The barge grated on the shore of the opposite bank, the dark men left their oars and, taking up the bier with the dead king on it, they carried it onto the greensward, the queenly women following after. Slowly the sad procession moved across the grass and the slanting sun fell upon them, making a pattern of long lights and shadows through the tall trees beyond the bank. The wailing of the women rose higher, clearer, wilder, and then began to die away as they went further and further from the river.
Now a strange thing happened to Hugh. It seemed as if he shook himself loose from his sodden, aching body, stept out of it, as it were, and walked with light and easy step down the bank to the water’s edge. And, as if the water of the river had been glass, he moved easily across it and ran with feather-light step after that strange procession. He caught up with it in the midst of a wood of tall trees, and the light was dusky because of all the interweaving branches and the cover of leaves. The wailing of the women took on a muted note, sorrowful, rhythmic, but no longer wild and high. They moved on and on, and Hugh followed, scarce seeming to touch the forest path over which he passed. Oak and ash and thorn tree and tall sycamores gave place at last to apple trees, all blossoming and a-buzz with bees. It passed through Hugh’s mind that this was strange in late September, but no matter, the trees were pink with bloom and the air sweet with the scent of them. The wailing ceased as the company advanced under the laden branches, as if sadness, even grief in the presence of death, could not abide in the midst of such a miracle of loveliness. And then, suddenly, the orchards vanished and Hugh found himself standing on the edge of the abbey grounds. The procession of women and the men bearing the bier were going on directly toward the Old Church, but something stayed Hugh so that he could no longer move. He watched them and heard again the lamenting of the women and then an answering chant coming from the cloisters, the rich intoning of the funeral service as a company of monks came into view, strange monks whom he had never seen before. He remained where he was, his legs and body grown suddenly so heavy that he could not stir. And then the fog came folding down again; rough-edged gray wool, moving silently, swiftly in from the sea, blotting out trees, conventual buildings, and all that group of folk, queens and monks, and the dark dim figures that carried the bier. It enveloped Hugh, pressing down upon him, covering him till he could see nothing but an impenetrable mist.
He stirred and moaned as a stab of pain ran up his throbbing leg. The marsh was alive with sound; frogs boomed, a night bird cried, and myriads of insects buzzed and droned and sang about his head. He was leaning against the bole of the willow tree, twilight had fallen and night would come on apace. Hugh was on fire with fever, his head swam, his body ached, yet, strangely enough, he felt neither anxiety nor fear. A voice seemed to be ringing in his ears and the words held him as of being infinitely important.
“Between the two pyramids,” it seemed to say, “outside the Old Church, between the two pyramids. Dig there.”
He must have slept again for he awoke with a start, hearing a bell very faintly in the distance. Listening intently, he thought he heard his name called. Yes, someone was shouting, hallooing. It was pitch dark; a night without stars, and, though the fog had lifted somewhat, it still lay thinly damp upon the earth. Hugh roused himself, listened again. A man’s voice calling, then a higher, shriller voice that might be Dickon’s. Summoning all his strength he shouted back. “Dickon, Dickon, I am here.” His voice sounded hoarse and weak. Would they hear him? He cried out again and yet again. The jangling of the distant bell ceased for a few moments and then came an answering cry.
“Hugh, lad, keep on calling! We are coming.”
At last, straining eyes and ears, he spied a light through the willow withies and reeds along the bank, heard the bell clanging nearer, the crackle and swish of broken underbrush, and there was Dickon beside him! And another figure was towering above him, Bleheris, with his stone lantern in one hand, the bell which he had been ringing in the other.
Hugh found himself crying with relief and weakness, like a sick baby. And he was sick, no question about it. His teeth were chattering again with chill and his head was dizzy and confused. When he tried to stand up his knees gave way as much from weakness as from the pain that shot up from his ankle. He would have fallen had not the hermit caught him in his strong arms. He felt himself lifted tenderly, firmly and, clasping his arms about the old man’s neck, he suffered himself to be carried, scarcely realizing what he did or why.
Dickon took the lantern and led the way. The buzz and whir of night insects blended in Hugh’s ears with the swish of withies as they pushed their way through them. The light in Dickon’s hands flashed and winked and trembled. He kept his eyes on that with a grim, determined fascination, as the world reeled and tilted up and down about him, and he clung to the warm, strong, supporting shoulders of Bleheris. By the time they had got him to Beckery the boy had lost consciousness and was muttering incoherently in his fever. Carefully and tenderly the hermit laid him on his own straw pallet in the corner of the hut, and spread the rough blanket over him, adding two ancient and torn, but warm sheepskins, as the boy alternately shivered and burned.
Hugh never knew how long the old man nursed and tended him without a place of his own to sleep, and almost without rest or food. Dickon told him something of those days and nights of his illness after it was over, but in his memory it remained an indefinite period of aching limbs and thirst, of fierce burning fever and gruelling chills, of restless tossing sleep and confused dreams that were as real to his mind as they were fantastic and impossible in actuality.
There came a day when he opened his eyes with a feeling of stability, of being his actual self again, and looked at his surroundings in mild curiosity and wonder. He was too weak even to feel surprised, though he had no recollection at the time of having been carried to Beckery and put into the hermit’s bed at all. The old man was kneeling beside him crooning and humming like a comfortable tea-kettle. When he spied Hugh’s eyes upon him, he put a large, gentle hand on the boy’s forehead and then nodded with satisfaction.
“Good!” said he, “the fever hath abated. Here, child, drink this healing brew and then sleep again. Praise God and His blessed Mother, thou art at last on the mend!”
Hugh drank the bitter potion uncomplainingly and slept again. When he woke a second time he felt distinctly better. He even tried questioningly to move a leg a little, and found that it was not too heavy as he had fancied. One ankle twinged with pain occasionally and he realized that the reason it was heavier to move than the other was because it was thickly wound about with bandages.
“What happened to me?” said he, surprised again at the weak sound of his own voice and the effort it took to say anything.
“Thou hast been sick, grievous sick with the swamp fever, but thou art better now.”
Hugh smiled up at the gaunt old face above him. A sudden peace and security seemed to have descended upon his mind, and the feeling of mutual understanding that had always existed between him and the hermit, flooded over him in a wave of affection. He said nothing but Bleheris caught the sense of what he was feeling. Tears came into his eyes and the two looked long at each other, without need of words.
At that moment the doorway of the hut was darkened by a figure and Hugh heard the familiar voice of Dickon outside. Brother Symon, the almoner, entered with a basket on his arm, followed closely by the boy carrying another.
They were overjoyed to note Hugh’s improvement. Frequently, Dickon told him, Brother Symon had come with food and medicines, and he himself had not missed a day, but this was the first on which Hugh had recognized him. They had wanted at first to carry him back to the infirmary, where he could have better care, but Bleheris would not hear of their doing so, and had become so wild when they had urged it that they had given it up. Also, it did seem risky to them to try to carry the boy so far when he was so acutely ill.
“And now,” finished Dickon happily, “you will soon be back in the cloiste
rs again. Brother John has been desperate without you—and—Hugh,” he bent down to whisper, so that the two men would not hear him, “I’ve a new notion about our search for the hidden treasure—”
Suddenly there flashed into Hugh’s mind the memory of his strange experience out on the marsh in the fog and those words ringing in his ears. “Between the two pyramids, outside the Old Church—dig there.” Had it been only a sick dream or was it a vision that meant something? Or had it really happened? Master Bleheris had suggested that when the fog lay thick upon the valley below the Tor, shapes and forms not of this world might be abroad, riding in the gray mists. He must tell Bleheris about it, and Dickon, but not now. His eyes were already growing heavy with weariness; he was too tired to speak further.
11. Here Lies Buried
THE NEXT DAY Hugh told Master Bleheris of his curious dream out in the marshes of Avalon. Or was it a dream? It had seemed so real. As he thought back over the experience he could hear again the dip of the barge’s oars in the water and the wailing of the women, he could see the glint of gold in the crown of the dead king and the outline of his large body half-hidden under the crimson pall on the bier. He could even smell the damp earth of the greensward at the edge of the abbey grounds and feel the springiness of it under his feet. A thousand small details came to mind as only happens when one passes through an experience intensely real and never to be forgotten.
Yet now, in the light of common day, Hugh tried to tell himself that it must have been only a dream.
The hermit listened as he recounted it with increasing intensity of attention. He had carried the boy out of the airless hut and laid him in the shade of the big willow, for the day was unseasonably hot. Now he leaned over him as if he feared lest a single word escape his ears. His eyes burned with eagerness, his pale gaunt face flushed, and his long powerful hands clenched and unclenched themselves as the narrative proceeded. When Hugh came to the end he drew a great sighing breath.
“Between the two pyramids,” he repeated, “outside the Old Church; we must dig there. Aye, it is most right and fitting!”
He began to stride up and down restlessly and Hugh, watching him, felt his own excitement grow keener.
“But what do you think it all means, Master Bleheris?” he asked, raising himself on his elbow. “Who was the old king and why should it be so important to dig in that particular spot—unless—unless—?”
“That was King Arthur, undoubtedly.” Bleheris paused in his restless striding and spoke with awe and conviction. “None has ever known where Arthur, the greatest king in the world, lies buried. There is a saying in the ancient Welsh tongue which goes thus:—
“‘A grave there is for Mark, a grave for Uther,
A grave for Gawain of the ruddy sword;
But for Arthur’s grave—only a mystery.’
“For a long time folk believed that he had never died at all and that he would come again from some hidden fairy world to succor England when she had special need; or to usher in again a time of vision and adventure. To Avalon they bore him, the old stories say, to be healed of his wounds, or else to die, if so God willed.”
“To Avalon!” repeated Hugh. “And that’s what the peasants call the country round our Glaston, especially the marsh land between Tor Hill and Beckery, the very place where that strange vision came to me!”
The hermit nodded his great head solemnly. “Exactly,” said he, “Avalon; and mark you, lad, how things are shaping toward the solving of our sacred mystery.”
“The mystery of the lost Holy Grail?” whispered Hugh as the old man paused.
He nodded his head again. “First the sword,” he continued, “Excalibur. Think you it had lain in the mud of the salt marshes all those centuries since it was cast away? Lad, it would have rusted into nothingness long ago. There be those who know, both in this world and in the land of spirits and fairy folk, angels and demon powers; those who know when the time is ripe for the unveiling of great mysteries, for miracles—”
“Miracles?” said a voice behind him, and Bleheris turned with a start to see Dickon, his eyes round, his face eager. Hugh had seen him coming up the path from the marshes for his daily visit but the hermit had been so absorbed in his own thoughts and words that he had neither heard nor seen him. “Miracles?” the boy repeated. “Who is talking about miracles? Has anybody seen any hereabouts?” He looked around as if he expected to find a very real and tangible one lying on the ground at his feet.
Somehow the matter-of-fact way in which the boy spoke changed the atmosphere. In spite of his joking habit of thrusting his cap on a sunbeam to see if it might by any chance stick, things that were not solid, that you could not see and hear and feel, were not real to Dickon, and a miracle would have to be a very obvious one before he could see it. This practical side always seemed to jar a little on the visionary old hermit. Hugh turned again to Bleheris, a little uneasily. He was staring wordlessly at the boy, his face showing all too clearly the conflict of his emotions, annoyance at having his world of wonder and dream and mystery broken into, and a sense of loyalty and even affection, which had been growing in him as the two had shared daily their anxiety over Hugh.
“Tell him,” said he at last, addressing Hugh. “Tell him your adventure in the world of fog and shadows out yonder. And tell him, Hugh, that we must take up the quest again, the sword and the quest. Because of my negligence, boy, it has been too long neglected; aye, I will confess it, and because there is something about yon oblate that is—” He seemed for the moment unable to find the phrase which would express what he wanted to say, but continued before either of them could speak. “Yon oblate hath always the effect of bringing my soaring spirit back to earth, he hath nothing in common with dreams and shadows and other world creatures—he is of this earth.”
Dickon grinned and Hugh burst out laughing. It was so true! Yet were they not seeking that which was real and solid, a Holy Cup that actually existed? And, if so, Dickon certainly might be more valuable in the search than the mad Master of Beckery himself. But was the quest indeed for something that one could hold in one’s two hands? Vaguely, uncomprehendingly, yet surely, Hugh felt that the Holy Grail was something infinitely greater, more meaningful than any object fashioned by man’s skill out of wood or stone or metal. And that dream adventure of his in the fog out in the marshes of Avalon, was that perhaps a hint, an indication of the otherworldly side of the whole thing?
Bleheris and Dickon had seated themselves on the ground beside him and were waiting for him to begin. He told the story again, and this time it seemed to him in nowise a dream but an actual experience.
When he had finished, his listeners both kept silent for a long moment, each thinking his own thoughts. Characteristically Dickon was the first to step from thought to action. He jumped to his feet.
“By all the saints, what are we waiting for?” said he. “You get a dream—all about King Arthur and Avalon—the time and place where your books says the Grail once was, and the dream tells you to dig, and where! Let’s go to it!”
“Wait a bit, boy, wait a bit!” Bleheris held up a detaining hand. “All must be done in a way fitting and proper or the vision will leave us. It must be Hugh who puts pick into the earth first.”
“That’s so,” agreed Dickon, sitting down again. “And, of course, we must tell Father Abbot. We can’t go digging by ourselves and without permission in the monks’ cemetery. How soon will you be well, Hugh? And shall I tell folk, or shall we keep this secret till you get back to the abbey?”
“Tell them about the dream,” said Hugh, “but don’t say anything about what we hope to find buried there between the two pyramids.”
“You mean the Holy Grail?” said Dickon.
“Aye,” said Hugh. “That is what we are hoping for, isn’t it?”
“Buried with King Arthur, as indeed it might well be,” added the hermit. “Not only the place but the time is fitting. The sword, Excalibur; King Arthur’s sword. Did I not tell t
hee, my finding it was but a short time back—and—other things.”
“Aye, Master Bleheris, you were speaking of the sword when Dickon came in. Tell us more. Surely now there must be no secrets between us three.”
The old man nodded but could not suppress a hesitant and doubtful look at Dickon.
“You said that your finding the sword was near a miracle,” Hugh prodded him on.
“The dreaming mood was upon me.” The hermit leaned his big frame against the willow tree close to Hugh and, keeping his eyes upon him and away from Dickon continued, his voice growing softer, more reminiscent. “My mind teemed with memories of old tales, of romance and brave deeds in the days of King Arthur and his knights. I was wandering in the lowlands over by the sea when, suddenly, my foot nigh trod upon it, the sword with its iron hilt all brown and rusty, and its great blade broken at the edges, dull and blunted. I picked it out of the ooze where the low tide had left it and brought it here. I cleaned and polished and sharpened it; I slept with it beside me; I loved and cherished it almost like a live thing. And then the dreams began to come to me again thick and fast, dreams of Arthur’s day all mixed with the memory of stories that I told in Wales in my minstrel days, stories that I had forgotten, and forget again as soon as the dream leaves me.”
The Hidden Treasure of Glaston Page 14
