‘They? Who’s this they you keep going on about?’
The Arch-Druid shook his head in disappointment. ‘You don’t ask the seer a specific question like that. Never get an answer.’
‘Aha, they are coming, and we must hurry to be ready for them.’ Lypolix was back to his obscure self and added a cackle for emphasis.
‘You said a Christian monk?’ Wulf pressed.
‘The most important,’ Lypolix confirmed, ‘after the stone seer of course. And the Arch-Druid.’
Wulf was about to dismiss all this as so much seer nonsense when they emerged into a clearing.
It wasn’t a very good clearing, made by hand rather than nature, and there were still small trees and the remains of undergrowth dotted about. It was the standing stones that sent a shiver through Wulf. Three relatively small standing stones he had never seen before. Stones which did not seem friendly.
‘I have started, I have started,’ Lypolix cackled as he skipped into the clearing. He proceeded to hop and skip around what would be a circle when the rest of the stones were erected. He stopped at each stone in turn, patting it and stroking it in a very disturbing manner.
The Arch-Druid raised his druidic eyebrows, the ones which made the acolytes flinch. This place was clearly new to him as well.
‘The stone seer will find the master stone,’ Lypolix explained with something approaching clarity. ‘The great stone to rule them all. It will call to him across the fields and he will fly to it.’
Wulf started to back away from the seer until he bumped into the Arch-Druid.
‘Where are you going?’ his master demanded.
‘Oh, you know. Anywhere?’ Wulf sounded hopeless. He tipped his head towards Lypolix, rolled his eyes and risked a bit of impertinence with the Arch-Druid. ‘I think the seer is several stones short of a circle.’
‘Of course he is.’ The Arch-Druid missed Wulf’s suggestion by a country mile. ‘You heard him. You are to select the master stone.’
Wulf looked rather hopelessly at the mostly missing stone circle, the three upright rocks looking as if they could easily be handled by one man. If this was the start of a Grand Complication, it wasn’t very grand.
‘I don’t know even where to start looking for some master stone.’ He held his arms out, trying to take in the whole of the surrounding land.
Lypolix now gave up the very personal contact with his stones and advanced on Wulf. There was a look in the old man’s eye which made Wulf pull his robe a little bit tighter.
When he drew close, a withered old hand reached out towards Wulf’s face and without any sort of introduction tapped the acolyte in the middle of his forehead.
It was as if a fully formed and completed dream and been forced into Wulf’s head, pushed in through the seer’s finger. It had all the vivid life of a dream at the moment of waking, except of course, Wulf was already wide awake. It was a very uncomfortable feeling, and Wulf felt it offered some sort of explanation for Lypolix. If the old man had to put up with this all the time it was no wonder he was off with the swallows.
He saw the circle complete, he saw the master stone standing in its place, and he knew where it was now. He saw what this Grand Complication would do and he knew how to use it. Half of him hoped that, like a dream, this understanding would fade when he woke up. Or went to sleep.
‘He sees, he sees,’ Lypolix skipped off to let his stones know.
The Arch-Druid looked to Wulf for an explanation.
All the acolyte could do was nod. ‘I can see the master stone,’ he said with some surprise. ‘I know where it’s got to go and I know where to find it.’ His voice was full of wonder at his own words.
The Arch-Druid nodded in a knowing, Arch-Druid sort of way, quiet satisfaction at a life of devotion coming to fruition.
‘It’s quite big though,’ Wulf explained, as he started to appreciate the scale of the task.
The Arch-Druid nodded solemnly.
‘In fact it’s very big.’
‘We will find a way.’
‘It really is very big indeed,’ Wulf tried to emphasise the scale of thing he had in his mind.
‘It will be the work of the Gods,’ the Arch-Druid droned. ‘And the villagers will help.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Wulf, thinking he wouldn’t trust most of the villagers with a task as complex as moving a rock. Perhaps the ancient ones would need to lend a hand as well.
There was one element of his vision he hadn’t mentioned, and didn’t really like to. It would come out sooner or later. But then he recalled that the Arch-Druid was always difficult with things that came out later. And the old man had demonstrated his habit of hitting Wulf had not gone away. ‘I, erm, I think the size might be the easy bit,’ Wulf said cautiously.
Arch-Druidic eyes narrowed, ‘And what would be the difficult bit?’ he enquired, carefully.
Wulf took a breath and swallowed.
‘Well,’ he tried to sound nonchalant, ‘I imagine that the erm, gold will be a bit tricky.’
‘What gold?’ the Arch-Druid asked slowly.
‘The gold for the stone,’ Wulf explained, with bright enthusiasm, hoping it would carry the audience with him.
‘The stone has gold on it,’ the Arch-Druid said, clearly accepting the fact, but not very happy about it.
‘Oh yes,’ Wulf nodded. It had to have the gold or the whole thing wouldn’t work.
‘And how much gold are we going to need?’ the Arch-Druid asked in the tone of a man who has asked an army of rampaging beggars how much of your food they would like to steal.
‘Oh, quite a lot,’ said Wulf matter-of-factly and with a large smile, as if that made things easier, ‘probably more than we’ve got.’ He turned his head and thought about the druid gold. The Arch-Druid himself carried the largest supply but there were torcs and a few other bits and pieces about. ‘We might need to get some more from other druids,’ he concluded.
He’d never seen that look on the Arch-Druid’s face before. Disappointment, irritation, anger, fear, resignation and despair. All at once. And all expressed by a face which was mostly beard. This was clearly a problem.
The Arch-Druid offered no suggestions so Wulf moved away to the nearest stone of Lypolix’s to show where the gold would go on the full-size version. As he drew close he frowned as he thought he saw a new feature on the upright rock. ‘Is that blood?’ he asked with a shiver, pointing at stains on the nearest upright.
‘Very likely,’ the Arch-Druid confirmed, emerging from his personal reverie about getting gold from other druids. ‘Got to have a sacrifice to give the stones the power.’
‘Ah yes,’ Lypolix skipped over and stroked this stone in a very intimate manner.
Wulf hadn’t realised anyone could be intimate with a stone until he saw this. But there really was no better word.
‘And you did the sacrifice did you?’ he asked, and immediately wished he hadn’t.
‘Difficult,’ Lypolix cackled. ‘Difficult it was. Great sacrifice needed for the Grand Complication. Unique.’
Wulf really did not want to know what a unique sacrifice would be for Lypolix. Anything smaller than a chicken would probably get away, and he doubted the old seer could defeat anything bigger than a chicken. Probably a chicken then. Mind you, there was an awful lot of blood for one chicken. Perhaps the stones needed a chicken each.
‘The sacrifice, the sacrifice,’ Lypolix cackled as he danced round in a little circle.
‘Aha,’ Wulf nodded very cautiously.
‘The Gods themselves,’ Lypolix added mysteriously.
Wulf didn’t understand what this meant. But then he thought not understanding anything Lypolix said was perfectly reasonable.
‘The Gods?’ The Arch-Druid asked. This seemed to mean something to him.
‘Aye, aye,’ Lypolix said, with as much significance as he could squeeze between two cackles.
The Arch-Druid stroked his beard and explained to Wulf. ‘He means the Gods them
selves helped with the sacrifice.’
‘Helped?’ Wulf couldn’t see what divine help would be needed to kill a few chickens.
‘Yes. They could have delivered the sacrifice to Lypolix, or struck them dead at the right moment, any one of a number of things. It’s very rare for the Gods themselves to get involved in a sacrifice. I wonder what they did.’
Wulf noticed Lypolix’s face dropping at these words to become, what was the word? Normal. He stroked his straggled beard and spoke in an almost human voice. ‘The Master Stone shall have him,’ he whispered in a voice that would send shivers down a slab of solid granite.
‘Erm,’ Wulf couldn’t help himself.
‘Yes?’ Lypolix snapped his attention to Wulf and the old seer was back. The old, familiar cackling, incoherent cuckoo-head.
Wulf wasn’t sure he wanted to ask anymore. ‘Who will the, erm, stone have? Exactly. If stones can have people that is?’
‘The great sacrifice,’ Lypolix explained, as if that should be obvious.
‘Aha,’ Wulf nodded. Another chicken then. He should have realised Lypolix would have personal relationships with the bird life.
‘The master sacrifice for the master stone,’ Lypolix went on. ‘It shall have the monk.’
‘Monk?’ Wulf was lost, was there something called a monk-bird? Could be, he was never very attentive during the Arch-Druid’s instruction on animals and plants. The stars were his thing.
‘Aye. Even now he comes and the stone will be initiated in the blood of the Christian monk.’ Lypolix rubbed his hands in happy anticipation.
Oh, ye Gods. He meant a real monk. An actual living person. He turned a shocked gaze to the Arch-Druid and was alarmed to see the old man didn’t look at all put out by this. Perhaps all that chicken blood on the other stones wasn’t actually so chicken-related after all.
‘We’re expected to sacrifice a monk?’ Wulf couldn’t stop his voice quavering ever so slightly.
‘Oh, no,’ Lypolix laughed at the stupidity. ‘The Gods will kill the monk for us. All we have to do is watch.’
Caput VI
A Growing Quest.
‘What do you want?’ Wat demanded.
‘I have come,’ the man intoned. The voice was as deep as druid’s should be, and the words came out in a slow chain, each one waiting until its significance had died down before making way for the next. This was a man who knew how to intone and probably did it regularly. Most likely he practised quite a lot and was recognised for the quality of his intoning. His words made it quite clear that druid ways were mysterious and were not about to be explained.
The face disappeared and the man could be heard walking round the outside of the inn. They waited patiently, no one having much to say until the full druid, head, robe, arms and legs, appeared at the doorway.
The beard was certainly in character, dark but with strands of grey gathering their strength for an assault on the main body. The dark brown eyes did look intelligent, but this druid was probably only middle aged and was not strewn with gold. Hermitage felt a momentary disappointment that even though they now had a druid, they were still going to have to go to Wales. He also felt ashamed that he had assumed the first druid he saw was guilty.
‘Well, now you’ve arrived, you can go away again,’ Wat growled, ‘and take your mistletoe with you.’ He searched around and found the plant lying by the door, picked it up and threw it at the druid.
The man caught the small branch and slipped it into a pocket in his robe with great reverence.
‘I am here,’ said the druid in an unnecessarily sing-song voice, as if that was supposed to explain anything.
‘And soon you won’t be,’ Wat put his shoulder to the task of removing the druid and managed to get him to the door.
‘No, look, really, you don’t understand,’ said the druid in a voice suddenly a lot less mystical. ‘I have come to join you.’
‘Join us?’ this did give Wat pause for thought, ‘join us in what?’
‘Your journey. Your journey to Wales.’
There was a moment of silence, a moment of awe as this impressive figure dominated the room once more. Hermitage’s wonder took an extra leap. The man had calmly announced that he was joining them on a secret mission that they had only just been given.
Wat broke the tension as he threw his hands in the air. ‘Is there anyone who doesn’t know we’re going to bloody Wales? Who told you?’
‘It is known,’ the druid said mysteriously.
‘Oh, very mysterious I’m sure. Of course it’s known. I don’t know why we don’t get a bell and announce it in the middle of the inn. See if anyone else wants to come along.’
He looked to Hermitage, who had no ideas to offer.
‘What’s the point?’ Wat went on, in high pitched exasperation. ‘Well, we’re up now, might as well all have a nice breakfast together while we discuss the health of Hermitage’s mother.’ He picked up his pack and strode from the room, brushing John and the druid aside.
Hermitage followed, rather alarmed to hear his mother being mentioned as he was reasonably confident she and Wat had never met.
…
After a desultory breakfast, with more glare passing across the table than the summer sunrise, the departure from the Inn with no name was a rapid and straggling affair. Wat was up front, striding along as if he wanted to leave everyone behind. Cwen followed, striding as best she could to show that she was not going to be left behind. Hermitage followed, wondering what the hurry was.
The druid was next, followed by John, who looked suspiciously about, as if ready to fend off an immediate attack. Neither of them appeared to be in any great rush to catch up with the weaver as he made a bee-line for the river.
….
The great River Thames could be many things. It could be an impenetrable barrier, it could be a magnificent highway. It could be a source of food for those on its banks, or a threat to their homes in winter. It could be an inspiration to poets as they translated its majesty into words, or to musicians as they told tall tales of its passage. It could be the subject of murals or tapestries and it could be a creature of legend and myth.
In years to come, its fish-weirs were going to cause real trouble - but thereby hangs another tale altogether. [ That tale is The Magna Carta (Or is it?), available for money.]
To one particular pair of eyes, watching as the worried monk, Wat, Cwen, John and the Druid approached the bank, the River Thames could also be a nice little earner if you had a boat. Whether it was actually your boat or not was only splitting hairs.
…
Hermitage had drifted into the lead of the party and almost leapt into Wat’s arms as an apparition appeared before him. The approaching figure must surely have been washed up by some evil tide, or been thrown out of the slime by the foul creatures of the river who, after all, did have some standards.
There were legs and arms but they had all the substance of partly dissolved driftwood. The only reason the torso could be described as such, was because it was in the middle, holding the rest together. The head was positively alarming. There was a beard, or rather a bush of grey hair coming out of the bottom of the face, but it wasn’t clear whether the beard was growing from the face, or vice versa. Above this fibrous mass was a grinning mouth and bright sparkling eyes which clearly said that someone was alive in there. A single tooth loitered in the mouth, probably waiting for just the right moment to leave, taking what final vestiges of sanity loitered in this accumulation of body parts.
The party had drawn together again now, and stood behind Hermitage, probably quite gratefully.
‘Hello,’ said the bearded mouth in a bright, squeaky, high-pitched voice which suited its source completely.
‘Yes,’ said Hermitage, acknowledging that the figure was actually alive and had spoken, rather than engaging in a conversation.
‘I’m More the boatman,’ the figure announced. ‘Boat?’ he asked in an enthusiastic flurry of beard, gesturi
ng towards a large wooden rowing boat which nestled the bank.
Wat peered around Hermitage, ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we can tell.’
‘Take you down the river?’ More the boatman asked hopefully. ‘Or up?’
‘Or across?’ Hermitage asked. He didn’t know why he asked this. He just liked to have everything complete and its place.
‘Ooh, no,’ More sounded horrified at such a suggestion. ‘I don’t do across. That’s ferrying. I used to do ferrying but I don’t anymore.’
‘Why not?’ Hermitage was drawn into this bizarre discussion despite himself.
‘I had a very bad experience once,’ the old man nodded significantly. ‘But it’s a long and mysterious tale.’[ Which is called The Domesday Book (No, Not That One), another essential purchase.]
‘Good,’ said Wat, ‘we don’t need to hear it then.’ He looked at the boat again, appraising its strength and safety. ‘And you can take us up the river can you?’
‘Oh, yis,’ the old man nodded very happily. ‘Boatman by appointment to King William I am.’
Wat looked up and down the river bank, probably hoping to spot some other boatman who looked a bit more man, and a bit less left-over bits of a boat. There was no one. ‘We’re going to Wales,’ he said, probably hoping to scare the boatman into leaving.
‘Wales?’ the old man squeaked, clearly impressed at such a great journey. ‘Where’s that then?’
‘Where’s what?’ Hermitage asked, getting lost very quickly.
‘Where’s Wales?’ the boatman asked.
Wat coughed lightly. ‘I think we need a different boat,’ he whispered quite loudly.
‘West of here,’ Hermitage couldn’t help but explain.
‘Oh, Staines way. I can take you there. And the tide’s with us so make very good time.’
‘We’re not seriously going to get in this thing’s boat are we?’ Cwen had a look of revulsion on her face as she appraised the boatman.
‘The boat looks alright,’ Wat replied. ‘The man? Definitely not.’
‘If I don’t get you there, you can have your money back.’
Hermitage, Wat and Some Druids Page 5
