Taltos Page 48

  I stood confounded, my sword in my hand, hardly knowing what to make of it. But the monks came to me. "Ashlar, lead them to Christ," they said, and I became as many a zealot king before me. I led my converts against their brothers and sisters.

  But the real horror was yet to come.

  When the battle was over, the Christians still stood in the majority, and I saw, though it did not register very clearly yet, that most of them were human. The majority of the Taltos elite, never very numerous anyway, thanks to our rigid control, had been slaughtered. And only a band of some fifty of us remained, the oldest, the wisest, in some ways the most dedicated, and we were all still convinced of our conversion.

  But what were we to do with the few humans and Taltos who had not come over to us, who had not been killed only because the killing had stopped before everyone was dead? Now gathered from the battlefield, wounded, limping, these rebels, with Janet as their leader, cursed us. They would not be driven from the glen, they declared, they would die where they stood in opposition to us.

  "You, Ashlar, look at what you've done," Janet declared. "Look, everywhere on the bodies of your brothers and sisters, men and women who have lived since the time before the circles! You have brought about their death!"

  But no sooner had she laid on me this terrible judgment than the zealous human converts began to demand: "How could you have lived since the time before the circles? What were you, if you were not human beings?"

  At last one of the boldest of these men, one who had been a secret Christian for years, came up and slit open my robe with his sword, and I, baffled as Taltos often are by violence, found myself standing naked in the circle.

  I saw the reason. They would see what we were, if our tall bodies were the bodies of men. Well, let them see, I announced. I stepped out of the fallen robe. I laid my hand upon my testicles in the ancient fashion, to swear an oath--that is, testify--and I swore that I would serve Christ as well as any human.

  But the tide had turned. The other Christian Taltos were losing their nerve. The sight of the slaughter had been appalling to them. They had begun to weep, and to forget the Art of the Tongue, and to talk in the high, rapid speech of our kind, which quickly terrified the humans.

  I raised my voice, demanding silence, and demanding allegiance. I had put back on my slashed robe, for all that it mattered. And I walked back and forth in the circle, angry, using the Art of the Tongue as well as I'd ever used it.

  What would Christ say to us on account of what we had done? What was the crime here, that we were a strange tribe? Or that we had murdered our own in this dispute? I wept with great gestures and tore my hair, and the others wept with me.

  But the monks were now filled with fear, and the human Christians were filled with fear. What they had suspected all their lives in the glen was almost revealed to them. Once again the questions flew. Our children, where were they?

  At last another Taltos male, whom I greatly loved, stepped forward and declared that from this moment forth he was, in the name of Christ and Virgin, celibate. Other Taltos made the same pledge, women and men both.

  "Whatever we were," the Taltos women declared, "does not matter now, for we will become the Brides of Christ and make our own monastery here in the spirit of Iona."

  Great cries rang out, of joy and agreement, and those humans who had always loved us, who loved me as their king, rallied quickly around us.

  But the danger hung in the air. At any moment the bloody swords might clash again, and I knew it.

  "Quickly, all of you, pledge yourself to Christ," I declared, seeing in this Taltos vow of celibacy our only chance for survival.

  Janet cried out for me to cease with this unnatural and evil plan. And then, in a great volley of words, rushing sometimes too fast and sometimes too slow, she spoke of our ways, of our offspring, our sensuous rites, our long history, everything that I was now prepared to sacrifice.

  It was the fatal mistake.

  At once the human converts descended upon her and bound her hand and foot, as those who sought to defend her were cut down. Some of the converted Taltos tried to flee, and they were immediately cut down, and another vicious battle broke out, in which cottages and huts were set aflame and people ran hither and thither in panic, screaming for God to help us. "Kill all the monsters," was the cry.

  One of the monks declared it was the end of the world. Several of the Taltos did also. They dropped to their knees. Humans, seeing those Taltos in that submissive posture, at once killed those whom they did not know, or feared or disliked, sparing only those few who were beloved of everyone.

  Only I and a handful were left--those who had been most active in the leadership of the tribe, and had magnetic personalities. We fought off the few who had the stamina to attack us, subduing others with mere ferocious looks or vociferous condemnations.

  And at last--when the frenzy had peaked, and men fell under the burden of their swords, and others screamed and wept over the slain, only five of us remained--Taltos dedicated to Christ--and all those who would not accept Christ, except for Janet, had been annihilated.

  The monks called for order.

  "Speak to your people. Ashlar. Speak or all is lost. There will be no Donnelaith, and you know it."

  "Yes, speak," said the other Taltos, "and say nothing that will frighten anyone. Be clever, Ashlar."

  I was weeping so hard this task seemed utterly beyond me. Everywhere I looked I saw the dead, hundreds born since the circle of the plain, dead and gone now, into eternity, and perhaps into the flames of hell without Christ's mercy.

  I fell to my knees. I wept until I had no more tears, and when I stopped, the valley was still.

  "You are our king," said the human beings. "Tell us that you are no devil, Ashlar, and we will believe you."

  The other Taltos with me were desperately afraid. Their fate hung now with mine. But they were those most known to the human population and most revered. We did have a chance, that is, if I did not despair and seal the fate of all of us.

  But what was left of my people? What? And what had I brought into my valley?

  The monks came close. "Ashlar, God tries those whom He loves," they said. And they meant it. Their eyes were filled with sadness too. "God tests those whom he would make saints," they said, and heedless of what others might think of our monstrousness, our sinfulness, they threw their arms around me, and stood firm against the rest, risking their own safety.

  Now Janet, held tight by her captors, spoke:

  "Ashlar, you are the betrayer of your people. You have brought death to your own in the name of a foreign god. You have destroyed the Clan of Donnelaith, which has lived in this glen since time immemorial."

  "Stop the witch!" someone cried.

  "Burn her," said another. And another and another.

  And even as she continued to speak, there was whispering, and those going to prepare a stake in the stone circle.

  All this I saw from the corner of my eye, and so did she, and still she kept her courage.

  "I curse you, Ashlar. I curse you in the eyes of the Good God."

  I couldn't speak, and yet I knew that I had to. I had to speak to save myself, the monks, my followers. I had to speak if I was to stop the death of Janet.

  Wood had been dragged to the stake. Coal was being thrown down. Humans, some of whom had always feared Janet and every female Taltos whom they could not have, had brought torches.

  "Speak," whispered Ninian beside me. "For Christ, Ashlar."

  I closed my eyes, I prayed, I made the Sign of the Cross, and then I made my plea to all to listen.

  "I see before me a chalice," I declared, speaking softly but loud enough for all to hear. "I see the Chalice of Christ's blood which Joseph of Arimathea brought to England. I see the blood of Christ emptied into the Well; I see the water run red, and I know its meaning.

  "The blood of Christ is our sacrament and our nourishment. It shall forever replace the cursed milk we sought from our wom
en in lust; it shall be our new sustenance and our portion.

  "And in this awful slaughter today, may Christ receive our first great act of self-sacrifice. For we loathe this killing. We loathe it and we always have. And we do it only to the enemies of Christ, that His kingdom may come on earth, that he may rule forever."

  It was the Art of the Tongue as best I knew it, and it was said with eloquence and tears, and it left the entire mob of human and Taltos alike cheering and praising Christ and throwing their swords to the ground and tearing off their finery, their bracelets, their rings, and declaring themselves to be born again.

  And at that moment, as they had come from my lips, I knew these words were lies. This religion was a deceiving thing, and the body and blood of Christ could kill as surely as poison.

  But we were saved, we who stood there exposed as monsters. The crowd no longer wanted our death. We were safe--all except for Janet.

  They dragged her now to the stake, and though I protested, weeping and begging, the priests said no, that Janet must die, that she might die as a lesson to all those who would refuse Christ.

  The fire was lighted.

  I threw myself to the ground. I couldn't bear it. Then, leaping up, I ran at the slowly gathering blaze, only to be pulled back and held against my will.

  "Ashlar, your people need you!"

  "Ashlar, set an example!"

  Janet fixed her eyes on me. The fire licked at her rose-colored gown, at her long yellow hair. She blinked to clear her eyes of the rising smoke, and then she cried out to me:

  "Cursed, Ashlar, cursed for all time. May death elude you forever. May you wander--loveless, childless--your people gone, until our miraculous birth is your only dream in your isolation. I curse you, Ashlar. May the world around you crumble before your suffering is ended."

  The flames leapt up, obscuring her fair face, and a low roar came from the rapidly burning timbers. And then came her voice again, louder, full of agony and full of courage.

  "A curse on Donnelaith, a curse on its people forever! A curse on the Clan of Donnelaith. A curse on Ashlar's people."

  Something writhed within the flames. I did not know if it was Janet in her final pain, or some trick of light and shadow and flickering.

  I had fallen to my knees. I couldn't stop the tears and I couldn't look away. It was as if I had to go as far as I could with her into her pain, and I prayed to Christ, "She knows not what she says, take her to heaven. For her kindnesses to others, for her goodness to her people, take her to heaven."

  The flames leapt heavenward, and then at once began to die away, revealing the stake, the smoldering heap of wood and burnt flesh and bone that had been this gracious creature, older and wiser than I was.

  The glen was still. Nothing remained of my people now but five males who vowed to be celibate Christians.

  Lives that had existed for centuries had been snuffed out. Torn limbs, severed heads, and mutilated bodies lay everywhere.

  The human Christians wept. We wept. A curse on Donnelaith, she had said. A curse. But, Janet, my darling Janet, I prayed, what more can happen to us! I collapsed on the ground.

  At that moment I wanted no more of life. I wanted no more of suffering or death, or of the best of intentions resulting in abominable ruin.

  But the monks came to me, lifting me to my feet. My followers called to me. I was to come, they said, to behold a miracle that had happened before the ruined and burnt-out tower that had once been the home of Janet and those closest to her.

  Dragged there, dazed, unable to speak, I was gradually made to understand that an old spring, long dried, had come to life, clear water bubbling up from the earth once again, and cutting its path through the old dried bed, between hillocks and the roots of the trees and into a great drift of wildflowers.

  A miracle!

  A miracle. I pondered. Should I point out that that stream had come and gone a number of times in the century? That the flowers were blooming yesterday and the day before because the earth there was already damp, presaging the little fount which had now at last broken through the surface again?

  Or should I say:

  "A miracle."

  I said, "A sign from God."

  "Kneel, all," cried Ninian. "Bathe in this holy water. Bathe away the blood of those who wouldn't accept God's grace and have gone now to eternal perdition."

  Janet burning in hell forever, the pyre that will never go out, the voice that will curse me still crying ...

  I shuddered and all but fainted again, but I fell on my knees.

  In my soul, I knew that this new faith must sweep me up, it must consume my whole life, or I was lost forever!

  I had no more hope, no more dreams; I had no more words, and no more thirst for anything! This had to save me, or I should die in this very spot now, by sheer will, never speaking or moving or taking nourishment again until death stole over me.

  I felt the cold water slapped against my face. I felt it running down into my robes. The others had gathered. They too were bathing. The monks had begun to sing the ethereal psalms which I had heard on Iona. My people, the humans of Donnelaith crying and sad, and eager for the same grand redemption, took up the song, in the old-fashioned way, singing the lines right after the monks, until voices everywhere were raised in praise of God.

  We were all baptized in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.

  The Clan of Donnelaith was Christian thereafter. All human save for five Taltos.

  Before the following morning a few more Taltos were discovered, mostly very young women who had been shielding two almost newborn males in their house, from which they had seen the whole tragedy, including Janet's execution. They were six altogether.

  The Christian humans brought them to me. They would not speak, either to accept or deny Christ, but looked at me in terror. What should we do?

  "Let them go, if they will," I said. "Let them flee the valley."

  No one had the stomach for any more blood or death. And their youth and their simplicity and their innocence made a shield around them. As soon as the new converts stepped back, these Taltos fled, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, right into the forest.

  In the days that followed, we five males who were left did win the entire goodwill of the people. In the fervor of their new religion, they praised us that we had brought Christ to them, and honored us for our vows of celibacy. The monks prepared us with instructions day and night to accept Holy Orders. We pored over our holy books. We prayed constantly.

  Work was begun upon the church, a mighty Roman-style building of dry stone, with rounded arch windows and a long nave.

  And I myself led a procession through the old circle, at which we effaced any symbols from olden times, and carved into the rocks new emblems, from the Altar Book of the Gospels.

  These were the fish, which stood for Christ, the dove, which stood for the Apostle John, the lion for Mark, the ox for Luke, and the man for Matthew. And in a little Taltos fury we carved other biblical scenes into the flatter stones, and moved into the cemetery, putting crosses upon the old graves, in the style of the crosses of the book, very ornate and ornamented.

  It was a brief interlude in which something returned of the old fervor that had once taken hold of all of us on the Salisbury Plain. But we were only five now, and not an entire tribe, five who had renounced their own nature to please God and the human Christians, five who had been cast in the role of saints in order not to be massacred.

  But a dark terror lurked inside me and in the others. How long would this uneasy truce last? Would not the slightest sin topple us from our pedestals?

  Even as I prayed to God to help me, to forgive me for all my errors, to bind me to him as a good priest, I knew that we five could not remain in Donnelaith much longer.

  And I could not endure it myself! Even at my prayers, and during the singing of psalms with the monks, I heard Janet's curse in my ears, I saw my people covered in blood. Christ, gi
ve me faith, I prayed, yet in my secret heart I did not believe that the only path for my kind was one of such renunciation and chastity. How could it be? Did God mean for us to die out?

  This was not self-sacrifice, it was a form of utter denial. For Christ, we had become no one!

  Yet the love of Christ burned hot in me. It burned desperately. And a very strong personal sense of my Savior developed in me as it has in Christians always. Night after night in my meditations I envisioned the Chalice of Christ, the holy hill on which Joseph's hawthorn bloomed, the blood in the water of Chalice Well. I made a vow to go in pilgrimage to Glastonbury.

  There were rumblings from outside the glen. Men had heard of the Holy Battle of Donnelaith, as it had come to be called. They had heard of the tall celibate priests with strange powers. Monks had written to other monks, passing on the story.

  The legends of the Taltos came alive. Others who had lived as Picts in small communities had now to flee their homes as their pagan neighbors taunted and threatened them, and as Christians came to plead with them to renounce their wicked ways and become "holy fathers."

  Wild Taltos were found in the forest; there were rumors of the magic birth having been witnessed in this or that town. And the witches were on the prowl, boasting that they could make us reveal ourselves, and render us powerless.

  Other Taltos, richly dressed and armed to the teeth, and now exposed for what they were, came in heavily defended groups to the glen and cursed me for what I had done.

  Their women, beautifully clothed, and guarded on all sides, spoke of Janet's curse, having heard whispers of this, no doubt from the Taltos who had fled Donnelaith, and demanded that I repeat the curse to all, and hear their judgments.

  I refused. I said nothing.

  Then, to my horror, these Taltos repeated the entire curse to me, for indeed they already knew it.

  "Cursed, Ashlar, cursed for all time. May death elude you forever. May you wander--loveless, childless--your people gone, until our miraculous birth is your only dream in your isolation.... May the world around you crumble before your suffering is ended."

  It had become a poem to them which they could recite, and they spat at my feet when they were finished.

  "Ashlar, how could you forget the lost land?" the women demanded. "How could you forget the circle of Salisbury Plain?"