Influence
The old man walked ahead of the younger, his frustration obvious in the way he knocked aside the bothersome alder branches that danced before his face. His hands shot out with blinding speed in an effort to simultaneously part the branches and gesticulate his absolute vexation, both of which were equally thick and snarled.
The path had not been trod in many years, he saw, and the Good Mother of Nature had seen fit to heal the scar that had been cut across her hawthorne breast. The young man kept back a respectable distance, his cheeks still smarting from a couple of vicious licks that the snapping twigs had placed on his cheek. The old man continued to mutter as he looked to the sky, gauging the sun’s descent.
“When last I came to this place,” he rasped, “the path was not such a struggle.”
“Are you sure we follow the correct path, old friend?” The young man wiped the blond hair from his eyes, sweat forming on his brow. He smiled.”Memory is surely enshrouded in mist in a past as vast as yours.”
A grunt from the old man, who answered without turning. “Was it not for your need to take up arms and risk your cursed brainpan at every opportunity availed, your sword would still be intact, along with your head, and I’d not have to bring you here to replace the former, nor intervene to save the latter!”
“I’d have bested him without your interference.” The young man’s voice was tinged with hubris, and distant as if he were still back on the field engaged with his opponent. He was used to being chastised, the old man knew; had in fact spent his much of his childhood allowing his skin to callus against such reproach from those who’d fostered him. The lad’s eyes were on the trees around him. It was new territory for him; an area of the forest he’d not seen, which must have seemed strange indeed given the ground he’d covered in recent years. It was his land after all. His country. His narrowed eyes were trying to peer between the branches when he was struck.
The crack to the side of his head brought his attention to the moment fully. He cried out, spinning on the soft earth. His hand flew to his ear as the wound suffered in the battle four days prior began to trickle once again. His eyes found the old man.
“God’s bones!” the young man cried. “Truly, is there a need?”
Myrddin Wilt - mentor, sometime guardian, and on better days, friend - stood beside the lad, the cursed willow switch held firm in his hand. Moving without sound or stir was an action that the enchanter rarely invoked, doing so only when some sort of lesson was deemed necessary.
“Interference, Artur?” He tilted his head, and if the lad spoke in foreign tongue. “Should it be called thus? My interference… my influence is what’s kept you alive since you were a suckling babe, and-” He raised the willow switch slightly to point at Artur’s face, causing him to pull back. “-And it would appear that the need for such influence is greater now than ere before!” He opened his mouth to continue, but could see the restrained smile on the face of the young man.
“Pah!” He threw his arms in the air and stormed off through the branches. “The hope of Prydain indeed. I’ve seen runt pups quicker to learn. And more eager as well.” “Pups?” Artur was again pushing away thick branches. “Wolf pups, no? Tell me, old friend, were they kin as the stories say?”
Myrddin had stopped, as if uncertain which direction was the proper course. He did not look at the young man.
“The alpha and the omega,” Myrddin said as he started forth again. His voice was quiet. Gentle now. “Do you recall the difference, Artur?
“The alpha leads,” Artur replied. He paused. “Well… of a sort.” Despite what his mentor said, the lad fell so readily into the role of pupil that Myrddin could not help but smile. “The alpha has power. It makes decisions. It doesn’t give orders, as it were, but has the freedom and authority to make decisions, and the pack follows.”
A nod from the old man. “And the omega?”
“An unenviable position.” Artur was once more a dozen paces behind his mentor. “A low position of rank. Subject to frequent shows of dominance and superiority from others. A valued member of the pack, but it must often engage in displays of subordination, whining from its back and-”
The blow this time was not of a willow switch. Artur caught the swinging branch of the elm fully in the face, and fell sprawling in the leaf strewn dirt. Myrddin, still a dozen paces away, turned and slowly walked back to the young man.
Myrddin leaned over, eyes hard and a hand on each knee as he regarded his pupil. Artur sat up with effort, a hand on his bloodied lip. He opened his mouth, but Myrddin raised the switch and cut off the younger man’s growl. Shaking his head, the enchanter tilted the thin stick sideways and another elm branch bent, seemingly of its own accord, poised to further the painful lesson.
“You were the omega, Artur.” The old man’s voice was not unkind. “You were the omega in that battle, and you did not recognize it - did not recognize your place.” He extended his hand to the younger man, who took it in his own, albeit reluctantly, and let himself be helped to his feet. “Your place - if you are to be alpha, if you are to truly lead - must be considered wisely. The alpha’s role is to make sage decisions, decisions that will benefit the entire pack. Your challenge of the Sable Knight was not done for the betterment of Prydain. It was rash. It was selfish and unnecessary.”
The two regarded each other. Myrddin could see the anger slowly melt from the boy’s face. The boy, he thought sardonically. The boy had passed his eighteenth year, and Myrddin still regarded him as the wayward youth. Yet, however rash Artur may be, he accepted and appreciated the value of Myrddin’s lessons, and allowed himself to be guided. Myrddin reached out and placed a wrinkled hand on Artur’s shoulder. He leaned in close when he spoke.
“What you fought yesterday was a rabid wolf. As stately and honorable as Pellinore may have looked in that sable regalia, his colors were true and clear when he was bereft of his helm. Did you not see the red in his eyes, lad? Did you not see the white froth forming at his mouth, collecting on his matted beard as he pinned you to the ground.” Myrddin sighed, and patting Artur’s shoulder gently, he removed his hand. “When the wolf is rabid, greater powers may need to intervene. History has taught me such. Mind my lessons, Highness…” The old man turned, shuffling through the leaves and undergrowth as he forged his path through the quiet forest.
“And mind the branches…”
The pair pushed on, through elm and alders, and the growing mist that swirled about their feet. As the mist thickened, the growth that hindered their movement seemed to lessen. It was only in the most troublesome areas that Mryddin called Artur forth and asked him use his blade to cut through the thicket.
The blade. Broken now, like a dissipating dream that loses its sharpest edge, or a legend come apart too fully, its complete form lost to memory. As Myrddin watched, he recalled the morning that Artur had come to possess the blade; the chilly breeze, the cold block of marble, and the look on Artur’s face as the truth was finally revealed. His notion of family had been shattered as surely as the blade he now held, as he’d learned that the blood of kings coursed through his veins. His face had contorted then, much as it did now as he navigated the snapping limbs, but it was overwhelming emotion rather than determined branches that had stayed him on that day. His history had been revealed, and he’d struggled to come to grips with the fact that Ector was not his father. He was of the line of Uther Pendragon, and nothing would ever be the same again.
Myrddin shook his head, thinking of the boy’s subsequent transformation. Artur had become more serious overnight, more sure of himself, which was ironic indeed given that he’d just learned that he was not in fact who he thought he was. His smile had taken on a sardonic tinge, though the true joy still shone through from time to time. Shadows and secrets. Lies and legends.
History, Myrddin thought, could be as insubstantial as the mist that now surrounded them, and equally as difficult to grasp.
He looked up suddenly to see Artur ahead of him. He’d fallen behind, and the boy waited for direction.
“The deeper your thought, the slower your gait,” Artur said. “Be you inclined to share these thoughts?”
“I was thinking,” Myrddin replied, “what an inconsistent teacher history can be.” Artur nodded, but didn’t speak. Waiting.
“Just the rambling thoughts of an old man, Artur.”
He nodded again. “Perhaps history would teach us more if it wasn’t so readily put behind us.”
“Is there any other place for it?” Myrddin grunted. “Surely not before us boy.” Artur hesitated a moment. “No, but perhaps we could gather it back from its place behind us and set us beside us; within us even.” His brow lowered, and he studied the edge of his broken blade. “Perhaps it’s not history itself, but the sharing of it that teaches us the most.” Myrddin’s eyes narrowed, as he saw the path Artur now trod.
“Come, old friend. Is the time not suitable to share more with me? I’m a man grown …and your king as well. Perhaps by royal order I might have the words ripped from your tongue?” A raised eyebrow, and the smallest smile.
“Pah!” Myrddin strode past him, though his step was hardly quickened.
“What of the mists?” Artur asked.
Myrddin slowed.
“Truly, my Mage, are you content that I know so little of enchantment?” He stopped fully now. Rare was it for the boy to use the honorific. Old boy, old friend, enchanter. Occasionally his actual name. But to refer to Myrddin as mage was new ground for them both.
“Am I not, now and ever, under your esteemed tutelage?” Artur gestured to the path before them. “We walk into the mists, into a land that you’ve told me is itself shrouded in enchantment. You would lead me to the Fae, Myrddin. I know near nothing of the fae, and what little knowledge I have comes from Morgaine, whose hatred no mist could hide. These lessons that history has provided you – speak to me of this history, Myrddin.” Artur would never plead, Myrddin knew. Nor would he relent.
“Speak to me of the fae,” said Artur. And more quietly, “Speak to me of magic.”
“Magic…” The word was followed by long moments of silence, as if the old man were unsure of how to continue.
“Magic, Artur, is a living thing. It must be respected, and greatly. There is magic all around us. Understand that the magic of which I now speak is different than that of the Fae. What we call magic is but a part of the very nature, the very being of the Fae. It is not something they learn and practice; it is a part of who and what they are. It has been a part of them since the Dawn, existing within from the very first of the Faerae. The magic I wield, which might snap a branch at an unsuspecting young man, is a little different.”
The old man saw the furrowed brow, and paused for the question that invariably followed.
“This is what I have trouble understanding, Myrddin. If you were so vexed by the trees that blocked our path, why would you not use magic to move them?”
"Let me answer your question with another. Why would I use magic to move them?”
“It would have made things much easier.”
“That it would have. As well, brewing a cup of tea would be much easier without having to light a fire and boil the water. Yet, I continue to cut tinder for my little hearth, a task which in itself would be much easier without the cursed chopping. And don’t even get me started on the washing of my robes. But I do these things, Artur, much like everyone else. Why do I not use magic?”
“Because it is not necessary?”
“Precisely. Magic is no plaything. Nor is it to be used for fickle purposes. Much like our very bodies, it has limitations and is expendable if used without care. It is a gift, Artur, and must be treated as such.”
“Where did it come from?” Artur now walked beside Mryddin. The trees continued to thin, and their path opened up to reveal small glens of grass and flower. “You say it’s a part of the nature of the Fae, but how did men come to attain the power?”
Myrddin stopped, and looked at the grass before him. Bending low, he parted the thick grass with his thin willow stick. Artur moved beside him to behold a nest of tiny rabbits in a shallow depression in the ground. After a moment, Myrddin replaced the grass gently, and with his stick gestured for Artur to give the spot a wide berth as they continued to walk.
“The life that resides in everything can be influenced. Just as you might influence another to help you with a task, or convince someone to take a particular course of action, so too can a select few do this with all aspects of nature…not just with words, and not just with people.” He slowed, stroking his beard as he silently inhaled the misty air.
Artur listened.
“Many, many years ago, there lived a faerae creature who fell in love with a common human. Rare it was indeed for this to happen, but happen it did. The girl grew into a woman, and in the years that followed, she bore a child. The faerae was very protective over the woman and the child that grew within, and wished to do all he could to ensure that no harm befell either. The lands in which the woman dwelt were, in that Age, wrought with conflict, so the faerae shifted his beloved, and took her to a world that he deemed acceptably safe.”
Myrddin saw the sudden shift in Artur’s posture, the furrowed brow and half-opened mouth. He raised a hand, his index finger slightly bent.
“One tale at a time, lad. That one will have to wait for another day.
“Now, for months the woman lived comfortably in this world. She was doted upon by the faerae, in a little cottage by a lake, and her pregnancy progressed well. Until the Darkness came. The Darkness, Atrtur, is a sickness of sorts. It is the affliction which may occur in one who has been shifted. In many cases, if a shift occurs whereby the individual arrives in a world that is not appropriate to their being, the Darkness comes. Some say that the Darkness can come to those who must be shifted, even from their own world… folk who’ve never been shifted before. It is said that the Darkness also forces an individual to shift if Fate requires their presence, or that of their descendants, in another world. Whatever the reason, the Darkness necessitates a shift, and this pregnant woman was brought by the faerae once again to the fair vales of Prydain.
Yet the Darkness remained.
In many instances, the shift will set things right and the individual will heal in time. The condition of this woman, however, progressively worsened. The faerae began to despair. He brought Healers and Water Fae to help the woman, but nothing worked. The woman grew weaker, frailer, and the faerae could see that her slender body would fail.
On a stormy midsummer night, the woman and her child together seemed to realize that the baby’s chances of survival would be greatly enhanced if it were separated from its ailing mother. When middlenight fell, the child was born. As the infant boy squealed his first breath of life, his mother breathed her last.
The faerae was overcome. Grief surged up in him like a mighty wave, and he did what no faerae had ever done to that point. He cried. He cried as a human would, for such was his bond with the mortal race. He held his baby close, and tears ran from his face, falling like sorrowful rain upon the little babe he held. So close he held that child, it being the last and only connection to his beloved. In an attempt to calm the crying baby, he began to sing. The song of the faerae; so powerful and intense. In the face of such loss, he sang of love and of strength, of things he felt he’d never again possess.”
Myrddin and the boy walked through tall grass, dense enough to slow their progress. They were crossing a meadow, and the mist around them was such that it was often difficult to see the trees. Myrddin looked up, and through the white wisps that floated by, he could see a clear blue sky.
Nearby, the sound of a gurgling stream caught his ear.
“The poor child,” Artur said. “Baptized in tears of sorrow. A most unfortunate way to start out in this mad world.”
“Indeed,” said Myrddin. “It is said that the fae lost his hold on sanity on that woeful night. As I’ve told you, the power of magic lies in its ability to influence. Tales from time immemorial tell us that the song of the faerae is one of the greatest influencers ever known. People have been swayed by the songs of fae: misdirected, made to walk uncertain paths for as long as fae and humans have interacted. But the songs can be used for good as well. They can help to heal and to comfort. And this is what the faerae attempted to do that night. He sang to comfort the babe, but as he did so, he directed the power of the song at himself also. He was torn, as though he existed as two entities, one soul singing to the other, and the child caught in the middle. It is said that he detached, irreparably.”
“Madness in a faerae? I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”
“My boy, in this vast world, and the worlds beyond, all things are possible.”
Again Artur seemed tempted to delve further into this notion, but he stayed with the present tale. “And what of the child?”
“It survived, and that in itself was something of a feat.
“The boy was brought to live with distant relatives of the mother - not so much brought to as disposed of, for the faerae knew that the couple would not be welcoming of another mouth to feed, especially one that mewled as often as not. But there was little choice. He could not tend to the child, and the very sight of the boy brought naught but grief and melancholy to the creature.
The boy grew, somewhat, and learned to fend for himself as best he could. He was beaten as often as he was fed, perhaps sometimes because of the very fact that he needed to be fed. He learned to eat little, and skip as many meals as possible. He made sure to complete the chores given him to avoid the great uncle’s wrath, but when not engaged in such duties, he stayed away from the homestead. He learned to hunt, and gather what was needed. So the day came when, scarcely beyond his tenth year, he did not return to the home of his kin. He created a shelter for himself many leagues from the place he’d grown up, and would not return there for long, long years.”
“A brave lad,” said Artur.
“Necessity,” said Myrddin. “It does not take bravery to do what one must. Perhaps, had he been braver, he would have helped the aunt; saved her from the bruises that likely doubled in his absence. But, he was a boy. What do boys know?”
Myrddin pulled up the sleeves of his dirty brown robe, for the trees were now scarce and the air warm. He directed the boy to the stream, and told him to fill their skins. As Artur did so, the old man seemed to consider the next part of his tale, his grey bushy eyebrows furrowing, as if to better determine the path of his story. Artur said nothing, waiting patiently for Myrddin to continue.
“The boy made every effort to avoid attention, to keep his own little vale, but this could not last of course. With time, the foxes and wolves came nearer, drawn by the smell of meat and weakness.” Myrddin noted the look in Artur’s eye, and smiled. “Yes, wolves. For what would a story be, Artur, without the great and terrible wolf? Yet, these animals were not as terrible as one might expect. At least, most were not. The initial encounters were tense, filled with flames and pointed sticks. But despite the spindly arms of the boy, he showed an admirable resolve. This - coupled with the fact that the woodland provided ample prey for the beasts - might account for the accord between the boy and the wolves.
And of course, there was the song.”
Myrddin stopped, and looked around. The mist was almost thick enough to carve with a finger now. He knew full well where he was going, but acted as though he was considering the way. With his back to Artur, he smiled. He often stopped mid-story, giving Artur time to digest the words, time to reflect and consider questions and possibilities…
Ah, but who was he kidding? He did love to build a little suspense as well.
“Yes Artur, he hummed a song,” he continued finally. “It is said that the song of the faerae on that fateful night found its way into the heart and memory of the child. Encountered by a particularly hungry wolf on a cold night, the pair had eyed each other. As the wolf took a tentative step toward the boy, the lad began to hum. A tilt of the wolf’s shaggy head, and another step. The boy hummed louder, yet in the most gentle manner. Short time passed, and both went their separate ways.”
“He enchanted the wolf?” Artur asked.
Myrddin shrugged his shoulders. “I’d be more inclined to say he influenced the animal.
“The boy continued to practice this newfound ability, humming his way out of some dire predicaments. Yet the day came when his gift failed to work…”
Myrddin stopped, fumbling with his belt as he-
“Oh, come on, old man! Enough with the breaks!” Artur smiled. “I know full well what you do. If you’re too winded to continue, sit for a spell and finish your tale. You have my attention. Make use of it.” Still smiling, he jerked his head upward a little, gesturing for Myrddin to continue.
“Ah, the impatience of youth,” Myrddin shook his head, scratching at his temple. “Truly, must everything be so hurried and-”
“-and his gift failed to work, and…” Artur prompted. He held out his hand loosely, making a circular motion with his fingers.
“Pah! You’ve no appreciation for the art of storytelling. Yes, yes, the day came when his humming did not work, and he found himself in the gravest of danger.
The boy wandered across a grassy land; rolling meadows and the occasional shallow pond. Little did he know that he was tracked the entire time. A wolf, yet one unlike any other. It came to within twenty paces of him, and the boy turned.
The wolf was rabid. Its teeth dripped white foam, its rheumy eyes narrow and focused. It took a step toward the boy and staggered, just slightly to its left, like a very young squire sampling a very old wine.
The boy began to hum, quickly and with more force than usual. He looked around, searching for a means of protection. No tree to climb. No rocks to be thrown. Only erratic boulders and a few saplings growing beside a pond. He backed up, as far as the water, and the wolf continued toward him. Nearly stumbling over the boulders, he stopped, moving beside them to stand amongst the little trees which were not yet as tall as his shoulder.
The boy was certain his bloody end was but moments away, and he lowered his head. As he closed his eyes and wished for a quick death, a tear ran from his face… and he began to sing. Not hum, mind you, but sing. He sang the actual words, the song that his faerae father had sung to him so many years ago. Words he had not heard since. As he sang, those long hidden words drifted from his subconscious mind and danced slowly upon his tongue. The intensity of the song strengthened. The boy’s muscles tightened and he felt the fear begin to fade. The words came with growing force, rising from some unknown place within him, and he opened his eyes. He felt every fiber of his being, felt his aliveness, his connection to all the life that surrounded him and he knew that he would not die on this day.
The wolf, in its tormented state, was unaware of everything but the boy. All it saw, all it sensed was the prey that cowered within a thin patch of young trees. As the boy continued to sing, the wolf seemed further infuriated, as if offended by the audacity of the boy to sing in its savage presence. The song could have no effect on its demented mind. Vicious now, its slow, furtive walk broke into a full run, its dark red eyes narrowed as the spittle flew from its snarling mouth.
When he was but paces away, the beast leapt to a rock and propelled itself into the air. The boy bent the smallest of the willow saplings in the direction of his attacker, pointing the feeble limb at the maw of the animal. And as he did so, the words continued to burst from him, through him, like a raging river that had been pent-up for far too long. The willow sapling shuddered in his hand, and a feeling more intense than any he’d ever felt, or would ever feel, rushed through his body, through his arm with such intensity that the willow snapped free in his hand. In that instant, the words, which had grown more potent with each utterance, exploded from his mouth, from the willow in his hand, and struck the beast that flew toward him. With a violent jerk of his hand, the boy’s power pulled the beast sideways, directing it into the nearest boulder. Its neck snapped upon impact with a sickening crack, and the wolf rolled to its side, resting in a lifeless heap at the feet of the boy.
On that day, my young friend, magic came to the hand of Man.”
Myrddin stopped, and Artur came to stand beside him. Long minutes passed before either spoke. The old man turned to consider the younger, as the younger continued to consider the tale. “So there it is lad. While the fae have held this power in their being since the Dawn, it was only at this point that man, or at least, one not of true, pure fae blood, could wield the power. It required the willow stick, a most simple, elemental piece of nature, but through it, power was gained. And continues to be gained. We need only learn to influence…”
Another pause before Artur spoke. “Is the tale true, old friend?”
Myrddin inclined his gaze to the sky, licking his dry lips. “There are those that say the truth lies in the telling. In the very telling, the tale becomes truth.”
“More riddles, no?” Artur sighed, and twisted his scabbard, looking at the broken sword. “Pray, tell me this then. In truth…” He looked at Myrddin, and waited for his eyes. “Are you the boy in the story?”
“Me?” Myrddin chuckled, his thin shoulders shaking. “Whatever would give you such notions?”
“Oh come, Myrddin! Raised in the wild? Orphaned. The wolves. The enchantment?” Myrddin said nothing, only smiled.
“Myrddin?”
The old man sighed.
“Boy, truth to tell, if it was me, how might I be called upon to remember events so long ago? I’ve heard it said that memory is enshrouded in mist in a past as vast as mine.”
With those words, he swept his hand through the air, and the mist parted.
Enchantment, like a gentle breeze. Indeed, those who refused to believe might convince themselves that the slightest of winds had caused the gossamer curtain to part. But then, any form of enchantment could be explained away by natural occurrences, if one were so inclined. For wasn’t nature in itself the greatest of influencers. The mist, the swaying trees, and the lake that rested beside them.
Artur started. He’d not realized how close they’d come to the water, Myrddin saw. For the water was so still that no sound rose from its gleaming face, even in the place where the stream was welcomed into its deceptive depth.
Artur made to step toward the lake, but stopped.
“Is this it?”
The old man nodded.
“And if I’m deemed worthy, will the sword protect me?”
“Any sword may protect any wielder, if the wielder is able to wield…”
“God’s bones,” Artur muttered. “What I mean Myrddin-” He sought the right words.“-will I be able to influence the weapon?”
“That remains to be seen boy.” He twirled the willow stick he’d retrieved from his pocket, seemed to study it, then put it back once more. “Perhaps it is you who’ll be influenced.” He gestured over Artur’s shoulder.
Artur turned, and beheld the Lady. Myrddin noticed the almost imperceptible bend in the lad’s knees when he saw her. The Lady stood in water to her hips, the white samite of her dress clinging to the lake’s surface. Yet, the waters did not stir. They held still, like the lady herself, who held before her a sword that reflected the middleday sun.
No words were spoken. Myrddin watched.
He watched the sun dance upon the blade; dance upon the engraved words that had been etched in ancient tongue.
Take me, it implored. Or cast me away.
He watched Artur move forward. Tentative. Cautious. The Lady still did not move. Nor did the waters in which she stood. As he reached the lake’s edge, Artur raised his head. The sun gleamed in his pale blue eyes, and cast a shadow; a shadow taller and greater than he himself, whose end could scarcely be seen.
Myrddin watched as the young man stepped into the lake, and at last, the waters moved. The ripples spread, and would continue to do so, through water and time, like old tales through an eternity that would end where none could see.
On the shore behind the boy, the old man began to quietly hum a song.