The Paradise War (18 page)

Like a man in a dream, who realizes he
is
after all in a dream, I understood then that I had crossed over.

Oh, dear God, now what?

I sat down on the ground, drew my knees up, and hugged them against my chest. I rocked back and forth for a long time, my eyes closed, hoping, I think, that when I opened my eyes again the cairn would be there and I would be back in the place I had left.

My head ached. My throat burned. I felt miserable, lost, and utterly alone. And, as I sat nursing my misery, it occurred to me that the hillside had grown very quiet. No, not grown quiet—it had always been so. And not merely quiet; that is, not just silent—as in the absolute absence of sound—but still, hushed, and peaceful. I heard a world at rest with a deep and natural quiescence. As I sat there, with my arms wrapped around my knees, abject misery slowly metamorphosed into a tranquility that I had never, ever known in the world that I had left behind.

It was the serenity of a world that knew no mechanical thing; no planes, trains, or automobiles; no motors, no engines; no factories, mills, offices, or industry; no telephones, radios, televisions, and no satellites or rockets or space shuttles; no machinery of any kind.

I had never known such complete and perfect peace. In all my life, I had never experienced a single minute of such unblemished serenity. Until that moment, every single second of every single day of my entire existence had been bounded by and hedged about with a manmade, mass-produced noise of some kind.

Even in sleep, I had always sensed relentless engines droning away somewhere—the ticking of a clock, the squeal of wheels in the street, a siren’s shriek, the distant shrill of a train whistle, or the subliminal hum of a fan or furnace. Years ago, I had hiked in the Rockies in southern Colorado, and even standing on the side of a mountain in that deep wilderness I had heard jet planes roaring overhead.

But here, in this place, in this other world, the incessant background noise that so loudly proclaimed mankind’s frenzied endeavors simply did not exist. All was calmness and gentle repose.

This struck me as more miraculous, more incredible, than anything that had happened to me so far. I simply could not believe how immensely peaceful it was. Serenity beyond definition, tranquillity beyond words. The stillness beggared description.

It occurred to me that I had gone deaf—perhaps as a result of the blow to my skull. I cocked my aching head and listened . . . No, luckily I was not deaf. I could hear a gentle breeze sifting among the branches and, from somewhere nearby, the light trill of birdsong.

I rose, somewhat unsteadily, and began making my way down the hill. The air, though cool, was not uncomfortable. I passed among tall trees, walking on fine, new green grass as upon an endless, seamless carpet. Dew glistened underfoot with the gleam of emeralds. It appeared to be spring here, as the trees were leafless still. I stopped to examine some of the nearer branches and saw that they were budding; blossoms and leaves would soon appear.

By the time I reached the bottom of the hill, the sun had risen a little higher. And when the sun broke full above the hills, I actually fell down on my knees: the light was so keen and sharp and brilliant. Tears streamed from my eyes and I thought I might go blind. It was some time before I could see properly again—and then I had to shade my eyes with my hand from time to time, or simply stop and close them to ease the stabbing pain from the too-piercing light.

By dawn’s clear light, I surveyed the land and stood transfixed with amazement: the grass literally gleamed, it was so green. Green!—that was too slight and inconsequential a word for what I saw: a shimmering citrine viridescence, breathtaking in its purity.

The sky was brighter and, I swear, a bolder, cleaner, more translucent blue than I had ever seen—a hue which had more in common with peacocks and lapis lazuli than atmosphere. I stood some moments just staring at the shining sky, drinking in that shocking azure.

In fact, everything I saw seemed brighter and fairer than anything I had known in the real world. It seemed
newer
—or perhaps more finely wrought, immaculate in form and crisply defined.

At the bottom of the hill, I found a brook. I knelt, dipped a hand into the ice-cold water, and lifted a mouthful to my lips. The water tasted alive!—clean and good and life-giving. I cupped both hands and plunged them in, greedily guzzling that sweet elixir down until my fingers became numb from the cold.

I stood slowly, wiping my chin with my sleeve, and gazed around me. I appeared to be standing in a glen surrounded by smooth hills—of which “my hill,” with its mound and standing stone, was but one among many. I thought to go exploring, and thrilled to the thought. A whole world of wonders fresh for the plucking! I could not wait.

I struck out at once along the brookside. I do not know why, but it seemed like a sensible thing to do. Perhaps it would lead somewhere— a village, maybe. Did they even have villages in the Otherworld? I did not know. I knew nothing. Less than nothing.

The Otherworld! Every few seconds I would remember where I was and the awareness would jolt me like a bolt of lightning striking the top of my skull as if it were a weather vane. How was it possible? How could it be? I asked myself over and over. Who could have believed it? Who
would
believe it? I simply could not take it all in at once, so I gave myself over to a sort of slow-motion astonishment. Time and again the utter impossibility of my position exploded in my face; I lurched and staggered from one marvel to another, shell-shocked by sheer transcendent revelatory wonder.

Truly, this was Paradise! A virginal creation, fresh and unspoiled; a world without blemish, whole and clean and undamaged by humankind’s insatiable appetite for destruction. Paradise! I wanted to shout the word from the hilltops. Nothing in my previous life had ever prepared me for this . . . this soul-dazzling harmony of beauty and peace, this fiery blaze of created glory. Like a tidal wave, the miracle of it whelmed me over, submerged me, pummeled me, and left me gasping for air. Paradise!

Despite my somewhat dazed and bedazzled condition, I made fair progress following the stream through the glen. As I walked, I began to make a mental list of everything I saw, a catalog of miracles. In doing so, I soon began comparing this list against everything I had learned of the Otherworld from the old stories and legends I had read in the course of my studies.

I worked at this systematically: animal, vegetable, mineral; people, places, things. Item by item, I built up a picture of the Otherworld as described in Celtic folklore. I do not say it was an accurate picture, or even a very complete one. Indeed, I simply assumed that it was the Celtic Otherworld I had arrived at; it did not occur to me to consider otherwise. Still, it gave me something to do. The effort occupied me a long while. It must have, because when next I stopped and raised my eyes to look around, I saw that the brook had widened somewhat, becoming rocky and shallow as the glen had spread to become a broad meadow between two massive grassy bluffs.

The sun now stood directly overhead. The stream continued on through the meadow to bend away to the west beyond the slope of a hill a few hundred yards further on. The hills on either side of me were wide and round; there were no trees or bushes. It occurred to me that it might be a good idea to climb the nearest hill and reconnoiter. Perhaps I would see something from the hilltop that I could not see from the valley. Wasn’t that what explorers often did?

I turned away from the stream and started up the long, sloping hillside. As I turned, I noticed a smudge of thin, dark cloud in the sky. I stopped. That was not a cloud—it was smoke. Black smoke from a fire. Where there was fire, there were people: a settlement. Most likely I would be able to see it from the top of the hill.

Before I could even think these thoughts, my legs started to run. I hadn’t run very far, however, when I heard a strange, unsettling sound—a rhythmic pounding, a drumming, steady and insistent. And it seemed to be coming from the very earth beneath my feet. It sounded like rolling thunder, or logs tumbling down a dirt bank.

I stopped again and listened. The deep throb grew louder, pulsing in the ground, drumming, drumming. I tried to think what could make such a sound. Horses? If so it must be a stampede—and a strangely orchestrated stampede at that. The beasts must be dancing!

The black smoke curled into the sky, drifting above the hilltop on the breeze. There was more of it now. I stood motionless: listening to the strange earth-borne rumbling sound, watching the smoke, absolutely mystified.

Then I saw something I had only read about in ancient texts: the sudden appearance of a bristling forest of ash saplings. Trees springing spontaneously into existence along the hilltop!

The image, though apt, was a poetic euphemism. I knew well what it was.

Before I could think what to do, the warriors themselves appeared. The throbbing pulse in the earth and air was the booming of their war drums and the pounding of their feet. The smoke trail in the sky was from the burning firebrands in their hands.

They ranged themselves all along the hilltop. There must have been a hundred or more. Some held huge oblong shields and swords, some flaming torches and spears, some rode horses, some advanced on foot, and others rode in chariots. Most were naked, or nearly so. They crested the hill and halted.

I figured they had come for me. I figured they would have me too. Here I was, a stranger in a strange land, lost, defenseless. I would not make much of a fight for a troop that large. But how did they know I was here?

I stood stock-still, stupidly trying to reason my way through this absurd situation, when there arose a tremendous bellow—as if a thousand mad bulls had begun to roar at once. A piercing, full-blooded clarion call; a sound to turn the bowels to water and scoop the hearer hollow. BWLERWMMM! BWLERWMMM! BWLERWMMM! BWLERWMMM!

The hideous clamor stung the ear and bludgeoned the brain; it twisted the nerves into limp threads, useless as soggy string. I pressed my hands over my ears and scanned the hilltop to discover the source of this phenomenal noise.

I saw twenty men holding enormous curving horns to their lips; these mighty instruments produced the sense-benumbing sound. It came to me then what these instruments were: the fabled battle horns of the Banshee. The
Beahn Sidhe
, the traditional dwellers of the Other-world, were reputed to possess war trumpets of such terrible power that, when sounded, they could turn an enemy to stone. I understood now that this was a far from figurative boast. I myself actually felt as if I were cemented to the ground in catatonic terror. My legs were as dense and unfeeling as concrete posts.

This unearthly bellow continued for a few moments and was quickly bolstered by the clash and clamor of spear and sword on rim of shield, as all the warriors began banging away with their weapons. And the drums beat a steady thunder all the while. The clamor filled the air, filled the glen. In that once-serene world, it sounded as if the very hills were shaking themselves to dirt clods.

The din grew to a skull-splitting cacophony, whereupon it ceased.

The echo of its sudden cessation lingered long in the glen; I could hear it pealing away through the empty hills like the crack of doom. The warriors stood poised on the rim of the hill in the unnatural calm created by their abrupt silence. Then they lofted their weapons and, with a mighty shout, flew down the hillside toward me.

It happened so fast, I stumbled back in fright and slid down the hill. I lay sprawling in the grass, scrambling backwards crablike over the smooth stones and into the cold stream.

The warriors raced screaming down the hill, swords and spears flashing, firebrands flaring, drums booming, battle horns blaring. They were still too far away for me to be able to make out their faces, but I could see the bright blue designs painted on their bodies in the manner of Celtic warriors of old—which, in a way, they were.

A preposterous thought thrust itself into my head: maybe I could hide. I glanced wildly right and left. Hope died before it could draw breath. Not one stone proved big enough to conceal me. I would have to run for it.

I leapt to my feet and thrashed across the stream to the other side, making for the hillside opposite. My only salvation lay in outrunning the pursuit.

Amazingly, I ran faster than I could have believed. My legs seemed longer, my stride swifter and surer, than ever before. I sailed over the ground, my feet hardly touching the earth. Wind in my face, my hair streaming. I flew!

And then I stopped. Directly ahead, flying down the slope in full plummet toward me, rushed another line of warriors—every ounce the equal of the first. These, like those behind me, advanced with staggering speed. Caught between two swift armies, like a fly between two crashing cymbals, I turned and dashed back to the stream where I hunkered down, breathless, beside the water. There was no escape.

The first warriors had nearly reached me. I could see their stern, manly faces now. If I had ever nurtured any notions of nobility, bravery, courage, dignity, or the like, these exalted qualities were embodied in the faces I saw. Clear-eyed, firm-jawed, virile, strong, and proud— they were the living embodiments of every red-blooded boy’s childhood fantasy of glorious manhood: heroism incarnate.

That they were going to kill me seemed a thing of piddling consequence. Dear lord, but they were handsome!