6. Return to Mabon
'In very remote times,' the skalds would recount, 'when the sun barely showed its face amidst the mists that peopled these lands, a legend was told of the goddess Hel, sovereign of the frigid abysses of Niflheim, at the northern reaches of the universe. With a firm hand and a heart of ice, she banished the demons that inhabited those glaciated lands, and it is said that these, in their desperate flight, met their end in the waters of the North Sea and the Arctic, where winter, cruel and pitiless, embraced them with its frozen shroud.
'But oh, how erroneous was that
belief! For, after the passage of years, it was revealed that many of those
dark beings had survived the raging waves and found refuge on the coasts of
green Ireland, the illustrious emerald of the western seas, where the sun,
though timid, already dared to shine. There, far from the light, they hid
within the blackness of impregnable cliffs, stone abysses where the sea devours
reality and the air turns heavy as lead. In that haven of shadows, they awaited
the propitious moment to peer out from between the old forest trees and from
behind ancient crags, sowing terror in the hearts of mortals.
'But the day came when a famed and
valiant warrior, defender of the faith of those lands, faced the ogress, queen
of those demons, the dreaded Caorthannach. After a titanic struggle, where good
and evil danced in a mortal duel, the echo of his victory resonated among the
peoples of the north, banishing the monster to unknown lands. Yet such
news—which, in truth, revealed that the beast was still alive—reached the ears
of Hel once more.
'The goddess, incensed and resolute,
set out to meet the ogress, crossing rugged hills and infinite fjords towards
the wide sea, desirous of ensuring the definitive end of that terrible
creature. For all the oracles spoke of an imminent return of the demons to the
inhospitable lands of the north. But Hel, scourge of the glaciers, set forth in
the midst of the frigid winter of the northern seas and, shortly after reaching
her destination, without further hesitation, ventured amongst the snowy ridges
of that foreign island. There, amidst the frost-covered yews, she found
Caorthannach, who, enveloped in her fetid aura and venom, still inflicted
panic.
'With colossal strength, the Norse
goddess, in a savage outburst, seized the dreaded ogress by the neck and
hoisted her onto her powerful back, dragging her pitilessly towards the sea
with fury burning in her eyes. By then, the entire world seemed to have fallen
into a glass sleep; snow covered the earth under a perpetual mantle, and the
surface of the ocean had been transformed into a vast frozen expanse, a coat of
ice several metres thick that silenced the roaring of the waves. Without
wavering before that white desert, Hel sharpened her index fingernail against
her own gaunt and wrinkled cheek, and with it, she dug a deep rift in the
frozen surface. Through that newly opened abyss, she cast the ogress, who was
instantly entombed, with no hope of escape.
'Terrified by the brutality displayed
by the goddess, the retinue of infamous creatures that accompanied her broke
ranks in a desperate stampede. They fled without looking back, their
silhouettes blurring in the distance until they hid in the most secluded and
sombre corners of the continent, swearing in their flight never to return.
'Whilst still alive, the ogress, who
had clung with her claws to the edges of the ice floes on the marine surface,
struggled to keep her fists out of the water, trying to find support to climb
up and free herself. But, fortunately, the warmth of spring soon arrived that
year to melt the frozen layers of the sea, and she was never able to leave.
Thus, she saw out her final days watching her body turn to stone.
'From the nearby coasts of the great
island of Ireland, two solitary islets can still be contemplated under the
faint sunlight on the placid days of mild summer. But there are those who say
that, when the autumn equinox arrives, as the sun vanishes on the horizon, the
surface of the sea begins to sink little by little in a sudden and voracious
low tide. And then, in the midst of those two rocks, which resemble two giant
fists emerging from the abyss, a third appears, of greater size, resembling the
head of a colossal creature with its maws agape in a rictus of horror.
'Those unwary souls who had the misfortune of
witnessing this marvel from up close, sadly, can no longer tell the tale. Those
who, from afar, have been able to contemplate the transformation, claim that
the seawater around it formed incredible spirals that drained away in endless
turns into the interior of that insatiable rift, dragging and devouring every
vessel that sailed in its vicinity. And it is at that instant, when the silence
of twilight is shattered, that the stone itself emits an impossible roar: a
guttural, deep, and agonised lament that seems to spring from the very bowels
of the world. It is not the cry of a Banshee, but the creaking of a memory that
refuses to die; a moan laden with an anguish so frigid it freezes the soul of
whoever hears it, promising a desolation without return. That is why the
inhabitants of those latitudes, aware of such misfortunes, take great care not
to approach the mysterious islands when those fateful dates draw near.'
The ancient
legend, told by his elders during the frigid days of winter by the warmth of
the fire, had suddenly burst into Eirik’s memory. As if immersed in a deep
reverie, he saw himself standing upon a cliff, facing a silvery sea. His eyes
refused to believe what they saw. There he was, at that precise moment, staring
in awe at the two islets of that legendary and cursed place so vividly
described in the dark tales of his childhood. To one side and the other: the
Skellig Islands.
‘Is this
a dream, or has the magic of Yule returned me to the real world?’ he asked himself.
It seemed
unheard of, yet the spell of that night had anchored him at last to what might,
with reluctance, be called reality. He had lost count of his drift: a sinuous
journey through a limbo where time dilated and contracted, a prison of months
or perhaps centuries from which he harboured no hope of escape. But the wheel
of time, the impassive weaver of fate, appeared to have turned backwards to
cast him once more into the heart of autumn, at the equinox of Mabon.
All that
shapeless mass of undergrowth within the forest of his wounded memory was no
longer there. His recollections began to race headlong like impetuous
subterranean currents; infinite waterfalls and meanders where images stumbled
in their desperate attempt to emerge and seek the light of the sun. The magic
of Yule had not been a simple plea to fate, but a key that now, at last, found
its lock. The magic, accumulated in the silence of the months, had restored my
life and its meaning in a single turn.
It had
forced the wheel, breaking the inertia of the natural flow to hurl me
backwards. In a matter of milliseconds—or so it seemed to me—I retraced every
lost step until I regained my usual state, the one I possessed before the
wretched attack at sea. I felt dazed, unable to process the magnitude of what
was occurring within my own senses.
I had
awakened to the world of reality; I could feel it in the density of the air
that filled my lungs. I observed everything around me with an almost painful
curiosity. To my surprise, the equinox sun bathed the crags and the high forest
canopies of that land. The mist had vanished, allowing me to behold—for the
first time in years—that dreamlike landscape. It was so beautiful, so solitary
and so strange, that despondency began to seep into me. In that diaphanous
silence, a sharp hum slipped into my ears; a dull, almost imperceptible echo
that vibrated in the very rock beneath my feet, as if the ground itself sobbed
an ancient lament that managed to filter up from the bottom of the sea. I
perceived the heartbeat of the earth not as a phenomenon of nature, but as the
very breath of a latent truth that does not allow itself to be seen by the
senses. It was a pure frequency, a feeling of reverent awe for the invisible,
for that which no one stops to look at and which, nevertheless, constitutes the
unmoved mover of the universe.
At that
instant, I understood that there are certainties that do not dwell in memory,
but in essence; a form of universal love that remains unscathed beneath the
weight of time, invulnerable to oblivion or fear. That vibration, climbing up
my heels like an ancestral pulse, reminded me that beyond the becoming and the
shadows that pretend to hide the origin, there is a sacred core that beats with
an unshakeable persistence, a note that not even the deepest of rifts could
ever silence. But suddenly, that same dull echo felt all too familiar. A chill
ran down my spine, transforming the warmth of the pulse into a freezing touch.
‘What if
it is another deception?’ I thought.
He
feared that heartbeat was not a revelation, but one more setting in the list of
wandering places that never turned out to be the destination he sought with
such yearning. Within his chest, a restlessness so voracious suddenly rose that
it made him tremble. He felt his heart let slip a soundless, inert beat,
synchronized now with a moan that no longer seemed sacred, but a lament
traveling from the maws of the stone toward the very centre of his being. A
sudden sadness washed over his face, and his lips curled in a grimace of
absolute helplessness.
Amidst
that indescribable grief, I drew out my last apple seed. I placed it in the
palm of my hand and stared at it, hopeless, feeling the brightness that had lit
my pupils moments before extinguish without remedy. I saw it there: small,
insignificant against the vastness of a possible failure. I wondered how many
times I had attempted the impossible, trying to make a tree sprout from
nothingness only to confirm if, at last, I found myself upon the island of my
beloved. How could I achieve it? That landscape stretching before my eyes bore
no resemblance to the place of my dreams. The cheerful music that always
drifted from afar during my visits could not be heard, nor did I perceive the
scent of the white poplars whose branches, from on high, wound through the
wind, singing their own melody. How I yearned for the taste of apples upon her
lips, ever sweet, and the touch of her fingers on my neck as she kissed me!
Tears
blurred my vision, smudging the landscape until it turned into a haze-swept
scenery, similar to the one I kept carved in my memory. I longed for that dense
layer of mist that covered the cove, the kind that only allowed a small portion
of land to be glimpsed and forced me to imagine what secrets lay hidden behind
it. It was at that moment when I saw them once more in my mind: a line of
gannets piercing the grey shroud with their steady flight, gliding over the
invisible crags like heralds of a land I thought I recognised. That was the
haven of my dreams for which I so yearned. And there, as if dictated by a
sacred law, the miracle always occurred: she would emerge from between those
transparent curtains that rested level with the ground, approaching with the
solemnity of a goddess of Asgard or a queen of the Sidhe—that mythical
sovereign of the hidden hills—, possessing a beauty so indescribable it made me
delirious.
The inlet
he remembered was peopled by forests of white poplars half-hidden beside a
stream of crystalline waters, which he never came to see, only to hear; and
crags filled with apple trees in bloom, whose fragrance impregnated every
corner with a celestial air. And it was at daybreak the following day when he
would depart in his drakkar on the way home after a long embrace of love with
his beloved, full of intentions and promises; but, upon turning to look for one
last time at that magical place, the entire island seemed to have vanished
suddenly, completely enveloped in an impenetrable white mass from afar,
illuminated at its crest by the incipient rays of the sun, which already
awakened and showed its face on the horizon.
When his
thoughts departed and his mind sighed once more before the bleakness of
reality, he realized that the seed of the pentacle was no longer in his hand.
It had slipped through his fingers, disappearing among the stones and the dry
grass. Without being fully aware of it, he remained absorbed in his own grief,
looking and listening to the sea behind him, disheartened. In his melancholic
reverie, it seemed to him for a moment that, from afar, on the open sea, veiled
voices arrived singing sweetly some melody that brought him more memories of
his visits. Celestial voices trying to convey something he could not quite
fathom. Those waves, that breeze, and the colour of the sunset as the sun
rested on the horizon, unhurriedly gilding the canopies of the distant forests:
all of it felt familiar.
Eirik’s
shadow lengthened slowly across the sand when he saw a silhouette glide, rising
above the shadow cast by his head in a sinuous movement. Turning around, there,
right behind him, the stem of an apple tree rose toward the sky; at its crest,
unfolding before his eyes, sprouted twigs with oval leaves that gleamed with
the last rays of the sun. He could not believe it; his heart began to pound
against his chest without respite. This was the island! The hair on his neck
stood on end until he turned pale and staggered beside the tree. The last seed
had found its way and revealed to him that, at last, he was in the place he had
pursued throughout his entire odyssey!
In a
frenzy, he dropped everything he carried and, in desperation, set out to scour
the island in search of his beloved. He did not stop until he found that cove,
hidden behind one of the crags: his sacred place. There, he collapsed onto the
sand, weeping moved, almost breathless from the shock.
‘Iria!’
was the cry that flooded the silence, making the
ground and the entire forest tremble.
His heart
skipped a beat as he understood that, after so much time, her name had not been
erased from his memory. He let out a cry that rose towards the sky, in the
direction of the most distant mountain; for an instant, it seemed to vanish
behind it, only for a chorus of voices to return the echo as a response the
next moment. Nonetheless, this came from the high seas once more:
Lyrics of "La Isla de los Γlamos Blancos":
From the black firmament,
Over the white of the poplars
The rain tints the silence;
Its moan speaks thus:
'I have awaited
Your return for so long,
Until you come,
Until you return to me.'
The echo died away slowly, leaving behind an absolute stillness.
Eirik remained motionless, his forehead resting on the cold sand, listening
only to the rhythmic coming and going of the tide lapping the shore. Time
seemed to stop in that space between song and reality, until the weight of
loneliness forced him to open his eyes.
I had already experienced the vicissitudes of my long
journey on countless occasions and, finally, I had understood that in this, my
uncertain little world, joy never lasted long: it always ended up inundated by
a lurking, invasive misfortune that instantly darkened everything and pushed me
back into the abyss. Those voices were sweet, but bearers of bitter news; they
announced what I had never expected to find. My beloved Iria—my reason was
clouded then, as it is clouded now when remembering her face and her name—was
no longer on that island. My heart told me so, and my intuition confirmed it. I
understood that those words of the Sea-fey held my own misfortune.
Now descends to the blue sea,
Drawing upon its shore
Symbols of sand and salt...
I walked past the remains of my own shipwreck, which still floated
near the shore, reminding me of my past misfortune. It was then that I
distinguished, traced in the sand, a circle of symbols next to the waves. And
right in the centre, there was an object gleaming, wounded by the sun. As I
drew closer, I recognized, surprised, my own pendant, half-buried in the salty
sand; I did not quite understand how it could have arrived there from the high
seas.
The glare of that bronze piece poured a warm flush over the metal,
as if they had just placed it on the ground moments ago. But I did not want to
take it in my hands just yet. In the sand, those runes, traced by some
invisible finger, formed the solar wheel with only four symbols: I knew they
were revealing to me everything that had happened during my absence. I looked
instinctively toward the sky in search of some sign from a god, some figure
hidden behind the veil of the clouds, but I found nothing in them. In my
interpretation of the choice and arrangement of the runes in their sand circle,
I could only read that I had to act with speed and own will so as not to spoil
its purpose, which would occur with the same inexorability with which the
waves, advancing implacably, erased the message traced on the shore.
But now his head worked fast, without limits, with all his
mental potential recovered. The few seconds that the vision of that message
lasted, before the waves claimed their tribute and dissolved the trail, were
more than enough for Eirik. Until now, his movements had been traced by other
forces, letting himself be dragged adrift by others' desires. But he understood
that it was he who had to take the initiative and act henceforth.
The Sea-fey sang their sweet song once more to confirm to
him what had happened and what was yet to happen.
In the hidden realm of the hells
Where our dark sisters dwell,
Behind bars and bolts, you shall find
captive
The reason for your heart’s beating...
It seemed that only the beating of the waves, in their
incessant swaying, remained alive within the area governed by time. After
having devoured the earthly form of the runes without leaving a trace, the tide
confirmed a universal truth: matter is perishable, but essence, immutable.
Then he grabbed the pendant and took a step back, ecstatic:
the sun refused to surrender, casting Iria's persistent silhouette upon the
shore. Her physical body had been snatched away, but she left behind an
indelible imprint beneath the water. Where the circle had disappeared, the
figure of Yeadhr, upon the footprint the pendant had left, emerged as the only
incorruptible vestige, fixed beneath the wake of his beloved, unscathed before
the onslaught of the ocean as if it belonged to another universe.
‘The sea can vanish whatever is tangible, dragging the ephemeral into its abyss. Its waves will erase the fleeting trace of a finger in the sand, but the ocean has no power over the incorporeal. For the shadow is nothing but the soul revealed by the light; an unconquered silhouette that the sun of a boreal summer draws upon the bottom. There, the water becomes a transparent crystal, a vain caress that flows over the form without coming to permeate it. Time and tides will follow their course, but that figure, born of a sun that never sets, inhabits a shore where no shipwreck can reach it anymore.
‘I understood then that this choreography of revelations was no accident: the trail in the sand gave me the message and the metal of Yeadhr, by igniting my blood, finally restored to me the vision of what the abyss had torn from me.’
(Annotations of
Eirik, Twilight of Mabon, Skellig)
Upon the palm of his hand, the runic pendant pulsed with
the intensity of an exhalation. Yeadhr had ceased to be bronze to distil a deep
lapis lazuli; an abyssal blue that, instead of reflecting the celestial
surface, seemed to absorb the light toward the bottom of a primordial ocean.
While the sand was cleared—liberated now from the material
presence of the circle, whose runes had been absorbed by the very essence of
the place—, the edges of the metal began to be covered in a silvery frost until
it took on a freezing glare between his fingers. That cold, sharper than steel,
seemed to freeze time itself. Opposite, on the rough mantle of the shore, a
thin thread of whitish vapor drifted from between the tiny damp pebbles, rising
and twisting upon itself until it crystallised into a wandering cloud over the
tide.
Moved by that vision, Eirik saw how, between the strands of
that transparent veil, silhouettes gradually appeared, coming to life. As he
observed them, his mind perceived a pure frequency. He understood that the
pendant was the key to a submerged path that exhaled the density of the depths,
pointing to the abyss as the only place where his quest could continue. And
then, with his heart overwhelmed, he understood everything.
- I. OVERTURE: My Name is Eirik
- II. EXORDIUM: "MYTHOS", Symphony of a Wandering Soul
- III. RESONANCE: My Story and the Secret of the Shadows
- IV. PRELUDE: Eirik's Dirth
- CHAPTER 1: Eirik and the Secret of Avalon
- CHAPTER 2: Discovery in Atlantis
- CHAPTER 3: In the Shadows of Hades
- CHAPTER 4: The Pull of Niflheim
- CHAPTER 5: The Icy Breath of Yule
- CHAPTER 6: Return to Mabon
- CHAPTER 7: Eirik and the Mystery of the Sirens
- CHAPTER 8: The Mirror of the Lake of Shadows
- CHAPTER 9: Finale
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