A Novel

by Sean Pidgeon

  Julia feels so utterly defeated, she hardly knows how to respond. ‘Nothing you want to hear.’

  Cath Llewellyn lays a hand on her daughter’s arm. ‘Don’t forget, Ralph has loved you since you were seven years old. It’s like your father used to say, you were always the one to bring them hovering around you, the brightest flame they ever saw. I don’t think you ever really understood that.’

  It is true, Julia has never viewed her life in quite this way before. She imagines shrieking black creatures in the air around her, the burned-out shells of those who have come too close.

  In the end, she makes a more hurried goodbye than she intended, winds down her window and waves to her mother with a cheerfulness she does not feel as she drives off towards Cyncoed Lane. At the bottom of the hill, a left turn will take her towards Abbeycwmhir and the Ty Faenor estate. She turns to the right, in the direction of Rhayader and the main road to the south.

  SETTLED LENGTHWISE ON his sofa in the cottage at Iffley with the television on, Donald finds himself glancing frequently at the telephone, willing it to ring. It is rare for him these days to hear his mother’s voice, but she comes back to him now with one of her gentle, proverbial admonitions: A watched pot never boils, Donald, go and do something useful while you wait. Margaret Rackham’s envelope is there unopened on the table next to him, but he has no appetite for whatever glories of the Bodleian Library it might contain. For now, he is glad of the BBC and a rerun of a classic comedy, a pet rat on the loose in a seaside hotel.

  It is close to midnight, and he is in the kitchen cracking eggs for an omelette, when the call finally comes. The third egg is a disaster. He abandons it at the side of the bowl, runs to his desk in the front room and picks up the phone.

  ‘Julia? I’m glad you called.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. It took me a long time to get home.’

  Are you there on your own? Can I come and see you? This is what he wants to ask her, but does not. On the desk in front of him is a formal notice from the University of Oxford.

  A Memorial Service will be held in Jesus Chapel for Caradoc Hywel Rhys Bowen, B.Phil. M.A. Oxf., Emeritus Fellow and Tutor in Welsh History, Politics, and Literature, from 11:00 am to 12:00 noon on Wednesday, 26th November.

  ‘Will you go to the memorial service tomorrow?’ he says.

  She hesitates, and he curses himself silently for asking the wrong question. ‘Honestly, I don’t think I can face it. I’ve seen a little too much of that kind of thing recently. I could meet you afterwards, if you like?’

  Hearing the suppressed hope and expectation in her voice, he feels a small surge of elation. ‘I’ll wait for you at noon at the college gate,’ he says.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ she says. ‘I promise.’

  An hour later, Donald is still wide awake, turning through the pages of Margaret Rackham’s document with a growing sense of excitement. It is a detailed description of manuscript TF 97B, the poetry book of Siôn Cent, which has been stabilised by a team of conservators at the Bodleian and then analysed in painstaking detail. The authors begin by describing what has been revealed about the provenance of the manuscript. Carbon dating carried out on the first section, the parchment folios that have been badly affected by a mould infestation, shows a surprisingly early date, within fifty years of the end of the sixth century AD. Detailed analysis of these folios has allowed some parts of the text that was originally inscribed there to be deciphered. The fragments that have been recovered were all written down by the same scribe, who freely announces his name in a colophon on the very first page via a simple Latin formulation, Cantigernus me fecit. At this point, the report makes a small digression into the hagiographical literature.

  According to Jocelyn of Furness, in his life of Kentigern (in Latin, Cantigernus; in Welsh, Cyndeyrn) written in the late twelfth century, this saint during his exile from the Brythonic kingdom of Strathclyde (circa 570 AD) travelled to Wales, where he founded the Celtic monastery of Llanelwy—the church on the River Elwy—as the Welsh still call the town of St. Asaph. Several converging lines of evidence lead us to the conjecture that the earliest parchment section of the present manuscript is one and the same as the ‘book of Cyndeyrn’ cited by the poet Siôn Cent as a source, and that its author is none other than St. Cyndeyrn himself. When appending his own bardic poems to the manuscript, Siôn bound them in as a separate section comprising the higher-quality vellum sheets found in the latter part of the book. His ‘lost’ ancient source was, as it were, hiding in plain sight in the same set of covers, camouflaged by the devastating effects of the penicillium mould.

  Further analysis of the early pages has uncovered traces of numerous texts written in Cyndeyrn’s hand, together making a rudimentary history of the early British kings. These materials may be of some interest in their own right, although the extent of the mould damage has unfortunately limited what we have been able to recover. Transcripts and rough translations of what remains are presented in an appendix to this report.

  Prefacing these historical texts, and also written in St. Cyndeyrn’s hand, is an unusual series of verses composed in an early form of Welsh. The extensive fragments of this poem that we have been able to read, together with its title in Welsh, Cân Lailoken (Song of Lailoken), indicate that this work is substantially the same as the similarly titled poem written down in the later (vellum) section of the same manuscript by Siôn Cent. Hence it is apparent that the Song of Lailoken was first written down not in the fifteenth century, as Professor Bowen supposed, but somewhere near the end of the sixth century. Siôn Cent was not its author, and the battles it describes predate the campaigns of Owain Glyn Dŵr by eight hundred years at least, prompting the intriguing suggestion that the poem offers a glimpse into a far older bardic tradition.

  There are, however, some important differences between the two redactions of the poem, Siôn Cent’s and the earlier version written down by St. Cyndeyrn. First, Siôn has cleverly rendered his text from the sixth-century Brythonic or primitive Welsh into a form of Middle Welsh that would have been comprehensible to people of his own time, while retaining many of the archaisms of the original. Of particular note in this regard is his choice to translate the name of one of the characters in the poem, rendered by the original scribe as Arto-uiros (‘bear-man’, suggesting a totem or epithet applied to one deemed to have unusual strength or power), as the more recognisable Welsh Arthur.

  Secondly, the rousing final stanzas of the poem, beginning with the line (from Professor Bowen’s translation) Thus our champion fell to earth, not dead but deeply sleeping, do not appear at all in the original version. This section of the text, we may suppose, is entirely Siôn Cent’s own work, thereby lending support to Caradoc Bowen’s assertion (which our analysis in no way contradicts) that Siôn intended to use his version of the poem as a call to arms to the men of Wales, urging them to rise up in support of Glyn Dŵr’s rebellion.

  It is almost too much to absorb at once. For now, Donald focuses his attention on the authors’ comment that certain texts found in the manuscript form a ‘rudimentary history of the early British kings’ and ‘may be of some interest in their own right’. He can only smile at the degree of their understatement. A glance at the translations in the report’s appendix shows him that Cyndeyrn compiled a chronology of real and mythical kings, from Aeneas to Brutus to Androgeus and Tenvantius to Ambrosius Aurelianus and his brother Uther Pendragon. The obvious convergence with the early chapters of Geoffrey’s Historia Regum Britanniae seems evidence enough to support Donald’s idea that Geoffrey’s ancient book (the work he claimed as his source for the Historia) and the book of Cyndeyrn both drew from some earlier common source that has since been lost. And yet there is another, more dramatic interpretation of the evidence, one that he is at first hesitant to accept, lest some flaw in his logic should bring the tower of speculation crashing down.

  A noise from outside, the wind catching at the branches of the old yew tree in St. Mary’s churchyard, bring
s Donald sharply back to the present. He closes the report, switches off the bedside lamp: not because there is any chance of sleep, but to make a quiet calm space for himself to think. As he lies there in the darkness in a state of intense awareness, he forces his thoughts back into their proper analytical track, examines his reasoning in almost painful detail. It is the episcopal ring of Geoffrey of Monmouth that finally seals the argument. This is the tangible proof he has hoped for, a physical object that connects Geoffrey to the original Cistercian monastery at Cwmhir. When the discovery of the ring is joined up with the findings in the Bodleian report and the story told by Giraldus Cambrensis, a plausible chain of events begins to emerge.

  Geoffrey’s ill-fated journey to his new diocese of St. Asaph ended prematurely at the Cwmhir monastery, where he died and was laid to rest along with his ring and his other tokens of office, as was the medieval custom. According to Giraldus, Geoffrey brought his precious ancient book with him on this final journey. It remained at the monastery after his death, and was later taken for safe-keeping by the monks when they were driven from that site by Hugh de Mortimer. The book remained in their possession, and eventually found its way to the new abbey when it was built on a site farther west along the valley. This is where Siôn Cent came upon it, this manuscript ‘which fate has brought to my hand’, when he went into hiding at the abbey more than two centuries later. He felt so intensely possessive of it that he bound a collection of his own bardic poetry, including his own version of the Song of Lailoken, into the back of the same book.

  The thought that stays with Donald as tiredness finally overtakes him is this. Far more than simply drawing on a similar tradition or a common source, the book of Cyndeyrn, the damaged parchment section of manuscript TF 97B now held safely in the Bodleian library, is one and the same as Geoffrey’s ancient book in the British language. It is the archaeological discovery of a lifetime.

  ‘Be Thine Despair . . .’

  COMING DOWNSTAIRS EARLY on this foggy Wednesday morning, Julia feels a true lightness of spirit, a sense of opportunity in the new day. She throws the kitchen windows wide open to let in the cool autumnal air, then picks up the phone and dials the number for Dyffryn Farm. It is still not quite dawn, but she can be sure that her mother will be up and about.

  ‘Are you all right, my love? I was worried about you, driving all that way alone.’

  ‘I’ve driven a car on my own before,’ Julia says, smiling. Her mother’s proprietorial tone is as comforting to her now as it would have been irksome when she was seventeen.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you called. I wanted to let you know, Hugh came over here yesterday evening.’

  Julia’s equanimity is dashed away to nothing. ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘Not very much, honestly. I think he just wanted to check in on me, make sure everything was all right. He told me he was planning to drive back to Oxford first thing this morning. You haven’t seen him, I suppose?’

  The question leaves a sharp splinter of anxiety. Julia glances reflexively out of the window to the front of the house. ‘No, I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘I don’t know everything that’s happened between you, my dear, but you do need to speak to him.’

  ‘He knows where to find me, if he wants to talk.’

  There is a real exasperation now in Cath Llewellyn’s voice. ‘Call me back, would you, when you’ve had a chance to think about it properly?’

  After she hangs up, Julia can only think of getting out of the house. She grabs her coat from the hook by the door, picks up her coat and gloves, runs out of the back door and down through the cool misty garden to the shed, wheels her bicycle out through the garden gate and rides off towards the Woodstock Road and onwards to the offices of Oxford University Press.

  It is comforting to see the familiar face of Colin, the security guard, eyeing her with a curious, kindly smile as she walks through the door. ‘Up with the larks today, Miss Llewellyn? It’s good to have you back.’

  It is not yet eight o’clock, and the office is almost empty. As Julia’s colleagues begin to drift in, she finds herself quietly fending off the sympathy of those who feel obliged to come and talk to her, to find the right words to express their regret at her father’s death. Perhaps they also know about Bowen’s accident, though she has no idea how far that news has travelled; certainly no one mentions it to her. She feels a vague sense of dishonesty as she gives simplified, inadequate answers to their well-intentioned enquiries.

  Going through her backlog of post, she finds a thick envelope from the Bodleian, photocopies or other materials she has requested from the library. She sets it to one side, unopened. There is a large stack of word-slips that have come in while she has been away. To distract herself, she begins browsing desultorily through them, but the earnestness of the OED’s readers, usually a source of amusement and appreciation, is jarring to her today. She cannot find the proper degree of enthusiasm for the challenges of etymology and form, the nuances of definition and derivation; the meaning of oppugn versus that of depreve, the variant legal and grammatical usages of elide.

  Just as her attention begins to wander, her eye falls on a copy she has made of the Song of Lailoken, marked up with her detailed linguistic annotations. The poem brings back unwanted images from Three Devil Falls, the sound of Bowen’s voice shouting above the noise of the cascade, but still she feels drawn to pick it up. Speaking some of the verses back to herself in the original Welsh, she finds that they flow along with a pleasing kind of mellifluous intensity.

  Cyntaf yn nheml y ffurfafen, cylch cywrain cewri

  Safai ein gelyn yn syberw ar ei charreg echryslon

  Belak-neskato ei henw, triniwr angau

  Yn tywallt gwaed gwŷr a laddwyd deirgwaith

  I dorri syched y sarff wen, deirgwaith sychedig

  Nen-ddiafol a ddug gylch y cewri o’r gorllewin pell

  I wneuthur yma’r lladdfan gysegredig.

  Arthur a roes fywyd i’n gwroldeb

  Ymladdodd â’i dau amddiffynnwr, Araket a Madarakt

  Mân-dduwiau paentiedig ar y ddaear, ni thyciodd eu nerth ddim

  Y cyntaf a deimlodd lafn Arthur, dihangodd yr ail o’r maes

  Yna ein ceimiad a lamodd yn uchel a bwrw’r hudoles ddu i lawr

  A’i rhwygo o’i heisteddfan erch.

  Sylw ni roddais i sgrechfeydd ei holaf anadl

  Einioes driphlyg a addawodd im, ac angau triphlyg

  Fy nhranc y gwenwyn ar ei thafod.

  It is only the outlandish names in the poem, Belak-neskato and Araket and Madarakt, that stick harshly in her throat, as if they belong to some distant, alien tongue. She underlines them boldly in red pencil.

  There is a quiet tapping, and she looks up to see her friend Otto Zeiss standing next to her desk. ‘Good day, Julia,’ he says, in his precise, Viennese way. ‘I am glad to see you back, but now it seems you are already very deeply embedded into some problem or other.’

  ‘Your timing is uncanny as always, Otto,’ she says, smiling, as she hands the poem to him. ‘I can’t think of a better person to help me. I would like you to tell me, if you can, what kind of words these are, and in what kind of a language.’

  Otto sits on the edge of her desk while he skims the text. ‘This is very interesting indeed,’ he says, smoothing a hand over his bald scalp. ‘So far, I have no idea about it at all, but I will see what I can find out.’

  An hour later, Julia is staring out of the window at a one-legged robin hunting for worms on the rain-dampened paving slabs. She tries to put herself inside its tiny head, to imagine its sharply delimited view of the world, the process of avian cognition that sends the signals to make it hop, peck, flutter, hop. She wills it to take to its wings and fly, but to no avail. The unsheltered sky holds no attractions to rival this glistening concrete expanse populated by defenceless, wriggling invertebrates there for the taking.

  ‘You are finding something remarkable to look at outside?’ Otto is back there at her desk
. ‘Well, my brain has only room for one remarkable thing at once, and so you must tell me about it later. For now, I have been thinking about your interesting poem, and perhaps I have found a kind of answer to your question. If you would like to hear it, I will try to explain.’

  Julia pulls up a second chair, ushers him into it. ‘Tell me,’ she says.

  ‘So, we start with the strange name Belak-neskato. Evidently its origins are not to be found in Welsh, nor in any language that is familiar to me. Something in its construction made me think first of those languages that are not of Indo-European origin, as is well known in the case of Basque and certain relatives and precursors. Most paleolinguists would agree that the Basque tongue, which is still widely spoken in the border regions of Spain and France, is the only surviving language of western Europe that is derived from the original languages of the Paleolithic. You are familiar with that story, of course.

  ‘Unfortunately, this took me straight away beyond my area of expertise, but a check against the standard Basque dictionaries offered some interesting clues, and so I went to my bookshelves and dug a little deeper, to an extinct language called Aquitanian which is a precursor to Basque. A number of inscriptions in Aquitanian dating from classical times have been translated by reference to their Basque equivalents. From this limited lexicon, two particular correspondences seem to have some possible relevance. I have written them down for you here.’

  With evident relish, Otto unfolds a sheet of paper from his pocket and lays it down on the desk.

  Aquitanian belex, -belex, -bel(e)s = Basque beltz, bele = black, crow, raven

  Aquitanian nescato = Basque neska = girl, young woman

  ‘From this, we are perhaps permitted to conjecture that the construction Belak-neskato is an ancestral form of the Aquitanian Belex-nescato, which could be translated as “black-woman” or perhaps rather the more symbolic “raven-woman”. As to this lady’s protectors, Araket and Madarakt, I have so far found no linguistic clues at all, beyond the plausible assumption that they are rendered in the same ancient language.’