CHAPTER 16
THINGS FORGOTTEN
Merlin sat on his hands, leaning against the wall where his tas had left him. “Go and tell the brothers about Prontwon. I’ll stay and keep vigil.”
“I’m sorry about your father, Merlin,” Dybris said.
“Nothing can be done now. He’s gone.”
Dybris helped Merlin stand up and gave him back his staff. “Don’t give up. You can pray. All of us can pray.”
Merlin nodded.
“And don’t forget Garth. Keep praying for Garth.”
“I will.”
After Dybris left, Merlin pulled up a bench so he could sit near Prontwon’s body but decided to stand instead. He found the old man’s hands and folded them upon his chest. How could he have died just when Merlin needed him most? When everyone needed him?
Then Merlin did something he’d never done in life. He reached out and felt the shape of Prontwon’s face. He knew the man’s voice. Knew the gruffness when the abbot coughed to rebuke an improper joke. Knew his earnestness when he corrected Merlin’s thoughts about God or the Scriptures. Knew the abbot’s kindness when he held Merlin’s hands in greeting.
Yet Merlin couldn’t remember the man’s face, since his family had little to do with the monks before Merlin became interested in following Jesu.
Thus, he had never seen Prontwon smile or laugh, nor had he seen the twinkle that must have been in the old man’s eyes when he teased.
Warm sunshine filtered through the hole in the roof, and there Merlin stood, feeling the old man’s stubble and the shape of his nose. The forehead that held such intelligence, such wit, framed by his balding head and his surprisingly thick eyebrows.
Merlin held back a sob, for only in the coldness of death did he now understand Prontwon in a way God had intended him to be known and yet had always been hidden from Merlin. He patted Prontwon on the shoulder and sat down to pray for his own father, whose face he knew.
The room grew dark, and Merlin pulled his cloak about him, feeling suddenly chilled and alone. He tried to imagine the shape of his father’s eyes, and he begged God to open them.
But the wind began to whip through the rasping chapel door. A small animal pawed through the crack and jumped onto an unsteady bench several feet in front of Merlin.
The creature began to purr.
Soon the cat fell silent, but Merlin felt it watching him. He held his staff between himself and the black shadow where the cat wisped its tail. He kept praying, but it was hard to keep his mind on the words.
More cats arrived. One by one, they crept hush-clawed into the chapel until Merlin was surrounded by a coven of silent felines. Some on benches, some on the floor, and some on the table near the far wall.
Fear crawled into his heart, but he kept praying for his father despite the unnerving presence of the abbey’s sudden guests.
They hissed. Then they began to yowl, and the din of it unnerved Merlin. If the cats attacked, what would he do? He wanted to make a mad dash for the door and slam it closed behind him. That would leave the animals locked inside with … with … Prontwon’s body! The desire to defend the poor abbot and the desire to flee overwhelmed him. His stomach began to burn.
“God,” he called amid the angry spitting of the cats. “Protect me now. Protect your servant.” Even as the words died on his lips, a melody came to him, an old song Prontwon had written based upon a psalm.
Merlin hadn’t tried to memorize it, but the monks had sung it many times. He slid his harp from its bag, and with shaky hands plucked out the melody. His voice rose above the vehemence of the cats.
Yet their hissing grew louder, and their paws crept closer.
Merlin imagined their angry claws digging into his flesh. He drew his harp tighter against his body and continued to play the notes. Flaming his courage with a spark of love for his father, he sang the song with a wavering voice.
A cat landed on each side of his bench, and Merlin flinched. They let forth a terrible screech so that he almost fled — only his commitment to the abbot kept him firm. His heart pounded as they scratched at the wood and splintered its surface like an old bone dug up from a grave.
Owain lay on the grass, rigid and unable to move. Two druidow grabbed his wrists and stretched his arms above his head. They pulled him onto his back and slowly dragged his heavy frame across the grass.
One of the druidow swore. “Why do we get all the lugging jobs? ‘Take him to the Stone,’ the arch druid says, and so we do, but why pick someone as thick-limbed as this lout?”
Owain’s head slung backward, and he saw their heels kick, kick, kick. Finally a heel bashed him in the nose. The blood ran down his cheek and onto his ear. He blinked and through the haze saw the Druid Stone draw closer as they heaved his body forward.
Strangely, Owain felt relief that his struggle would soon be over. Twice before in his life he’d felt this way. The first time he was very young — the day after Whitsuntide when his family had been visiting relatives who lived in a crennig built out on a lake for the natural defense it offered. That day, while playing on the house’s ledge, he’d tripped and sunk into the cold water. He had flailed and kicked, sure, but nothing brought him up to air. He gave up the struggle then too … but why couldn’t he recall the rest of the story anymore?
The druidow dragged him closer to the Stone, and, upside down, he saw another man kneeling with his hands on it. Brioc. Upon his head sat his tricornered leather hat.
As if reacting to Owain’s presence, the Stone raged forth bright blue fire. Brioc yanked his hands away from the Stone and held them before his face.
Owain smelled burning flesh. He closed his eyes and wished his ears were covered too, as Brioc shrieked and ran away.
The druidow dropped Owain’s leaden arms onto the grass. “Get a gander at the Stone,” one said. “Mórganthu’s right that a man should never anger it!”
“Stop gawkin’, fool, and roll this ‘un over. We’ve orders to lay his hands on the Stone.”
Merlin’s jaw trembled as the cats scratched closer, their shrieks so near that his arms felt the spit from their fangs.
But a memory flickered like a candle, brighter than his fear. It was his mother, visiting him where he lay in bed crying from his father’s chastisement. Her oval face bent down to him, framed by her wavy red hair. She smiled and placed her warm hands on his cheeks. He could smell the sweetness of heather on her clothes.
“Merlin, sweet bairn, do ya ken how much Father loves ya? Gruff like a bear he is, but don’t shut yer heart to him. He needs ya! And he desperately loves ya. Always love him.”
Her face faded like a phantom, and in her memory he sang out the last verse of the abbot’s hymn with all his strength. When the song was finished, Merlin called out before the evil assembly of felines, “Begone! In the name of the Lord God of Hosts. In the name of Jesu the Messiah. In the name of the Sanctifying Spirit. Leave this place!” He set down his harp and picked up his staff. Gripping it in the middle, he jerked it left and right to knock the cats off the bench.
But nothing was there.
The howling and manifest switching of their tails faded, and the room became silent. The cats had vanished. The sun shone again through the hole in the ceiling, lighting up Merlin where he’d fallen on his knees in sweet praise to God.
He pleaded again in earnest for his father.
Someone shoved Owain facedown in the moist grass.
“Here, Podrith, pull him forward a bit more. Don’t grab his sleeve; you’re just tearin’ it. C’mon, like this.”
They grasped his hands, and Owain’s mind flashed back to his near drowning. The water had filled his lungs, and the light above had faded. But someone grabbed his hand. His own father pulled him from the water to the bright day and the sweet air. His father had found him. There was life. And air!
Only because of his father’s love did he survive to tell the tale to his own son. To Merlin.
Why had he forgotten his son?
Merlin’s face appeared before his darkened eyes. He could see the handsome curly black hair, his grin, and the innocent mischievousness. He could see the man Merlin was becoming. The strength in his back, legs, and arms. The self-assurance despite his limitations.
And Owain could see the scars — the scars that stabbed at his own heart every time he looked at them. Failure. You failed him. You didn’t protect him that day. But oh how he loved his son. If he could just say it instead of hurting him. Instead of insulting Merlin’s God.
God?
Was it God who gave Merlin the ability to resist? To keep struggling for air? To cling to life even when it beat him down? Owain had always puzzled over his son’s inner strength. His own power was fueled by anger at the injustices he’d suffered, as well as the fear of failure. And his fear stoked the anger like fire heating iron until he was able to bend those emotions to his will. Able to survive the calamities of his life.
But what of the Christ — the Messiah — whom Merlin professed? When he was young, Owain had known Jesu. Or so he’d thought. Had he believed only because his father believed?
When the prayers of the monks failed, and he’d been forced to accept that his beloved Gwevian had drowned, he’d given up his own slim faith. Blamed God. Just forgotten. Why had he forgotten? Had not the Christ suffered for him? Had not the Christ —
The armband burned with renewed fire, and the Stone rose up before his darkened vision. His hands floated so close, he could feel its frozen heat sucking the life from his bones. Chilling his heart and suffocating him so he no longer felt the love of his friends, his family, his God.
His God!
It was as if something snapped, releasing his imprisoned body. Owain yelled, kicked, and fought once more. Just as in the water when his father had taken his hand and given him hope.
There was hope. There was always hope.
He fought like a man possessed, and the druidow let go. More of the beasts surrounded him and tried to hold him down, but he climbed onto his knees and burst up with strength forged from long hours pounding out iron. Lashing out, he struck down one druid with the side of his arm and smashed another with his elbow. Flailing his fists, Owain soon scattered them and, rising, sprinted away.
He had to get to the one place he thought safe: his smithy. But the covenant armband from Mônda burned hotter and hotter, and her voice and footsteps haunted him from behind.