Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1)

by Adam Copeland

  The man looked familiar, though Patrick couldn’t place his face.

  “My name is Gustave, and this is my son Frederique,” the man said.

  “Fred,” the boy corrected.

  Gustave rolled his eyes, but put an arm around the boy just the same. “Frederique, named for his uncle, my brother.”

  Patrick then made the connection. “Frederique, the inn keeper in Aesclinn.”

  “Oui,” Gustave responded. They then clasped hands in a more informal manner. Fred returned to his position behind his father.

  “I am Sir Patrick Gawain, Reservist of the Avangarde of Greensprings. What can I do for you today?” Patrick said.

  “The wolf,” Gustave said as the smile left his face. “It was near my farm last night. I heard you would be here, so I came as soon as possible to tell you.”

  “I’ll pack my things,” Patrick said, and did just that.

  A short while later he was walking alongside Gustave, leading Siegfried by the reins. Astride the saddle sat Freddy, who had a smile going from ear to ear. Putting the boy atop the giant warhorse went a long way in removing his shyness.

  As they walked, they discussed the wolf. “What makes you think it will be there again tonight?” Patrick asked.

  “All the farmers and herdsmen who have been victims of the creature say that it comes at least twice. Sometimes as many as three times. Always after dark. Last night was the first that I saw it.”

  “Did it kill any of your animals?” Patrick believed that one could never have too much information about an enemy or prey.

  Gustave shook his head. “All my animals were indoors last night. The milk cows in the barn. The pigs and sheep inside the cottage with us. I saw the beast prowling the edge of the woods near our land, sniffing the air in our direction.” Gustave shivered. “Even though it was at some distance, I could still see that it is quite large, this wolf. But that is not what concerns me most, nor what made me seek you out so quickly.”

  Patrick raised an eyebrow. “What is the reason, then?”

  Gustave was a moment in responding. “This thing is truly a monster. The other farmers have described the carcasses of the thing’s kills. Only some are eaten, fewer are dragged off. Most are…” he paused, as if searching for the proper word. “Mutilated.”

  Patrick raised both eyebrows this time. “Mutilated?”

  Gustave nodded gravely. “Sometimes the head is missing, and the body left untouched. Sometimes the animals have been gutted, slit down the center of their bellies as if by the sharpest of blades. All the innards gone, but the meat of the carcass intact, and not a drop of blood on the ground. And still other times, the entire carcass is intact but for puncture wounds about the neck and throat, and the poor creature has been sucked dry of blood. It is unnatural.”

  “But it sounds as if you have learned from your neighbors’ misfortunes and placed your animals indoors at night, which thwarted the wolf from attacking them last night,” Patrick pointed out.

  “That’s what I’m getting at,” Gustave continued. “A creature that kills in such an unholy manner may not be put off by walls and thatching for long. Attacking the cows in the barn is one thing, but what if it should come into the cottage? I have bigger concerns.” He glanced back at Freddy who was cheerfully stroking Siegfried’s mane.

  Patrick nodded, also glancing back at the freckle-faced boy.

  They did not talk much more as the sun made its way towards the horizon and they turned down a side path that led away from the ocean. Not much further on was a modest farmstead. The living quarters were contained in a simple stone cottage. Smoke drifted upward from the chimney, and blew slantwise across the thatch. All around was lush green grass, grazed short by Gustave’s many sheep, which drifted around the establishment like puffy low-lying clouds. A brook gurgled nearby under an arched bridge; the bridge was more decorative than functional, as most anyone could easily step over the water. A bit further off was a larger structure made of gabled earth and wood. It too had a thatched roof, but not in quite as good repair as the cottage. This, Patrick surmised, was the barn. Just beyond it were two cows, moving languidly through the grass and shrubs. They were burdened with pendulous udders. Bells about their necks made occasional dinging noises. Still further out was the edge of a thick forest of evergreens and oaks.

  “Bienvenue à notre maison,” Gustave welcomed. “It may not be Greensprings, but it is home.”

  “Thank you, Gustave.” Patrick replied as they approached the doorway of the homestead. Gustave reached up to Freddy and brought him earthbound. “Frederique, take Monsieur Gawain’s horse to stable.” He looked to Patrick for his approval. Patrick nodded. “Then round up the cows and milk them. Supper will be ready when you have returned.”

  “Ah, papa,” Freddy said, disappointed.

  “Don’t ‘ah, papa’ me. Move along now, Frederique.”

  “Fred.” The boy insisted, scowling as he stomped off with Siegfried in tow.

  Gustave sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “My apologies, Monsieur Gawain. My boy is a willful sort.”

  Patrick grinned. “I’m sure my father would have said the same about me.”

  Still shaking his head, he led the Irishman into the cottage. Inside it was dark, despite a single open window. Patrick stood still and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark while Gustave busied himself at the hearth; some embers yet lived among the ashes. To these Gustave held a taper, which quickly caught fire, and this he put to an oil lantern that lit up the room.

  The building was divided into two rooms. A simple dining table took up most of the one in which they stood. It was made of three large planks of wood on top a single lateral plank. Four cylindrical legs, tree branches really, held it up. All held together by wood pegs. Three similarly fashioned chairs sat around it. To Patrick’s left was a bench that held many clay jars and sacks. To his right was the hearth. The floor of the cottage was earth; though he could not see any animal droppings, Patrick could smell the rich smell of manure and the musky smell of fur―yet also the more pleasant odors of baked bread, thyme, and dill. Straight ahead, through a narrow doorway, was the other room. A bed took up most of the space.

  Gustave looked around, fidgeting. “Like I said, not much to look at, but it is home.” He moved across the room to the bench and picked up one of the sacks. White powder puffed off its surface as he handled it. He paused, looked at it, and smiled meekly. “Suppose it would help if I made a fire first before I tried to make us some fresh bread, eh?” He looked at the hearth.

  “You go ahead and make the dough; I’ll make the fire,” Patrick offered.

  “No, no monsieur. You are a guest, and a nobleman,” Gustave protested.

  Patrick waved him off. “I’m going to feel very awkward just sitting here doing nothing otherwise.”

  “If you insist, monsieur.”

  #

  By the time Fred returned, it was almost completely dark. He brought with him a wet sack that he placed on the bench. From this he withdrew a wedge of cheese and a clay jug, both of which he placed on the table. These now accompanied clay plates, goblets, and a wooden bowl full of vegetables from a fenced garden behind the cottage. Gustave was just then pulling a breadboard out of an oven cleverly incorporated into the hearth’s chimney. A pleasing odor preceded the loaf to the table.

  Gustave joined his son and Patrick at the table. They crossed themselves, said the mealtime prayer, and dug straight into the food.”Forgive me for not having any meat, monsieur,” Gustave said as he filled the goblets from the jug brought in by Fred. It contained milk, probably chilled in the brook. “We should hurry with our meal; there is no telling when the wolf might come. Frederique, are the cows in the barn?”

  “Fred. Yes, papa.”

  They ate hurriedly and in silence. By the time they were done with the vegetables, milk and cheese, the bread had cooled enough to eat. It tasted very good.

  #

  Patrick watched the farmer a
nd his son herd the last of the sheep inside the house. Once inside, Gustave shut the door behind them and urged Patrick and Freddy towards the field, pulling his cloak tight about him.

  “As much as I value my stock, it is they the wolf wants most. Therefore, I do not want to be anywhere near them when it comes.”

  “So why not leave them out, and stay safely inside?” Patrick asked.

  “That is where you and your sword come in, monsieur,” Gustave replied. “If I left them out, they will be too spread apart and there will be no telling which animal to watch. If we round them up into a smaller location, the wolf will have no choice but to approach all of them at once, and then you can attack it.”

  Patrick had to smile. He did not know if his poor hunting skills were so obvious that Gustave knew he needed all the help he could get, or if the man just wanted to achieve the quickest kill possible. He stopped a fair distance away from the cottage and barn on a knoll. To their left was the forest; to their right was the farmstead; and in between, green pasture gave way to the brown stubble of a harvested wheat field. The three of them hunkered down.

  It was a dark night, with only the stars to light the landscape. This turned out to be adequate, though, once their eyes adjusted. The air grew chilly as the night progressed. After several hours, Freddy gave up any pretense of trying to be one of the “men” and crawled inside his father’s cloak to stay warm. Patrick moved himself closer so that the boy was between them, which drew a beaming smile from the boy.

  “Monsieur, if I may be so bold,” Gustave said in a barely audible whisper, “may I ask where it is you are from? I notice an accent in your language. You are not native Norman or Frank, nor do you sound like any of the Anglos I know.”

  Patrick smiled. “I am Irish, from Eire.”

  Gustave blinked. “Where did you learn our tongue?”

  This time, Patrick did not smile. “The Crusade. There were few other Irishmen. I spent most of my days among the Franks of Gaul and Bouillon.”

  Gustave’s eyes widened and Freddy drew a gasp.

  “A cru―” Freddy started to exclaim, but Gustave elbowed the boy.

  “Shh! Mind your voice, boy; we mustn’t frighten the wolf off.”

  Patrick hung his head. He did not want to be the cause for excitement, nor the cause for consternation between the man and his son. Certainly not over the Crusades. Perhaps sensing this, or perhaps knowing the nature of some fighting men’s hearts, Gustave did not ask the usual questions.

  Freddy, however, alive with a boy’s spirit, asked in an excited whisper, “What was it like?”

  Even from the opposite side of the boy, Patrick could feel Gustave giving his son a harsh elbow. Patrick shrugged. “It was nothing that I would ever want my son to do.”

  Maybe it was the sadness in his voice, but Freddy no longer seemed keen on asking questions about glorious battles. Instead, he asked, “You have a son?”

  “No. But if I did, I’d want him to be just like you.” Patrick winked at him.

  Before Freddy could fix that beaming smile on him for too long, Gustave shot an arm forward and hissed, “Look!”

  Patrick looked out into the darkness. He stared for a while, but saw nothing. Gustave grabbed at his sleeve and pointed, instructing the Irishman to look down his arm. Patrick did so.

  There, past Gustave’s outstretched index finger Patrick could see a dark blob moving in the distant shadows. It moved along the edge of the forest on the field side, coming closer as it traveled. At first it was indistinct, but then turned into a four-legged beast. It was very large.

  The trio on the knoll held their breaths. The creature no longer moved towards them, but now took a tentative step towards the cottage and barn. It paused, and the sound of its sniffing carried on the breeze―a deep, huffing noise. It took another tentative step and bobbed its head, taking another sniff. Patrick’s heart started to pound in his ears, and he fought the urge to exhale loudly after holding his breath for so long. He thought the lack of air was causing his eyes to play tricks on him. What was a fairly distinct four-legged creature a moment ago now looked like a shapeless mass again. Patrick slowly put his mouth down to his shoulder and with his hand inside his cloak, covered his mouth with the cloth and exhaled quietly. It was a trick he had learned during the Crusade. He then forced himself to breathe slowly and deliberately. He looked up to resume his vigil. It was once again a four-legged creature and on the move again.

  About then both Gustave and Freddy breathed heavily, probably neither realizing they had been holding their breaths until it was too late, as Patrick had. The wolf stopped in its tracks and snapped its head in their direction. Despite his earlier efforts to control his breathing, Patrick once again found himself holding his breath, as he was sure the others were. A few torturous long moments crept by, their hearts racing, and then the wolf bolted for the forest. In the blink of an eye the creature melted into the shadows of the woods. It moved as fluidly as the Huntsman’s hounds.

  Patrick cursed. He grabbed his sword in its scabbard that lay on the ground next to him and he stood up to give chase.

  Gustave jumped up and grabbed him by the arm. “The forest is dangerous enough at night, let alone when pursuing that thing.”

  Patrick took a deep breath, legs and arms aching to run after the wolf anyway, but under Gustave’s staying hand, he nodded and sheathed his sword.

  #

  The following morning they returned to the site of the creature's appearance. A mist engulfed the landscape, cloaking it with a stifling pallor. The men needed a while to find evidence that the creature had existed anywhere outside their imaginations. The field of stubble was hard packed and did not lend itself well to footprints. But at the forest edge, there was some soft earth, and it bore a few very large tracks.

  Patrick spread his hand over a print. It was nearly as large as his hand, from wrist to the tip of his index finger.

  Gustave bent down next to him and whistled through his teeth. “Most of my life I’ve been on this island, and I’ve never seen or heard of a wolf ever being here.” He tipped his hat back. “When I first started to hear people talk about the sightings, I thought they were at most seeing ghosts like we do from time to time, like during the Bush Beatings. But then the mutilations started.”

  Once Patrick realized Gustave was thinking out loud, he started to pace back and forth along the tracks they had found. “Does it seem to you, as it seems to me from these tracks, that the beast sometimes appears to walk upright? I didn't see it do that last night. Did you?”

  Gustave reseated his hat. “I could not say, monsieur. I am a farmer, not a huntsman.” But he made the sign of the Holy Cross just the same.

  Patrick took a deep breath and called Freddy over. The boy had been standing at a distance, holding on to Siegfried to keep the large horse from disturbing the tracks. It was clear now where the wolf reentered the forest.

  “You will be going now? After the wolf?” Gustave asked.

  Patrick nodded solemnly. “To give it a good try, anyway.” He took the reins from Freddy. “At the very least I hope to find where the thing has its den.”

  Gustave smiled. “I hope what little food I gave you will help in the cause.”

  Patrick returned the smile. “More than enough. I must be going now.”

  Before Patrick could turn to leave with Siegfried in tow, Freddy rushed forward and wrapped his arms about the Irishman’s waist. He clung for a moment, and then rushed back to his father, who was smiling bemusedly.

  Patrick winked at them, and then entered the forest to follow the trail of the wolf. Gustave and his boy waved, wishing him luck.

  #

  Following the tracks was no difficult task for the first hour, but then they became sparse and hard to discern among the rocks and moss. Patrick was now deep in the forest, farther from the keep than he had ever been on Avalon. He knew the rough layout of the island, having discussed it much with the Avangardesmen and villagers, but he
now found himself much disoriented.

  Eventually, as he had feared, he came to realize he had lost the trail of the wolf. It angered him a little, but then he reasoned, what would you do if you found it anyway? The sun was low and the forest dimming and he decided to return to its edge. Gustave's warning about being there alone at night repeated in his head.

  Patrick surmised that it would be better to wait once again for the wolf to attack the livestock, and attempt to slay the creature then. Following it into the woods would be a mistake. The wolf would be in more familiar territory, and thus would have even more of an advantage against a poor hunter like Patrick.

  The knight turned in the direction he had come from and made the best time he could. But after a while, his stomach sank. Nothing looked at all familiar, and he should have long ago reached the edge of the forest. Siegfried snorted.

  “I'm sorry, old boy, but I think I've gotten us into quite a mess.”

  Siegfried neighed.

  “I said I was sorry.”

  #

  Patrick traveled farther, and the oak trees become more and more immense. They had huge tangles of mistletoe in their branches as well as long beards of lichen. It was growing truly dark now and his imagination began to play tricks on him.

  He thought he saw movement in the corner of his eye. Steps came from behind him, the old gnarled trees had faces of sorts, faces that leered at him. Avangarde stories of past Bush Beatings came to him against his will. The stories about how stalwart knights’ hair turned white from fear.

  Patrick unsaddled Siegfried and made a fire just before the last light was gone. He huddled by the yellow flames with the large horse near and his sword drawn. And as night drew on, he did see and hear things.

  Off in the distance, through the trees, he saw lights bobbing. They reminded him of no lantern or torch he had ever seen. They flickered in and out at random, and even turned colors.

  “Will-'o-wisp, will-'o-wisp

  what secrets do you whisp?”