Patrick sang softly, recalling an old fairly tale from Galway. These lights, though, never came near the camp.
Then he could hear a wolf, the wolf, baying in the distance. He listened. Eventually he fell into a fitful sleep, with half wakeful dreams of trees with faces gazing at him scornfully, and the occasional mournful howl of the wolf.
#
He didn't waste any time breaking camp once light began to show. Patrick oriented himself to the rising sun and headed in the direction he knew to be Aesclinn and Greensprings.
But after what he deemed to be a half hour’s journey he emerged onto a cliff that overlooked a misty valley.
“What the hell?” He said out loud. Siegfried whinnied as if to say the same.
Patrick knew of no such valley. He hadn't heard of this valley from anyone who knew the geography of Avalon. He then thought that perhaps he had unwittingly traveled to the other side of the island. He dismounted Siegfried and led the horse up the slope of the cliff. Achieving higher ground was difficult as the undergrowth was thick here, and maneuvering the large horse through it was even harder. But Patrick reached what he thought was the highest point. Here there was little undergrowth and the few trees were wind twisted evergreens.
In the direction of the valley, there was indeed an ocean, but it seemed far off and the land appeared to continue as if it were a peninsula attached to a greater landmass. Patrick shook his head. If he didn't know better, he would say it was Cornwall somehow forested over.
He looked in the opposite direction, expecting to see the familiar sight of Greensprings in the distance or at least the hills that harbored it, but he saw only forest.
“No, this can't be,” he murmured. “This doesn't even look like Avalon anymore, Siegfried.” He began to pace back and forth, running his hands through his hair.
“Now,” he said, emphatically stopping before the horse. “This is still an island. The mist or the heights or both is distorting the view. Or maybe it’s the Avalon glamour, but regardless, this is still an island, right?” Siegfried tossed his mane. “So, what we have to do is go straight downhill, come to the coast and find our way to a homestead, or even the port, and then we'll find our way back to the keep and then tell nobody we were ever lost. Agreed?” Siegfried had nothing to say on the manner.
They set off. He rode where he could, and led Siegfried through the brush where he had to. But before long he felt he was not making any progress again. Though midday had come and gone, there was still mist about, and it obscured his view. For all he knew, he was making circles. He stopped to eat, and then realized his supply of food and water was becoming low. This was no longer a silly inconvenience, but serious. He imagined that he could survive off the land if it came to that, but it would be difficult considering he had not seen any sign of deer or other large game. That struck him as curious. How could a wolf survive on this island for so long without big game animals, only recently feeding off domesticated livestock?
Darkness started to fall once again, so Patrick made camp for the second night in the forest.
That night he saw no eerie lights, heard no howls, and the trees were friendly, faceless willows, though he could swear he actually heard them weeping.
#
The following day he staggered about even more. Siegfried was becoming agitated and difficult to handle. Patrick found himself arguing with the beast as if he were another person.
Patrick came to glades, lakes, hills and dales, none of which looked familiar. Not once did he come across the ocean no matter how many times he picked a compass direction and attempted to travel in a straight line. The land was misty in the mornings and hazy in the afternoons to the point that the trees seemed to shift and move of their own accord. Patrick's face was now stubbly and his clothes were filthy. Siegfried was faring no better. His mane was matted with twigs, moss and bark. His saddle was scuffed, torn and chafing. They were both tired and disoriented. Patrick didn't bother camping down for the evenings. He just unsaddled Siegfried and leaned his back against a tree to catch some sleep before resuming his search.
Patrick ate the last of the hard bread. “Well, it looks like it's grass for the both of us.”
One night, while sleeping against a tree stump next to a lake, Patrick dreamed of the sounds of a banquet coming from beneath the water. He could smell the food being served and hear the clink of wine glasses and silverware. He longed to eat the food and be in a warm banquet hall. But how could it be warm at the bottom of a lake?
“It’s warm everywhere we are,” said a voice. Patrick opened his eyes. There was a fellow standing between him and the lake. He held a wine glass.
“Are you thirsty? Would you like a drink? It's the best tasting nectar this side of the Pillars of Heracles.” The little man with sharp features beckoned. “Come, come. There is food aplenty. Come with me to the bottom of the lake. You are expected.”
Patrick stood up. A warm meal sounded good. He stepped forward, reaching for the glass. The little man didn't make any efforts to put it in Patrick's hand, but seemed impatient for him to take it.
“Take it!” The little man leered. “Come with me to the bottom of the lake!”
Patrick stretched out his hand but wavered. He wished he could wake up so he could think straight. There was something he was supposed to know. Something every Celtic person was supposed to know.
“Take it! Before I change my mind!”
Fairy Folk, he remembered. You aren’t supposed to take their food. If you do, you will sleep for a hundred years.
Patrick snapped out of the trance, and drew his sword. Something was splashing in the water. Siegfried was going wild, rearing and striking the air. It was then that Patrick realized Siegfried had been trying to get his attention.
Patrick backed away from the now quiet water.
“Each-uisge!” he spat, calling the evil water sprite by its Gaelic name.
#
Patrick made sure not to sleep near large bodies of water again. He continued to wander his way through the forest, following animal trails in hopes they would lead somewhere familiar.
Then one day, or thereabouts, he came across a small clearing and a man-made stone well. He was delighted at first, finding a sign of civilization, but then could find no path that came to or left the clearing.
“What look yea for, Sir Knight?” rasped a voice behind him. Patrick spun around. Any voice was alien to his ears after having heard only his own for so long. There, leaning against the well with a wooden bucket in her hand, was a crone in dirty and torn peasant clothing.
She cackled “Oh, my! I didn't mean to startle yea, my good lord.”
Patrick staggered forward. “Are you from the village? Is it near?”
The crone, whose eyes were black as night yet flickered with a vibrant life, put a hand to her cheek. “Poor creature, you're lost aren't yea?”
Patrick no longer cared to soothe his pride. He just wanted to go home and have a warm meal. “Yes, I am. Very lost,” he said.
The old woman put the bucket into the well by means of a rope and smiled good naturedly. “How comes it that yea are lost, good sir?”
Patrick had no patience, yet he tried to be polite. “Good woman, I am in somewhat of a hurry. I really need to return to the keep. Could you please tell me how to find it?”
The old woman seemed oblivious to Patrick's inquiry as she pulled heavily on the rope. “I never thought knights, with their airs and all, went around becoming lost,” she rasped. “I thought they were supposed to be saving maidens from dragons and helping old ladies cross rivers and such.”
Patrick took the hint. In his hunger and fatigue he had forgotten his manners. He stepped forward and offered to take the rope from the woman.
“May I?” he asked. The woman acquiesced.
The Irishman pulled on the rope until the bucket came into view and he could withdraw it from the well. It was empty. Patrick looked down into the well itself. It was filled in with e
arth, dry earth that sprouted weeds.
The crone took the bucket from the knight and carried it as if it were brimming with water. “Yea never did tell me why yea are lost,” she pointed out.
Patrick stepped back from the well. “I was, um, looking for a wolf that has been terrorizing the island.”
“Oh, that wolf. What a nuisance it has been.”
“You know of it?” Patrick’s interest was renewed.
“Know of it? I know where that devil hides.”
“Can you tell me?
The crone stood up as straight as she could and put her fists on her hips. “Well, which one is it yea are looking for? The keep or the wolf?”
“The wolf. No, I mean the keep. Well, actually right now I need to find my way to the keep, and then I'll find the wolf later.” Patrick’s face had grown hot.
The crone frowned. “I thought yea were to slay this beast to keep it from terrorizing the isle, Sir Knight? Why would yea be wanting to prolong the terror? What if it eats a child while yea are riding home?”
“Well, I can hardly be fighting a wolf in the condition I'm in now.” Patrick pulled at his torn and dirty surcoat.
She wrapped her shawl around her elbows and started toward her bucket. “Like no knight I ever heard of.”
“Fine, all right, tell me where I can find the wolf! I'll slay it, and then the whole isle will be safe. Then could you tell me how to find my way back to Greensprings?”
The old woman looked shocked at the Irishman's outburst. “Well, yes. Yea didn't have to become cross with me.”
“My apologies. Now, where may I find the wolf?”
“Down that path.” The crone pointed past his head. Patrick turned in the direction she was pointing and saw a clearly marked path where he was sure there had been none before. He shook his head, thanked the crone, and started in that direction.
As he approached he noticed there were really two paths, not just one, traveling in diverging directions.
He turned again towards the old woman and called back, “Which path, good woman?”
She wore a mischievous smile. “One leads to your wolf, and the other to your castle.”
“Yes, quite, but which one is which?”
“What's it worth yea, this information?”
Patrick placed his hand on his forehead and leaned heavily on Siegfried. He would never have thought that this mission would hinge on a madwoman.
“What's it worth to you?” he asked.
“A kiss,” she replied simply. Patrick backed up in disgust. “What's wrong? Kissing an old woman is too much to ask when greatness could be yours.” She thrust out her skinny arms and puckered her lips.
Patrick was horrified. He didn't want to touch the woman. But then he began to think: this is Avalon. Those paths hadn't been there before. He had seen strange lights and sounds. Perhaps this was such another fairy tale coming true.
“Alright then,” he said and bent over to kiss the hag. He squelched his feelings and thanked God that she had her eyes closed so that she couldn't see his expression. As he touched her lips, she grabbed a firm hold of him and kissed him back deeply. She tasted like rotting potatoes. After a moment’s struggle, she relinquished her hold and braced herself on the well. Patrick backed up, fighting the urge to retch in front of her.
“Well done, Sir Knight. It's the left path,” she sighed. Patrick stood there watching her. “What's wrong? I said it was the left.”
Patrick fidgeted. “I was hoping—well, I was hoping you would turn into a beautiful maiden. Like in the stories.”
The crone cackled wildly. “No, you ninny, I'm just a lonely old bag.” The woman went into spasms of laughter. Patrick turned around brusquely and spat violently. His mouth felt full of hair. He stumbled towards the left path with Siegfried in tow. It then occurred to him that he didn't know which destination the path led to: The wolf or the keep. He turned to ask one last question, but saw that she was gone. He ran to the well. There was no bucket, no crone and no way could she have gotten by him without him knowing it. He looked down into the well itself and a huge white swan flew out of it honking irritably as it disappeared into the sky.
#
Riding down the path atop Siegfried was an improvement on pulling him through the brush. And at least Patrick had the comfort of knowing that the crone was possibly supernatural after all. He intermittently leaned over Siegfried's side to spit. For the love of God, she could have at least done me the favor of turning into a beautiful swan-maiden or Valkyrie. Maybe he wouldn’t tell this part of the story when he finally returned to Greensprings. If he returned to Greensprings.
He couldn't remember when he had been at the well. He couldn't remember how long he had been away from the court. He wondered if he was missed. How on earth do you become lost on an island? He wasn't sure he really wanted to be found.
Siegfried reared and bellowed. The horse bucked; Patrick caught the glimpse of a large shadowy creature on the path.
It was difficult to discern all that happened in the next few moments. His heart was racing and he tried to reach his sword and control the horse at the same time. The creature on the road snarled, causing the normally stalwart warhorse to go into another frenzy that threw Patrick out of his saddle.
He hit the ground rolling, right through ferns, branches, and underbrush, finally stopping against a mound of dirt on the slope a hill. He stood up quickly, dirty and scratched, and drew his sword. He looked up the hill, but saw only trees. The muddy ravine was moist with loamy brown earth, filled with ferns and evergreens. The only light offered was from the milky sky above, peeking through the dark canopy.
He thought he heard something to his left and spun in that direction, then to his right. He kept his sword above his head in a strike pose, free arm outstretched as a counterbalance, and turned slowly in circles. He favored one foot, realizing he wasn't entirely injury free from his descent down the hill.
A snarl from behind sent shivers through him. He whirled, there was the wolf.
It was a huge creature, perhaps four feet at the shoulder. Its giant paws ended in strange hooked claws. It was all black, but grizzled. Its eyes were the color crimson, not just the feral glow of a predator, but otherworldly. The face of the beast had the play of intelligence. It snarled again, displaying a fierce set of teeth that seemed impossibly sharp. A steady, viscous stream of saliva dripped from its mouth.
It pressed back its ears and gave a ghastly howl. The sound made Patrick's ears ring, and made his hairs stand on end. He leveled the sword between the creature and himself, figuring that that would be the best defense should it attack.
When the wolf ceased its howl, it again stared intelligently at the Irishman. This very sight immobilized him, and he could only imagine what his own face looked like at that moment. There was a peculiar noise, once, then again. Patrick realized that the wolf was laughing. Laughing wickedly like a human.
“What's wrong, manling? Surprised?” it hissed. The thing pawed at the ground, as if testing the earth for the foothold that would offer the best leap. “Never have you seen a creature speak? I was hunting and devouring your kind before they could speak. Did you know that?”
“What are you?” Patrick stammered.
“Why, I am a wolf, fool.”
“No, wolves don't talk.”
The wolf began to circle Patrick at a distance; the knight kept the sword between him and it. “I'm not just any wolf,” the creature said. “I am kin to Fenris and Cerberus. Eater of flesh, drinker of souls. I am a god compared to you. You and your kind are but hairless monkeys. Just because you use tools of iron to tear up the earth and throw down the trees does not make you special.” The wolf stopped his circling. “But your kind is everywhere nowadays. You are prevalent like pond scum. A disease. I can find no peace, even on this isolated island.” The wolf laughed scornfully. “You however, little manling, cannot stop me. Don't think that your iron can hinder me for long. You are alone.”
&n
bsp; Patrick did understand that he was alone. And the wolf lunged with such agility that Patrick almost did not see it. If his sword had not been between them he could not have struck a blow in time to save his life. Patrick thrust the weapon once, the only chance he had, but the point of the blade connected with the wolf. It snarled, and then was on top of him. Against the onslaught of teeth and claw, Patrick held the blade in both gloved hands and attempted to use it as a barrier between the savage teeth and himself. The wolf's claws were tearing into his torso and thighs, and he knew it was only a matter of time before his armor gave way, or the wolf worked his way around the sword blade to Patrick’s throat.
But, the wolf was cast aside, yelping. The gigantic mass of Siegfried appeared above him, huge shod hooves kicking in all directions. The wolf came for another assault, but was once again struck by the warhorse’s hind legs. It flew into the ferns as if struck by a thunderbolt, and then scrambled off into the forest.
Patrick staggered to his feet, grabbing hold of the saddle for support. “Thank you, old boy. You're my best friend that ever lived. I love you like you wouldn't believe.” He fell to his knees and retched. He stayed on the ground for some time, but came to when Siegfried nuzzled him. After he had cast out as much as his empty stomach could produce, he stood and mounted the horse. His disorientation was almost as total as it had been on the isle of the Mont Saint-Michel. His wounds weren't so bad; yes, he was bleeding, but not profusely and it hadn't been long enough for infection to set in. He wondered if perhaps the claws of the wolf were somehow venomous.
Patrick held up his sword and noted that it was blood stained to the middle of the blade. The creature was hurting just as bad, if not worse. Possibly it was dying. Maybe I'm dying at this moment. Such a pleasant thought.
He tried to re-sheath his sword, but couldn't manage it, so he laid it across his lap. Siegfried trotted in a random direction when Patrick slumped over in the saddle.
#
When he awoke next, he was lying on moss and the sun was just rising. Wherever he was now, the trees were thinner and mostly saplings. He rose stiffly.
Echoes of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 1) Page 15