by Paul Lewis
Then his feet touched the bottom and he pushed hard. His head broke the surface, and he gasped and coughed and threw up water. Smoke swirled and boiled around him. The fire was a fierce glow, which had spread all along this side of the lake and was now encroaching on the other.
As he watched, still spitting out water, the tinder-dry forest succumbed to the inferno, the wind harrying the flames on their way. He imagined he saw movement within the trees, pictured the creatures trying in vain to escape as death closed around them.
“Owain,” he shouted, throat raw. He thought hard, trying to remember if he had still had hold of the boy when he hit the water. If not, he could still be on the bank. “Owain, where are you?”
The water was deep even a few yards out, rising to the top of his chest. He waded back towards the lakeside, calling all the way, straining for an answer, cursing himself for a fool when it occurred to him he would not get one even if Owain had heard.
A ball of fire burst out of the forest and hurtled towards the lake, wailing like something possessed. It hit the water with a hissing plume of steam. Before Dodinal could reach for his sword a head burst up through the surface right before him, its gargoyle face rendered uglier by fire. Most of the skin had been burned away, so it was little more than a skull. It lunged at Dodinal, mouth agape; he grabbed its jaws and wrenched them apart until they snapped, then broke its neck and tossed the body aside.
Something grabbed his arm. Dodinal spun around, hand raised to strike, staying the blow when he saw with relief it was Owain. The boy was struggling to tread water and shaking badly, from fear or cold or both. Dodinal lifted him up.
The fire had leapt from tree to tree, spreading not just around the edges of the lake but rampaging through the forest until the entire valley was ablaze, turning the walls of the mountains around it into a cauldron of shifting light and shadow. The searing brightness turned the night sky to dawn, driving back the moon and stars. The roar of the fire was a thousand times louder than that of the Questing Beast.
The choking smoke was bad enough, but there were other dangers. Windblown debris rained down around them, sizzling as it plunged into the water. It was cold, too. They would not survive in the lake for long, but neither could they climb out of it with the fire raging so close to the water’s edge. The safest course of action would be to strike out for the centre of the lake where there was less chance of being struck and where the air might be clearer.
But Dodinal was not a strong swimmer, and he suspected the boy was not either. They would drown before they froze to death. Then again they would suffocate or be roasted alive if they stayed here. The heat was almost unbearable. He had to take his chance in deep water. He turned his back on the forest and forced his way out into the lake, by now so cold that he could barely feel anything.
Owain’s fingers dug into his arm with surprising strength, and Dodinal looked back sharply. A tree, ablaze from root to crown, slowly toppled towards them, flames fanning behind it as it fell. There was no time to move out of its way. Holding his breath and clutching the boy as tightly as he could with numb fingers, he dived and kicked hard until he was flat on the lake’s weed-infested bed.
There was a flash of orange light, instantly snuffed out, and a percussive blow that sent him tumbling helplessly through the churning water. Somehow he managed to keep hold of Owain, and when the turbulence subsided, he pushed his feet hard against the bed. His head broke the surface and he lifted the boy clear, and they held each other while the fire raged around them and the lake glowed like molten copper.
He felt a bump against his shoulder: the remains of the tree, blackened but soaked through. It was too thin for them to sit on, but they could use it to get away from the fire without fear of drowning. “Here,” he said, lifting Owain towards it. “Hold on with both hands. When I tell you, start kicking.”
They made for the centre of the lake, Dodinal warming from the exertion. The eddying wind blew the smoke from the surface, and he and the boy could breathe easier. He decided they might just as well head south now, towards the mountain path, rather than wait for the fire to burn out.
They passed countless bodies on the way, bobbing facedown in the water around them. It seemed the creatures had never learned to swim. Dodinal watched the corpses float by with grim satisfaction.
The inferno took little time to consume itself. Old and dry, the trees burned fiercely and were soon spent. As the firelight dimmed, flickered and was extinguished, the wind dispersed the remaining smoke overhead and the moon and stars reappeared. Dodinal squinted towards the shore: even by moonlight, he could see that almost nothing of the forest remained.
He steered them shoreward. They waded out onto dry land, staying close to the waterline, warmed by the charred ruins as they walked. Embers peered like glowing eyes in the darkness. The smoke was fairly thick here, the acrid stench of it filling their nostrils. Dodinal cast wary glances around. It was almost beyond belief that anything could have survived, but not impossible. He and the boy were proof of that.
They reached the path without incident. He was both surprised and gladdened to find the girl Annwen waiting there. Owain seemed as pleased to see her as she was to see him. When asked, she admitted she had been too scared to try to escape the valley alone.
“I walked halfway up the path and then I hid behind a rock,” she said as the three of them sat close to the smouldering forest, making the most of its fading heat. “I was cold. When I saw the fire I hurried back down; I was worried about you, about both of you. When there was no sign of you, I was certain you had both perished. And then I saw you walking out of the smoke. It was like a miracle.”
Miracle. Not long ago Dodinal would immediately have dismissed such an idea as nonsense. Now he was not so certain.
It was certainly a stroke of good fortune that Owain’s little pouch of memories had included his father’s flint and steel, for Dodinal had carried nothing with him with which to start a fire. It was strange, he thought, how the world could turn on such small matters. If Owain had not wandered off into the snowbound forest in the first place, Dodinal would not have had to save him from the wolves, and he would never have encountered Rhiannon or her people, several of whom he had come to regard as friends.
“You’re sure no creature came by here?” he asked, for the third or fourth time. He had to be certain.
Annwen rolled her eyes and sighed theatrically. “I said no and I meant no. Do you think I would not have seen them?”
Dodinal raised a hand in apology.
They remained there for the night. Eventually the children slept, huddled together for warmth, and Dodinal stayed awake to watch over them. When the sky began to brighten, he stood and surveyed the valley. Where the forest had been was now a jumble of blackened stumps and twisted wood. Nothing moved. The lake was calm, its waters black and oily, dotted with scores of small shapes. Was it too much to hope the creatures had all perished, either by fire or by water? The pass was the only way in or out of the valley. Annwen had been insistent nothing had passed her.
A miracle? Perhaps.
The sun nudged over the mountains.
Dodinal gently shook the children awake.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s time we were heading home.”
12First appearing in Perlesvaus, the Questing Beast is the most famous monster of Arthurian legend. The name refers to the sound the creature makes; in Middle English, the barking of hunting dogs was sometimes known as questing. The Beast is commonly used as a symbol of incest and the breakdown of society, appearing to Arthur the morning after he slept with his half-sister, Morgause, and fathered his murderous bastard son, Mordred.
EPILOGUE
The fire crackled in its hearth. The smell of roast meat still hung in the air. While they were gone, the old man had hunted and brought down a goat, and on their return he had roasted a haunch in their honour. Like Hywel, he had been desperate to know what had happened in the hills, but they had been too ti
red to talk, other than to confirm what the absence of their friends implied.
Now, with his belly full and his aching legs rested, Dodinal told them the story from beginning to end, leaving out nothing. They were astonished by his description of the Questing Beast. Truth be told, he was still having trouble believing it himself.
“You are certain they all perished?” Gerwyn asked. He had made it no further than the bottom of the mountain before night fell, and had done as Dodinal had advised, setting a fire from fallen branches to keep him warm until dawn. He had slept late while his bruised and battered body recovered, and had not made much progress along the lake by the time Dodinal and the children caught up with him. He had seemed genuinely overwhelmed to see his nephew unharmed, and had held him, wordlessly, for quite some time.
Dodinal had snapped off two forked branches and fashioned him a pair of makeshift but sturdy crutches. The two men and their charges were back in the old village by mid afternoon.
“I’m certain. You didn’t see it. The fire… nothing could have lived through that. It was a miracle we survived,” Dodinal added.
Hywel said nothing. The bruise on his head was already fading and his vision, though blurred, was slowly returning. But he had been grief-stricken to hear of the death of his close friend Emlyn.
“This strange beast of which you spoke,” Gerwyn continued.
“The Questing Beast.”
“Yes. It killed the children they brought it?”
Dodinal shook his head. He had considered this same question while they had made their way out of the valley. When the creature had jumped on the slab and stretched its hand out to Owain, Dodinal had naturally assumed it meant to kill him. Having thought it over, he realised the creature was trying to encourage the young. The message in the gesture was clear. Here is your prey. Take it. It’s yours. The adults brought the children there, but it was the young that tore them apart. It was not about worship, or at least not worship alone. It was about jealousy, revenge and hatred. The knowledge of what they were, the memory of who had made them, had been passed down from generation to generation. “No, the creatures did that.”
The old man spoke. “From what you said of the noise it made, the baying of many hounds, it must have been the same beast we heard all those years ago. The sound of it drove us insane, made us commit a great sin. Were it not for the Questing Beast, none of this would have happened. Now it is dead, I have perhaps been forgiven. And for that, Dodinal, you have my eternal gratitude.”
Dodinal nodded in acknowledgement but said nothing. He was not convinced the old man was right. Yes, it would have been the Questing Beast the villagers had heard. What was not so certain was whether it was the beast that had made father sleep with daughter and mother with son. In a village this remote there must have been temptation, especially when a fierce winter had rendered it more isolated than usual. Perhaps it was the villagers’ unnatural lust that had drawn the beast to them. If so, then the incestuous rutting of the creatures they spawned would have drawn it back to the valley.
It could have been a reluctant god, its roar a cry of torment.
Perhaps. Perhaps not. Dodinal would never know.
Neither could he say the beast was dead. It had appeared out of nowhere and had gone the same way. He would be sure to tell the Saracen, when next he saw him. Palomides may be fated never to find it, but this was as good a place as any to start looking.
They made small talk for a while until exhaustion overcame them. They were asleep before sunset and woke before dawn.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Hywel asked the old man, as they readied to leave. The hunter had perked up a little. It must have been the imminent prospect of returning home. “We would not speak of what happened here. You would be made welcome.”
The old man shook his head. “Thank you, but you and your friends have done enough for me already. I don’t know how much time I have left, but what I do have I would prefer to spend here in my home, now that the ghosts of the past no longer haunt me.”
They said their farewells and left him.
Gerwyn needed help climbing out of the valley, but was otherwise surprisingly adept with the crutches. They made good progress, even allowing for the children, and reached the edge of the forest by noon. They halted in the shade of the trees and ate cold meat which the old man had given them. Lost in thought, Dodinal stared at the mountains while he chewed. Eventually, Gerwyn suggested it was time they continued their journey, and Hywel helped him to his feet.
“Wait,” Dodinal told them.
Gerwyn raised an eyebrow. “The longer we sit around here, the longer it will take us to get home. I’d rather push on.”
“I have something to tell you.” He hesitated.
Then he took a moment to tell them who he was. Where he’d come from.
Both men looked thunderstruck. Then Hywel shrugged. “I knew there was something different about you. A traveller who fought as well as you… I should have guessed. Anything else you’d like to share with us, Sir Dodinal?”
“Yes. I’m not coming with you.”
He raised a hand to silence their immediate cries of protest. “As much as I want to, I cannot.”
“Why not?” Gerwyn demanded. “You promised Rhiannon.”
“I promised her I would return. And I will. But not today.”
“When, then? And what am I supposed to tell her?”
“Tell her…” He considered his words for a moment. “Tell her I have healed a great wound. But there are other wounds in this world that need healing. She knows what I am, as do you. I am a knight of Camelot. I swore the King’s Oath.13 I have to uphold it.”
“Have to or want to?” Gerwyn fired back bitterly.
“Not long ago, you wanted me gone,” Dodinal said with a smile. “Now you don’t want me to leave. I wish you’d make up your mind!”
“He’ll get used to the idea once he’s had enough time,” Hywel said. He reached out and held Dodinal in a tight embrace. Then he let go and stepped back. “It has been an honour to know you. You say you will return to our village; I look forward to that day.”
“As do I,” Dodinal said. He looked at Gerwyn and put one hand on his shoulder. “You have done your father proud. You will make a great brehyrion, especially with Hywel around to guide you. Look after Rhiannon for me.”
Gerwyn nodded, unable to speak.
The children were hovering nearby, and Dodinal crouched by them. “You were very brave,” he said to Annwen. “I am glad I was able to save you. Now go and wait with the others.”
The girl hugged him briefly, then skipped off towards the two men, leaving Dodinal alone with the boy. “Walk with me a moment,” the knight said, and led him away. Once they were out of earshot, he stopped and knelt at Owain’s side. “I know you talk to your mother. Tell her that I love her and I will see her again one day soon. Tell her I hope she understands what it is I have to do.”
Owain stared at him with unblinking eyes. He nodded.
“Good. Thank you.” Dodinal hesitated, aware that Gerwyn and Hywel were watching him intently. Perhaps they were wondering what he was saying, that he couldn’t say in their hearing. “Now, before you return to the others and head off home, there is something I want to ask you. Something I have to know.”
The boy watched him without expression.
“I’ve been thinking,” Dodinal said, not sure how to frame the question without sounding like a fool. “I’ve been thinking about the way everything happened. About how everything worked out.”
He struggled, lost for words. The idea had come to him on the trek out of the mountains. At first he had shrugged it off as ridiculous, but the more he thought about it the more convinced he became.
That Dodinal had tracked down the creatures and slain them was not down to chance. There had been an influencing force guiding his every thought and deed. That force had not been fate or fortune, but an eight-year-old boy. It was Owain who had wande
red into the forest and, later, gone in pursuit of Annwen. He had deliberately exposed himself to danger, trusting in Dodinal to save him.
Owain had been aware of the presence of Ellis and of the scouting creature, before anyone else, even before the dogs.
Then, as the creatures were taking him from the cave, he had torn the pouch from around his neck and left it for Dodinal. Were it not for the flint and steel, the knight could not have started the fire.
No, there were too many coincidences for Dodinal’s liking.
Rhiannon’s mother had been a seer. Rhiannon was not. Could it be the gift had been passed on to her son instead?
Owain leant in close to put his mouth by Dodinal’s ear.
“Yes,” he whispered. He smiled and put a finger to his lips.
Then he turned and ran towards the forest.
Dodinal laughed and followed after him. He would say farewell to his friends, and then he would be on his way. If he headed west, he could be at the coast before nightfall. A change of scenery would do him good. He had spent too much time in the forest, and he would be a happy man if he never had to climb a mountain again.
He sensed the wildlife returning. In the sky above the forest a hawk soared, and fell like a stone as it sighted prey.
There would be other battles to fight, he felt certain. Perhaps it was too much to hope that a man such as he would ever find peace.
But he was at peace with himself. And that would do for now.
13The Penecostal Oath, which Arthur insists his knights swear when he first forms the Round Table, in Book I of the Morte. The Oath does not explicitly require the knights to seek out injustices, although it enjoins them “to give mercy unto him that asketh mercy,” and to “always to do ladies, damosels, and gentlewomen succour.” Dodinal is far from the only knight to interpret this by actively questing for opportunities to do both.
Here endeth the worthie Tale of
