Stephen Lawhead - Merlin

A magnificent beast, its dark eyes glinting in the ruddy torchlight. It was cornered but unconquered.

Uther looked upon the bear, and his aspect changed. He stopped and stared. What he saw, I cannot say. But when he moved again, it was as one in a dream: walking lightly, languidly, he made his way to the ring of men, stepping among them on his way to the animal.

'Lord King! No! Stay back!' shouted one of his chieftains. He threw down his spear and made to lay hold of the High King and pull him back.

'Silence!' I hissed. 'Let him go!'

My senses prickled to the presence of the Otherworld. I saw everything in sharp relief: the risen moon, the bear, the men holding the torches, Uther, the glinting points of the spears, the stars, Pelleas, the dark hardness of the wall, the stones at my feet, the silent dogs…

It was a dream, and more than a dream. The dream had become real – or reality had become a dream. These times are rare; who is to say where the truth lies? Afterwards, men shake their heads in wonder and endure the scoffing of those who were not present. For it cannot be explained, only experienced. But this is what happened:

Uther boldly approached the bear and the animal lowered its head and dropped onto its forefeet. The High King held out his hand to the beast, and the bear, like a hound recognizing its master, pushed his muzzle into the High King's palm. With his other hand, Uther stroked the bear's huge head.

Men stared in astonishment: their lord and a wild bear, greeting one another as old friends. Perhaps, in some inexplicable way, they were.

I will never know what Uther thought he was doing, for he could never remember it clearly. But the two stood this way for the space of a few heartbeats, then Uther lowered his hand and turned away. One of the dogs growled and lunged forward, pulling its leash free from the slack hand of its holder. The bear reared as the dog leaped, and gave a sideways swipe with its great paw. The dog tumbled away, howling with pain, its back broken.

The dream ended then in the yelps of a dying dog. The other dogs were at the bear in an instant. The chieftain grabbed Uther by the arm and pulled him back to safety. Then the warriors loosed their spears.

The bear snarled and clawed the air, breaking spearshafts as if they were reeds; but the wounds were made and the blood was already flowing. Roaring with pain and rage, the great beast fell and the dogs tore out its throat.

Take them off!' shouted Uther. 'Put the dogs away!'

The dogs were pulled away and all was silent once more. The bear was dead, its blood pooling black and thick on the stones beneath the immense body. This worlds-realm had reasserted itself – as it always will – in stark, unforgiving brutality.

Ah, but for a moment – if only for the briefest moment, those standing in the courtyard knew something of Otherworldly grace and peace.

There are those who say that it was Gorlas come to pay homage to the birth of his grandson that night. Or that the spirit of that great bear, poured out onto the stones in sacrifice at the moment of the babe's birth, found its way into the child that was born that night.

For it is true that when we reached the door of the hall once more, we heard the babe, squawling lustily at the top of its lungs. A hearty cry at the moment of birth is a good sign. Uther shook himself like one awakening, and turned to me. 'It is -' he paused, 'a boy.'

'A son,' he had been about to say.

'Wait here, I will have the babe brought out. It is best if Ygerna does not see you.'

'As you wish, Uther.' I signalled to Pelleas to go back to the wood and fetch our horses.

He hurried off down the track to the gate and I waited at the door. People, roused by the noise in the courtyard, passed by on their way to see the bear, which the men were already skinning where it lay. Indeed, it was a giant among bears.

Pelleas came with the horses. We had planned to take the babe without being seen. But the bear had changed that. People knew we were there now, and would know that we had taken the child. There was nothing to be done about that any more; we would have to trust the Guiding Hand and proceed boldly.

We waited and watched the men work over the bear. When the skin was free, they quartered the animal and fed the heart and liver to the dogs. The rest of the meat would be roasted, or made into stew for the feast.

Yes, I had forgotten: the Christ Mass. I turned and looked to the east and saw that dawn stood not far off. Already the sky lightened at the horizon; grey going to pink and rust. I heard footsteps behind me and Uther approached, carrying a fur-wrapped bundle, his face impassive. A woman walked behind him.

'Here,' he said curtly. 'Take it.' Then softly – possibly the only softness I had ever witnessed in Uther Pendragon – he lifted the edge of the fur and brushed the tiny head with his lips. 'Farewell, nephew,' he said, then looked up at me. I thought he would ask me where I took the child – surely it was in his mind – but he merely tucked the wrap and said, 'Go now.'

'He will be well cared for, Uther. Never fear.'

'Ygerna is asleep,' he said. 'I am going to wait with her.' He turned, saw the woman standing there, and remembered. 'I am sending this woman with you; she will suckle the child. A horse will be made ready for her.' He made to leave, but something held him. He hesitated, his eyes resting on the bundle in my arms. 'Is there anything else you require?'

The men came towards us, carrying the skin of the bear into the hall. 'Yes, Uther,' I answered, 'the bearskin.'

He eyed me curiously, but ordered the raw skin to be rolled up and tied behind my saddle. While this was being done a stablehand arrived leading a horse for the woman. When she had mounted, I handed the child to her; and, taking the reins of her horse into my hand, led my horse and hers out through the gate and down the narrow causeway. Several caer-dwellers watched us from outside the walls, but nothing was said and no one followed.

As daylight struggled into the sky, staining the eastern clouds and snow-covered hills crimson and gold, we rode back through the clefted valley and into the smooth, empty hills beyond Tintagel. And seagulls wheeled above us, keening in the cold winter air.

I did not like the idea of a winter sea voyage. But we must reach Dyfed as quickly as possible. The road is no place for a newborn, and in winter even those who make the road then-home stay inside. Crossing Mor Hafren was necessary, though the prospect was far from welcome. Enough men lose their lives in winter seas that most boatmen refuse all commerce in that treacherous season.

Be that as it may, there are those who can always be bought. A flash of gold and they will go against all natural inclination, risking life and limb to an enterprise they would not consider otherwise. Consequently, we had little trouble finding a boat to takc us across. Still and all, we waited four days for calm weather.

I was uneasy the whole time. But, if anyone marked our passing, we learned nothing of it, for we saw no one else on the road, nor did the boatman take an interest in us. Once the price was settled, he asked no questions and went about his business with silent efficiency.

If he thought anything, he no doubt supposed the woman to be my wife and Pelleas to be my servant. I helped this impression as much as possible, hovering over the lady and the baby with protective authority, seeing to their comfort. The woman, an unfortunate whose husband had been killed when his horse stumbled on Tintagel's murderous causeway, and whose own babe had taken the wasting fever and died only days before, was not as old as I first thought.

As the journey went on, such beauty as she possessed, ravaged by grief and care, began returning to her. She smiled more often when she held the child, and thanked Pelleas and me for the small kindnesses performed for her. The woman, Enid by name, suckled the child readily, and cradled it as lovingly as any natural mother would. And I surmised that the closeness of the babe, its helplessness and dependence, had begun healing the wound in her heart.