped. “Kiff wouldn’t be dead if you’d left us alone.”
“What happened to Kiff was meant for me. The Stone tried to kill me.”
“Then, then —”
“If you’d touched it, maybe you’d be lying in Kiff’s place.”
His father beat the ground as Merlin glanced at the shadowy forms of people gathered around them.
A deep voice spoke. “And so here are the mongrel and his whelp come to lick my feet!”
Mórganthu.
Owain stood. “Look what you did!”
“I? I did nothing,” Mórganthu scoffed. “I was not even here. Are you sure you did not cause this amazing spectacle?”
Merlin’s father stepped back and shook his head, his voice raspy. “Then why did this happen? Kifferow touched your Stone, and it killed him.”
Mórganthu sniffed, but Merlin heard no sorrow in his voice. “A moment. In a moment I will answer your question. Everyone, back away from the Stone and sit.”
The people moved away. Merlin rose and found himself in the center of the widening circle, with his hand on his father’s shoulder. He wondered where Natalenya had gone. Mórganthu stood nearby like a dark statue.
With his father guiding him, Merlin retreated to the inner edge of the circle, where they sat down next to Mônda and Ganieda.
Merlin placed his arm over his father’s shuddering back. From the other side, Mônda’s sharp nails pricked Merlin on the back of his hand. He yielded by moving his hand farther down and hung on to his father’s thick leather belt.
In the center of the gathering, Mórganthu seemed to be biding his time.
“What’s he waiting for?” Merlin muttered, turning toward his father.
Owain twisted around and appeared to survey the gathering. “He’s a showman,” he said, his voice tinged with anger and pain.
More and more villagers gathered, and by the sound of them, it seemed the entire village had come.
Just as Mórganthu cleared his throat to speak, Mônda dropped her hand down and gouged Merlin again. He jerked his hand away and nursed his wound. There was blood. Why was she doing that?
Mórganthu raised his voice. “I declare to you … I declare that the Stone is angry with this village. The Stone has slain this man because he was found unworthy of it. All who fail to worship and truly love this Stone will be destroyed!”
Mórganthu struck the Stone with his staff, and blue flames erupted from its surface.
Merlin covered his eyes. “Don’t look at it, Tas.”
“Why not? It’s amazing. If you could just see it properly.”
“You’re right,” Mônda said. “And the Stone will make you a chieftain if you follow it. See the respect shown to my father?”
Merlin whispered in his father’s ear. “Mórganthu is lying. Kiff worshiped it, and it killed him!”
Owain shook his head as if shooing away a buzzing gnat. “Yes, that’s right, he was killed. I remember now.” Yet he kept looking at the Stone.
“That’s wrong,” Mônda whispered. “The Stone tried to save Kiff. Don’t meddle like Merlin did. The Stone is wonderful.”
“It’s wonderful to see,” Owain said. “I’ve never felt like this.”
“All … All who desire peace need to worship the Stone,” Mórganthu shouted. “The great god Belornos gives it to you as a gift. You need only fear if you fail him. This man” — he kicked Kifferow’s charred leg — “was killed because not enough of you have chosen to turn back to the old ways.”
“Psst! Tas,” Merlin whispered. “Is Garth here? Do you see him?”
“Sure. Across the circle. That Dybris fellow’s jabbering at him, but the boy just keeps shaking his head and turning away.”
“Will you take me there?” Merlin asked. “I want to talk to him.”
“No. Owain will stay here,” Mônda said.
“I’m going to stay here, Merlin. He’s surrounded by the druidow, and he looks fine.”
Merlin felt helpless.
“Who will step forward?” Mórganthu asked. “And return to the old ways? The ways of Britons before this blight of monks.”
“Tas —”
“Don’t listen to him,” Mônda interrupted.
“Don’t bother me anymore, Merlin, I’m looking at the Stone. It’s —”
Merlin shook his father’s shoulder. “Are any other monks nearby? Any of the brothers?”
“You don’t care,” Mônda whispered to Owain.
Owain brushed Merlin’s hand away. “Why should I even care? Why should you?”
Merlin became infuriated at Mônda’s interference. “I need to know. Tell me, please! Look around.”
“Just Dybris. Satisfied?”
“No, I’m not. You need to speak out against Mórganthu. Tell the people the truth.”
Mônda kissed Owain loudly on the cheek. “My father is good. You like him, Owain, don’t you?”
“He looks stronger today … and kind. He’s not so bad.”
What was going on in his father’s heart? Was this his father talking?
“Surely,” Mórganthu said, his words as slippery as a frog, “surely you all see the beauty of the Stone. All who desire it, come forward!”
The shuffling began. Merlin looked behind him and was amazed how many blurs of people moved toward the Stone.
“Tas, how many?” Merlin asked. “Who’s going forward?”
His father didn’t answer.
“Tas?” Merlin turned back, but his father was gone. Panic set in, and he patted all around for the familiar shape. He soon discovered Mônda and his sister were missing too.
Merlin’s blood raced through his heart, and his legs tensed to spring forward and drag his father back. But it was too late. He felt the chains of his blindness and raged against his inability to stop what was happening.
“Tas, come back!”
The nightmare of the previous night was happening again. But at least Dybris stood nearby. Merlin waited for the monk to speak up, but he heard nothing as the flow of villagers walked to the front of the gathering. Why hadn’t Dybris said something?
Merlin prayed for strength. His father and the villagers were in danger, and the evil spirit in his vision wanted all the Britons to worship the Stone. With his hands trembling and his knees shaking, Merlin stood amid the jostling crowd and raised his voice for all to hear.