"The Tale of Lady Guinevere" by Delia ´Melarin´ Seilly

Two women, one old, one young, walked through the town. Men kept their eyes to the ground as a mark of respect, while women smiled and sometimes exchanged a word or two with the pair, as the elder was their Headwoman. Some even patted the younger woman's swollen belly, offering hopes and prayers for an easy birth. The older woman, Marta Oceaina the Headwoman of the Waterfolk, walked slowly beside her daughter, smiling and thanking all those who stopped. She walked with her claw-like hand latched onto her daughter's arm, her sightless eyes a curse in the busy street. Her other arm was wrapped round the staff that proclaimed her position as headwoman. It was an interesting staff, caved all over with waves, fishing nets, whales, boats, coral, piles of salt, oysters and mussels, different types of fish and other things that played major roles in the Waterfolk's lives. But near the top, where one put their hand, a clawed handprint was burned into the wood, right through several carvings. There were many tales about that staff, only those that wielded it knew its' true origins. Apart from the staff the woman looked ordinary enough; her light blonde hair was streaked with white and grey, her eyes, through the milky white tinge of blindness, were the same blue-grey of the ocean, her skin was tanned a deep nut brown by the sun. Wrinkles had started to swallow the features of her delicately boned face, but she was still not yet fifty. Her daughter, Sarra, walking with the slight waddle that all woman get when they are eight months pregnant, was a lot like her mother; same eyes, same hair, same tanned skin. All of the Waterfolk had blue eyes and pale hair, though in various shades. Traders and travellers in the town always stood out.

Suddenly Marta stuck her staff out, as if to trip someone over. She then swiftly moved the staff as if pinning someone to the ground.

"My sightless eyes might not see you but I smelt your breath and I hear your heart beat." Marta said, apparently talking to thin air. "I felt your magic too, mage, like I felt you slip the two gold coins from my purse."

The town folk stared at the old woman, muttering to each other. Sarra laid a hand on her mother's shoulder, "There's nobody there mam-" she started in a kind voice, but was cut short by a burst of laughter that seem to come from under Marta's staff. The air pulsed, a sparkling mist collected, then a man appeared, still pinned down to the ground by Marta's staff.

"Give me a hand up, someone." He said, yellow eyes still alight with laughter.

"Merlyn!" Marta exclaimed, recognising his voice. The name was muttered around the crowd that had gathered. "I should have remembered that invisibility was one of your favourite tricks." Merlyn's true origins were steeped in mystery, more tales were told of him than of Marta's staff. He had appeared long ago, seemingly ageless, never growing old or tired. Some said he was the only living being to have the blood of all the Folk in him, drawing his powers from Fire, Water, Ice, Earth and Air. Others said he was fathered by a fallen angel and mothered by a priestess. Who or what his parents were was lost to the sands of time, Merlyn wouldn't tell. He was a powerful mage, but mischievous, doing things on a whim or because they suited him.

"Anyone care to give me a hand up?" Merlyn asked again.

"It's been a while since you were here." Marta said, moving her staff. One of the men darted forward to help the mage up.

"Well, the nasty business at the capital kept me busy." A dry note had entered Merlyn's voice, as he brushed the dust from his clothes and ran his fingers through his mussed brown hair. When nobody answered him, he looked up at the town folk's blank faces. "You haven't heard?" he asked, incredulous. "You must have…it's been two months….How can you not know?" Merlyn looked uncomfortable, not wanting to be bearer of bad tidings.

Marta shifted her weight slightly. "Tell us." She asked in a voice that left no room for argument. After a pause Merlyn said, "Your King is dead."

There was instant uproar at his words. The young people of the town started to sing and cheer, dancing about and hugging their friends; they thought that the harsh taxes would be lifted, that they would be their own masters. The elder of the town grumbled, knowing the perils that might trouble a kingdom with no king or ruler. Marta thumped her staff for quiet. It took a while for the hubbub to die down. Marta turned to Merlyn. "Uther Pendragon, our king, is dead?" she asked slowly but clearly, to confirm the knowledge. Merlyn nodded and Marta continued. "He had no heir. Who will rule in his stead? What will become of the Kingdom?" It showed how much faith Marta had in the mage, that she turned to him and asked these things.
Merlyn sucked a tooth in thought. His eyes had that distant faraway look that he always adopted when he was wondering how much he should tell someone. He frowned then nodded as if coming to a decision. "Utha bore a son." Merlyn said, then instantly held his hand up to stem the tide of outcries. "His son was kept a secret at my consul. Dark days were coming, an heir would be in constant danger. So I arranged for the child to be hidden away. Arthur, he has been named and he will come for the throne of the Pendragons, when the time is right, but for twenty years you will know no ruler or king." Silence greeted these words, which sounded uncomfortably like a prophecy. Merlyn looked about, noting the grim faces and harsh looks. He smiled. "But come now, let us not dwell on these bad tidings. I had hoped that by coming here I might escape them myself." He grinned roguishly, "Have you stopped making your fine beer and ale?" Merlyn cried, amidst somewhat belated cheers. The crowd soon made its' way to the ale house, some planning to celebrate the birth of a new king, others to wallow in their misery at losing their old one.

Merlyn cast his yellow hawk like eyes about the crowd, looking for Sarra. He found her and draped an arm around her shoulders. He patted her stomach with his free hand. "So when is this little one due?" he asked.

"The next quarter moon, if all goes well." Sarra told her old teacher. Despite the difference in their ages Merlyn and Sarra had always gotten on; he had been the one (with Marta's permission) to teach Sarra her letters; she had been a grand pupil, always hungry for more books.

"Any thoughts on a name?" Merlyn enquired, inspecting a mud stain on his sleeve.

"I was going to name her after mother." Sarra replied.

Merlyn lifted a hand, the same sparking mist from earlier gathered, this time giving off a soft yellow light in the growing shadows. "You know it's a girl?" he asked.

"Yes, somehow I just know." A dreamy tone had entered Sarra's voice.

"Where has the old bat gone, anyway?" Merlyn asked, looking for Marta.

Sarra giggled, an odd reaction for someone about to celebrate their twentieth nameday. "I'll tell her you said that!" she threatened. "I think she's gone home. It's going to be hard for her." Sarra's eyes clouded slightly.

"I think Guinevere would be a good name, myself." Merlyn said, changing the subject.

"Why would that be?" Sarra asked.

"It was my grandmother's name." Merlyn said simply, as if commenting on the weather. Sarra gaped at him for a moment, trying to work out why Merlyn had shared this information with her. He was very secretive and never volunteered information about his past or his family. Then she gasped, clutching her belly. Merlyn steadied her, a look of worry on his face. She stood up after a pause and smiled. "She kicked! She's never done it that hard before."

Merlyn looked thoughtful. "Perhaps she likes the name too." He placed his glowing hand nearer Sarra's belly. She doubled over once again as the babe inside kicked. "Or perhaps you have a mage in there and she was reacting to the magic." He said softly.

Sarra's eyes lit up. "A mage? You think so?"

Merlyn nodded, and Sarra perceived a great sadness in his face. He smiled at the moment passed. "She could be. Consider the name, will you? If you name her Marta she may end up as crotchety and bad tempered as your dear mother." Merlyn's voice had regained some of its' teasing. He continued in a slightly more serious voice. "You take care, alright? Send word when she's born, I'll be staying with the Forestfolk. I get the feeling that you may have your work cut out with her." They had reached the alehouse now. Sarra patted his arm, drawing herself out of his hold.

"Don't drink too much, and give my love to my cousins in the forest." She called, waddleing slightly as she went back to her room in the town hall.

Before the evening was through, Merlyn was gone. No one remembered seeing him leave, but put it down to his odd and mysterious ways. Two weeks after his departure Sarra went into labour. It was a long and painful birth, Marta sat by her daughter and held her hand. Sunlight ebbed away and soon the moon was climbing into the night sky. When at last the midwife showed the screaming child to Sarra, her tired face lit up. She held the infant in her arms, Merlyn's words coming back to her. Sarra named her child Guinevere, stroking her child's head with the love only mothers can posses. Marta held her hands out for the babe, hugging her grandchild close to her chest. Marta paused; she couldn't see her daughter's eyes go dim but she did hear her Sarra's breathing slow, then stop, ending in a death rattle. The Midwife drew a ragged breath and placed a hand on Marta's shoulder. Tears ran down Marta's lined face. She had gained a grandchild, but she had just lost her daughter.