WINTER SOLSTICE
                                 by Mike Resnick  

  

     It is not easy to live backwards in time, even when you are 
Merlin the Magnificent. You would think it would be otherwise, 
that you would remember all the wonders of the future, but those 
memories grow dim and fade more quickly than you might suppose. I 
know that Gallahad will win his duel tomorrow, but already the 
name of his son has left me. In fact, does he even have a son? 
Will he live long enough to pass on his noble blood? I think 
perhaps he may, I think that I have held his grandchild upon my 
knee, but I am not sure. It is all slipping away from me. 
     Once I knew all the secrets of the universe. With no more 
than a thought I could bring Time to a stop, reverse it in its 
course, twist it around my finger like a piece of string. By force 
of will alone I could pass among the stars and the galaxies. I 
could create life out of nothingness, and turn living, breathing 
worlds into dust. 
     Time passed -- though not the way it passes for you -- and I 
could no longer do these things. But I could isolate a DNA 
molecule and perform microsurgery on it, and I could produce the 
equations that allowed us to traverse the wormholes in space, and 
I could plot the orbit of an electron. 
     Still more time slipped away, and although these gifts 
deserted me, I could create penicillin out of bread mold, and 
comprehend both the General and Special Theories of Relativity, 
and I could fly between the continents. 
     But all that has gone, and I remember it as one remembers a 
dream, on those occasions I can remember it at all. There was -- 
there someday will be, there may come to you -- a disease of the 
aged, in which you lose portions of your mind, pieces of your 
past, thoughts you've thought and feelings you've felt, until all 
that's left is the primal _id_, screaming silently for warmth and 
nourishment. You see parts of yourself vanishing, you try to pull 
them back from oblivion, you fail, and all the while you realize 
what is happening to you until even that perception, that 
realization, is lost. I will weep for you in another millennia, 
but now your lost faces fade from my memory, your desperation 
recedes from the stage of my mind, and soon I will remember 
nothing of you. Everything is drifting away on the wind, eluding 
my frantic efforts to clutch it and bring it back to me. 
     I am writing this down so that someday someone -- possibly 
even _you_ -- will read it and will know that I was a good and 
moral man, that I did my best under circumstances that a more 
compassionate God might not have forced upon me, that even as 
events and places slipped away from me, I did not shirk my duties, 
I served my people as best I could. 
     They come to me, my people, and they say, It hurts, Merlin. 
They say, Cast a spell and make the pain go away. They say, My 
baby burns with fever, and my milk has dried up. Do something, 
Merlin, they say; you are the greatest wizard in the kingdom, the 
greatest wizard who has ever lived. Surely you can do something. 
     Even Arthur seeks me out. The war goes badly, he confides to 
me; the heathen fight against baptism, the knights have fallen to 
battling amongst themselves, he distrusts his queen. He reminds me 
that I am his personal wizard, that I am his most trusted friend, 
that it was I who taught him the secret of Excalibur (but that was 
many years ago, and of course I know nothing of it yet). I look at 
him thoughtfully, and though I know an Arthur who is bent with age 
and beaten down by the caprices of Fate, an Arthur who has lost 
his Guinevere and his Round Table and all his dreams of Camelot, I 
can summon no compassion, no sympathy for this young man who is 
speaking to me. He is a stranger, as he will be yesterday, as he 
will be last week. 
     An old woman comes to see me in the early afternoon. Her arm 
is torn and miscolored, the stench of it makes my eyes water, the 
flies are thick around her. 
     I cannot stand the pain any longer, Merlin, she weeps. It is 
like childbirth, but it does not go away. You are my only hope, 
Merlin. Cast your mystic spell, charge me what you will, but make 
the pain cease. 
     I look at her arm, where the badger has ripped it with his 
claws, and I want to turn my head away and retch. I finally force 
myself to examine it. I have a sense that I need something, I am 
not sure what, something to attach to the front of my face, or if 
not my whole face then at least across my nose and mouth, but I 
cannot recall what it is. 
     The arm is swollen to almost twice its normal size, and 
although the wound is halfway between her elbow and her shoulder, 
she shrieks in agony when I gently manipulate her fingers. I want 
to give her something for her pain. Vague visions come to mind, 
images of something long and slender and needlelike flash briefly 
before my eyes. There must be something I can do, I think, 
something I can give her, some miracle that I employed when I was 
younger and the world was older, but I can no longer remember what 
it is. 
     I must do more than mask her pain, this much I still know, 
for infection has set in. The smell becomes stronger as I probe 
and she screams. _Gang_, I think suddenly: the word for her 
condition begins with _gang_ -- but there is another syllable and 
I cannot recall it, and even if I could recall it I can no longer 
cure it. 
     But she must have some surcease from her agony, she believes 
in my powers and she is suffering and my heart goes out to her. I 
mumble a chant, half-whispering and half-singing. She thinks I am 
calling up my ethereal servants from the Netherworld, that I am 
bringing my magic to bear on the problem, and because she needs to 
believe in something, in _anything_, because she is suffering such 
agony, I do not tell her that what I am really saying is God, just 
this one time, let me remember. Once, years, eons from now, I 
could have cured her; give me back the knowledge just for an hour, 
even for a minute. I did not ask to live backward in Time, but it 
is my curse and I have willingly borne it -- but don't let this 
poor old woman die because of it. Let me cure her, and then You 
can ransack my mind and take back my memories. 
     But God does not answer, and the woman keeps screaming, and 
finally I gently plaster mud on the wound to keep the flies away. 
There should be medicine too, it comes in bottles -- (_bottles?_ 
Is that the right word?) -- but I don't know how to make it, I 
don't even remember its color or shape or texture, and I give the 
woman a root, and mutter a spell over it, and tell her to sleep 
with it between her breasts and to believe in its healing powers 
and soon the pain will subside. 
     She believes me -- there is no earthly reason why she should, 
but I can see in her eyes that she does -- and then she kisses my 
hands and presses the root to her bosom and wanders off, and 
somehow, for some reason, she _does_ seem to be in less 
discomfort, though the stench of the wound lingers long after she 
has gone. 
     Then it is Lancelot's turn. Next week or next month he will 
slay the Black Knight, but first I must bless his sword. He talks 
of things we said to each other yesterday, things of which I have 
no recollection, and I think of things we will say to each other 
tomorrow. 
     I stare into his dark brown eyes, for I alone know his 
secret, and I wonder if I should tell Arthur. I know they will 
fight a war over it, but I do not remember if I am the catalyst or 
if Guenivere herself confesses her infidelities, and I can no 
longer recall the outcome. I concentrate and try to see the 
future, but all I see is a city of towering steel and glass 
structures, and I cannot see Arthur or Lancelot anywhere, and then 
the image vanishes, and I still do not know whether I am to go to 
Arthur with my secret knowledge or keep my silence. 
     I realize that it has all happened, that the Round Table and 
the knights and even Arthur will soon be dust no matter what I say 
or do, but they are living forward in Time and this is of 
momentous import to them, even though I have watched it all pass 
and vanish before my eyes. 
     Lancelot is speaking now, wondering about the strength of his 
faith, the purity of his virtue, filled with self-doubt. He is not 
afraid to die at the hands of the Black Knight, but he is afraid 
to face his God if the reason for his death lies within himself. I 
continue to stare at him, this man who daily feels the bond of our 
friendship growing stronger while I daily find that I know him 
less and less, and finally I lay a hand on his shoulder and assure 
him that he will be victorious, that I have had a vision of the 
Black Knight lying dead upon the field of battle as Lancelot 
raises his bloody sword in victorious triumph. 
     Are you sure, Merlin, he asks doubtfully. 
     I tell him that I am sure. I could tell him more, tell him 
that I have seen the future, that I am losing it as quickly as I 
am learning the past, but he has problems of his own -- and so, I 
realize, have I, for as I know less and less I must pave the way 
for that youthful Merlin who will remember nothing at all. It is 
_he_ that I must consider -- I speak of him in the third person, 
for I know nothing of him, and he can barely remember me, nor will 
he know Arthur or Lancelot or even the dark and twisted Modred -- 
for as each of my days passes and Time continues to unwind, he 
will be less able to cope, less able to define even the problems 
he will face, let alone the solutions. I must give him a weapon 
with which to defend himself, a weapon that he can use and 
manipulate no matter how little he remembers of me, and the weapon 
I choose is superstition. Where once I worked miracles that were 
codified in books and natural law, now as their secrets vanish one 
by one, I must replace them with miracles that bedazzle the eye 
and terrify the heart, for only by securing the past can I 
guarantee the future, and I have already lived the future. I hope 
I was a good man, I would like to think I was, but I do not know. 
I examine my mind, I try to probe for weaknesses as I probe my 
patients' bodies, searching for sources of infection, but I am 
only the sum of my experience, and my experience has vanished and 
I will have to settle for hoping that I disgraced neither myself 
nor my God. 
     After Lancelot leaves I get to my feet and walk around the 
castle, my mind filled with strange images, fleeting pictures that 
seem to make sense until I concentrate on them and then I find 
them incomprehensible. There are enormous armies clashing, armies 
larger than the entire populace of Arthur's kingdom, and I know 
that I have seen them, I have actually stood on the battlefield, 
perhaps I even fought for one side or the other, but I do not 
recognize the colors they are wearing, and they use weaponry that 
seems like magic, _true_ magic, to me. 
     I remember huge spacefaring ships, ships that sail the 
starways with neither canvas nor masts, and for a moment I think 
that this must surely be a dream, and then I seem to find myself 
standing at a small window, gazing out at the stars as we rush by 
them, and I see the rocky surfaces and swirling colors of distant 
worlds, and then I am back in the castle, and I feel a tremendous 
sense of poignancy and loss, as if I know that even the dream will 
never visit me again. 
     I decide to concentrate, to force myself to remember, but no 
images come to me, and I begin to feel like a foolish old man. Why 
am I doing this, I wonder. It was a dream and not a memory, for 
everyone knows that the stars are nothing but lights that God uses 
to illuminate the night sky, and they are tacked onto a cloak of 
black velvet, and the moment I realize this, I can no longer even 
recall what the starfaring ships looked like, and I know that soon 
I will not even remember that I once dreamed of them. 
     I continued to wander the castle, touching familiar objects 
to reassure myself: this pillar was here yesterday, it will be 
here tomorrow, it is eternal, it will be here forever. I find 
comfort in the constancy of physical things, things that are not 
as ephemeral as my memories, things that cannot be ripped from the 
Earth as easily as my past has been ripped from me. I stop before 
the church and read a small plaque. It is written in French, and 
it says that _This Church was_ something _by Arthur, King of the 
Britains._ The fourth word makes no sense to me, and this 
distresses me, because I have always been able to read the plaque 
before, and then I remember that tomorrow morning I will ask Sir 
Hector whether the word means _built_ or _constructed_, and he 
will reply that it means dedicated, and I will know that for the 
rest of my life. 
     But now I feel a sense of panic, because I am not only losing 
images and memories, I am actually losing words, and I wonder if 
the day will come when people will speak to me and I will 
understand nothing of what they are saying and will merely stare 
at them in mute confusion, my eyes as large and gentle and devoid 
of intelligence as a cow's. I know that all I have lost so far is 
a single French word, but it distresses me, because in the future 
I will speak French fluently, as well as German, and Italian, 
and...and I know there is another language, I will be able to 
speak it and read it and write it, but suddenly it eludes me, and 
I realize that another ability, another memory, yet another 
integral piece of myself has fallen into the abyss, never to be 
retrieved. 
     I turn away from the plaque, and I go back to my quarters, 
looking neither right nor left for fear of seeing some building, 
some artifact that has no place in my memory, something that reeks 
of permanence and yet is unknown to me, and I find a scullery maid 
waiting for me. She is young and very pretty, and I will know her 
name tomorrow, will roll it around on my mouth and marvel at the 
melody it makes even coming forth from my old lips, but I look at 
her and the fact dawns upon me that I cannot recall who she is. I 
hope I have not slept with her -- I have a feeling that as I grow 
younger I will commit more than my share of indiscretions -- only 
because I do not wish to hurt her feelings, and there is no 
logical way to explain to her than I cannot remember her, that the 
ecstacies of last night and last week and last year are still 
unknown to me. 
     But she is not here as a lover, she has come as a supplicant, 
she had a child, a son, who is standing in the shadows behind my 
door, and now she summons him forth and he hobbles over to me. I 
look down at him, and I see that he is a clubfoot: his ankle is 
misshapen, his foot is turned inward, and he is very obviously 
ashamed of his deformity. 
     Can you help him, asks the scullery maid; can you make him 
run like other little boys? I will give you everything I have, 
anything you ask, if you can make him like the other children. 
     I look at the boy, and then at his mother, and then once more 
at the boy. He is so very young, he has seen nothing of the world, 
and I wish that I could do something to help him, but I no longer 
know what to do. There was a time when I knew, there will come a 
time when no child must limp through his life in pain and 
humiliation, I know this is so, I know that someday I will be able 
to cure far worse maladies than a clubfoot, at least I think I 
know this, but all that I know for sure is that the boy was born a 
cripple and will live a cripple and will die a cripple, and there 
is nothing I can do about it. 
     You are crying, Merlin, says the scullery maid. Does the 
sight of my child so offend you? 
     No, I say, it does not offend me. 
     Then why do you cry, she asks. 
     I cry because there is nothing else I can do but cry, I reply. 
I cry for the life your son will never know, and for the life that 
I have forgotten. 
     I do not understand, she says. 
     Nor do I, I answer. 
     Does this mean you will not help my son, she asks. 
     I do not know what it means. I see her face growing older and 
thinner and more bitter, so I know that she will visit me again 
and again, but I cannot see her son at all, and I do not know if I 
will help him, or if I do, exactly _how_ I will help him. I close 
my eyes and concentrate, and try to remember the future. _Is_ 
there a cure? Do men still limp on the Moon? Do old men still weep 
because they cannot help? I try, but it has slipped away again. 
     I must think about this problem, I say at last. Come back 
tomorrow, and perhaps I will have a solution. 
     You mean a spell, she asks eagerly. 
     Yes, a spell, I say. 
     She calls the child to her, and together they leave, and I 
realize that she will come back alone tonight, for I am sure, at 
least I am almost sure, that I will know her name tomorrow. It 
will be Marian, or Miranda, something beginning with an M, or 
possibly Elizabeth. But I think, I am really almost certain, that 
she will return, for her face is more real to me now than it was 
when she stood before me. Or is it that she has not stood before 
me yet? It gets more and more difficult to separate the events 
from the memories, and the memories from the dreams. 
     I concentrate on her face, this Marian or Miranda, and it is 
another face I see, a lovely face with pale blue eyes and high 
cheekbones, a strong jaw and long auburn hair. It meant something 
to me once, this face, I feel a sense of warmth and caring and 
loss when I see it, but I don't know why. I have an instinctive 
feeling that this face meant, will mean, more to me than any 
other, that it will bring me both happiness and sorrow beyond any 
that I've ever known. There is a name that goes with it, it is not 
Marion or Miriam (or is it?), I grasp futilely for it, and the 
more franticly I grasp the more rapidly it recedes. 
     Did I love her, the owner of this face? Will we bring joy and 
comfort to one another, will we produce sturdy, healthy children 
to comfort us in our old age? I don't know, because my old age has 
been spent, and hers is yet to come, and I have forgotten what she 
does not yet know. 
     I concentrate on the image of her face. How will we meet? 
What draws me to you? There must be a hundred little mannerisms, 
foibles as often as virtues, that will endear you to me. Why can I 
not remember a single one of them? How will you live, and how will 
you die? Will I be there to comfort you, and once you're lost, who 
will be there to comfort me? Is it better than I can no longer 
recall the answers to these questions? 
     I feel if I concentrate hard enough, things will come back to 
me. No face was ever so important to me, not even Arthur's, and so 
I block out all other thoughts and close my eyes and conjure up 
her face (yes, _conjure_; I am Merlin, am I not?) -- but now I am 
not so certain that it _is_ her face. Was the jaw thus or so? Were 
her eyes really that pale, her hair that auburn? I am filled with 
doubt, and I imagine her with eyes that were a deeper blue, hair 
that was lighter and shorter, a more delicate nose -- and I 
realize that I have never seen this face before, that I was 
deluded by my self-doubts, that my memory has not failed me 
completely, and I attempt to paint her portrait on the canvas of 
my mind once again, but I cannot, the proportions are wrong, the 
colors are askew, and even so I cling to this approximation, for 
once I have lost it I have lost her forever. I concentrate on the 
eyes, making them larger, bluer, paler, and finally I am pleased 
with them, but now they are in a face that I no longer know, her 
true face as elusive now as her name and her life. 
     I sit back on my chair and I sigh. I do not know how long I 
have been sitting here, trying to remember a face -- a woman's 
face, I think, but I am no longer sure -- when I hear a cough, and 
I look up and Arthur is standing before me. 
     We must talk, my old friend and mentor, he says, drawing up 
his own chair and seating himself on it. 
     Must we, I ask. 
     He nods his head firmly. The Round Table is coming apart, he 
says, his voice concerned. The kingdom is in disarray. 
     You must assert yourself and put it in order, I say, 
wondering what he is talking about. 
     It's not that easy, he says. 
     It never is, I say. 
     I need Lancelot, says Arthur. He is the best of them, and 
after you he is my closest friend and advisor. He thinks I don't 
know what he is doing, but I know, though I pretend not to. 
     What do you propose to do about it, I ask. 
     He turns to me, his eyes tortured. I don't know, he says. I 
love them both, I don't want to bring harm to them, but the 
important thing is not me or Lancelot or the queen, but the Round 
Table. I built it to last for all eternity, and it must survive. 
     Nothing lasts for eternity, I say. 
     Ideals do, he replies with conviction. There is Good and 
there is Evil, and those who believe in the Good must stand up and 
be counted. 
     Isn't that what you have done, I ask. 
     Yes, says Arthur, but until now the choice was an easy one. 
Now I do not know which road to take. If I stop feigning 
ignorance, then I must kill Lancelot and burn the queen at the 
stake, and this will surely destroy the Round Table. He pauses and 
looks at me. Tell me the truth, Merlin, he says, would Lancelot be 
a better king than I? I must know, for if it will save the Round 
Table, I will step aside and he can have it all -- the throne, the 
queen, Camelot. But I must be sure. 
     Who can say what the future holds, I reply. 
     You can, he says. At least, when I was a young man, you told 
me that you could. 
     Did I, I ask curiously. I must have been mistaken. The future 
is as unknowable as the past. 
     But everyone knows the past, he says. It is the future that 
men fear. 
     Men fear the unknown, wherever it may lie, I say. 
     I think that only cowards fear the unknown, says Arthur. When 
I was a young man and I was building the Table, I could not wait 
for the future to arrive. I used to awaken an hour before sunrise 
and lay there in my bed, trembling with excitement, eager to see 
what new triumphs each day would bring me. Suddenly he sighs and 
seems to age before my eyes. But I am not that man anymore, he 
continues after a thoughtful silence, and now I fear the future. I 
fear for Guenivere, and for Lancelot, and for the Round Table. 
     That is not what you fear, I say. 
     What do you mean, he asks. 
     You fear what all men fear, I say. 
     I do not understand you, says Arthur. 
     Yes, you do, I reply. And now you fear even to admit to your 
fears. 
     He takes a deep breath and stares unblinking into my eyes, 
for he is truly a brave and honorable man. All right, he says at 
last. I fear for _me_. 
     That is only natural, I say. 
     He shakes his head. It does not _feel_ natural, Merlin, he 
says. 
     Oh, I say. 
     I have failed, Merlin, he continues. Everything is dissolving 
around me -- the Round Table and the reasons for it. I have lived 
the best life I could, but evidently I did not live it well 
enough. Now all that is left to me is my death -- he pauses 
uncomfortably -- and I fear that I will die no better than I have 
lived. 
     My heart goes out to him, this young man that I do not know 
but will know someday, and I lay a reassuring hand on his 
shoulder. 
     I am a king, he continues, and if a king does nothing else, 
he must die well and nobly. 
     You will die well, my lord, I say. 
     Will I, he asks uncertainly. Will I die in battle, fighting 
for what I believe when all others have left my side -- or will I 
die a feeble old man, drooling, incontinent, no longer even aware 
of my surroundings? 
     I decide to try once more to look into the future, to put his 
mind at ease. I close my eyes and I peer ahead, and I see not a 
mindless babbling old man, but a mindless mewling baby, and that 
baby is myself. 
     Arthur tries to look ahead to the future he fears, and I, 
traveling in the opposite direction, look ahead to the future _I_ 
fear, and I realize that there is no difference, that this is the 
humiliating state in which man both enters and leaves the world, 
and that he had better learn to cherish the time in between, for 
it is all that he has. 
     I tell Arthur again that he shall die the death he wants, and 
finally he leaves, and I am alone with my thoughts. I hope I can 
face my fate with the same courage that Arthur will face his, but 
I doubt that I can, for Arthur can only guess at his while I can 
see mine with frightening clarity. I try to remember how Arthur's 
life actually does end, but it is gone, dissipated in the mists of 
Time, and I realize that there are very few pieces of myself left 
to lose before I become that crying, mindless baby, a creature of 
nothing but appetites and fears. It is not the end that disturbs 
me, but the knowledge of the end, the terrible awareness of it 
happening to me while I watch helpless, almost an observer at the 
disintegration of whatever it is that has made me Merlin. 
     A young man walks by my door and waves to me. I cannot recall 
ever seeing him before. 
     Sir Pellinore stops to thank me. For what? I don't remember. 
     It is almost dark. I am expecting someone, I think it is a 
woman, I can almost picture her face. I think I should tidy up the 
bedroom before she arrives, and I suddenly realize that I don't 
remember where the bedroom is. I must write this down while I 
still possess the gift of literacy. 
     Everything is slipping away, drifting on the wind. 
     Please, somebody, help me. 
     I'm frightened. 

                        -- The End --