And now he was dead. His scales were dull and pallid, almost pulling away from his skin. His wings were crumpled sheets, callused and worn at the edges, knobbly with arthritis at the stumps. His face, scarred in some long-dead quarrel whose details Benfro had never managed to uncover, looked peaceful, no longer wracked with the pain that had accompanied his every movement.
Morgwm stepped further into the room and Benfro followed her, clutching the amphora to his chest. It was heavy, but the responsibility for carrying it felt heavier still. He noticed that the fire in the grate had gone out, a chill spreading through the small room quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before. So that’s what death means, Benfro thought. It’s not about bodies lying motionless, or dragons giving up the will to live, it’s about the fire going out and there being no more stories.
‘Benfro! What are you doing in here. You shouldn’t have to see this…oh.’ Benfro turned to see another dragon enter the room behind them. She carried herself with a stiff formality that he knew belied her true, mischievous nature. Her face was kind and had once been beautiful. Her scales still gleamed with myriad colours but age had begun to rob Meirionydd of some of her youthful vigour. She stepped up to him and scratched him between his ears in her friendly way, but he could see the anguish on her face.
‘I’m sorry Morgwm, I didn’t realise you were here already,’ she said.
‘It’s alright Meirionydd,’ Morgwm said. ‘Benfro’s going to help me with the Fflam Gwir. It’s something he has to learn.’
‘True,’ Meirionydd said, a note of sadness in her voice. ‘I never thought he’d be so young when it came around though.’
‘Ystrad Fflur has been slipping away for centuries,’ Morgwm said. ‘Even my most potent herbs couldn’t keep the rot out of his bones.’ She turned her attention to Benfro. ‘Meirionydd and I have to prepare the body,’ she said. ‘Please take the amphora to the great hall. We’ll meet you there.’
Benfro was about to protest, but he saw the look on his mother’s face and decided against it. And besides, the cold room was beginning to alarm him. Something about the lifeless corpse sent shivers up and down his long spine. Turning, he made to go, but Meirionydd blocked his path.
‘Don’t be so glum, Benfro,’ she said, smiling. ‘This is a sad time, it’s true. But Ystrad Fflur would not have wanted us to be miserable. Remember something about him that makes you happy and cling to that memory. You’ll need it later on.’
Benfro nodded and ducked out of the cottage. He made his way carefully towards the large building that stood in the centre of the village and where all the dragons congregated for their evening meals. As he walked he remembered Ystrad Fflur sitting in near darkness by the fireplace, spinning a splendid yarn about his travels in the ice fields of the frozen south, sharing big chunks of crystallized ginger root which he pulled from a seemingly bottomless jar on the table beside him. The smile soon came back to his face.
‘What’re you so pleased with yourself about, squirt?’ The voice cut through Benfro’s reverie like a Yonaw-month wind. He turned to see his least favourite villager scowling at him.
‘Good morning, Mistress Frecknock,’ he said, trying to bow politely without dropping the amphora, or indeed spilling any of its precious contents.
‘A dragon is dead,’ she snapped. ‘What’s so good about that? And what’s that you’re carrying?’
Nervously Benfro held up the amphora for inspection, although he wasn’t about to hand it over. ‘It’s Delyn oil,’ he said. ‘For the reckoning.’
Frecknock made a dismissive noise as if she thought Benfro a poor liar. She had polished her scales, he noticed, tinting them with something so that they gleamed black rather than their normal iridescent bog-grey. She had done something to her wings too, forced them into what looked like a very uncomfortable position with some kind of wire frame. It contrived to make them look like they were much larger than their actual size and neatly folded away. Benfro knew that Frecknock’s wings were smaller even than his, and he was only ten. The idea that she might pretend that they could lift her off the ground filled him with ill-suppressed mirth.
‘What are you smirking about, horrible kitling,’ she yelled. ‘Give me that jar before you break it and ruin the day for everyone.’
Years of experience of Frecknock’s ways meant Benfro was able to dart from her grasping hands as she lunged at him. For a terrible moment he thought he was going to drop the amphora, spill its priceless contents over the grass, but he managed to keep hold of it as he ran towards the great hall.
‘Come back here you little freak!’ Frecknock shouted at his back, but Benfro paid her no heed. Doubtless she would have her petty revenge on him soon enough.
All the dragons of the village were gathered on the green in front of the great hall when Benfro arrived moments later. They looked solemn and sad, but no more so than normal. Sliding between the patiently waiting forms, he made his way to the front, where Sir Frynwy and Ynys Môn stood in deep discussion. He wondered why they were all standing outside, although the autumn weather was quite fine, but as he approached he could see that the heavy oak doors were barred shut.
In all his short years Benfro had never seen the doors closed. The transformation to the once welcoming building was total. Where it had always filled him with a sense of happy excitement, an anticipation of food, stories and companionship, now it seemed forbidding, a fortress façade.
‘Ah Benfro, there you are.’ He turned away from the terrible doors to look up into the kindly face of Sir Frynwy. The village elder looked tired and if possible slightly sadder than his usual melancholy self. Benfro smiled nervously and some of his brighter spirits lifted the old dragon’s demeanour.
‘I’ve brought the Delyn oil,’ Benfro said, offering up the amphora. Sir Frynwy shook his head, motioning for Benfro to keep it.
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘If Morgwm has chosen you to bear the oil, then I’ll not take that honour from you.’
‘Honour?’ Benfro asked.
‘The reckoning is a sad time for us all,’ Ynys Môn said. ‘And yet it’s also a time of rejoicing. Ystrad Fflur was not the oldest of us, but he still lived a long and fruitful life. You’ve heard his tales, you know something of the places he has been. Now he’s chosen to make his last journey, over to the other side. Before he can do that, all ties to this world must be severed. Such is the task of the reckoning, and those entrusted with it are honoured indeed.’
Benfro stared at the two old dragons and then down at the amphora, suddenly very heavy in his hands. He was about to ask more, but a great creaking groan announced the opening of the heavy oak doors. Turning, he saw his mother and Meirionydd standing in the opening.
‘Come in, all of you,’ Morgwm said. ‘It is time.’
Benfro filed into the hall with all the other dragons, marvelling at how much it was changed from the day before. Then, a great table had dominated the room, with most of the villagers clustered around it. He had sat by the fireplace, unlit in this autumn warmth, listening to Sir Frynwy reciting passages from the Histories, the tales of Rasalene and Arhelion that he never tired of hearing. Now the table was gone, the benches pushed closer to the walls. A low stone bier had been constructed in the middle of the hall and on it lay the body of Ystrad Fflur.
He had been carefully washed, his loosening scales straightened and polished so that something of the lustre of youth was returned. He lay in the sleeping position, eyes closed and arms folded as if at peace. Benfro watched in amazement as the other dragons took up their habitual places around the body as if it were the table and they were simply meeting for the evening meal. He looked back out the doorway, across the grass and down the wide street towards the house. It was only a few moments since he had left, and there was no way anyone could have carried the body past him without his noticing. So how had it got here? And for that matter, how had his mother and Meirionydd slipped past him too?
‘Come, Benfro, I need your help no
w.’ His bewildered musings were cut short by the gentle touch of his mother’s hand on his shoulder. Benfro allowed himself to be led through the ring of villagers and up to the prostrate body. He stood staring as they closed in behind him, unsure of what to do next. Then Sir Frynwy cleared his throat and the hall fell silent.
‘Friends, this is a sad day,’ the old dragon said, his trained bardic voice ringing loud and clear. ‘But it is a happy day too. We are gathered here to reckon the mortal remains of our beloved Ystrad Fflur, who has decided to embark on the final journey. His was a long life, filled with adventure and incident. And yet even a race as long-lived as us must succumb to the ravages of time. It is only fitting then that the youngest of us should be the first to help him on his way. Benfro, the oil if you please.’
Panic gripped Benfro as all they eyes of the villagers turned to him. He clutched the amphora close to his chest, unsure what he was supposed to do. His mother had told him as they had walked through the forest from the clearing to the village, but for the first time in his life he had completely forgotten what she had said. The silence was heavy with expectation. This was a sacred moment, and he was going to ruin it with his ignorance. Wildly he looked around at the impassive faces, a lump of embarrassed frustration rising in his throat. Then he saw Meirionydd miming tipping up the jar and her voice seemed to speak in his head. ‘Pour it over him. All of it, from head to toe. Slowly, so that it doesn’t spill on the floor.’
The oil was thick, almost like new honey freshly spun from the comb. It clung to Ystrad Fflur’s face and chest, dripped in between his scales and coated his tail as Benfro carefully poured it out. He had to climb onto the low stone dais to reach the top of the dead dragon’s belly, and as he did so he was sure he could hear a quiet tutting in Frecknock’s unmistakable nasal whine. It was a nerve-wracking few minutes of concentration. All eyes were on him and he could so easily have slipped, dropped the amphora to the floor or worse knocked the dead body out of the position of perfect repose into which it had been so carefully positioned. The Delyn oil had a rich, heavy smell that filled his head with strange half-images and threatened to upset his balance. He was relieved when it had finally all glooped out of the amphora and he could step away from the now-reeking corpse.
Morgwm stepped forward with her pouch of spice mix that she had prepared earlier, opening it up and presenting it to him.
‘Take the first handful, Benfro,’ she said. ‘And be the last to cast it.’ He reached in and clenched a fistful, feeling a strange warmth in the coarse mixture. Then Morgwm went around the ring, proffering the bag to everyone else. One by one they took some of the mixture and threw it onto the prone body. It stuck to the oil, giving off a powerful smell that reminded Benfro of the odour of freshly fallen pine needles underfoot. Finally everyone but Benfro had cast their share and Morgwm returned to his side, the bag hanging empty. Smiling, she nodded at him and he threw his handful onto the motionless chest of his old friend.
As it landed, sparks leapt over the glistening surface. The oil fluttered into flame, the palest of blue lights racing over the body. Behind him, Benfro could hear the collected villagers all begin to chant in a low, murmuring hum. As the noise built, so too did the flames until the whole body was swathed in dancing blue light.
Benfro watched in astonishment as Ystrad Fflur’s features began to change. It was as if the years were falling off him, century by century. He seemed to grow in stature until he was fully twice the size of Ynys Môn, the biggest dragon Benfro had ever met. His wings, neatly folded by his side and which had always been small, thin flaps of skin, seemed to swell in the flames, fine patterns of intricate mosaic covering them. His chest scales lost their age-dulled black sheen and took on green-tinged rainbow colours. In only a few minutes the shrunken, arthritis crippled old dragon who had told him endless tales of adventure and peril was replaced by a great warrior of a beast, surely the equal of Rasalene himself.
Then the flames changed, their blue fading to a clear distortion of the air. It was only then that Benfro realised they carried no heat. Slowly at first, but with increasing speed, they leached the colour out of the massive corpse, turning it all to white. And then like a hollow shell, the form began to collapse in on itself, the flames slowly dying away until they finally guttered and disappeared, leaving a far too small pile of ashes lying on the stone dais. Wrapped up in his wonder Benfro could not say when the chanting had stopped, only that a heavy silence filled the hall.
Sir Frynwy’s measured tones cut through the emptiness after what seemed like an age.
‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Morgwm, if you please.’
Benfro’s mother stepped forward once more, plunging her hands into the pile of ashes where the old dragon’s head had lain. Lifting them out again, she let the dust dribble between her fingers until all that remained in her upturned palm was a small pile of pale white jewels, each about an inch across.
‘I shall take these to the resting place where they can mingle with the memories of those who have gone before.’ She turned from the body and walked towards the door. The dragons parted to let her through and Benfro made to follow her. A firm but friendly hand clamped his shoulder tight. He looked around into the dark eyes of Ynys Môn.
‘You can’t go with her, Benfro,’ he said. ‘Not this time at least. The resting place of our memories is a sacred and secret site. In time Morgwm may pass that knowledge on to you, but for now it’s hers alone.’
‘What was that she took?’ Benfro asked. ‘It looked like jewels.’
‘And so it was,’ Ynys Môn replied. ‘All a dragon’s memories, their experiences and knowledge are stored in their jewels. Ystrad Fflur lived a long and eventful life, that’s why he had so many. The Fflam Gwir, the true flame of the reckoning sets those memories firm so that they may live on forever after the dragon has passed to the other side. Morgwm will lay those jewels with others who have died so that they can share their knowledge and experience. And if ever we have need to call upon their wise counsel, she can speak to them.’
They had left the hall now and were standing on the green outside. To Benfro’s amazement, the vast table sat on the grass, laden with food. He watched the lone figure of his mother walking away down the street in the direction that would take her back to the cottage in its lonely clearing a few miles away. Everyone else was helping themselves to the feast and for a moment Benfro felt a pang of dreadful loneliness that his mother could not join in. Then Meirionydd pushed a plate filled with meats covered in rich-smelling gravy into his hands.
‘That was a wonderful thing you did back there, Benfro,’ she said. ‘Ystrad Fflur will be delighted to know that you cast the flame for him. Now we must remember him with happiness and laughter. Feast!’
*
Errol sat in the shade of the great chestnut tree, watching the other young boys at play in the hay field. Stacks of newly cut grass stood like sentinels, arranged in a grid and large enough to hide behind. It was a good game they played, if you liked battle and were big and strong. Errol knew that he was none of these things. He was small and thin, with a raggedy appearance quite unlike that of the other villagers. Where their faces were round and full, his was sharp, his features almost chiselled. His skin was softer, darker than that of his peers, his hair an unruly dark red where everyone else was either blonde or black.
Errol rubbed at his chin, still sore from where Trell had punched him over a week ago. Life had changed a great deal since that one small incident. In the main the other boys in the village left him alone now, though Clun still tried to get him to join in with their mindless games from time to time. Only Trell himself was still hostile, unsurprisingly really given the shape and size of his purple-bruised nose. At least Trell’s father had the intelligence to understand how the fight had started and who was really to blame. Or maybe he was just aware of how much Hennas did for the villagers, his own daughter not the least. Errol found it very difficult to care what Trell thought anymore. Witho
ut the backing of the other boys, he was a slightly pathetic, comical figure. Besides, the small world of Pwllpeiran and its petty, narrow-minded inhabitants was no longer enough for him. Not since he had found the book.
The other boys continued with their mindless play and Errol switched his focus away from them onto the field, the hedge at its border and the small clumpy bushes nearer to where he sat. Narrowing his eyes he tried to concentrate on the gaps in between them, to see the grym, the flow of life energy that pulsed from one to the next, that linked all living things together in one vast web.
He screwed his eyes up against the late afternoon sun, tried closing them, squeezing his thumbs into his eyeballs and then opening them again. That produced only stars and strange swirling patterns that faded quickly away. He could see nothing of the lines in the bright sunshine and began to wonder whether it wasn’t all a big joke.
He had found the book, An Introduction to the Order of the High Frydd, by someone called Fr. Castlemilk, on the top of the single classroom bookshelf which the village counted as a library. Covered in a thick layer of dust and printed in an archaic typeface, Errol could see both that the book was very old and that it had not been consulted in years. It referred to many magics that might be performed, whilst never telling how they might be made to work, just warning of the terrible dangers that would come from their misuse. Only the reference to the Grym, the vast all-encompassing power of the world, and the invisible strands that linked every living thing together, gave any hint as to something that could be achieved. And then it was only in the observation. Nevertheless since first finding and reading the book early in the summer, Errol had spent every day trying to hone his senses to the point where he could see the lines.
And still he failed.
He picked up the book, lying on the thin grass beside him. He had tried to repair it, but the fight had damaged it very badly. The spine was broken, the thick leather cover scraped and torn in places. Most of the pages were hanging out by loose threads and many of them were ripped. A handful were missing. It didn’t matter to Errol that he could no longer read it. He could recite the whole thing from beginning to end. But Father Kewick would be incandescent with rage when he found out. If he found out.
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