CHAPTER 15
THE GALOW GOLM
For his evening meal, Garth sat with the druidow near the Stone and ate roasted grouse with a chunk of tangy goat cheese. The fili named Caygek sat next to him, but Mórganthu had cuffed and threatened this man once, so Garth tried his best to keep their interactions short.
“You’re from the northern coast?” Caygek asked while he braided his long, curly blond beard.
Garth thought it’d be fun to grow a beard like that one day, only his would be red. He stuffed his mouth full of cheese and nodded.
Caygek pointed to Vortigern’s camp near the village meeting house. “Seen warriors like those before?”
Garth went on admiring the horses, which grazed near the warriors. Fine, strong horses, those. He wished he could ride one.
“I live far from a village,” Caygek said, “so I haven’t seen fighting men in a few years. My father was a warrior, and I learned from him but haven’t had much chance to use my skills. See my sword?”
The blade reflected the man’s blue tunic. It was of fine workmanship, long and sharp. Much better than the other druidows’ weapons but not as fine as Merlin’s dirk, which Garth had held a few times. Now that was a real beauty, with razor-sharp edges and a surface like a fine mirror. Even the hilt of Merlin’s dirk was amazing: the guard tipped with silver, the handle of black leather interspersed with silver rings, and a round pommel that held a small green jewel.
Garth bit off a hunk of greasy meat, tastier than the boiled mutton they’d had last night. The druidow had stolen the sheep from the monks, and it served those brown-robes right for selling his bagpipe. He hated them for it.
“Do you like it here with the druidow?” Caygek inquired.
Garth closed his eyes and swigged from his waterskin. Oh, how he liked it. No more tending the sheep. No hoeing or planting. No milking the goats. No sneaking tuck from the barrels in the cave. Now it was one adventure after another. And no more being teased for looking like a monk!
And the Stone made him feel strong and important. Why did he need parchment learning when he could see wonderful things in the Stone? And now he even dreamed about it during the day, which was kind of strange. Even stranger, he’d snuck a peek at Dybris earlier, but a floating image of the Stone blocked his vision.
Just as well … He’d never forgive that man for stealing his bagpipe.
“So I hear your father was a fisherman,” Caygek said. “Do you like the sea?”
Garth almost groaned. Would the man ever stop pestering him?
Thankfully someone ran up, calling for Mórganthu. Connek. Garth’s lip curled. Why they allowed this thief with them, he didn’t understand. Maybe the druidow, in their kindness, were helping him.
Connek, out of breath, ran to Mórganthu and Mônda and gave them some news. Connek pointed up the mountain toward the east side of the village.
Mônda pleaded with Mórganthu, but he shook his head. She sobbed and grabbed his arm so tightly, Mórganthu couldn’t pry her off. Finally she spoke in his ear, and Mórganthu blinked and smiled. Garth liked it when Mórganthu smiled. He wished he could hear what they were saying. Maybe if he snuck behind, he could —
“Gather!” Mórganthu commanded the druidow. “We will fight our enemies! They move against us, and so we will call on Lugh with the Galow Golm. With the power of the Stone, perhaps we may destroy them.”
Most of the men rose.
Garth stood too, but Caygek whispered to him.
“Only druidow proper form the Knot of Calling. Filidow and brihemow aren’t allowed. And you don’t want to take part, trust me.”
Garth searched the nearby bag for another fatty grouse leg, but finding none, he sat down with a small wing. He thought back to that first day when he had stolen the chicken leg and was thankful he didn’t have to sneak anymore. But where did that Trothek fellow go? The one Caygek knew. It seemed like forever since the old man had stood up to Mórganthu.
A few druidow had been sent away, and they sat down near Garth. One of them spoke, a squat man with a cloak the color of lobsters. “When someone needs pushing, Podrith the novice always get pushed.”
“What do you mean?” Garth asked, but Podrith just grunted and shuffled through the bag of meat.
Caygek squinted at the novice and whispered in Garth’s ear, “If you’re ever in trouble, come find me.” He got up and slipped away.
Garth wondered what that was supposed to mean, but the activity around the Stone distracted him. The druidow formed two concentric rings. Then they interlocked hands in such a way that their arms crisscrossed the rings and formed a knot.
They all started walking in a jerky rhythm by ducking under raised hands or stepping over lowered hands. The drummers started, and the druidow chanted in their foreign tongue.
Mórganthu stood in the center, shook his staff before the Stone, and looked to the sky, where a few wispy clouds swirled.
Garth wiped his mouth with his sleeve and turned to Podrith. “What’s he doin’?”
The man stared back with bloodshot eyes. “Yer a fool jus’ like them filidow. Watch and learn the power of the druidow.”
The living druid knot pulsed to the beat of the drums. Garth rubbed his eyes, for the men seemed to fade. When he looked again, they had been replaced by the apparition of a monstrous white snake. The creature’s rippling muscles propelled it through its own knotted coils. The shiny head passed in front of Garth, having swallowed its own tail. The fangs dribbled a track of blood on the pressed grass, and the eyes gazed at him with a pale blue light.
Garth’s arms jerked to his sides and stuck there. His legs clamped together, and he fell over. He struggled to sit up but could only wriggle on the grass.
Mórganthu shouted, and the daylight disappeared as storm clouds blew in. Wind gusts sucked at Garth’s hair. Branches ripped off, crashing from their ancient moorings. Garth wanted to grab hold of the grass, but his arms wouldn’t obey him. Men shouted, women screamed, and horses whinnied.
Above the coiling snake, the shadowy figure of Mórganthu struck his staff into the blue fire of the Stone. Lightning burst upward from it, and Mórganthu fell back even as the apparition of the snake blew apart, and individual druidow arose where the chunks of flesh had been.
The lightning shot into the sky like an arrow and struck down on the east side of the village.
Merlin sat on the floor next to his father and held on to his sweaty hands. He could feel Prontwon’s torn sleeve against his knee as the old man finished his breathless prayer.
At that moment the hairs on the back of Merlin’s neck prickled. His scalp tingled, and even his hands felt strange. What was happening?
He looked up as an ear-splitting explosion sliced open the roof of the chapel, and a blazing arc of lightning struck Prontwon. The room exploded with blinding light. Merlin was knocked back, along with his father and Dybris.
Pulling himself up, Merlin saw the lightning split apart, surround Prontwon like a brood of parasitic worms, and sizzle into his chest. A fading wail escaped Prontwon’s lips. The room darkened as thunder rumbled across the mountainside. “Where are the candles?” Dybris called as he fumbled around. Hail stung Merlin’s face as it shot through the newly formed hole in the roof. He tried to cover Prontwon’s head, but the hail ended as quickly as it had come. A smudge of daylight showed, allowing him to find the older man’s trembling hands.
“I see oaks … beautiful firs,” Prontwon whispered.
“You’re here, Abbot, in the chapel,” Merlin said, his stomach sinking with dread.
“A mist is rising … leaves … trunks … Why is it all gray?”
Dybris found a place next to Merlin. “We’re beside you.”
“The sun … it is setting …”
Merlin held Prontwon’s hands tighter, shaking his head against the tears stinging his eyes. “No, the sun’s come out again. Look at the light. Even I can see it!”
“So dark …”
Dybris placed his hands on Prontwon’s heart and bowed his head.
“I see two trees … with a light shining between …”
Merlin held Prontwon’s right palm to his own cheek. Please, God, don’t let him die! We need him here … You know we do.
“I hear the voices … of my mother and father calling … calling me to come.” Prontwon’s voice grew fainter, but Merlin could hear his smile.
Dybris put an arm around Merlin.
“And there … a cross. I see a cross.”
Prontwon moved his hand to the top of Merlin’s head as if in blessing and held up his other arm to heaven. With a final exhale of joy, he called, “Jesu, I come to you …” And with that, his arms fell limp.
Tears coursed down Merlin’s cheeks.
His father groaned from beyond the fallen benches.
“Go to him,” Dybris said.
Merlin crawled away, searching for his father, and found him curled against the wall, shuddering.
“It hurts,” Owain whispered.
“Where, Tas? Where did the lightning strike you?” Merlin’s fingers brushed over his father’s torso, seeking the wound. A tight fear clenched his heart. How bad is it?
“Ahh … my armband. Why does it hurt?”
There was something strange about his father’s band, and Merlin was more than glad to get rid of the druidic thing. “Here, let me take it off.” He reached out and felt the icy metal of the covenant armband.
“Leave it alone!” Owain pushed Merlin in the face and scrambled to his feet, kicking him in the stomach in the process.
Doubled over on the floor, Merlin reached out toward the shadow that was his father. “Tas!”
But Owain didn’t turn.
His father ran outside just as hail began pouring down once again.
Owain ran, not knowing where he went as the hail stung his flesh like a shower of sparks from the forge. Nowhere did he run, and yet everywhere, as his feet thrashed through the ice-pocked dirt of what seemed like all the tracks and paths of Bosventor. Nowhere did he find shelter, and yet all around, the fading hearth fires of his neighbors called to him.
As he ran, his fingers clawed at his armband and then caressed it. Though his path meandered, inevitably and without reason he found himself in the pasture of the Druid Stone once more.
And there stood his wife, Mônda, with her goodly father who smiled on Owain as a prodigal come home. All else blurred but their sweet faces as he fell sideways to the turf. “Take it off … Take it off. In the name of mercy, take it off!” he called.
Mônda bent down and, with her long black hair covering his face, touched his covenant armband, whispering words that took away the pain.
Owain relaxed … until his fingers curled against his will. His elbows jolted straight, his legs numbed, and his back went rigid. He wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn’t obey.
“My daughter,” Mórganthu said, “your spell of binding has grown strong since the first days of your union. Here is one of my enemies, and what shall I do with him?”
Mônda looked at Owain in love, and this gave him hope. She would help him, she would —
“To the Stone. Take him to the Stone,” she said. “Then he will always be mine.”