Catherine Fisher - Corbenic

Floundering, he dragged his feet out of the mud and went after it, crazily swaying, because it would have shelter, it might be a farm dog, there might be a lighted window and a door that would open for it, a voice, calling out, a fire.

Snow drifted in his face. Wiping it away he slid and hurried down the rough grass slope, the blur of white far in front, and as it jumped the ditch into the copse down there he was sure it was a sheep, but when he reached the frozen reeds and crunched over them, lurching on the tilted slabs, he caught sight of it again, a narrow face, and it was slimmer, a white deer. It turned and entered the wood. With barely a hesitation, he went after it.

Usually, he avoided woods. They were too silent. You never knew what might be lurking in them. But now he went straight on, ducking under the low outer branches of pliant hazel, the snow dusting down on his head and shoulders. It was dark. There was no wind in here. Ahead, lost in shadows, the animal rustled.

He had to fight his way through, thorns snagging him and briars whipping back to scratch his face, and he was sure, suddenly and joyfully, that he was in the right place. The garden at Corbenic had been like this; he’d had to fight his way out, and that strange, childish idea came back to him of the castle in the fairy tale, hidden behind its tangle of growth.

His foot slipped; he reached out to steady himself. He caught hold of something slim and tall, a pole. As his hand came away it was wet and sticky with some dark mess; he jerked back, hissing with terror, rubbing his palm frantically on his sleeve, because into his mind with lightning clarity had come the image of the spear that bled. Then, carefully, he looked closer. It was a broken fence. Long ruined. Bending, he scraped through.

On the other side, a green mass rose up in front of him: ivy-covered walls, ghostly now with a phosphorescence of snow, ruinous and shapeless.

Just at his right, a small panting sound. In the dark, his fingers stretched out, groping, searching; he almost dreaded what he would touch, but when he found it it was a familiar shock, the slightly greasy wet fur, the lick of a hot rough tongue. A dog.

The dog did not bark, or whimper. It moved, padding and snuffling its way through the undergrowth, and Cal went with it, whispering, “Wait. Wait, boy,” terrified that it would leave him.

Under the walls of the building they went, a progression of rustles, and when Cal paused and hissed, “Where are you?” the night was silent. But not dark.

Light was coming from somewhere above him; he looked up and saw the moon, the frostiest of crescents, caught in a sudden gap of cloud, and the moon shone on an image that seemed to hang in the black and silver of the walls, an image of a golden cup, held in two hands.

For a second it was there. Then the cloud fragmented; the darkness was a window, its stained glass broken, a patchwork of vacancies and facets of ice, seated figures, a shattered supper.

This was not Corbenic. It was some sort of chapel.

Cal crouched by the wall, his breath a cloud. He was ill with disappointment; it overwhelmed him like the blackness over the moon. It darkened his whole mind.

The rough tongue licked his hand.

The thought came, out of what seemed a deep well of pain, that at least there might be a roof, some shelter, so he stood and groped for a doorway, found a pointed arch swathed thick with ivy and bindweed and stinging nettles and holly.

Ducking under, he saw the chapel was a green bower of growth. It stank of damp and mildew and mold. Weeds had climbed all over it, sprouted and tangled; the roof was a web of snow-littered branches. And under them, in the farthest corner, a fire was crackling.

The dog crossed a slant of moonlight, a slither of darkness. It nosed and snuffled a huddle of shadow. And the shadow raised its head and said, “So I haven’t left my moulting cage in vain.”

Chapter Twenty-one

If you had seen all I have seen you would not sleep.

Oianau of Merlin

Cal stepped inside warily. A handful of kindling was thrown on the fire; the flames spat a sudden crackle of sparks up into the ruined roof.

The Hermit sat cross-legged, his patchwork coat spread around him, leaning on a large bundle at his back. His narrow, crazy eyes glinted red in the flickering light. Behind him the dog went and lay down with a faint sigh, chin on paws.

Cal came and sat by the fire. The warmth of it was such a relief that for a long moment he simply absorbed it, as if something deep in him was frozen hard and had to be thawed. When he managed to speak his voice was rusty with disuse, his throat dry and hoarse. “I suppose I should have known it would be you.”

Merlin grinned, and fished in a filthy knapsack at his side. He threw something over; Cal caught it and found it was bread, still slightly soft. He tore a bit off and chewed it.

“Did I not prophesy, wise fool, that we should meet here where all but shame has deserted you?” The man’s voice was a whisper; Cal knew he was mad, probably dangerous. He didn’t care. Stretching his weary legs out he said, “Have you got anything to drink?”

A bottle. And then, to his worn surprise, a cup. Merlin poured carefully, his black and broken fingernails poking through torn mittens. He held the cup out.

“What is it?” It smelled of berries.

“Something of my own. It will make you sleep.”

Forever, Cal thought, but he was too thirsty and he drank, and the taste was a deep red taste and sweet. As he put the cup down he felt a drowsy warmth flood his head and chest. There had been alcohol in it.

Merlin leaned back on the patient dog. “You have walked a long time in the Waste Land.”

“Three days.”

“If you say so.” He spat into the flames. “Maybe much longer. Maybe years. You have not found what you seek.”

It wasn’t a question. Suddenly Cal felt the tension of the dark land drain away from him; though it was only just out there, through that ivy-grown arch, he felt as if he had somehow come to somewhere else. His mind cleared. He leaned forward. “Listen. At Caerleon. The . . . girl, woman, whatever, said I hadn’t been able to ask about the Grail because of my mother. I left her. Did you know that?”

Merlin watched, unmoving.

“I just walked out on her. I hated her. I was ashamed of her. But I can’t do anything about that now, because she’s dead, she took an overdose.” He clenched his hands together. “Don’t you see, I can’t do anything about it! It’s too late. It’ll always be too late now. Forever.” His words were breaking apart.

Slowly, Merlin stirred the fire. When he spoke his voice was sad. “She follows you.”

Cal looked up. “What?”

“Like a shadow. She is your shadow. She’s a dog at your heels, I know, I have my own doom at mine. You wish it to be too late, but it is not. It never is.”

“I hate her.”

Merlin laughed, tossing the stick down. “Not so. You have forgotten how to love. That’s a different sorrow.”

Behind him, tiny leaves were sprouting on the ivy. Cal watched them, distracted. “I can’t forgive her.”

“And does she forgive you?”

“I don’t . . .”

“You do. You must turn around and ask her.”

Cal stared in blank fear. Then the Hermit laughed, a dry, brittle laugh that made the dog’s ears prick uneasily.

“How?” Cal whispered.

Merlin leaned forward, eyes bright. “You have already drunk the means.”

The chapel was a green gloom. It was closing on them, the ivy growing, unfurling, climbing with small crisp rustles over the walls and along the floor, curling fronds around the dog’s belly. It was growing from Merlin, from his hair and beard, his fingernails; he was a green man, made of leaves and stems and bines, they were raveling out and tangling around Cal, stopping him breathing. He felt the stems cover him, warm him; he snuggled into them.