Elidor. Alan Garner
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was you?” said Roland. “You? Then you must have been watching me all the time! You just dumped me by the cliff – and left me – and what have you done with Helen? And David and Nick? What’s happened?” shouted Roland.
But his voice had no power in the air, and Malebron waited, ignoring him, until Roland stopped.
“And Falias, and Murias,” he said. “Castles of the West and of the North. There on the plain beneath.”
He spoke the names of castle and wood as if they were precious things, not three black fangs and a swamp.
“But Gorias, in the east – what did you see?”
“I – saw a castle,” said Roland. “It was all golden – and alive. Then I saw the glove. She—”
“You have known Mondrum, and those ravaged walls,” said Malebron. “The grey land, the dead sky. Yet what you saw in Gorias once shone throughout Elidor, from the Hazel of Fordruim, to the Hill of Usna. So we lived, and no strife between us. Now only in Gorias is there light.”
“But where’s—?” said Roland.
“The darkness grew,” said Malebron. “It is always there. We did not watch, and the power of night closed on Elidor. We had so much of ease that we did not mark the signs – a crop blighted, a spring failed, a man killed. Then it was too late – war, and siege, and betrayal, and the dying of the light.”
“Where’s Helen?” said Roland.
Malebron was silent, then he said quietly, “A maimed king and a mumbling boy! Is it possible?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Roland. “Where’s Helen? That’s her glove, and the thumb’s stuck in the rock.”
“Gloves!” cried Malebron. “Look about you! I have endured, and killed, only in the belief that you would come. And you have come. But you will not speak to me of gloves! You will save this land! You will bring back light to Elidor!”
“Me!”
“There is no hope but you.”
“Me,” said Roland. “I’m no use. What could I do?”
“Nothing,” said Malebron, “without me. And without you, I shall not live. Alone, we are lost: together, we shall bring the morning.”
“All this,” said Roland, “was like the golden castle – like you sang? The whole country?”
“All,” said Malebron.
“—Me?”
“You.”
Findias… Falias… Murias… Gorias. The Hazel of Fordruim… the Forest of Mondrum… the Hill of Usna. Men who walked like sunlight. Cloth of gold. Elidor. – Elidor.
Roland thought of the gravel against his cheek. This is true: now: I’m here. And only I can do it. He says so. He says I can bring it all back. Roland Watson, Fog Lane, Manchester 20. What about that? Now what about that!
“How do you know I can?” said Roland.
“I have watched you prove your strength,” said Malebron. “Without that strength you would not have lived to stand here at the heart of the darkness.”
“Here?” said Roland. “It’s just a hill—”
“It is the Mound of Vandwy,” said Malebron. “Night’s dungeon in Elidor. It has tried to destroy you. If you had not been strong you would never have left the stone circle. But you were strong, and I had to watch you prove your strength.”
“I don’t see how a hill can do all this,” said Roland. “You can’t fight a hill.”
“No,” said Malebron. “We fight our own people. Darkness needs no shape. It uses. It possesses. This Mound and its stones are from an age long past, yet they were built for blood, and were supple to evil.”
Roland felt cold and small on the hill.
“I’ve got to find the others first,” he said.
“It is the same thing,” said Malebron.
“No, but they’ll be better than me: they’re older. And I’ve got to find them, anyway.”
“It is the same thing,” said Malebron. “Listen. You have seen Elidor’s four castles. Now each castle was built to guard a Treasure, and each Treasure holds the light of Elidor. They are the seeds of flame from which all this land was grown. But Findias and Falias and Murias are taken, and their Treasures lost.
“You are to save these Treasures. Only you can save them.”
“Where are they?” said Roland. “And you said there were four Treasures: so where’s the other?”
“I hold it,” said Malebron. “The Spear of Ildana from Gorias. Three castles lie wasted: three Treasures are in the Mound. Gorias stands. You will go to Vandwy, and you will bring back light to Elidor.”
They were at the foot of the Mound.
“How do we get in?” said Roland.
“Through the door.”
“What door? It’s just turf.”
“That is why you are here,” said Malebron. “The door is hidden, but you can find it.”
“How?” said Roland.
“Make the door appear: think it: force it with your mind. The power you know fleetingly in your world is here as real as swords. We have nothing like it. Now close your eyes. Can you still see the Mound in your thought?”
“Yes.”
“There is a door in the Mound,” said Malebron. “A door.”
“What kind of door?” said Roland.
“It does not matter. Any door. The door you know best. Think of the feel of it. The sound of it. A door. The door. The only door. It must come. Make it come.”
Roland thought of the door at the new house. He saw the blisters in the paint, and the brass flap with ‘Letters’ outlined in dry metal polish. He had been cleaning it only yesterday. It was a queer door to be stuck in the side of a hill.
“I can see it.”
“Is it there? Is it firm? Could you touch it?” said Malebron.
“I think so,” said Roland.
“Then open your eyes. It is still there.”
“No. It’s just a hill.”
“It is still there!” cried Malebron. “It is real! You have made it with your mind! Your mind is real! You can see the door!”
Roland shut his eyes again. The door had a brick porch, and there was a house leek growing on the stone roof. His eyes were so tightly closed that he began to see coloured lights floating behind his lids, and they were all shaped like the porch entrance. There was no need to think of it now – he could see nothing else but these miniature, drifting arches: and behind them all, unmoving, the true porch, square-cut, solid.
“The Mound must break! It cannot hide the door!”
“Yes,” said Roland. “It’s there. The door. It’s real.”
“Then look! Now!”
Roland opened his eyes, and he saw the frame of the porch stamped in the turf, ghostly on the black hill.