‘Evil.’
‘Evil? But this is your best friend.’
Gwydion mustered a magical light on his fingertip and raised it. It burned with a pale and vivid glow that picked out a tress of pale hair and cast a bluish luminance onto a face that was as pretty as a March marigold but one that was full of concern.
‘Will? Are you all right?’
Relief flooded through him as he heard the kindness in the question. ‘Master Gwydion,’ he said, ‘this is…Willow.’
‘It seems you startled my young friend. Well met! I have heard Willand speak nobly of you.’
Willow was beautiful in the elfin light.
‘Well met, Master Gwydion,’ she murmured. ‘If you are truly a wizard, and if you love your apprentice, then I ask you to heal his mind, for he’s been unwell of late, and I fear he may do himself a mischief if he’s not helped soon.’
Gwydion turned to Will. ‘I see you still have one friend left to you despite your efforts to upset all those around you. I have already spoken with Gort, and he has told me much about you that I had not noticed. I am happy to say there is no need for healing, but a warning or two may well be heeded with profit. In the meantime I see two spirits in need of winter sunshine, and since this should be a time of renewal and there are too many Fellows infesting this place for my liking, I shall show you how the Ewle ought to be celebrated! But first—’ He strode briskly to the door and struck it wide with his staff. ‘We must leave this bleak fortress if we would see a real Ewletide, for only the churlish folk are still so much themselves in this land that they can fully feel what is there to be felt and clearly see what is there to be seen. It’s a blessed truth that while the people’s spirit remains hale and untrammelled there can be no final victory for those who would take away all freedom!’
They went out of the castle and down into the town. Will wanted to tell Gwydion much and to ask him countless questions, but the wizard strode on out of the castle. They passed a cage of lions at the gate. Four real, live lions pacing like sentinels, caged near the town well, so that all in Ludford who came to draw water might see them. Will stared at them, wondering how he had missed seeing them when he had first arrived.
‘They were a gift to the duke,’ Gwydion said. ‘They came from an eastern merchant who traded across the Narrow Seas at Callas. Friend Richard meant to give these beasts to the king to put in his menagerie at Trinovant, but somehow the gesture was never made.’
‘You mean because lions are a royal symbol?’Will asked. ‘Because such a gift would be taken by some as an acceptance of King Hal’s kingship, and a sign that Duke Richard was denying his own claim?’
‘That is very perceptive of you, Willand. You have come on nicely since last we met.’
‘I’ve been attentive to my lessons, Master Gwydion.’
Willow sighed. ‘Don’t those cats look unhappy? Poor creatures, locked up in a cage in this cold weather.’
Gwydion put his mouth close to Will’s ear. ‘You have often asked what evil is. Look at your friend, Willow, and see what it is not.’
‘I know she’s a gentle person, and kind,’ he whispered back. ‘Though she’s also strong, if you see my meaning.’
‘The closest description of evil I have ever found is that it is a lack of fellow feeling. No more, no less.’
‘Fellow feeling?’ Will asked. ‘What’s that?’
‘The ability of one spirit to sing with another, be it man’s or beast’s.’The wizard looked at his perplexity and laughed. ‘Fear not, lad, for though you say you do not know the words for it, your spirit sings as well as any I have heard. Come, we shall let it sing out loud tonight!’
They hurried on, down past the monument of the Sightless Ones. It was dusted with new-fallen snow and seemed somehow less immoveable than it had been before. The night air was very cold and the ground iron-hard underfoot. Candles burned in niches just inside the entrance of the chapter house. The smell that came from it was greasy and thick. A hooded, sandaled Fellow guarded the door. He seemed neither to feel the cold nor to heed their passing, though breath steamed from his cowl.
‘He is the spider ready to welcome flies into the web,’ Gwydion said. ‘The bereaved, the needy, those of troubled mind – all such he seeks, for when the spirits of folk burn low and they are overcome by the three weaknesses, it is then that they are most easily persuaded to surrender themselves to the mind-slavery of the Great Lie. But tonight, I think, this spider will not gather a single fly from Ludford town.’
They crossed the dark and icy square. Snow swirled as it fell and when Will turned to look again he saw the lights that had earlier burned around the monument of the chapter house had all blown out.
‘Ewle, when the sun begins her return! Ewle, the day of Alban Artain! See the snow on yonder holly wreaths! The green, the red and the white! Those are the true colours of Ewle. Once the folk hereabouts roasted a pig in memory of Arduinna’s boar, and the warriors sang,
‘Sacrifice the Ewle boar!
Pour his blood to east and west!
Roast him by the fire of the Ewle log!
Serve him whole with an apple in his mouth!’
‘That doesn’t rhyme,’ Willow said, grinning. ‘It doesn’t sound right at all.’
Gwydion looked askance. ‘Of course, it’s a translation. And it was written by warriors.’
‘So, what if it was?’
Gwydion raised an eyebrow. ‘Well! Have you ever seen how poets fight?’
Tonight, all the houses were deep in darkness, but in the burgesses’ hall there shone a golden light. As they approached they heard the sound of merriment – drums and the bleating of pipes. There were long benches and plenty of good things to eat and drink and hundreds of people of all ages and sizes dancing about in a frenzy. The whole gathering was bathed in a glorious firelight of rich, buttery yellow. But when they stepped inside the music stopped and the dancers turned to see who was letting in the cold night air.
‘Call forth the ushers!’ went the cry.
Men came forward to enquire who had entered uninvited, and to see if they expected a welcome.
‘Friend or foe?’ they called.
‘We three come to share your feast!’ cried Gwydion. ‘Will you let us in, though we be empty-handed?’
‘Take them to Mother Brig!’ came the cry. ‘Let Mother Brig decide!’
Folk gathered round to stare at the newcomers, then without another word an aisle opened for them to walk down. Nothing moved except the flames of the great rejoicing fire at the end of the hall and, running in a wheelshaped cage, a dog, its tongue lolling, driving round a shaft on which a pig was spitted. A boy wearing a tall hat and a ladle stood ready to baste the pig in its own juices.
The ushermen marched Gwydion and his companions to an ancient crone who was sitting in a corner away from the bagpipers. A large black raven stood on the left of her chair back. Beside the crone were two young girls in festive dress sitting by a spinning-wheel. Will rubbed his eyes in wonder for they were identical in every way. He watched how they looked Willow up and down with interest. The centres of the crone’s eyes were as pale as milk, and Will thought that maybe tonight the girls were the crone’s eyes.
‘The boar, the tree, the wheel and the raven!’ Gwydion said. ‘Ah, all is well here!’
‘Twrch Trywth!’ said the raven.
‘Ah, TwrchTrywth,’ repeated the crone, ‘who some called Torc Triath, the king who was turned into a boar! He who was chased by Great Arthur and plunged into the sea rather than be taken. How good it is to hear your voice again, Master Gwydion!’
‘Friend or foe? Friend or foe?’ the ushers shouted out.
‘He’s as true a friend as ever I’ve had need of,’ the crone scolded them.
‘Then he’s welcome!’ said the ushermen, leaving them.
‘Come sit by me in the place of honour,’ the crone said. ‘Rufus! Bring wine and bread!’
The chief of the ushers, a hunch-back dre
ssed in black, clapped his hands three times. A beardless lad brought out horn cups for them and knives that they might have what they wished at the board. Stools were brought, then drums and brisk pipes struck up and wild dancing began again. The crone reached out faltering hands to touch the face of the wizard, and to grasp the charms she found on a cord about his throat. She began reading the design embossed there with her fingertips.
‘The tall ailm is hard to find these days, Master Phantarch.’
‘That is so, good lady, but his fire is true. And you are as beautiful as ever you were.’
‘To some, Master Phantarch!’ She smiled a coy, toothless smile. ‘Only to some. Answer me this before you eat: would you rather have half a loaf with my blessing, or the whole of it with my curse?’
‘Dear Brighid,’ said Gwydion, laughing. ‘Why do you ask? You know I would not have your curse if all the world came with it.’
‘Then eat what you will at Ludd’s board with a thousand blessings of my own upon you! And perhaps later you will favour me with the presence of the one who must hear his fate.’
‘Ah, Brighid, seer you were, and seer you remain! But we must interfere only with care. I know little of the part he is to play in coming events, except that pitiful portion which was revealed by the Book. Take care therefore that the words you utter do not influence his choices unduly.’
‘You should know, Master Phantarch, that the words of a seer are only ever offered whole. Others do the taking and the choosing. Advice is your business.’
‘What are they talking about?’ Willow whispered, awed by the strangeness of it all.
‘I don’t know,’ Will said. ‘But whatever it is, you can be sure there’re more meanings than one in it. That’s always the way when Gwydion speaks.’
‘Wortmaster Gort told me that “ailm” is the old, secret name for the silver fir,’ Willow whispered. ‘He said it’s the tree that traps winter sunshine. That’s why it’s best to make into a Ewle log because it yields the truest Ewle flame.’
Will pointed to the corner. ‘See how the top of the Ewle tree has been lopped off. It stands there like a little tree of its own.’
Will hoped that, as at home, chippings of the Ewle log would be kept by the village girls. In the Vale the girls guarded them the year round, so that next year’s Ewle log could be lit from them. It was the task of the village boys to scatter the ashes of the Ewlefire around the houses as charms against their burning down. Tonight, everyone would try not to look at the shadows cast on the walls by the Ewle log, for it was well known that if the light of it threw up a headless shadow that person was doomed to die in the coming year.
Thinking of the Vale made Will remember Eldmar and Breona and the good times they had always enjoyed at Ewletide. But then he thought of what they would be doing now, and he knew they would be thinking of him. That linked all three with a bond as strong as any magic that Gwydion could make, as strong as that linking any other family. He took out the leaping salmon talisman that had always hung about his neck. The red eye seemed to look at him approvingly, and he squeezed the little fish in his hand and felt himself flood with good feeling.
Tonight all the folk of Ludford who still followed the Old Ways had come together to eat and drink and be wrapped in music and happiness. It felt like a great privilege to have been welcomed among them.
‘Who is this?’ the crone said, her fingers reaching out to Will. Her eyes, milky as pearls, still sparkled, and for a moment he saw her as once she must have been, a rare beauty, for she looked much like the two sisters who stood with her. So strong a resemblance did they bear that he knew they must be her great-grandkin.
‘But you are not the one who must hear his fate tonight,’ she said, sitting back.
‘What’s that you say?’ Gwydion stroked his beard, thinking her oddly in error. ‘This time your second sight has failed, for this one is surely the maker of fate.’
‘Ha!’ The crone threw her hands wide as if basking in the radiance of a warm fire. The twin girls who stood to each side gazed at him. ‘Let him approach, then.’
‘My name is Willand, my lady,’ he said, bowing.
‘Ah, a respectful lad! And respect to you likewise, Willand!’ She cackled, then swayed and said, ‘I like his manners, but he wrestles with the viper of jealousy. That is the way of young men when young women are worthy.
‘Will the dark,
Will the light,
Will his brother left and right?
‘Will take cover,
Will take fright,
Will his brother stand and fight?’
Will listened politely and wanted to ask if the ditty might be an omen, but he decided not to, for some omens were better not looked into. Instead the moment passed, and though he looked for Gwydion he could not for the time being find any sign of him. Then he and Willow were invited to join the dance, and that they did with gusto, laughing and whirling around the hall with all the others.
When the midnight hour came it was unmarked by any strike of the curfew bell. On the people danced, faster and faster, until Will was fit to drop. But then the crone gave a sign to her barker, a big man with a musical voice who called for silence and sang out:
‘Enter now, lord of the dark year!’
And in came the Holly King, an old man decked about with prickly leaves and a great ball of mistletoe tied before him. He carried with him in one hand a rusty sickle and in the other a small birdcage, in which a tiny bird was kept.
‘A wren, a wren!
The King of all birds!
On King Strefon’s day flying,
Was caught in the furze!’
The crone gave her sign and the barker shouted: ‘Enter now, the lord of the year of light!’
And now the Oak King, a beardless youth, came forth, girt in dark green with a wreath of twigs and dried oak leaves. He carried a golden sickle, which Will saw was no more than a thatcher’s hook painted yellow. The twin girls accompanied him, throwing acorns all about and sang:
‘By rush and reed,
By lead and by tar!
I’ll break the knuckles
Of the Kelog Var!’
Two sickles clashed, clang, clang, and two kings danced face to face then back to back around and around. Will understood it all, for the ‘tussle of the years’ was much the same in Nether Norton, though the words were different and the dances not at all the same.
At last the Holly King called out: ‘Oh! Oh! Oh! Now I am done to death!’
And hunch-backed Rufus, to whom the greatest honour fell, cut off the mistletoe. It was caught in a white cloth by the two young girls who now stood to either side. They carried it carefully, making sure that no part of it touched the ground. And after that there was the splendid entry of King Ludd into the hall. And what a king he was, dressed as a great warrior of olden times with a golden torc and a bronze helm with a fearsome mask, a round shield and a coat of many rings. He lifted a sword shaped like a long leaf that looked like the one that had lain beside the figure of Leir.
‘See, Willand!’ the crone whispered. ‘He has come from the city, down from the Great Gate of Trinovant, where still he watches over all who dwell in that city. He has come from the place where he lies all year round to be among those who are yet true to his memory.’
‘Is it really him?’ Will marvelled.
‘Do you doubt it?’
And it seemed to Will for a moment that this was no townsman done up to look like a king of old, but the king himself. But when Will looked to Gwydion to see how seriously he should take the kingly figure, the wizard was nowhere to be seen. Then the door burst open and there was a commotion. A cry of astonishment went up and the townsfolk fell back. Those around Will got to their feet, staring in disbelief, for Gwydion had entered the hall anew. Nor was he alone, for he came forward, leading another, and Will saw with equal amazement that it was Duke Richard. The lord was barefoot and dressed only in a plain nightgown, his hands tied before him with rope
and a halter loose about his neck. The duke stared around him like a man lost in a trance, and the gathering fell silent as he was led before them. ‘Good Mother Brig,’ Gwydion said, his long face stern. ‘Here is the one of which I spoke. He is come from his bed to be among us. Will you give him entry?’
‘Twrch Trywth!’ said the raven.
‘So here is the one who must hear his fate!’
Everyone caught their breath. Such a thing was unheard of, and many thought it an intrusion and a great error to have brought any lord here, especially this one. They all looked to King Ludd, but the great figure made no royal pronouncement. He merely stood with his huge arms folded across his chest and so the crone proceeded.
She waited for the whisperings to die down, and for Gwydion to cause the duke to kneel before her. Then the twin girls spoke eerily. ‘Are ye of good faith, Richard of Ebor?’ they asked in unison.
The duke’s eyes rolled unseeingly in his skull, and he murmured to the rafters, ‘I am as honest a man as I may be.’
‘Then tell me what you see before you?’
His eyes opened. ‘I see three young sisters, speaking as one.’
Then the twins said, ‘Three sisters says he. And what of the middle sister? Is she beautiful to your eye?’
‘She is the fairest of them all.’
There was a gasp of approval among those who watched, and a rumour went round as if great consequence was to be expected of this answer.
‘That is enough!’ the crone said, raising her hand. ‘Now mark my words, Richard of Ebor, for I do declare that I am Sovereignty. Regarding the matter of the enchanted chair: you will die in the first fight that follows should ever you dare to lay your hand upon it. Do you take what I have told you as a truth?’
‘I have heard you.’
‘If you would know the future then look to your shadow upon the wall. But be warned! Not all prophecies comfort those who seek after them.’
The duke’s eyes rolled in dream again, but this time he seemed to see the several shadows dancing across the white plaster. ‘Mine,’ he said haltingly, ‘is…the…right!’
The Language of Stones Page 34