Soon the villagers danced as well, and Connek found himself moving in rhythm with the drums.
Bag it, why couldn’t he stop his feet? This hadn’t happened before when he looked at the Stone. He concentrated but could barely slow his steps for a moment before his feet danced off again. He wondered if he wore bewitched boots, but they wouldn’t hold still long enough for him to pull them off, curse them!
The warriors watched with fascination but did not dance. Once as Connek passed, he saw Vortigern’s mouth hanging open in a grin as he looked at the Stone. Each time Connek rounded the circle, the battle chieftain was the same, his glassy gaze fixed on the strange, mesmerizing, and ever-burning surface of the Stone. What was Vortigern thinking? What did he see in the Stone that made him waver there like a stalk of grain caught in a spinning, shifting wind? Another time around, and Vortigern had pulled out his blade and thrust it at an invisible foe. What enemy did he see? The fool! If Connek could just control his own boots, he could slip over there and rob the warrior blind.
But time blurred, and soon Connek knew only the movement of his feet and the forever dazzling-blue flames of the Stone. After hours of this, it seemed to him, the ground was littered with huffing and retching villagers. The Stone dimmed, the throoming ceased, and Connek’s legs collapsed beneath him.
Someone shrieked.
Mônda ran from the center looking everywhere among the people. “Owain!” she cried in vain.
If the blacksmith was gone, then where was his son with the pluckable torc?
The gate. They’d been over by the pasture gate! Alarmed, Connek tried to sit up but almost vomited. He lay down until the queasiness passed, then clawed to his knees and spied past the warriors to the gate.
Owain, the monk, and that wretched Merlin had disappeared.
Merlin feared for his father. He, Dybris, and Prontwon had all been talking with Owain in the chapel for half an hour, and his father still hadn’t made full sense of the situation.
At first Merlin thought it was hunger, so Dybris brought fresh bread from the table, and they’d all eaten. But Merlin could detect no improvement in his father’s condition. Even taking a cold, wet rag to his father’s face had not removed the stupor.
“Owain,” Prontwon rasped from where he lay, “when you were young, you claimed Christus … as your own. Tell us about that.”
“Told you before … Can’t you remember?”
Dybris paced back and forth. “We remember, but you —” He threw up his arms.
Owain stiffened under Merlin’s hand. “Want to see it again. The Stone is calling …”
“Tas,” Merlin said, “remember Kifferow. Don’t go back!”
Merlin’s father shook his head. “Kiff … That was a long time ago. Better now. Saw him just yesterday.”
Dybris stopped pacing and whispered in Prontwon’s ear, “Why are we wasting our —”
Prontwon shushed him. “Dybris, if we cannot defeat the power … this Druid Stone has over Owain, how can we have … hope for anyone else?”
“Why can’t we Christianize it?” Dybris asked. “Like the standing stone by the abbey spring?”
“A pagan stone … that the people formerly worshiped … yes, and we carved upon it a cross to point them to Christ. But how do you … propose to do that to this Druid Stone?”
“I’ve been thinking about it —”
“Some things cannot be changed,” Prontwon said, his voice weakening. “Owain, you’re a … respected elder in the village.”
“Respected?” Owain slurred. “Not the way my tas was. He saved the whole fortress once … Snuck up on those filthy Prithager.”
“Who is your enemy, father?” Merlin asked.
“Meddling monks. Mônda’s telling me … telling me to leave here! Where is she?”
Prontwon shook his head. “We need … to pray. Let us anoint Owain with oil and lay our … hands on him.” He fumbled through a bag and handed his oil flask to Dybris.
Dybris held the tube upside down, and not even a drop was inside.
“It must have leaked … Well, we can never run out of prayer, thank God.”
They bowed their heads and laid hands on Merlin’s father and prayed. After some time, Merlin thought he heard a noise beyond the closed chapel door. He turned his head to listen over the earnest words of the abbot but heard nothing more.
A moment later the chapel door creaked open a little.
Merlin concentrated on the sound. Something scraped.
“Come in,” he called, interrupting Dybris.
Outside he heard the fading sound of footsteps running away.
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, per
haps 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.”
CHAPTER 16
THINGS FORGOTTEN
Merlin sat on his hands, leaning against the wall where
his tas had left him. “Go and tell the brothers about Prontwon. I’ll stay and keep vigil.”
“I’m sorry about your father, Merlin,” Dybris said.
“Nothing can be done now. He’s gone.”
Dybris helped Merlin stand up and gave him back his staff. “Don’t give up. You can pray. All of us can pray.”
Merlin nodded.
“And don’t forget Garth. Keep praying for Garth.”
“I will.”
After Dybris left, Merlin pulled up a bench so he could sit near Prontwon’s body but decided to stand instead. He found the old man’s hands and folded them upon his chest. How could he have died just when Merlin needed him most? When everyone needed him?
Then Merlin did something he’d never done in life. He reached out and felt the shape of Prontwon’s face. He knew the man’s voice. Knew the gruffness when the abbot coughed to rebuke an improper joke. Knew his earnestness when he corrected Merlin’s thoughts about God or the Scriptures. Knew the abbot’s kindness when he held Merlin’s hands in greeting.
Yet Merlin couldn’t remember the man’s face, since his family had little to do with the monks before Merlin became interested in following Jesu.
Thus, he had never seen Prontwon smile or laugh, nor had he seen the twinkle that must have been in the old man’s eyes when he teased.
Warm sunshine filtered through the hole in the roof, and there Merlin stood, feeling the old man’s stubble and the shape of his nose. The forehead that held such intelligence, such wit, framed by his balding head and his surprisingly thick eyebrows.
Merlin held back a sob, for only in the coldness of death did he now understand Prontwon in a way God had intended him to be known and yet had always been hidden from Merlin. He patted Prontwon on the shoulder and sat down to pray for his own father, whose face he knew.
The room grew dark, and Merlin pulled his cloak about him, feeling suddenly chilled and alone. He tried to imagine the shape of his father’s eyes, and he begged God to open them.
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