by Bear, Robert
Thousands had already gathered in the fields, and canopies with flags on top demarked gathering places for the various castes and tribes.
In the eastern field, each king had, for himself and his warriors, a magnificent canopy decorated with the tribal colors. “The biggest canopies are those of the Dobunni, the Dumnonii, and the Silures,” Esmeralda explained. “But the smaller canopies you see everywhere are for the other delegations that travel further. Every kingdom sends a delegation and at least a surrogate if the king does not come in person.”
In the western field the common people gathered for contests and games.
From the top of the Tor, the druids were easy to spot. Their golden headdresses caught the rays of the sun. They clustered together, wandering among the common people and the warriors in groups of five or six.
Elsigar
Elsigar led his troupe of druids among the canopies in the eastern field where the warriors and kings gathered.
News of the battle at Rumps had traveled across Britain, and it was a topic of much discussion. Old enemies such as the Dumnonii and the Durotriges talked about laying aside differences to meet the common threat of invasion. Not only were the Scotti a concern; ever since the raid by Julius Caesar, there was always the threat of invasion from Rome. As one of the heroes of Rumps, Elsigar had been elevated to archdruid. He found himself much in demand among all the delegations, particularly those who had traveled farthest to Ynys Witrin.
As he moved on, he waved to another druid from the Belgae, an old friend he had studied with in Bangor when they were novices. His friend was instructing novices of his own now, teaching an old lesson the druids had taught since time immemorial: the Mabinogion, the story of the Cauldron of Bran. The theme of treachery of the Scotti from Eire made it quite relevant now.
“The cauldron was given to the king of Eire, Matholwch, by Bran as part of the marriage arrangements for Bran’s sister, Branwen. But the king mistreated her and brought about a war when her family gathered an army from across Britain to rescue her. During the fighting, the slain warriors of Eire were brought back to life when they were cast into the water of the cauldron. Efnisien, the British hero, turned the tide of battle by hiding among the enemy corpses. The enemy mistook him for one of their own dead and tossed him into the cauldron. He destroyed the cauldron from within, at the cost of his own life.”
Just as his friend was completing the story, Elsigar looked up and saw others listening in. He recognized the traders from the east. Daniel, standing next to Esmeralda, seemed casually interested, but Jesus was paying rapt attention.
Elsigar quietly walked around to greet them. “Jesus, Daniel. I knew you were near Ynys Witrin, but I never expected to meet you at a festival. Did you not tell us that our idolatry was an abomination against what you call the one true God?”
“We did not come to join in the worship,” answered Jesus.
“Then why have you come?”
“God moved me to open myself and see what there is to learn from those who do not share the faith of my fathers. I am not sure that any religion is devoid of truth. Perhaps we will learn a way of looking at our own truth from a different perspective. Or maybe there will be some kernel of truth to be found, once many layers of superstition are stripped away.”
“Did either of you find any kernel of truth in the lesson you just heard?”
“It was confusing,” said Daniel. “There were so many names and different kinds of magic going on. I could not tell if any of them were supposed to be a god.”
Jesus nodded. “Indeed, but I found one thing in the story very interesting. The waters of the cauldron could restore life to the dead warriors, but there was no suggestion they could prolong the life of the living. To experience rebirth, the warriors had to die in their own lives first. Somehow, that rang true to me.”
Elsigar closed his eyes and pondered what Jesus had said. The Mabinogion was one of the deepest mysteries in the druidic teachings. It had always confounded even the most advanced novices, but Jesus had captured its essential meaning neatly and effortlessly. He opened his eyes and exchanged a knowing glance with Esmeralda. “Bran’s cauldron was destroyed,” he said to Jesus. “Can the waters of healing be restored to us?”
“Perhaps they can, in a different form. Our prophet Elisha used the waters of the Jordan River to heal Namaan of his leprosy. The man was a Syrian general. It could not be just any water; Elisha insisted that Namaan wash in the Jordan even though other streams were closer. So, I would say yes. There is special water that can heal and restore life, and it is not only for the Jews.”
Elsigar eyed Jesus closely. Our paths have crossed many times since that day my narrowly divided council decided this boy could stay because he practiced no magic of his own. Physically, he clearly has become a young man of some stature, but his insight is as sharp as any wise man. Elsigar reached in his pocket and felt the old coin that bore the image of the snake egg. Jesus displayed tremendous insight at Rumps, quickly discerning the significance of a god who existed in three persons and another with a dual nature. Now there is this fresh insight into the Mabinogion. There must be something beyond guesswork. The spirits run strong in him, but are they spirits that bear good or bear ill? “Perhaps there is much both of us can learn from each other,” said Elsigar. “I must discuss something first with other druids. Can you meet me here at Imbolc?”
“I don’t see why not,” Jesus answered.
“I will look forward to meeting you then.” Elsigar nodded. He stayed with Esmeralda as Jesus and Daniel went off to explore the festival.
“You are thinking of taking him to Ynys Môn, aren’t you?” asked Esmeralda.
“Possibly.”
“Nothing can be hidden from him there. We will have no secrets left. It is not meet to bring a stranger, and it is dangerous.”
“There is danger coming from everywhere,” said Elsigar. “The Romans are meddling more in the affairs of our tribes in the east. They look for a pretext to invade. There is no safety for us in ignorance.”
As dusk descended, they lit the pyres and torches. All were fed, rich or poor. Discussions and games continued into the night. At the appointed hour, they gathered in a multitude at the foot of the Tor for the closing incantations, which Esmeralda had the honor of making. She called to the spirits of the Otherworld. It was time for them to come out and put the world to sleep. The Celts extinguished all the fires as one. Except for the moonlight almost everything was in darkness.
But one light shone into the night. Elisgar smiled to himself. To think that a structure built by an outlander could be so meaningful. The light seemed to promise the awakening of the earth in the spring. It came from the Secret of the Lord.
Interlude
St. Hilary’s Parish, Cornwall, A.D. 1646, during the reign of King Charles I of England
Lieutenant Teague noticed the unusual marker at the town boundary. He had seen such things once or twice as a boy, when his father had taken him to the southwest. His horse walked on steadily, leading his men toward Saint Michael’s Mount, a few miles ahead. That tall rock in the bay almost at Land’s End would be their final fortified sanctuary from the Parliamentary pursuers.
“Are you all right?” he asked his commander, who rode beside him. The red sash over their thick leather coats signified their royalist allegiance. “You seem melancholy.”
“I am so weary of this rebellion,” the commander replied.
“Likewise for me. It will all turn out right, though. His Majesty is God’s anointed. It is God’s will that we shall prevail.”
“What are you thinking? We beat retreats all the time. The north is gone, and there is not much left of the king’s army after the battle at Naseby. We don’t even know what happened to Prince Charles when Pendennis fell.”
“Surely, he escaped. Even if the land is lost, he shall return when the country comes to its senses. But it will be hard on the people of Cornwall; most do not care for the Puritans.�
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“How can they, when the Puritans root out every trace of tradition in the church?” remarked the commander.
“Aye! I was just noticing that tunic cross over there. There is one near my home of Priddy. The vicar told me the tale of these crosses when I was a boy. They mark the story of how our Lord came to Britain in his youth. I wonder how long the Puritans will let it stand?”
“That is only fanciful legend,” the commander remarked. “I fight for my king and the true faith—not for some folktale.”
“My vicar taught that it was more than legend.”
A cavalry officer from the rear rode up, looking panicked. “Sir, the Roundheads approach this way from the north, less than four miles off.”
“Your orders?” Lieutenant Teague asked his commander. “Shall we turn round and attack these villains? Saint Michael will surely protect us!”
“The saint will protect us more once we are within his fortified mount on the island. We must double speed straightaway to Marazion, and hope the tide is out so we can make it across the causeway before the Roundheads come upon us.”
The order was given and the company doubled its pace through the St. Hilary village. The local folk cheered them on.
As the men passed the church, Teague looked about. It is a shame this church should suffer sacrilege. The puritans have no respect for the ancient traditions. He dismounted and quickly entered the church to find the vicar.
As if ignorant of the rough world outside—or simply refusing to take note of it—the vicar was kneeling in the side chapel. As Teague approached, the priest turned suddenly. With a look of calm, he asked, “How close are they?”
“No more than four miles. We are ordered to Saint Michael’s Mount, and I urge you to follow. You are truly in danger.”
“And so is this church and all within.”
“Also the old cross marker that bears our Lord as a child. You know how the puritans despise that tale.”
“It is more than a tale,” the priest replied.
“My vicar at Priddy often said that nothing in Christendom was as sure as the visit of Lord Jesus there.”
“Go—go back to your regiment.”
Lying prone beneath the wild ferns in the field, Father Argall watched the Roundheads approach. The plain gray and black of their garments was broken only by the metallic shine of their armor. He prayed these men would stay far away from his sleepy parish, and especially from the church he loved so much. Dreading what might happen, he watched across the field from his hideout under the vegetation. The Roundhead cavalry approached and stopped. Two of them dismounted next to the cross.
Father Argall prayed in earnest, but he heard the officer say, “Brethren, here stands a thing of idolatry. We have seen these before, and I daresay they mock us in our attempt to save this land from the wiles of popery.”
“You speak the truth, Captain,” responded one of the surly retainers.
“Though we be in haste, we cannot deny the mission God has charged us with,” the captain continued. “This is a papist crucifix, left by the evil monks who planted them long ago when their deception of this island began. We cannot tolerate such a symbol as this. It distorts the purity of true Christian faith.”
“Enough of your rambling, Walter!” interrupted another officer, approaching from the rear division on horseback. “We are not here to be preached at. Smash the damned thing if it makes you happy, and let us get on with the slaughter of the royalist pigs!”
The captain ordered three of his men to topple the monument.
Once the statue lay on the ground, one of the young cavalrymen withdrew his axe and was about to swing at the image of the boy on the cross.
Father Argall charged from his hiding place with a wild howl, his black robe fluttering about him as he ran. Tears welled in his eyes. “Saint Michael—defend me in battle!”
His diversion worked. The young soldier dropped his axe and rushed ahead, reaching for the sword on his shoulder. Musketeers moved to the front.
“It’s the papist priest, and he attacks us!” shouted the captain. “Fire!”
The vicar stopped in his tracks as the soldiers raised their muskets. The bullets from the fusillade tore through his body. He fell to the ground.
The parliamentary soldiers paused over his immobile form only a moment. They stripped the church of its ornamentation. They rode off in pursuit of the Cavaliers, leaving the dead priest and the tunic cross forgotten in the field.
“It will difficult to lift, but we must,” said Jowan, the vestryman, to the men with him in the field just outside the village. They had found the granite cross lying on its side, with the image of the Christ child, arms outstretched. As they lifted it onto their cart, Jowan saw markings carved into its base that he had never noticed before. Somehow, they seemed familiar: a series of five lines with cross marks at different angles. The ravages of time had eroded the markings, but they were still visible, and he could feel them with the tip of his finger.
“We’d best be on our way,” said one of the men. “The new Roundhead preacher will be coming anon, and it will not do for him to catch us with the monument.”
Jowan withdrew his hand and helped the others secure the statue in the cart. Within the hour, they had it secreted in a cellar.
Then he remembered where he had seen the weatherworn image before. He walked back to the church, now a plain shell of its former radiance. The icons and reliquary, even the crucifixes, were gone, stripped away as graven images and symbols of popery. He turned to the sacristy and searched among the scattered papers left by poor Father Argall. He found a rubbing, evidently taken from the stone. It clearly showed the same five lines and hatch marks, and above the image were the words Jowan recognized as Father Argall’s handwriting: “The Secret of the Lord.”
It would not do for the rubbing to be found by the new preacher, so Jowan put it in a bottle and hid it in the cellar of the church tower.
Jowan lived to see the restoration of the crown. Every so often he stole into that cellar to gaze at the tunic cross. The boy seemed to be reaching out to him. The cross yearned to tell its secret, and he wondered what it was.
Year by year, season after season, time took its toll on the stone even though the cross lay protected in that cellar. Moisture got in, then froze, and then thawed. Eventually, nothing of the markings was visible on the stone itself, but the graphite was inert, and remained. The worms that eat paper never found their way to the rubbing. No speck of mold or touch of flame got to it.
Chapter 10
Of Lepers and the Law
Ynys Witrin, A.D. 13, during the reign of Augustus, first emperor of Rome
Esmeralda
On the day after Samhain, when Elsigar and his councilors departed from Ynys Witrin, Esmeralda was on hand to bid them farewell. The earth is at rest now, but Elsigar has allowed a menace to stay among us. “Are you still resolved to allow Jesus to go to Ynys Môn?” she asked. I cannot stop him from bringing the young outlander. The others respect him too much to listen to me.
“Do I take it rightly that you would not approve?” Elsigar asked.
“Most definitely I would not. He has no respect for our gods, and he will bring down their wrath upon us all. Did you not see the light that was left burning through the night after our good people extinguished all theirs?”
“It came from the hut he built for his mother. But what of it? We know these people have their own faith.”
“It is impious.”
“It is not impious to offer hospitality to those who come from afar and allow them to practice their religion if they keep it to themselves.”
“Elsigar, you were such a fool to let them stay when they first came to our shores. He has been practicing magic.” Maybe I went too far. He looks angry now. An archdruid such as Elsigar is not often called a fool to his face.
“How can you say this? My councilors and I examined the boy when he first came to Britain and found him to be no pr
actitioner of any magical art. Since then he has been nothing but a help to the Dumnonii. If not for him, the pirates from Eire would be knocking at your door.”
“He practices a mysterious and powerful magic. His god longs to conquer our own gods, and it will tear apart the balance of nature.”
“How do you know this?”
“I heard it from his own lips at Beltane. He told me that he walked down from the summit of the Tor through the mists. How could he have avoided being ensnared into the Otherworld unless he had invoked a powerful incantation?” A look of consternation replaced the anger on Elsigar’s face. He’s finally getting my point. “You cannot trust him with the knowledge he will gain in Ynys Môn. He will use it against our own gods and destroy us all.”
Elsigar paused before he spoke. “We knew from the start that Jesus is protected by a powerful god. That is not the same as practicing magic. Who does not ask protection from one god or another? We will see what happens when I return for Imbolc. Perhaps Jesus will have lost interest in our festivals by then. If he comes, we will sort it out. In the meantime, remember that I am not such an old fool that I cannot discern the practice of foul magic.”
Esmeralda let out a gasp. I have angered him too much. Nonetheless, she opened her mouth to retort.
Elsigar cut her off. “Look to gain your own wisdom, woman, for you surely need it!” He turned and left.
“Elsigar!” she shouted after him.
The druid did not stop to listen.
Perhaps it is for the best. Imbolc is three months away, and the fool will not be around in the meantime to interfere.
Joseph
“Look outside. How pretty it is!” Jesus said to the others. He turned again to look through the doorway.
“The snow falls deeper here than the dustings we sometimes see in Judea,” said Joseph. “I have seen it like this in parts of Gaul, but it doesn’t often fall this deeply in Britain.”
They were gathered in Mary’s house. Outside, a midwinter storm had covered the field and the treetops in glistening white. Joseph had arrived the day before to winter with Mary and the boys.