The Weirdstone of Brisingamen

by Alan Garner

  “It is.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll have to do it. But it will be very hard.”

  “Is his task easier?” said Fenodyree.

  They walked along a path that curved round the hillside, gradually rising till it ran along the crest of the Edge.

  “You will be safe now,” said Fenodyree, “but if you should have need of me, tell the owls in farmer Mossock’s barn: they understand your speech, and will come to me, but remember that they are guardians for the night and fly like drunken elves by day.”

  “Do you mean to say all those owls were sent by you?” said Colin.

  “Ay, my people have ever been masters of bird lore. We treat them as brothers, and they help us where they can. Two nights since they brought word that evil things were closing on you. A bird that seemed no true bird (and scarce made off with its life) brought to the farm a strange presence that filled them with dread, though they could not see its form. I can guess now that it was the hooded one – and here is Castle Rock, from which we can see his lair.”

  They had come to a flat outcrop that jutted starkly from the crest, so that it seemed almost a straight drop to the plain far below. There was a rough bench resting on stumps of rock, and here they sat. Behind them was a field, and beyond that the road, and the beginning of the steep “front” hill.

  “It is as I thought,” said Fenodyree. “The black master is in his den. See, yonder is Llyn-dhu, garlanded with mosses and mean dwellings.”

  Colin and Susan looked where Fenodyree was pointing, and some two or three miles out on the plain they could see the glint of grey water through trees.

  “Men thought to drain that land and live there, but the spirit of the place entered them, and their houses were built drab and desolate, and without cheer; and all around the bog still sprawls, from out the drear lake come soulless thoughts and drift into the hearts of the people, and they are one with their surroundings.

  “Ah! But there goes he who can tell us more about the stone.”

  He pointed to a speck floating high over the plain, and whistled shrilly.

  “Hi, Windhover! To me!”

  The speck paused, then came swooping through the air like a black falling star, growing larger every second, and, with a hollow beating of wings, landed on Fenodyree’s outstretched arm – a magnificent kestrel, fierce and proud, whose bright eyes glared at the children.

  “Strange company for dwarfs, I know,” said Fenodyree, “but they have been prey of the morthbrood, and so are older than their years.

  “It is of Grimnir that we want news. He went by here: did he seek the lake?”

  The kestrel switched his gaze to Fenodyree, and gave a series of sharp cries, which obviously meant more to the dwarf that they did to the children.

  “Ay, it is as I thought,” he said when the bird fell silent. “A mist crossed the plain a while since, as fast as a horse can gallop, and sank into Llyn-dhu.

  “Ah well, so be it. Now I must away back to Cadellin, for we shall have much to talk over and plans to make. Farewell now, my friends. Yonder is the road: take it. Remember us, though Cadellin forbade you, and wish us well.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Colin and Susan were too full to say more; it was an effort to speak, for their throats were tight and dry with anguish. They knew that Cadellin and Fenodyree were not being deliberately unkind in their anxiety to be rid of them, but the feeling of responsibility for what had happened was as much as they could bear.

  So it was with heavy hearts that the children turned to the road: nor did they speak or look back until they had reached it. Fenodyree, standing on the seat, legs braced apart, with Windhover at his wrist, was outlined against the sky. His voice came to them through the still air.

  “Farewell, my friends!”

  They waved to him in return, but could find no words.

  He stood there a moment longer before he jumped down and vanished along the path to Fundindelve. And it was as though a veil had been drawn across the children’s eyes.

  The Journey from Highmost Redmanhey

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 8

  MIST OVER LLYN-DHU

  Autumn came, and in September Colin and Susan started school. Work on the farm kept them busy outside school hours, and it was not often they visited the Edge. Sometimes at the weekend they could go there, but then the woods were peopled with townsfolk who, shouting and crashing through the undergrowth, and littering the ground with food wrappings and empty bottles, completely destroyed the atmosphere of the place. Once, indeed, Colin and Susan came upon a family sprawled in front of the iron gates. Father, his back propped against the rock itself, strained, redder than his braces, to lift his voice above the blare of a portable radio to summon his children to tea. They were playing at soldiers in the Devil’s Grave.

  Nothing remained. This place, where beauty and terror had been as opposite sides of the same coin, was now a playground of noise. Its spirit was dead – or hidden. There was nothing to show that svart or wizard had ever existed: nothing, except a barn full of owls at Highmost Redmanhey, and an empty wrist where once a bracelet had been.

  The loss of the bracelet was the cause of slight friction between the Mossocks and the children. Bess was the first to notice that the stone had gone, and Susan, not knowing what to do for the best, poured out the whole story. It was really too much for anyone to digest at once, and Bess could not think what to make of it at all. She was upset over the loss of the Bridestone, naturally, but what troubled her more was the fact that Susan should be so fearful of the consequences that she would invent such a desperate pack of nonsense to explain it all away. Gowther, on the other hand, was by no means so certain that it was all fantasy. He kept his thoughts to himself, but in places the story touched on his recent experiences far too accurately for comfort. However, the affair blew over and no one mentioned it again, though that does not mean to say it was forgotten.

  Shortly before Christmas Colin discovered that the owls had left the barn, and for days after, the children were in a fretful state of anxiety over what the disappearance could mean.

  “Either Cadellin’s got the stone back again,” said Colin, “or he’s lost the fight.”

  “Or perhaps it’s only that he’s sure we’re out of danger, or perhaps … no, that wouldn’t make sense … oh, I wish we knew!”

  And although they spent two whole days ranging the woods from end to end, they found no clue to help them. If there had been a struggle as fierce as Cadellin had predicted, then it had left no trace that they could see.

  It was a young winter of cloudless skies. The stars flashed silver in the velvet, frozen nights, and all the short day long the sun betrayed the earth into thinking it was spring. And late one Sunday afternoon at the end of the first week in January, Colin and Susan climbed out of Alderley village, pushing their bicycles before them. They walked slowly, for it was not a hill to be rushed, and the last stretch was the worst – straight and steep, without any respite. But once they were at the top, the going was comparatively good.

  They did not ride more than a hundred yards, however, for Colin, who was leading, jammed on his brakes so violently that he half fell from his bicycle and Susan nearly piled on top of him.

  “Look!” he gasped. “Look over there!”

  It could be only Cadellin. He stood against the skyline of Castle Rock, staff in hand, facing the plain.

  At once all promises were forgotten: the children dropped their bicycles and ran.

  “Cadellin! Cadellin!”

  The wizard spun round at the sound of their voices, and made as if to leave the rock. But after three strides he checked his pace, stood for a moment, and then walked to the bench and sat down.

  “Oh, Cadellin, we thought something must have happened to you!” cried Susan, sobbing with relief.

  “Many things have happened to me, but I do not feel the worse for that!”

  There was displeasure in his face, tempered with under
standing.

  “But we were so worried,” said Colin. “When the owls disappeared we wondered if you’d … you’d …”

  “I see!” said Cadellin, breaking into laughter. “No, no, no, you must not look on life so fearfully. We called the birds away because we knew that you were no longer in danger from the morthbrood.”

  “Well, we thought of that,” said Colin, “but we couldn’t help thinking of other things, too.”

  “But what about the morthbrood?” said Susan. “Have they still got my Tear?”

  “Yes, and no,” said the wizard. “And in their greed and deceit lies all our present hope.

  “Grimnir has the stone. He should have delivered it to Nastrond, but the morthbrood and he intend to master it alone. Perhaps they believe Firefrost holds power for them. If so, they are mistaken!

  “And here we have wheels within wheels; for Grimnir and Shape-shifter, as rumour has it, are planning to reap all benefits for themselves, and to leave the brood and the svarts to whistle for their measure. So says rumour; and I can guess more. I know Grimnir too well to imagine that he would willingly share power with anyone, and the Morrigan, for all her guile, is no match for him. And it may be among all this treachery that we shall find our chance; but for the present we watch, and wait. Firefrost is not in Nastrond’s hand, and for that we must be thankful.

  “There! You have it all, and now we go our ways once more.”

  Colin and Susan were so relieved to find the wizard unharmed that parting from him did not seem anything like so bleak an experience as it had been before.

  “Is there still nothing we can do?” asked Susan.

  “No more than you have been doing all these months. You have played your part well (if we forget this afternoon!), and you must continue to do so, for we do not want you to fall foul of that one again.”

  He pointed with his staff. About the trees through which the Black Lake could normally be seen hung a blanket of fog. Elsewhere, as far as the eye could see, the sunset plain was free of haze or mist, but Llyn-dhu brooded under a fallen cloud.

  “It has been there for over a week,” said the wizard. “I do not know what he is about, but my guess is that he is trying to seal Firefrost within a circle of magic to prevent its power from reaching Fundindelve. He will not succeed, and he has not the strength to destroy the stone. But then, I have not the power to take it by force, so the matter rests, though we do not.”

  Cadellin walked with the children as far as the road, and they left him, lighter at heart than they had been for many a day.

  The mist was still there the following morning. Colin and Susan had set out on their bicycles soon after dawn to spend the day exploring the countryside, and when they had reached the top of the “front” hill Colin had suggested taking another look at Llyn-dhu. So there they now were, sitting on Castle Rock, and gazing at the mist.

  For a long time they were silent, and when next Colin spoke he did no more than put his sister’s thoughts into words.

  “I wonder,” he said, “what it’s like … close to.”

  “Do you think we’d be breaking a promise if we went just to look?”

  “Well, we’re looking now, and we’d be doing the same thing, only from a lot nearer, wouldn’t we?”

  That decided it; but then they realised that they had not the least idea of how to reach the lake. However, by picking out what few landmarks they knew, it seemed that if they made for Wilmslow, and there turned left, they would be heading in something like the right direction. So, without further delay, Colin and Susan rode to Alderley, bought a bottle of lemonade to go with their sandwiches, posted a view of Stormy Point to their father and mother, and within thirty minutes of making their decision were in the centre of Wilmslow, and wondering which road to take next.

  “There’s the man to ask,” said Colin.

  He had seen a small beetle of a car, from which was emerging a police sergeant of such vast proportions that he hid the car almost completely from view. It was incredible that he could ever have fitted into it, even curled up.

  The children cycled over to him, and Colin said:

  “Excuse me, can you tell us the way to Llyn-dhu, please?”

  “Where?” said the sergeant in obvious surprise.

  “Llyn-dhu, the Black Lake. It’s not far from here.”

  The sergeant grinned.

  “You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

  “No,” said Susan, “we’re not – promise!”

  “Then somebody must be pulling yours, because there’s no such place of that name round here that I know of, and I’ve been at Wilmslow all of nine years. Sounds more Welsh than anything.”

  Colin and Susan were so taken aback that, for a moment, they could not speak.

  “But we saw it from Castle Rock less than an hour ago!” said Susan, and tears of exasperation pricked her eyes. “Well, we didn’t really see it, because it was covered in mist, but we know it’s there.”

  “Mist, did you say? Ah, now perhaps we’re getting somewhere. There’s been fog on Lindow Common for days, and the only lake in the district is there. Do you think that’s what you want?”

  Llyn-dhu, Lindow: it could be: it had to be!

  “Ye-es; yes, that’s it,” said Colin. “We must have got the name wrong. Is it far?”

  They followed the sergeant’s directions, and after a mile came upon an expanse of damp ground, covered with scrub, and heather, and puddles. A little way off the road was a notice board which stated that this was Lindow Common, and that cycling was prohibited. And in the middle of the common was a long lake of black, peat-stained water.

  The children stood on the slimy shore. The air was dank, and the scenery depressing. The common was encircled by a broken rash of houses, such as may be seen, like a ring of pink scum, on the outskirts of most of our towns and villages today.

  “Garlanded with mosses and mean dwellings.” Fenodyree’s words came back to the children as they looked at the brick-pocked landscape. But what was most obviously wrong was that they could see all this. For if they were indeed at Llyn-dhu, then, within the space of an hour, it had rid itself of every trace of the mist that had shrouded it for the last ten days.

  “Do you think this is it?” said Colin.

  “Ugh, yes! There couldn’t be two like this, and it’s a black lake all right! I wonder what’s happened.”

  “Oh, let’s go,” said Colin, “this place gives me the willies. We’ve done what we set out to do; now let’s enjoy the rest of the day.

  After a cup of coffee in Wilmslow to dispel the Lindow gloom, the children pedalled back towards Alderley. They had no plans, but the sun was warm, and there were a good six hours of daylight left to them.

  They were crossing the station bridge at Alderley when they saw it. A light breeze, blowing from the north-east, trailed the village smoke slowly along the sky, but halfway up the nearer slope of the Edge a ball of mist hung as though moored to the trees. And out of the mist rose the chimneys and gaunt gables of St Mary’s Clyffe, the home of Selina Place.

  CHAPTER 9

  ST MARY’S CLYFFE

  The room was long, with a high ceiling, painted black. Round the walls and about the windows were draped black velvet tapestries. The bare wooden floor was stained a deep red. There was a table on which lay a rod, forked at the end, and a silver plate containing a mound of red powder. On one side of the table was a reading-stand, which supported an old vellum book of great size, and on the other stood a brazier of glowing coals. There was no other furniture of any kind.

  Grimnir looked on with much bad grace as Shape-shifter moved through the ritual of preparation. He did not like witch-magic: it relied too much on clumsy nature spirits and the slow brewing of hate. He preferred the lightning stroke of fear and the dark powers of the mind.

  But certainly this crude magic had weight. It piled force on force, like a mounting wave, and overwhelmed its prey with the slow violence of an avalanche. If only it
were a quick magic! There could be very little time left now before Nastrond acted on his rising suspicions, and then … Grimnir’s heart quailed at the thought. Oh, let him but bend this stone’s power to his will, and Nastrond should see a true Spirit of Darkness arise; one to whom Ragnarok, and all it contained, would be no more than a ditch of noisome creatures to be bestridden and ignored. But how to master the stone? It had parried all his rapier thrusts, and, at one moment, had come near to destroying him. The sole chance now lay in this morthwoman’s witchcraft, and she must be watched; it would not do for the stone to become her slave. She trusted him no more than could be expected, but the problem of how to rid himself of her when she had played out her part in his schemes was not of immediate importance. The shadow of Nastrond was growing large in his mind, and in swift success alone could he hope to endure.

  With black sand, which she poured from a leather bottle, Shape-shifter traced an intricately patterned circle on the floor. Often she would halt, make a sign in the air with her hand, mutter to herself, curtsy, and resume her pouring. She was dressed in a black robe, tied round with scarlet cord, and on her feet were pointed shoes.

  So intent on her work was the Morrigan, and so wrapped in his thoughts was Grimnir, that neither of them saw the two pairs of eyes that inched round the side of the window.

  The circle was complete. Shape-shifter went to the table and picked up the rod.

  “It is not the hour proper for summoning the aid we need,” she said, “but if what you have heard contains even a grain of the truth, then we see that we must act at once, though we could have wished for a more discreet approach on your part.” She indicated the grey cloud that pressed against the glass, now empty of watching eyes. “You may well attract unwanted attention.”

  At that moment, as if in answer to her fears, a distant clamour arise on the far side of the house. It was the eerie baying of hounds.

  “Ah, you see! They are restless: there is something on the wind. Perhaps it would be wise to let them seek it out; they will soon let us know if it is aught beyond their powers – as well it may be! For if we do not have Ragnarok and Fundindelve upon our heads before the day is out, it will be no thanks to you.”