Unfettered
Page 30
“No way!” my apprentice said. “You weren’t a Knight of the Round Table!”
“No, absolutely not,” I agreed. “But the Grail legends didn’t start out as highly Christianized tales about Arthur and Lancelot and so on. They were based on the adventures of one man—a Druid, as it happens—and then that story got changed, the way stories do, in the telling and retelling of it around hearthfires and campfires like this one.”
Granuaile crossed her arms. “So you not only know the original story of the Grail, you’re telling me you actually found it?”
“Yes. It was my quest.”
She still thought I was bluffing. “Who gave you the quest?”
“Ogma of the Tuatha Dé Danann.”
“All right, fine. And what was the Grail? I mean, it couldn’t have been the cup at the Last Supper or anything, right?”
“No, that whole business with Joseph of Arimathea and the cup of Christ was a later addition. Hell, King Arthur’s story was pulled almost entirely out of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s ass. There were about six hundred fifty years separating the events themselves and the first written account of them that survived to the modern day. Plenty of time to screw everything up and fabricate large portions of it. What the poets eventually called the Grail was Dagda’s Cauldron, one of the Four Treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann, which could feed an army and never empty—it was an all-you-could-eat forever sort of deal.”
“You went on a quest to steal Dagda’s Cauldron and that got turned into the quest for the Holy Grail?”
“Sort of. Somebody else stole Dagda’s Cauldron. It was my quest to steal it back.”
“So who were you? Lancelot? Galahad?”
“No, stories about those guys got created later. I was the lad who went galloping around the country telling everyone my name was Gawain.”
Granuaile shook her head in disbelief. “Okay, sensei, let’s hear it,” she said.
The Tuatha Dé Danann are loath to put themselves in harm’s way when someone else can be harmed in their stead. With this in mind, in 537 AD, Ogma approached me on the far reaches of continental Saxon territory with a task he thought I’d find attractive. It wasn’t the first time he had asked for my services; he’d asked me to raid the Library at Alexandria once because he’d foreseen its destruction.
“Some bloody Pictish git has stolen Dagda’s cauldron and taken it into the western territory of the Britons,” he told me. He was referring to what would eventually become Wales; at this time the Britons there were just beginning to form their Welsh identity. “But he’s spread some sort of arcane fog across the area, preventing us from divining his precise location and from shifting directly there. We need someone who can go in there and take the cauldron back.”
“And I was your first choice?”
“No, we’ve sent some others in as well.”
I noticed the “we” but didn’t comment. “Other Druids?”
“Aye, there are few enough of you left, but there were a couple willing to go.”
“Sounds bereft of entertainment or profit to me,” I said.
“Did you not hear me, lad? We can’t see into the area and can’t shift there. Considering that you’ve been on the run a good while now, does that not hold some attraction to you?”
He was hoping I’d jump at any chance to escape the eyes and ears of Aenghus Óg, the Irish god who wanted me dead, but I shrugged. “It sounds like I’m trading a god who wants to kill me for a mad Pict with a giant pair o’ balls and some magical talent. One’s not necessarily better than the other.”
Ogma laughed. “Fair enough. But you’ll be earnin’ my gratitude on top of it. The Dagda is me brother, you know.”
“I thought I earned your gratitude already for that favor I did you down in Egypt.”
“True. But this would be more gratitude.”
Unspoken was the certainty that my refusal would mean less gratitude.
“All right. Get me a good horse and a proper kit from Goibhniu so that I look like I deserve respect. Shift me as close as you can and point me in the right direction. I’ll make up the rest as I go.”
“Attaboy,” Ogma said and clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”
It was a week before I saw him again, but he had the promised armor from Goibhniu and a fine horse for me to ride. There were also provisions for the both of us. I changed happily into my kit, feeling optimistic for the first time in months, and then we shifted through Tír na nÓg to a spot near the old Roman road leading west from Gloucester. It was raining heavily.
“I’d forgotten the rain here,” I said. “And you didn’t remind me, did you?”
Ogma ignored my complaint and pointed west. “Go that way.”
“How far before Aenghus Óg won’t be able to sense my magic or divine my location?”
“Not far at all. You’ll sense the change once you pass through it. My advice is to make friends with your horse before you do. I’ve heard they spook easily in there.”
“What can you tell me about the Pict?”
Ogma shrugged. “He’s mean and ugly.”
“Right. Onward then.”
Ogma wished me well and shifted back to Tír na nÓg, leaving me alone in the rain.
The horse snorted and looked at me uncertainly. I approached him calmly and petted his neck, slowly introducing my consciousness to his, so that he would pick up on my emotions and vice versa. What I got in response was much more than that.
I was startled to hear his voice in my head. One of who?
Where did you learn language?
It appeared that Ogma had taken my request quite literally; he’d not only gotten a kit from Goibhniu, but the smith god’s personal horse. And it was because of this experience that I began to teach my animal companions language from that time forward.
I am called Gawain, I said. Do you have a name?
I checked the provisions and found a significant store of apples in one of the saddle bags. I removed one and offered it to Apple Jack.
Well, it depends on what scares you. I can’t commit to a blanket statement like that. What if you get scared by the scent of an attractive woman?
Goibhniu has trained you very well.
I’ll bet he did. I threw my leg over Apple Jack, gathered the reins, and gave him a friendly slap or two on the neck. Let us sally forth, my good horse! Follow the road west. To danger and glory!
Danger and glory? No. I was being dramatic.
Point taken.
We plodded forward because one does not trot, canter, or even manage a respectable walk in such weather. In less than a mile, however, the character of the rain changed. Instead of a proper downpour with respectable drops, it became a splattery, aggressive mist that couldn’t decide which direction to fall. It whipped me in the face from both directions and did its best to fall into my ears and leap up into my nostr
ils. It argued with cold, implacable determination that there was no clothing I could wear that would allow me to be even mildly comfortable. And something else happened in terms of pressure; my ears popped. We must be under the fog that Ogma had mentioned.
The temperature dropped as well and the trees along the road did not seem to be the sort that would hide a band of merry men. They rather offered a surplus of gloom and rot underneath their canopies. The sky was nothing but a diluted wash of ink, gray swirling brushstrokes of moisture. I felt miserable and unwelcome and began to wonder if I had made an imprudent decision. Apple Jack expressed similar sentiments. Repeatedly. We were slowly turning into frozen avatars of anxiety. Dreadsicles. Doompops.
The forest rustled at nightfall. Growls from predators and shrieks from prey were followed by cracks and wet squelching noises and very loud chewing sounds. I built us a makeshift shelter between two trees, binding fallen branches into a rough roof that bridged the gap and kept off the worst of the rain.
This will do just as well, I said, building a fire underneath the roof. I’ve asked the local elemental to keep the hungry animals at bay. Now all you have to worry about are unnatural predators.
Ghosts. Witches. Goblins. The usual.
Hey, calm down—
Settle down! There aren’t any goblins! I was only joking!
Apple Jack’s ears flattened against his head and he showed me his teeth.
Sorry. I know it’s spooky out there but we’re not in terrible peril yet. I’m sure that’s a few days down the road at least.
I got him a couple of apples and a bag of oats to atone for my teasing and I spent some time brushing him down. I told him the legend of the Fine Filly Fionnait, the white mare of Munster, and that comforted him enough so that we could both get some sleep. Before shaking out my wet blanket, however, I spent a wee bit of time modifying the sole of my right boot. I cut a hole in it so that I would still be able to maintain contact with the earth and draw on its magic, but hopefully it would not be the sort of thing that people would notice or, failing that, remark upon.
The rain stopped sometime during our slumber, but promptly began again in the morning once we emerged from our temporary shelter.
Who are they?
Usually I’m the paranoid one.
I’m guessing you’re not Goibhniu’s war horse.
Aside from the rain and our collective fears, we had little to complain about that day. In the afternoon we chanced upon an inn with a stable and decided to call the day’s ride early. We weren’t in a terrible hurry and a bit of comfort would be welcome. After I’d put Apple Jack up in a nice stall with plenty of feed, it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen anyone taking the road out of the area. No one had passed me in either direction. Yet the stables were quite nearly full, which meant the inn—called the Silver Stallion, according to the shingle outside—must be packed with travelers. Perhaps they were all waiting for the rain to end?
No. That’s not what they were doing. I quickly discovered that the reason no one was leaving the area toward Gloucester was that they couldn’t.
“Here’s another one!” a salty old codger said when I walked in the door. “Welcome to hell, good sir.”
I quickly scanned the inn. It didn’t look hellish, nor did anyone’s body language suggest that they were going to give me hell. The customers simply looked depressed as they lounged at tables and benches with flagons of ale and stared at plates of half-eaten cheeses.
“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my voice low. “Why is this hell, though? I missed it.”
“We’re condemned to stay here for eternity,” the old man explained, “and it’s certainly not heaven.” Medieval logic.
“You can’t leave when you want?”
“Oh, sure, you can leave. But you’ll be back. Take the road toward Gloucester and you’ll find yourself right back here. I’ve gone to Gloucester three times now, only to arrive back at the Silver Sodding Stallion each time.”
“What happens if you keep going west?”
“West?” The man practically barked at me. “Why’d you want to go that way?”
The old man’s raised voice drew eyes to me. I shrugged and said, “I suppose because I’m poorly informed. What’s wrong with the road to the west?”
“Bloody awful doings down at the Viking trading post. Sveinsey, they call it, down there on the Gwyr peninsula, but fuck if anyone knows what that means.”
I laughed along with him at that, even though I knew it meant Sveinn’s Island in Old Norse—which was simply called “Norse” then. Today the place is called Swansea.
“How bloody awful are we talking about?” I asked.
“It’s a long story, and me tongue is like a slug left out in the sun.”
“Ah. Allow me to buy you a drink, then?”
“Kind of you, sir. What’s your name?”
I introduced myself as Gawain, which many people heard, no doubt, especially since I spoke their language with a noticeable accent. Conversation in the dining area was subdued and people probably noted that my kit marked me as a knight of some means. The old man offered his hand and told me his name was Dafydd. We bellied up to the bar and I ordered two flagons of mead. I also made inquiries about staying the night and the innkeeper shook his head. “No rooms left. Not unless you want to stay in the stables.”
“The stables it is, then.”
Once the old man had slaked the worst of his thirst, he told me merrily of death and ruin in the west.
“Some daffy Pict with his face pierced a hundred times has come into Sveinsey and bollixed up the entire kingdom. Haven’t seen the sun in three months. The rain never lets up—never enough to flood, mind, but nothing ever gets a chance to dry out either. Crops are collapsing from root rot and you have poxy mushrooms bigger than an ox’s cock sprouting up all over the place. Cows and sheep are shitting themselves until they die, am I right?” He looked at the innkeeper and nearby patrons for corroboration. A couple of halfhearted grunts set him off again. “Pastures of them just spread out in the mud for the sport of crows. The smart people moved out a few months ago when they saw there wouldn’t be any fucking food, but it’s a hard thing to give up one’s land after fighting over it and sweating over it year after year.”
“So did the people who moved earlier get out? They weren’t trapped like you?”
“Aye, they made it out. This magic fence he’s put up has only been in effect for a month now. Good King Cadoc is off praying about it, God bless him, but I don’t see what good it’s doing when the Pict is sitting there building defenses. Bloody sorcerer says he’s got his own king there now at Sveinsey.”
“Begging your pardon, but I’ve been away for a good while. What kingdom am I in right now?”
Dafydd laughed at me, and a few of the patrons listening in joined him. “What kingdom, you say? How does a knight not know where he is?”
I shrugged. “I travel a lot. Just came across from the continent not long ago. Borders shift and kings die all the time. Hard to keep track after a while.”
“Well, that’s true enough. You’re in Glywysing. Who is your lord?”
“I don’t have a lord,” I said, but immediately saw that the assembled men wouldn’t
accept such a state of existence. “I’m looking for one,” I added. “A righteous one. My last lord was slain by the Saxons.”
A round of cursing and spitting greeted this revelation, and as an enemy of the Saxons, I was instantly their friend. Someone offered to buy my next drink.
“How are you surviving if you can’t get new supplies in?” I asked, shooting a glance at the innkeeper. He scowled and picked up a flagon that needed polishing.
“Lads have been helping out,” he said. “They go hunting. Plenty of game hereabouts. But it’s all meat all the time now. That and drink, because I had quite a few kegs in storage. Ran out of flour so there’s no bread. Haven’t seen a vegetable in three weeks.”
“That’s a sailor’s diet, that is,” Dafydd said. “We’re going to turn pasty and die weeping if we can’t get out of here.”
“Well, what about the Pict?” I asked. “Isn’t he facing the same problem?”
“Oh, no,” Dafydd said, shaking his head. “He’s got something special there at his wee little fortress. He’s trying to turn it into a proper castle, you know—but bugger that, what I keep hearing is that he has some kind of infinite supply of food. It’s a magic graal, you know. Take food from it and more appears. He can feed everyone in his fortress just fine, and plenty of people have joined him to get their three squares a day, you bet. But meanwhile the land is dying around him, spreading east from the Gwyr peninsula and maybe north and west, too, I don’t know. Haven’t heard from anybody out there.”
“So nobody is heading to Sveinsey anymore? Or even in that direction?”
“Only the evil and the stupid.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The evil?”
“Pagan bastards. Druids. There was one in here about seven days ago, and another a couple weeks before that. Tattoos on their arms, you know.”
That was why I’d asked Ogma for a full kit. The time when Druids earned respect wherever they walked had passed, and it was getting to the point where we couldn’t even walk around freely without harassment or outright violence. I nodded and asked, “They went to join the Pict?”
“No, not join him. They thought they could bloody do something about him. I wished them well in that regard, but they haven’t come back and we still can’t get to Gloucester, so they’ve had all the effect of King Cadoc’s prayers, which is to say, no effect at all.”