CHAPTER 8
NOTHING TO HOLD ON TO
It’s been a week and a half since the trial, and you say Garth is still sulking?” Prontwon set his bone-handled quill down on the table and slid some smooth rocks around to hold the parchment flat. “How can we help him?”
Dybris sat on a bench nearby. “I don’t know. Garth hardly speaks to me.”
“Has he told you anything more about the crash? What scared him? Why’d he drive the horses so fast?”
“He’s refused to say, and I didn’t want to bother Merlin until he’s on his feet again.”
“You saw him this morning, yes? How does his back fare?”
“It’s healing well now. There’s been no more sign of infection after that first scare. Ten days of rest has done him a lot of good.”
Prontwon shook his ink pot and removed the stopper. “Good. I shall speak with him soon. As for Garth, well … I have my own suspicions as to what happened with him.”
“Anything you can share?” The whole matter had puzzled Dybris. The tales he’d heard over the last month gave him great pause. When Prontwon had asked him to join the abbey, Dybris hadn’t expected the area to be so wild and strange. Whatever had appeared in the woods, it had caused the boy to drive the magister’s wagon like a crazed fiend.
“The time may come for telling, but not yet.” Dipping his quill in the ink pot, Prontwon began copying a portion of Scripture.
“You don’t think it has anything to do with the legends about Lake Dosmurtanlin?”
“No … Garth and Merlin were up by the old stone circle when the boy got scared, not down by the lake. How many years has our good God given you, Dybris?”
“Thirty winters. Why?”
“Well, you seem too mature to be listening to Bosventor’s old wives’ tales. I never guessed you had such a fanciful imagination.”
“You don’t believe them? Isn’t it true about all of the drownings? What about Merlin’s mother?” Dybris studied Prontwon’s expression carefully. Did he imagine it, or did a flicker of tension touch Prontwon’s eyes?
“People drown all the time. That was an unfortunate accident.”
“But I’m told their bodies were never found.” Dybris paused, then decided he might as well ask what had been bothering him. “Are you sure there’s not some creature in the lake?” He leaned over, setting his elbows on the table.
“Ach, now look. You’ve made my quill slip.”
“Sorry, Abbot.” But the table hadn’t moved.
Prontwon fetched some light-brown pigment from a shelf and covered over the mistake with a brush. “People drown in the marsh too, but no one says that some dark creature lives there. And crazy Muscarvel doesn’t count.”
Dybris glanced at Prontwon. “Who’s Muscarvel?”
“An old man who lives in the marsh in some God-hidden hut. Oh yes, I’ve seen him and his rusty sword, and he is definitely no spook.” Prontwon sighed. “Anything else wrong with Garth?”
Dybris said nothing for a short time. A hundred more questions burned to be asked, but he swallowed them. “He’s still not eating much even though he’s no longer served oatmeal at every meal as punishment. Just plays with his dinner and doesn’t ask for more.”
Prontwon stopped copying and stared at Dybris. “That bad?”
Dybris nodded.
“If it is as you say, then the remedy is in his repentance.”
“Yet the bagpipe … Can we buy it back?”
Prontwon scratched his quill carefully across the page again. “It is impossible to know where the merchant went.”
Dybris rubbed his temples and then covered his eyes. “I haven’t told Garth yet that I found it hidden in my barrel — or that we sold it.”
“For God’s love, Dybris —”
“He still thinks it’s there … I didn’t want to make matters worse. His nose twitches every time I go near the barrel.”
Prontwon slapped the table. “But the boy needed to know. It was sold last week!”
Dybris sat in silence.
Prontwon bowed his head, and his lips moved in whispered prayer.
After some time, Dybris finally spoke. “I’m sorry, Abbot, for my delay. I’ll go and tell him now.” He rose to leave, but Prontwon put a hand on his arm.
“One other thought. Garth might need a break from the abbey. Get away for a while and come back with fresher thoughts.”
“Who would take an orphan?”
“Troslam and Safrowana have a girl Garth’s age, and the Lord has given them wide and loving hearts. Garth could even earn his keep by helping with the weaving. Shall I talk with them?”
Dybris nodded, his heart lifting somewhat. “A change would certainly do him some good. But please pray while I let Garth know about the bagpipe. And forgive me, again, Abbot.”
He ducked out the door of the round house they used as a scriptorium and walked along the path to the fields, dreading what he had to tell Garth. The sun had begun to sink, and soon the small abbey bell would ring, calling the brothers in for their evening meal.
There in the distance, Offyd worked near Garth, and beyond them Brother Neot instructed a group of other monks.
Offyd was breaking up the earth, and his wooden mattock sent up sprays of dirt, while Garth’s hoe barely dented the soil.
“God’s blessing, Offyd,” Dybris called. “How is the planting today?”
“Fine … if you count blows to the ground.” He glanced at Garth. “Poor … if you count the earth we’ve broken up.”
Garth glared at Offyd but said nothing.
Dybris sat down on a hump of earth about ten yards from them and called out, “Garth, come sit with me a bit.”
Garth dropped his hoe and approached Dybris, a downcast scowl on his face.
“Might as well give him the rest of the evening off,” Offyd called.
“Peace,” Dybris said, “this won’t take long.”
Garth sat, clamped his jaw, and squirmed his shoulders to keep Dybris’s arm off.
Withdrawing his arm, Dybris selected a stalk of grass and began breaking it into tiny pieces. He didn’t look at Garth. “I came to speak to you about your bagpipe.”
“Do you have to sell it?”
Dybris closed his eyes for a moment. “You know why.”
The boy picked up a clod of dirt and flung it far out into the field. “All I know is I hate you an’ I hate Tregeagle. Get yer gold another way.”
“From where?” Dybris asked. “This abbey isn’t rich. If we have another bad harvest, we’ll barely make it through the winter. I checked our stores in the cave just yesterday, and there’s almost nothing left.”
“You can’t have me bagpipe!” Garth raised his fists and threatened to pound Dybris’s shoulder.
Dybris covered each of Garth’s fists with a hand and gently pushed them down. “It’s already gone.”
“G-gone? You f-found it?”
“Sold. A week ago. A traveling merchant bought it.”
Garth’s shoulders slumped, and his voice cracked. “Got nothin’ now.”
“I know it seems hard, but God can see you through.”
“Me father’s buried in the sea, and now his bagpipe’s gone too. Got nothin’.” He scrambled to his feet and stood with his back to Dybris.
Dybris rose as well. “I’m sorry.”
“It was my only anchor! An’ now I got nothin’ to hold on to.” Garth stuck his hand into a bag hanging from his belt and fumbled inside. “Almost nothin’,” he mumbled.
“You still have your memories of your father. And when you’re older, I’ll help you buy another bagpipe.”
Garth turned and yelled at him, “Not the same! … Sellin’ me as a galley slave would o’ been better!”
“Garth —” Dybris began, but the sound of feet thumping in the distance interrupted him. They both turned. Dybris’s stomach tightened. A great mob of men — maybe a hundred or more — marched up the hill from the river valley.
With a racing heart, Dybris stepped forward, looking for weapons, but spotted just a few knives and small hatchets hanging from their belts. Most of the men carried dried wood, as if they planned to make a bonfire somewhere.
If they weren’t a war band, then who were they?
One man set the pace, and behind him seven men in green robes advanced in a circular formation. Each carried a short pole looped through the edge of a stitched leather tarp, which bore something large hanging in the middle.
The bearded leader of the group strode forward on long legs, his black and gray hair blowing in the wind. He wore a green linen robe that matched the others’, yet with dark leather cuffs and a blue-lined hood. He carried an etched staff with a flashing gem on top.
The other monks gathered behind Dybris and Garth as the group marched closer. When the leader passed, he no more than glanced at most of the monks, yet when his gaze landed on Garth, it seemed to linger. Had Dybris imagined it, or had he seen a glint of recognition?
Dybris looked down in time to see the boy pull from his bag a small, shiny black crystal of tin ore — the kind they mined in the area, and then crushed and smelted. Garth held tightly to this, but his gaze brought Dybris’s attention back to the strange men. Many of their knives were made of brass and curved slightly, the leader’s the largest. Sickle knives. He examined the men closely. Their arms and legs had been scarred with blue tattoos. The word was on his tongue when he heard it murmured by the monks behind him.
“Druidow.”
“Explains the smoke across the valley …”
“Headed toward the village …”
“So many …”
“Jesu, help us …”
Once the last straggler had passed and the road lay clear, Dybris took Garth’s arm and walked with the other monks to the scriptorium as fast as he could without appearing panicked.
Bursting into the room, Dybris and the others related to Prontwon what they’d seen. The abbot listened to the report with a grave expression on his face, then dispatched a messenger to retrieve Migal and Loyt, who had been preparing the evening meal. Only when all twelve monks, along with Garth, had crowded into the room did Prontwon stand in their midst and address them.
“Hear me! What I have feared and, I am ashamed to say, tried to ignore for the past week has just been confirmed. The old stone circle on the other side of the valley has recently become the home of druidow once more, and from the count you have given, possibly their entire number in the land of the Britons.”
No one moved or made a sound.
“From what you have said, they are headed to the village with some pagan intent. We must follow to know their plans. Brother Migal has brought us bread and a pitcher of water that we may not faint after our labors. However, considering what we may face, I suggest fasting for those who are able.”
Some took bread while others refrained, but all refreshed themselves with the water.
“As the evening closes and we enter the presence of the sworn enemies of our God, let us pray our evening prayer of protection.”
Dybris gave Garth a chunk of crusty bread as the brothers joined voices in song.
And then, with Garth lagging in the back, they set out for the village of Bosventor, following the path of the druidow.
As darkness descended on the smithy, Merlin lay on his straw bed practicing the harp. Over the past ten days, he’d learned to tune it and play a few songs, but his progress was slow. He’d rested under his father’s orders, but now that the burning of his wounds had faded and his fever was but a memory, he yearned to be active again.
The door creaked open, but in the twilight Merlin couldn’t see anyone. “Who’s that?”
“Me.” It was a small voice. “Your sister.”
Just as he thought. “Bar the door behind you.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask. Where’s Tas? I’ve been expecting him.” He reached for the mug of water next to his bed.
“I’ll get it,” Ganieda said.
She picked up the clay mug, but it slipped from her hands. The vessel shattered and the water spilled.
“I’ll help.” Merlin tried to find the pieces but touched his sister’s trembling hands instead. “What’s wrong?”
“Tas and Mammu left! They told me to stay with you. Let you sleep. But the fire’s dying, and it got dark.”
“Where’d they go?” He found the pitcher next to the broken mug and poured water into his mouth.
Ganieda climbed onto the pallet and sat beside him. “The miller brought a bag of barley after supper. And news. There’s a problem down by the meeting house. The whole village is going to be there.”
“The meeting house? Is someone to be judged?”
It was curious to have a meeting at night. Normally, the village elders met during the day inside the common house, which had been built next to the spring. The only time everyone showed up was to condemn a criminal to death — a rarity that had occurred only once in Merlin’s lifetime. The magister, in consultation with the elders of the village, would make the pronouncement while sitting on what was known as the Rock of Judgment — really just a slab of natural granite that lay on the earth near the meeting house.
Ganieda began to cry. “I don’t know. Tas wanted me to stay, and Mammu wanted me along — and they fought.”
“How long ago?” He reached out and felt her soft hair.
She sniffed. “The sun was on the hearth when they left.”
“Did they say for me to stay?” With his wounds nearly healed, he was looking for any excuse to be up and about.
“No … they didn’t say.”
“Well, then, I’m going.” Merlin found his stiff boots, pulled them on, and tied them. They felt good on his feet after so long.
“You can’t leave,” Ganieda said. “It’s dark!”
“You think that matters to me?” As long as there aren’t any wolves along the path, that is.
And just in case, he snatched up his dirk, slid the scabbard onto his belt, and tied it around his waist. Fear churned in his stomach like the tidewaters on the craggy Kernow coast.
“I mean me … you can’t leave me.”
“Come along if you have to. Tas wanted you with me, and since I’m going, you come too … And you can help me get there faster.” He stood up and found his staff next to the wall.
“You sure?”
“Stay close and don’t wander off.”
Outside, the last smear of the orange sun fell beneath the hill that stood between their land and the marsh. A chill wind blew as they set off down the path, Merlin tapping out ahead with his staff. He wrapped his cloak tighter, but could do little else as the gusts whistled through his hair and sent shivers down his back.
Ganieda hummed a slow tune he’d often heard Mônda sing. She slipped her small hand into his as they turned east onto the main road of the village and continued on toward the meeting house.
Merlin felt every sense crackle as they passed Allun’s mill and entered a stretch of road flanked by heavy underbrush. Off to their right, he heard movements in the bushes.
A snarl.
Merlin kept walking, but his grip on his sister’s hand tightened.
“Keep going,” he whispered.
Deep growling now. Behind and in front.
Fear crawled up from the pit of his stomach and grabbed the inside of his throat. How many? Dogs or wolves? “Stay close,” he said as he drew his dirk and whipped his staff around low to the ground.
“Don’t hurt them!”
Her words barely registered as Merlin’s mind flooded with memories of the attack seven years before. That time it had been the same: He and Ganieda had been alone on the path outside their house. Howling wolves had surrounded them. She’d been hardly two years old. Defenseless. He’d been eleven and had tried to save her by keeping the wolves back.
But they had attacked him — and she had never been touched. They knocked him to the ground and mauled him, scratching and biting his face. By the time his screams had reached his father, it was too late. His eyes had been ruined and his face marred forever.
“No, Merlin!” Ganieda pulled at his arm. “It’s my wolf, Tellyk, and his friends. They want to see me.”
Merlin snapped back to the present. For a moment he tried to comprehend his sister, then another snarl jerked his attention to the bushes. “Get behind me, Gana!”