The guards on the quay were old men or else wounded veterans who lived with their families in the huts. The men watched me approach, then barred my path with rusty spears.
“My name is Lord Derfel,” I said, 'and I demand passage.“ The guard commander, a shabby man in an ancient iron breastplate and a mildewed leather helmet, bowed to me. ”I am not empowered to stop you passing, Lord Derfel,“ he said, 'but I cannot let you return.” His men, astonished that anyone would voluntarily travel to the Isle, gaped at me.
“Then I shall pass,” I said, and the spearmen moved aside as the guard commander shouted at them to man the small ferryboat. “Do many ask to pass this way?” I asked the commander.
“A few,” he said. “Some are tired of living; some think they can rule an isle of mad people. Few have ever lived long enough to beg me to let them out again.”
“Did you let them out?” I asked.
“No,” he said curtly. He watched as oars were brought from one of the huts, then he frowned at me. “Are you sure, Lord?” he asked.
“I'm sure.”
He was curious, but dared not ask my business. Instead he helped me down the slippery steps of the quay and handed me into the pitch-blackened boat. “The rowers will let you through the first gate,” he told me, then pointed further along the causeway that lay at the far side of the narrow channel. “After that you'll come to a second wall, then a third at the causeway's end. There are no gates in those walls, just steps across. You'll likely meet no dead souls between the walls, but after that? The Gods only know. Do you truly want to go?”
“Have you never been curious?” I asked him.
“We're permitted to carry food and dead souls as far as the third wall and I've no wish to go farther,” he said grimly. “I'll reach the bridge of swords to the Otherworld in my own time, Lord.” He jerked his chin towards the causeway. “Cruachan's Cave lies beyond the Isle, Lord, and only fools and desperate men seek death before their time.”
“I have reasons,” I said, 'and I shall see you again in this world of the living."
“Not if you cross the water, Lord.”
I stared at the isle's green and white slope that loomed above the causeway's walls. “I was in a death-pit once,” I told the guard commander, 'and I crawled from there as I shall crawl from here.“ I fished in my pouch and found a coin to give him. ”We shall discuss my leaving when the time comes."
“You're a dead man, Lord,” he warned me one last time, 'the very moment you cross that channel."
“Death doesn't know how to take me,” I said with foolish bravado, then ordered the oarsmen to row me across the swirling channel. It took only a few strokes, then the boat grounded on a bank of shelving mud and we climbed to the archway in the first wall where the two oarsmen lifted the bar, pulled the gates aside and stood back to let me pass. A black threshold marked the divide between this world and the next. Once over that slab of blackened timber I was counted as a dead man. For a second my fears made me hesitate, then I stepped across.
The gates crashed shut behind me. I shivered.
I turned to examine the inner face of the main wall. It was ten feet high, a barrier of smooth stone laid as clean as any Roman work and so well made that not a single handhold showed on its white face. A ghost-fence of skulls topped the wall to keep the dead souls from the world of the living. I said prayers to the Gods. I said one to Bel, my special protector, and another to Manawydan, the Sea God who had saved Nimue in the past, and then I walked on down the causeway to where the second wall barred the road. This wall was a crude bank of sea-smoothed stones that were, like the first wall, topped with a line of human skulls. I went down the steps on the wall's farther side. To my right, the west, the great waves crashed against the shingle, while to my left the shallow bay lay calm under the sun. A few fishing boats worked the bay, but all were staying well clear of the Isle. Ahead of me was the third wall. I could see no man or woman waiting there. Gulls soared above me, their cries forlorn in the west wind. The causeway's sides were edged with tide lines of dark sea wrack. I was frightened. In the years since Arthur had returned to Britain I had faced countless shield-walls and unnumbered men in battle, yet at none of those fights, not even in burning Benoic, had I felt a fear like the cold that gripped my heart now. I stopped and turned to stare at Dumnonia's soft green hills and the small fishing village in the eastern bay. Go back now, I thought, go back! Nimue had been here one whole year and I doubted if many souls survived that long in the Isle of the Dead unless they were both savage and powerful. And even if I found her, she would be mad. She could not leave here. This was her kingdom, death's dominion. Go back, I urged myself, go back, but then the scar on my left palm pulsed and I told myself that Nimue lived.
A cackling howl startled me. I turned to see a black, ragged figure caper on the third wall's summit, then the figure disappeared down the wall's farther side and I prayed to the Gods to give me strength. Nimue had always known she would suffer the Three Wounds, and the scar on my left hand was her surety that I would help her survive the ordeals. I walked on.
I climbed the third wall, which was another bank of smooth grey stones, and saw a flight of crude steps leading down to the Isle. At the foot of the steps lay some empty baskets; evidently the means whereby the living delivered bread and salted meat to their dead relatives. The ragged figure had vanished, leaving only the towering hill above me and a tangle of brambles either side of a stony road that led to the Isle's western flank, where I could just see a group of ruined buildings at the base of the great hill. The Isle was a huge place. It would take a man two hours to walk from the third wall to where the sea seethed at the Isle's southern tip, and as much time again to climb up over the spine of the great rock to cross from the Isle's western to its eastern coast.
I followed the road. Wind rustled the sea grass beyond the brambles. A bird screamed at me then soared on outspread white wings into the sunny sky. The road turned so that I was walking directly towards the ancient town. It was a Roman town, but no Glevum or Durnovaria, merely a squalid huddle of low stone buildings where once the quarry slaves had lived. The buildings' roofs were crude thatches made from driftwood and dry seaweed, poor shelters even for the dead. Fear of what lay in the town made me falter, then a sudden voice shouted in warning and a stone sailed out of the scrub up the slope to my left and clattered on the road beside me. The warning provoked a swarm of ragged creatures to scuttle out of the huts to see who approached their settlement. The swarm was composed of men and women, mostly in rags, but some wore their rags with an air of grandeur and walked towards me as though they were the greatest monarchs on earth. Their hair was crowned with wreaths of seaweed. A few of the men carried spears and nearly all the people clutched stones. Some of them were naked. There were children among them; small, feral and dangerous children. Some of the adults shook uncontrollably, others twitched, and all watched me with bright, hungry eyes.