For the Love of Merlin

By Gill Sandland

On the Tors of Penmaenmawr North Wales, MERLIN’s cursed incarcerated soul is in quest to return in the new millennium 2000.
After centuries of waiting for the perfect host, the initiation of his purpose begins in 1956 when at birth CATHERINE EMRYS is re-embodied with the soul of Merlin’s wife GWENDOLYN.
Catherine relays to us the memoirs of her labyrinthine parallel life of purposes, pledges and promises to both Merlin and her mortal love ADAM TINDELL. Her journey is plagued by malevolent spirits while protected by angels and guardians. Her life purpose is to free Merlin’s soul, for which she must give of her own free will, her love, her soul, her body and ultimately her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781291445886

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For the Love of Merlin

FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN

Copyright ©2012 Gill Sandland

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-291-44588-6

Part One: The memoirs of Catherine Emrys

Prologue

There but for the grace of Merlin go I.

When souls conspire to appease unfinished issues, the thin membrane between our worlds is breeched.

So it was for me, Catherine Emrys, that, but for the eternal love of Merlin, I would not have been given this privileged parallel life.

My soul pledged at birth, my purpose designed by influences not of this mortal realm. I have journeyed to my destiny and beyond, yes! Beyond. Leaving me with wondrous memoirs of Merlin’s return.

I am Catherine Emrys and these are my personal memoirs of my ancestor, Merlin Emrys Ambrose.

The legendary sorcerer to King Arthur, maybe, but you will not have learnt of Merlin the young lover or realised what actually became of him in the end.

I can confirm on both accounts. A man in love indeed he was, a man so in love his soul would not rest. As to his end, there was no end, just a new beginning.

Merlin, a wizard in love.

Merlin broke the heart of his wife Gwendolyn when he could not save the life of their young son, despite his powers and knowledge in apothecary. Little was understood of the dangerous condition in diabetes known as ketoacidosis and hypoglycaemia, a build-up of toxins in the blood that can lead to convulsions, coma and death.

So distraught was Merlin as he raged in anger at his own inadequacy, he ran from their house and plunged his dagger into a large standing stone before fleeing to the woods in shame and deep remorse. Not only had Gwendolyn lost their son, she had lost Merlin as he fought with his conscience, for years living alone in the forest. Eventually, he gave Gwendolyn permission to marry again, but Merlin had a vision of the evil intentions of her betrothed, Guthred, to kill her and claim the land. So, on the morning of their wedding, Merlin confronted Guthred, and their dispute escalated with Merlin fatally stabbing him to save Gwendolyn from a similar fate.

However he did not have the vision of the consequences that were to follow. Gwendolyn felt she was doomed to lose everyone she loved and, thinking she was never to be free from the hold of Merlin, she took her own life. Merlin cursed over her body that her spirit would never be at peace until their souls were reunited.

He once again hardened his heart and channelled his emotions into perfecting his powers as he rejoined the court of King Arthur, becoming the king’s prophet and sorcerer for many years.

As Merlin entered his advanced years, he went back to live in the house of his and Gwendolyn’s, to face his demons. Not suspecting that those demons would come in the guise of a young beautiful nymph called Vivienne, he fell in love with her and thought his Gwendolyn must have sent her as a gesture of forgiveness.

Vivienne did not appreciate the affections of an old man but saw the opportunity to gain her position at the king’s side through him, so she promised she would love him in return for the knowledge of his powers.

As they say, ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’ He taught her well, but when he challenged her intentions, she implemented her plan to overpower him. She enticed him into a region in the hills above the house that she had pre-cursed with a spell to strip him of his soul and entomb it there for eternity, so he would subsist only to roam the land in his earth-bound body. But void of desire and motivation, his spirit spent, all he could do was… exist.

His mortal body soon deteriorated and upon his death, his spirit freed. He waited.

If angels protect and guide from our right

And demons tempt and seduce from our left,

Then who is the ambivalent influence

That resides in our hearts,

Constantly contriving a marriage of sinner and

Saint?

Chapter One

I was born in the mid-1950s to working-class parents with middle-class ideals and aspirations. We lived in a council house on a small estate in Cheshire. I was an only child but never a lonely child as my insatiable imagination kept me both amused and bemused during my hours of conscious thought, unconscious dreams and, in particular, that time in-between: the twilight moments, day-dreaming, in the safe place I went to where I had a degree of control.

My mother attributed my aloof unsociability to the fact that I didn’t have siblings to play with, but she knew I wasn’t an unhappy child. In fact, I was never happier than the times Mum, Dad and I spent the weekends walking hills and dales, and I so looked forward to our yearly holiday in a caravan at the foothills of Conway in Wales. We walked for miles, wending our way along the druid pathways. We would research the histories of these walks and take to the trails with a backpack of sandwiches and ginger beer, our enthusiasm for discovering the standing stones and ruins forever spurring us on, whatever the weather.

I recall, though, that with each year and with each ascent I felt a growing intense yearning as my eyes were drawn to the yonder hills above the mining village of Penmaenmawr.

`Can we walk up there next year? ` I asked.

`Yeah, babe, good idea! Let’s go stay there next year, ` my dad enthused.

And so it came to pass – well, Sycnant Pass actually. We embarked on our intrepid adventure with renewed excitement and resided in a settlement of caravans nestled in the foothills.

We ventured where no other Emrys had been before. Or so we thought.          

When is a lesson in history not a lesson of history? When it is a history of lessons.

I begin my memoirs when my class was in the last year at primary school in 1966. Miss Thomas took over from Mr. Richards as our history teacher. She hailed from Wales as was evident by her strong accent. She was slight in build, had long black braided hair and impish chiselled features. There was nothing threatening about her countenance with the exception of her eyes: large black pools that she used as weapons of control; be it in her languid and demure or her fervid and tempestuous persona. The class nicknamed her ‘the welsh Dragon’. We would joke about not catching her stare for fear that she would turn us to stone. 

It was during one of her classes that I had my first verbal manifestation, a confirmation that I possessed intuition pertaining to certain historic knowledge.

She asked, ‘So what do we know about this character Merlin the wizard?’ No-one was more surprised than I when my body suddenly ejected out of my chair into a standing position, as I launched into an account any well-rehearsed narrator would be proud of.

‘Biography casts him as a cambion – born of a mortal woman and sired by an incubus.’ (Wow! Did I really just say that?)

I continued: ‘History has given him a multi-faceted persona, that of prophet, bard, magician and wizard. He was accused of being a disciple of Satan, and subjected to speculation that he was in fact an angel. He was also labelled as a madman with reclusive tendencies who claimed to talk to animals. He was rebuffed and rebuked, feared yet revered by the same. Though he suffered such persecutions, none were more damaging than the self-damning, soul searching he battled with to fight for his sanity, as he learnt to understand and harness such powers that consumed and controlled his every wakeful hours and tormented dreams.’

Stopping for breath I looked up and around to witness all the class gawping in disbelief at this habitually shy girl on her soap box. I was on a roll and just knew there was more to be said – had to be said. I forged ahead with defensive conviction.

‘He was so totally misunderstood, he might have wished he were around today where society is more accepting if not fully understanding of such people, that we now know as mentalists with gifts of illusionism, hypnotism, sensitivity and perceptivity, and those with telepathic and psychokinetic abilities.’

I stumbled through my last words, not because it was big talk for little britches, but because I realised I had spoken like I was defending my best pal over a dispute he wasn’t present for.

I looked over to Miss Thomas as she threw me one of her glares that would cause even the most eloquent barrister to recoil in self-doubt. I slumped back down onto my chair, wishing I could have carried on descending under the table.

The bell rang and we were dismissed.

‘Not you, Catherine. I want a word,’ Miss Thomas shouted above the noise of triumphant escapees.                                     

‘Oh heck! I’m in trouble now,’ I thought. When the room was clear, she closed the door and swooping in she hovered over me like hawk to prey, her eyes boring into mine with the eager anticipation of a strike.

`Did that come from one of your daydreams, Catherine, or was it a memory?’

What did she mean, ‘memory’? I decided she had used the word liberally, not literally. She must think I had read it somewhere and not that I had personally acquired it through my own experiences, surely. Not wishing to exasperate her further, I tried to articulate an intelligent answer but this only served to trip over my tongue and babble. She drew in closer, stealing my space to transfix our eyes.

I wanted to scream like a car’s verbal security system: ’You are too close! Please move away!’ But such words were not forthcoming. Then with a degree of fortitude I mouthed, `How do I tell the difference? `

I heard myself say it but didn’t believe I’d actually vocalised such a response, as it was one of her rules never to answer a question with a question. I was visibly shaking by now and felt an urgent need of the toilet.

To my utter amazement and gratitude, she smiled and relaxed the intensity of her stare, then knelt down cupping my sweaty hands in her cold talons.

‘At last!’ she sighed. A look of reverence came over her, one of the masks I had never seen before. She leant back on her heels, allowing back my space.

‘When you realise the difference, come and tell me how you know.’ She had an almost submissive composure and just for a second I felt I knew her journey to this point, and then just as I wanted more, the intrusion was blocked. With a wave of dismissal she scurried away and busied herself with cleaning the blackboard.

As I made a hasty exit, I just caught her trailing words: ‘Remember, history has a way of repeating itself. Our fates are in its hands.’

Her words didn’t register as having any particular meaning. I just recall thinking, phew, my ordeal was over.

This was not the end of the interactions between Miss Thomas and me – or Gwyneth as I was later allowed to call her – but the beginning of a strange, mystical odyssey that was to lay down the Foundations for my life’s journey. I felt that from that day on we had bonded, but she never let me get so close as to ‘see’ again her history.

Yet when I moved to the secondary school, to my amazement Miss Thomas moved too. And once again, she replaced the former history teachers who, like the last, left rather suddenly without explanation.

Though we whiled away many an hour in the library reading and discussing my new-found interest – no, obsession – in myths and legends, it was not until some two years later, as I entered those turbulent teenage years, that Gwyneth became my confidante and mentor. My hormones were trying to influence not only my body but my mind. Boys and music, moods and flights of fancy were hard enough to deal with for any developing frontal lobe, but I also had Gwyneth’s influence trying to seduce my cognitions.                                                              

She would say to me, I must not control your path in life, only guide you down the right ones. Your destiny is already laid out before you. Do what you will and know I am here waiting for that answer.’

She taught me how to harness and develop my yet immature psychic abilities in which I shined, particularly in two.

Sensibility; I learnt that by touching a person I could feel their unspoken energies; sometimes just to be in their presence I could hear their silent screams of turmoil. I also learnt that places have echoes of bygone emotions. Gwyneth would take me to graveyards, ruins and old buildings to practice my gifts. It scared the hell out of at first, I have to say. It was like ethereal voices in my head. I had to learn to focus and concentrate as sometimes there were more than one. Yet still I could not ‘see’.

My other gift occurred during my unconscious state of sleep, in dreams; I frequently had prophetic dreams from an early age. I would tell Mum about them and, sure enough, not long after we would learn of that event. Major events like plane crashes or boats sinking would be broadcast over the news and the hairs on the back of my neck would stand up as the details were announced.

One such local event was in 1967, when a plane crashed in Stockport in Cheshire. There was also the murder of a local girl, strangled by her drugged boyfriend; though this was not a dream but a nightmare, the details of which I tried to suppress, as her pain was too much for my young head to endure.

There are too many occurrences to relate now as I have a more relevant experience to reveal.

I regularly experienced a recurring dream. It would start by my walking up a steep rocky crag, and each time the low sun would be shining in my eyes, making the ascent difficult. And as I strained to look up at the summit, there was always a silhouetted man who stood watching me. I couldn’t make out any features but his outline suggested he was wearing a hooded robe. Having seen images such as this portrayed as the grim reaper in mythical books, my juvenile reaction was to turn and retreat, and at this point I would wake.

Nothing unusual there, you may say. It’s a common dream. But with the advancement of years and the belief that this figure meant me no harm, I began to realise that, as I was slowly advancing in my ascent, the figure was descending towards me.

As I matured into my teenage years, so too did the dreams. My ever-curious mind and rebellious nature spilled into my dream. I stopped running away, and tried approaching this person both verbally and physically, but progressed with neither.

My questions were not answered; and it was physically not possible to advance faster. It was like one of those dreams where, no matter how hard you try and run, you remain on the spot. I would wake with the resonance of a gentle voice saying, ‘It is not time, Catherine, be patient.’   

When I told Gwyneth of my frustration, she bade me be tolerant, as there was still a lot to be revealed.

She encouraged me, `It is all leading to the answer to my question, Catherine, and it is not something I can teach you. When the time is right you will progress, and the portal will open for you to know this person.’

It wasn’t until I encountered Merlin that I recognised who was haunting my dreams. The nearer the time came to our convening, the closer we became in my dreams. But still his face was obscured by shadow.

Meanwhile, I grew bodily, mentally and spiritually, with Gwyneth forever by my side and in my head. But a stronger influence than I could control was about to change my complacent life.

I fell in love.

Chapter Two

For the next few years, life was a succession of exams at school and tests from Gwyneth as she continued to aid in the development of my frontal lobe and inner eye. Our relationship grew stronger but I always felt she put up her barriers when I tried to force any personal issues. Although we worked well together, our social relationship was practically non-existent. I tried to get her interested in music and dancing but only succeeded in persuading her to come walking with me and my family, though for some reason she always declined when we started exploring the tors of Penmaenmawr in Wales.

I left school with realistic results for lazy efforts in my exams but they were good enough to get me a place in nurse training college. However, the problem was that my ‘sensibility’ was so keen – almost hyper –  that to be in a ward with so many aches and pains was making me ill. I was like a sponge soaking up everybody’s problems. I was to venture down many career paths that involved health and healing as I was sure this was the direction I needed to channel my gifts.

Physiotherapy was a problem because it involved physical contact. I could feel a person’s problem area just by touch; great, impressive, but then their inner screams flooded my mind to the point of saturation. I had to abandon that occupation. 

I became quite depressed and sought solace and advice from Gwyneth. She knew I had reached a crucial point in my life and reminded me that, in a week’s time on 21 April, I was going to be 21 years old. Though she cheered me up by announcing she had a special gift for me that would help me deal with my career problem.

I assumed she meant a present but hoped it was, literally, a gift: my gift of ‘seeing’. She invited me to her flat, which I had been to many times for lessons, but this time it was a social occasion. Gwyneth lived very modestly, with simple plain furniture.

There wasn’t anything there to give any clues to her past: any pictures of family, any ornaments or trinkets. But on one wall was a clock and beside it hung a bizarre painting, black with swirls, shapes and splashes dotted over its surface and in each corner flared a starburst towards the centre. It seemed Strange that all the other walls were bare while this one had crammed two items together, but I guess it suited Gwyneth and her weird world.

Once, my dad offered to decorate her flat for her but she declined.

My parents were indifferent to Gwyneth, though I think they tolerated her since she was my friend.                    

As I entered the room, Gwyneth drew away a rug to reveal a circle painted on the floor, with symbols and lines and words in an unfamiliar language.

‘Oh no, Gwyneth, please tell me you’re not a witch?’ I blurted out in shock.

‘No, silly, not even a white one. It’s your planetary aspect in your astrological birth chart and this is my gift to you, ` she replied.

`Nice thanks, but I can’t take it home with me. I don’t think your landlady would appreciate my ripping up her floorboards.`

With a look of angst, she said, `Your gift is within the circle. You have to step into it. `

This is it, I thought – she is going to give me the gift to ‘see’.

She pulled back another rug to reveal a double circle that was different to mine.

`What’s yours all about, then?` I enquired.

`You will see,’ she said as she stepped into her circle.

That’s it, I thought. She is going to let me ‘see’ – she just said so. I hastened to enter my circle but she halted me in mid-step and, pointing to a robe, instructed me to undress completely, which reluctantly I did. I had noticed she was wearing a black robe, but at the same time it didn’t register as strange because she often wore robes. Again, I went to step into the circle only to be prevented once more.

`Take off the robe now before you enter the circle, ` she said.

`What, starker? No, that isn’t right.,` I protested.

`You weren’t born with clothes on, were you?` she reasoned.

I was beginning to feel uneasy. ‘This had better not be one of those birthday pranks where I stand naked in the circle and – Surprise!  – a load of friends rush in.’

`Do we have that many friends, and is that my style? Anyway, you trust me, don’t you?  Then just do it.` she said impatiently, as she glanced at the clock next to the picture: 7.55pm

`Hurry up, it’s nearly time.`

`What time is that, then?` I teased.

`You were born at eight o’clock, were you not? ` She replied.

As I affirmed her question, I disrobed and finally made it into the circle, feeling a bit embarrassed at my nakedness, but I tried to focus my attentions on what, if anything, I could perceive.

She instructed me further: `Whatever happens, don’t leave the circle until I say, and then leave it immediately. This is very important. Hold your arms out, palms up, and look at the picture on the wall. Un-focus your eyes, like you do with those 3D pictures you stare at until a picture suddenly jumps out at you. `

I was quite adept at this task as it was one of Gwyneth’s lessons that I should regularly practise and perfect this exercise.

The clock struck eight.

I hear the cry of a newborn and my body fights to draw in breath.

Just as I start to lose control of focus on the picture and consciousness, an image forms, a newborn baby with its umbilical cord around its neck, its face blue and body limp. Shadowy figures in white crowd the child, frantically trying to resuscitate it.        

Two figures that seem to be suspended above the child begin to speak.

`This one shall live. She is our chosen one.’

With these words I suddenly felt a burst of breath forced into my lungs and the picture came forward from that long tunnel.

As I composed myself, I tried to move but seemed transfixed – frozen but not in time – only in space. All I was aware of was the picture and, vaguely, the clock, its hands sweeping the dial with ever-increasing speed until they spun so fast I was unable to detect them. My body felt as if it would look like a time- lapsed film of a plant as it grew, speeded up to seconds in real time. Within the same count the picture flashed through my life; I wanted to slow it down and live it all again. I tried to stay in control and concentrated hard. 

A voice interjected, `Show her now before the boundaries of her confinement are breached.`

The clock’s hands have stopped spinning. It is showing 7.00pm and the picture