“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!”
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?”
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