Without further ado, I give you the unabridged Introduction and story of Under the Lake.
Note, any spelling errors occurred during transcription, and are not present in the actual story.
Introduction to Under the Lake
For someone who doesn't like the Arthurian mythos, I am in the odd position of having written two "Arthurian" stories (the other one is "Heart's Desire," also in this collection). At least, I always think I'm not very fond of the whole Arthur thing, believing there are already too many stories and books that have mined the canon. But I love T. H. White's The Once and Future King. I love Mary Stewart's The Hollow Hills and The Crystal Cave (while not being partial to the two later sequels). I like the Arthurian elements in Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising sequence. I would especially love to see again a television cartoon series from my childhood called King Arthur and the Square Knights of the Round Table. I know there are many other fine Arthurian or Arthurian-influenced books.
So I must not have a problem with Arthurian legend as such. My dissatisfaction probably lies in the way that the legends are used over and over again in the same way: the same stories told with little or no variation of character, plot, theme, or imagery.
The Lady of the Lake is one example of a clichéd character. How many times has she appeared as a beautiful woman, rising up out of the water to hand over Excalibur and help out the forces of good? Not to mention being dressed in silken samite.
Finding something new in an Arthurian character was the first thing I thought about when I was asked to write a story for an Arthurian-themed collection (after writhing about in horror, that is, and initially declining the invitation). Several months later, as the deadline approached, I started thinking about the Lady of the Lake. What would it be like living way down deep? Why would she choose to live there? What if she wasn't actually a lady? Or, better still, not even human? And why would she help Arthur? What if she wasn't good at all? What if she was a real monster, like a very smart psychopath?
The story came from there. The anthology I wrote it for never proceeded, adding insult to injury. I'd written an Arthurian story against my better judgement, and all for nothing. But stories share a characteristic with humans, in that they often get second, third, or even more chances. For "Under the Lake," that came with publication in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and I was on the record as having committed Arthuriana.
Under the Lake
Merlin has come again, down to where the light has gone and there is only darkness. Darkness and pressure, here where th water is as cold and hard as steel. He is bright himself, so bright that he hurts me eyes and I must lid them and turn away. Merlin uses that brightness, knowing that I cannot bear it, nor bear him seeing the creature I have become.
That is his strength, and it is the reason I will ultimately give him what he wants. For Merlin has power, and only he can give me what I need. He knows that, but as in any negotiation, he does not know at which point he will win. for I have two things that he seeks, and he has the price of only one.
I think he will choose Excalibur, for even he finds it difficult to think down here, under the lake. We can both see the strands of time that unravel from this choice, but I do not think Merlin sees as far as I in this darkness. He will choose the sword for his Arthur, when he could have the Grail.
I admit the sword seems more readily useful. With the scabbard, of course. But Merlin's sight does not see behind, only forward, and what he has learned of the sword is only a small part of the story.
If he chose to be less blinding, I might tell him more. But the light is cruel, and I do not care to prolong our conversation. I will merely cast my mind back, while he talks. It is as effective a means as any to avoid the spell he weaves so cleverly behind his words. Only Merlin would seek to gull me so, even though he should know better. Let him talk, and I will send his spell back. Back into time, when I walked under the sun, in the land that was called Lyonnesse.
Back into time, when the barbarians first landed on Lyonnesse's sweet shores, and the people came to me, begging for a weapon that would save them. They had no fear of me in those days, for I had long held a woman's shape. and I had never broken the agreement I made with their ancestors long ago. Not that they ever sought me out in times of peace and plenty, for they also remembered that I did nothing without exacting a price.
As I did when they asked me to make a sword, a sword that could make a hero out of a husbandman, a warrior of an aleswiller, a savior from a swineherd. A sword that would give its wielder th strength of the snow-def river Fleer, the speed of the swifts that flew around my hill, and the endurance of the great stone that sat above my hidden halls.
They were afraid of the barbarians, so they paid the price. A hundred maidens who came to my cold stone door, thinking they would live to serve me in some palace of arching caverns underneath. But it was their lives I wanted, not their service. It was their years I supped upon to feed my own, and their blood I used to quench the sword. I still thought of humans as I thought of other animals then, and felt nothing for their tears and cries. I did not realize that as I bound the power of river, swifts, and stone into the metal, I also filled the sword with sorrow and the despair of death.
The called the sword Excalibur, and it seemed everything they had asked. It took many months before they discovered it was both more and less. It was used by several men against he barbarians and delivered great victories. But in every battle the wielder was struck with a battle madness, a melancholy that would drive him alone into the midst of the enemy. All would be strong and swift and untiring, but eventually they would always be struck down by weight of numbers, or number of wounds.
The people came to me again, and demanded that I mend the madness the sword brought, or make the wielder impossible to wound, so the sword could be used to its full effect. The argued that I had not fulfilled the bargain and would pay no more.
But I sat silent in my hill, the barbarians still came in their thousands, and there were few who dared to wield Excalibur, knowing that they would surely die.
So they brought the two hundred youths I had demanded. Some even came gladly, thinking they would meet their sweethearts who had gone before. This time I was more careful, taking their futures from them without warning, so there was no time for pain, despair, or sadness. From their hair I wove the scabbard that would give the wearer a hundred lives between dawn of one day and dawn the next.
I knew nothing of human love then, or I would have demanded still younger boys, who had no knowledge of the girls who came to my hill the year before. The scabbard did make the bearer proof against a multiplicity of wounds, but it also called to th sword and held it like a lover, refusing to let go. Only a man of great will could draw the sword, or a sorcerer, and there were few of those in Lyonnesse, for I disliked their kind. Many a would-be hero died with Excalibur still sheathed upon his belt. Even a hundred lives is not enough against a hundred hundred wounds.
Each time, the sword and scabbard came back to me, drawn to the place of their making. Each time I returned them to the good folk of Lyonnesse, as they continued their largely losing war against the barbarians. Not that I cared who won one way or another, save for tidiness and a certain sense of tradition.
Many people came to me in those times of war, foolishly ignoring the pact that spoke of the days and seasons when I would listen and spare their lives. Consuming them, I learned more of humanity, and more of the magic that lurked within their brief lives. It became a study for me, and I began to walk at night, learning in the only way I knew. Soon, it was mostly barbarians I learned from, for the local folk resumed the practice of binding rowan twigs in their hair, and they remembered not to walk in moonlight. Once again the children were given small silver coins to wear as earrings. Some nights I gathered many blood-dappled coins but garnered neither lives nor knowledge.
In time, the barbarians learned too, and so it was that a deputation came to me one cold Midwinter Day, between noon and th setting of the sun. It was composed of the native folk I knew so well, and the barbarians, joined together in common purpose. They wanted me to enforce a peace upon the whole land of Lyonnesse, so that no man could make war upon another.
The price they were prepared to pay was staggering, so many lives that I would barely need to feed again for a thousand years. Given my new curiosity about humankind, the goal was also fascinating, because for the first time in my long existence, I knew not how it could be achieved.
They paid the price, and for seven days a line of men, women, and children wound its way into my hill. I had learned a little, for this third time, so I gave them food and wine and smoke that made them sleep. Then as they slept, I harvested their dreams, even as I walked among them and drank their breath.
The dreams I took in a net of light down through the earth to where the rocks themselves were fire, and there I made the Grail. A thing of such beauty and of such hope began to form that I forgot myself in the wonder of creation, and poured some of my dreams into it too, and a great part of my power.
Perhaps some of my memory disappeared in the making of the Grail, because I had forgotten what my power meant to the land of Lyonnesse. All that long climb back from the depths of the earth I gazed at what I had made, and I thought nothing of the rumbling and shaking at my feet. Down there the earth was never still. I did not realize that its mutterings were following me back into the light.
I emerged from my hill to find the deputation gone, panicked by the ground that shook and roared beneath them. I held the Grail aloft, and shouted that it would bring peace to all who drank from it. But even as I spoke, I saw the horizon lift up like a folder cloth, and the blue of the sky was lost in the terrible darkness of the sea. The sea, rising up higher than my hill or the mountains behind, a vast and implacable wave that seemed impossible--till I realized that it was not the sea that rose, but Lyonnesse that fell. And I remembered.
Long ago, long ago, I had shored up the very foundations of the land. Now, in my making of the Grail, I had torn away the props. Lyonnesse would drown, but I would not drown with it. I became a great eagle that rose to the sky, the Grail clutched in my talons. Or rather, I tried to. My wings beat in a frenzy, but the Grail would not move. I tried to let go, but could not, and still th wave came on, till it blocked out the very sun and it was too late to be flying anywhere.
It was then that I knew that the Grail brought not only peace but judgement. I had filled it with the dreams of a thousand folk, dreams of peace and justice. But I had let other dreams creep in, and one of those was a dream that the white demon that preyed upon them in the moonlit nights would be punished for the deaths she wrought, and the fear she had brought upon the people.
The wave came upon me as I changed back to human shape, crushing me beneath a mountain wall of water, picking me up, Grail and all, for a journey without air and light that crossed the width of Lyonnesse before it let me go. I was broken at the end, my human form beyond repair. I took another shape, the best I could make, though it was not pleasing to my or any other eyes. It is a measure of the Grail's mercy that this seemed sufficient punishment, for only then could I let it fall.
I did let it go, but never from my sight. For now, even waking, I dreamed of all the folk of Lyonnesse who died under the wave, and only the Grail would give me untroubled rest. Years passed, and I slithered from sea to river to lake, till at last I came here, following the drifts and tumblings of the Grail. I was not surprised to find that Excalibur awaited me, still sheathed and shining, despite its long sojourn in the deep. It seemed fitting that everything I made should lie together, both the things and the fate. Even the Grail seemed content to sit, as if waiting for the future I could not see.
I cannot remember when Merlin first found me here, but it is not so strange, given our birthing together so long ago. He had studied humanity with greater care than I, and used his power with much more caution.
There! I have left his spell behind in my drowned past, and now we shall bargain in earnest. He will give me back my human shape, he says, in return for the sword. He knows it is an offer I cannot refuse. What is the sword to me, compared to th warmth of the sun on my soft skin, the colors that my eyes will see anew, the cool wind that will caress my face?
I will give him the sword. It will bring Arthur triumph, but also sorrow, as it has always done, for his victories will never be his own. The scabbard, too, will save him and doom him, for a man who cannot be wounded is not a man who a woman can choose to love.
Merlin is clever. He will not touch the sword himself, but will tell me when I must give it up to Arthur. Only then will I receive my side of the bargain. It is curious to feel expectation again, and something that I must define as hope.
Even the brightness seems less wearing on my eyes, or perhaps it is Merlin who has chosen to be kind. Yes, now he talks of the Grail, and asks me to give it up. Merlin does not understand its nature, I think, or he would not be trying to get it for himself.
The Grail will wait, I tel him. Go and fetch your king, your Arthur. I will give him the sword, the scabbard too, and may he use them well.
Merlin knows when to wait. He has always been good at waiting. He leaps upward in a flurry of light and I slide back into my cave, to coil around the hollow that contains my treasures. The Grail was there yesterday, but not now. If I thought Merlin had stolen it, I would be angry. Perhaps I would pursue him, up into the warmer lighter waters, to see if his power is as great as what remains of mine.
But I will not, for I know the Grail has left me without Merlin's tricks or thievery, as it has left a thousand times before. I have always followed it in the past, seeking the relief it gave. Now I think time has server that same purpose, if not so well. Time and cold and depth. It slows thought, and dulls memory. Only Merlin's coming has briefly woken me at all, I realize, and there lies the irony or our exchange.
I will give the sword to Arthur, but without the Grail I do not think I will long remain in human shape. The Grail taught me guilt, but it also drank it up. Without it, I shall have to think too much and remember too much. I will have to lice with a light that blinds me, until at last I have used up all the lives of Lyonnesse that lie within my gut.
No. The Grail has gone. When Excalibur is likewise gone, I shall return to the darkness and the cold, to this place where a dull serpent can sleep without dreaming. Till once again I must obey the call of strength and sorrow, of love and longing, of justice and of peace. All these things of human magic, that I never knew till I made the sword and scabbard, and never understood until I made the Grail.
