by Chris Page
I go because I will be out of action for the entire day from dawn until dusk and unable to watch over you. With Freyja in the mood for rapid slaughter of anyone and thing connected to us, I would hate for her to find you whilst I’m away.’ ‘The crucible of the cowering dead?’ said Alfred. ‘Sounds very dramatic.’
‘I’ll tell you all about it if you wish,’ said the astounder quietly. ‘Although I give you advance warning, it might make you reconsider some of the paths you have chosen in life.’
‘You’ve already done that,’ said de Gaini to a series of nods from the others.
‘So be it. When I have finished, I will transform you all to Tintagel. Gather around. I will explain the runes, maxims, and lore of our venefical equinoctial duties when the heavy mists gather in the autumn.’
With unconcealed eagerness they all gathered around the warm cooking hole in the hovel on Swifty’s Island, and Twilight began.
‘This is how it was taught to me by my mentor, Merlin, and to him by his teacher and so on all the way back for ten thousand years of venefical existence. When the ancients began to understand how the complicated existence of erring humankind affected the world, and how the errant behaviour and deeds of the past influenced and affected the present and the future, they decided that a system of retribution should be put in place to punish, when dead, those who had led an unworthy life. In those far-off days, and still to some extent today, people were judged on their courage. Mettle spoke for all. As a result the ancients set up a system whereby all cowerers, whatever the reasoning, had their souls confined to a minute droplet of moisture within a great raging charnel mist when they died. The confinement did not result, as envisaged, in a manifestation of future goodness but turned the countless millions of cowerers into a screaming, raging mass, whose rage is directed at the ancients for the entrapment of their tortured souls. In the sarcophagal mists there is no place called Oblivion, no eternal rest. The screaming souls of the cowerers are trapped. There is a powerful legend that says one day these raging mists will break through the sarcophagal barriers that bind them to the mist and sweep across the earth in a screaming mass of undiluted hatred. Many thousands of years ago, venefici were placed by the ancients to police the cowerers. We are the only people who can commune with them, their annual outlet and link with the live world. And that communing can only take place throughout the first day of the Autumn Equinox when the mists are at their most active. We soothsay them, listen to the tortured pleas of their elected representatives, soothe, placate, and maintain . . . then we listen again, and again, always soft-voiced to contain their rage. Our role on behalf of mankind is to maintain them within the charnel mists. It is a wasteland from which they must never be released. It is called the Equinoctial Festival of the Dead.’
‘What happens to the non-cowerers, the good people?’
‘The martyrs, those whose lives—however brief and insignificant— looked challenges in the eye and stood fast against them, are accorded an altogether better reception in the afterlife. The Fates recorded their heroics, and their souls were accorded everlasting and blissful peace as a result. It tells us much about the human condition that they are so few compared to the cowering masses that received no such honour and were banished forever to the impotence of the charnel mists. Remember this—courage, heart, mettle, call it what you will, is a junior companion to capitulation in terms of numbers, but as a king to a serf in terms of eminence. For every hundred humans there is only one with true courage, and each one is buried in respected family and common-land barrows. It is the containment of the other multiplier of ninety-nine unhappy souls that we are charged with.’
‘Where does this take place?’ Desmond asked, knowing the answer.
‘The great stone circle at Stonehenge.’
‘What happens if they are ever released?’ Alfred held his breath, guessing what the answer would be.
‘It would be the end of mankind as we know it,’ said Twilight in little more than a whisper. ‘The combined power of the cowerers is capable of wiping all traces of our existence from this region and probably the entire country, in a matter of days. They would also release similar mists from all over the world to work their havoc.’
‘And previous venefici have always managed to maintain this situation?’ This time it was Gode asking.
‘Much to their credit, they have,’ replied the miracle-monger. ‘But it gets harder every year due to the increasing numbers. Cowerers don’t die, they already have, nor do they fade away. They just multiply as more cowering candidates arrive in the mists.’
‘These latest battles have no doubt swollen the ranks of the cowerers,’ muttered de Gaini.
‘Who decides which path a life has chosen, and therefore whether it lives forever in the raging mists or rests peacefully here among the barrows?’ asked Desmond.
‘They decide themselves. It is predicated upon the life they have led. Selection at the time of death is automatic.’ ‘What a tremendous responsibility,’ whispered Alfred. ‘Our thoughts will be with you tomorrow. There is also much to ponder upon in your words and actions over the preceding weeks, especially for a Christian such as me. Can my faith coexist with a belief in your venefical gift and everything you have to do at Stonehenge tomorrow?’
Twilight said nothing for a while. As he’d got to know this noble king, his admiration for the quiet intelligence, leadership, and realism Alfred brought to his sovereign rule had impressed him, although, as Twilight made very clear at Winchester Castle, death, dominance, or forcible acceptance on behalf of a faith, any faith, was not acceptable to the venefical code here in Wessex. Getting to know and admire the king didn’t alter that fact. Yet, against it, the right to peaceful worship of any faith, cult, creed, or deity had the complete support of the Wessex astounders. It was a fine line to walk for a ruler with a strong belief and one requiring a great deal of compassion and restraint. Man of the people or Christian crusader? Maintaining both would be very difficult if not impossible.
‘That, my lord,’ he said finally, ‘is for you to decide.’
The three annual Equinoctial Festivals of the dead that Twilight had done on his own had gone well; today was to be his fourth. He expected a rougher ride at this one simply because he’d been responsible for a great many more deaths due to the Viking invasion. The cowering mists held every cowerer killed in Wessex, and the latest deaths always appeared early on. Those who had been there for a few years seemingly got used to the fact that their tortured souls would never be released, regardless of how much screaming spleen they vented in the venefical ear, and ceased to make the number of annual appearances they had at first.
Before daybreak and the dawn appearance of the mists, Twilight replaced the cross stones hauled down by the marauding raiders as they had dashed toward Chippingham. Then, as the mists rolled in with the dawn light, he took up the venefical position at the centre of the great stone circle and closed his eyes for the onslaught.
As the mists swirled and thickened around him, the first high-pitched voices featured recent deaths began to come through. Ove Thorsten, Go-uan, and a number of Viking hissed through. Twilight was surprised at Go-uan’s appearance as he’d assumed that she would end up in the venefical caves in the lowlands, but her insistent harangue marked her out. Another slight surprise was Gretchen Penbarrow, who was particularly shrill upon her placement in the mists, having thought that she should have been in Hades. The surprise was that she had the strength to battle through the pecking order after only being there for a couple of days. Twilight’s placatory words didn’t mention the fact that the mists were the real equivalent and probably better than the imaginary fires of Hell. Such was the anti-power of her diabolism, and for which, it has to be said, she gave her life that she took longest of all to placate before zipping away with a final scabrous scream of frustration to be replaced by the next one. As before, Twilight concentrated upon the steady
listen and placate stance necessary throughout the entire day.
Finally it was over for another year. No gods, no commands from Olympus, no trickery. The primary venefical existence had been satisfied. Untroubled by the catastrophic release of the all-conquering, cowering mists for another year, the unknowing Britain could continue with the chaotic business of its people killing each other, and anyone else who interfered with their right to do so.
Tintagel Castle and the surrounding area had a varied and interesting history. Built on a rocky promontory overlooking the sea at Tintagel Head on the north coast of Kernow, it had been built by the Romans and then ignored because it was too remote and far west to be of much use. Tintagel, meaning ‘narrow passage,’ was named after the difficult approach bridge to actually get into the castle keep. That hadn’t stopped a variety of local warlords from occupying it, and the old stone walls had seen many skirmishes. The biggest battle had taken place in 537 AD nearby between Mordred, who led a great army, against Dux Bellorum himself, the mighty King Arthur. This battle took place not long after Merlin had left Arthur’s side due to his burning the faces of captured soldiers. Called the battle of Camlaan, it took place at Camelford, a small settlement inland from Tintagel on a crossing of the River Camel.
The long magus told Twilight the story several times because he had always cautioned Arthur about taking on Mordred, who, apart from being Arthur’s cousin and therefore convinced he had a legitimate right to the throne, was also a brave and resourceful leader. It is said locally that so many died at this battle, the River Camel was measureless with blood. Arthur’s subsequent death and burial on Avalon, along with the great chalice known as the Holy Grail, was already the stuff of legend. Merlin handed the secret whereabouts of Avalon on to Twilight, who was now responsible for its safekeeping. Avalon, better known by the Romans as Silura and locals as Lundy, was a small island well off the coast of north Kernow. The very old but still active Guinevere lived there with Twilight’s brothers and sisters and the lepers, and it was here Twilight had transformed Rawnie and his children.
The current occupier of Tintagel Castle was the Baron de Lyones, a friend of Alfred’s and the grandchild of Sir Tristam de Lyones, one of King Arthur’s infamous knights of the Round Table. Along with two hundred men, the baron had established a peaceful fiefdom in the area and had kept it stable and relatively conflict free for seven years.
Since Alfred’s defeat at Chippingham and rallying call for all good Celtic men to gather at Tintagel, the Baron de Lyones had been overwhelmed with groups of them turning up at the castle to join the king’s new army. He also had to contend with the sudden appearance of the sick Edwin of Combe and his small band of retainers, and latterly, Ike Penbarrow and his family. So when his friend King Alfred suddenly metamorphosed in his dining hall with de Gaini, Gode, Desmond, Southee, Twilight, and five other soldiers, he was most pleased to see them, albeit surprised at their sudden presence.
‘My liege,’ said de Lyones, dropping to one knee when he’d had time to take in what was happening. A big, heavily browed, dark-haired man with a long black beard and a prominent scar running from the corner of his right eye and across his cheek and of no more than thirty winters, the baron paid homage to his king. ‘Baron de Lyones,’ Alfred said with a smile, raising his friend up and embracing him. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
Having made the introductions, dismissed his soldiers, and allowed Gode to leave to check on her father’s health and her sisters, Alfred explained what had happened at Winchester, Chippingham, and the Summerland Levels to the baron. Finishing, he pointed to Twilight.
‘And without the miraculous manipulations of this genius, none of us would be here. As you have seen from the method of our arrival, he commands movement through time and space and the shape-shifting of phenomena with the greatest of ease. He has personally dispatched over nine hundred Viking using his control of these skills.’
‘You are most welcome, sir.’ The baron bowed in Twilight’s direction. ‘When I was a boy my father told me many stories of Merlin, the old magician who was with King Arthur. He came here several times. I always hid from him because my father said children displeased him and he turned them into goats.’
‘That’s true,’ said Twilight, smiling. ‘I saw him do that on a number occasions, although never with children.’
‘You are related to him?’
‘He was my teacher,’ Twilight replied. He never mentioned that the long magus was also his birth father. ‘And I, too, have heard many tales of your illustrious grandfather, Sir Tristam.’
The baron pointed to the crossed swords over a blue, yellow, and silver shield and matching pennant mounted over the great open hearth. ‘He was a brave and resourceful knight who was most proud
of his membership of the Round Table. When I took this castle some years ago in a battle against a lowly villain called Gilbert, who was the eldest son of Mark, the self-styled king of Kernow, I found my grandfather’s original arms in a dungeon far below our feet and restored them to their rightful place.’
‘I have sat in King Arthur’s chair at that famous table,’ said the spell-binder, recalling how the long magus had walked him around the great oaken table, reading off where each knight had sat before placing him in Arthur’s tall chair. ‘It was in Cadbury Castle, perhaps better known as Camelot. Alas, the castle and all the assemblage associated with Arthur was sadly destroyed in Merlin’s great battle with Elelendise, the wolf woman. A battle I played a small part in myself.’
‘Then you would have met another one of my early childhood friends, Sir Gawain Godwinson, the son of Sir Gawain, who also sat at the Round Table. He was killed just before Merlin and the wolf woman fought.’
Twilight brought up a picture of the tall, blond-haired young man and occupier of Cadbury Castle who died at the hands of Elelendise’s men when her wolves tracked him down. His face was sad at the memory of the brave young knight tortured to death by the venal wolf woman. They, too, would have become friends, and Sir Gawain would have been a valuable addition to Alfred’s cause.
‘I met him briefly with Merlin. A fine young man who was destined for great things before she got to him,’ said Twilight softly. ‘The long magus and I placed him in the ground alongside his mother and father.’ Later, joined by Gode and her father, Edwin, who had perked up considerably at the arrival of his favourite daughter, they all talked long into the night. Tales of old glories, feats of heroism, battles, strategies, brutality, jousts, torture, chivalry, fouls acts, treachery, vindication, betrayal, probity, the independence of Kernow, and finally, a subject they dwelt upon for many an hour and to which only the negatives in this list applied.
The Viking.
When everyone finally went to bed, Twilight sent a short message to Rawnie and transformed to Avalon. She was just sitting up on her straw pallet when he arrived alongside her, and they embraced and kissed for a long time. With Eleanor and Harlo sleeping soundly on their pallets in the same small room, they finally broke off and spent a long time holding each other and gazing down at the rising and falling chests and hushed breathing of their children. As dawn broke over the small island, the Wessex spell-binder gave his adored princess one last long, lingering kiss, brushed his fingers tenderly along the soft cheeks of his sleeping children, and transformed back to Tintagel.
Long after he had gone, Rawnie could still feel his presence. Every sinew of her body remembered his tender caress, every nerve-end the feel of his lips on hers. Eleanor stirred and her beautiful dark eyes sprang open.
‘I felt Daddy touch my skin,’ she said sleepily. ‘Was it a dream?’
‘Yes, darling,’ said Rawnie. ‘A magic one.’
Later that morning Twilight sat with Ike Penbarrow, Ifor, and the rest of the family as Ike broke the news of Gretchen’s death at the hands of Freyja. Although they’d all been expecting it since Gretchen refused to join them, it didn
’t make it any easier for them to take.
Three days later they had some more bad news at Tintagel Castle. Edwin of Combe, Gode’s father, died. He’d been ill with consumption when forced to leave his beloved castle, and the trip in the back of a horse-drawn cart all the way down to the northern tip of Kernow hadn’t helped. But, he’d lived to see all four of his daughters, including his beloved Gode, reach the relative safety of Tintagel. He was buried inside the castle on a spot overlooking the sea, and because their mother had died some six years previously and there were no boys, Gode, as the eldest, inherited Combe Castle and the surrounding lands.
Currently occupied by Guthrum and his Viking.
That evening Twilight was walking quietly along the cliff tops with the massive dark bulwarks of Tintagel Castle silhouetted against the moonlit sky. He was looking for Desmond. Ever since the young troubadour had been taken by the twins, he liked to keep tabs on his whereabouts. Rounding a large rock, he saw his companion sitting with his feet dangling over a huge drop to the sea crashing in against the jagged rocks far below. His head was in his hands and tears streamed down his face.
Silently Twilight sat beside him.
Eventually Desmond stopped and looked at him through tear-filled eyes, then motioned to the jagged rocks.
‘Would I die instantly when I hit those if I threw myself off this perch?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Would you stop me if I tried?’
‘Yes.’ There was a long silence. ‘Do your magic hands allow you to reach inside someone’s body and mend their broken heart?’ ‘Aaahhh,’ breathed Twilight, beginning to understand. ‘Well?’ ‘No.’ A shooting star flashed across the far horizon. Desmond watched its fiery path arcing out of sight. ‘Gone,’ he said to himself. ‘Like Gode.’ Twilight remained silent. ‘After her father’s burial I went to look for her. I knew she would be upset, and I wanted to comfort her and let her know that I would always be there for her.’