The Hollow Hills - Mary Stewart [154]
Through a man's life there are milestones, things he remembers even into the hour of his death. God knows that I have had more than a man's share of rich memories; the lives and deaths of kings, the coming and going of gods, the founding and destroying of kingdoms. But it is not always these great events that stick in the mind: here, now, in this final darkness, it is the small times that come back to me most vividly, the quiet human moments which I should like to live again, rather than the flaming times of power. I can still see, how clearly, the golden sunlight of that quiet afternoon. There is the sound of the spring, and the falling liquid of the thrush's song, the humming of the wild bees, the sudden flurry of the white hound scratching for fleas, and the sizzling sound of cooking where Arthur knelt over the wood fire, turning the trout on a spit of hazel, his face solemn, exalted, calm, lighted from within by whatever it is that sets such men alight. It was his beginning, and he knew it.
He did not ask me much, though a thousand questions must have been knocking at his lips. I think he knew, without knowing how, that we were on the threshold of events too great for talk. There are some things that one hesitates to bring down into words. Words change an idea by definitions too precise, meanings too hung about with the references of every day.
We ate in silence. I was wondering how to tell him, without breaking my promise to Uther, that I proposed to take him with me to the King. I thought that Ralf was wrong; the boy did not begin to guess the truth; but he must be wondering about the events of the day, not only the sword, but what there was between myself and Cador, and why Ralf had been so handled. But he said nothing, not even asking why Ralf had gone away and left him here alone with me. He seemed content with the moment. The angry little skirmish down by the lake might never have been.
We ate in the open air, and when we had finished, Arthur, without a word, removed the dishes and brought water in a bowl for me to wash with. Then he settled beside me on the chapel steps, lacing the fingers of his hands round one knee. The thrush still sang. Blue and shadowed, and misty with presence, the hills brooded, chin on knees, round the valley. I felt myself crowded already by the forces that waited there.
"The sword," he said. "You knew it was there, of course."
"Yes, I knew."
"He said...He called you an enchanter?" There was the faintest of queries in his voice. He wasn't looking at me. He sat on the step below me, head bent, looking down at the fingers laced round his knee.
"You knew that. You have seen me use magic."
"Yes. The first time I came here, when you showed me the sword in the stone altar, and I thought it was real..." He stopped abruptly, and his head came up. His voice was sharp with discovery. "It was real! This is the one, isn't it? The one the stone sword was carved from? Isn't it? Isn't it?"
"Yes."
"What sword is it, Myrddin?"
"Do you remember my telling you -- you and Bedwyr -- the story of Macsen Wledig?"
"Yes, I remember it well. You said that was the sword carved in the altar here." Again that note of discovery. "This is the same? His very sword?"
"Yes."
"How did it come there, on the island?"
I said: "I put it there, years back. I brought it from the place where it had been hidden."
He turned fully then, and looked at me. A long look. "You mean you found it? It's your sword?"
"I didn't say that."
"You found it by magic? Where?"
"I can't tell you that, Emrys. Some day you may need to search for the place yourself."
"Why should I?"
"I don't know. But a man's first need is a sword, to use against life, and conquer it. Once it is conquered, and he is older, he needs other food, for the spirit..."
After a bit