The Silver Hand (14 page)

I raised my head from the water and turned to Llew. “How does it look? Describe it to me.”

“It is a clean cut,” he told me. “The flesh is red and swollen around the gash, and there is some yellowish fluid seeping out. But the blood looks good—it is not watery.”

I pressed my fingertips to the edges of the wound and felt the flesh. It was sore and inflamed. “What of my eyes?”

Although he tried to keep his voice level and dispassionate, I sensed that he was disturbed by what he saw. “There is so much clotted blood and swelling . . . brother, I cannot tell. I think you should keep them covered.”

He feared to say what I already knew: my eyes were ruined. Since Meldron's cruel stroke, I had seen neither spark nor blush of light. Brightness of sun and darkness of night was all the same to me. I would never see again.

We stayed two days in a grassy dell, resting, conserving our strength. We ate the roots of water plants that grew in the river, and kindled warm fires from fallen branches fetched from the surrounding wood. Thus refreshed, we moved on, following the river, as it seemed good to me. Day by day, as we walked, I instructed my amiable companion in the lore of wood, field, and forest. Llew welcomed the distraction from his pain which my teaching provided, and he showed himself a quick and able student. He remembered all I told him, and often engaged me in closely reasoned discussions concerning one small detail or another. I had only to tell him a thing once and it was his.

After many days, we came to a waterfall. The river, which had been bending ever southward, became narrower and deeper, and the rocks along the watercourse larger, as the land rose higher in its approach to the mountains. We stopped, the sound of falling water loud in our ears. Llew gazed at the falls before us and said, “We will have to find a way around this rise. The boulders here are too big and the cliff too steep to climb.”

“This is one of the gates to the mountains beyond,” I told him. As I spoke these words, there surged within me sudden conviction that we had been led to this place; the Goodly-Wise had directed our steps. “It is for us to go through here.”

“Are you certain? I cannot see how we are to climb.”

“Well, we will make a start.”

Llew made no complaint, but sat down and began studying the tumbled mass of rock before him. After a time he said, “The boulders are big as houses, and smooth—there is no way to climb them. We might find our way among the smaller rocks, but they are covered with thick, green moss and splashing water, so they will be very slippery.” He paused and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, I am certain.”

“We could double back along the river and find another way, perhaps.”

“This is the way of our path,” I told him. I stood and cast aside the oak branch I used as a staff. “I feel it—this is the way we must go.”

Llew offered no further objection, and we began picking our way up the mass of stone. We were instantly wet to the skin from the mist and spray. Speech was difficult over the constant crash and clatter of falling water, but Llew shouted directions to guide me. Straining, slipping, fighting for every precarious foothold, we crawled up the rock face before us.

I moved in close-wrapped darkness, my hands gripping the rock, feeling the cool hardness beneath my grasp. I began thinking of stone: standing stones, pillar stones, the circle stones which mark rare powers on the land. I thought of ogham stones, and stone cairns. And all the stones were carved with the
Môr Cylch,
the life maze.

I imagined the precise pattern of the curving pathway as if woad-daubed in blue. It seemed to me that I entered the Môr Cylch, blindly placing my feet on the twisting, turning path, trusting to the Maker of the Maze to guide my steps.

“This is as far as we go,” Llew called over his shoulder. “We will have to go back and find another way.”

He eased himself back to where I perched, pressing my body against the rock. When he spoke again his voice was closer. “It is too steep, too dangerous. What do you suggest?”

“I will lead.”

“Tegid, you are—” He stopped himself saying it. “How?”

“I will lead,” I insisted.

Whatever his misgivings, Llew did not dispute my judgment. He spoke not a word of fear, but shifted along the narrow rock ledge where I stood. I flattened myself as close to the rock wall as I could, as, with greatest care and difficulty, we changed places. And then I began, slowly and with extreme care, to feel my way up the sheer rock face.

“Watch my hands and feet,” I called back to Llew. “Do what you see me do.”

“This is insane!” he shouted back.

“Well I know it!”

Nevertheless, we continued our climb. Trembling, halting, fearful for every step, in the sightless dark, I sought the path. Trusting only to my fingertips and toes, I found first one foothold, then a handhold, and another. Step by shuddering step, we climbed. I held the image of the life maze in my mind, and each foothold became a step along the patterned way.

Up and ever up, we scaled the rocky height. Mist and spray bathed us, drenched us. We paused now and again to gather the raveled threads of our faltering strength, and then climbed on. Llew called out encouragement to me, urging me on with high-sounding words.

After an age, it seemed to me that the water roar grew less. “Llew, what can you see?” I called over my shoulder.

“Nothing,” he replied. “The mist and spray—I cannot see a thing!”

I made to move on but, try as I might, I could not find the next foothold. Finally, in a fit of desperation I reached as high as I could stretch, pressed my fingers tight to the rock crevice and swung out and up . . .

I felt my foot strike a step that I could not see, but the rock was slick and my foot slipped away again. But for my fingers wedged into the crevice, I would have fallen. I slid back down.

“Tegid! Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I answered, “I will try again.”

“No! Wait—”

I kicked out once more, and my heel caught on the narrow, unseen edge. I quickly shifted my hands and pulled my trailing leg up until the foot reached the step. I straightened and felt fresh wind on my face. I stretched forth a hand and felt the rock sloping sharply away. Two more quick steps and I was standing on a wide, level surface.

I called for Llew to follow, and he shouted back, “Stay there! Wait for me.”

In a moment, he shouted again: “Tegid, it is too far. The step—I have nothing to hold on to.”

I lay on my stomach and extended my hand over the edge toward him. “Take my hand,” I shouted.

“I cannot reach it, Tegid,” he shouted; I heard the pain and frustration in his voice. “I cannot hold with one hand!”

“Take my hand, Llew. Reach for it, I can hold you. Stretch out your foot to the step and take my hand. I will pull you up.”

“No, Tegid. It is too far. I cannot—”

“Take my hand, Llew.”

“I tell you it is too far!
I have but one hand!
”

“Trust me, Llew. I will not let you fall.” He was silent for a time. “Llew?”

“Very well,” he replied slowly. “I will count to three. Ready? On three: one . . . two . . . THREE!”

I braced myself. His hand struck mine; my fingers closed on his wrist and held fast.

Loose stones clattered away and were lost in the water roar below. A moment later, Llew was scrambling onto the rock beside me.

“Tegid, you did it!” he said, gasping for breath. “Bless you, brother, we made it!”

We lay panting on the rock. And, as if to reward us for our effort, the sun shone down on us, warming the rocks and drying our clothes. We lay back, drinking in the warmth, listening to the water voice now small and far, far below.

When we finally roused ourselves to continue on our way, I asked Llew to describe what he saw around us.

“It is the entrance to a glen, I think,” he replied. “The river has carved out a bowl-shaped ravine here. Very green. The grass is short and fine. There are many rocks among the trees, and the trees are large. The river ahead is wider here, and deeper too. The glen is crooked; it bends out of sight a little way along. I cannot see what lies beyond the bend, nor what lies above the ridge of the glen.” He paused as he turned toward me. “Well? What say you, brother?”

“Let us follow the river and look for a place to make camp,” I answered. “If you see a likely branch for a staff, I would welcome it.”

So saying, we moved on. Llew directed my steps, and we clambered over and among the rocks along the riverway. I listened to the sounds around me and sniffed the wind, sifting the air for signs. Amidst the sounds of moving water, I heard birdcalls: the thin cry of the tree creeper, the whistling warble of the dunnock, and high, high aloft the mewing call of a buzzard circling lazily over the trees. Now and then I heard the splash of a fish, or the furtive rustle of an animal darting into the undergrowth at our approach. I smelled the rich earth smell of mouldering foliage and damp, rotting wood; and the clean, fresh scent of sun-washed air; and the faint sweetness of flowers.

In a little while, Llew paused. “There is a stand of pines not far ahead,” he told me; pain made his voice crack. The climb up the falls had exhausted him and his wound was hurting him again. “I think we should stop and make camp there.”

We made our way to the place and found a well-sheltered clearing among the trees. The ground was covered in a drift of pine needles, thick and soft beneath our feet; the branches overhead formed a fair roof. There were large stones clumped in a rough ring—these formed a rude caer in which we might build our fire and sleep. After a rest, Llew set about to gathering firewood, and I turned to the task of clearing a space for the fire.

As I worked, feeling around the circumference of our caer, I heard the breeze sighing in the treetops. The wind was rising, strengthening out of the east as the sun sloped toward evening. It would be a chill night; we would be glad of the fire. This I told Llew when he returned with the firewood.

“Then I will gather more wood,” he said. I could tell it was the last thing he wanted to do, but he moved off among the trees.

Feeling my way slowly, I crept down to the river's edge and retrieved several smooth, round stones. After repeated trips, I had assembled enough to make a simple fire ring. As I began arranging the stones for the ring, I caught the slightest whiff of a familiar smell.

I stopped and sat up, raising my head and turning my face to the wind. I waited, but the scent eluded me.
Perhaps
, I thought,
I have imagined it only
.

I continued with my work, and in a moment the wind gusted, and I smelled it again. This time I was certain I had not imagined it: oak smoke. I turned my face into the wind. I was still standing this way when Llew returned.

“What is it?” Llew asked, dropping his armload of wood. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “But I have smelled something—an oak fire.” I indicated the direction of the wind. “It is coming from that direction, not far from here, I think.”

“A settlement?”

“I cannot say.”

“It will be dark soon,” Llew observed. “Still, I think we should go and see.”

“We will go together.”

“Here.” He stooped and then took me by the wrist. “I brought you this.”

He pressed the end of a branch into my hand. The length was slender and the bark smooth; the wood supple, yet resilient: ash, I guessed. “When I find another knife, we will carve you a proper staff,” he said.

We moved slowly along the river, following the smoke scent. Soon, Llew remarked, “I can smell it now. We must be getting near—but there is no sign of anyone.”

“It might be hunters,” I replied.

Presently, Llew stopped. He placed his hand against my chest to halt me. “I see it!” he whispered. “I see the smoke—drifting across the water. The camp must be just a little way ahead.”

We continued on, quietly, and, after but a few paces, Llew halted. “I think there is a ford here,” he said. Even as he spoke, I heard the sound of water trickling over stones. “We can cross to the other side. Do you want me to go across and see who has made the fire?”

“Guide me. We will go together.”

With my staff in one hand, and the other holding to Llew's arm, we crossed the river at the ford. The stones were well placed, and I had no difficulty finding my way across. My feet had but touched the opposite shore, however, when I became aware of a strange stillness in the air, and in the earth itself.

“An oak grove stands before us,” Llew told me in a whisper. “The trees are very large.”

“Let us go into the grove,” I replied. “See that you remain alert.”

We started forward, and after a few paces I sensed a change in my surroundings. It was cooler in the grove, and damp—rank with the smell of smoke and the moss-grown trunks of trees and fallen leaves. The air was still, the wood silent. No sound could be heard—no wind shifting the leaves, no stir of small feet in the undergrowth, no bird-cry.

We crept forward cautiously, pressing close to the trees. Llew tensed, touched my arm, and stopped. “What have you seen?” I whispered.

“It is an image of some kind—a carving. Here—”

He took my hand and raised it to the trunk of the tree beside me. The bark had been pared away from the bole, and a figure carved in the smooth wood. I traced the carving with my fingers, and felt a rough-hewn image: a hollow circle with a narrow rod passing through its center. It was a wheel with a spear for an axle.

“There are more of them.” Llew whispered. “At least one carving on every tree.”

I did not need to see the images hewn into the towering oaks to know that we had come to a place of power. I could feel the stillness of the grove—a silence persisting from time beyond memory, from before men walked upon the earth, from before the forest even—a stillness which overwhelmed all sound, calming, quelling, pacifying. A peace which reconciled all things to itself.