The Rune-Wrought Sword

Uther Pendragon held the sword of the Lady, in the dark years that came when the Caesars fell. Older tales say she, demigod, had it from the hand of Hephaestus of the Forge, who wrought it in the deeps of time, from a star that fell burning on Olympus’ white breast.

A plain enough weapon it seemed, double-edged, with a good bronze guard above a hide wrapped grip. A soldier’s blade, bare of jewel or frill, it oft went unmarked, undistinguished from the lesser arms of lesser men.

If there was ought to set it apart, it was only the runes, their meaning long lost, deep graved down both sides of the star-bright steel. That and how it fit itself to the hand of each true owner, so that it ever balanced an inch or so above the hilts, light as a willow wand.

Excalibur, sword of Kings.

I saw it first upon on the Isle of Avalon, for I am of the Clan of Cat, and journeyed there, before my ninth Walk. It is at Avalon that we who must walk nine paths on the earth take our rest, betimes.

The sword was still there, in the pretty glade where Uther laid it, when he parted the Veil and passed into the West. No relict of life may mortal man bear, when he takes that last journey, for naught but the naked soul may part the Veil and fare on.

I knew Excalibur well, from my grand dam of my sixth Walk. She, Quick-claw, was the familiar of Danaan, whose son was Merlin. Merlin I called Friend, and served him only, till all the paths of all my lives were done.

I am called Scátha, which, in the new speech is “Shadow”. I own the right to sing the songs of power, the songs that call the magic of the stars and the stones, and mightiest of all, the sacred oaks. I lent my power ever to Merlin, never master, always friend. I was his familiar, his voice in the Otherworld.

At his behest then, that day in the latter times of my eighth Walk, I slipped ‘twixt the stones of Creation, and beneath the drifting gossamer of the Veil. I departed the world of what is, and became for a time a shadow, my namesake, in the Otherworld, the unseen realm of what might have been, and those things that are yet to come.

My task was a small one and yet, had I fully known my friend’s mind, and the fell days that stemmed from what he foresaw, I may well have balked. Merlin charged me to find the first child who cried, ‘twixt Yggdrasil’s roots near the Spindle of the Norns, where the new souls wait their first day.

No, remembering again, I’d never have balked. For I was his friend as he was mine, and for good or for ill I’d do as I’ve done; stay there beside him and spit at his foes, no matter what came.

There was indeed a crying babe in Otherwhere that day, just as he’d known there would be, close by the roots of the Life-Tree, where the new souls dream. It was the son of Ygraine, by Uther her king, fathered the night he betrayed her husband, his friend ---and I heard a somber bell tolling, or mayhap, I should have done.

“So”, mused Merlin my friend, when I came wearily back to his side. “So he is come, and soon will be born, for Ygraine will bring forth her child, ‘ere the moon is twice again full. And yet… Of all of the worlds, that still may take shape, this one wavers unclear…”

“Who, Merlin?” I breathed. “Who is the son of Ygraine, that my journey were needful? Wherefore is his coming unsettling to you, who above all men see clear?” But my friend only smiled, and mused, and gnawed at his beard in deep thought.

“Well!” he finally spoke. “Scátha my girl, go and rest, for time runs oddly in Otherwhere, and oft works ill on the living. Sleep and eat, and see to your kits.

“And when fully restored, come once more to me. I fear ‘tis your wyrd to journey untimely, to sacred Avalon. A token of mine I’ll give you, to show to the Shades. From the folds of his robe drew he a torq, golden and glittering in the sun. As I watched it became small in his hand, of a size meet for me. Show this, and speak to them thus: Say, ‘Merlin the Briton has need of the Sword’. Only this, no more!

“Then fetch Excalibur here. Depart by night, and bring her only to me.”

Rest I gratefully did, for as he’d said, time itself eddies, and swirls, and turns back on itself in the Otherworld. A year in that realm may be moments in the world of the sun, and yet, but a single day there might bring one home to find that an age had gone. It took all my power to thread a true path, and weary I was, ready for my place by the hearth, with my three furry babes.

The Isle of Avalon rests on a rift. ‘Tis not part of this world and yet, not fully of, nor within, the Other. A holy place, as Merlin said; for Men the last journey’s first step, when hearts of flesh have stilled.

But the Clan of Cat must walk nine paths, so the Isle’s but a rest, till the ninth and last is done. Then, only then, may we part the Veil and pass onward, into the West. No mortal eyes find it save those of Cat, for ‘tis warded, ‘gainst all others unbidden.

T’was from this sacred place, from out of a glade by a sylvan spring, the sword of the Lady needs must be brought.

This then was the charge, what Merlin had asked. Go there I might, if I spent all my power, but then to turn back and return… The price were the end of my eighth Walk, and my babes left alone, for when I came forth, after one moment or maybe an age, I’d see the bright world through the eyes of a kit, and the ninth of my Walks begin.

I never once thought to say him nay, to think of myself and my kits by the fire, tho’ many times since I’ve asked myself why, and whether I should have done.

In all of the ‘morrows that could have come forth, what was it made what he’d chosen most meet? If I had refused, left Excalibur there, in that glade where not even Merlin could go, would men have been spared all the wars, and pain, and death that came, from the babe then unborn: the son of Ygraine?

None living can know, and no shade will tell.

To come to Avalon untimely, un-summoned, is a perilous road, not to be trod by those of paws uncertain. To left is a cold, that steals the soul’s breath, and to right a chasm, where falling, one might never reach end. Between them is darkness, where those who’d fare onward must tread.

But I am Scátha the Shadow. Bright are my eyes and my footfalls are sure. With one pang of longing for my three precious kits, for Merlin would foster them, this I well knew, I took my courage by scruff of the neck, put high my tail and fared forth.

To skirt the Veil was work of a moment, for I’d been to the Otherworld many a day. There at the brink of Otherwhere, close by the hem of the Veil, ‘twixt here and yonder lies a turning, where left has the seeming of right, and no eyes can see true. So I shut them and said to myself, “Now Scátha, put your paws where you know they must go!”

Then comes Darkness that makes mortal hearts quail, and mist that makes one long to forget, so that many set foot on Avalon’s shore with no self and no name, and no memory at all, of the life that had gone before.

This then was the trap: let my thoughts wander for only a bit, and I’d lose who I was and what brought me so far. I’d lie down unmindful, to wash my face, on some sunny sward, a thoughtless she-cat with no purpose at all, and my task would fall to the ground.

So I took a firm hold on Scátha the Shadow, and held to her tighter than hide holds to hair. I walked with deft paws, the path that is narrow, and clove through the blackness with never a check. My task was ever the fore of my mind: that my friend should behold the rune-wrought sword.

Then lost I all hold on time, if time there be, if it passes at all, in the fey space that lies between worlds. It might have been hours; could well have been years. No moon nor stars were there, nothing at all to say which.

Phantasms assailed me: my precious babes, rent by ravening dogs; Merlin my friend, torn by demons or pierced with swords, and other, worse things, I cannot now bear to recall. Real, or merely the fevered dreams of a wounded soul? I ken not, and never shall know.

Just one missed step, recoiling from horror, an instant’s thought on one fear or another, and all would be lost, and I’d fall till the ending of time.

Some remembrance can ne’er be forgot, and some hurts are too deep to be healed. The wounds I took then, tho’ scabbed, are with me today.

But the task was mine, and I’d sworn to my friend, on a sunlit morn long ago, as a new-weaned kit in my very first Walk, that I was his, and ever would be. Scátha the Shadow would stay, and stay till the end.

Onward then, in torment I walked, or stumbled, or crawled, and I know not which, for my blood was a river of ice. My paws and my tail were so cold that I knew them no more.

From whence comes courage, to the folk of the earth? And which is the greater? Is’t that which bids one advance, when shields come round, and arrows fly like the storm-rain’s pelt? Or yet, the small and terrified soul, lost in the darkness, but fearing death less, than to fail of a vow?

I am the friend of Merlin the Briton. If one thing I know, ‘tis this. He thinks me nobler, and braver, than a little grey cat could in truth ever be. Wherefore then, could I fail? No, I could never return, not without Uther Pendragon’s sword.

I did not falter, and somehow, nor did I fall. My blood did not curdle in that awful cold. I did not flee shrieking, from all of the visions of nightmare and pain.

Then, as to each night, there comes a fair morn, there glimmered before me a light. It glowed rose as the dawn, there on Avalon’s shore, and about me the phantasms paled. The light came warming about me, and the cold of my journey did ebb.

I drew back my ears and my muscles convulsed, and with one final leap, left darkness behind. Upward and outward leapt I, and into the sun, and fell down and cried, on the sweet fragrant soil of Avalon.

When I returned to myself, a gentle voice spoke, one that sounded like bees, and murmuring water, and shade ‘neath the trees on a summer’s noon.

“There is drink here, small friend, and whereof to eat, if famished thou art. Or all the time in the world, if rest be the boon thou crav’st.”

I raised my eyes, and beheld one of the Fey, like a glowing star with gossamer wings, who hovered nearby. Or mayhap a rainbow, if somehow gifted with voice, might take on the seeming, of the one who flitted, near to my face.

“I cannot tarry”, I gasped, “For I’ve come on a quest, for the good mage Merlin, my friend. He’d never have asked, save for last, direst need, and evil will come if I fail.”

“Then thou must consult with the Shades, furred friend,” said she, in a sweet soprano, “and directly, I judge. If thou will it, I’ll fetch thee there.”

“I will it”, said I. “And done it must be, ere I dare rest.”

I rose once more as she glimmered and brightened.

“Then follow, small friend, as close as may be” said

she, “And there shalt thou come!”

Then she glowed brighter, and beckoned me on, and I followed as courage returned. Across the greensward and over a brook, ‘neath the eaves of a fragrant wood, flitted the sprite while I followed below.

Then Avalon’s sun that shone on my fur, did make young my sinew and bones, young like a newborn and ready to live. Dimmed were all memories of trouble and pain, there on the sacred isle.

And so at last came I, Scátha friend of Merlin, to the most sacred place on the sacred isle, the Vale of the Shades. Shadows they are, not of the sunlit world, yet not wholly of the Other.

Great-hearts and kings, heroes and paladins of legend, those whose passing was so great as to leave a remnant twixt the worlds, they guard and guide those they loved, when they lived long ago. Not even the eyes of Cat may truly see them. Rather they are felt, as a wafting breath that stirs the leaves.

“Wherefore come thee, furred wanderer?” whispered one such, close to my ear. “What is thy desire, that thou’rt come at such a cost?”

“I am called Scátha,” quoth I. “Friend and familiar to Merlin the Briton, I am. He bids me say he has need of the Sword, the rune-wrought sword of Uther. This only is my quest and desire.”

“This I see in thy heart, small one, true-heart of the Clan of Cat. It is sooth, for I see that as well. Bear you a token of the Mage?”

“I do”, said I, and raised my head to show the golden torq about my neck, given by the Mage in another world. “Pray take it if you will, and grant the boon my friend has asked.”

“Thy petition is granted, brave Scátha,” The spirit breathed, and the token was gone, from about my neck. “Go thou to the glade, wherein lies what thou cravest, and but touch the hilt, and it shall be thine.”

At this the Fey one who’d guided me laughed with glee, as though she’d never known such joy. A pure and tinkling sound it was, like silver bells and falling drops of dew. “Rejoice, friend Scátha!” pealed she, “let us repair to the sylvan glade and claim the prize. Thy quest and vow are made complete!”

“But in what wise shall I carry a kingly sword? I am but a mage’s cat, small and grey!”

“But touch the hilt” said the shade again, “and all shall be done. Be thou mighty, or yet small and grey, it mattereth not. The power is thine.”

And so we came, the Fey and I, to the glade by the brook, where the Sword of Kings had lain so long.

Its steel was untarnished and bright, as if but a day had passed since Uther Pendragon had come this way, and laid it down. He had parted the veil, passed into the West, made his final farewell, but now his sword must return, to the world of men and to the hand of the good Mage my friend, for so I’d vowed.

I reached forth my paw and touched it, lightly, lightly, there on the greensward in sacred Avalon. There came a searing flash like the heart of the sun!

And when my bedazzled eyes could see again, Excalibur had gone.

“No!” gasped I, appalled. “I cannot return to the Mage my friend without it!”

Then the Fey one laughed again, her tinkling joyous laugh. “Behind you, dear Scátha! Look thee to thy beautiful tail!”

I turned my head, backward to look, and there! Midst the grey of my tail, about its root, shone a ring of silvery white fur!

“’Tis thy prize, brave companion of the Mage!” laughed the tinkling, pealing Fey. “Safe from all harm till thou return, to him who set thee this quest. Thy friend will know how to get it from there!”

“Then I must farewell, joyous Fey,” said I. “My return is yet before me, and I must be about it, though I know not where or how to begin.”

“Thou hast no need to fear, brave Scátha”, said the laughing, joyous Fey.” And with that her twinkling glow began rhythmically to pulse. “For thy return shall be as naught. ‘Tis easy as falling asleep,” and her voice made me think of summer days, and buzzing bees.

“Sleep? I’ve no time for sleep! Merlin awaits me, and I know not how time has passed, in the world of Men!”

“Sleep”, she admonished again, and her voice was gentle. Her voice was soothing.

“I cannot…” I protested.

“Sleep”, said she again, and the Sacred Isle of Avalon faded about me, whisked away in a sparkling, cooling mist. I knew no more.

For a year, or a day, or mayhap an age, there was darkness. Night without knowing, bereft of stars, without pain or hope, sorrow or joy. A time without time, remembering, forgetting, recalling once more.

Then that night like all, no matter how dark, was followed by dawn, not yet knowing, but dreaming. Warm and safe and dreaming, I returned to awareness but slowly. And waxing bolder, my being returned to me. Nor was I alone, but had siblings there, dreaming and warm.

And, as it had so many times before, light and sound arrived in a rush, and wakefulness came at last. We were nursed, my sisters and I, by our mother.

In a place warm and guarded, by a crackling fire, in a kitchen small, in a humble farmer’s cott, a she-cat nursed her kits, and I was one. I knew myself once more then, as Scátha, the Shadow.

And thus began the ninth of my Walks, upon the earth and under the sun. My last I knew, for I am of the Folk and of the Clan of Cat. Nine paths walk we, upon the earth and under the sun.

Then came a day when the farmwife gently took me in her calloused hands, and spoke. “This one, Good Sir, would make a fine companion for you. See, she has a ring of silvery fur about her wee tail, while all else is lustrous grey, like silk. I have called her ‘Shadow’, but you may bestow what’ere name may please.”

And then a familiar, worn, beloved face bent near, with bright eyes of merry, sparkling blue, and a beard of snowy white.

“I shall take her, good woman,” said a well-remembered voice. “’Shadow’ she shall be, but in the old Druid tongue: ‘Scátha’. Do you favor it, little one?”

I purred then with joy, for ‘twas the face of the good Mage, my companion and friend!

Into his warm pocket Merlin popped me, and gave a shining silver penny to the farmwife, for she had kept me for none but him. Then out once more, and into the world of men, under a bright shining sun, where sang the birds and a balmy breeze blew, and into his rattling old cart.

“G’dap!” he admonished the mule, and down the lane we went, down the long miles, ‘tixt the hedgerows and ‘neath the boughs of the frowning wood, as the evening sun sank low.

“Scátha, friend of my life, ‘tis good to have you once more by my side,” quoth he. “And I make you this vow, in all solemn sooth: When next you go to the sacred isle, we travel together! Ne’re more shall we part, till the stars in the heavens burn low, and all things shall end!”

Then he laughed his deep, and rumbling old laugh, as though all the world had suddenly been set to rights, before his own eyes.

“And one thing more, or rather three!” said he, “You may welcome this news, of certain young cats, whom you remember well.

“One fine young Tom, of orange hue, ‘Parsifal’ he is called today, is employed as rat-catcher in chief, in the barns of the Duke’s Manor. ‘Tis a post he has held these three years past, and enjoyed great success and acclaim.

“And then also his sisters, ‘Eleanor’ and ‘Efail’ by name, tabbies of grey and cream, now ensconced as companions dear, to a merry young girl, the Manor Lord’s daughter!”

And so we traveled on, the good Mage and I, till at last the weary mule stopped of himself, upon the stoop of a tiny stone house, deep in the dark wood, with moss upon its age-old walls. The lamp glimmered gold from its panes, and smoke curled from the chimney, there in the silence of the trees.

I had come home! Home at last, to the cott of Merlin the Briton my friend! I had been near lulled to sleep by the long ride, and the swaying of the cart. Now my eyes were bright and my whiskers quiver’d with joy. Scátha the Shadow had come home!

Merlin lifted gently, gently, my tiny body, from his pocket, there in the folds of his robe, and set me in my old bed, in my place by the fire.

“And now, dear friend” said he softly, “to deal with Excalibur, the reason you were gone from me so long.”

And when he’d mumbled a few words of the old Druid tongue, there came once more the flash I’d seen in Uther’s glade. When its dazzle had faded from my eyes, the good Mage stood with the sword in his hand, and I knew without looking, that the ring of silvery fur had gone from the grey of my tail.

For a moment of time he gazed bemused, at the bright rune-wrought steel, of the storied blade.

Excalibur. Sword Of Kings. The pivot about which legend had more than once turned, and firelight flashed down its length. He slowly leaned the sword upright by the hearth, and sighed, deep in his beard.

“Arthur is yet a child, Scátha of my heart, with more use for his toys than a warrior’s blade. But he will come, yes. The son of Ygraine and Uther will come. When bone and sinew have grown, he will come.

“Until then I will ward the Sword of Uther safe, plunged deep in living stone, from whence only he will own the strength to take it.

“But for now, my Scátha, oldest and dearest friend, you and I shall have our supper, and rest by this warm fire.”

END