thirty

the companion-at-arms

A labyrinth is not a maze. A maze is a puzzle; its paths have many branches and its exits are blocked to trap the unwary adventurer. A labyrinth has one shape only and one path leading to its core. It can be found all over the world, carved into rock as early as the Neolithic, engraved on ancient silver coins and on the floors of cathedrals.

The labyrinth winds over the hillside of the Glastonbury Tor, spiralling seven times round on seven levels, each equal in status to a chakra of the human body. It moves to its central point in a devious manner, round and back, upwards and downwards, through three dimensions—and within those three, the seeker can find the fourth dimension, the magical realm at the summit. The entrance to the Hollow Hill.

And after that, it will be easy. There will be no need for more killing.

The acolyte starts his labyrinth walk at the Living Rock, a smooth outcrop close to the base of the hill. Twilight is approaching and he keeps his eyes on the track hidden in long grass.

“Life from life. This is true. Morgan works entirely with apothegm. Ergo, what she says is always true. The Sleeping King should be woken if there is dire need. No—must—be woken.”

“Ricky?” Shell shimmies close and speaks into his ear. “Stop muttering to yourself, Ricky. We’re supposed to walk in silence.”

He withdraws his hand from hers. The texture is clammy. Besides, he’s trembling and he doesn’t want to transmit his fear to her.

At first the labyrinth walk is not steep; it traces the latitude of the hill. Then all at once the walk is vertical, tough going. As they struggle through knapweed and hogweed, Shell falls slightly behind, her breathing no more than shallow gasps. She could do with losing a few pounds.

He stops to wait for her. Above, he can see the tower on the summit, a tall black box against the darkening sky. Is there movement up there? Is there a shadow within the shadows?

He tramps on, steadily moving towards the entrance into the Hollow Hill. Ring the bell to wake the Sleeping King. Save the wasteland. Save the living world. Crops will flourish, cattle will thrive, children will be born chuckling with delight. He tries to use a measured pace, but his mind is screaming at him.

He is companion-in-arms to the goddess Morgan, but she’s not here for him. She’s always arriving at the wrong time, like when she burst into his room as he was managing to study for an essay and screamed at him.

Find it! Find it now! The world is crashing and burning and you stay here, with your stupid books and pictures when you should sound the Bell of Doomsday!

He had gone to shut the door behind her, so that Eijaz would not hear, and Morgan snatched the spool of black twine and hurled it at him. It had unravelled as it sailed across his bedroom.

Connections! Correspondences! Bind and conjoin! She’d swept the plastic pot of pins over the floor then shrieked like a hawk … pick them up! Mind Selkie’s little paws!

The cat is her familiar. He brings the dark edge to Morgan’s magic. Morgan wrapped him in her arms, her hand over his small head as if to prevent his hearing from being damaged by her shouts. There is still one knight to find. One foolish knight to take down. This is what stands in our way!

The acolyte had been so shocked, he’d actually dared to respond, I am a companion-at-arms!

“I am a companion-at-arms!” he repeats now. He’s forgotten that Shell doesn’t like him muttering. He forces himself back into his body, and, without warning they’re at the top of the Tor.

Shell skips along the edge of the flat summit. “We’re already at the centre!”

“I don’t think so.” He stares at the plan of the labyrinth. Anagarika sent him the plan as an attachment. They were supposed to do this together, but the acolyte doesn’t want Anag anywhere near Morgan le Fey. “It’s all wrong.”

“What? What’s wrong? We’re here, aren’t we?”

“This is only the fifth turn on the path. It’s taken us up here, but now we have to descend, take a couple more turns.”

“Look down there, Ricky. The mist on the valley. Isn’t that something?” She gazes over the darkening landscape. He walks past her. He knows where he’s going next; he doesn’t need the plan.

They reach the Egg Stone as the moon pulls free of the horizon. Neither of them have seen the stone before, and for a long time they cannot utter a word or move in the least way.

An enticing vapour rises, perhaps from the two trees that grow there, one on either side of the outcrop, sentinels of the Egg Stone, its protectors, pushing aslant from the steep slope like fingerposts. The first is an elder tree, and old at that—stunted and almost bare of leaf. Its branches glimmer pale, reminiscent of the White Tree of Gondor. It is arrayed with a rainbow of ribbons, feathers, beads, and dying flowers. A postcard wrapped in polythene is rammed in the fork of two branches.

The second tree is in full health, a hawthorn of perfect shape and colour, but less bedecked, as if the elder tree is also the most noble.

“Fuu-uuck, Ricky,” says Shell. “It’s awesome.”

She tucks her arm into his. He wishes she would not. She’s wearing the perfume again, the one that makes him so nauseous. He’s asked her to only wash with soap, but she seems never to hear.

Enchantment is everywhere—redolent. The moon’s rays illuminate the Egg Stone, making it glow so that the surface shines out like a reflected moon caught on the hillside. Everything magnified. That surely is how magic works? In the day, the stone would be grey as ashes.

This is where he should step into the otherworld. Where could the opening be? And where—where is Morgan le Fay?

Something tips in him. This is all levels of peril. He’s given everything to Morgan that she’s asked for. Done every deed. When he needs her most, when he’s supposed to be leading her into the middle of the Hollow Hill, she has deserted him.

He knows she’s not here, because his head is clear and free from pain. She’s left him to do it alone.

“We should be able to get through, Shell, open the way by magic.”

“Pardon, Ricky?”

The Egg Stone is an outcrop of hard sandstone, a burr of a good size. It could be four, five metric tons. What would Morgan do? A word—a tap from a wand. “Give me your staff.”

“What?”

He stamps his foot. “The way into the otherworld should open!”

“Right.” She lowers her voice. “And why should you think it won’t? Hmm?”

He takes Wolfsbane’s staff, gripping low on the shaft. It sings with power. Whatever comes to hand. He’s no longer an acolyte. Pound and pound. Crack and it’s opened. He raps the Egg Stone hard with the staff. Crack, crack.

Nothing. Did he expect it to split into two?

Shell has scrabbled up the hillside, her jeans stretched over her rump as she bends to clutch at tufts of grass. Surely that’s not how it should end, pulling at grass in an effort to reach the top. She shouts back at him. “What’re you waiting for?”

“We should enter the otherworld here, at the Egg Stone. It’s got to be dignified. Hallowed.”

“C’mon, Ricky.” She reaches the top of the Tor, balances on its extreme edge. “I know exactly where the entrance to the otherworld is.”

And then, she’s gone.

The summit feels different in the dark. The moon is the only light. The concrete path leading through the tower gleams white. The wind moans past his ears, deafens him to other sounds he might be vigilant for—Morgan’s snigger, the cat’s rasped meow.

Where is she? It’s crazy. She’s playing games. She begged for this. Find the way into the Hollow Hill.

“I’ve done it, Morgan.” The wind blows away the words.

Within the black centre of the tower, something moves. A shadow.

“Morgan?”

Shell steps out. She’s pulled off her jeans and her biker’s jacket and—and all her clothes. She’s standing there in leather boots and black lace, knickers and bra. There’s moon-sheen on her shoulders and thighs. She raises her arms and draws her fingers through her short hair. “There’s no one here,” she says. “A full moon and a warm night. I thought there might be loads up here, didn’t you? It’s a miracle. We have the place to ourselves.” She reaches out a hand. “C’mon.”

She wants love. She always wants love. She is demanding. All his women are demanding. Shell asks for sex, Morgan for blood.

“Too much blood,” he says.

“Shush …” She’s whispering, close to him, tight to him. He feels the warmth of her, and the coolness too, at the top of her arms where he lays his hands. He can hardly bear the touch of her. He’s groaning. “Where’s the otherworld? Where?”

“Here,” she says. “Inside of me.”

“I have to find the bell. Ring the bell.”

“Ding dong?” She’s trying to pull him through the tower. “It’s perfect, Ricky. Tantric love on the Tor, in the labyrinth, in the moonlight.”

She pulls so hard his feet move anyway, even against his will. He stumbles through the tower’s short, dark passage. The Tor. The dark. Is this the otherworld? Is he now inside the Hollow Hill?

Shell tightens her arms round him, pushing her pelvis against him, opening his shirt, button by button. He puts his hands over hers.

“It should be hallowed.”

“It will be. It’s what we planned.”

Had they planned this? He can’t remember.

“Ricky.”

She’s lying on the grass now. Her legs are slightly splayed and her arms are by her side. Passive. He drops to his knees. He lays down the staff. He straddles her, hands kneading the chill of her arms.

“Make love to me, Ricky. The way will open.”

Will it? If they lie together now, at the centre of this hard-won labyrinth, will he find the passage into the Hollow Hill? He lowers his face to hers. The kisses feel damp, her breasts are slippy with sweat beneath his fingers. Humidity is rising from her flesh, clouded with the scent she’s sprayed on her neck. A wave of sickness grips him. He can’t bear it. “I shouldn’t have brought you here,” he says, almost before he’s thought it.

“Ricky?”

He draws in a long ragged breath and roars out his agony. “MORGAN! WHERE ARE YOU! MORGAAAAN!”

And instantly, she’s beside him. She comes down like sudden darkness. His head yanks back on his neck, as the pain arrives. Her dagger slashes between his eyes, slicing in. The pain can’t be silenced, and he cries out with it. “Yowwww!”

“Ricky! What is it?”

The pain stops all speech, all thought. He’s breathless with the agony of her presence. It’s like never before. Nothing functions.

Whatever comes to hand. Extemporize, acolyte. Take whatever comes to hand!

His head is overripe, a watermelon splitting open from its own internal pressure. He remembers the Black Knight’s skull, bashed, oozing, red, but also pink and grey. He should not have brought Shell. It’s so clear now, he cannot understand why he did so.

“Pound and pound.” He tries not to mutter, but he can’t help it. “Be swift, be swift. Death of beauty. Death of love.” He pulls back and screams. “RUN! RUN! GET OUT OF HERE!”

Shell’s face puckers. She tightens her arms round him, rocks him a little. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Her features break into black and white dots. The scent and the heat coming from her are sickening, and her face is broken into pieces. His stomach contracts. “I won’t do it, I won’t do it.”

“Okay,” says Shell. “That’s okay.”

“I’m not her acolyte. I’m not. I am a companion-at-arms. She can’t make me.”

“Hush, Ricky it’s okay …”

Bile bitters the back of his throat. He gives a small cough. The headache is massive now, preventing thought, stopping words. Like a block. A damn. A plug in the mind.

Morgan is standing at the mouth of the Tower, and even though no ray of moonlight touches her, she’s clear in his sight—her ridiculous heels, balanced perfectly, Selkie leaping on his leash after some flitting moth. She yanks the leash and a bleaching yowl stuns the night air. Morgan laughs, a high burst with a cruel edge.

“Don’t look,” he whispers to Shell. “Don’t listen.”

“Ricky,” Shell says. “Tell me, what’s the matter?”

He can hardly hear her, because Morgan’s voice is like thunder.

You were instructed to find the basilica where the king sleeps. You were instructed to save the wasteland. She gestures to Shell, lying below him, deliberately harsh. Yet you waste your time on this girl.

“I’m not your acolyte anymore.”

Morgan’s eyes are black pits. With one touch of her cool hand, she could lift his migraine. He feels a touch, but when he opens his eyes, it is Shell who is stroking his face.

“What is wrong, Ricky?”

He manages a gargling cry, half swallowed in his throat. “Run, run, please … run.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” says Shell. “We’re going to work out what’s wrong together.”

Morgan has made herself invisible to the girl, unheard. He tries to explain this, but the words get muddled in his mouth, and he’s saying foolish, foolish, foolish, for he realizes now that the Foolish Knight had always been Shell. Always had to be.

He uncouples Shell’s hands from around his neck and pulls back from her, using Wolfsbane’s staff to lever himself up.

“Go,” he says. It comes out as a sob. “Get away from us. Run, Shell. Run, now.”

It’s hopeless. Even if Shell careered straight down the hill, Morgan could stop her tracks by raising one finger.

Shell does not move, except to reach up and grasp the hem of his long coat, tugging. “Come on, my tantric lover. You can do this. Mmm?”

Step by step, controlling Selkie’s leash, Morgan le Fay walks the distance between them. She puts her hand around his hand, which is grasping the wooden staff. She lifts the rod, and, with her tremendous strength, she lifts Ricky also. He’s dangling, looking down on Shell’s honest face. She cannot see the danger.

Morgan’s movement is so quick. A flick of her wrist. Even before he has registered the action, it is done. The staff is balanced, not in the grass of the Tor, but at the centre of Shell’s neck, at the point where the flesh dips before the bones begin. Shell’s eyes flash wide and her hands come up to grasp the staff.

“Ricky!” Her voice sounds odd. She’s pulling at the staff, both hands tight around it, but she can’t budge it, she can only make things worse by struggling, heels digging into the ground, knees thrashing from side to side. A hand slams the ground. Each time she bucks and kicks, the rod slips deeper. She makes a sound, the sound that comes from someone in trouble.

In dire need.

Morgan is driving the pain into his head as she drives the point of the staff into Shell’s throat.

Your weapon is in your hand. Finish her.

He feels Morgan’s grip on the back of his fist. It’s like stone from the fire. He looks down the shaft, towards Shell. Her legs are stiff now, the heels hammering as the windpipe closes. Her eyes are like balls that might roll out of her head. Her mouth is open, gasping. All at once, he’s begging. “I made the sacrifice! I won my spurs, I dealt the blow …”

He dealt the blow. Each blow sickened him. This blow will defeat him.

Selkie leaps on its hind legs and lashes with its claws.

Finish her. The sacrifice must be made.

Will this death save the wasteland? His hands are burning. The staff is burning. Shell’s face, below him is burning. Everything is on fire.

“How will more blood get us into the Hollow Hill?”

He holds his breath and waits.

Morgan places her hand on his forehead and while it lies there, the headache lifts. The nonpresence of that throb is so intense, he gasps. She nods once. Affirmative. Yes. One more death. The Foolish Knight. That will get them in. It will.

She takes her hand away. A shaft of pain accelerates through his head. He tightens his grip on Wolfsbane’s staff.

“Death of beauty!” the acolyte shrieks. “Death of grace! Death of love!”