CHAPTER 11
A GIFT AND A PROPHECY
Dybris paused before opening the chapel door. Had he heard someone calling?
Brother Crogen puffed up the path behind him. “Hou, there!”
Dybris turned to greet the pear-shaped little man but could barely keep his eyes open.
Crogen stopped short and studied him up and down. “Before you go in, be aware our heavenly Father is very close to taking Abbot Prontwon home.”
Dybris stepped away from the door. “What do you mean?”
“Look at you: dirty and soaked to the bone.”
“You know where I’ve been.” He couldn’t keep the weariness from his voice. Where could that boy be?
Crogen plucked numerous pine needles from Dybris’s hair. “Yes, and while you’ve been scouring the woods all night like you’d lost your best quill, Prontwon’s near death.”
“I knew he wasn’t well, but —”
“Think he’s illuminating a manuscript in there?” The man’s eye’s bulged out at Dybris.
“I —”
“Think he prefers to sleep here instead of at the abbey?”
“Of course not …”
“Then what in the name of all that is holy do you think, Dybris?
“Everything I know is coming to an end.” Dybris leaned on the chapel wall and covered his face.
Crogen patted him on the shoulder. “Well, then, go in and see if your prayers can do more than your muddy feet. I’m off to get some herbs to help him breathe.”
Their eyes met, and Dybris saw compassion on Crogen’s face. The man truly cared, and that gave Dybris strength.
After Crogen left, Dybris entered the chapel, closing the iron-banded door behind him. The darkness engulfed him, pricked only by the light from two small windows. A silver cross sat on a table, along with a candle that had sputtered to almost nothing.
Prontwon, sleeping, labored for breath.
“Oww —” Dybris muffled an outburst as his knee hit a bench.
Prontwon stirred, turned his head, and then closed his eyes again. “Crogen?”
Dybris sat beside the abbot and took his hand, clammy and limp.
Prontwon’s chest rose and fell in small gasps, but it soon passed, and with renewed strength he squeezed Dybris’s hand and peered at him out of the corner of his eye. “Ah … it is you. Did you find Garth?”
“No.”
The dark sleeve that Mórganthu had ripped lay open. Dybris cringed as he glimpsed the scarred and tattooed flesh underneath.
“You are wondering … why I hadn’t told you?” Prontwon asked.
“Yes.”
“All the brothers know, but I needed to discern your spirit and was waiting for the right time.”
“Tell me now.”
“The youngest son of a farmer, I despised my father’s simple ways. I … wanted to see the world. How foolish.” Prontwon studied the distant reaches of the thatched ceiling. “I met Mórganthu’s older brother, Mogruith. He taught me, and I … became a druid. Gave my all, I did.”
“How old were you?”
Prontwon thought for a moment and then spoke with labored breath. “Seventeen winters. Mogruith in his late twenties. Missionaries came from Padraig and … brought Christianity. I hated Jesu because … the people turned away from us. They neither needed our protection from witches … nor our gods and holy days. Christianity was too simple … or so I thought. How could there be only … one God? How could there be no more need for … sacrifice? How could water wash away … guilt?”
Dybris wiped sweat from Prontwon’s forehead. “As many thought.”
“Oh, but I was … naive. Thought I held the secrets of the ages when I … didn’t even understand to ask the right questions.” A tear streaked across his face. “Then my poor mother grew sick.” He swallowed. “She was dying … as I am now.”
“No, you’re not. Rest a few days.”
Prontwon wiped his tears and shook his head. “I tried my druid arts to heal her … but she only ailed the more. My father told me in his simple way … I should call on the Christian God. Oh, I laughed in his face. But as my mother … fell into death-sleep, I wept.” He smiled now as the tears streamed down. “There, with Father’s arm around me … I prayed to Jesu, and told him I’d … follow him if he would heal my mother.”
“Was she healed?”
“No. She died that hour. But beforehand … she opened her eyes, reached to the heavens, and — with the most pure joy on her face — called, ‘Jesu, I come to you!’ My father, he told me … about the monk, Guron, who brought the true worship … of the Lamb to the moor and founded our western abbey. After my time of … grieving, I went to Guron. Mogruith never saw me again.”
Dybris studied the old man’s eyes. “Why have you hidden the druid scars from me? From the people of the village?”
“Ashamed … of my past, mostly.” Prontwon shook his head. “Even afraid … of leading astray. Were any more from the abbey deceived last night?”
Standing up, Dybris gave Prontwon as reassuring a look as he could. “None! None of the brothers followed Mórganthu. Just Garth.”
“It is … sufficient, we will pray.”
The door to the chapel opened, and Brother Offyd stepped in. “A word with you, Dybricius.” His face was ashen.
Dybris tried to let go of Prontwon’s hand, but the older man gripped his wrist. “Don’t leave me … alone.”
“Only for a moment. Brother Offyd needs to speak with me.”
“Ahh …” Prontwon let go.
Dybris followed Offyd outside and closed the creaky door. “What is it? You look sick.”
“It’s Brother Herrik. Crogen had just arrived at the abbey when he found Brother Herrik in the scriptorium.”
“And what? Doesn’t Crogen want us working on the parchments?”
“That’s just it. He wasn’t copying Scripture. He was drawing a … a diagram of sorts.”
“A diagram of what? Speak plainly.”
“Of the Stone. The Druid Stone. He was drawing it.”
Dybris shut his eyes tightly. “Dear God, give us strength.”
Merlin heard the slashing of the sword as it whirled dangerously near. He pushed Natalenya behind him and faced the madman.
“What do you want of us?” Merlin demanded.
The man did not speak but swung his sword in another arc. This time it swept a rush of air past Merlin’s cheek.
With a loud, vibrating jolt, the sword jammed into the wood between Merlin’s feet.
“He’s bowing,” Natalenya whispered.
The man’s damp hair smelled like wet peat. With his heart pounding, Merlin asked, “Are you Muscarvel of the marsh?”
“I am that I was. Thy glucking servant, scarred one. I am poor Musca, now old and frail, but this fish longs to bite the fetid trunks, does he not?”
“What would you have? Do you need food? Coins?” Merlin reached for his bag and pulled out a few brass ones. He held them out.
The man slapped Merlin’s hand, and the coins plinked into the water.
“Need not the janglings of men!” Muscarvel shouted. “Marsh feeds poor Musca. I hunger and eat the flesh of evil birds, chew the foul frog from its hole. Thirst and drink water where the rooted rushes seize the clay. Suffer cold, and the banks of the sun-bit bog bring fire for my hearth. Poor Arvel needs naught but what Christ provides!”
Natalenya tapped Merlin’s shoulder. “Let’s leave.”
“Wait,” Merlin answered. Muscarvel had some reason for coming. “If you need nothing, Arvel, tell us why you’re here.”
“Poor Musca has naught but what my Father above has given. This I nurtured and shaped for you through long years of cold and heat, biting flies and sliming mud. This I give to you, great lord, that the weight of its angry darkness may be gone from my soul.”
What had Muscarvel said? He was crazy to think that Merlin was a lord.
Muscarvel fell prostrate on the dock, reached between Merlin’s feet, and grasped the blade of his own sword, stuck there in the wood. With halting words he shouted:
Seventy years — have flown and wore
Since Dragon Star — fell on the moor.
I saw this thing — come down and roar.
Then I was young — in days of yore.
I will not see — this strange tale spend,
Nor see it twist — waylay and wend.
But though you grieve — and cannot mend,
Yet you will see — the utter end.
The gory past — or so ‘tis said,
Will cut afresh — and dagger bled.
Make victims drown — in their blood red,
And strike bright world — turn on its head.
The cock will crow — to moon and soar,
The mouse in greed — brings forth a roar,
The boar be caught — by apple core.
And hammer strike — the anvil tor.
He trembled as he raised his voice still louder:
The grave will gaze — from its pale bed,
As ash will birth — the dagger dread.
The wren so young — with darken’d head,
Will caw death chant — and evil wed.
Upon high hill — in fortress fast,
The hawk will fail — to heed the past.
Land of all night — hold on to mast,
For altar’s foe — trust Christ at last.
The bear will charge — with steel claw free
‘Gainst hoary swell — of peoples be.
All things will lose — and dead the tree,
Lest wisdom to — he bend the knee.
Hell dog will dark — the sun’s bright face.
The beast will rise — from secret place.
All men will flee — to water trace,
Till sword and spear — with prayer grace.
The beast will bring — forth fetid birth,
And bear will scratch — and prove his worth.
But land will not — have new its mirth,
Till red-leg crow — be brought to earth.
The black tomb of — snake’s winter sleep,
Bring forth the dead — from cavern deep.
Then evil foes — come out and creep,
Drive off the hawk — to danger keep.
Muscarvel clambered up with his rags flapping, and their green reek smote Merlin. The man grabbed Merlin’s hands. He had the grip of a biting turtle, yet his fingers were so thin.
He shook as if an invisible creature tore his back. The final words came out in agony:
When hope is lost — and foes a throng,
When jaws be sharp — and claws are strong,
When thralled the men — and all is wrong,
Recall thy gift — to sing bard’s song.
For three must seek — and prize the pure,
That has been lost — in bleak azure.
Go find and seek — but ware the lure.
Take narrow way — when none is sure.
And at the end — death’s head will rise,
Kill, take, covet — fill ears with lies.
Pure love will doubt — take all as guise,
Ere noble one—gives up his prize.
Then red-leg crow — at last will kill,
To take and steal — and veil with skill.
And hence the tale — shall wait until
The chosen ones — their call fulfill.
Muscarvel’s words fell away from him in the grief of tears. As he spoke again, a calmness, if not a saneness, returned to his voice. “Great lord, besides a few final tasks, I am now free. But you … you shall bear these words as a dark burden until your death. I merely carried them. You must live them.”
A shiver ran through Merlin. The man was mad — but nonsense though his words sounded, he said them with such sincerity and conviction that they somehow rang true. Why had Muscarvel spoken these words to him?
Natalenya, now holding Merlin’s arm, whispered in his ear. “He’s crying as he pulls something from a moldy pouch. Oh, Merlin, it’s beautiful.”
Merlin could see the gleam of gold in the man’s hands.
“Great lord, this also I have kept for the day of your rising. The Christ hid it in a bog, and I found it! A great chief of men died I know not when, and I wrenched it from his leathern neck.”
Natalenya pulled Merlin closer. “It’s a torc of fine workmanship. Made from thick braids of gold. On its ends are crafted what look like the heads of falcons.”
Reaching up, Muscarvel placed the torc upon Merlin.
He felt the cold, heavy weight of it on his neck and collarbones, and he reached up to touch the ancient curves of the torc with his fingertips. I don’t deserve this. Who am I? No one. Just the blind son of a blacksmith. Why had Muscarvel done this? And who was he?
Muscarvel plucked his sword from the plank and yelled, “I’m free!” He ran down the shaking dock and jumped into his boat. His paddle sloshed through the water swiftly, and his parting words called back to them through the mist.
“Lost the meat! I’ll find it, Father. I’ll find it yet!”
For a long moment Merlin and Natalenya stood side by side, speechless. When the sounds of Muscarvel faded, Merlin listened instead to Natalenya’s breathing, so close beside him.
All at once, she turned toward him. “I should go. Here.” She rummaged in her bundle, then pressed a smoked fish into his hands. “It’s no golden torc, but it’s the least I can do after you saved me from those men.”
The scale-free fish felt soft against Merlin’s fingers, and the mouth-watering aroma made his stomach growl. “Thank you.”
She laughed. “Thank you, Merlin.”
Her two soft hands grasped his free one for a moment, and then she was gone.
He picked up his staff, tapped his way back to the end of the dock, and sat down, alone with his thoughts once more. He laid his staff beside him, peeled off the fish’s skin and chewed it, relishing the smoky flavor before swallowing. For a while he just sat and ate the rest, thinking of Natalenya … of the warmth of her hands … of the Eirish men who would steal fish from a woman but wouldn’t touch a bard … and of Muscarvel.
His good mood soured. Pulling the last of the flesh from the fish’s bones, he held the bare spine in his hand. This was how he felt. Like a dead fish, blind and useless.
Father, what is my life? Do my efforts even matter? I bared my back to the whip, took a beating from Mórganthu, and what does Garth do? Off with the druidow.
And Mórganthu had shown the village what a fool Merlin was. He couldn’t fight properly, and he wasn’t respected enough in the village to speak. It was his father who needed to stand up and tell the people the truth about Mórganthu. Why won’t he do it?
Maybe Prontwon would try again when he got better. Or Neot. Or perhaps Dybris, the new monk, could convince the people. Certainly blind Merlin could never sway their minds. What could he do? And what of this torc Muscarvel had given him? He reached up and felt the intricate lines of the ancient gift resting around his neck. He touched the gold falcon heads fashioned on the ends. What was he supposed to do with it? He hadn’t earned such a thing. Everyone would laugh if they saw him wear it. Ha-ha! There goes the blind man who thinks he’s a chieftain!
And all Muscarvel’s other gibberish.
In anger Merlin spread the ends of the torc and pulled it from his neck. He loosed the ties of his bag and shoved the torc inside, where it clinked against his few coins. He rose and set off for home. Muscarvel was mad, plain and simple.
When Merlin arrived, he found the house quiet.
“Tas?”
He stepped into the room and listened. “I’m over here,” his father said from a stool at the table. He sounded tired, and a little angry. “Waiting for you. Quite awhile to buy some fish.”
“Where are Mônda and Gana?”
Owain rested his forehead on the table and then thumped his head on the wooden surface. “Oh … I don’t know exactly. I worked on the sword for an hour or so, and when I came in —”
“Mônda almost never leaves the house.”
“I know. I’m afraid they’ve gone to her father.”
“To Mórganthu?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded empty. “Mônda and I have been arguing since last night. I wouldn’t let her go. So now she’s left.”
“I hope you don’t plan on following.”
His father stood, and his words bit like a blade. “I’ve been wanting to, but you were gone. I don’t want you getting in any more trouble. Like a cracked anvil, you are. What took so long?”
“Megek didn’t have any fish —”
“And so it took longer?”
“Natalenya was there.”
“Ahh.”
“She’d bought all that was left. Tregeagle’s hosting a feast tonight.”
His father moved toward the door. “That still doesn’t account for your time.”
Merlin backed up, blocking his father’s exit. “There were others. Eirish warriors.”
“Eirish … here? In Bosventor?” He clutched Merlin’s shoulder.
“They tried to steal the fish.”
“The people settled in Lyhonesse rarely come here … much less Eirish raiders. How do you know?” his father asked. “How —”
“How can I know, because I’m blind?” Merlin tightened his jaw. Why did it always come to this? Didn’t his own father think he was capable of anything? “Their speech gave them away, and Natalenya told me their clothing matched her father’s stories. Apparently Tregeagle’s fought them in the past.”
His father turned away and whispered so quietly, Merlin barely heard it.
“As have I.”
Merlin placed a hand on his father’s shoulder and gently turned him so they were again face-to-face. “What did you say? You’ve fought in a battle?” Merlin wished he could see his father’s features. Years ago he would have felt the whiskered cheeks, but now that he was older, it somehow didn’t seem right.
“Long ago,” his father said. “Before I met your mother.”
“You never told me.”
His father went to the wall and took down his sword, swung it, and put it back up again. “How many Eirish warriors were there?”
“Could have been six, maybe more.”
“Sure it wasn’t just one, and a wee one at that?”
“I’m not stupid.” Merlin said.
“I’m teasing. Why didn’t you ask Natalenya?”
Merlin tapped his staff. “I didn’t think to.”
“Maybe you had other things on your mind?”
Merlin blushed.
His father whistled. “That’s what really took so long. Let’s go find Mônda and your sister before Mórganthu does.”
Merlin wanted to tell him not to go, to somehow prevent his father from going near the Stone. But how could he say no to bringing Mônda and his sister back home? He nodded, and his father took him by the arm.
Leaving the house, they made their way to the village pasture where Mórganthu had placed the Stone the night before.
“People are here, but I don’t see Mônda … or Gana,” his father whispered. “Druidow are guarding the Stone, but their weapons are old and rusty, and their muscles are too little kindling to start a fire with anyone serious. Maybe that’s why they’re not stopping anyone from approaching the Stone.”
“Who’s here?” Merlin asked, offering up a silent prayer, for he could see now that a faint blur of blue flames radiated from the Stone.
“A crowd. Hen Crenlyn just walked by us. He’s looking at the Stone like it was a stump. Olva’s on the other side looking on. Brunyek’s further off, but I can tell he’s peeking at it. Stenno’s here too.”
“What’s he doing?” Stenno wasn’t much older than Merlin, though he streamed for tin to support his widowed mother.
“He’s on his knees near the Stone, holding his hands in front of it like he’s warming them.”
“That’s bad.”
“It’s really interesting … I wish you could see the Stone. You’d understand.”
Merlin didn’t want to, and for once in his life, he was glad of his blindness. His father led him toward the Stone but then stopped.
“What’s wrong?” Merlin asked.
“Kiff’s here. I hadn’t noticed him on the ground on the other side. He has one hand on the side of the Stone.” Raising his voice, his father called out, “Kiff … Hey, there!”
But Kifferow didn’t answer.
They walked over to him. Bending down, Merlin’s father spoke into the man’s ear, “Kiff, it’s me, Owain.” He shook Kiff’s shoulder. No response. Muttering, he braced himself and pushed the big man over onto his back.
Kifferow sneezed, shook his head, and sat up. “You … You did that!”
“Sure, I pushed your pig belly over.”
“You broke my dream.” Kifferow rose to his feet with a grunt and belted Owain across the jaw, knocking him down. “You take that!” he shouted, raising his fist again.
“Kiff, stop!” Merlin stepped in between the men, but Kifferow slammed him in the shoulder, knocking him backward. The world turned sideways, and Merlin found himself lying across his father’s legs with his face in the dirt.
Mônda appeared from the haze and called out loudly, “Leave him alone, Kiff. And Merlin, get off your father!” She wrapped her arms around her husband’s shoulders and clung to him so fast that she gouged Merlin’s elbow with her armband. The wound throbbed as Merlin rolled off Owain’s legs.
Kifferow huffed but backed away as well.
“The Stone will help you understand,” Mônda said. “Look at it. Look at the Stone.” She reached out her hands and turned Owain’s gaze to the blue flames.
Merlin’s father shook her off. “Leave me alone, all of you.”
The gem in Mônda’s armband began to glow, and then his father’s began to gleam as if in reply. Mônda mumbled some strange words, and Owain’s head snapped up and turned toward the Stone.
Merlin pulled himself to a sitting position just as his father crawled toward the Druid Stone.
“That’ll teach him,” Kifferow said. “Now he won’t interrupt me!”
Desperate, Merlin grabbed his father’s foot to stop him, but the action barely impeded Owain’s progress as he dragged Merlin closer to the Stone.
“Tas. Tas! What are you doing? Kiff, help me!”
The big man stepped closer, but instead of helping, he snatched Merlin’s arms and dragged him away. “Be quiet and let him take a good long drink. He’ll never forget the sweetness.”
Merlin struggled, but the carpenter’s grip was too strong. “Let go,” he yelled, thinking of Natalenya’s warning.
Kifferow laughed, and his breath smelled like ale. “He’s smiling. Feel the Stone, Owain. Touch it!”
Owain reached out a wavering hand to touch the glowing surface of the Druid Stone.
“Merlin, it’s magnificent.”