Stephen Lawhead - Taliesin

“I was a sound on the wind; I was a word; I was a book of words.

“I was a bridge across seven rivers. I was a path in the sea. I was a coracle on the water, a leather boat that plowed bright waves.

“I was a bubble in beer, a fleck of foam in my father’s cup.

“I was a string in a bard’s harp for nine nines of years; I was a melody on a maiden’s lips.

“I was a spark in fire, a flame in a bonfire at Beltane… a flame… a flame…”

The voice dwindled, becoming a young boy’s voice once more. Taliesin hunched his shoulders and shivered all over, though the night was not cold. “Never mind, Taliesin,” said Hafgan softly. “Do not strain after it; let it go. The awen comes or it does not. You cannot force it.”

Taliesin closed his eyes and lowered his head to his knees. “I almost remembered,” he said, his voice a whimper.

Hafgan put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and lay him down beside the fire. “Sleep, Taliesin. The world will wait for you yet a little longer.”

Time unwound in a slow, endless coil for Charis. at the end of the second week she felt well enough to fend for herself again. Each day she expected news from Kian, but the days ground away and no word came.

Lile came to see her often and although she repeated her offer of help, she did not press Charis in the matter. For her part, Charis endured these visits, maintaining a chilly politeness toward her father’s wife. Lile said little regarding Charis’ attitude. Yet, the cold formality must have hurt her more than she let on, for one day toward the end of the third week of Charis’ convalescence she threw down the tray she was carrying and left the room without a word.

A little later, Charis encountered her in the garden. Charis had grown restless, and despite Annubi’s warnings had decided that short walks would do her more good than whole days flat on her back. At first she contented herself with attaining the length of the corridor. But soon she was restless to be in the fresh air again, and one morning rose and tottered along the corridor and down the long winding flight of stairs to the garden. The lower garden flourished behind a decorative hedge, and to reach it one passed through an arch cut in the green wall. Charis approached on the stone pathway which led to the garden and found that a door had been hung in the formerly empty archway.

She paused and wondered at this, but the door was slightly ajar, so she pushed it open and stepped inside. She had not set foot in the garden since leaving home and marveled at the change before her. Gone were the flowers, lush and fragrant in tiered beds, the climbing roses and flowering vines, and gone too the ornamental shrubs with their delicate lacy shrouds of blossoms. In their places, and in greater variety and abundance than the flowers themselves, were herbs and grasses, ferns, moss, and mushrooms. The latter of these she detected by scent rather than sight, for the heady floral aroma she remembered had utterly vanished and was replaced with the sick-sweet, earthy, rotting-flesh fungal smell.

The garden was clearly well-tended, but the plants were left to grow as they would-unhindered, untrimmed, unencumbered. The result was distinctly shabby, seedy, and weedy-looking. Charis kept to the main path and walked deeper into the heart of the garden, passing stands of willow herb, nightshade, and nettle, rue, hart’s tongue, and moon-wort, cranesbill, wood sedge, and hare’s tail, and many, many more that she did not recognize and could not name.

And amongst the fallen branches, on deep beds of decaying leaves, there were puff balls, swollen and obscene; stink-horns, with their sticky, black ooze and fetid reek; death caps and black trumpets in darkly sinister clusters. From these and countless unseen others came the odor of decay that pervaded the garden.

Charis sauntered along the path and came to a small grove planted in the place where a greenspace had once been. In the center of the lawn there had been a circular fishpond; a fountain at one end of the pond splashed down a fall of marble steps to feed the pond. But the fish and fountain were gone, for on the shallow banks of the pond, and in it, grew numerous water plants: reeds and rushes and cresses of various types.

AH around the pond in neat concentric circles were small trees whose thin branches were laden with pale, perfectly round apples. Charis stepped to the nearest tree and reached out to pick one of the green-gold globes.

“I should not think it would be ripe yet, Princess Charis.”

She pulled back her hand and turned to see Lile walking toward her through the trees. “They are beautiful though.”

“Yes,” replied Charis, annoyed that she was not alone in the garden, but not greatly surprised to see Lile since she deduced that the place had become the woman’s haven. “I do not think I have ever seen such apples.”

“They are special,” replied Lile, reaching up to caress one with her palm. She was dressed in a rough-woven linen, the hem of her pleated skirt drawn up between her legs and tucked into her girdle in front. Her feet were bare.

“You have taken over this garden,” observed Charis without warmth.

“It was in decline.”

“A pity you were not able to save it.”

Lile rose to the gibe with quick anger. “I cannot guess what Annubi has told you, but I can see that it has poisoned your heart against me.”

Charis looked at her distractedly but said nothing.

“I feel it every time I come near you.”

“Then why do you keep intruding where you are not wanted?” snapped Charis viciously.

Lile shrank from the attack. “Why does everyone hate me so?” she wailed, throwing her hands over her face. When she raised her head again her eyes were dry. “Have I ever done anyone harm? Why is everyone so afraid of me?”

“Afraid of you? Surely you are mistaken.”

“Fear-it must be that. What else can make people treat me the way they do? You distrust me because you are afraid.”

Charis shook her head violently. “I am not afraid of you, Lile,” she said. But Lile’s accusation had hit close to the mark.

“No?” Lile frowned with misery. “Annubi is afraid that I have usurped his influence with Avallach-which is why he tells lies about me.”

“Annubi does not lie,” Charis replied with quiet assurance. In all her life she had never known the king’s advisor to so much as shade the truth, let alone utter an outright falsehood. Be that as it may, he had not told her the whole truth about Avallach’s wound and had mentioned nothing at all about Guistan’s death.

“Threatened enough, anyone will lie,” asserted Lile with equal conviction. “I have threatened him, so he speaks against me. No doubt he told you my father was a Phrygian sailor” began Lile.

“Named Tothmos. Yes, and you said the man was a slave.”

“My father was Phrygian, it’s true. And yes, his name was Tothmos. As a young man he was a sailor-but he owned his own ship and he did buy a slave.”

“A slave also named Tothmos?” Charis sneered.

“My father gave him his freedom, so the slave took his name. It is a common enough occurrence. Why must Annubi twist everything I say?”

Once again doubt entered Charis’ mind. Could what Lile said be true? Could it be that Annubi resented her so much that he twisted her words and used them against her? But why would he do that?

“There is only one way to prove me,” Lile said.

“What is that?”

“Try me and see if I stand or fall.”

“What trial would you suggest?”

“Any trial you like, Princess Charis. For it to mean anything, you must choose it.”

“I have no wish to try you, Lile,” sighed Charis, shaking her head wearily. “You say one thing, Annubi another. Words, words, words. I do not know what to Believe anymore.”