CHAPTER 6
FEVERED VISIONS
Dybris arrived after the noon meal and brought a healing ointment of thyme for Merlin’s back.
Merlin’s father harrumphed. “Will it push the bellows for me too? I’ve lost my helper, yet I’m expected to fix Tregeagle’s wagon along with all my other work.”
Dybris considered this. “I could seek permission from Prontwon to take his place. Merlin’s healing shouldn’t take much more than a week.”
Owain banged his hammer on the anvil, loudly. “Nah. I don’t want any jabberin’ monk slowing me down. Best for me to handle the bellows —”
“Blowing hot air seems to be your specialty of late.”
Merlin hoped his father wouldn’t throw the monk out before the ointment was applied. Thankfully he merely banged the iron more loudly on the anvil. Merlin slid off his tunic so Dybris could rub the healing salve into the wounds. It stung badly, and he had to stop Dybris three times because of the pain.
After the monk left, Merlin’s father pulled up a stool, leaned close, and said in a low voice, “I’ve been thinking …”
Merlin wanted to sit up, but the burning ointment kept him in place.
His father groaned. “How do I say this? … The truth is that I don’t want you to go to chapel anymore.”
“What?” Surely Merlin had misheard.
“No more chapel. These monks are causing too much trouble.”
“Look, Dybris didn’t mean to get you angry —”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what? Did Mônda tell you to say that?” Merlin hit the wall with his fist, but agony from the welt on his shoulder made him regret it. “She never wants me to go to chapel. Just last week she tried to kick me —”
“Leave your mother out of this.”
Merlin wanted to roll his eyes. “She’s not my mother. Why don’t you ever talk about my real mother?”
“Why do you keep asking, eh?” His father slid his shining armband farther up.
Merlin scowled. Mônda gave the armband to his father when they were wed, shortly after Merlin’s mother drowned.
“Mônda’s your mother now. It’s time to accept it.”
“My mother died. You can’t make me forget her.”
His father stood and paced the floor, raking a hand through his thinning black hair. “I failed her too, you know. I’ve made a mess of my life.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Say it, then. ‘Owain An Gof couldn’t save his first wife from the water, couldn’t save his ungrateful, foolish son from wolves or whips … has a difficult second wife and an unloving daughter … and he spends his time bending worthless iron.”
He clasped his hammer and struck it sideways upon the anvil. “I should’ve done something different. Maybe earned a chieftain’s torc. Mônda says —”
Merlin stopped listening because his father was speaking nonsense again. “Tas, you’re one of the most respected men on the moor. Everyone depends on you —”
“Fie! You know the old saying:
Unless one of six things you bear,
folk will not hear nor follow you:
A harp whose notes hang in the air,
or druid-coppered scars of blue.
Fine parchment of a monk in prayer,
or steaming food by wife who’s true.
Sharp knife held at a back made bare,
else torc of gold or silver hue.”
“So? You’re a master swordsmith. All the warriors —”
“Hah! You think that loafer who ordered your wolf-killing sword will even pay for it? My work is nothing but a bucket of ashes, and you make it twice as hard. Stay away from that chapel. Do you hear?”
He strode out of the smithy and slammed the back door.
The day stretched on interminably, but Merlin’s father didn’t return to the forge. Though a cool breeze would slip in through the open front doors now and then, it brought Merlin little relief. By late afternoon, sweat slicked his hair, and it felt as if fire seared his back. He tried to rest, but he grew more and more agitated. His head felt heavy, and at one point the room flipped upside down. He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, a shadow stood over him with a whip. Merlin held out his hands and wanted to yell, but the man disappeared.
Soon the shadows convulsed again until the shape of a wolf formed between the workbenches. The light of its eyes filled the room, and it snapped and licked its teeth.
Merlin sat up in a panic. He had to get to his father. Get out of the smithy. Get away from the wolf. His blanket turned into cobwebs as he shoved it aside and stood. The room spun, and he waited for it to right itself. He tried to walk to the door but veered left and banged his knee into the forge, which he clutched to steady himself.
His hand rested upon the edge of the new sword — the one he’d killed the wolf with. He clutched the temporary handle, lifted the blade, and turned upon the shadows.
“Leave me alone!” he called. “I’ve got the blade. I’ll kill you again.”
The wolf’s maw blazed out dizzying flames.
Merlin brought the blade up and sliced it through the air. The beast backed up. Its teeth glowed, and noxious vapors hissed from its nostrils.
Merlin’s face burned. Why was he so hot? Sweat dripped down his forehead and across his scars, stinging his eyes. Once again, he raised his weapon at the creature, just as the jaws parted and it lunged at him with a howling cry.
Merlin jumped back as sparks burst from its mouth, burning his skin. He thrust the sword straight into the fiery throat. The creature’s body turned into smoke and disappeared.
It was finally dead.
The weight of the blade pulled Merlin forward, and the room tilted. He fell with a black crash, and he could no longer breathe. He was floating. Sinking.
Merlin’s heart and lungs threatened to burst before he felt himself begin to rise. Liquid flowed oddly against his skin. He struggled upward through the water, frantic for air, his lungs searing. He broke the surface, coughed, and sucked in the life-giving sweetness again and again.
Dark-green water surrounded him, and thunderclouds rolled above as rain poured from the sky. He wiped his face while kicking to keep afloat. He didn’t know where he swam, but as in his previous vision, he could see clearly.
The world darkened again, and a burst of light jabbed into his eyes like nails. Thunder split the heavens, and voices floated to him. Faint at first but growing stronger.
“I’ve nothing to bail with …” said a woman’s voice.
“Keep trying,” said a man. “I’m rowing, but we’ve sprung a leak. The shore’s not far.”
Merlin kicked his legs to spin toward the sound. A small dinghy rocked toward him. He called to it as the boat rowed nigh, but no one answered. When he reached up to grab hold of its railing, his hand touched nothing. Just air above and water below. He sank headlong, off-balance and confused.
Thrashing back up to the surface, Merlin sputtered. He glimpsed the occupants, and his heart leaped into his throat. The man was his father, though he looked younger. Was the woman Mônda?
No.
Drenched red hair lay upon her shoulders. Not his stepmother but his mother. Gwevian, dead now fourteen years.
Merlin called again, but the occupants didn’t hear him, and the phantom boat swirled by through the swelling waves. By some miracle, some curse, he was witnessing the past.
Water lashed his face as he swam after them.
A bolt of lightning arced from the depths of the water and shot up to the sky. The entire lake lit up deathly white. Another of the fiery tongues shot up from the center of the lake and hit the boat, scorching and rending it in half. The two occupants fell into the water, stunned.
Darkness. Thunder. Merlin yelled again and swam toward the wreckage. “Father! Mother!” Water rushed into his open mouth.
Bubbles rose. His father’s hand grasped a board, and he pulled himself up. Merlin tried to help, but his hand passed through his father’s shoulder.
“Gwev — Gwevian!” His father hunted frantically among the flotsam, not finding her. “Gwevian!” He dove. Thrice he sought her below, each time surfacing more exhausted. Finally, his strength nearly gone, he kicked to shore, only ten yards away.
Merlin swam after him, tears streaming into the lake that had become his mother’s grave.
His father collapsed on the shore, wailing in great gasps. His whole body shivered, and his mud-stained feet lay in the water.
Merlin pulled himself next to his father, tired and his limbs aching.
The moans of his father faded, and Merlin knew no more.
Garth slipped away from the planting easily enough. That lazy monk Herrik, who was supposed to be working beside him, always snuck a nap during the hottest part of the day. What a dodger! When he sent Garth and his wooden hoe off to the eastern slope so he himself could “get some hard work done without interruption,” Garth took his chance.
His stomach growled as he crossed the expanse of barren field between him and the Fowaven River. Abbot Prontwon had cut his tucker down to oatmeal and water for the week as punishment for crashing the magister’s wagon — but they were fussing over nothing. He’d just borrowed it and planned on returning it after dropping off the charcoal.
As for the crashing, well, if that was anyone’s fault, it was Merlin’s. Sure, Garth had driven the horses a mite fast, but if he-who-wanted-to-slow-down-now hadn’t grabbed the reins, Garth would have handled those beautiful, white, high-stepping horses just fine.
He felt a twinge of guilt over the flogging, but Merlin should never have asked to take his punishment. What a useless thing! Didn’t Merlin know that he’d never have let himself be flogged? He was getting ready to bolt out the magister’s front door — and he would have, too. He had run away from his father many a time to avoid a chastisement, and he wasn’t about to take one from sour face.
And those monks! How could they side with the magister? He’d never forgive them for planning to sell his bagpipe. They couldn’t do it, and Garth wouldn’t let them. They’d have to rip it from his bloody fingers. If they found it, of course. And to make sure they didn’t, he had hidden it in the bottom of Dybris’s barrel of belongings. They’d never think of looking there, the big brutes.
Oh, the thrill of freedom as Garth hitched up his robe to wade across the fast-moving Fowaven. After reaching the opposite shore, he climbed the hillside into the trees and marched as quietly as he could through the dense forest. When he made it to the road, he slunk along, on the lookout for any strangers, until a distinctive fragrance halted him in his tracks. Mmm. Someone was roasting meat nearby.
He turned in a slow circle, trying to determine which direction the smell came from. His stomach hurt something awful, and he craved some of that meat. But this time he wouldn’t get scared away before completing the job.
He shook his head at the memory. There had been nothing to fear. Just two tall men dragging a stone through the woods. And he had just been on the verge of finding the meat and gigging a large, juicy hunk … Better not think about food till I get some.
What was it about that stone? He sure wanted to peek at it again. No men around, mind. Even through the bush where he and Merlin had hidden, he’d seen its dark surface glimmer as if silver was embedded in the rock. That was, of course, before those blue flames shot up from its surface. Now that was strange.
Another breath of the succulent aroma drove thoughts of the stone from his mind. Ah, the best smellin’ tuck in the world. Great hunks of tasty meat roasting and dripping with fat!
He sucked in four more big whiffs and then hid himself behind a tree. Practicing stealth, Garth crept through the forest glade toward the delectable smell. Whenever a twig cracked, he crouched and froze for a bit. Finally arriving at the source of the aroma, he spied the spitted meat roasting over three fires. Sneaking behind a humungous twisted oak, he peeked around the trunk until he saw a woman in a green shawl and brown bonnet plucking a chicken.
She turned her head with a wary eye toward the tree.
Garth yanked his head back just in time.
Oh, if she’d just go away. One hunk of meat — just one! He sniffed the air and could hardly stop himself from running out to grab what he could. He closed his eyes and breathed in large whiffs of meat, his mouth watering. Come on, woman, leave!
Beyond the fires, a girl called loudly.
The woman tending the meat set her chicken down and shouted back, “She has, has she? Give me a bit o’ time! Can’t run in me old age.” She walked off in the other direction.
Garth snuck over to the nearest fire and tried to pull off a chunk of beef, but he found the meat too hot to touch with his bare hands. He should have brought a knife. Lacking one, he went to one of the poor, lonely chickens, and the largest leg practically fell off in his hand. There’s a beauty. Neither the chicken nor Garth would be lonely now. Oh, it felt as if he were floating in heaven!
Sneaking back to the twisted tree, he stopped at a large root and turned around just in time to see the woman striding back.
In his panic, Garth tripped and dropped the chicken leg as he fled to the other side of the tree. He froze a moment before hazarding a look.
The green-shawled woman stepped up to the fires, and seeing the roasted leg missing, she screwed up her face and looked around.
Garth hit his knuckles together until they hurt. Oh, why did I drop it? Just like when he let that big sea bass slip out of the net and his father yelled at him.
His mouth watered again, yet all he could do was take nibbles of the unsatisfying smoke. Oh, please, woman, go away again! Jus’ for a while, please?
Another shout reached his ears. The green-shawled woman stood and stamped her foot. “Broke wha’? Oh, the love o’ fire peat! How many times must I bandage that grandson o’ mine?” She glanced back at the woods, blinked, nodded, then off she went.
Garth waited twenty heartbeats and then ducked around the tree to scoop up the dropped chicken leg.
But it wasn’t there.
It just had to be. He searched all the grass in the immediate area.
Not taking chances, he ran over to the tripod again and sloughed off another juicy leg. He started to run while biting off a chunk — and smacked into someone.
Garth fell down on his backside.
“Hello, hello. And who might you be?” the man said in a deep, rich voice.
Bare feet were planted before Garth, dark and calloused with the dirt of many travels. Long toes sank into the soil like thirsty oak roots, ending with jagged nails. Above the feet a pair of stained woolen breeches rose up until hidden by a tattered sea-green tunic tied with a braided leather belt.
The man leaned over with a piercing stare, and from his chin hung a long black beard streaked with gray and white. At his neck rested a silver torc in the shape of a snake, with blue stones for eyes. His hand gripped a large walking staff carved with images of unknown beasts. At the top sat a small white stone in a silver setting.
Garth flinched when he spotted a slightly curved brass blade tucked into the man’s belt. Dried blood stained the tip.
Garth was struck with the feeling he’d seen this man before, but where?
“Do you have a voice, boy? I asked your name.”
“Sir, I’m … I’m named … Garthwys mab Gorgyr.”
“Are you from Bosventor? Your accent is slightly wrong for these parts.”
“No, sir! I come from Porthloc.”
“I see. And what is this meat in your hand? From the looks of it, you are, perhaps, some sort of cook-in-training for the local abbey?”
“Oh no, sir. I can cook fish an’ oysters … but not chicken. I was just … borrowin’ this.” Heat rose to Garth’s cheeks.
The tall man bent his long legs and sat down next to Garth. In his left hand he held a chicken leg … the one Garth had dropped, apparently.
Another man, whom Garth hadn’t noticed at first, stepped back and busied himself studying the flowers on a nearby bush. This man was much younger than the first and wore a red-and-amber cloak that didn’t quite hide his copper torc.
The older man beside him spoke. “So now, look at you … You are not quite skin and bones, but you are hungry, yes? May I get more meat for you? Perhaps the whole chicken?”
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir … if’n I can just have this one piece, I’ll be right glad.” Garth held up his chicken leg. “May I, sir?”
“Not yet.” The man reached down for a strange stick hanging off his belt, unclasped it, and held it up.
Tied to the end were many strings of small seashells. Down the length of its handle had been cut a collection of lines. They almost looked to Garth like letters, but he couldn’t make them out. They certainly weren’t Latin.
“What are those lines, sir? On your stick, I mean? I’ve never seen words like those afore now.”
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, boy? They are Ogham, an ancient writing. Yes, yes.”
The man waved the musically clinking shell wand over the chicken leg in many circles as he uttered some words in a strange tongue. While he did this, one of his sleeves slipped back on his arm, revealing that it was covered in blue lines of scarred tattoos.
That’s funny, Garth thought. Why’s he have those marks on his arm? Is he a Pict?
“There, there, all ready for you to eat. And if you want more, you are welcome to it.”
Garth was amazed. Who was this man to be so generous? Much nicer than those stingy monks! And the chicken smelled so good. “Thank you, sir!” He took a big bite, chewed, and swallowed.
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine.”
Garth reached out to touch the shells hanging from the wand.
But as fast as a shark to bloody bait, the man’s hand clamped onto Garth’s wrist. “Very interesting, yes? But do not touch, I say, do not touch.”
Garth’s breath caught in his throat.
The man let go, and Garth’s wrist hurt. “May I ask you, sir — beggin’ yer pardon — where did you get those seashells on yer what’s-it stick?”
“Another question, I see. I found them over in the land of the Eirish. I have just come back from there after many long years.”
Come to think of it, the man himself had a bit of Eirish accent. “You came over the sea?” Garth said. “You mean you sailed?”
“Yes, yes. How else would I get here? I have sailed all over. Across the southern sea to Gaul and Brythanvy. I have even been among the Kallicians. Do you like sailing?”
“Oh yes, sir!”
“Maybe we could go sailing sometime. Would you like that?”
Garth was nearly speechless. “Do you mean that, sir?”
“Surely, surely.”
“That’d be just wonderful! Do you mind me askin’, sir, what yer name is?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry to have forgotten those pleasantries. I am given the name of Mórganthu, and this is my son, Anviv.”
Garth looked to Anviv, who was breaking off all the heads of the flowers and dropping them to the ground in an absentminded way.
Mórganthu coughed. “I am about to address the order of our brotherhood. Would you like to hear what I have to say? I have been waiting all my life to share such as this, and the stars will be in a highly propitious alignment tonight.”
Taking another bite from his chicken leg, Garth suddenly remembered the silvery-dark stone, and realized why the two men were familiar. Would he get to see the stone again if he followed Mórganthu? These were strange goings-on, and if Garth stuck around long enough to eat his chicken leg, maybe he could get another. Maybe even a third.
He followed Mórganthu through a thick stand of pines stepped into a clearing, and realized he’d come to the old circle of stones Merlin had told him about. Stretching over a hundred feet from one end of the field to the other, the circle was made up of twenty-eight majestic rocks, each evenly spaced at twelve-foot intervals. The stones stood between ten and fifteen feet tall, and Garth felt very small next to them. The builders had cut smooth the side facing the center, while the outer faces had been left rough. Lichen covered their north faces, and rain, wind, and sun had weathered them for too many generations to count.
Inside the circle of stones sat what appeared to be more than one hundred men. Each one had blue scars on his arms like Mórganthu, and some had the marks on their faces.
“Sir,” Garth asked, “are you a druid? Is this one o’ yer gatherins?”
Mórganthu smiled. “Yes, yes, I am. And not since the bloody swords of the Romans drove us from the island of Inis Môn has our order of druidow met in such numbers.”
Garth caught his breath as every one of the assembled men turned and saw him standing next to Mórganthu. Their stares made Garth want to hide behind his companion, especially when the nearest man’s hand went to his blade.
“I have brought a guest, as you can see,” Mórganthu announced. “And I declare him, by my right as the arch druid, my guest to witness our proceedings.”
The men began to grumble.
“Do not gainsay me. By his actions I have deemed the lad worthy and not one who is persuaded against us. For shall not all witness the great change that will come upon Britain? Perhaps he will be an important part of that change.” Mórganthu placed his right hand on Garth’s head and held his staff up for all to see.
The druidow appeared to relax, though many still eyed Garth suspiciously.
He hid himself just outside the circle next to one of the stones as Mórganthu and his son walked down an aisle toward the center. As they passed, the crowd began to murmur.
“What has he brought?”
“The tarp …”
“There is power …”
“Why secret?”
Mórganthu stepped to the center of the circle. He stood next to a four-foot-wide patchwork leather tarp, which covered a circle of seven long wooden stakes driven into the ground, creating a small tent.
Mórganthu motioned for silence and handed his staff and chicken leg to Anviv.
Garth took a bite of his chicken leg but wished he had both.
“Brothers of our order! Blessed druidow, knowledgeable filidow, and greatly esteemed brihemow! You have been called here … Yes, you have been called here to witness the rebirth and restoration of our order.”
He paused.
The men shouted their acclamation. Staffs were raised all around, druid sticks shook, and small bells rang.
“What can give us back our power?” a tall man in red bellowed from the right.
Mórganthu pointed his finger at the man. “Do you think the gods weak? I tell you they have revealed a power to me! It is here in our possession.”
He walked slowly southeastward and began a circuit around the low tarp covering.
“Revealed? How?” a balding man with a stout crutch shouted from the left.
The sun broke from the damp clouds and shone upon Mórganthu.
“Tell us. Why believe you?” another demanded.
“Believe … believe,” Mórganthu said as he turned to him. “This was revealed to me in a dream.” Circling left-wise around the small tent, he retrieved his staff, and its white gem dazzled Garth’s eyes. “A blessed dream.”
“What did the gods say?” a short man in a pointed fur hat questioned from the right. Other voices seconded.
“Time. In due time. First, know that I have been chosen to reveal what has lain hidden for my entire lifetime.” He untied the ropes so that the leather tarp quivered in the breeze.
The gathering became silent.
Mórganthu grasped the covering and pulled it away with a flourish.
“Behold!”