Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [532]
“Yet tell me you will do what you can,” Lancelet pleaded, and she said, “I have told you I will look into the mirror. But it will be with us as the Goddess wills. Come.”
The sun was high now, and as they walked down the hill toward the Sacred Well, a raven croaked once overhead. Lancelet crossed himself against the evil omen, but Morgaine looked up and said, “What did you say, sister?”
Raven’s voice said in her mind, Be not afraid. Mordred will not kill Galahad. And Arthur will kill Mordred.
She said aloud, “Arthur will be King Stag still. . . .”
Lancelet turned and stared at her. “What did you say, Morgaine?”
Raven said in her mind, Not to the Holy Well, but to the chapel, and now. It is the time ordained.
Lancelet asked, “Where are we going? Have I forgotten the way to the Holy Well?” and Morgaine, raising her head, realized that her steps had brought them, not to the Well, but to the little chapel where the ancient Christian brotherhood held their services. They said it had been built by the brotherhood when the ancient Joseph had thrust his staff into the ground on the hill called Wearyall. She put out her hand and took a sprig of the Holy Thorn; it pricked her finger to the bone, and hardly knowing what she did, she put out her hand and marked Lancelet’s forehead with the streak of blood.
He looked at her, startled. She could hear the priests singing softly, Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison. She went in quietly and knelt down to her own surprise. The chapel was filled with mist, and it seemed to Morgaine that through the mist she could see that other chapel, the one on Ynis Witrin, and hear both sets of voices singing . . . Kyrie eleison . . . and there were women’s voices too; yes, this must be on Ynis Witrin, for in the chapel on Avalon there were no women, these must be the nuns in the convent there. It seemed for a moment that Igraine knelt beside her and she heard her voice, clear and soft, singing Christe eleison. The priest was at the altar, and then it seemed to her as if Nimue was there, her golden hair hanging down her back, fair and lovely as Gwenhwyfar had been when she was a young maiden in the convent. But instead of the old jealous fury, Morgaine looked on her with the purest love for her beauty . . . the mists thickened; she could hardly see Lancelet kneeling at her side, but before her, kneeling at the altar in the other chapel, she could see Galahad with his face raised, shining, and on it was the reflected brightness . . . and she knew that he, too, saw through the mists, into the chapel here on Avalon, where the Grail stood. . . .
She heard from the other chapel a ring of tiny bells, and heard . . . she never knew which of the priests, the one here in Avalon, or the one on Ynis Witrin . . . but in her mind it was the gentle voice of Taliesin . . . murmuring, “For in that night in which the Christ was betrayed, our Master took the cup and blessed it, and said, All of you drink of this, for this is my blood which will be shed for you. So often as ye drink of this cup, do it ever in remembrance of me.”
She could see the shadow of the priest who lifted the cup of communion, yet it was the damsel of the Grail, Nimue . . . or was it she herself who set the cup to his lips? Lancelet rushed forward, crying out, “Ah—the light, the light—!” and dropped to his knees, his hands shielding his eyes, then slipped further forward and lay prone on the ground.
Under the touch of the Grail, the shadowed face of the young man became clear, solid, real, and the mists were gone; Galahad knelt and drank of the cup.
“For as the wine of many grapes was crushed to make a single wine, so as we unite in this bloodless and perfect sacrifice, then shall we all become One in the Great Light which is Infinite. . . .”
And even as the rapture glowed through his face, the light shining there, he drew a great breath of absolute joy, and looked full into the light. He reached out to grasp the cup in his hands . . . and fell forward, slithered to the floor