The Endless Knot (18 page)

The pig simply melted from sight. I saw it go. Rather, I saw it, and then I did not see it anymore. The creature had evaporated—tusks, tail, bristles and all—leaving not so much as a squeal behind.

I saw it go and my stomach tightened. My heart sank and I suddenly felt weak. My spear fell from my slack fingers; I made a clumsy grab for it and missed. The spear dropped on the ground.

“Where is it?” shouted Emyr. He looked to Alun, who leaned poised in the saddle with his spear raised, ready to throw. Neither had seen the pig vanish.

“The beast is hiding!” replied Alun, indicating the crevice between stones.

Cautiously, Emyr approached the dolmen and jabbed his spear beneath the capstone, thinking to drive the pig out. With trembling fingers, I gathered the reins and turned my mount, leaving the glade. Bran hailed me as I passed. “Have they made the kill?” he called. “Llew!”

I made no answer. Overcome by the enormity of the crisis, I could not speak. I simply spurred my horse away.

“Llew! What has happened?” Bran called sharply.

I knew what had happened: the web between the worlds had now grown so thin and tenuous that a frightened pig could cross the threshold in broad daylight. The balance between the worlds was skewed; the Endless Knot unraveling. The Otherworld and the manifest world I had left behind were collapsing inward each upon the other. Chaos loomed.

I could hear the shriek of the void loud in my ears as I passed from the glade. The chill touched my heart—and my hand: my silver hand had grown cold on the end of my arm. The cold spread to my bones. Blackness swarmed the borders of my vision.

“Are you injured, lord?” called the Raven Chief behind me.

Ignoring Bran, I rode on . . .

I had almost reached the edge of the forest when the others caught me. They were puzzled by my actions and disappointed at having to abandon the hunt. No one spoke, but I could feel their tacit bewilderment at my behavior. We rode back to camp without explanation and, upon dismounting, I turned to Bran. “Bring Tegid,” I said, and ducked into my tent.

Goewyn was not there. No doubt she was away somewhere with Tángwen. I sat down on the red oxhide in the center of the tent, crossed my legs, folded my arms across my chest, and bent my head until it almost touched my knees. I waited, feeling a cold tide of desperation rising within me. If I did not think about what I had seen and what it meant, I could keep the tide from overwhelming me.

“Hurry, Tegid,” I murmured, rocking slowly back and forth.

In this way I held the tide at bay and kept it from swallowing me and carrying me away. I do not know how much time passed, but I heard the brushing tread of a step at the doorway and then felt a presence beside me. I opened my eyes and raised my head.

Tegid was bending over me, concern creasing his brow. “I am here, brother,” he said softly. “The hunt went well?”

I shut my eyes again and shook my head. When I did not reply, he said, “What has happened?” He paused. “Llew, tell me. What has happened?”

I raised my silver hand to him. “It is cold, Tegid. Like ice.”

He bent down and touched the metal hand thoughtfully. “It feels the same to me,” he offered, straightening once more. “Tell me about the hunt.”

“Three pigs,” I began, haltingly. “They gave us a good hunt. We chased them—deep into the forest. One escaped. We followed two into a clearing. There was a dolmen and ring. We chased one of the pigs around the dolmen and . . . and then it disappeared.”

“The dolmen?”

I cast a quick, disgusted glance at the bard to see if he was baiting me. “The pig. The pig disappeared. I saw it go, and I know where it went.”

“Did the others see it?” he asked.

“That is hardly the point—is it?” I spat.

Tegid watched me closely.

“I have seen the pig before,” I told him. “Before I came to Albion, I saw that pig. It is just like the aurochs, you see?”

Tegid did not see. How could he? So I explained to him about the aurochs—the aurochs we had hunted on our flight to Findargad, and which had disappeared into a mound the same way the pig had vanished.

“But we killed it,” Tegid protested. “We ate its meat and it fed us.”

“There were
two!
” I said. “One disappeared and the other we killed. That aurochs is what brought Simon and me to Albion; the one we chased that day was the one that brought us. And the pig I chased today was the one I saw before I came.”

Tegid shook his head slowly. “I hear you, brother, but I still do not understand why this upsets you,” he said. “It is unfortunate, but—”

“Unfortunate!”

Tegid stood looking at me for a moment, then sat down facing me. He settled himself and said, “If you want me to understand, you must tell me what it means.” He spoke slowly, but crisply. He was restraining himself, but with obvious effort.

“It means,” I said, closing my eyes again, “that Nettles was wrong. The balance is not restored. The Knot—the Endless Knot is still unraveling.”

12
T
HE
R
ETURN OF THE
K
ING

T
hough Tegid and I talked at length, I was unable to make him grasp the significance of the vanishing pig. Probably I could not explain it properly, or at least in a way he could understand. He seemed willing enough, but my explanation lacked some element crucial to persuasion. I could not make him see the danger.

“Tegid,” I said at last, “it is late and I am tired. Let us get something to eat.”

Tegid agreed that might be best; he rose stiffly and left the tent. Gloom and doom had so permeated my thoughts that I was amazed to find a stunning sunset in progress—pink, carnelian, copper, wine, and fuchsia flung in gorgeous splashes against a radiant hyacinth sky. I blinked my eyes and stood staring at it for a moment. The air was warm still, with just a hint of evening's chill. Soon the stars would come out, and we would be treated to yet another spectacle of almost staggering grandeur.

Through all its travails, Albion still endured. How was that possible? What preserved it? What sustained it in the very teeth of cataclysm and disaster?

“What do you see?” asked Goewyn softly.

“I see a miracle,” I replied. “I see it and I wonder how such things can endure.”

Upon seeing Tegid emerge from the tent, Goewyn had quickened her step to meet me. She had kept herself away from the tent while Tegid and I talked, but now she was eager to discover the subject of our discussion. “Are you hungry?” she asked, taking my flesh hand in hers. She did not say that she had been waiting long; the curiosity in her dark brown eyes was evident enough.

“I am sorry,” I told her. “I did not mean to exclude you. Tegid and I were talking. You should have joined us.”

“When a king and his bard hold council, no one must intrude,” she replied. There was no irritation in her tone, and I realized that despite her curiosity, which was only natural, she would have fought anyone who tried to disturb us.

“Next time I will send for you, Goewyn,” I said. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

“You are troubled, Llew.” She reached a cool hand to my forehead and smoothed my hair back. “Walk. Take your ease. I will have food brought to the tent and await you there.”

“No, walk with me. I do not want to be alone just now.”

So we walked together a while. We did not talk. Goewyn's undemanding presence was a balm to my agitated spirit, and I began to relax somewhat. As the stars began to waken in the sky, we returned to the tent. “Rest now. I will see that food is brought.” She moved away, and I watched her go. My heart soared to see her in motion. I loved every curving line.

My melancholy lifted at once. Here was love and life, full and free before me. Here was a soul shining like a beacon flame, shining for me. I wanted to gather her in my arms and hold her forever.

Never leave me, Goewyn.

Entering the tent once more, I found Tegid and Bran waiting. Tegid had also rousted Cynan from his tent and brought him along. Rushlights had been lit and placed on stands around the perimeter of the tent, casting a rosy glow over the interior. They ceased talking when I appeared.

“This was not necessary, Tegid,” I told him.

“You are troubled, brother,” the bard replied. “I have failed to console you, so I brought your chieftains to attend you.”

I thanked them all for coming and insisted that it was not necessary to attend me. “I have Goewyn to console me,” I explained.

“It is unfortunate that the pig got away,” Bran sympathized. “But we can find another one tomorrow.”

“The hunting runs are full of them,” offered Cynan helpfully.

Shaking my head gently, I tried once more to explain. “It is not the pig. I do not care about the pig. It is what the pig's disappearance represents that worries me. Do you see that?”

I could tell by the way they looked at me that they did not see at all. I tried again.

“There is trouble,” I said. “There is a balance between this world and my world, and that balance has been disturbed. I thought defeating Siawn Hy and Meldron would restore the balance—Nettles thought so too. But he was wrong, and now . . .”

The blank stares brought my lecture to an abrupt halt. I had lost them again.

“If there is trouble, we will soon know it,” Bran suggested. “And we will conquer it.”

Spoken like a fighting man. “It is not that kind of trouble,” I answered.

“We are more than a match for any enemy,” Cynan boasted. “Let it come. There is no enemy we cannot defeat.”

“It is not that simple, Cynan.” I sighed, shaking my head again. “Believe me, I wish it were.”

Tegid, desperate to help, observed, “The Banfáith's prophecy has proven true through all things. All that has happened, and all that is yet to happen, is contained in the prophecy.”

“There, you see?” agreed Cynan with satisfaction. “There is nothing to worry about. We have the prophecy to guide us if trouble should come. There is nothing to worry about.”

“You do not understand,” I said wearily. It was as if a gulf stood between us—a gulf as wide and deep as that which separates the worlds, perhaps. Maybe there was no way for them to cross that gap. If Professor Nettleton were here, he would know what it meant . . . or would he? He had been wrong about my remaining in Albion; obviously there was still some work for me to finish. Then again, maybe he was right; maybe it was my lingering presence that was causing the trouble.

I almost groaned with the effort of trying to make sense of it. Why, oh why, was this so difficult?

“If it is understanding we lack,” the bard exhorted, “then let us look to the prophecy.” Pressing the palms of his hands together, he touched his fingertips to his lips and drew a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he began, speaking with quiet intensity, to declaim the prophecy given me by Gwenllian, Banfáith of Ynys Sci.

I needed no help in recalling the prophecy; I remembered the Banfáith's words as if they were engraved on my heart. Still, each time I heard those stern, unforgiving words spoken aloud, I felt the thrill in my gut. This time it was more than a thrill, however; I felt the distinct tug of a power beyond my ken bearing me along—destiny, perhaps? I do not know. But it was as if I was standing on a seastrand with the tide flowing around me; I could feel its irresistible pull. Events like waves had gathered and now were moving, bearing me along. I could resist—I could swim against the tide, but I would be carried along anyway in the end.

Tegid came to the end of the recitation, saying, “Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.”

This last seemed to please both Bran and Cynan immensely. Bran nodded sagely, and Cynan folded his arms across his chest as if he had carried the day. “Silver Hand reigns!” he declared proudly. “And when the Cylchedd is complete, Albion will be united once again under the Aird Righ.”

“That is surely the way of it,” enthused Bran.

I remained unconvinced but had run out of arguments. Then Goewyn arrived with one of her maidens bringing our supper, and so I decided to let the matter rest for the time being. If anything was seriously wrong, Professor Nettleton would surely return to tell me so, or send a message to me somehow.

“Let us hope that is the way of it,” I agreed reluctantly and then dismissed them to their own tents and to their rest.

“We will remain vigilant, lord,” Bran vowed as he left. “That is all we can do.”

“True, Bran. Very true.”

He and Cynan filed out, followed by Tegid, who, though he appeared anxious to tell me something, merely gazed at Goewyn for a moment, bade her a good night's rest, and went out, leaving us alone to share our meal and my misery.

“Eat something, husband,” Goewyn prodded gently. “A man cannot think or fight on an empty stomach.”

She lifted a bowl under my nose. The aroma of boiled meat in thick, salty broth made my mouth water. Taking the bowl in my silver hand, I dipped my fingers in and began eating. My mind turned again to the harsh promises of the prophecy, and I ate in silence, ignoring Goewyn as she sat directly before me.

“Here, my love,” she said after a time, drawing me from my thoughts. “For you.” I looked up to see her break a small loaf of brown bread in her hands. She smiled, extending half the loaf to me.

A small gesture: her hand reaching out to me—as if she would thwart all the unknown hazards of the future with a bit of broken bread—it was so humble and trifling against such overwhelming uncertainty. Yet, in that moment, it was enough.

The next day we resumed the circuit, and all went as it had before. Nothing terrible happened. The earth did not open before our feet and swallow us whole; the sky did not fall; the sun did not deviate from its appointed course. And, when evening came, the moon rose to shed a friendly light upon the land. All was as it should be.