Stephen Lawhead - Taliesin

And me? I roamed the moody hills on horseback and visited the secret places in the land-forest pools and private glades where no one ever went. This wandering suited my restless and melancholy spirit, and I spent my days dreaming of a time and place now lost forever. For, having brought my people to this land, my task was accomplished, my purpose achieved, and there was nothing left for me to do.

Charis slipped from the saddle and dropped the reins. Her gray pony wasted no time getting at the long, sweet grass beneath its nose. The clearing was not far from the palace, just beyond the hill opposite Ynys Witrin, which was what the natives had taken to calling the Tor now that Avallach’s palace was there: Isle of Glass. This lesser hill had, as far as Charis knew, no name, nor had the clearing, although obviously it had been the site of habitation in the past.

For at one end of the clearing stood the remains of a small, sturdily-built timber structure. A house of some kind perhaps, but a good deal larger than the houses of the natives and with a steeply pitched roof of thatch, now broken in several places. If it had ever boasted a door, that refinement was now long gone and the house stood vulnerable and open.

Charis studied the clearing and its ruin with interest; the place, like so many of the places she discovered for herself, had a distinct air about it. She had become expert at discerning the subtle textures of the atmosphere exuded by these secret places, and this place had a strong aura. Something significant had happened here upon a time, and the air still tingled with the memory.

If only I could read that memory, she thought, what would this place tell me?

The question occurred to her every time she visited the ruin, which was often because its peaceful solitude touched the restlessness inside her and calmed it for a while.

She advanced slowly from the cover of the surrounding trees, leaving the pony to graze. The ruin’s timber frame was intact, although much of the mud had crumbled from the wicker wattles between the beams. The broken roof allowed what little light that penetrated the clearing to fully illumine the weed-choked interior. Charis stepped to the open door, aware once again of a hushed whisper-the breeze, or an echo of a voice long past.

Something important had happened here once. Either that or a very powerful god ruled the place and imbued this little patch with his own potent Charisma. Whatever it was, Charis could feel the immense attraction of this primitive magnetism within her own spirit. She had felt it before but never stronger than this time. As a result, she stood at the door of the rude hut, holding her breath, listening, imagining to herself that the place, even in its decaying state, had been the site of the most high and holy of temples.

“Who are you?” she asked quietly, half-expecting an answer. The still, quiet air reverberated with the sound of her voice. The upper branches of a nearby ash tree rustled and a woodcock took flight. Charis listened to the soughing of the breeze in the leaves. The burring buzz of an insect seemed to fill the entire glade with its drowsy drone.

She stepped inside the decaying structure, placing a long, slim hand on the rotting doorframe as she passed. “Speak to me,” she whispered. “Tell me your secrets.”

The interior of the habitation was overgrown with nettles and nightshade and lacy-leafed fem. The smell of damp soil and rotting wood was strong in the place. She moved into the center of the building, ducking beneath one of’the fallen beams. There were no furnishings to be seen-not the smallest utensil or fragment of pottery remained. In fact, there was no firepit or oven, no place for warmth or cooking anywhere that she could see. How odd, she thought. Who had lived here that had no need of warmth or food?

There were no windows either. Only a curious slit high up in the back wall, too high to serve as a window and too small to let in much light. It was strangely-shaped too-one long vertical slash, crossed at its upper terminus by a horizontal slash nearly as long.

The light entering through this unusual window slanted down in a bright shaft in which midges and motes of dust idly whirled. She watched for a moment and then turned to go, but reached the fallen roof beam and stopped. The peace of the odd ruin appealed to her and she sat down on the beam, the light from the curious window falling all around her.

The warmth of the sunlight on her back felt good and Charis closed her eyes. Outside she heard the tinkling of the tiny silver Bells braided into her pony’s mane as the horse grazed quietly and the sigh of the breeze…

But there was something else as well. As she listened, Charis became aware of a mumble of voices speaking softly nearby. Her gray pony whickered to her, tossing its head, making the Bells jingle in gentle alarm. Visitors.

The voices stopped as the strangers entered the clearing. Perhaps they had seen her mount. She could not see her guests but imagined them standing without, looking dumbly at the pony and at the rained building. She heard the slight shuffle of stealthy footsteps as someone approached the structure.

A dark shape appeared in the doorway, that of a young man above middle height who stood blinking into the light. She watched as the man’s eyes wandered over the interior and then, at last, came to rest on her, taking her in first as a feature of the place and only later as a living being like himself. The shock of this small revelation made the man gasp and fall back. His reaction was noticed, for a quick exclamation of concern sounded from outside.

The man in the doorway did not answer; he did not take his eyes off Charis. He stood for a moment, staring, then took a slow step into the ruin and sank to his knees, clasping his hands in front of him.

Charis was as surprised by this behavior as the man was shocked by her. The stranger’s companion exclaimed again- Charis heard the fear in the man’s voice-but received no answer, for the man in front of her remained motionless, staring at her, terror and rapture on his face.

His fellow rushed in then, took in his friend in a prolonged gape, and raised his eyes to where Charis sat, hands folded in her lap, serene and regal as any queen on her throne. The second intruder sank to his knees also and raised trembling hands in supplication to her. “Maria!” he said, joyous tears boiling over his cheeks. “Ave, Maria!”

This both unnerved and fascinated Charis. Clearly she was being addressed in some reverential way but in a strange speech-definitely not the language of the local Dumnoni. Who were these men-dressed plainly, hair cropped short over their round heads in the manner of scholars, their young, bearded faces bright with joy and reflected sunlight-who could they be?

She rose to her feet, a motion which brought a gasp from one of the men. “Who are you?” she asked in the speech of the Britons.

The men looked at her, their eyes growing wide with wonder. To her surprise one of them answered her. “Holy Mary, mother of the Christ, Lord of all the Hosts of Heaven, have mercy on us!”

Although the words were strange, she understood them; the man could speak the local dialect. “Who are you?” she asked again.

“Why-followers of Martin,” the man sputtered, confused.

“ Ave, ave, Maria, Mater Deo!” jabbered the second stranger, his face raised to the hole in the roof, the light full on his blissful countenance,

“Why have you come here?”

“We have come seeking this holy place…”He gazed at her and doubt came into his eyes. Charis read his confusion.

“You are far from home,” she said quietly.

The man nodded but did not speak. The expression of joy faded from his face, replaced by one of uncertainty.