The Hidden Treasure of Glaston

by Eleanore M Jewett

  Somewhat hesitantly he began, “Master Bleheris, you remember Excalibur? You left it in the treasure vault after we three—you and Dickon and I—had made a solemn pact together to go on searching—”

  The old man’s brows darkened, then cleared. “Oh, aye, aye, the sword and the vow. ‘Take me’ and ‘throw me away.’ Well, what have you done about it?”

  “We have tried to find the other end of the passage,” said Hugh more boldly. “You locked us out, you know, from the aumbry way. Good Master Minstrel, I pray thee tell me one thing. How didst thou get into the passage that leads to the treasure chamber through the doors of the aumbry? We must know that if we are to be comrades in our quest!”

  Bleheris turned away from him with a look of disappointment. “Thou art impatient—and stupid,” said he. Then he picked up a sharp stone from the ground and began drawing with it on the surface of one of the flat building stones near his hut.

  Hugh moved over and watched him, thinking perhaps if he waited a few moments, the crazed mind would focus again upon the subject about which he was so eager. Bleheris was outlining crudely a design and, as the boy saw the form it was taking, he began to wonder whether there could be method and purpose in what he was doing. It represented an even cross, curved at the ends. When it was finished Hugh recognized it at once as one of the odd figures in the border of the chart he and Dickon had been so carefully studying.

  He raised his eyes questioningly to the hermit’s face.

  “Search for that,” said Bleheris quietly. There was no sign of madness in his face at the moment. He looked kind and wise. “Search diligently, Hugh, lad. You will find the passage, but it is empty—nevertheless seek—seek for yourself in your own way. . . . The words on the sword Excalibur, dost remember, lad? ‘Take me?’ We have taken it, we three, thou and I and yon round-faced oblate, Dickon; we have taken upon us the sword and the quest, but we must each one seek in his own way, and perchance throw away all that we find at the last. There is something that whispers to me thou art not following faithfully thy way. But mark now, the clue, a fresh clue to thy young eyes—a cross, even, the ends curved outward. Where that leads thee, follow.”

  10. In the Marshes of Avalon

  HUGH WALKED SLOWLY back to the abbey buildings lost in thought. The design which the hermit had drawn so crudely was familiar enough to his eyes though not, as far as he knew, as a “clue” to anything. It had been used as decoration and background for many of the capital letters in the ancient Book of the Seynt Graal, both in the volume itself and in the loose pages he had been deciphering. That had been one rather easy way of proving that a questionable sheet belonged to the broken book. Small copies of that special cross were also in the four corners of the sheet with the map on it. He and Dickon had taken it for a mere conventional decoration. Could it have any other significance? And just what did the old minstrel mean by searching, each in his own way? Bleheris might be mad, was indeed unmistakably mad, but sometimes his utterances had not merely obvious meaning, but a hidden meaning as well. It occurred to the boy that his way of seeking for the Holy Grail, his very own way, was through the broken book and its missing pages. Bleheris did not know of the book at all, and Hugh felt instinctively that it was wise he did not, for the present at least. Dickon could not read and obviously had little interest in that line of approach anyway. Brother John? Hugh felt a bit uncomfortable whenever he stopt to realize that Brother John really ought to be in on their secret and possibly could help them more than anybody else. But he had no right to tell the good armarian until Dickon agreed to it, and what was more, he had an eager desire to wait until he had himself recovered and replaced all the missing pages that it was possible to recover from the chest underground. Brother John, and everybody in the monastery, for that matter, had been so good to him. It would be a wonderful thing if he, a boy whose whole family was living exiled and accursed, especially in the eyes of the Church, could restore to Glastonbury, by his own effort, the long lost pages of the greatest treasure book they owned!

  When it came to recounting his Beckery visit to Dickon, he found it difficult to make any sense out of it, yet he himself felt that he had definitely gained something. He told about the design, how Bleheris had sketched the even cross with the curved ends that adorned the map and some of the pages in the chest, but Dickon only snorted in disgust.

  “I’m about ready to stop,” said he. “I’ve thought about the whole thing till I’m turning circles, and just when I think we can really do something, Bleheris appears and talks gibberish, or you do. Let’s forget the whole thing for awhile.” He turned a cartwheel with precision and stood on his head, by way of clearing it, perhaps. When he stood upright again he was grinning.

  “You go on with your books and your Beckery and when you have got a brand-new idea, or I get one, we’ll go at it again together.”

  Hugh did go on. He hated to give up and the whole mystery of the Holy Grail fascinated him from every angle; the tantalizingly incomplete old book, the strange underground hiding places that might once have contained it, or a way to its hiding place, even if they did not now, and the stories that were connected with it. He threw himself anew into the study of scripts with an intensity that surprised Brother John, learning to copy and imitate different kinds of lettering, as well as to recognize types, and to date manuscripts fairly accurately.

  There were the large, square books that came from the Irish monasteries of the sixth and seventh centuries. They had round, big letters, much scroll work, and exquisitely clear gold leaf backgrounds to their initial letters. Then there were the later, more carelessly written, smaller scripts, with crude pictures rather than intricate designing of capital letters, and the more modern books bound in smaller boards with French enamel inlays and, frequently, little round separate pictures in them called miniatures from the lavish use of minium, the brilliant red dye. The most up-to-date manuscripts of all were tending toward a pointed style of handwriting and varied greatly in size. Brother John complained that no two books fitted the same shelves in any aumbry any more.

  The broken Book of the Seynt Graal was in a class by itself, having the scroll work and soft coloring of the Irish school, also some figures, and the tall title letters of the Anglo Saxons. Hugh soon became able to recognize at a glance a loose sheet that had belonged to it, even when mixed up with countless others of a later date. There was something distinctive also about the twist of the S’s, the quality of the ink, and the texture of the gold and blue and scarlet of its illuminated title letters. He spent long hours, when the monks were dozing or busy out in the fields and the cloisters were deserted, poring over the ancient mutilated volume and fitting in the pages he had recovered from the chest underground. He would climb into a far corner behind the aumbry, where no one happening to pass by would notice him, and read, decipher, compare, with furious intensity. And gradually his mind became filled with the lore of the Holy Grail; the story of its coming to Britain, of Joseph of Arimathaea, his companions, the later guardians of the Sacred Cup, and its first disappearance because of men’s sins. That was in the first section; the second took up the tale in the days of King Arthur when the Seynt Graal, as the book called it, appeared again and was sought by many through adventures of wonder and marvel so enthralling that Hugh followed them with bated breath and high beating heart. It was in the very midst of these stories that the pages broke and the tedious piecing together of the scattered and recovered sheets became necessary, a confusing and almost mountainous undertaking. There were the few that Brother John had added, some of them consecutive, others not so. They were kept in the secret drawer in the Painted Aumbry along with the book itself. The ones Hugh was struggling over gave him pieces of a story here, a few unrelated incidents there, dialogues broken off, scraps of description or meaningless paragraphs in another place. But the boy was immensely proud that the pile of extra pages which he kept behind the loose board in the wall of the Old Church had already grown much larger than thos
e of Brother John. With every fresh sheet that he picked up, his hope was renewed that he would find some hint as to the final resting place of the Holy Grail and that that place might indeed be Glaston. But no such hint did he discover. Only the word Avalon appeared again and again, and Avalon was the name used by all the peasant folk for the marshy land between Tor Hill and the monastery.

  Sometimes Hugh grew discouraged. It was rather wearing work, the more so because Dickon did not share it and seemed, indeed, to have lost all interest. He continued going to Beckery, not only because he still hoped to get some further clue to the mysteries of the Grail from the old hermit minstrel, but also because he had become strangely fond of the man himself and was happy and contented in his company; and he began to feel that Bleheris really looked forward to his coming. The hot days of midsummer saw him frequently striking out across the marsh land in the direction of the island, and there he would stay until the shadows of twilight began to fall and he knew that the bell for Vespers would soon be ringing. He could not have explained it even to himself, but he felt in the hermit’s presence a sense of tranquillity, a sympathy and understanding, that were apparently mutual. Sometimes he found him silent, depressed, or querulous; sometimes almost like a child, needing to be amused and comforted. Hugh was quick to catch his mood and play up to it and the strange friendship between them grew deep and was completely genuine. But as for any actual information about the possible hiding place of the Holy Grail in Glaston, Hugh gleaned nothing whatsoever. The hermit seemed to have forgotten entirely the pact that the three had sworn on the sword Excalibur.

  September brought mist and fog. Hugh could often see it rolling in across the marshes from the sea when he sat with the hermit at Beckery. It would come suddenly, like a ragged wool blanket, blotting out land and water. Bleheris seemed to have an uncanny foreknowledge of its coming. He would grow restless, uneasy, stride up and down his island shore, peering off to the horizon before even a wisp of fog had appeared, sniffing the air like a great dog. Then he would hustle Hugh off, bidding him make all haste back to the conventual buildings.

  “There be uncanny things abroad in Avalon when the mists hang low,” he would say. “See, over yonder where Tor Hill lifts out of the valley? When the fog sweeps in from the sea and covers the land, there be strange forms riding in the air and over the marshes. Along forgotten roads they come from the gray Other World.”

  Hugh would have liked to stay through a fog on the island but Bleheris would not have it.

  “Go back quickly,” he would say again and again, his voice tremulous and anxious. “Promise me, lad, delay not on your way.”

  “But why, Master Bleheris? The mist won’t hurt me!”

  “Nay?” said the old man, regarding him questioningly. “Fog in the eyes may give them power to see more than is permitted. Besides,” he added in a more matter-of-fact tone, “you might lose yourself. In a thick ocean fog one cannot see to place one foot after the other. And there are quicksands and treacherous bogs and, very like, evil spirits to entice you into them.”

  There came a day when Hugh remembered these warnings, though he had discredited them, when he heard them, as merely the fancies of a mind that was not sane. He had set forth for Beckery in midafternoon, later than was his wont. The day had been uncertain, muggy and hot, cloudy at first, then partly clearing, but with no wind to lighten the atmosphere, and with a look and feel in the air of impermanence, change; and increasing damp. He had scarcely got beyond the monastic grounds when the fog enveloped him. So swiftly it came that he scarce noted its approach before it was upon him, a thick greenish fog, heavy and low, completely shutting him within itself. First the Tor vanished, then its foothills, Chalice Hill, Weary-All; the monastic buildings behind him were gone, the marshy way ahead, and soon even the uncertain ground beneath his feet. Doubtless he ought to turn back; Master Bleheris would certainly not receive him cordially if he reached Beckery out of the very mists which he had been at such pains to warn the boy not to trifle with.

  But there was a fascination about the eerie dimness. Hugh liked the feel of the salt wet on his face, the sense of hiddenness in the walls of gray about him, and the mysterious quiet. Once a sea bird called above his head, invisible though near him, and a fish plopped in a pool near by, though he could not see the water. The marsh grasses stood tall and strange, wet and motionless; his feet, as he moved slowly through them, gave forth an oozy, sucking sound.

  The boy paused frequently to listen and gauge his distance. It was impossible to distinguish the grasses a yard ahead of him, and he had only a vague sense of direction to tell him how to proceed. Before long this left him and he realized uneasily that he had no idea whether he was heading toward Beckery, or back in the direction of the abbey, or going around in a circle. He had certainly best go back and not try any longer to feel his way blindly to the island. But which was back? He turned about and started out hopefully, only to come upon open water, and when he tried to skirt this he went further and further in what he realized must be territory over which he had never been before. The ground became more boggy and soft, the hummocks of higher ground and stretches of marsh grass less frequent. Hugh turned his back on the water and struck inland, or what he hoped was inland, but the water seemed to follow him and he found himself wading up to his knees over a spongy sea bottom. He turned again, trying a different direction. At first the ground under his feet seemed more solid and he made better progress, though the baffled sense of walking almost completely blind, not knowing whether he faced unlimited sea or treacherous bog, the old broken road to Beckery, or the safe friendly abbey grounds, made his heart beat fast with anxiety and real fear. Suddenly he plunged knee-deep into an oozy pocket of ground; the soft mud sucked at his feet and he had great difficulty climbing out onto a relatively dry hillock of marsh grass. He found himself trembling all over, partly with fright, partly because of the damp chill of the air which seemed suddenly to strike into the very marrow of his bones. He was in real peril now and he knew it. Had not the hermit spoken of bogs and quicksands? And this horrible cold seemed to have taken the strength and courage right out of him. He struggled on, moving with less care because of his panicky fear. The fog grew thicker still. He could scarcely distinguish water from reedy land and could not tell whether the next step would rest on firm ground or plunge him into deep water again. Then for a little while things seemed to go better; he found himself upon a low bank of fairly solid earth with slow flowing water apparently beside it. Once he stept off it and down so abruptly that he would have lost his balance and fallen in completely had he not grasped at the tough reeds and pulled himself up. He increased his speed, panic again driving him, and suddenly lunged forward, sprawling full length into mud and ooze. He attempted to stand up but a sharp pain ran like fire up his leg from his ankle, and the unstable earth gave him no footing. He struggled, groaning, only to sink deeper into the treacherous bog. Then, summoning all his strength, he wrenched himself free of the clinging mud, and pulled himself to the bank again. On hands and knees he managed to climb along it, and felt its firmness beneath him with incredible relief. He tried again to stand, but could not bear the pain in his ankle and leg; even crawling on hands and knees was agonizingly difficult, yet anything was better than staying near the quaking bog, so he struggled on. The bank rose gradually and the earth became firmer; marsh reeds gave place to clumps of low willows; and finally he made out the dim outline of a sizable tree, its upper branches lost in the mist, the bole of it hearteningly substantial to the touch.

  The boy crawled close to the tree and leaned against it, utterly exhausted. Chills wracked him, giving place now and then to feverish heat. He must be ill, and it became plain to him that he could go no further; he must stay where he was until the fog lifted. At least he was on firm ground and as dry as any place could be in the drenching mist. He might call and shout for help; possibly some peasant would hear him and come to his aid. But no, the village folk went mostly in another direc
tion, to the peat bogs. Still, he would try. He shouted with all his strength, then listened. No sound at all; even his own voice seemed muffled in the woolly gray air. The cold shook him so he could scarcely think; when he tried to consider his position clearly, fear gripped him again.

  “God and Mother Mary come to my aid!” he prayed. “Help me, bring somebody to me! I can’t do anything more myself.”

  As so often happens, prayer quieted him. He relaxed a little and huddled closer to the tree trunk as if it might warm him. The intense chill was giving way to waves of heat and he began to feel drowsy. Then he must have slept for a little while.

  When he awoke the fog still lay thick about him but the silence of the swamp was broken. Perhaps it was the sound that had awakened him. It seemed at first to drop out of the air above him and at the same time be round about him, breaking in upon him from all sides; a noise of wailing and lamenting, women’s voices, now low and sobbing, now high, wild and keening. Hugh sat up from the bole of the tree against which he had been leaning, and peered searchingly into the fog. He could see nothing and, for a few moments, could hear nothing. Then it came again, the wailing of many voices, more distinct now and nearer, seeming to come from down the stream. He made out another sound, distinct from the wailing, the rasp of oars in rowlocks and the rhythmic dip of blades in quiet water.

  Suddenly, as if brushed away by a giant hand, the fog lifted and Hugh saw the low afternoon sun slanting through willow branches and lighting up the water below the bank at his feet. It was a broad, slow moving river or, perhaps, an estuary of the sea, and on the opposite side a soft, well-tended greensward sloped down to the water’s edge. The voices and the dip of oars grew louder, nearer, and around a curve in the stream came a low barge. Men in dark clothing plied the oars and on the deck was a company of women making lamentation. In the midst of them was a bier with rich crimson coverings, and on the bier rested the form of a man, large, clad in shining chain mail, with a golden crown on his head. The ladies, too, were richly clad in long gowns of blue and purple, green and scarlet, and their white veils and wimples moved softly in the breeze caused by the moving boat. The hair of each was long and plaited with gold, hanging over the shoulders and down to the knees, and they all sparkled with rich gems on hands and wrists and girdles, and on the head of each rested a thin fillet of gold.