Chronicles of Corum (32 page)

‘ ‘I follow you,” said Corum, for he had some experience himself of what King Mannach meant. “Yet even when the minds are primitive and the knowledge corrupt, this can spawn a huge and ugly power of its own. And can the power of Light exist without the presence of the power of Dark? Can generosity survive without greed, or knowledge without ignorance?”

“That is ever the puzzle of the Mabden dream,” said Jhary-a-Conel, almost to himself, “and that, doubtless is why
I
am encouraged to remain in that dream, wherever in all the Fifteen Realms and beyond it manifests itself.’ ‘ Then he spoke more briskly: “But this particular dream will fade very soon unless we find a means of reviving Amergin. Come, let us bear him swiftly to this place of power, this Cremmsmound.”

And it was only as they prepared to leave for the mound in the oak-grove that Corum realized he had a profound reluctance to accompany them.

He realized that he feared Cremmsmound, despite the fact it was the place he had first seen when King Mannach and his folk called him from their past, from Castle Erorn and his brooding and his memories of Rhalina.

Corum mocked himself, realizing that he was both tired and hungry, and that when he had rested a little and eaten a little and spent a little time in the company of his lovely Medhbh he would no longer experience such silly feelings.

Yet they remained with him until the evening when King Mannach, Medhbh of the Long Arm, Jhary-a-Conel, Goffanon the Dwarf, Ilbrec of the Sidhi riding on Splendid Mane, Corum and all King Mannach’s folk from the fortress city of Caer Mahlod took the near-dead body of the High King Amergin forth and bore it towards the forest where, in a glade, rose the mound under which, according to legend, Corum—or a previous incarnation of Corum—had been buried.

A little faint sunlight lingered among the great trees of the forest, creating dark and mysterious shadows which seemed to Corum to contain more than rhododendrons and brambles, more than squirrels or foxes or birds.

Twice he shook his head, cursing his own weariness for putting stupid notions into his mind.

And then at last the party reached Cremmsmound in the oak-glade.

They reached the place of power.

For a moment, as he entered the oak grove, Corum felt a cold enter his body which was even more profound than that which he had experienced at Caer Llud and he felt that this was the coldness of death.

He began to remember the prophecy of Ieveen the Seeress whom he had met on the way to Hy-Breasail. She had told him to fear a harp—well, he did fear a harp. She had told him to fear a brother, too. Did his ‘brother’ rest under the grass-grown mound in the oak-grove, under the artificial hill surrounded by oaks of all ages, the holy place of the folk of Caer Mahlod? Was there another Corum— the real hero Cremm, perhaps—who would rise from the earth to slay him for his presumption?

Was it Cremm he had seen in his dream while he slept at Craig Don?

The mound was a silhouette against the sinking sun and the moon was already rising. A hundred faces turned upwards to look at the moon, but these were not the faces of superstitious men and women. Each face reflected a curiosity and a sense of impending wonderment. It was quiet in the oak-grove as they stood in a circle about the mound.

Then Ilbrec lifted the puny body of the High King in his great arms and Ilbrec walked up the mound and placed the High King at the very top. And then Ilbrec, too, turned his face up to look at the moon.

Ilbrec walked slowly back down the mound to stand beside his old friend Goffanon.

Next came King Mannach to the mound, walking slowly up and holding the open casket in his arms. From within the casket gleamed gold and silver. King Mannach placed the Golden Oak at Amergin’s head, where it faced the fading sun, and the oak shone brightly, seeming to absorb all the remaining rays. And King Mannach placed the image of the silver ram at Amergin’s feet so that the rays of the moon would fall upon it, and already the Silver Ram burned white and cold.

Corum thought that, save for their size, those two images could be a living tree and a living ram, so fine was their workmanship. The gathering pressed closer around the mound as King Mannach descended, all eyes upon the prone body of the High King and the Oak and the Ram. Only Corum hung back. The cold had gone from his body, yet he still shivered, still fought the fear which sought to fill his mind.

Then came Goffanon the Smith, his double-bladed axe which he had forged himself centuries before upon his broad shoulder, the gold of the Oak and the silver of the Ram reflected in his helm, greaves and breastplate of polished iron. And Goffanon walked half-way up the mound and paused, lowering his axe so that the blade rested upon the turf and his hands rested upon the shaft.

Corum smelled the rich and subtle scents of the trees, the brambles, the rhododendrons and the grass of the forest. Those scents were warm and good and should have lulled the sense of fear in Corum, but they did not. Still he did not join the throng, but remained at the edge of the gathering wishing that Medhbh had not pressed forward with the rest, wishing that she stood beside him to comfort him. But none knew what Corum felt. All eyes were upon the figure of the High King, upon the image of the Oak at his head and the image of the Ram at his feet. And Corum became conscious of a silence descending upon the forest; there was neither the sound of animals nor the rustle of leaves. There was a stillness as if nature itself waited to learn what events would now come to pass.

And Goffanon lifted his huge and bearded head towards the moon and he began to sing in the clear, deep voice which had earlier sounded his own death-song, when he thought that the Brothers of the Pines would slay him. And though the words were spoken in the Sidhi tongue, which was related to the tongues of the Vadhagh and the Mabden, Corum heard many of them and understood them.

Ancient were the Sidhi ‘Ere before the Calling.

They died abroad In noble circumstance.

Binding vows they made,

Stronger than blood, Greater than love,

To aid the Mabden race.

In clouds they came

To the Islands of the West, Their weapons and their music

In their arms.

Gloriously they fought,

And nobly died In battle and in grief,

Honoring their vows.

Ancient were the Sidhi, Proud in word and deed;

Ravens followed them In alien Realms.

Ancient were the Sidhi!

E’en in death They swore the fulfillment

Of all oaths.

Chariots and treasures, Mounds and caverns,

Are their monuments, And their names.

Of these heroes few remain To guard against the Pines.

The oaks are dying.

Unearthly winter slays them.

Ancient were the Sidhi,

Brothers to the Oak, Friends of the Sun,

Enemies of the Ice.

The ravens grew fat On Sidhi flesh.

Who is there now To aid the Oak?

Once Oak Woman stood amongst us,

Sharing her strength; Her knowledge brought us courage

And the Fhoi Myore fell.

The Fhoi Myore fell.

Sunlight swept the West, And Oak Woman slept.

Her work was done.

Ancient were the Sidhi!

Few there were who lived. Prophetic voices spoke,

But the Sidhi would not hear.

Oak Woman stirred,

Pledges she made. If cold returned,

She would wake.

Mystic talismans

She fashioned, Against the Winter’s might,

To save her Oaks.

Sleeping, Oak Woman smiled,

Safe against the snow, Her oath ensured,

Her word made strong.

In nine fights the Fhoi Myore fell;

In nine fights died the Sidhi; Few heroes left the final field.

Manannan died and all his throng.

Dying, great Manannan knew peace.

In vain he had not fought, For he recalled Oak Woman’s vow

To aid tomorrow’s race.

Oak Woman slept in sanctuary.

A word would wake her. The tenth great fight grew near.

The word was sought.

The word was lost.

Three heroes sought it. Goffanon sang a song.

The word was found.