by Jacky Gray
‘Because ... because you want to hurt me like all the rest. Because I beat you and you hate it.’
‘Do I? Is that what you think? That I’m the sort of boy who only cares about winning?’ He shook his head. ‘Are you that sort of boy? Are you judging me by your standards?’
‘No, but ...’
‘You need to learn to trust, Geraint. Not everyone is competitive or a bully. There are far more boys who are honourable and good-hearted than you might think.’
Ciria sighed a shuddering breath, as if she were agreeing with Tamas. Her intent was so strong, it washed over both boys. Geraint’s eyes were wide with questions as Tamas explained something his mother had taught him.
‘If you believe the whole world is against you, the universe will surround you with idiots like Manfrid because it thinks that’s what you want.’
Ciria sighed again, and Geraint stroked her matted fur, smoothing away the tangles. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and small. ‘But who will I have if Ciria dies? Who will remind me of Mother? My father’s forgotten her; he only sees Savannah now.’
‘Listen to yourself, Geraint. Does your mother mean so little you can forget her unless you have someone else to remind you? That’s not the Geraint I believe you are. His love for his mother is so strong he just has to close his eyes and her face is there.’
Watching the outraged expression on his new friend’s face change to one of pain, Tamas lowered his voice once more. ‘He can still hear her voice crooning a lullaby as she pushes the hair out of his eyes. He can still see her smile, hear her laugh and feel the warmth of her hug.’
Geraint’s cheeks burnt with shame as he saw the truth in Tamas’s words and understood what an amazing friend he’d made. As the images of his mother filled his mind, he felt a calmness ripple through Ciria’s tense body as though she too could feel Renata’s tender love.
Once again, Tamas knew exactly the right thing to say. ‘Much better. Instead of filling poor Ciria’s last few moments on earth with fear and hate, why don’t you think about the good times? Give her some wonderful memories to take with her when she moves on.’
Geraint gazed at him in wonder. ‘You’re saying she can share my thoughts?’
‘If you attach a powerful emotion like love, and you believe it hard enough. It certainly can’t do her any harm.’
The muscles round Geraint’s mouth moved in something which was almost a smile. ‘Of course not.’
‘Would you like me to go?’ Tamas obviously understood the need for privacy.
‘No, please stay. But only if you want to after the way I’ve treated you.’
‘You were upset, is all.’ He shrugged. ‘We can’t always behave as we would like to when we’re upset.’ He moved so he could sit comfortably and stroke Ciria’s back as Geraint talked in a soft voice about the happy times they’d shared together. Many of them included his mother, only a few featured Rattrick.
The forest had darkened completely when she finally breathed her last. Her passing was peaceful, a gentle letting go. Although Geraint cried, they were not the hot, angry tears of guilt and loss, but the sad, healing tears which celebrated the privilege of being able to share in her life.
Tamas shed a few of his own as memories of his own dog’s death – and life – filled his emotional cup to overflowing. It seemed natural they would seek the comfort of human contact, but awkwardness marred their brief hug. Geraint, in particular, was not used to physical closeness, especially not a full embrace.
Tamas’s tone sounded unnaturally brisk. ‘We should get back; people will worry.’
‘No. You go. I need to stay here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Ciria needs me.’ Geraint’s tone told of the stupidity of that question.
‘Does she? Really?’
‘I got an image in my head; she called out to me.’
‘She was probably thinking about you, remembering all the wonderful times you shared together. Love is the most powerful emotion you can attach to a thought. Love gave her thought wings, and your strong connection to her picked it up.’
‘But she would have wanted me to be with her.’
‘To make you sad? That’s the last thing she would have wanted.’ Once more, Tamas’s wisdom was profound. ‘She came here to die alone. That is usually the way with animals.’
‘I should take her back.’
‘Why? She chose this place. Probably not her first choice because that would have been somewhere special to both of you.’
‘It does look a lot like our hidey-hole.’ Geraint grinned with the fond memory, but his smile dimmed. ‘I don’t like to leave her. What if ...’
‘Stop right now before you ask for something bad. Ciria chose this place because it’s safe, and she will lie here happily until you’re ready to come back in the daylight. With your father and a suitable sled to carry her body with the dignity it deserves. She would not want you to stumble through the dark and risk breaking your back with her weight, or your neck if you tripped on a root. That’s not a heroic thing to do, it’s just madness. And ego.’
Despite his grief, Geraint could see the sense in his new friend’s words and, after a final hug, he allowed himself to be led back.
Tamas knew the woods well and pointed out each treacherous, hidden tree stump and ancient root. Geraint’s concern about walking away was obvious, and the questions were designed to distract. ‘Is there somewhere near your camp that Ciria’s body will be safe?’
‘Of course, I will bury her in our den.’
Tamas seemed surprised. ‘Does your tribe not use the sacred sites?’
‘Of course. For people, but not for animals. Do you bury animals there?’
‘We follow the old ways, returning their bodies to nature by the elements.’
Geraint nodded, he knew about this, but he still had concerns. ‘How will I know where Ciria’s special resting place is?’
‘Don’t worry about that; you’ll know when the time’s right.’
‘But what if I don’t? I just assumed it would be our den.’
‘You may be right. Really, you won’t need to force it, she’ll show you. And if not, you can do a ceremony. I had to do one with my mother for her uncle; he died abruptly without anyone knowing.’
Walking in silence, Geraint tried to sort out the sheer quantity of information Tamas already knew. It seemed as though he’d been studying with Savannah his whole life. An inspiration told him why.
‘Go on, ask it. We might as well get it over with.’
‘You mean you know what I’m thinking as well as all these other talents you have.’
‘No, but I get a sixth sense when people want to know about my scar.’
‘Well it’s a big part of who you are. It marks you as different.’
‘You could say that. I get fed up with people talking to it instead of me.’
‘So, go on then. How did you get it?’ Geraint’s eyes widened in shock and sympathy as Tamas briefly summarised the sorry tale in a flat voice. It certainly explained why a boy like him would even think of being loyal to someone as dishonourable as Manfrid.
22 Samhain: All Souls
Samhain, traditionally the biggest gathering of the year, saw many Renegate tribes joining the throng of people massing at Stonehenge to mourn the death of the Sun god and the passing on of spirits who died that year. This year was particularly hard for Geraint after Ciria’s death. It led to the first argument with his father in well over a year.
‘I’m sorry, son. I understand your feelings, but this is important to me, to the whole tribe. You’re the son of the leader, and we have to set an example.’
‘But people who don’t believe in the old ways won’t be going.’
‘That is their choice.’ Rattrick frowned as he tried to understand his son’s reluctance. ‘You’ve never complained before.’
‘My dog never died before. I promise I’ll come next year. I usually go.’
‘You didn’t go last year.’
‘Because my leg was broken. That wasn’t my fault.’
‘I know. But you’re so popular with the younger children in the camp; they all look to you for an example. Think how unhappy the women will be if they are plagued with protests from their sons who don’t want to go because Geraint didn’t go.’
‘I’m to be held hostage to my success. That’s wrong.’
With a rueful smile, his father squeezed his shoulder. ‘Welcome to the first lesson in being a leader. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to.’
Shrugging off his father’s hand, he stalked away, kicking a stone which crashed into Savannah’s wagon, causing her to appear.
‘If that’s chipped my beautiful paintwork, you’ll have to re-paint the whole wagon.’
He grunted at the irony; hers was easily the scruffiest wagon in the whole camp. She refused to smarten it up on the grounds most people expected an old witch to be wild and unkempt.
Geraint scowled. ‘That tease is older than you are.’
‘My, my. Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning. Can I ease your anger with a mug of tea?’
‘I know better than to take tea from you. It usually makes me say things I don’t mean to.’
‘That’s not the tea, it’s me. I have that effect on people, they can’t help but reveal their inner thoughts to me.’ As he considered whether to stay or not, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply. After a few seconds, he decided she’d finished with him and turned to leave.
‘Right now you’re wondering whether to run away just before Samhain so you don’t have to go to Stonehenge.’
‘How could you know that?’ He halted.
‘Your dog just died, and you don’t want to go somewhere with a group of people who’ll be remembering their loved ones. You think all the emotion will make you cry.’
With a slow turn, he stared at her, once more in awe of the extent of her abilities. She’d uncovered the main reason.
But she wasn’t finished. ‘And because you have a history of wanting to run away when things get tough with your father …’
‘A long time ago.’
‘… but mostly because you want to lay Ciria to rest somewhere important, and you know you wouldn’t be able to do it in the sacred grounds at Stonehenge.’
This time, he really was impressed. ‘You couldn’t possibly know that.’
‘Yes I could. You plan to take her bones to the long barrow at West Kennet as an offering.’
‘I wasn’t going to put them inside …’
‘Of course not. That could be seen as disrespectful. But it’s why you’ve placed her body up in the trees instead of burying her, as your father thinks.’
‘Are you spying on me?’
‘Of course. Your father wants to know exactly when and where you take a shit each day; what do you think?’
‘I think I’ve never heard you be so vulgar before.’
‘I am weary of your doubts. When are you going to believe your father loves you and only wants what is best for you?’
Geraint sighed. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry to be so suspicious.’
‘You can’t help it; it’s in your nature. Just as it’s in your father’s nature to want his son to be the best possible replacement he can create. But he doesn’t realise you have a much higher purpose. Which is why I am here. To make sure you follow your life’s path.’
‘My life’s path?’
‘Which in this case means you must go to West Kennet at Samhain. It will be done.’
‘What do you mean, my life’s path? Don’t turn away; I need to know.’ But she held up a hand to terminate his interrogation and returned inside the caravan without a backward glance. He knew better than to question her in this mood, but his anger at her dismissal needed a target. He kicked another stone straight at her wagon, but it somehow managed to miss, curving round to land harmlessly on the grass at the side of it. The fact her protective shield was strong enough to deflect stones made him grin - she deserved far more gratitude than anger.
‘And don’t you forget it, boy.’ Her voice inside his head turned the grin into a smile.
He never found out what she said to persuade his father, but in accordance with his wishes, every time one of his charges asked if he was going, he replied it was important to celebrate Samhain properly and Stonehenge was the best place to do it. Without actually lying, he managed to give the impression he would be going, so their mothers were satisfied. Two nights before Samhain eve, his father spoke to him after supper. ‘Thank you son. You have done me a great service, even though you disagreed with my request. That shows great restraint and self-discipline, qualities of a truly great leader.’
‘I would not disobey you without good cause.’
‘I know this. And someone made me realise your cause is good, so you shall have a chance to perform your private ceremony.’
‘Thank you, Father. This means so much to me.’
‘Ciria was a good dog, and I understand some of my reluctance was bound up with memories not of her making, nor yours.’ He held up his hand before Geraint said anything which might cause grief, then made his condition. ‘I would like you to come with us tomorrow as we travel down to the white horse at Pewsey. We’ll set up camp there overnight. On the eve, we’ll set off as normal after lunch.’
Nodding his agreement, he saw his father had thought it all through. ‘When we reach the river, I’ll send you back to the camp for something important. You’ll have plenty of time to get up to Kennet before nightfall.’
‘But I don’t know the way from there.’
‘It will be easy. It’s almost due north, so just keep your shadow in front of you.’ His father’s obviously patient tone stung him to a hot reply.
‘I know how to travel north at midday, but there is rarely enough sun for a shadow at Samhain.’
‘Well luckily, you’ll be able to follow the Milk Hill horse, and from there you’ll have Silburgh to guide you.’
The following day, as they travelled down, his father surprised him with an unexpected gift: an old, battered compass, “in case you get lost.” Rattrick’s plan worked easily: When they reached the pre-arranged spot, he made his request for Geraint to return to the camp.
Geraint played out the drama, and many witnessed the dutiful son doing his father’s bidding. He had no problems finding his way to the white horse as she was visible almost immediately when he reached the river. The elements teased with the sun spending most of the afternoon trying to make him take off his woollen coat, then hiding behind a cloud until he put it back on again. After this happened for the fourth time, he decided to leave it slung over his shoulder. He felt warm enough from his exertions up and down hills carrying the sack with its precious contents.
As he walked, he tried to remember some of the happier times he’d shared with Ciria, but it seemed every time a memory surfaced, he met another gaggle of people making the journey south to Stonehenge. The first time one of them commented he was “going the wrong way,” he tried to explain he knew where Stonehenge was, but he was going to Aveburgh. After the third or fourth time, it became clear the person didn’t do it out of genuine concern, merely an attempt at humour, and he just smiled and nodded at them. Then he examined everyone in the group, trying to pick out the most likely person to make the quip. He rarely got it wrong; it seemed he had a talent for spotting the jesters in any pack.
He reached the top of the hill well over an hour before the sun was due to set. A surprising number of people sat outside the impressive entrance stones and a few more on top of the barrow. Although he told Savannah he wasn’t going to put her bones inside the barrow, in his dream, he definitely placed a bone inside one of the tombs. Walking to the top of the barrow, he looked out at the huge mound of Silburgh, wondering like thousands of others before him, why so many people had worked for so many years to create it. Following an instinct, he walked the length of
the barrow, the dropping sun casting a tall shadow of him a little north of east. About a dozen paces from the end, he saw a slight bump and, just before it, a low patch where all the grass seemed to be swirled round in the same direction. Sitting down in the centre of this strange circle, he closed his eyes and, almost before he let out his first deep breath, he entered the familiar state of meditation. However, unlike the dream-like pictures he normally saw, he experienced scenes where he could smell and taste and feel.
The images whirled round fast, making little sense: lots of fire and people dancing, then water levels at the base of the hill rising and dropping. After the cycle repeated for the third time, he heard the sound of approaching voices and his eyes snapped open. He’d seen enough to realise what it meant, and he got up a little unsteadily, picking up his sack and scrambling down the side of the barrow. Keeping Silburgh on his right, he headed down the hill to a small thicket. The sound of water drew him to the place he saw in his dream, a twisted tree with a small brook bubbling away – the Swallowhead spring. It made sense Ciria would want to lie here at the end of her life. She loved the water and was never happier than when plunging into cool, clear streams or even dank, murky puddles. He remembered happier days when his parents picnicked in the field as he and Ciria jumped the huge stones which crossed the brook. Selecting two of Ciria’s leg bones, he took the small shovel from the sack and dug a hole in the damp ground. With a short prayer to remember her life, he arranged the rest of her bones. Covering them, he said another prayer of thanks to the tree for watching over her.
He climbed back, reaching the barrow as the sun blazed red, watched by two tall figures and a smaller, vaguely familiar one. The strange light made it difficult to be sure until she turned: It was Siany. She didn’t seem surprised to see him.
23 The Legendary Finn and Fletch
‘Young man, I’m sure your mother taught you it’s rude to stare.’
‘My mother’s dead.’ He wouldn’t normally have been so blunt, but this place had a strange effect on him.
