A white dragon blazes across the sky all month, portending the coming of the King. A king who will throw out the Saxon hordes and bring peace to the entire island. Skies have become a battleground of black, grey and navy fields. Mithras throws a spear of lightning at Woden, who catches it and uses it as a sword to deflect shafts of the killing light.
The smell of blood, sweat, and ozone permeates the landscape. And the air weeps, making the ground slick and as dangerous as the fire hurled from the sky. One wrong step means certain death for the person unfortunate enough to fall down by this precipice.
Emrys watches Uther Pendragon with a twinge of concern as the current High King, who, disguised as Duke Gorlois, negotiates the narrow trail to the Keep. Emrys has seen this king’s future in the fire, but a magician as powerful as Emrys Mrydden, the Merlin of Britain, knows that the future can be as malleable as hot steel under a smith’s hammer.
The fury of the night, and the danger of the moment, do not quell the fire in Uther’s loins. Knowing that Igraine is so close makes him careless in the slick footing. Only when he is through the doors does Emrys breathe a sigh of relief. The true King of England is about to be conceived.
~
A thousand years later I sit on a crumbling wall and watch my feet dangle above the chasm. Far below, breakers smash into the jagged rocks sending up plumes of water droplets and fractured rainbows. The girls wander somewhere behind me in the ancient ruin of the old castle. They take pictures of grey stone and contrasting pale drake flowers amongst the English ivy.
I turn and watch my daughter laugh, carefree and happy. She is smart, funny, and beautiful. Full of wonder for this land which is new to her. Her friend, Karen, equally merry, says something I do not hear and they both laugh again. Holding hands like little girls of five or six, although both are now close to six feet tall, they chatter on untroubled in the hot August sun.
A thousand years have gone by, and mankind has moved on. My daughter is seventeen years old and just beginning her transformation into womanhood. Had she been born so many years ago what kind of life would she have had? Married at 15? 14? Perhaps she would already have three or four babes in tow. Or worse, already dead in childbed.
“Mom,” she says, glowing and excited. “Did you know that this is supposed to be the place where King Arthur was conceived?”
I nod my head.
“Remember the book you got me to read before we came here? Igraine and Uther do it here for the first time.” Both girls giggle at fabled sex.
“Really,” I say. We have been in England for a week and have been wandering the Arthurian sites. Dinas Emrys, the Glastonbury Tor, Stonehenge, and even Amesbury. Places which are as familiar to me as my own backyard.
Wendy takes pictures of Merlin’s cave. An obvious fabrication for tourists, but she doesn’t care; the Cornish coast is rugged and beautiful. Especially during a sunny, warm day where sturdy wooden causeways and stairs make it safe for people to wander. Another of our party, Lori, waves from across the way.
My gaze wanders up and down the craggy coastline and windswept heights, and I marvel at man’s capacity to take root in such an inhospitable place. This ability to shape the land is our strength; it may also be our downfall. Perhaps a thousand years from now only the wind and waves will sculpt this shoreline.
~
Uther clatters up the stairs to Igraine’s private rooms. He opens the door and lets the mask of disguise fall before taking her into his arms.
Image Credits
All photos by Gab Halasz. All rights reserved.
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