Stephen Lawhead - Grail

Bedwyr shook his head and looked to his companions, who merely shrugged and allowed that some dark mystery had clouded events – which was only to be expected, after all.

'After you entered the forest,' Bedwyr told us, 'we lost sight of you. The fog came down and -'

The fog,' echoed Arthur softly. 'I had forgotten about the fog.'

'When we could no longer find the path, we made camp and waited until the daylight to resume the search.'

'You have been searching all this time?' asked Rhys.

'Aye,' affirmed Cai, 'since first light this morning.'

'How can that be?' Bors blurted. 'It is at least seven days since we last saw you.'

'Seven if one,' agreed Gereint, then added uncertainly, 'Though we had no sun to go by. Still, it seemed a long time.'

'You make it more than it is,' replied Arthur confidently. 'Indeed, it could be no more than three days by my reckoning. Though it is true the sun did not show itself the while.'

'Three days and nights together at least,' Gwenhwyvar confirmed.

Cador, shaking his head solemnly, said, 'However that may be, I assure you all, only one night has passed, and that quickly. We rode out to find you as soon as we had light enough to see the trail.'

'It is but one night since we left you,' Cai maintained doggedly. 'But can you imagine our surprise when we could not find the wood we left just the night before?'

Well, it could not be denied that the wood had disappeared. Cai suggested that perhaps the same enchantment which had shown us the corpses of our friends had somehow stretched one night to seven for those who had entered that bewitched domain. We then speculated on how this could be accomplished. Myrddin, growing impatient with our ignorant babble, put a stop to it.

Drawing himself up, he said, 'You speak where you should be silent. Heaven is not the only eternity; Hell is eternal, too. If more explanation is required, let us simply say all that passed in the forest was, like the forest itself, wrought of sorcery. Yet, by the Great Light's grace, we have endured the worst the Enemy could devise and we have prevailed: the Summer Realm is saved, and the Most Holy Grail is restored.'

He straightened himself, and turned his face once more towards the trail, saying, 'Look your last on the Wasteland, my friends; Llyonesse is no more.' He paused and, as if gazing beyond the veil of years, added, 'Ah, but what was once will be again. Hear me: when the Thamesis reverses its flow and the sea gives up that which has been given to its keeping, the world will marvel at the glory that is Llyonesse.'

So saying, he put his feet once more to the path and, without a backward glance, began striding towards Ynys Avallach. Arthur and Gwenhwyvar walked beside him, refusing the mounts offered them by Bedwyr and the others. However, I did as I was bade and stood for a moment to look upon the Wasteland one last time,

Then I turned and followed the Pendragon and his Wise Emrys back to the land of the living, where the Summer Realm was waiting for its king.

See, now: more seasons have passed than I care to count. I see the land blossoming with peace and plenty under Arthur Pendragon's reign, as under the warmth of a bright summer sun.

To be sure, the drought and plague persisted into the following year, giving way only slowly and grudgingly. They continue to bring painful memories to all who survived them, and we will be a long time restoring the damage. As always, there is so much to do.

And in the doing, there is blessed forgetting. Most of those who followed Arthur into Llyonesse do not willingly talk about what happened, and very few outside the Dragon Flight have heard what took place during that long snowless winter. Britain will never know how close she came to destruction. Yet it seems that not a day passes but I find some reminder of the terrors we endured. It is often that I have sat alone at day's end, gazing into the dying light and contemplating all that took place during those strange, confusing days.

It still seems a dream to me in many ways. I see her face before me, and I feel her breath hot on my neck. My passion stirs within me and I wonder: would I have given in? If it happened again, would I be able to hold out? I would like to say that it could never happen, that I would remain steadfast and strong. In truth, I cannot say I would not fall. Therefore, I pray God I will never be tested beyond my endurance.

The Queen of Air and Darkness was the power behind Morgaws' actions, of that I am certain. Some have said, and some believe, that Morgaws was simply Morgian in a different guise. The Wise Emrys never believed this, however, and after long contemplation, I fear he is right. Morgaws was not Morgian – much as I might wish otherwise. Who, then, was she?

The power of evil is another mystery to me. How was it we believed those endless deceptions? Why did it assume such mastery over us?

Bishop Elfodd, whose advice I have sought on this matter more than once, believes that the power of any evil – great or small, it makes no difference – derives not from its own strength, much as some profess and many believe. 'No, in order for it to succeed,' the bishop explained one day in the spring following our return, 'evil must first remove the preserving goodness of the thing it would destroy. For the truth is that even the smallest good is more powerful than the greatest evil.'

'All appearances to the contrary,' I added wryly.

'Oh, yes!' he exclaimed, growing excited. 'Appearances are always to the contrary – always. Much of Morgaws' power lay in her ability to make herself appear something very different from what she was. It is the Evil One's oldest deception, and we are no less vulnerable to it than we ever were.' He shook his head sadly. 'Yes, and it is also the one deception that must be preserved at all costs, for once mortals truly understand what a weak and contemptible thing evil really is, the Ancient Enemy's destruction is assured.'

I did not fully believe Elfodd when he said that, but as I have puzzled over the thing, I am persuaded he may be right. It would explain why Morgaws stole the Grail and desecrated the chapel – that is to say, she made Llenlleawg do it, because I think she could neither possess nor command the objects she so desired. Llenlleawg also threw Caledvwlch into the well -perhaps because even at his most depraved and hopeless, he could not bring himself to wield that weapon against his king. So it was that by cleansing the altar, Bors, Gereint, and I, however unwittingly, prepared the way for the Grail Maiden to reconsecrate them. Though we did not know it at the time, we helped return a mighty weapon to the battle.

What to say of Llenlleawg? Myrddin and Arthur remain adamant that all men must answer for their actions. Bishop Elfodd, too, is of the opinion that the former champion must be punished for his sins. 'Remember,' the good bishop has said, 'we are not required to defeat evil, but only to stand against it. That is enough – the outcome remains with God; it is His battle, after all. However, we are required to refrain from actively helping the Enemy, and Llenlleawg helped the Enemy greatly.'

That he did. No one denies it. Llenlleawg, exiled and outcast, is paying the price for his treason now. But I know how easy it is to slip, to fall, to be overtaken by a will greater than your own. Perhaps alone of all the rest, I understand Llenlleawg best -because I, too, stood near the flame and was very nearly singed. 'We were all deceived,' as Gwenhwyvar said, and it is true.

Moreover, I believe that deception began long before we knew it. I long considered I was the first to set eyes on Morgaws; however, now I am persuaded that Rhys met her before I did – that day he went out to look for water. He has no recollection of it at all; he remembers neither leaving nor returning to camp, nor the bite on his arm. But I remember, and I think he met Morgaws by that pool, surprised her, perhaps. Or maybe she tried her seductions on him and failed. She tried me next, but found an easier victim in Llenlleawg. Who can say? So much of Morgaws – like the deaths of the Cymbrogi – was illusion, after all.