Stephen Lawhead - Grail

A quick movement at the door and a dark shape burst into the room, straightened, and became the familiar figure I knew.

'Bors!'

Gereint lowered the blade and fell back; he had been that close to striking.

'Here you are!' Bors cried, lowering the sword in his own hand. 'And here was I thinking I had lost you for good.'

His relief was instantly swallowed in amazement as he beheld the walls and floor. He turned his wondering gaze upon the beautiful carvings, and we joined him in silent admiration. Explanations could wait; a greater mystery commanded our attention.

When he spoke again, it was in a voice humbled with awe. 'It is wonderful.'

'That it is,' I agreed. 'I have never seen the like.'

'It reminds me of those cells the monks make in Armorica. Look here,' he said, moving towards the rear of the chapel, 'the altar still stands, and – '

He broke off so suddenly, I glanced quickly at his face, which now wore an expression of revulsion: lips twisted in a grimace of distaste, eyes narrowed in disgust. With my crooked staff, I struggled across the room to join him. 'Damn them to hell,' he muttered, turning his face away.

Then I saw what he had seen, and turned my face away, too. The sight and smell brought bile to my mouth and I coughed, feeling the burn in my throat as I swallowed it back. 'Desecrated.'

On the altar before us lay the severed genitals of a bull, the members placed atop a pile of human excrement. The bull's bloody horns with bits of the skull, and tail with part of the anus attached, flanked the stinking mound on either side, and the poor animal's tongue, torn out by the root, completed the repugnant arrangement.

'Have you found something?' Gereint hastened to where we stood. I tried to warn him off but was too late, and he pushed in beside Bors.

The young warrior looked at the altar. Clapping a hand to his mouth, he choked and turned swiftly away.

'That is the worst of it,' I said.

'Holy Jesu,' he whispered in a small, wounded voice.

'This is not right,' Bors declared solemnly. 'I will not allow it.'

So saying, he stripped off his cloak and flung it over the obscene display. I thought that he meant merely to cover the desecration, but he had another plan, for he spread the cloak and then gathered up the defiling mass, folding it into the cloth. Holding the bundle at arm's length, he bore it from the chapel, returning a moment later with a double handful of grass in each fist.

Striding to the altar, Bors took to scrubbing the flat stone with the grass. 'I need some water,' he said through clenched teeth.

'Maybe there is a well outside,' said Gereint, darting away.

I leaned, exhausted, against the wall while Bors put the full strength of his arms into the cleansing of the venerable stone. As he worked, a faint green sheen began to gleam where the grass, crushed by its abrasion, left some of its substance.

'See here, Gwalchavad,' Bors called, motioning me nearer. 'What is this?'

I hobbled closer, and only then did Bors notice I was wounded. 'But you are hurt, brother. Forgive me, I should have -'

'I will live, never fear,' I said, waving his apology aside. Indicating the altar, I said, 'What do you make of it?'

'It is a circle, and words, I think.' He pointed to a broken arc of spidery lines which seemed to be etched in the stone. 'But I cannot read the letters.'

'Nor can I,' I told him. 'Perhaps if we could see more of it -' Bors fell to scrubbing again, as if by brute effort he could make the words appear. But for all his muscle, the thin, cracked lines did not mend or improve. 'It is no use, Bors. Whatever is written on that stone is worn away and there is no reading it now.'

Bors ceased rubbing, and stood with knots of grass clenched in his fists. 'I should go see what has become of Gereint,' he said, but his eyes never left the etched surface of the stone.

'Yes, and then we should decide what to do next.'

Curiously, we were both reluctant to leave the altar. We stood staring at the fragmented lines, neither making a move… until Gereint returned a few moments later. He burst into the chapel in a rush of excitement.

'There is a well!' he exclaimed, bustling towards us. 'And I found this bowl on a chain. I had some difficulty getting the bowl free without spilling the water, but -' He stopped when he saw what we were looking at. 'It looks like writing.'

'Aye, lad, it is,' Bors affirmed. 'But we can make nothing of it.'

'Maybe this will help,' replied Gereint. Stepping quickly to the altar, he raised the vessel and dashed the contents over the stone.

The water struck the stone with a hiss and a splutter, casting up great vaporous clouds of steam while droplets of water sizzled and cracked – as if the altar had been iron-heated in the forge. Bors and Gereint drew back a step, and I threw an arm over my face and twisted away lest I be scalded by the heat blast.

'Jesu be praised!' breathed Gereint. 'Look!'

Lowering my arm, I gazed once more upon the altar. Through the steam I could see the incised lines glowing with a golden sheen. Even as I watched, the thin broken lines joined, deepened, became robust and bold. The flat altar stone had changed, too: glittering and smooth as a new polished gem, it gleamed with the milky radiance of crystal shot through with veins of silver and flecks of crimson and gold.

The image on the stone resolved clearly into that of a broad circular band of gold with a cross inside; bent around the band was a finely drawn ring of words. Flanking the circle and cross on either side were two figures – creatures whose bodies appeared to be made of fire – with wings outspread as if in supplication or worship.

'It is beautiful,' murmured Gereint.

'The words,' said Bors, his voice soft with awe. 'What do they say?'

'I have never seen writing like this,' I said.

'Is it Latin?' he wondered.

'Perhaps,' I allowed doubtfully, 'but it is not like any Latin the monks use. See how the letters curve and twist back upon one another. I think it must be some other script.'

Gereint, his face illumined by the soft golden light, gazed upon the altar figures with a beatific expression on his face. Oblivious to all else, he sank to his knees before the altar, his lips moving in an unspoken prayer. The purity of this simple, spontaneous act shamed me and I averted my eyes. Then I heard a movement beside me and when I looked back, Bors had joined the young warrior on his knees.

The two knelt together shoulder to shoulder, hands upraised in the posture of monks. Had I been able to bend my leg, I would have joined them. Instead, I clung to my crude crutch, and raised my voice to heaven.

'Blessed Jesu,' I prayed, my voice sounding loud and clear in the sacred place, 'I come to you a beggar in need. Great evil stalks this forest and we are not strong enough to overcome it. Help us, Lord. Do not forsake us, nor yet leave us prey to the powers of the Evil One.' Then, remembering the ruined chapel and its desecration, I added, 'Holy One of God, accept our poor offering of water poured out upon the stone. Sain this chapel with your presence, and restore the glory of your name in this place. So be it.'

Into the silence of the chapel came the echo of a song – like one of those Myrddin sometimes plays in which the harp seems to spin the melody of itself: Gift Songs, the Emrys calls them -so quiet it took me a moment to realize that it was not of my imagining. Bors and Gereint ceased their prayers and raised their eyes above.

I, too, gazed around, for it seemed as if the music derived from the heights. I saw nothing but the shadowed recesses of the high-pitched roof. The music, exquisite in its simple elegance, grew louder, and I saw the shadows fade as the carvings on the roof and walls of the chapel began to glimmer and glow.