Chapter One: Honoring the Intent
Old beyond memory, carved from the earth by fists of ancient glacial ice, the Valley of Gwaun rests at the mouth of the River Abergwaun, beneath the shadow of Carn Ingli, the Mountain of Angels. The hills bear traces of primal forests, with ruins of sacred henges and ancient stone buildings scattered among them. The folk of the Valley are a hardy and resourceful lot, adhering to the Old Ways, aiding neighbor or stranger as needed, and respecting those seeking sanctuary in a place so shrouded in solitude.
Cleaving to the top of one such hill, encircled by birch groves shivering pale against the surrounding heath, stand the remains of a fortress dating back to those times when the Romans came in conquest. A solitary man, Gareth Islwyn, dwells there, his weathered face hewn and lined by weather and age, marked by fog gray eyes that look away into the past. As is the custom, the people of the Valley refer to him simply as “Gareth the Healer”. They consider him fey, kin to the Tlwyth, “The Good People”, believing he is beloved by the Deities of the Otherworld. No one is quite certain of his true age. Small in stature, slight of build, wiry and tough as a tree root, he stands resilient as the birches, belying his years. Thick gray hair threaded with copper, pulled into a long thick plait, runs down his back, contrasting with skin darkened not only by the sun but also by the distant bloodline of those early Roman conquerors. All in the Valley know him well, and are accustomed to seeing him trekking the hills gathering healing plants and elements, tending his hives and gardens, or sitting for countless hours among the trees, creating exquisite, ethereal carvings in wood and stone, his dogs lolling at his feet.
Many stories are told about him -- that he was once a fierce and courageous warrior grown weary of the trials of battle -- a wanderer who traveled the world seeking adventure, wealth and glory -- a scholar of profound intellect who studied with Masters of healing, magic, and spiritual teaching. Those who have known him longest claim all the stories are true -- at least in part. Interwoven into every aspect of daily life of the Valley folk, his presence is a haven of comfort in times of sorrow and tribulation. In times of celebration, there is no one more filled with joyous abandon than he. Always welcomed in any home, his songs and stories are eagerly anticipated by all, his wonderful carvings grace the mantle of every hearth, his healing balms and medicines are highly prized and relied upon, and his sage council is sought whenever there is conflict or sickness. Any receiving the benefit of his nurturing accept this blessing with glad hearts, recognizing a connection through him to the soul’s forgotten desire, the unspoken yearning to be cherished and sheltered by a kind and loving Guardian.
In the spiritual tradition of the Valley, he honors the Christ for His sacrifice, and loves the Blessed Virgin for Her gentle faith and intervention, respecting these as profound manifestations of more ancient Deities and the deepest ways of Magic, the Old Ways that he follows. This balance of sacred truths is the core of his strength. Loved and respected as a Knowing One, and skilled Healer, he has tended the sick and the wounded, both man and beast, for generations, sheltering those most desolate in body, mind, and spirit. Though prepared always to guide and honor the final breath and soul’s release of the dying, he fights with unflinching ferocity for any still clinging to life, doing battle with death. Possessing an inner vision to perceive those with magic in their deepest nature, he knows full well that witches and wizards are not tales but truth. He does not have a wizard’s power, but has always acknowledged and accepted its existence. Over many years, gifted with an innate sensitivity, he has developed the ability to touch a patient and enter carefully into their mind to understand fully suffering of both body and soul, a skill that has enabled him to save many who might otherwise have been lost. Always he honors the Source from which this gift comes, and on those rare occasions when he has encountered true wizard folk, he has been exhilarated and awed, but never shocked or fearful.
Gareth was therefore not alarmed, but greatly intrigued, as he tended his hives shortly after dawn on a mist shrouded May morning, to see appear a group of individuals whose magic was immediately evident to him. They simply… arrived, with a sharp crack, like rock splitting asunder, and to his eyes, their magic shown as light around them. He recognized the presence of both witch and wizard.
There were three. One a regal woman in dark tartan robes, a witch whose dignity was as a shield before her, the eyes behind her spectacles exhibiting sharp intelligence but deep sorrow, standing stalwart as a lioness guarding and watching. Close behind her towered an enormous man, around whom storytellers would have woven mythic tales -- tall and broad as an ancient oak, with hair and beard thick and wild as the brush which tangles at the base of mountains. Standing quietly with tears streaming down his face, he carried the third person in his arms with infinite gentleness. His massive strength seemed barely restrained, his tear reddened eyes sweeping the surrounding hills as if ready to do battle in defense of the burden he carried.
The Healer focused keenly on this third person -- pale as the sharp edge of a translucent shell shattered on the shore by a punishing tide, deathly still, slight as a youth in those huge arms, without defense other than the shelter they provided. Long oily black hair matted with blood and sweat fell across his brow, veiling the harsh features of a hawk, the gaunt face without expression, blank as silent stone. No light or power emanated from him, only the rising darkness of impending death. His limp form was clothed in long black robes bearing the violent stains of a terrible struggle, with the white of a loosened collar, soaked with crimson, evident at the blackened, swollen throat.
Silently and swiftly, the group approached. Solemnly the witch inquired, “You are Gareth Islwyn, the Healer?”
Bowing slightly, as if in ceremony, he responded, “I am Gareth Islwyn.”
Riveting his eyes with her own, she answered. “Your name spoken by another acknowledges true self. Speaking your own name affirms true self.”
Gareth nodded. “That is the Old Way. How then shall I acknowledge you?”
Standing arrow straight, she responded in a voice resonant with authority. “I am Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration.”
The giant bowed his shaggy head and replied more softly than one would have imagined possible. “I am Rubeus Hagrid, Professor of Care of Magical Creatures.” Gareth inclined his head in respectful welcome, sensing only the most basic information was being offered, and a great deal more was not.
Directing his gaze to the silent figure in Hagrid’s arms, the Healer queried softly, “What name acknowledges this man, whom Death seeks?” Gesturing towards the surrounding heath, he continued. “Corpse candles flickered on our hills last night, foretelling his coming, with Death at his side.”
Hagrid began to protest, but was silenced by a look from the elder witch as she cautioned, “His name must not be spoken”. Hearing a gasp of horror from Hagrid, she gently admonished him. “No, Hagrid, not to shun him, only to protect him.” Her eyes shadowed and troubled, she fixed her gaze on the motionless man in his arms. “We will not speak his name for fear of losing him forever.”
Turning her face to Gareth, she continued, her voice constricted. “He lives, though we scarcely believed it when we found him. Whether through Dark Arts, by some unknown protection, or both, we are unsure. He is gravely wounded, afflicted by the venom of a cursed snake, an awful creature which served an evil master.” As she spoke, Hagrid lowered himself onto a low stone wall, sheltering his burden with abject concern, tears still coursing down his cheeks. The witch, her face grim, knelt beside him, taking the lifeless hand of the pale man into hers, as if seeking assurance that some vestige of life still lingered within him.
Stepping closer to kneel in front of them, the Healer extended his own hands, looking up into Hagrid’s anguished eyes. “I ask permission to touch his thoughts.” Focusing on those bright eyes swimming with tears, Gareth recognized in this great guardian of creatures wild and magical, a compassionate forgiving spirit, and simple wisdom. He waited with hands outstretched, until with a nod of the great shaggy head, permission was granted.
Softly the Healer placed his hands, one on the heart, and the other on the dank brow of the pale wizard. After only a few moments, he pulled back, his own face ashen and drawn. “Terrible pain… raging in darkness… his mind struggles to close around him in protection… his suffering approaches madness… ” Gareth paused momentarily, gathering strength, before standing abruptly. “You must bring him inside immediately.”
Hagrid rose carefully, muttering through his tears to the haggard man in his arms, as though to a wounded creature of the forest. “Yeh jus’ weren’t ever quite right, were yeh… wouldn’t let nobody close to yeh… lonely, bitter ol’ dragon in yer dungeon… jus’ never right… ” His voice trailed away as Minerva reached up, gently touching his shoulder offering comfort.
Gareth swiftly led them into the restored tower of the ancient fortress -- up steeply winding stone steps to an immaculate and peaceful room, its walls lined with shelves and cupboards, with a low bed placed under a small window looking out over the Valley. Hagrid would not relinquish his burden, though he struggled to enter through the narrow door and up the twisting steps, not until he had gently laid the comatose man on the bed. Gareth observed respectfully as for the first time a wand appeared, the witch speaking soft incantations, placing protective wards upon the room, with Hagrid close beside her. The Healer felt the full presence and force of her magic, and silently placed his own blessing charm upon the room.
Hurrying from the room for a moment, he hastily returned with a large earthen basin of steaming water, in which pungent herbs were steeping. He then turned to Hagrid and Minerva. “These robes must be removed, and all blood and venom thoroughly cleaned away.”
The witch glanced at Hagrid, hesitant and anxious. “He rarely permitted anyone to touch him, even those he knew. He detested being fussed over.” Her tone was brusque, attempting to mask her emotion. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she wiped them away fiercely. “He was so fastidious about his robes, but his hair was always such a… ”
Her voice broke, and it was Hagrid reaching now to comfort her. “I’ll do this part, Minerva. He’ll not know it was me, and even if he does, still it’s the best thing I do, carin’ for wounded creatures… ’specially the ones that snap and bite ‘cause they’re hurt so much.”
Hagrid looked over to Gareth. “Let me do this for ‘im, and when he’s cleaned up some, I’ll call for yeh. If his eyes were to open, at least it’d be me he’d see. Might make ‘im angry enough to bring ‘im round.” His attempt at a chuckle cracked in his throat. “Take Minerva downstairs then, would yeh, while I tend to ‘im? She’s about to drop ‘erself.” He moved towards the bed, softly keening under his breath, “S’all right then, s’only me, and I don’t mean to harm yeh… stay quiet ol’ dragon and don’ snap at me… s’only Hagrid… yeh know me… ”
Gareth guided Minerva from the room, back down the steep winding steps. Reaching the bottom, she swayed, shivering with exhaustion. Steadying her, the Healer led her to sit by the fire, moving away to pour strong black tea, laced with a healthy dose of whiskey. Handing the cup to her, and cradling another in his leathered hands, he spoke softly. “Now, you must tell me, who is this man you have brought to me, and why, for in truth I do not know if I can heal him. I may only be able to ease his death.”
Sighing deeply after taking a restoring swallow from her cup, Minerva hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “We know of those in the non-wizarding world, what we call the Muggle world, who still honor the Old Magic, those of you willing to shelter and protect one of us should there be the need.”
Gareth absorbed her words in silence before asking, “Why have you not taken him to your own skilled Healers? Surely their knowledge is greater than mine, and they would have far better ability to deal with the illnesses and wounds of wizard folk?”
Minerva carefully set her cup on the low table beside her, and picked up a small wooden box with intricate Celtic runes and knot work on all its surfaces. “Your work?” she asked, and Gareth nodded. Deep in thought, she traced the carvings with her slender wrinkled fingers before continuing. “His story is as complex as these knots, twisting and turning, doubling back onto itself. Much of it I am not yet prepared to share with you. It would be unwise. I will tell you he is a brilliant Potions Master, a powerful wizard with deep knowledge of Dark Arts, fallen in a terrible conflict which ended only a few brief hours ago. For the moment, we do not deem it safe for him in our world -- he must be hidden in yours.”
Silence followed this pronouncement until the Healer asked, “What do you ask of me?”
She looked up then, and locking his eyes with hers, answered without hesitation. “We ask that you shelter him until he returns to Life or passes into Death. You are not to know his true name. There are those who would follow the very sound of it to this place. Those serving Darkness will hunt him, seeking fulfillment in revenge, wanting to subject him to a hideous death in accordance with their Master’s wishes. Many serving the Light would condemn him to imprisonment in a dreadful place, unwilling or unable to comprehend the price he has paid. Only a very few know what is owed him.” Her voice fiercely intent, she demanded, “Gareth Islwyn, do you understand the power of a Life Debt, or the grave commitment of an Unbreakable Vow?”
Rising to her challenge, the Healer responded with equal fervor. “It is not only your people who understand such a Debt and the unfaltering obligation of such a Vow.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across the witch’s face. “My apologies, Healer, for my harshness. I would not require such a Vow from you, but I would ask you to honor the intent. This wizard honored his own Life Debt and fulfilled his own Unbreakable Vows, with great courage. I ask you to trust that our need is honorable and necessary. If you cannot, we will carry him away, and will not trouble you further.”
Now his eyes locked onto hers as he responded with great solemnity. “I am a Knowing One, and Healer. None whom I may have the ability to heal leaves my home unless they wish it. None shall ever be dragged by force from my home to die alone in suffering. I must do as you ask, or betray my own nature. You have my word.” Their eyes remained fastened, each understanding that an unprecedented Vow now bridged the gap between Magical and Muggle.
Gareth broke the profound silence. “He must be named, even if the name is not his true one. He may not respond to this name at first, but its sound will sooth him as he comes to associate my voice with relief from pain. Something in the old tongue would do well. This man is valuable to you.” A strange expression flickered across the witch’s face before she nodded. “And you have spoken of his courage. Neirin in the old tongue means “treasured” and Maldwyn “courageous friend”. Let the name Neirin Maldwyn be his while he remains here.”
Minerva gave a sadly wry smile. “Oh, I can just hear him! ‘How pretentious and loathsomely sentimental.’, but it bears no resemblance to his true name, so it should help to keep him hidden.”
She looked over at Hagrid, bending low to enter the room, shaking his great shaggy head in dismay. “There’s no wakin’ ‘im. I near smothered ‘im in blankets and quilts, but he’s so wretched cold he don’ even shiver. He moaned once when I was washin’ the blood and all from the wound on ‘is neck, but so faint I hardly heard ‘im. ‘Twas a pitiful sound… the lonely ol’ dragon’s got no fire in ‘im… ”
“And the bleeding?” the Healer asked, moving across the room to the staircase.
“Thas’ stopped, but maybe ‘cause there’s hardly any blood left in ‘im.” Hagrid bowed his head, and having no task now to occupy him, again began to shed great tears.
Stepping to his side, Minerva directed Hagrid towards the outer door. “We must leave quickly before we are missed. There is so much to be done, and many dreadful situations still to be dealt with. We must devise a reason for the absence of his body. He should have died almost immediately from that cursed wound, and when he can’t be found there will be those from both sides of this War seeking him, all with their own purpose and intent, for good or ill.”
Gareth nodded thoughtfully. “I have observed terrible curses placed before by certain of your folk, and some of mine as well. When I touched his thoughts, his mind was wandering between the Worlds, his soul a guttering flame -- but he is still fighting, with amazing ferocity for one so broken… I will endeavor to heal his body, but a shattered mind and abandoned soul are another matter. He may remain a Wanderer for weeks, months, even years. If I succeed in reversing the effects of this venom, he may wake… if he chooses… and if he is able. If he is held there by Dark Arts, you will have to reveal much more to me, or we cannot reach him.”
Minerva looked away, her face pinched with weariness. “There is nothing simple about the situation. But be assured, we will abandon neither of you.” Hagrid, his eyes set with grim determination, the tears dried upon his face, nodded his agreement.
As Hagrid negotiated his way outside, preparing for departure, Minerva hesitated, and then motioning for Gareth to accompany her, climbed rapidly again to the room above. Crossing to the bed, the elder witch knelt beside it. The Healer watched in shock as she lowered her head into her hands, openly weeping, for the first time appearing frail and aged. He stepped quickly to her side gravely concerned, and was stunned when she raised her face to him, her eyes streaming tears. “I cursed him, Healer, as a coward and murderer. Only a few hours ago, I raised my wand against him, and he fled.”
“Was it you who did this?” he challenged in horror, motioning to the unconscious man.
“No, not this, never this… but I would gladly have seen him dead at my feet,” she answered.
“But why, when now you ask me to protect him?” Gareth demanded.
Her response was barely audible. “He killed someone I loved.” She turned her eyes to the pale wizard and stretched out her wrinkled hand to touch his marble cheek, her face twisted in misery, speaking to him as though he might respond to her voice. “In spite of yourself, you might have trusted me enough… this is not what he intended… you must have known that… ” She clasped one waxen hand tightly in hers. “Had this happened to one of us, before you cast… before he… died… it would have been you we turned to first for help.”
Gareth stood over her, greatly troubled and confused. Indeed, as she had said, this man’s story was epic in its complexity. He stepped back as Minerva rose stiffly to her feet, and watched as she reached into a pocket hidden in the dark red lining of her robes. From it, she produced an ebony wand, without adornment, stark in its simplicity. Balancing it carefully on the palm of her left hand, she extended it towards the Healer.
“His?” he inquired quietly, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,” she responded, her voice heavy with grief.
In all his years, Gareth had never seen, touched, or held the wand of a true wizard. He made no move to do so now, though it was easily within his grasp. “I may not touch it, you know that.”
Standing with her dignity wrapped around her as encompassing as her robes, she replied, “Forgive me. A final test for you, Gareth Islwyn. If you had reached to take it from my hand, we could not have left him here with you, no matter how great your skills as a Healer.” He nodded in understanding.
“But his wand must remain close to him,” he asserted.
She nodded. “For the time being. Its power may call him, and give him strength.” Gareth moved across the room, stopping in front of a beautifully carved chest of white birch. Kneeling before it, he brought forth a long narrow box of blackest marble, with veining colored in the deepest greens, silvers, and golds running through it. Its surfaces were covered with exquisite carvings of knot work and ancient runes, so intricate and delicate they seemed to shift like a shadow of smoke across its face.
Handing it to Minerva, he said, “I have worked on this piece for nearly twenty years, and have only recently completed it. I sensed it had great purpose, but did not know to what end. That seems evident now.” She carefully took it from his hands, and gently placed the ebony wand inside, a perfect fit.
Before handing it back, she moved to position the beautiful lid in place and suddenly sank onto the edge of the bed, dazed and shaken. Centered on the lid of the box, hidden among the other carvings, following the natural veining and colors of the marble, was the image of a tiny green snake with black eyes, its scales flecked with silver, gently curled around the base of a slender golden lily, as though to protect it. Tracing the image with her thumb, she raised her eyes to the Healer, her face white with shock, and whispered, “You could not have known… ”
He answered quietly, “I carve only what the stone reveals to me. I do not question the meaning.”
The elder witch took a deep breath, gathering her composure, and rose to place the box into his hands. “Protect this wand, and its wizard. We will return soon, and try to do more.” Suddenly, to his amazement, she stepped nearer and for the briefest instant embraced him, whispering, “Thank you, Gareth Islwyn”. Turning back to the bed, she looked down at the man who lay there. Her lips moved silently, and the Healer understood she spoke neither charm nor spell, but rather the most ancient of all prayers, a simple entreaty to the Divine to show mercy. After a moment, she hurried from the room, not looking back. He moved to stand at the end of the bed, where he could watch from the window, and in an instant heard the sharp crack of Apparation, and saw the two vanish, leaving the third behind.
In His Name by Moira of the Mountain
Chapter Notes: MInerva and Hagrid carry their fallen comrade to a place of safety.