One third of the Merlins and most of their squires suddenly disappeared, leaving no trace. The Templars were bloodthirsty and angry at having been eluded by the remaining members of the Merlindom. Also, they were frightened by what repercussions may await them due to their failure.
Myrridian had roused them all from the metal fogginess their squires had imposed on them and organized a rallying point which they all knew. Their perfect and momentary mental clarity was enough to call them in the direction of the infirmary. Merlin quickly re-routed them to the village where Marta and Goldach were residing, instructing them along the way to discard the identifying outfits they had been wearing and procure the garments of peasants that were sold in the marketplace a little further down the path from here. They were all on foot, aware of each other by the telepathic link Myriddian had established and was now maintaining.
Guirmean, back at Myrridian’s lair, had witnessed all these events and was extremely displeased. He had gone inside and was loudly meowing at Myrridian’s prostrate body to awaken, calling his spirit back to it’s home. This was disruptive to his guidance of the Merlins. Guirmean had been vested with the power to make such decisions, however, so Myriddian slowly travelled back along the elastic cord that led back to his body. Along the way, he gave explicit instructions to the Merlins who were traveling to conference with him. Speak to no man, and if you must, feign total ignorance. Each one was now on their way, separately, to the safe village where he had brought Marta’s family. There was work to do. He finally reached his lair; descending again through the roof, he landed on the Dervish carpet and was magnetically pulled into his body. It felt like it weighed eighteen tons. Guirmean was standing on his chest, meowing loudly. He reached up to pet him and he jumped off.
He looked over at the Calamus root extract, picked it up and tipped the bottle back. It was an extract of Calamus in whiskey he had brewed himself and would begin to take effect immediately. He rose from where he had laid, walked over to his stone table, sat down, and began to write the events of the journey down, lest he forget. When he had sufficiently documented the story, he walked out the back door to the creek and washed the remnants of the ointment from his body.
He had not forgotten Marta or Goldach, but without this meeting the work he was destined to do would be futile and frivolous. He sat on the front porch with Guirmean, feeling refreshed from the time spent outside of his body. It was much more restful than any sleep could be. Guirmean was still angry from the risks he had taken. Conferring with him through mental pictures, Myrridian showed him his reasoning. Goldach and Marta must come here; there is no other safe place. Even these Merlins who were loyal now would be advised to abandon the old ship. There was no other way. The tides had made their decision, and they were going out. The old ways would be driven deeper undergroung, but the concessions Goldach would make were too much for Myrridian to bear. He would just as soon die. Goldach, however, the heir of Aruleanius, would be pragmatic to a fault. His pragmaticism knew no bounds; when a goal was set, nothing could stop him from achieving it.
He sat and daydreamed about Marta and Goldach, sending her the message that he would be there shortly with guests. Though the season was over, they would plow the fields together. He wanted them to stay inside if possible, and for her to make sure the possessions she had were packed and ready to go. There was no time to waste. The Merlins were on their way.
Marta had experienced the vision of Myrridian’s deeds, along with Goldach, who was becoming more and more aware, and communicative. On one level, he understood his mission in life. Yet the awareness of that destiny was slipping away from him, as it does from all young children. It’s not an evil process, but a natural and organic one. If we already knew the end of the story, would we even bother to read the book?
In her dreams last night, it was as if she sat on the rug with Myriddian, though he seemed quite unaware due to his focus on the task at hand. He continued to underestimate her, such was his impression of women in general. Nevertheless, she did bear witness to the salvation of the twelve Merlins, each with their druidic squires. The gravity of the situation surrounding Myrridian and Goldach was becoming quickly apparent to her. The old ways were gone, and the only option was total conversion. She, like Myrridian, had not wanted to believe it; now there was no denial. The old political clout held by the kingdom of Merlins had all but disappeared. Though there were many who would die for Myrridian if so required. That was exactly what he wanted to avoid.
The twelve Merlins were on their way, each with varying levels of loyalty to Myrridian, all with a now deadly self-destructive and unflinching devotion to the old ways. She was rather exited that this meant she and Goldach would be returning to Melrose for good. Her own mental and telepathic suggestions were taking hold, unnoticed by the High Merlin of Scotland. However defunct his title and office were becoming, it was still quite a feat to exert such powerful influence on such a man. She smiled to herself with a rare moment she allowed herself of pride, quickly changing her focus back to the persona that was rendering her capable of such influence. She was again an idiotic wench, who hung on Myrridian’s every last word.
That was her costume she had to wear when she was around him, and she would wear it well. Soon, it would come off piece by piece, and she would show herself an adept scholar of the old alchemical arts. It would be gradual, and yet sudden. The calamus root was that effective, and the time was at hand.
Myrridian arrived at the village; about two hours ahead of the Merlins who were in transit. He was kicking at the clods in the fields, acting perturbed at the soil conditions. He had brought many plows and farming implements with him in a horse driven wagon he had rented from a shell-shocked youth in the village adjacent to Melrose. When Yohanon saw that Myrridian had arrived, he rushed out to greet him.
“Sir, sir, to what do we owe the honor of your presence?” He asked.
“I have brought soil experts to examine these fields with me, dear Yohan; I would like to know their opinions on how to maximize yields this coming season,” Myrridian replied. In his reply was judgement and cruelty, to effect Yohanon’s quick and sullen departure. He was a meddlesome sort, bound up in the petty politics of the small-town cathedral. He did get the message, but did not want to be construed to Myrridian as rude or unthankful, so continued to carry on the conversation.
“Well, that’s a rather wise decision. There is always room for improvement,” he replied. At this, Myriddian showed his displeasure on a very subliminal level, conveying the fact that Yohanon was no longer welcome in his presence, but that he appreciated him and his work here on this little farm. Yohanon quickly responded,
“I didn’t want to be rude, Master, but I believe I ought to take leave of you and let you to your business unperturbed by the likes of Yohanon.”
“Thank you Yohanon. It’s always a pleasure to see you. Would you mind sending Marta out to greet me?” Myriddian demanded.
“I certainly will. Your kindness is never wasted on me sir!” Yohanon spoke these words and almost tripped over his own feet as he backed away, not wanting to turn his glance away from Myrridian too soon. When he reached twenty paces, he turned and ran back to the cottages, his belly flopping around accordingly. Myrridian heard him calling Marta,
“Lady Marta, Lady Marta, the Master would like to see you in the Kale field, on the double!”
Myrridian was unsettlingly exited when he saw Marta emerge from the cottage in the distance. She was wearing a crimson dress, and had Goldach slung around her front side in a cotton sling. He was getting rather heavy for her to carry and she slunk under his weight.
“Marta, it is no longer safe here. Do you have your things together?” He asked.
“Why yes Master. I heard you calling when you began your journey here. Has something terrible happened?” She asked.
“We have no time to discuss anything now; suffice to say we will be departing before nightfall. I have brought in soil analysts, Marta. They will be here any minute, and I don’t want them to see you or Goldach. They won’t be here long. Please remain unseen within the cottage,” he said.
Marta was surprised to see him so affected by the events of the previous night. He looked like he was about to fall over he was so tired, and his pupils were blown. He was still in the spirit world, beside himself with fear and loathing for his existence. She felt tenderness for him and reached for his hands, taking them up in hers and staring deeply into his eyes. They were dark and deep, like the water of the ocean on a moonless night. She felt as though he was pulling her in when she saw them, deep under the waves where the pain was absent. Perceiving all this, she realized she had already succeeded; Myrridian was in love with her. She was feeling his feelings as her own. She was silent in her mind, mirroring back a nurturing feeling, still holding his hands in hers. You can depend on me, Myrridian, she thought.
It was only a ten second exchange, but it was meaningful enough that there seemed to be a break in his demeanor, and she thought he was about to cry. People like him, caretakers, were never allowed to show their emotions, even to themselves. And in such a powerful political position with the lives of so many constantly at stake, there was no option. His back straightened and he withdrew his hands and his emotions, retreating back into himself and to the task at hand.
“Take leave, Marta, and be on the ready,” he said.
“As you wish, dear Master,” she replied.
As she turned to walk back to the cottage, he felt the hatred rise up again, for himself, from the danger of being involved with this woman. He never allowed himself to be mirrored. That was how people got killed. He remembered Miryabeit, then quickly forgot. He was afraid that Marta never would. No matter how well she thought she could hide it from him, she wanted vengeance. It was plain as the nose on her face. He would continue to act as though she didn’t, but remain extremely wary of her. There was, after all, no choice but to allow her in to his inner sanctum. Goldach would be much more than he could handle, and without a mother figure, he would lack the diplomatic skills he would desperately need in years to come. He knew from experience.
The Merlins were close, he could almost smell their breaths. They travelled on foot, as instructed. Myrridian was ready to break the connection with all of them. Some of the Moorish squires been judged trustworthy, and were traveling with them. By his sight, he saw seven of them. The rest were companionless; their apprentices had been traitorous. Those five who had remained at Stonehenge had born the brunt of the Templars and the church back at Stonehenge, caught in the middle of a colossal tidal wave.
