Gamlan. Holy actual crap.
It was a short etymological leap from Gamlan to Camlann, and even she knew that Camlann was the name of the legendary battle site at which King Arthur supposedly died. Camlann was, in fact, one of the most famous place names associated with the Arthurian legend—next to Camelot and Avalon.
What if the famous Battle of Camlann was named for a river, not a town, as had long been believed? The river they used to transport the King after he died. Down the many waterfalls. Through the field of flowers. And then to the island of the apples.
Carys scoured the web for a precise map of the river’s course, but she couldn’t nail it down. Google recognized the name, but it didn’t show up on its map, no matter how much she zoomed in on the image and explored the terrain.
But Dafydd would know.
Once she figured out where the river was, she’d make sure its course today was the same as it was fifteen hundred years ago. Maybe Celeste would let her have access to one of the old maps to confirm it. Any map dating to within a few hundred years of Arcturus’s death would be fairly accurate, at least in showing the location of the headwaters and valley the river occupied. That would be enough. Hopefully, with Dafydd there, a nice local boy, Celeste would give her access to those maps.
When Carys got out of the shower, she had a full-blown headache. Hangover. Probably. She smiled, but even that hurt. Dafydd had been nice. Cute. He had bought her a couple of whiskeys, and she drank them. He politely said goodnight after the second one and shook her hand. She’d been a little disappointed to see him go.
She dressed, grabbed the manuscript, translation, and computer, and put them in her bag.
The day was as bright as the previous one had been dark. She gazed out the pub windows at the sea, and her eyes ached as the sunlight drove into her head. But she couldn’t bear to close them.
The view was breathtaking. When lit by the golden sunlight, the hills around Mumbles lost their tumble-down gray and muddy green and became a collage of a thousand shades of emerald and oddly sparkling stone against the deep blue of the sky above. Even early, the waterfront was teeming with far more people than it had been the day before. It was as if someone had turned on a giant light and everyone had woken up. Or maybe she just hadn’t noticed the people before.
Dafydd was waiting in the parking lot when she got to the library. He hopped out of his truck as she pulled in, a wide smile on his face.
“Good morning,” he said as she approached him.
“Hi,” she said. “Are you always this energetic in the morning?”
“Oh yes,” said Dafydd. “Annoying, really.”
They walked into the library, and Celeste, who was standing behind her desk, turned toward them as they walked in.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Celeste said. “How are you, son?”
“I’m well, Celeste,” said Dafydd. “And you?”
“Still kicking,” said Celeste. “You know this woman, then?”
“Yes, I do,” said Dafydd. “Helping her do some research for a book she’s writing. Can you steer me toward a geographic survey of Wales? We’ll need the lowest ratio you have. One to twenty-five thousand should do it.”
“Right,” said Celeste, as she looked over the top of her glasses at Carys. She detected a slight rise in her stock in the old woman’s eyes.
A few minutes later, she and Dafydd were standing at a table with four enormous paper maps in front of them. Dafydd was leaning over one of the maps. His broad shoulders obscured her view. She didn’t really mind. She let herself enjoy the nearness of a man, his earthy smell, his body heat, for a few moments.
She listened attentively as Dafydd went through each of the rivers on the Class Five list, pointed at their source, and traced them down to where they eventually reached the ocean. Afon Ceirw, River Clywedog, River Colwyn. River Conwy, Afon Croesor, River Einion.
And then, finally, Afon Gamlan. High in the mountains near the Llŷn Peninsula on the northwest coast of Wales, Afon Gamlan could be reached easily from either of the two towns along the Severn, Welshpool or Shrewsbury, that Fiona at the lifesaving station had told her about. You’d just have to walk up a river valley into Snowdonia. It looked like it would be a two- or three-day hike, more with an army, less with a highly motivated army. The headwaters of the Gamlan emerged from a spring on an expansive, barren mountain plateau dotted with small ponds—the perfect place for two warring armies to collide.
“This area, up here, just north of where the four waterfalls are,” said Dafydd as he swept his hands across a small area, “it’s called Coed y Brenin.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The Forest of the Kings,” said Dafydd.
“Why do they call it that?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” said Dafydd. “But it’s some of the nastiest water I’ve ever run. The Black Falls, they’re called. They drop sixty feet in no time flat. Unrunnable most of the time.”
“What about higher up? Could you paddle down the Gamlan from close to its headwaters?” she asked.
“At high water, sure,” said Dafydd. “Late spring, when all the snowmelt is coming down. Say, late May to late June. The Gamlan merges with another river, which merges with the Mawddach here”—he said, pointing to the spot—”and it flows down to the ocean here.” He indicated a large flood plain near the city of Barmouth on the coast, just south of the Llŷn Peninsula.
“Does the river pass through a field on its way to the ocean?” she asked, sweeping her hand over the estuary.
“Yeah,” he said. “Big, wide fields. Just beautiful. Not much fun, though. Slow. No real quick water. We usually get out after the Black Falls. But that section of the Mawddach is a popular canoeing spot in the high water.”
Carys leaned over next to Dafydd and examined the map. If the Gamlan’s course was the same fifteen hundred years ago, then she now had a very strong contender for the area where Arthur’s body started its ocean journey to his “watery nest.”
It was progress. Real progress. It gave her more energy than she’d had in days. She approached Celeste.
“You mentioned that you had a very old map of Wales somewhere in the library,” she said. “Would it be possible to see it?”
Celeste examined her for a beat or two. Then she glanced over at Dafydd, who was still examining the maps intently.
“I suppose it would be alright for you to take a look as long as I’m with you,” she said. “But it’s a map of just Snowdonia. Not the southern portion of the country.”
“That’s fine,” said Carys. “Perfect really.”
“Follow me.” Celeste came out from behind her desk and walked to the back of the library. Dafydd looked up at them from the reading table and followed. Celeste paused at an unmarked door on the far back wall, turned a key in the knob, and pushed it open.
On the other side of the door was one of the most modern rooms she had seen since she set foot in Wales. It was windowless, and there was a large rectangular table covered in white Formica set in the center of what looked like a laboratory. Around the perimeter of the room were display cases, clearly temperature-controlled and illuminated by low-emission lights. The temperature in the room was a good twenty degrees cooler than in the front room. Celeste waited for Carys and Dafydd to enter and closed the door behind them.
“This is a surprise,” Carys said.
Celeste walked to a white metal storage chest along the far wall of the room, opened the drawer, and retracted three surgical masks. She handed one to Carys and one to Dafydd.
“What are these for?” asked Dafydd. “We doing surgery?”
“No, dear. I’m going to open the oldest map I have in the library. There are nasty things hiding in it,” said Celeste.
The three of them put on the masks. Celeste opened one of the bookcases and pulled out a foot-lo
ng parchment scroll. She turned and placed the scroll on the table, gingerly unrolled it, and held the ends with her gloved hands.
The scroll was nothing like Carys had ever seen. It was in near perfect condition, and the colors that the mapmaker had used to indicate forest, mountains, and sea were, she imagined, as bright as the day it had been created. It was a map of what became known as Snowdonia and the northwest coastline of Wales. The coast was drawn in exaggerated scale in some places, and underdrawn in others, but the basic outline was clearly identifiable, as were both the Llŷn and Anglesey Peninsulas.
“Remarkable,” Carys said.
“Yes,” said Celeste. “It was found about forty years ago as part of a cache of old manuscripts hidden away inside a wall of a monastery in the Brecon Beacons. Quite priceless. The man who bought and renovated the monastery was an old family friend, and when he died, his estate donated his collection to the library.”
“How big is the collection?” said Carys.
“About a dozen manuscripts and maps,” said Celeste. “All dating to the sixth century and later. Some American man tried to buy them all from us a few years ago, but we told him no. They belong here.”
Carys swallowed. She knew who that was.
“The region depicted in this map was considered among the holiest and most important by the monks who drew it. What are we looking for?” asked Celeste.
Dafydd leaned over the map, scanned it, and put his finger over a blue line that wound through what looked like drawings of mountains.
“There, that’s probably the Gamlan,” he said. “It has a pretty distinctive eastern track.” His hand followed the blue line to a larger blue line—the Mawddach—down to a small bay on the coast. “That’s where it comes out. That’s where the field and estuary are today.”
“Very good, Dafydd.” Celeste’s eyes beamed. “He knows his geography. You’re exactly right.”
The old woman looked coyly up at Dafydd, who rewarded her with a wink. The beginning of a blush came to the woman’s cheeks.
“Oh, by the way, Ms. Roberts,” Celeste said. “I think I found something for you on those flowers.” Celeste stepped back outside the room briefly.
“Flowers?” said Dafydd. “I thought you were researching place names?”
She struggled for a quick explanation and was about to make up a lie when Celeste returned, holding another book, which she placed open on the table. It showed a picture of a yellow flower that resembled a small violet, but in its center were red spots the color of blood. Celeste read from the description.
“‘Spotted rock rose, Tuberaria guttata, a flower of the west coast of Wales. Distinct crimson-spotted flowers. It blooms from June to August.’ But here’s what’s interesting,” Celeste said. “‘It flowers only once during its lifetime and sheds its petals within hours of doing so.’”
Carys could feel the blood draining from her arms and legs.
They bloom at our arrival then die and fall as we pass.
“Hours?” she asked.
“Yes, hours,” said Celeste. “The largest colonies are on Anglesey’s Holy Island. This is Anglesey.” She pointed to the large peninsula at the very northern edge of Wales, then at an island off its tip. “And this is Holy Island.”
“Why do they call it Holy Island?” she asked.
“The remains of a sixth-century church are there,” said Celeste. “And a Roman fort. Standing stones, probably Celtic in origin. It’s been a religious site since long before the Romans invaded Britain.”
Carys’s heart began to pound.
“The flowers can also be found here,” said Celeste, sweeping her hand over land through which the Mawddach flowed. Carys took a deep breath and stood up. She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed them.
“You alright?” asked Dafydd.
“Yeah,” she said. It was a lie. She was exhausted again. But she had to think. The rock rose grew June to August. Snowmelt. High water. Both Afon Gamlan and the Mawddach would have been navigable by boat. The river passed right through the flower’s current known habitat—and the monk’s manuscript indicated it had been its habitat fifteen hundred years ago as well.
It all fit together. Arthur’s army brought his body down the Gamlan, over four waterfalls, then down the Mawddach, where they passed through a field of spotted flowers that died as they passed. Then they met the ocean at the large estuary near Barmouth, just south of the Llŷn Peninsula. My god, she thought, it’s all real. Everything in the manuscript’s poem is real.
But she was no closer to knowing where they had sailed once they made it to the ocean. Which island, of all the islands large and small along the Welsh coast, was the island of the apples? Where the hell did they bury him?
“Celeste,” she asked, “do any of the islands on this section of the coast have apple orchards?”
“Orchards?” Celeste replied. “You mean today?”
“No,” said Carys. “Back then. When this map was drawn.”
Celeste and Dafydd both looked at her.
“I’m researching a document that specifically mentions apples,” she said.
“How old is the document?” said Celeste.
Carys began to balk. She couldn’t get facts unless she shared some of her own.
“About the same age as this map,” she said.
Celeste’s eyes grew wide.
“How did you get this ancient document?” asked Celeste.
“It’s part of my research,” she said.
“What type of research do you do?” asked Celeste.
“I’m working with a private individual who owns this document who has asked for anonymity. I’m sure you understand.”
Celeste’s eyes examined Carys for a moment longer. Then she turned to the map again.
“The islands of Bardsey, at the tip of the Llŷn, and Holy Island both had apple orchards at the time this map was drawn,” said Celeste, who then looked up at Carys pointedly. “Holy Island’s religious history and its orchards have led quite a few King Arthur hunters to think Holy Island is Avalon. ‘Apple’ in Welsh is afal—it sounds like the first two syllables of Avalon…silly really.”
Her heart jumped up into her throat. She could feel her cheeks reddening. Celeste noticed.
“It’s the most worn-out myth in all of Wales,” said Celeste, her eyes on Carys. “Of course, the first mention of Avalon at all was Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae, and that wasn’t until the mid-twelfth century.”
“Of course,” she said. Her voice wasn’t entirely steady. “People are so gullible.”
“How do you know all this stuff, Celeste?” asked Dafydd.
“You wouldn’t believe how many people come here looking for information on Arthur,” said Celeste.
Carys tried to sound nonchalant.
“Other than those two islands, do any of the smaller islands have apple orchards?” she asked.
“Not that I know of,” said Celeste. “Most are just windswept hunks of rock sticking out of the ocean.”
Dafydd pointed at Bardsey.
“I love it up there,” he said. “Some of the best diving in the U.K. Its western shore is riddled with caves. Wrecks, too.”
Just then Carys felt the world shift under her feet. She grabbed the end of the table.
Dafydd reached out to steady her by her elbow. She pushed it away lightly.
“Celeste, do you have any old detail maps of those islands—Bardsey Island and Holy Island?” she asked.
“I think so,” said Celeste, and she turned toward the bookshelf again.
Carys took off her mask and sat down on a chair.
“Can I get you some water?” asked Dafydd, taking off his mask, too. “You look pale.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s just that a very bad man made me drink whiskey last
night, and it’s not something I’m used to.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” said Dafydd with a grin. “Now that you mention it, I do remember seeing someone pouring whiskey down your throat against your will last night.”
She tried to smile back, but the world was spinning.
“I have to get going,” said Dafydd. “I’ve gotta go get ready for my dive. Do you need me for anything else?”
“No, you have been incredibly helpful,” she said, and extended her hand. He shook it firmly. “Thank you so much for your help on this.”
“My pleasure. Maybe I’ll see you round the pub. Bye, Celeste,” he said as he turned to leave. “Give my best to Ian.”
“Will do. Ta, son,” said Celeste as she laid another manuscript covered in rich red leather on the table. She motioned to Carys, who stood up slowly and approached.
Just then the world began to go dark. She inhaled sharply.
“You know,” she said. “I think it might be a good idea for me to go back to the inn for a few hours. I’m not feeling well at all. Probably jet lag or something.” She tried to smile.
“You shouldn’t drive,” said Celeste. “I’ll see if Dafydd can take you back.”
She shuffled quickly out the door, calling Dafydd’s name, before Carys had a chance to stop her. She sat down, worried she would completely lose consciousness. Her eyesight began to blacken around the edges. She felt the presence of Lestinus next to her, but she could not see him.
Carys heard Dafydd come back into the room.
“Let’s get you back,” he said, and she felt his strong hand on her arm, helping her stand.
“Celeste,” said Carys. “May I come back and look at this tomorrow?”
“Of course, love,” she heard Celeste say. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you feel better.”
As she and Dafydd stepped outside, Carys’s vision began to clear.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I have no idea what came over me in there. The world just went black. I’m feeling much better now. You don’t need to drive me back.”
The Ghost Manuscript Page 17