Raven's Hoard

by Gill Jepson

  He watched carefully and became convinced that whatever she was doing was in some way connected to his adventure; after all, the monk had seemingly appeared to her too… and George… Granddad.

  Over the next few days he wondered whether she knew his true identity, but did not feel able to tell her. His sister and her friends had become celebrities for a time for finding abbey treasure. She hadn’t come clean about the magic… or whatever it was, but he had seen enough to be sure that she was up to her neck in something just as weird as he was himself. However, the distraction had been welcome and had even eclipsed Christmas; but almost immediately he had noticed that the raven was back, more evident than ever, as though it was reminding him that his quest wasn’t over yet.

  It was snowing again, shrouding the world in a silent, white pall. Trees poked through the white-blanketed world like black, bony fingers, the landscape devoid of life and vitality. He was glad when the thaw set in and life returned to normal again. On the final few days of the holidays he took out the stone with its engraved plaque and examined it for the thousandth time. He rolled it around in his warm hands, luxuriating in its smooth texture and tracing the lines of the engraving with his finger. It felt warm in his palm and vibrated with an invisible power. It seemed to be telling him something. He decided to take his bike and go to the mound again.

  It was not without apprehension that he rode along the coast to Goadsbarrow, but he steeled himself to face whatever difficulties were awaiting him. He rode to the place where he had last seen Tom and parked his bike. He walked resolutely to the barrow and stood, hands in pocket, waiting for inspiration. It came in the form of the raven. It slowly fluttered on to the top of the mound and gazed precociously at him, taunting him to solve the puzzle. Nate ran to the top of the mound and the raven stood still, unperturbed by the sudden movement.

  “I thought I might see thee here!” called a familiar voice.

  It was Tom. Nate sighed with relief. It was only right that he was here to help him solve the mystery and fulfil the quest.

  “Art thou still seeking the sword?”

  “I am… and I’m glad you’re with me to do it!” laughed Nate.

  He reached down to his bag and pulled out a short shovel. He had come prepared. The only question now was where to dig?

  He pulled the stone from deep within his pocket and held it in the palm of his hand. The two of them looked at it, hoping to find a clue.

  The stone vibrated with an unseen energy and it began to visibly move. Unexpectedly, it jumped from his hand and rolled to the centre of the mound, as though it was magnetised. The youths gazed at each other and in silent agreement dived on to the place where it had settled. Nate dug into the mound with his shovel and Tom hacked away with his knife. The stone remained buried at the same spot that it had landed. They dug around it and began to make an impact into the top of the mound. When they had dug at least a metre down, they hit something solid. They looked in excitement at each other; maybe this was what they were looking for.

  They loosened the wooden boards that had been revealed. It was hard to manipulate them and they struggled to free them and expose what lay beneath. The planks were broken and they pulled out the slivers and shards of splintered wood. Once clear, they were able to reach into the space below and retrieve the objects concealed there. Nate was sure the sword must be there and anxiously felt about for the sackcloth he had last seen the sword wrapped in. He was shocked. Instead of a sword he heaved a sturdy wooden box from its hiding place. In normal circumstances he would have been elated to discover something which so resembled a treasure chest. However, these were not normal circumstances. He was anxious to find the sword. They both tugged at it, pulling it free. It was many years old, but not what they had expected.

  It was remarkably well preserved and they forced it open with Tom’s knife. The box revealed an assortment of precious items. There were ancient coins, bars of metal, rings and discs, beads and brooches; a vast array of gold and silver of significant age, in fact a veritable hoard. But not the sword! It was obvious that the chest was not the same age as the treasure, and equally the arrangement of it on the ledge was recent and looked as though it had been made specially.

  They closed the lid on the riches and sighed.

  “These things are many years older than the box, I conjecture,” commented Tom. “Someone has hidden these within, to retrieve later… I think some of this is Swarbrick’s booty.”

  “But where did he get them from? He can’t have smuggled this lot, can he?”

  “I doubt this, he must have found these and buried them to sell later… yet he can not have come back, for they are still here in thy day,” Tom mused.

  “Hey! Maybe you nicked him! And he couldn’t return!” laughed Nate.

  Tom thought for a moment and grinned. “Aye…I would say that be exactly what happened… or will when I return to my time!”

  They both laughed at the thought.

  They returned to the hole and looked deeper. The ledge the box had been on gave way to a lower level where rows of bottles of contraband rum lined the aperture. Tom leaned in and pulled out the bottles. He almost disappeared into the hole. Suddenly he gave a cry and his legs vanished, Nate leaned over to try to catch him but instead fell headlong into the deeper hole Tom had created on crashing through the false floor. The ground had given way to a funnel-shaped shaft which Tom had fallen down. Nate landed on top of him and for a while they lay stunned. It was difficult to see at first, but as soon as their eyes became accustomed to the dark they were able to recognise a small stone-lined chamber. The dim light from above enabled them to explore the small room. At the centre was a neat rectangular kist, made from slabs of stone, which contained a skeleton. Nate used his torch to cast more light on the scene. Strange shadows quivered eerily as the grave yielded its secrets. Around the edges of the tomb were clay pots, which Nate thought were cremation urns. There were neatly piled stacks of bones, topped with skulls here and there. Where the boys had fallen one set of bones had been disturbed and the skull had rolled away into a darkened corner. They looked at each other in awe, eyes huge circles of wonder as they looked around.

  They reduced their voices to a whisper, in respect. Nate carefully picked his way through the bones and the urns until he reached the kist. Tom followed him and peered over his shoulder. In the kist lay a skeleton. Nate instinctively knew it was a male and around him lay an array of grave goods. He took a deep breath; this was as good as any Indiana Jones movie! Next to the skull was a stone, with an engraved plate upon it, similar to the one above. The person who had left the stone above must have placed the one below too, as some sort of marker. Nate was immediately drawn to it. As he reached down it began to resonate with a low humming noise, a pale light emitting from it like a beam of sunlight. The light grew and soon filled the room with its radiance. From within it a figure began to emerge. The companions drew back, afraid. As it became clear the figure grew too and what it revealed was terrifying.

  A tall, fair-haired warrior stood before them, ethereal but powerful. He looked fierce and bristled with weapons. He grimaced at them, but it was as though he could not see them, almost like a hologram. Nate was puzzled, the warrior had a certain familiarity about him; but this time he was sure there was no family resemblance. Then it came to him – he was older than he remembered, but yes -it was the young boy who had dispatched the Viking so easily. Tom reached the same conclusion at the same time, and as they did so the young warrior vanished, taking with him the light.

  “This gets weirder by the second! So the Saxon boy is buried here… freaky!” said Nate.

  “Tis true, stranger and stranger… but fitting that he is here, protecting Oswald’s sword, if ’tis indeed here.”

  They turned their attention to the grave again, doubly reverent this time, knowing whose bones were resting there. There were cups of engraved silver and bronze, daggers and brooches. At the skeleton’s feet lay a decorated shield, at
his side a spear and a sword.

  “Where is it? It must be here!” insisted Nate.

  They peered down. Just behind the shield was a thread of brown sacking. There was nothing for it – they had to move the shield and risk the possibility of disturbing the bones. Carefully Nate reached down and lifted the shield. He brought it out and gently placed it on the floor; it felt brittle and pieces of the corroded metal fractured and broke off.

  There, between the leg bones was a package wrapped in sacking and tied with simple parcel string. Tucked in the string was a yellowed piece of paper bearing the emblem of a raven.

  “Well, that isn’t Anglo-Saxon, is it?” laughed Nate.

  “I know not, but it does look fresher than the other items we see here,” Tom answered.

  They lifted the sacking from its resting place with great care. As they opened the paper they held their breath. Tom unfolded the paper and raised his torch to enable them to read it.

  December 1909

  To whom it may concern,

  If you are reading this note, then it is because I have failed in my duty. This sword is the most sacred and revered; that which severed the head of St Oswald from his body. A sword fashioned by craftsmen of great skill and used for so foul a deed.

  The treacherous Norse heathen stole it from the Monastery at Bardney. It was lost, but then was found. It is protected by the Brotherhood of the Raven, placed in this tomb and replaced by another. My fellow Mr Wm. Kendall is custodian and shall be privy to this hiding place. Should ought happen to prevent the sword’s safekeeping then Brother John of the abbey of Furness will summon protection against those who would use it for ill.

  I wish you well and warn you of those dark forces. That which was lost will be found and shall be united with those treasures held safe in the abbey.

  Blessings of Cuthbert and Oswald be upon you,

  Harper Gaythorpe Esq.

  “Wow! That’s him, then, the old historian guy!” gasped Nate.

  “Then we must now find the place of safety he mentions. Can he mean the abbey?” asked Tom.

  “I dunno… but I have another treasure at home… I’ve hidden it safe, where nobody will get it!” exclaimed Nate proudly.

  They moved to the opening of the mound and began climbing up. It wasn’t far and the daylight streamed in. Nate got up first and Tom saw his legs and boots disappear over the rim of the hole. As he pulled himself out and got to his knees a shadow fell across him. He looked up and to his horror, saw Nate struggling, Dixon’s hand over his mouth suppressing his cries. He thrashed about; trying to free himself, but Silas Dixon had him in a grip tighter than a boa constrictor. Tom grabbed at Silas but as he did so a wave of blackness washed over him. As he fought the blackness he could see Nate stretching out his hand towards him and calling to him, but he could hear only the rushing of his own blood in his ears.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE ESCAPE

  The snow was driving hard across the coast road transforming it into bleak tundra. Each flake stung the skin and Nate shivered with the cold and damp. There was no protection from the fierce wind and each snow flurry soaked him through. He was tied up in the back of the farm truck, bundled behind boxes and feed bags. He felt every bump in the road and his bonds were so tight he could hardly feel his hands. Eventually, the uncomfortable journey ended. It was dusk and the wind was getting up. He lay for some time wondering what his fate would be.

  He was not to wait long. It was dark now and he was shivering uncontrollably. The boxes were suddenly moved and he felt rough hands grab his shoulders and pull him out of the truck. He was surprised to see where he was. Mote Farm was very familiar to him considering his time spent there in the eighteenth century. He was hoisted unceremoniously over the shoulder of the man with the rough hands and taken into the farmhouse.

  The interior was greatly changed from when Tom’s brother had lived there. Pine furniture adorned the kitchen and the centre piece was a huge Aga… Nate couldn’t help thinking that it was far removed from its predecessor, the old fire and side oven. Around the big kitchen table were three other people, Silas Dixon seated at the head, a middle-aged woman and a young man. Nate recognised them instantly. The woman had been at the dig a few times, finally having a disagreement with Chris and parting after harsh words. The youth had also worked on the dig for a while until he too had been sent on his way. A picture began to form. He realised that Chris must have been beset by people sent by Dixon to find the treasure.

  “So, young man, we have the sword!” said Silas silkily. He smiled and clasped his hands tightly together.

  He looked at the sack-wrapped sword lying on the wooden table, smiling smugly.

  “Well! You won’t have it for long… we’ll get it back!”

  Dixon smiled again, shaking his head slowly.

  “You and your friends from the past? I don’t think so. They have no control and cannot predict when they will slip through time; they will be of no help to you.”

  “You’re wrong, we have other help…” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

  Silas laughed menacingly.

  “The old monk? Salter? They are gone and can do nothing to assist you. They are no threat to me!”

  “Huh! You didn’t think that the other day… you were scared! You ran!” he taunted.

  Silas Dixon scowled at him, pushed his chair back and stood up, banging his hands on the table. Nate flinched but then he smirked realising that he had irritated him.

  “Young man! You will regret your attitude. You have the skull and I want it. The sword is powerless without it. Where is it?” He demanded.

  “You’ll never know, will ya?” snapped Nate.

  “Then we will take you somewhere to cool your heels… and reconsider!”

  Silas picked up the sword, placed it gently in the Welsh dresser and closed the door.

  The boy was bundled into a black car and pushed into the back seat. The woman sat in the back with him, watching him like a hawk, and the youth sat in front with Silas. He turned round and grinned at Nate triumphantly. Although it was dark he could identify where they were going and soon they drove into the car park at the Concle Inn. It was closed and looked desolate and cold; the wind drove the sleet and snow across the yard, stinging their skin as they walked from the car to the door. Nate was dragged along into the old pub. As they reached the bar, Dixon disappeared behind the bar and Nate heard a creaking noise.

  The woman pushed him onwards, following the direction of the noise. A trapdoor lay open and a dim light flickered in the basement. Nate was forced into the cellar and he looked around at the inhospitable surroundings. Dixon was standing in the middle of the cave-like cellar, smiling sinisterly.

  “You can reconsider at your leisure in these salubrious surroundings. I will leave you a candle… but when it goes out you will be in the dark…and alone. You know what this place was, I suppose?”

  “No! You’re just trying to scare me! Well, it won’t work!”

  “Really? Well, I have heard stories about phantoms that frequent this inn… you are sitting in the local cockpit, where many a cruel contest went on. Organised by unsavoury characters, smugglers, thieves and brutes all… who knows which spirits linger on… pray you do not find out!” he tormented.

  Despite himself, Nate shuddered. He remembered the smugglers he had encountered with Tom and Dolly and had no desire to meet them again, dead or alive. He remained silent.

  “So you wish to stay… then this can be arranged. Call out if you change your mind. I will have the skull and I do not care how long it takes.”

  With that he turned to leave, his companions following him. True to his word he left a small candle burning, its meagre light casting strange shadows around the cavern. The air was damp and the cellar dusty and piled with crates and metal barrels. Every sound was amplified and Nate’s skin prickled with fear. He struggled to escape his bonds but the plastic tie wraps were too tight to move or loosen. It was hopeless; he wo
uld never be able to hold out for ever. A scraping noise came from the corner of the room. He sat up and dragged his feet towards his body… What if it was a rat? He hated rats!

  The candle flickered as an invisible breeze toyed with the flame. Please don’t let it go out, Nate prayed silently. A further noise came from the back of the room in the darkest corner. A figure began to appear. He screwed his eyes tight – he really didn’t want to see it, whatever it was.

  He squinted through half-closed lids… and could see, not one but dozens of figures. There were dozens of figures milling around the cellar, some fully formed and as solid as he, some wisps of white energy, some translucent and beautiful; all moving and speaking in their own time, oblivious of him. His fear changed into awe as he watched people from past times filter in and out. His eyes were riveted to the pictures until he saw a familiar figure dressed like a highwayman, growing more solid and grinning at him. It was Tom.

  His anxiety drained away and relief flooded in its place. Tom was there in front of him as real as he had ever been. Immediately he knelt down next to him and took out his knife, cutting Nate’s bonds.

  “Cor! I’ve never been so pleased to see anyone in my life!” Nate sighed.

  “Aye and I am pleased to be here to assist you! I have been in this place before… Dolly and I were ’prisoned here by Swarbrick.”