The Winged Man

CHAPTER 3-2

There was scarce a place to put one’s hand in the palace that did not boast a carving. The pillars holding the high roof were alive with images of animals and birds emerging from foliage. The roof beams were carved with heads and faces of every type and every expression, staring, leering and glowering from every angle. The throne itself was a masterpiece of wood-carving, and Yaruk could make from the trunk of a dead tree a world of living creatures so cleverly executed that what one saw at first was only a fraction of what would emerge on closer inspection.

Bladud had been drawn to Yaruk, not only because they were the same age, but because Yaruk shared interests unconnected with warrior skills. Bladud had been trained as hunter and warrior; it was essential that the eventual leader of his people should not only master these skills, but excel. He was fit and agile, and did what was expected of him, but whenever possible he would escape to where Yaruk squatted in a pool of silence, exercising his craft. At one time he had pleaded with Yaruk to teach him how to carve, but although he learned some skill he found that the genius for making the carvings rival life itself was beyond him.

Nevertheless the two became firm friends, and it was only to Yaruk that Bladud dared confide his inner restlessness — his feeling that there was something special waiting for him, though he did not know what. It was Yaruk who told him about the goddess Sul and her oracle, and it was not long before Bladud decided that only she could answer the questions that troubled him.

Himself a seer and a prophet, Fergal was angry when he heard about the boy’s intention, no doubt resentful that Bladud preferred to consult an alien oracle rather than himself. He had been given charge of Bladud’s education since birth and had high hopes for the boy under his own influence. Fergal had made it his mission in life to ensure Bladud’s skills on the battlefield were matched by his scholarship. If he had noticed the restlessness in Bladud he had thought it but the pains of a youth growing faster than his peers. He had prophesied to Hudibras that the boy would make a great and extraordinary king and that the land would have many golden years during his reign. But he had not warned the king about the shadows he also foresaw hovering over his son’s life.

What would this shaman tell him? And how would what she said affect him? Fergal realised he could not keep Bladud forever at his side, preventing the influences of the rest of the world from reaching him, but the moment of parting had come sooner than he had expected. It was with only the greatest effort that he had prevented himself setting out to follow the youth. Instead he recognised Bladud’s right to independent decision, and accepted unwillingly that the time had come for the fledgling to leave the nest. This would be the first of many tests Bladud could only face alone. Fergal had made his protests — but let the youth go on his way.

* * * *

Bladud made his way down into the valley, where the river wound peacefully among the reeds. In many places trees leant over the water as though to peer at their own reflections. He was dusty and dirty from his long journey, and decided to bathe. Leaving his clothes on the bank, he waded through the water-weed and plunged into the coolth.

Returning to the bank refreshed, he looked up into a willow that overhung the river just before climbing on to the land. He was bemused by the play of light as every ripple on the water danced a mirror counterpoint in its leafy branches, transforming the substance of trunk and canopy into spiritstuff as insubstantial as a dream. In the dazzling, glancing, dancing light he thought he saw the long, lithe body of a woman half turned from him. He stood still, up to his knees in the water, scarce daring to breathe lest she become aware of him and take flight. The curve of her breast and thigh followed the lines of the tree and he could not be sure whether she was a separate being or part of the wood itself. At last his urge to know if what he saw was real or not impelled him to wade further towards the bank. In the flurry of reflected light that shimmered through the tree as he disturbed the water, she vanished, and he was left with uncertainty: had she been there or not? If so, of what realm was she — spirit or flesh?

On the mossy bank beneath the willow he found no marks to indicate a physical presence. The grey roots twined and twisted like sinuous serpents, then disappeared underground to hold the gigantic tree firmly to the earth. He touched the bark and it was solid. He reached up to a fan of leaves, and they felt firm and leathery to his touch. A bird took wing from an upper branch with a screech and a whirr. He heard it flapping away above the forest, calling in agitation to its mate.

He shivered, aware that he was naked and cold. He reached for his clothes, drawing them on like another skin. Now with his breeches on, he paused to look over his shoulder, having the feeling that he was being watched. Yet he could see no one, though he stood still a long time, staring into the deep green depths and shades around him, turning his head slowly so as to miss nothing.

‘If you are here, goddess,’ he said at last, aloud, his voice sounding harsh and out of harmony with the natural music of wind-hush, insect buzz and water-lap, ‘show yourself.’

And if I am not here? The thought in his own mind seemed to have a voice, low and amused and mocking. And if I am not the goddess you seek... ?

Impatiently he pulled on the rest of his clothes, anxious now to leave the place. Had he not been warned that in these wild regions of the west, in these forested hills, dark and secret places hid all manner of beings inimical to man? Had he not as a child listened, fascinated and terrified, to the story-tellers of his father’s court in the dark of the winter, the hearth fires throwing great shadows on to the walls so that he seemed to hear the wolves howling in these very distant forests, as though the beasts were circling close around him in the shadows just beyond the circle of light the fires threw? Wolves he could face now that he was grown, with his dagger at his side, his spear in his hand. But there had been other things hinted at by the story-teller as he lowered his voice to speak in a whisper that made one’s blood run cold. These other things could not be fought off with bronze or iron.

These other things would not answer to a human challenge, no matter how heroic, but picked their own time and their own place...

Prince Bladud gripped his spear and checked that his dagger was safe at his belt. Squaring his shoulders, he set off alongside the river. At every scuttling sound his head turned until he felt ashamed of himself. What kind of warrior prince was startled at water rat or vole? At last, some distance further on, he began to relax. It seemed that he was alone again.

* * * *

It was noon when Bladud heard the sound of rushing water and knew that he must be approaching the oracle’s sanctuary. An overgrown path, roughly marked out with stones carved with mystical and magical signs and symbols, led him further.

Bladud shivered. He had been a long time reaching this point and now he was not sure that he wanted to go on. Fergal had tried to dissuade him, and even Yaruk, one of the so-called ‘savages’, who revered this oracle, had warned him to be careful.

Yaruk had told him to leave his horse behind as he drew near the sanctuary. ‘You must go alone and on foot,’ he had urged.

The first two carved stones he did not touch. But when he reached the third, he ran his fingers over its surface, tracing the curves of a spiral. Subsequently he touched each new stone with similar interest, noting how his fingers tingled.

The path began to twist and turn and he had the impression that he was passing the same landmarks several times over, but each time was seeing them from a different angle. It seemed, too, that he was somehow gradually losing all sense of his past. Thoughts, memories, the busy images that normally crowd the mind and interfere with spiritual vision, were being left behind. He was now aware only of the moment he was currently experiencing.

The forest thickened. The path climbed. The noise of rushing water grew louder, and suddenly he faced a low cliff almost hidden by the heavy boughs of trees leaning over it and the ferns and creepers growing from it. Halfway up was a gash from which issued the waters of the stream he had been following — leaping from darkness into light. A cloud of steamy mist swirled around the entrance to the cave. Bladud had never seen anything like it: the stone alongside where the water issued was stained rust red. He recalled that Yaruk had mentioned ‘blood’ and ‘smoke that thunders’ and ‘a hole in the earth which leads to perpetual fire’.

What now? There was no sign of any temple or shrine. A huge boulder rose from the cauldron of water swirling at the base of the cliff and it was carved even more carefully than all the rest: three perfect interrelated spirals. By using rocks and the protruding roots of a huge tree he was just able to reach the cave. He climbed carefully, his feet sending slivers of loose stone and twig skittering down below.

Close at last to the issue of water, he reached out gingerly and touched the flow. He drew back, startled. It was hot! He wiped the sweat from his face with one arm, and looked around for a way into the cave. At one side he found just enough room to squeeze through without having to pass beneath the scalding water. He took one step forward, and nearly lost his balance. The rock underfoot was as slippery as the outcrop he grabbed to steady himself. For a moment he could go neither backwards nor forwards. Ahead lay darkness. But then his desire to know became stronger than his fear. Carefully he took another step on the slippery surface, feeling the hot spray on his face, its steam almost blistering his skin. A few feet into the cavern itself he suddenly reached a ledge behind the fall and found he could stand more safely.

He peered into the murky darkness. Beyond the dense cloud of sulphurous steam, he sensed that there was an open space. He eased forward and the swirling mist clouds almost suffocated him. Yet he persisted, and he was rewarded. For suddenly there was light in front of him. Only a blur at first, but with every step it grew brighter.

Clinging to the cave wall, he edged his way alongside the mysterious rushing stream, and came out at last, his lungs almost bursting, into clearer air. Above him could be seen the sky through a jagged hole. Scrambling up the rocks until he reached the lip, he then hauled himself over it. Thankfully he found himself standing upright on firm ground. Below him the steaming water disappeared into the depths of the earth. Ferns grew thickly around the edge of the hole, luxuriating in the warm steamy atmosphere. Bladud flung himself down on the springy turf, shaking with relief and wiping pouring sweat from his face and neck. His skin was red from the steam and, in contrast to the heat underground, he was now shivering with cold.