CHAPTER 7
THE STONE
A fly buzzed in Merlin’s left ear, and he swatted the insect away. He shook his head and gradually realized he was sitting up. Birds called, and a light wind swept through his hair.
Opening his eyes, he found he could still see clearly, and his back didn’t hurt.
He sat at the edge of a lake with lush grasses growing on the slanted shores. A dark line of trees swayed gently at the opposite bank, and beyond them stretched a ridge of hills. In the distance to his right rose a mountain covered in brown rocks and boulders. No, this was their mountain. The fortress stood on a flattened portion of the hill on the right side, but the cone of the mountain rose farther up on the left. His village lay on the other side of the mountain, and he —
The previous vision flooded back, and Merlin lurched to his feet. His mother! Heart pounding, he turned to his father, but Owain was gone. Only faint impressions in the mud remained as proof that his father had lain beside him on the bank.
A cry went up from the lake.
Two boats drifted near each other with a long, thin timber stretched from one to the other, the ends held by a man inside each boat. Between the boats, the timber hung over the water, and two strong saplings had been sinewed perpendicularly to it, left to drag in the water. Other men, four per boat, held oars while they looked intently into the water between the vessels. In the back of the boat on the left, one man stood, and he too peered into the water.
A man’s gray hair broke the surface with a loud splash, and he sucked in mouthfuls of air. A chorus of shouts greeted him as he sputtered, sucked in more air, and was pulled into the boat on the right side.
The man who was standing, apparently their leader, flicked some lakeweed at him. “Why so long? A fool thing, Gavar, keepin’ us scared like you’d been eaten.”
“I was lookin’ fer … poor Gwevian,” Gavar said, “but it was’na her body down there … rather a great rock. Oddlike.”
Before he could continue, the crew gave sighs of relief and catcalls.
But Gavar shook his head. “I’m goin’ down again to get it. It’s a different kind o’ stone, and I plan to get it to shore fer a look.”
One of the crew jeered. “Got a rock, you say? We’re supposed to be after Gwevian. How’n a mollusk do you think we’ve time for nonsense? What would poor Owain say to yer foolishness?”
“Hey,” another called, “maybe we should crack the rock on yer head, you lugger.”
Old Gavar shook his head, spraying water in all directions. “No breaking it … You can have a peek, sure, but nothin’ more!”
The leader raised his hands. “Stop yer fightin’! We’ve work to do. The stone’s yers, Gavar. But no time now. We’re supposed to be dredgin’ for An Gof’s missus.”
“No, I’m gettin’ it now.” And he dove into the water again, despite the protests of the men.
Soon his head appeared above the water — close to the shore where Merlin sat. Gavar stood up with a groan, and in his arms he cradled a large stone. “This … be … it.”
“That be too big fer you to hold, Gavar!”
“How’d you pick that up?”
“Must be lighter than it looks.”
Merlin’s eyes opened wide as he beheld the stone.
It was about two feet broad and half that in thickness. Despite the algae and weed stuck to it, the mottled and craggy surface was unlike any stone Merlin had ever heard of or seen. Though rocklike, its metallic wetness shone with the reflected light of the dying day.
Something about it made Merlin shudder.
From deep within the stone, a faint blue light shone and then faded away.
Gavar carried the stone toward the shore with his wiry arms, and as he lifted it out of the water, his face grew red and his breath came in gasps. At one point he slumped down, but with a grunt he hefted the stone higher and made a final push for shore.
Finally, he threw the boulder just beyond the water’s edge and collapsed next to it, crying out and clawing at his chest. His body stiffened, jerked, and his face went white. Coughing and choking, he reached out his hand, caressed the stone, and fell still.
The men in the boats blinked. Some dropped their oars; most turned pale. All spoke in whispers.
“What’s happened?”
“Unnatural.”
The leader directed the boats forward, and he and three others stepped ashore. By the time they got to Gavar, the man had slipped a little into the water, so they pulled him up onshore. One of the men knelt beside him and placed a hand on Gavar’s chest.
“His stone did kill him,” he said. “His heart’s not boppin’ anymore.”
“What’ll Owain say?” another asked.
The third man stepped back from the water. “This lake is bewitched!”
The leader, silent during this spectacle, now spoke. “Mum, all o’ you. The thing was jus’ too heavy fer his old drummer, so let’s not be tellin’ fancy tales. Remember his age an’ how grand an effort it was.”
Furtive glances answered him.
The leader spoke again, this time louder. “So now … let’s finish the dredgin’ job we promised Owain. An’ fer you who think different, know fer sure there’s nothin’ to fear as long as you stay in the boats, hear? Not more’n two parts to search, an’ we can get away. We’ll build a cairn for Gavar in the mornin’. I’ll take his place at the oar.”
The men climbed warily back into the boats, back-oared, and turned. They dredged the rest of the lake grudging and murmuring.
Merlin tried to take note of the men in the two boats and realized that every last one of them had died in the fourteen years since his mother had drowned. Not even one survived to testify about the events Merlin now witnessed.
Merlin knelt down near the stone and examined poor Gavar’s face.
The head was cocked and the eyes rolled back. His arm still extended, and the lifeless, muddy fingers still touched the stone.
Darkness rolled across the lake even as a mist rose, sending a paralyzing chill deep into Merlin’s bones.
Gavar’s face turned green. His cheeks sank, and worms poured from his nose and eyes above his frozen smile.
Merlin turned away and retched.
Garth stepped out to get a look as Mórganthu threw the tarp aside. There, in the center, lay the stone Garth had seen in the woods, nearly as dark as the night sky. Almost three feet long and half that high, its deeply pocked surface had an odd silvery sheen, neither stone nor metal.
Everyone whispered as Mórganthu tossed away the tent stakes.
Garth closed one eye and studied the stone. It wasn’t huge, yet as he thought back over his short life, no boulder, ore, or rock that he’d ever seen looked like this. Sure is pretty, though.
An old man stood up on Garth’s right and hobbled toward the stone, leaning on his staff. He wore a drab tunic, greasy breeches, and a shabby traveling cloak. Around his neck rested a torc of twisted bronze. The two ends of the torc had been hammered into the shape of large oak leaves and inlaid with amber.
When he finally reached the center of the circle, he pushed the white hair away from his eyes, wheezed, and spoke. “We’ve waited days for you … to reveal this to us, and what is it? Just a —”
Mórganthu raised his hand. “A stone, yes, Trothek, but a stone with power to restore our order.”
A man on the other side of the circle stepped forward. “What power?” He had a northern accent and wore a simple belted plaid.
Mórganthu answered, “Power? Why the power of this Stone can —”
“Fill a hole?” the kilted man interrupted. Laughter roared from those gathered.
“Let Mórganthu speak,” Trothek called. Turning to Mórganthu, he touched the back of his hand to his forehead in respect. “Tell us … of your dream.”
Mórganthu held up his hands and motioned them to silence. “Last winter, during the twilight of the dark solstice, I dreamt!”
He began walking around the Stone.
“In my dream I beheld mighty Belornos surrounded by the fires of the blessed underworld. Without words, he bade me rise from my pallet and approach him upon a craggy path between two blazing pits. The heat burned my rags to ashes, and so I fell at his feet, though unscathed, with nothing on my back.”
Mórganthu knelt before Trothek, acting it out.
“And there I found that he had dressed me in robes of argent and azure. With his mighty arm he bid me rise and pointed to the very Stone you see before you.”
Mórganthu stood and scanned his audience as they pondered his words. “Then he prophesied that through this Druid Stone we will take back our riches … and our reign over all the Britons!”
The men cheered, and Garth let out a cry as well.
“Then Belornos waved his hand, and I envisioned the location of the Stone, along with my task to fulfill the commands. I found it just as Belornos had foretold, a few days ago at the lapping edge of Lake Dosmurtanlin, north of the mountain.”
Mórganthu paced in front of them.
“So now the druidow can rise up to take back the power we held from of old. And it begins in this village of Bosventor. Here we will draw the people back to the old ways, and our power will spread. The prophecy says the sacred groves on Inis Môn will be regrown, and within fourteen years we will again rule all of the Britons. From the fens in the east to my western land of Lyhonesse, we will be revered, and from the northern island brochs down to the southern sea, we will reign.”
Everyone started talking at once, and a few arguments broke out.
A broad-shouldered druid in a gray, woolen robe stepped forward and scoffed. “Hah! How can a rock do all that? A stone cannot push this Christus back.”
Many voices murmured agreement.
“Be … quiet,” Trothek said in a wheezy rasp.
The broad-shouldered druid faced Mórganthu and crossed his massive arms. “I will not be quiet! You’ve brought us across land and sea to show us a rock? Pah. We can perform all our rituals with the old central stone. Where is it?”
Mórganthu stared darkly at the man. “I have thrown it in the eastern wood. If you like, remove the new and put back the old.”
The druid examined the new Stone, clearly suspecting some trap.
Mórganthu arched an eyebrow. “You are strong. Throw the new Stone away. If you dare.”
“I will.” He strode forward, and with his scar-tattooed arms, he seized one end of the dark Stone. “Curse you and your stupid Stone.”
He pushed it up, planted a hand on the other side … and howled as a blue fire simmered from the surface of the Stone.
The Stone fell back into place with a thud.
He held up his hands, and the palms were red, possibly blistered, but Garth couldn’t tell at his distance.
“Water! Water on ‘em,” the man yelled.
Trothek fumbled for a water skin at his belt and poured the liquid onto the man’s hands. They were shaking so badly that most of the water fell to the ground, useless. So Trothek steadied them with his free hand, and as he touched the man’s fingers, he exclaimed, “Your hands are cold. How is it they’re … burned?”
Others brought water as well, and the man bit his lip until a red line of blood poured down his chin.
“Who now dares move the Stone?” Mórganthu shouted. “Who dares question its power? Let him step forward.”
No one stirred.
Garth studied the rock. What secrets did it hide? Soon he couldn’t look away, nor did he want to. As he gazed, a new and delightful feeling welled up within him. A vision filled his eyes — of himself, older and stronger, dancing in celebration with thousands of revelers before Mórganthu, who sat on a golden throne. Tables and tables of smoked and roasted meats lay piled up on all sides, and Garth ate until his stomach was near to bursting.
Glory!
The pain in his stomach completely eased at last.
He longed to bow down and worship the Stone.
In his glee, Garth forgot to breathe, and dizziness made him lurch. He grabbed the side of the standing stone beside him and closed his eyes. The ache in his stomach returned, and he realized he was neglecting Mórganthu’s speech.
“… and so, as instructed by our great god Belornos,” Mórganthu continued, “we will celebrate Bel’s High Day of Fire in less than two weeks. For with fire is life and death, protection and power. Then our complete authority on the moor will be sealed as we make a sacrifice in the old way.”
Whispers of discontent rippled through the crowd. Garth didn’t understand what they grumbled about, but many of the druidow seemed to have a complaint against these last words.
Mórganthu strutted around the Stone, ignoring them. “On Beltayne night we will see who pleases Belornos to be his servant in the underworld.”
Trothek limped forward and faced Mórganthu. “S-stop! I have supported you … my arch druid, but now … you go too far. Would you strip away all our … laws of the last two hundred years?”
“What? What is this?” Mórganthu asked, his neck snaking around to peer at Trothek.
“I said … stop.” Trothek pointed his staff at Mórganthu, but his speech grew even more breathless. “Our law no longer allows … the old way of sacrificing … and … we will not … do it.”
“You question the power of the Stone?”
Trothek glanced at the powerful rock, a blue fire emanating from inside. “Not the Stone … rather your authority, your power … to command such a rite.” He spoke louder. “You lead the … druidow. But we filidow will not sacrifice … as of old.” Now he coughed violently, and a younger druid with a braided blond beard stood and supported him.
Mórganthu bent his head near Trothek’s and squinted at him. “Do not oppose me, I say.” Mórganthu’s voice sizzled. “Arch fili though you be, I will throw you out!”
Trothek cleared his throat and looked Mórganthu in the eyes with a steady gaze. “Only by lawful vote … of the six brihemow judges … could you … do such.”
“Yes, yes. Do not insult me. I know our laws,” Mórganthu said. “But you have lost your head, for your friend the arch brihem died last week at the chief gorseth of Boscawen and is not present.”
Trothek closed his mouth.
“I was with him when he died,” Mórganthu said. “Go ahead — try to oppose me!”
Trothek started to speak, but just a wheeze escaped.
The druid with the blond beard spoke up. “Shall I call the filidow to council?”
Trothek nodded. “Yes … young Caygek … do so.”
Caygek stood as tall as he could, still a head shorter than Mórganthu, and lifted his voice. “Filidow and all who would join. Hear me. The arch fili has called a council to weigh the matters before us. Convene in the pines on the eastern side of the circle!”
The news spread like fire, but hardly any from the crowd walked past Garth to join the council.
As Trothek began to limp off, Mórganthu bared his teeth and grabbed the old man’s arm.
With great difficulty Trothek ripped free and limped toward Garth. As he passed, Garth noted a large black mole on the man’s cheek, just above his beard.
Mórganthu took a few deep breaths and raised his voice. “Brothers, we shall ignore this filidow foolishness, for now is our time to worship this Stone that has been given to us for our power and freedom!”
The druidow each got on their knees and held out their hands to the Stone. A chant arose in a foreign tongue, and the men fanned their arms up and down as the song floated on. A drum beat in time to the swaying.
At first Garth saw nothing different about the Stone. But he felt his head sway with the slow rhythm of the hands. His fingers twitched to the beating of the drum. He tried to look away from the Stone to glance at Mórganthu but couldn’t.
The Stone grew larger in his vision until every detail of it gleamed. He wished to touch it, and he almost let go of the chicken leg as he lifted his hands in hopes of feeling such a delightful rock. When he found it too far away, he wanted to run to it.
The Stone emanated power.
It pulsed with the people.
Vibrated with their voices.
His heart beat to its rhythm.
Strength coursed in his blood.
He wanted to serve the Stone.
To belong to these people.
Wasn’t that odd? He’d never seen anything so beautiful.
A hand clamped over Garth’s eyes and pulled him backward. A man’s voice echoed as if from a cave, “Don’t look at the Stone … Stone. You must leave this place. Bad things are planned here … here.”
Garth pulled the hand away and blinked. He felt dizzy. The man had a blond beard, and Garth realized it was Caygek. Behind him stood Trothek.
Caygek’s brows knotted and his lips quivered.
Something dangled from Garth’s hand … a chicken leg? He became aware of the strange people around him, and a great fear clutched at his heart.
Garth slowly moved away from the circle, then taking a bite of chicken, he bolted through the woods, back the way he had come.
When Merlin next opened his eyes, everything was blurry again. The straw of his bed prickled his burning back, and he felt a wet rag hanging across his forehead. As his mind cleared, the familiar sounds of the smithy filled his ears.
He moaned, and his father stepped over from the anvil to feel his forehead. “Hopefully your fever’s gone for good.”
Merlin shook his head as his mind reeled with the things he had seen: his mother’s death and the discovery of the strange stone in the lake — the very stone Mórganthu and Anviv carried in the woods days ago. Were they visions or delirium? His throat felt as if wool had been stuffed down it, and he drank some water. “What hour is it?”
“You’ve been asleep for nearly a day. I found you on the floor yesterday afternoon, and you’ve had me worried ever since.”
“I’m feeling a bit better,” he said, and it was true.
His father slicked the hair away from Merlin’s eyes and went back to stoke the forge. Moments later someone rapped at the open door, a large shadow framed by the morning sun.
Merlin hoped it wasn’t Mórganthu.
“Owain, my good, good friend!” the man’s voice boomed.
Merlin’s father set his poker down. “Come in, Kiff.”
Kifferow stepped into the smoky room. “Heard Merlin was whipped. The news is everywhere.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.” Owain sighed.
Kifferow went straight to the mead bucket, just as he always did, glugged some, and belched. “D’I interrupt sumtin’?”
“Just your drinking, eh?”
Kifferow took another swig. “First drop today.”
Merlin’s father walked over, yanked the pail from the big man, and whacked him in his bulging belly. “And the last from my bucket.”
“I’m not fat … Merlin, am I fat?” Kifferow stretched taller but not any thinner.
Merlin laughed. He remembered the last time he’d shaken Kifferow’s hands. Besides smelling of sawdust, the man’s fingers had been as thick as oat bannocks and his hands slippery with sweat, the right hand more calloused than the other. But Kiff’s round silhouette told all. “Let’s just say you swallowed the bucket too.”
Kifferow burped again. “Ahh, you can’t see me through them scratches.”
“My eyes see better’n a drunkard’s, Kiff. And well enough to know you’re the biggest blur in Bosventor.”
Why did Kifferow and so many others act as if Merlin couldn’t see at all? Sure, everything looked like colored smudges and shadows, but he could get around. Take care of himself. Even —
“Hey, Kiff,” his father said, “did you hear Merlin killed a wolf two nights ago?”
“A wolf? Really? Sure it wasn’t Muscarvel dressed up in a rug? Yesterday I heard he crept near the fortress and threatened ‘em with a rotten eel.”
“Yes, Kiff, a wolf. Right here in the smithy. Broke through that window.”
“Musta wanted a drop o’ your good mead, then.”
Merlin’s father pulled some iron from the forge and hammered it into shape on the anvil. “Well, then, take a lesson, Kiff, since the wolf swallowed Merlin’s blade for it.”
Kifferow picked up a heavy pouch and shook it. Recently forged nails clinked inside. “Enough here to begin fixin’ the roof for them monks. Got any more braces?”
Owain pulled a set of iron braces from a barrel and handed them over. “Five. But I’ve got to work on the wagon. You need more?”
Kifferow grunted as he tested the strength of one of the braces. “I’ll need three more by tomorrow. Double the nails too. Hey, you got plenty o’ coal now, I hear, thanks to that wagon thief.”
Merlin took his boot and threw it at Kifferow. “He’s my friend, Kiff.” The room spun, and pain exploded through Merlin’s head, making him regret his outburst.
His father spoke up. “Leave him alone, Kiff. Just take your stuff and go, all right?”
Kifferow dragged his feet toward the door. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Keep yer mead bucket full, Owain.” And with a somber whistle, he walked out.
Owain set his hammer down and walked over to Merlin.
“By the way, I’ve got something for you.” He placed a leather-wrapped bundle in Merlin’s hands. The seams had been stitched tightly, and the parcel had a long carrying strap. At one end Merlin’s fingers found a buckle, clasped with a wooden peg.
“Where’d this come from? What is it?” he asked.
“You were sleeping when a certain someone dropped it off.” He lightly punched Merlin’s arm with the side of his fist.
Merlin winced and hoped his father didn’t notice.
“I almost sent her away before I understood. She said you can keep it. Anyway, there it is. And now I gotta get to work on that axle.”
Merlin sat in silence as his father pressed the bellows, pumping the coals into a hot orange glow. Could it have been Natalenya? After a moment Merlin found the wooden peg, loosened the buckle, and reached his hand inside the bundle. It was her practice harp.
He drew out the beautiful instrument and admired its workmanship. His fingers explored every nook and cranny, and when he touched the strings, they fairly sang on their own.
A rush of gladness swept over Merlin. Suddenly he looked forward to the hours of recovery stretching before him. He would learn to play.
Thank you, Natalenya.