“Did I not prophesy, wise fool, that we should meet here where all but shame has deserted you?” The man’s voice was a whisper; Cal knew he was mad, probably dangerous. He didn’t care. Stretching his weary legs out he said, “Have you got anything to drink?”
A bottle. And then, to his worn surprise, a cup. Merlin poured carefully, his black and broken fingernails poking through torn mittens. He held the cup out.
“What is it?” It smelled of berries.
“Something of my own. It will make you sleep.”
Forever, Cal thought, but he was too thirsty and he drank, and the taste was a deep red taste and sweet. As he put the cup down he felt a drowsy warmth flood his head and chest. There had been alcohol in it.
Merlin leaned back on the patient dog. “You have walked a long time in the Waste Land.”
“Three days.”
“If you say so.” He spat into the flames. “Maybe much longer. Maybe years. You have not found what you seek.”
It wasn’t a question. Suddenly Cal felt the tension of the dark land drain away from him; though it was only just out there, through that ivy-grown arch, he felt as if he had somehow come to somewhere else. His mind cleared. He leaned forward. “Listen. At Caerleon. The . . . girl, woman, whatever, said I hadn’t been able to ask about the Grail because of my mother. I left her. Did you know that?”
Merlin watched, unmoving.
“I just walked out on her. I hated her. I was ashamed of her. But I can’t do anything about that now, because she’s dead, she took an overdose.” He clenched his hands together. “Don’t you see, I can’t do anything about it! It’s too late. It’ll always be too late now. Forever.” His words were breaking apart.
Slowly, Merlin stirred the fire. When he spoke his voice was sad. “She follows you.”
Cal looked up. “What?”
“Like a shadow. She is your shadow. She’s a dog at your heels, I know, I have my own doom at mine. You wish it to be too late, but it is not. It never is.”
“I hate her.”
Merlin laughed, tossing the stick down. “Not so. You have forgotten how to love. That’s a different sorrow.”
Behind him, tiny leaves were sprouting on the ivy. Cal watched them, distracted. “I can’t forgive her.”
“And does she forgive you?”
“I don’t . . .”
“You do. You must turn around and ask her.”
Cal stared in blank fear. Then the Hermit laughed, a dry, brittle laugh that made the dog’s ears prick uneasily.
“How?” Cal whispered.
Merlin leaned forward, eyes bright. “You have already drunk the means.”
The chapel was a green gloom. It was closing on them, the ivy growing, unfurling, climbing with small crisp rustles over the walls and along the floor, curling fronds around the dog’s belly. It was growing from Merlin, from his hair and beard, his fingernails; he was a green man, made of leaves and stems and bines, they were raveling out and tangling around Cal, stopping him breathing. He felt the stems cover him, warm him; he snuggled into them.
Behold the marvels, they whispered. Behold the mysteries of the Grail.
But all he saw was Sutton Street. It was his old bedroom, with the stained carpet and the frowsty bed and the thud of next door’s stereo through the walls. He lay there in his old T-shirt and pajama trousers, and Shadow was sitting on the floor next to the radiator that leaked.
She glared up at him. “You! You’ve got a nerve!”
He sat up, stared around, confused. “It shouldn’t be you . . .”
“Why the hell not!” She was blazing with anger. “Who asked you to interfere, Cal! It was none of your business, none of it!”
“I thought . . .”
“I was happy with the Company! Now look what you’ve done to me! Look where I am!” She scrambled up, and she was strange to him, as if her shape had shifted, her face washed and unveiled and unfamiliar. She grabbed hold of his wrist, sharp nails digging in. “The police came! My mother—oh, you should have heard her. She should have won ten Oscars for that performance.”
He was hurting. She was hurting him. “I thought . . . It’s just you had everything I ever wanted. And you ran away from it.”
“Money’s not happiness.” She dropped his wrist and stepped back. “Private schools and a big house and three cars, that’s not happiness. Didn’t you ever think I could be unhappy too?”
He shook his head, numbed. He couldn’t believe that. He still couldn’t.
The stereo thumped. He got off the bed and sat on its edge, leaning over and running his hands through his hair as he’d used to, when it had woken him, when he’d been waiting for his mother to get home.
Shadow watched him, rigid a moment. Then she came and sat next to him.
The light from the lamppost outside flickered and went out. In the darkness she said, “I hate it here, Cal. I’m all on my own. Find me.”
The voice wasn’t hers. It came from the woman sitting by the cauldron who looked up as he sat, pushing aside the tangle of nightshade and hemlock.
This was a dark place. A cave, maybe, an underworld. On the red walls he saw the old graffiti from Sutton Street, and smudgy paintings of animals, and handmarks.
She shuffled up to make room for him. “I’ve been waiting, Cal.”
The cauldron was huge. Bronze, dented, with a curling red enamel pattern around the rim. It hung from three great chains that rose up into the darkness and vanished, as if they reached to the sky. In it, liquid bubbled and plopped. Steam rose, half hiding his mother.
It was she who wore the tattoos now, not a web like Shadow, but blue lines on her cheeks. She took his hand, and stroked it. “Did you think it was an accident?” she said quietly.
“I don’t know. Was it?”
She didn’t answer. Then she said, “All our lives, minute by minute, lead to what we are.” She looked around and laughed, that rare silvery laugh he had not heard for years. “I used to be scared of the dark. But this isn’t so bad. Not with a few decent curtains.”
He tried to smile. Steam blurred between them. “Do you forgive me?” he whispered.
The cauldron bubbled. When he knew she was not there, was not going to answer, he stood and looked into it, and saw that fish swam in there, shoals of them, though the liquid was red. One of the fish leaped; he jerked back as it flashed out and back, barely missing his face with its tail. And three drops of the blood fell out onto the snow. He stared at them, because they were the heart of it, the secret, melting into each other, pitting the white frosted crystals.
“Cal.”
Owein. One of the Company. He caught Cal’s arm but Cal flung him off. “Leave me alone.”
There were feathers now, black, from a bird’s wing. Black. White. Red.
The Company were here, all around him. “Leave him to me,” Kai was saying; he came over. “Arthur wants you. We’ve been looking for you.”
“Leave me ALONE!” He had the sword, he struck out with it, and Kai’s parry was hurried and wrong, and Cal stepped in close and hurled the man back, so that he landed sprawling, the dark expensive coat in the slush, his fair hair in his eyes. Astonished, he stared up. Cal laughed, then turned, threatening. “That goes for all of you!”
Darkness. Light. Blood. These were what the Grail held. There was a great truth, a breathtaking secret and he almost had hold of it, a door he had almost tugged open, the handle smooth under his fingers, the castle walls rising in front of him, and this was Corbenic and he was home, and a voice said, “Even me, Cal?” and it all vanished and he turned, white with fury.
But Hawk was unarmed. “Wake up, laddie,” he whispered.
He was warmer. Green light was filtering through leaves onto his face, and the dog was snoring beside him, a comfortable lump curled around his legs. Stiff, Cal sat up.
The fire smoldered smokily. Birds were singing, and the sun glinted through the overgrown windows of the chapel. Of Merlin there was no sign.