Chapter 1

BOOK I: THE HERMIT

Chapter I: The Corn Moon, AD 480

Ex oriente lux.

From the east, light.

* * *

“I could kill you,” said Merthen to the black widow climbing one of the braids in his long white beard. “That would be the prudent course of action.”

When he was a red-headed child in Constantinople, Merthen played a game with poisonous spiders. He and his fellow slave boys would catch a few black widows in a cup. Each of the boys would then place one of the toxic insects on his respective foot, and stand resolute while it crawled towards the warmth of his respective crotch. The first boy to flinch lost.

“This island will be the end of you,” said Merthen to the eight-legged stranger.

Just offshore, near where Carmarthen Bay emptied into the Celtic Sea, an Iberian spice ship strained against her anchor lines. A few days earlier, this vessel had unloaded a shipment of Asian peppercorns. No doubt the spider was a stowaway from much warmer shores.

“You will not survive this evening’s frost,” said Merthen. He removed the feather writing quill tucked behind his ear, and pointed it at the tiny stranger. He inhaled, aware of the flow of his breath. “I recommend you return to your ship.”

He flicked the black widow into air. It spiraled down, landing in a puddle by the sea wall. As if on cue, a sedge warbler swooped low and snapped it up in its beak. The bird flew off to its nest in a stand of bull rushes. Three fuzzy chicks poked up their gaping mouths.

Merthen was sliding his pen back in place when he felt something strike his left buttock. Whatever connected with him was a blunt object, soft like the head of a yearling ram not yet sprouting horns. Still, it was enough of a jolt to make him lose his balance. He fumbled to hold on to his ash wood walking stick.

From behind him, Merthen heard the voice of a young boy saying, “That hurt.”

Merthen twisted backward to identify this child, and in so doing completely lost his footing. His lanky old body toppled over. The eighteen Indian rosewood beads strung around his left wrist smacked against the cobblestones, and his staff flew out of his hands.

The boy, a street urchin with shaggy brown hair and a snakelike fish in his hand, rubbed the top of his forehead, but he did not cry. Instead, he directed his hazelnut eyes at the trumpet swan carved onto the head of Merthen’s walking stick and asked, “Is that a duck?”

“No,” said Merthen, “it is a piece of wood.”

During Merthen’s fall, the four ponytails that hung down his back had wrapped around his face. He untangled them.

“Are you sure?” said the boy. He scratched at his bottom. “It looks like a duck to me.”

Merthen, still lying on his back, popped the lid off the leather cylinder tied to his belt. From it, he pulled out a small vial of ink. He checked to make sure that the glass was not cracked. He snapped at the urchin. “You should be minding your step, boy. Where are your parents?”

Out from behind a stack of wool bundles, Widow Blodwen, the fishmonger, charged forward, with a meat cleaver in her fist. “Thief,” she cried. “Stop him!” Her more than ample hips pounded across the marketplace. Her freckled face was furious red.

The boy broke into a sprint. Merthen reached over, and retrieved his walking stick. With a well-aimed flick of the wrist, he tossed it at the child’s gangly legs. The boy glanced back. With all the grace of an acrobat, he leapt into the air. The long wooden staff spiraled under the child’s dirty feet.

Widow Blodwen barreled onward.

The boy banked to the left. His shoulder bumped against a rickety table displaying used arms and cutlery. That was all it took to send a cacophony of knives and throwing hatchets scattering in all directions. The arms dealer was a wooden-shoed Frank with a huge handlebar mustache, two thick pigtails above his ears, and the back of his head shaved. He sprang from his stool and yelled, “Oh bugger!”

The boy zigzagged, first around the kettle at the tanner’s stall, then up hill towards the castle. Widow Blodwen followed, huffing all the way.

The last sword left on the table teetered on the edge before it tipped, handle-down toward the earth. It ricocheted off a cobblestone that jutted up above the rest. Merthen, his face flush to the ground, observed the old weapon slide point-first toward his eyeballs. He jerked his head upward. Just below his earlobe, the tip of the freshly-honed blade slid to a stop.

Merthen’s heart pounded against his ribcage, but not because of his brush with impalement. In his peripheral vision, he saw a dark figure, no bigger than a kitten. All the commotion had disturbed a black-eyed bilge rat, whose reaction was to scramble across the marketplace, terrified.

The rodent raced toward Merthen’s belly, then changed course, scrambling down towards his feet. Merthen felt the slither of its tale brushing against his ankles. For a brief moment he shivered like an epileptic caught in the grips of palsy. And then the rat disappeared, employing the ancient talent for retreat all vermin possess.

Merthen closed his eyes. He jiggled the rosewood beads around his wrist. In a whispered tone he chanted, “Gah-tay, gah-tay, para gah-tay, parasam gah-tay, bodhi svaha.” A bead of sweat seeped into his eyes. His body stopped shaking. His mind stopped racing. He regained control, at least for now.

The sword that nearly skewered Merthen lay still, pointing at him like Dame Fortune’s giant finger. Having been trained as a clerk, Merthen could not help but be drawn to the Latin words stamped on the weapon’s blade. He read them out loud, since he was not one of those few literati who could read silently. “Made in Calabria,” he said.

The Frankish arms dealer, who was down on his knees gathering up his knives, responded, “No, not Calabria. I bought that one from an old Roman Lady in Boulogne. Her grandfather brought it west from Constantinople. Pure wootz steel.” He picked up a hatchet, and stood. “Just what I need, more dents.”

Merthen hoisted himself up, using the weapon like a cane. He tapped his fingernail against the imprint. “I can read, Sir. According to this text, this sword was manufactured in Calabria. The style of the writing suggests it was forged by native Italians working under an Ostragoth. This is no antique. The lady misled to you.”

“Ostragoths?” The Frank slapped his own head. “Those Germans make crap!”

With one well-practiced whirl, Merthen circled the sword above his head. “I suspect it is actually laminated iron. Excellent welding, though. It should clean up fine.” He passed it over. “I am a freelance clerk, by the way. If you need any receipts, my fees are quite reasonable.”

The Frank squeezed the handle of the sword. “That uppity hag! She sold me a two-bit butter knife! How am I supposed to sell this garbage?”

Merthen shook the dust from his cloak. “I really should not be spending money right now.” He picked up his staff. “However, I might have a use for this piece. I harvest an apple orchard up in the hills. This could reach the fruit in the higher boughs. Would you be willing to part with it for fifteen denarii?”

The Frank shoved the blade back into its sheath. “Twenty denarii is as low as I can go. When my wife finds out about this, she is going to skin my testicles with a rusty razor.”

“That would be distressing,” said Merthen. He dug into his purse to gather all the cash he had, twenty denarii. “Twenty is reasonable price. Do we have a deal?”

The Frank gave him the sword and scabbard. “If any one asks, you did not buy this from me. I only sell Roman stock.”

“We never met,” said Merlin. He bowed, then felt a tug on one of his braids. The sun-burned face of the little street urchin was at the end of it.

“I dropped my kipper when you fell,” said the boy. “Did you see where it went?”

Merthen scanned the square. He could not locate Widow Blodwen, but he did find the fish. It was half submerged in a puddle next to a wine crate. “That is a dead eel. Go away.”

The boy stuck his finger up his nose. “I saw a piglet today. He had eyes like yours. Why are your eyes so blue?”

From upslope a ways, Widow Blodwen yelled, “There he is!” She jogged a few steps, leaned over and wheezed. The boy dashed off past the chandler’s booth. He rolled under a cow’s belly, and like the rat, disappeared into the maze of vendor’s carts.

Merthen strolled over to Blodwen. He secured his new purchase to his belt.

Blodwen tucked an auburn-gray tendril back into her headscarf. “Quite a show, eh?” she said. “Why did you let him go?”

“Gentlemen in their dotage do not run.” Merthen scooped up the limp fish from its puddle. He gave her a wink. “How is business, Missus B? I was hoping to purchase a baleen whale this morning, much like this specimen, but preferably more sanitary. Might you have one in stock?”

She shook her cleaver a halfheartedly. “Back in my day, I used to outrun all the lads.” She hobbled back to her fish stand. “Are you getting any work?”

“Not lately. I sold some rabbits to Missus Myfany last week.” He tossed the eel’s carcass into the bay. “Have you heard any news about our neighbors?”

She plucked up a sea bass by the gills and slapped its skull onto the nail that stuck up from on her butcher’s block. “I spoke with a skipper from Iberia this morning. He saw a couple keels crossing the channel. Saxons, I suppose.” She rubbed her thigh.

“Did you injure yourself?”

“I took a spill the other day. My bum is all sore. And here I go chasing a sneak thief.”

Merthen dug into his cloak pocket, and pulled out a strip of willow bark. “Chew on this. It should reduce the swelling. Unfortunately, I know of no poultice to protect you from thievery. I shall keep an eye out for your little crook.”

“No point to that.” She wiped some scales off her hands. “Some slaver will ship him off. I see those street orphans once, maybe twice, never three times.”

“Excuse me?” said Merthen. A drop of sweat rolled down his face.

“Are you all right?”

Merthen sat down, with his legs forward like a child. He shuddered briefly, then closed his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

Widow Blodwen stumbled onto her knees. She shook him by the shoulders. “Merthen? Mister Ambrosius? Can you hear me?”

* * *

All he could hear was the creaking of a slave ship. He opened his eyes. A single clay lamp lit the galley. He tried to move his legs, but the cage that surrounded him was too confining. A rat arched its back in the corner.

He covered his face and screamed. More rats appeared. Their claws tapped against the wooden floor.

Through a dim haze, Merthen saw the figure of a street urchin with a splint of glowing sandalwood in his dirty little hands. The boy remained silent. The sweet figgy fragrance of blossoming bo trees wafted through the air.

Merthen called out, “There is nothing I can do! Can you not see this?”

Like a troupe of dancers, the rats paired off into four sets of two. Each couple paced around in a circle, one following the tail of the other. Merthen focused on the first pair. One of the creatures was emaciated. Its cohort was fat.

The second pair emitted noises. One hissed like a snake while the other cooed like a dove. The third set consisted of one contented individual, and one who was forever dissatisfied. The last two rats were mirror images; one exuded love under all conditions, the other perpetually withheld it.

Merthen cried, “I am trapped! Save me!”

Faster and faster the rats twirled. A whirlwind spiraled up from each pair. The flame in the clay lamp flickered, then went out.

Merthen extended his arm as far as he could. With his bare hand, he grabbed for the boy’s burning incense. In so doing, Merthen snuffed out the ember, casting himself into total darkness.

“Enough,” he screamed, “enough!” Although he could no longer see the rats, he could hear them crawling ever closer. The slither of their tales brushed against his ankles. He shivered. It all seemed oddly familiar.

And then he realized that he was repeating the events that had taken place earlier in the day. What he was experiencing was not reality, but a mental formation: a half-cocked hallucination cobbled together from jumbled memories. It had been a while since he had suffered one of these episodes. He was rather hoping he had seen the last of them.

One of the rats clasped its forepaws onto the soft skin below his toenail. Merthen wanted to remain dispassionate, to observe this pain as if he was an outsider. If he could only overcome the attachment to the self, none of this would concern him. He would be free.

But instead he wept. Was it just the harsh sting of the rat’s sharpened teeth piercing the tips of his toes? Or was it the frustration that they had come back again, forcing him once more to bleed so they could lap up his warm wet blood.

His emotions swung between infantile terror and abject confusion. His thoughts were knotted together, like the rigging of a ship whose mast had been snapped off in a storm. He was unable to tell where one strand ended and the other began. When ropes get bollixed like that, all a sailor can do is find his sharpest knife and cut the lines.

Perhaps that was why there was only one thought that Merthen’s exhausted consciousness could generate. It was, “Kill the rats. Kill them all.”

* * *

Merthen’s cheeks were bitter cold. Did someone slap his face? He opened his eyes. Widow Blodwen still held the wash bucket she had just emptied onto him. His hair was sopping wet.

“Where have I been?” he asked. “What did I say?”

Blodwen hoisted him onto a keg of salt and patted his cheeks dry with her kerchief. “You were right here. You said nothing. What happened?”

“I appear to have been struck by a mania.” He took a swig from the water sack that hung from his belt. “I apologize for exposing you to my malady.”

She gasped. “Mother of God! You had a vision. Did you see an angel? Did you see a fairy?”

“No.” He massaged his temples with the flat of his hands.

Merthen put no stock in angels, fairies, or the charlatans who claimed to commune with them. Sorcerers and oracles were manipulative liars, reaping profit from broken souls desperate for answers. Even the Buddha, a man who would have gladly shared his dinner with a congress of demons, had no patience for those who, as he put it, trafficked in miracles.

“All I saw,” said Merthen, “was a boy.”

Blodwen inched closer. “What do you suppose that means?”

Merthen knew better than to affix meaning to the froth stirred up by his hallucinations. And yet, a vague concept congealed in his mind. The urchin boy he saw during his madness was holding incense like a monk. Could this boy be trained as a monastic? If that were true, then Merthen would not be the only one. Why, he might even start a monastery.

But then again, no. This was foolishness. Merthen was far too familiar with the dangers of expectation. Expectation led to craving and attachment. It enslaved the mind to the illusion that things are not impermanent. He would not tempt that, not again.

“It meant absolutely nothing,” he finally said. A young woman was eyeing the brook trout on Blodwen’s display table. “You have a customer.”

“She can wait. Like it or not, you are not an average man, Mister Merthen. I may not be as worldly as you, but I know how many beans make five. This is a sign, old boy. Anyone can see that.”

Merthen flung off his cloak. “You are far too superstitious.” His flaxen blouse and orange silk neckerchief were drenched in perspiration. “Is there some place I can hang these?”

Chapter 2

Chapter II: The Corn Moon, AD 480

Fallaces sunt rerum species.

The appearances of things are deceptive.

* * *

A savage’s life is most precarious. Most children born to Saxon mothers succumb to illness or want before they take their first step. Few Germans live to see their grandchildren, but those who do have a fair chance of reaching sixty. Some even make it to ninety, an achievement almost unheard of, even among the Romans.

The longevity of the German has much to do with his habitat. As a creature of the woodlands, he must be always alert, physically fit, and able to adapt to the vagaries of the wild. And so it was with Merthen, whose life in the forest had exposed him to nature’s harshest schooling.

Like the savages, he had learned how to survive, and did so to a very great age. Indeed, most of the merchants in Carmarthen had never seen him with anything but a crop of white hair. To them, he was like a feature on the landscape: a weathered boulder that had always just been there.

Thus, no one in the marketplace took much notice when Merthen rested on a crate by the docks. He bit into his apple and watched the clouds dissipate over Carmarthen Bay. Nearby, sandpipers dipped their oblong beaks into mudflats fringed with sea grass. If Merthen were to spend all of eternity re-living just this very moment, that would be acceptable.

* * *

And then, there was silence. A Carthaginian freighter anchored by the shoals stood still. Even its sails were motionless, like a ship in a cathedral mosaic showing Jonah being cast overboard.

Merthen observed Mister Hopcyn, the rag-and-bone-man, standing as if frozen, not even blinking. Even more unusual was the cracked frying pan Mister Hopcyn had just tossed into to his barrow. This piece of wrought iron refuse was now hanging in mid-air, not moving in any direction.

Merthen could not hear the crash of the waves, because the waves had ceased to crash. There was no wind, no motion of any stripe. As far as Merthen could tell, the only object in the universe which still possessed mobility was he himself. Was this some kind of dream?

A bird erupted in song. “Sita Ram Ram Ram,” it sang, “Jay Jay, Sita Ram Ram Ram.”

From behind the harbor master’s house, a finch-sized songbird with a pink-orange belly flew through the stillness. It was a Kashmir flycatcher from the steamy forests of the Orient. How could this tiny creature have migrated all the way to Britannia’s chilly shores? And why on earth would it want to?

The bird perched on the head of Merthen’s walking stick. She clasped her claws into the tip of the wooden swan’s beak.

“The boy,” she said, “tell me about the boy.”

Merthen did not try to shoo her away. Instead he jiggled the eighteen wooden beads on his bracelet. “Stay calm,” he muttered to himself. “All dharmas are marked with emptiness.”

She bowed, or came as close to it as her bird knees would allow. “Permit me to introduce myself, I am Lady Gopi from Lake Sambhar, haven of the pink flamingos. I have been retained as the investigator for your trial. Your defense attorney, Bright-eyed Athena, requested I compile a report regarding your relationship to the boy. I would like to ask you a few questions, Lord Wizard.”

He breathed in. He permitted his eyelids to slide shut. When he reopened them, the bird was still there. “I am not a wizard,” he said, but he did not say it to her. Rather he declared it as a kind of verbal reminder designed to keep himself on course. “And, you are not a bird. This is a hallucination.”

She hopped onto his shoulder. “Have you ever had a hallucination like this before?”

He had, but he was not about to tell her. Over the years, he had trained his mind to deal with his untrustworthy perceptions. There was no point in arguing with the beings that arose from his warped imagination. No matter how he reasoned with them, they always claimed to be real. The proper course of action was to ignore them. Eventually, they would dissolve back into nothingness.

The bird chirped, “The gods just have a few questions, Lord Wizard.”

Merthen snorted. “The gods? What rot.”

As a youth, Merthen had been taught to associate polytheism with Huns, Germans, and other smelly brutes. But once he set eyes on the deity-packed temples of the Ganges Valley, he realized just how refined a pagan could be. As years went by, the Holy Trinity and the four heads of Brahma blurred together in his mind. Regardless of their number, they all seemed callous and aloof.

Lady Gopi jumped onto a hitching post. “It shall not take long.”

“Lake Sambhar is located in India,” said Merthen. “Why are you working for a Greek goddess? And what in Beelzebub’s name are you doing here in Britannia?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said, batting her eyes. “You are quite fortunate. When the gods try most men, they rarely conduct such a thorough investigation. Now then, about the boy.”

Merthen scratched at his tonsure-like bald spot. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I suggest you return to that god-filled fairytale-land from which you emanate, and inform your employers that I do not care if they damn me. I should think they would wait till I was moldering in the grave before passing judgment on me.”

“Not really. From their perspective, time does not work that way.”

“Well in that case, you shall have to enlighten me. Tell me, little squab, how does time work?”

* * *

Gopi did not answer. Instead Merlin’s ears were jolted by the crash of a pan landing in Mister Hopcyn’s cart. A briny gust blew in from across the Celtic Sea, rippling the sails on the Carthaginian freighter. The hitching post upon which the talking bird had roosted, was now empty. Lady Gopi was gone.

Merthen used to feel tremendous shame that he suffered from delusions. But as he grew older, he became somewhat grateful that had survived so long despite his madness. At least he was not some senile old codger who could only see faces from his past. Given Merthen’s personal history, such an illness would be more vicious than any torture the king’s men could devise.

But these were dark thoughts, nothing but rumination. Merthen was aware that they, like the talking animals, were not to be believed. He breathed in, and compiled a mental listing of all those things for which he should be thankful: his good health, his education, the cool crisp air of his mountain home.

His positive contemplation was broken by a jovial voice.

“Well look what we have here!” it said with a Frankish accent thick as butter sauce with capers. “By Ajax’s teats, could this be the Wizard of Britannia?”

This hearty hail issued forth from a raven-haired hunchback with one gray eye and one black. The stoop-shouldered fellow wore a yard-long stocking cap of red velvet, draped off to the left. Merthen followed its tassel down past the hunchback’s twisted arm to a shriveled leg, tipped with a toeless foot.

The hunchback said, “It is none other than I, Thumbs.” He gave a deep bow, well beyond the bounds of good taste. “I say, you look well, Ambrosius. We thought you were dead, old chum, but here you are tight as a tympanum.”

Seeing Thumbs harkened Merthen back to when he performed sleight-of-hand in the squares of Paris. He recalled Lord Marcian, the proprietor of the Inn of the Fountain who had an unquenchable thirst for the ladies. And there was James, the street corner cithara player, who sang quaint little ditties laced with gems of wisdom. As Romans go, old James was a good salt. Too bad he drank so much.

“I am afraid, Sir,” said Merthen, “that you have mistaken me for another. I am Merthen the Clerk, not Ambrosius the Wizard.”

“Nice try,” said Thumbs. “You are still wearing that girlish cravat. Besides, if you did not know it was me, why did you check my gimpy leg?”

Merthen tugged on the orange kerchief around his neck. He wore it out of dedication, a reminder of the monastic life he was forced to leave. If that piece of silk cost him a certain level of anonymity, so be it.

“What are you doing here?” said Merthen. “Did you run out of purses to snatch in Gaul?”

Thumbs exhaled. “Actually, I came into a modest windfall and determined it was due time I toured your sunny island. So, what brings you to this fine market? Still captivating the crowds with your stinging bowl?”

“Nowadays, I grow apples and bunnies.” Merthen patted the bundle of rabbit pelts on his lap. “And I clerk a bit.”

Thumbs chuckled. “What a waste of talent. You should come back to the continent. Did you hear? King Syagrius sent a petition to Emperor Zeno in Byzantium. Paris is going to rejoin the Roman Empire.”

“What, again? Since when is Syagrius a king? Last I heard, he was still calling himself governor.”

“He goes back and forth. Do you recall little Morgan, the beer wench with the wicked hind end? She was always fascinated with your shows.”

“The redhead? I thought her name was Faye.”

“Aye, that was her. She has become Syagrius’s personal chambermaid, so to speak.” Thumbs elbowed him in the ribs. “You know the Romans still talk about you. Remember that trick you did with the glass? How did you burn that paper?”

Merthen felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Mister Bedwyr the clothier, with a bolt of cambric under his arm. He aimed it at Thumbs. “Is this man with you?”

Merthen bowed. “Not really, no.”

In one swift action, Bedwyr dropped the fabric and pulled out his linen shears. He pressed them against Thumb’s neck. “Give me the thread!”

Thumbs swallowed hard.

Merthen considered making up a cockamamie story that would inspire the clothier to slash Thumbs to bits. But there would be no justice in that, and far too much blood. Instead, Merthen asked, “What did he take from you, Bedwyr?”

“A spool of silk. He was chatting it up with my wife. Once he left, the thread was gone.”

Merthen motioned toward the shears with his walking stick. “Those are exceedingly sharp. I suggest you empty your pockets.”

“Oh, I see,” said Thumbs, “blame the cripple.” He tipped open his purse and emptied its contents: a dozen coins and a bent silver pin. “Is this how you treat all your visitors?” He removed his cloak and shook it. Out fell a few chunks of hard tack and a sketch of a naked woman. She was licking a sweet plum.

“The hat,” said Bedwyr. “Take it off.”

Thumbs shook his claw-like hand. “No!”

Bedwyr yanked the cap off, exposing Thumbs’s left ear, a pink oval hole with a half-inch long spike of skin above it. Bedwyr stepped back.

Through clenched teeth, the red-faced Thumbs muttered, “Satisfied?”

Merthen retrieved the hat from the ground, genuinely surprised that Thumbs had not nicked the thread. “It appears he is innocent, or at least less guilty than usual.”

Bedwyr shook his makeshift dagger and scowled. “There is a Visigoth ship leaving at sun-up. Be on it.” He rolled up his fabric and marched away.

Merthen handed over the hat. “You know they burn Hebrews here. If the knight constable learns you are a son of David, you shall find a spike up your colon before you can say Ave Maria.”

Thumbs twisted his chin around, unimpressed. “That was just my stage persona. Besides, I only claimed to be half Jewish.” He unrolled a loose flap of skin that covered where his collarbone met his hump. From underneath it, he retrieved a spool of purple thread.

Merthen snapped it out of Thumb’s’ one good hand. “I shall tell Mister Bedwyr that I found this lying about. The ship you will be boarding tomorrow is moored at Saint Catherine’s dock.”

Thumbs crouched low to gather his belongings. “You know old man, spending time with you Welschmann is making me think it might be nice to be cooped up on a ship full of Germans.” He stood up. “If it is not too much bother, could you provide me with a place to bunk tonight?”

“I live up in the hills. You are much too lame to make the trip, and I am much too feeble to carry you. Go sleep on the Visigoth’s ship.”

“A barn would do. Might you have any friends who would take in a renter?”

“A few,” said Merthen. “But if I directed you to them, they would no longer be my friends. You steal in your sleep, Thumbs.” A misty rain began to fall. Merthen slipped his hood over his head. “Now, if you were my friend, I would strongly recommend that you locate a vessel pointed west and board it. You need to go home, and so do I.”

“But you cannot just leave me here alone?”

Merthen wrapped his fingers around his walking stick. “Solitude can be an edification. I would like to say go in peace, Thumbs, but we both know you are far too lubricious for that. Instead I will simply say, find a boat and watch your back.” He walked away.

From up north there was a lone clap of thunder. Thumbs scooted off to the whitesmith’s stall. It had a roof.

Merthen plodded up the road. Above him the grey clouds glided by, until they came to a dead stop. The scant raindrops that were falling ceased to descend any further. Just as before, there was no wind, no sound, no movement.

* * *

Using her blunt black beak, Lady Gopi tugged on one of the long white hairs that sprouted from Merthen’s earlobe. Her claws clung onto his collar. “If I may ask,” she said, “when did you get so grumpy?”

Merthen rubbed his tired eyes. “Back again? I must be going potty. Did I eat a bad mushroom?”

Gopi asked, “What did the rats signify? The ones in you saw in your vision last week. Why were they in four pairs?”

“So… the talking bird wants to know about the spinning rats? How about this: you flitter off and ask the Goddess Athena about the rodents. Given her reputation for intellectual agility, I think she should be able to figure it out.”

The bird shimmied her tail. “I am not one of your visions,” she said.

“Well, in that case, let us examine your line of inquiry. If as you claim, Bright-eyed Athena is so bright-eyed, why is daughter of Zeus even bothering to pose the question? What could a simpleton such as I possibly tell the goddess of wisdom that she does not already know?”

“You raise a valid point. I will have to discuss this with my patron.” Gopi flapped her wings and took to the air. “Good day, Wizard Merlin.” She glided over the eastern highlands, deftly avoiding the glass-like drops of water that were, by all appearances, refusing to submit to the pull of Mother Earth.

Merthen pounded his staff onto the muddy turf. “Mer-then!” he cried, “My name is Mer-then, you bloody half-pint pigeon!”

Chapter 3

Chapter III: The Harvest Moon, AD 480

Equo ne credite, Teucri.

Do not trust the horse, Trojans.

* * *

A three-legged stool is a tree-legged stool. Each leg of a stool is not a stool, but rather one part of a stool. Likewise, the top of a stool is just a fraction of the entire unit. All parts of the stool must be connected in order for the stool to function, and so exist as a stool. According to the Buddha, the universe is like a stool: an interconnected collection of parts that are but fragments of one entity.

Thus, each rabbit that Merthen raised in his woodland home was a fuzzy, button-nosed slice of the universe. The rabbit itself was also made of parts, such as muscles, bones, and soft white pelts. Merthen was hoping to sell some of these furs this afternoon. Unfortunately, no one was buying

Merthen pondered the concept of interconnectivity during his trip home from the market. He chewed on the sourdough roll he had earned reading a letter for Pryderi the baker. The correspondence informed the baker about the drowning of his brother in Brittany. It was horrible tragedy that ultimately resulted in Merthen getting a snack. And yet, the bread still tasted good.

Merthen heard the jingle of a horse-drawn wagon coming up the road. He gave a quick two-fingered wave to the driver, and the vehicle came to a halt. The wind ceased to blow as well. The leaves on the trees stopped quivering.

* * *

“I have raised your issue with the Goddess Athena,” said the horse.

It appeared to Merthen that this question came from, well… the horse, which he knew to be impossible.

“I beg your pardon?” said Merthen to the driver, who may have been a human, but was at this moment little more than a shabbily dressed statue with cold unblinking eyes.

The mare arched her elongated neck as far back as her harness would permit. “Athena has given me a response. Would you like to hear it?”

Merthen jiggled his beaded rosewood bracelet. “Am I to assume you are a colleague of the Lady Gopi?”

“No. I am Lady Gopi. As you requested, I spoke with the Goddess Athena. She has directed me to continue my investigation. Although she is all-knowing, she wishes to discover what your perceptions are, as you experience them. She is not so much interested in conventional facts. Reality is so mundane. She would prefer to hear your intuitive reactions, as it were.”

“Why should she care? And what if I refuse to cooperate? Will she turn me into a pillar of salt?”

The horse waved her auburn tail. “If you do not wish to provide your testimony, I cannot compel you by force. However, I can wait.”

He crossed his arms. “I can wait as well.”

“As long as I can? Come now, what harm would it do to answer a few questions?”

Merthen reared up his walking staff to thrash her, but then lowered it. “And if I answer your questions, will you leave me in peace?”

“That is my ultimate intention,” said Gopi. “Now then, here is what I wish to know. Last week when you first met that brown-eyed boy, you had a vision. You saw four pairs of rats. What did they signify?”

Merthen studied her pitch black eyes. Through out his life, Merthen had experienced periods of madness. However, he had never generated a delusion quite so complex as this. And that fact that Gopi appeared on two consecutive episodes was unprecedented. Could this be a new, deeper form of insanity?

But then, Merthen harkened back to that late night discussion at Nalanda University when his fellow monk, Brother Tinh Tu, informed him that there is a mirror in the mind. With proper training, the mind could see itself. Could it be that Gopi was a simply a reflection of a process occurring within Merthen’s own mind?

Merthen asked, “Who do you think the rats were, Miss Pony?”

“The rats were dancing in circles, chasing each others’ tails. It was endless, pointless and endemic.” Gopi stomped her front hoof. “I think they represent the extremes that keep an individual from experiencing interbeing.”

Merthen tugged on his beard. “The eight mental agitations,” he said. “One for each rat. I say Lady, are you some kind of Buddhist?”

“Not quite,” Gopi replied. “The question is, are you?”

* * *

Merthen was startled by the noise of the rotating wagon wheel. The horse clopped off saying not a word. The driver bowed politely to Merthen, who nodded in reply, but mostly stared at Gopi, or at least the beast of burden she had most recently inhabited.

The cart rolled away, and Merthen focused himself on the road ahead. At the edge of the commons, he caught a glimpse of the street urchin who had so gleefully annoyed him nearly a fortnight ago.

As before, the brown-eyed boy approached, but this time he did not run. Instead he stepped, with a slow shuffle one might expect from an old crone or a cripple. The child was gaunt and sunburned, his britches stained with diarrhea. There was a scrape on his knee, not large, but pink and swollen.

“Spare some food, Mister?” said the boy in a mechanical monotone. His empty hands were cupped together.

Merthen did not intend to stop. Instead he paused, just long enough to make eye contact with the boy. Then the old man walked off briskly, which was the only way Merthen ever walked. So what if he saw the boy holding incense in his vision? Visions are bunk. No point to dwell on it.

Merthen’s ankle buckled underneath him. His foot had slipped into a rut in the road. Odd that. He repositioned his other foot, and it slipped into the rut as well. It almost seemed as if the rut was slithering sideways, purposely trying to topple him. He tipped back, falling into the soft wet dirt.

The boy wiped his dripping nose. “You tripped,” he said. “Do you always fall down?”

Merthen sat upright, face to face with the boy, and said, “I try not to make a habit of it.”

“I saw you selling apples once. Can I get one?”

“That would be a possibility. Do you have any money?”

“No.”

“Well then, what do you propose to give me for my apple?”

The boy leapt down and crawled on all fours like a bear cub. He snatched up every pebble within his reach.

Using his walking stick for a crutch, Merthen hoisted himself up to his full height, a towering two yards. He dusted off his brown wool cloak, and then observed the child standing at attention, clutching a pile of stones. The boy held them up, as high as he could, with an almost formal seriousness. As children go, he had rather big hands.

Merthen’s heart fluttered, but not in a normal way. Was he hallucinating again? He usually perspired when he did. He ran his fingers across his brow. It was dry and cool.

Merthen recalled a fable Brother Tinh Tu told him decades ago. A beggar boy once saw noblemen giving alms to the Buddha, and decided to do likewise. But all the boy had to offer was a fist-full of gravel. Upon receiving this humble gift, the Buddha smiled. Because of that boy’s noble actions, he was eventually reborn as Ashoka the Great, Emperor of all India.

Merthen jiggled the eighteen rosewood beads on his bracelet and considered the afternoon’s events. Could this boy be a future emperor? Could he be a Buddha-to-be? But then again, what child lacks this potential? Perhaps, this boy was just a boy; this grey sky was just a grey sky; and this pile of stones was just a pile of stones.

“Be mindful,” said Merthen, “you have too much to bear. I would recommend you lay your burden down. Tell me boy, what do they call you?”

“My name is Uther.” Uther set the rubble down by the tip of Merthen’s boot.

“And your parents? What are their names?”

“You mean mommy?” Uther pushed a lock of his hair from his eyes. His fingernails were filthy.

“Yes, what is her name? Where is she?”

“Her name is Mommy. She is in heaven with baby Jesus. She fell asleep on the floor, and Miss Gwenllian yelled at me. She hit me with a spoon.”

“Do you have any other family? Is there anyone who cares for you or brings you food?”

A single tear rolled down Uther’s cheek. It dripped down his chin and splattered onto his toes. They were caked in dry blood.

Merthen looked down at Uther’s feet. “Rats,” said the old man, “they bit you in your sleep, eh?”

The boy fidgeted. “Aye.”

Merthen extracted an apple from his deep cloak pocket. “I am about to do something that may be potentially daft. Eat this.”

The boy unceremoniously jammed the red-skinned fruit into his mouth.

“Now, when I was a sprout,” said Merthen, “it was my misfortune to be imprisoned in a cage on board a Visigoth slave ship. Each night bilge rats would assemble to gnaw on my toes. My feet still bear the marks of their predation.”

“Were you scared?”

“Apoplectic. And let me tell you, boy, that potent anxiety has scarred me deeper than any surgeon’s blade. I have meditated on it for decades. Up until now, I was under the impression that I had become free from its harrowing grip. But perhaps simply freeing oneself from one’s own suffering is not sufficient. Perhaps, I need to do more.” He stared at the boy. “I would wager you have been wounded as well.”

Uther wiped away his tear. He showed off his devoured apple core. “I am finished.”

Merthen stirred the end of his walking stick into the cluster of stones Uther had collected. “That rubble you swept up. Why did you offer it to me?”

“I was hungry.”

Merthen breathed in, and then he breathed out; a simple action, which served as the foundation of all meditation. Indeed, this was the technique the Buddha used to achieve interbeing. When discussing the value of the breath, Brother Tinh Tu used to say, As long as you have air in your lungs, you can meditate. And as long as you can meditate, you can become as fully awake as the Buddha.

Merthen asked the boy, “Do you know who I am?”

“You draw with a feather.”

“An apt description. I have been schooled as a monastic. Do you know what it means to be educated, boy?”

“No.” A chuck of apple had fallen onto the ground. The boy snapped it up and popped it in his mouth.

Merthen knelt onto one knee. “Boy, my Christian name is Ambrosius. My friends call me Merthen. Can you say that? How is your diction?”

“Merthen. Mister Merthen.”

“Excellent. Might I submit a proposal to you? I am in need of a domesticus to assist me in gleaning my orchards. Should you accept, I shall train you to be a monastic like me. You will be provided with suitable clothing, a dry chamber for sleeping, and an ample supply of victuals.”

The boy scrunched up his nose.

“Food,” said Merthen. “I will give you a cot and food if you work for me.”

“Aye, I will do it.” The boy licked some of the sweet juice still on his lips. “It is better than hay.”

“Hay? Do you mean to tell me you have been eating hay?”

“No. I sleep in it. It stinks. I would rather sleep where it is dry.”

“Well, there shall be no more of that. No domesticus of mine sleeps in hay.”

“Who is he?”

“That is you. You shall be my domesticus.” Merthen brushed a couple of lice from off Uther’s scalp and crushed them underfoot.

“But my name is Uther, not Domesticus.”

“You misunderstand me. Domesticus is your title. It means you are my helper. Here, take this.” He gave the boy his furs to carry.

“You need my help?”

Merthen straightened his spine. “Evidently, the universe has deemed it so.” He tapped his finger on the top of Uther’s skull like a woodpecker pecking on a stump. “It is time we journeyed off to my sangha. It will be dark soon.”

“What is a sangha?”

“It is a compound in the wilderness where people who are in search of interbeing gather to live in community.”

“How many people live there?” asked the boy. “Do you have a wife? Do you have any children?”

“I have never taken a spouse, as I am unable to sire offspring. Even if I could, I am grossly unqualified to be a father. It requires more stability than one such as I could provide.”

“Does that mean you live all alone?” said Uther.

“If one discounts the bugs, birds, and varmints who frequent my premises, your deduction is correct.” Merthen took a step towards the western hills. “Indeed boy, it is just me.”

Chapter 4

Chapter IV: The Hunter Moon, AD 480

Potest ex casa magnus vir exire.

A great man comes from a hut.

* * *

Everything in Mister Merthen’s hut smelled like smoke and wet hay. At least that was how it smelled to little Uther. Merthen’s hut was round. Uther had never lived in a round house before, only square ones.

Mister Merthen had many round things. The broom he gave Uther to sweep out the rabbit hutch was round. The baskets stacked against the low mud wall of his hut were round. Even the big bronze stewpot in the middle of the clearing was round. Merthen stirred that pot all the time.

Merthen was always doing something. Sometimes he was carving a tool. Other times he was gathering water from the spring or twisting a leaf off a tree and looking at it. He seemed to like looking at things, mostly things he found lying around or growing in the forest.

Merthen was the busiest person Uther had ever met. All day long he puttered around. He even talked to himself, but not in the morning. As soon as he got up, Merthen would sit with his legs crossed and his eyes shut and just do nothing. Then he would go back to doing things.

Late one afternoon, Merthen twisted strips of bark and made a round thing. It was like a plate, but it had holes in it. He took some twigs and propped up the plate thing just above a pit filled with hot coals. Come to think of it, the plate thing had more holes than plate. Maybe it was not a plate at all? Was it a table?

Uther asked, “Is that a little table? Is that for me?”

Merthen laid a handful of shiny green leaves onto the woven frame. “No, boy. It is a rack for desiccating herbs. I am preparing mint for storage.”

“Will we eat it? What does desiccating mean?”

“It means to dry something so thoroughly that no water remains.”

Uther scratched his closely cropped hair. Sometimes his head still itched from where the lice used to bite him.

Above the smoldering fire, the air seemed to ripple. Uther followed it up past the top of the trees. A raven cawed somewhere up in the hills. Uther knew what a raven sounded like. He had heard them before.

Uther said, “I am hungry.”

“As you should be. You worked rigorously this afternoon. You will make a fine monastic one day.” Merthen curled his arm like a strong man. “Sine labore non erit panis in ore. There are tripe and crushed turnips in the skillet. Be mindful to thank the cow who gave us her organ meat.”

Just for fun, the boy hopped toward the dinner pail on one foot. He scooped a mound of supper into his bowl.

Merthen shook the drying rack, and dumped its contents into a carved bowl. He flattened out a square of linen. Onto it, he poured out the dried herbs. A woodpecker went rat-a-tat, startling the old man. A dozen mint leaves flew off his rack, some landing on the hot coals.

Uther asked, “Some people call you Merthen, but some people call you Ambrosius.”

With his finger tips, the old man picked up the four corners of the cloth. He created a fist-sized ball of herbs and crushed it. “I must confess to being rather inordinately well-endowed when it comes to pseudonyms. As I recall, my mother referred to me Lailoken, but no one else ever did. Ambrosius was the name I was given when I was baptized. I still use it professionally. Any more, most people call me Merthen, just like the town.”

“Merthen is a town? Where is it?”

“Down the trail aways. That was what the wild Britons called Carmarthen before it became an imperial port. Unfortunately, the name Merthen was similar to the Frankish word for turd. Whereas Hadrian did not fancy landing his navy in excrement, he changed its name to the Castellum Maridunum, a stentorian moniker too convoluted for the Celts to pronounce, so they just called it Carmarthen.”

Uther thought that was funny. Merthen said funny things, but not with a silly voice like in a puppet show. Merthen was not like most old men. Most old men were mean and smelled bad. Merthen did not smell bad, but he did smell sometimes. His breath smelled like garlic, and his farts smelled really bad. His armpits smelled like a shoe.

One of the fallen mint leaves in the hearth turned red and floated up on the rippling air. Uther waited to see if it would disappear or fall back down.

“My friends,” said Merthen, “call me Mister Merthen in jest, for they say I am older than the Roman cobblestones.”

“What does Merthen mean?” Uther took bite of stew and chewed it up. It was such a big bite, he had to chew it hard.

Merthen neatly tied up his crushed mint like a small bundle of wool. “I do not know, nor do I care to, just as long as it has nothing to do with dung.”

Uther smelled hay, not wet hay, but burning hay. A single flame flickered in the thatch at the top of the hut. “Is that a fire?”

“Caco santi!” cried Merthen. “Fetch me a whisk broom straight away, the one with the long handle. Go boy!”

Merthen grabbed the ladder over by the wood pile and pushed it against the outer wall of his home. Uther scampered over with a broom in one hand. His dinner bowl was still in the other.

“That will do,” said Merthen. He dunked the business end of the broom into Uther’s half-eaten meal, then climbed the three rungs of the ladder. “Uther,” he said while whacking the flickering flames with the stew-laden broom, “go draw a bucket of water.”

The boy bounded off to the springhead dug into the side of the hill. It looked like a cave. If the roof burned down, maybe they would have to sleep in a cave? Merthen said there were caves nearby. Maybe they had bears? Maybe Uther and Merthen could go hunt them?

Uther filled a leather bucket and ran back. He found Merthen resting at the bottom of the ladder, rubbing the back of his neck.

Uther asked, “Did the fire go out?”

“For the most part.” Merthen took the water. “I need you to perch yourself at the top of this ladder. You need not be afraid. Up you go.”

Uther hopped up the rungs. “Afraid of what?”

Merthen, with bucket in hand, climbed as well. He nudged the boy forward onto the roof.

Merthen handed over the pail. “We need to douse the ashes. I want you to pour this onto the scorched area, but do it very slowly. Can you do that?”

“I think so.”

Uther shimmied up to the peak. Merthen held onto the boy’s legs.

Uther dribbled out the water just as he had been told. He heard a sizzle. A puff of grey smoke hit him in the face and he coughed. The sizzling stopped.

“Good job, boy,” said Merthen. “The precipitation on this cursed island is nearly incessant, and yet it is my roof which chooses to ignite. Hinc illae lacrimae.”

There was a lone deer drinking from the stream at the bottom of the hill. Uther stood on his toes to get a better look.

Merthen touched his forefinger to a patch of unusually pale skin on the boy’s knee. “What is that white spot on your leg?”

“It is white spot. I have one on my arm too.” Uther lifted up his right elbow with his left hand and twisted around to show it off. In the process, he lost his footing, and flopped down onto the blackened thatch. He tumbled toward the eaves.

“Halt!” said Merthen. He tossed away the bucket and clasped onto the back of Uther’s blouse. It ripped clean off, but the old man’s effort did slow the boy’s fall. Uther got his bearings and dove off the four foot wall into a stack of woven baskets, which tipped over and dumped him safely onto the ground.

Merthen’s ladder teetered to the side. He launched off it just before it tipped, then stumbled backwards, tangling himself in a pine tree. The ladder hit the rabbit hutch. They thumped around, scared. Uther’s favorite rabbit was a white doe with pink eyes. He called her Lady Ygerna. That was a pretty name.

Merthen, still hanging on to the torn-off blouse, asked, “Are you all right?”

Uther slapped his palms together. They were sooty. His bare torso was covered with shards of wet thatch. “I am dirty.”

Merthen freed himself from the pine and massaged his lower back. “I know a geezer who is going to be sore come morning. I am too old for this.”

“How old are you?”

Merthen, using the ripped up shirt like a rag, wiped the boy’s face. “I am quite the antique, which is why you must learn self-sufficiency. At my age, the king of death stalks my every turn.” He cleaned Uther’s hands.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I may expire at any moment. Death comes for us all, but I am especially susceptible.”

“With celery?”

“With what?” Merthen shook out the cloth.

“Mister Death’s celery.”

“Why would Death carry celery?”

The boy wiped his nose. “You said he had a stalk.”

“No, Uther, I said he was stalking me, like a fox hunting a gosling.” He spun the boy around and brushed the thatch from his back and shoulders.

Uther flicked off some of the hay stuck to his belly. “So,” he said, “Mister Death does not like celery?”

“As far as I know, the grim reaper has no preference pro or con in regards to salad greens.” Merthen looked at the roof. It was messy. “That will require a patch.”

Uther asked. “Which name do you like better, Ambrosius or Merthen?”

“I prefer Merthen. It is more unique. Ambrosius is quite common. Our king is also named Ambrosius.”

Uther shivered. “Why did your mother call you Ambrosius?”

“She did not. My master assigned it to me. I had another slave name as an adult: Pig Eyes.”

“That sounds funny.”

“And yet it brought me no merriment.” He carried Uther into the hut. There was a wet spot in the floor. The old man lowered the boy onto his cot. Uther’s teeth chattered. Merthen wrapped a towel around him. It was soft. It smelled like pine cones. Why did it smell like that?

“It is past your bed time,” said Merthen. “When you stay up late you get grouchy. I interviewed a number of the matrons down at the market. They informed me that young boys require a great deal of sleep.”

“Not me. I wake up all the time. I think I hear rats, but it is just you peeing.”

Merthen unfolded Uther’s nightshirt. “I fear my voiding is unavoidable.” He examined the collar. “What is this?” He stuck his pinky through two holes in the fabric. “Must you chew on everything? I shall have to darn this, yet again!”

“You could teach me to sew.”

“Oh, I shall.” Merthen prepared the boy’s bedroll. “You have to stop gnawing on things. It will not do, boy.”

“I know,” said Uther. He pulled on his night cap. “Could you tell me a story?”

“If you feel it would calm you, I will. Will it calm you?”

“Aye, it will. Tell me about Odysseus and the Cyclops!” Uther liked that story. It had monsters. The Cyclops was a monster, a giant with only one eye. He lived in a cave. Did the caves around here have any giants? They would need a big cave. Too small a cave, and they would get stuck.

“I cannot tell that story tonight,” said Merthen. “It is far too athletic. What about Mount Olympus?”

“Is that the island where the man had a bull’s head?”

“No. Olympus was the home of the gods, specifically King Zeus.” Merthen tucked the boy in. “One day old Zeus decided to build a palace. Soon enough, he found himself on Mount Olympus, the highest promontory in all of Agamemnon’s realm.”

“Were there any giant monsters there?”

“There may have been a passing centaur, but they were of modest stature. Mostly, it was populated with humans called Greeks, but that was good. Zeus liked them because they could read, and they manufactured such nice pottery. I will teach you Greek someday.”

The boy brought his collar up to his mouth. He quickly pulled it out. “What did the Greek humans eat?”

“Dried figs and black olives. And they loved to go to the theater. Thus, Zeus erected his estate on their territory. You know, the Greeks named their capitol after Athena, the goddess of wisdom. What do you think of that?”

Uther reached down and removed a piece of thatch from his trousers. It was poking into his skin. “Did Athena live there?”

“As I recall, she resides on the moon.”

“Is your mother in Athens?”

“Oh, no. She passed long ago.”

The boy stammered. “What happened? Where did she go?”

“It was not she who left.” Merthen picked his teeth. “I was taken as a slave when I was… well, your age actually. The Visigoth who caught me told me that my mother was dead. For all I know he was right. I have almost no recollection of her. Needless to say, by the time I returned to Britannia, she was gone.”

The boy yawned. “That is not fair. He should not have taken you.”

“What can I say? Suffering exists. The First Noble Truth is annoyingly accurate.”

Uther was not cold anymore. His cot was nice and warm. He closed his eyes. Then he quickly reopened them. “Where is your mother now? Is she on the moon? Is she with Athena? Maybe my mother is with her.”

Merthen noticed a ladybug crawling up his beard. He shook it off. “Throughout the world, there is a diversity of cosmologies that speculate as to the status of the soul postmortem, none of which, to my knowledge, involve lunar habitation.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Merthen, “that here are many things we cannot see. Ergo, it is possible, albeit unlikely, that our mothers are on the moon.” Merthen yawned. “Get some rest, boy. Tomorrow we shall go to market. We can visit Widow Blodwen. That will be nice, yes?”

The boy felt his eyelids drop. The hut smelled like ash and mint leaves. Merthen smelled like Merthen. That was a good smell. Uther fell asleep.