The Sword of Straw

by Amanda Hemingway

  He would have to talk to someone about it.

  THAT DAY was Sunday, and Annie was going to tea with Bartlemy. Nathan excused himself, saying he needed to visit Rowena and Eric in Crowford to do some historical research. He didn’t want to explain further at this stage, and Annie didn’t ask questions, merely adjuring him to phone first and make sure they weren’t otherwise occupied. Nathan went out after breakfast to play football with George and some of the village boys, and Annie sat contemplating a plan she had been making and leafing through a book. It was more a tome than a book, leather-bound, with gilded lettering on the cover and beautiful illustrations inside shielded with tissue paper. It was called Magical Herbs and Their Properties, and she’d acquired it the previous week. Maybe it was the book that had given her the plan. She knew things were happening, probably bad things, and although she worried about Nathan, and told him to be careful, it didn’t occur to her to take her own advice. Annie would never have claimed to be adventurous—indeed, she thought of herself as peace loving, even rather timid, a quiet sort of person who liked a quiet sort of life. But last summer she had nearly been killed at least twice, she had hit Lily Bagot’s husband over the head with a saucepan and attacked a psychopath with a hairbrush—not to mention discovering a decayed corpse without screaming, or being sick, or suffering post-traumatic stress. (She had felt sick, very sick, but sheer determination had kept her stomach under control.) Now she wanted to know more of what was going on—there were things she had to find out if she was going to protect Nathan, or at least help him—and her plan was only a small plan, risk-free and relatively innocuous.

  She had scanned a few websites, identified a photograph, found an address in the telephone book. A rather affluent address, in the village of Willowdene, about half an hour’s drive from Eade. She left a note for Nathan, Gone shopping—after all, she would have to shop on her way home—and set off in her car with the book on the seat beside her.

  The car was a fairly recent acquisition, a new-look Volkswagen Beetle, secondhand but little used, sprayed a beautiful primrose yellow—Annie found, slightly to her surprise, that she adored it. She still wasn’t sure how she had managed to afford the expense, but Bartlemy gave her a salary for running the shop, and as they lived on the premises she paid no rent, and somehow there was always a little over. The car’s license plate started with SBL so she christened it Sybil, and treated it like a favored pet.

  In Willowdene—one of those rambling villages with no real center or even a main street—she had to ask the way twice before finding the house she wanted. A big house some distance from its neighbors, evidently a barn conversion—or, to be precise, several barns—with old beams, and new windows, and an apparently limitless garden. She turned into the drive and pulled up just short of the front door, feeling suddenly pushy and vulgar, like a social climber using a tenuous connection to try to shin a few rungs up the ladder of class and wealth. The fact that she wasn’t anything of the kind made her feel only a little better. She rang the doorbell, wondering if they had a butler. If there is one, she thought, I’ll run away.

  But the woman who answered the door definitely wasn’t a butler. She wore tracksuit pants faded from much washing and a shapeless sweater, no outfit for a butler or maid. Her hair was expensive and her face very tired, and Annie instantly felt sorry for her.

  “Mrs. Hackforth?”

  “Yes.” The woman didn’t look hostile, or wary, or even interested.

  “I’m Annie Ward. I think we’ve met at Ffylde Abbey—my son’s there, he’s some years younger than yours. I run a secondhand-book shop in Eade. Your husband bought a book from me recently, a grimoire, and I thought, if he was collecting that kind of thing…I’ve had this in, a few days ago”—she flourished Magical Herbs—“and I was over this way anyhow, so I thought—I wondered—if he might like to look at it.” Never a good liar, she was stammering by the time she finished this speech and conscious of a rising blush, but Mrs. Hackforth accepted her errand without question.

  “Thoughtful of you.” The phrase was automatic. “My husband’s out at the moment but he should be back shortly. Would you like to come in? I’m afraid…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Annie followed her into the house and was promptly mobbed by a couple of retrievers who slobbered enthusiastically over her. “Sorry—they’re a bit uncontrolled,” Mrs. Hackforth apologized, roused to faint animation.

  “That’s all right,” Annie said. “I love dogs.”

  She could see no sign of any offspring, though the distant twitter of a television came from some far-flung corner of the house. They went into a palatial kitchen, all stainless steel and stained wood, and her hostess made coffee in a complicated piece of equipment that seemed to take much longer than a cafetière. It was clearly a struggle for her to maintain even the most desultory small talk, though she did say: “Call me Selena.” Tentatively—in view of Damon’s reputation—Annie brought up the subject of Ffylde, and what a good school it was.

  “My son’s a scholarship boy,” she explained. “Otherwise I could never afford it. It’s a wonderful opportunity for Nathan. Of course, I think he’s very bright—very special—but I daresay all mothers say that.” She wasn’t being tactful, she realized, but at least she might provoke some reaction in the other woman.

  “I suppose so.” For a minute an expression lingered on Selena’s face that was beyond tiredness, a bone-deep, soul-deep fatigue—a weariness of life, a dreariness of spirit. “Damon—my son—is a bit…difficult. Teenage stuff, the psychiatrists say. But then, psychiatrists are like mothers: they always say that.” A flicker of dried-up humor lifted her mouth. “Let’s be honest, difficult isn’t the word.” For the first time, she looked directly at Annie. “He’s a thief, a liar, a vandal—a monster. My daughter is chronically sick and my son is a monster. Three cheers for motherhood.”

  Dear God, Annie thought, overcome with pity. And my only problem is a son who pops into other universes in his sleep…

  “Damon hates the people he loves—he hates himself—the only thing he doesn’t seem to hate, oddly enough, is the school. Father Crowley has been wonderful; even Damon respects him. My husband’s with him now. They should be here very soon.”

  Annie stood up abruptly. “I—I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely guilt-stricken. “I’m intruding. I’d better go.”

  “No—please.” Just as Annie was feeling like an imposter, her hostess had become anxious to keep her there. “It was really kind of you to bring the book. I don’t know if you realized, but Giles is a publisher: he has a genuine love of books. He’s been collecting this sort of thing lately—antique volumes on magic and so on. I know he’ll want to see this one.”

  “I could leave it with you…”

  “Have some more coffee.”

  Annie accepted, feeling she should, wanting to abandon her researches but aware that she was trapped in the role she had created for herself. “Has your son—has Damon always had problems?” she inquired, fishing for diplomatic language.

  Selena shrugged. “Not really. Not that we noticed. As a little boy he was naughty but not wicked. It’s a teenage thing—it always is, isn’t it? The psychiatrists say it was triggered by his sister’s illness destabilizing his environment—he’d always been very fond of her but suddenly he became jealous. It showed in irrational tantrums—violence—it was as if he was possessed.”

  “The Catholic Church believes in possession,” Annie said. “Does Father Crowley…?”

  “This is the modern world,” Selena said. “They don’t use the word except in horror films. All we know is the abbot seems to be the only person who can ever get through to Damon.” She looked up at the sound of a car outside. “That must be them now.”

  Annie, increasingly uncomfortable, wasn’t certain whether she should expect the teenage monster as well, but only Giles Hackforth and Father Crowley came in, fetched to the kitchen by Selena. If they had suspected her of vulgar curiosity or
subversive investigation Annie would have been horribly embarrassed, but their unquestioning acceptance of her motives augmented her sense of guilt. This was a family in desperate trouble, and she was being nosy. She wasn’t happy about it.

  Giles was vague, mumbling something about her kindness, but Father Crowley leafed through the book with genuine interest. He was a man whose personality made him appear taller than his actual height, with a lofty nose and a face at once grave and graven, deeply lined with both humor and thought. Silver hair retreated from a high forehead, and he had the keen gray eyes of popular cliché—not merely keen-sighted, Annie felt, but keen from a profound wellspring of inner keenness, as if he had just discovered a formula for making the world a better place, and was eager to put it into action. She always thought he looked much more like a wizard than Bartlemy.

  “This is good of you,” he told her. “A lovely book—absolutely lovely. Look at the delicacy of these drawings.” This to Giles, or possibly Selena. “You shouldn’t miss the chance to acquire this.”

  Annie was forced to mention a price, which she kept low, but Giles insisted on overpaying her. Afterward, rather to her surprise, Father Crowley asked for a lift: “I know it’s a little out of your way, but I would welcome the opportunity to talk to you about Nathan.”

  Annie couldn’t have refused even if she had wished to.

  The priest was dressed in civilian, apart from his dog collar, but a very long raincoat flapping around him in the wind gave the impression of monkish robes. He admired her car, arranging himself comfortably in the passenger seat—“It’s larger inside than out, like the TARDIS”—and they drove off toward Ffylde.

  “Nathan hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?” Annie demanded without preamble.

  “No indeed. On the contrary, an outstanding pupil. Many of our boys are not academic—at the school we like to focus on developing the individual in whatever way is best suited to him—but Nathan is exceptional. I wanted to take the chance to tell you so. I don’t know if you’ve thought ahead as far as university, but he’s definitely Oxbridge material. He seems to be particularly good at history and the arts, though he’s strong in the sciences, too—and, of course, a talented athlete. It’s just that lately he seems a little…abstracted, at times. Less attentive in class, though it doesn’t affect his essays. I gather he went through a similar phase last summer, though it wore off.” He paused, allowing Annie the chance to say something. When she didn’t, he went on: “It’s a difficult age. The urges of the body can often outweigh every stimulus of the intellect. Perhaps there’s a girlfriend?”

  “No,” Annie said, adding, scrupulously: “Not to my knowledge.” She was concentrating on her driving, unable to find an appropriate response beyond what she had already said.

  “I understood there was someone called Hazel…?”

  Annie was startled. “You’re very well informed!”

  “I make it my business to be. These boys are in my care, after all. Nathan has talked about her.”

  “She’s his friend,” Annie said. “That’s all. They sort of grew up together—a brother–sister situation. I’m quite sure that hasn’t changed.”

  Father Crowley nodded. “You would know,” he said. “You’re a perceptive woman.”

  And then: “I’m told he’s been having disturbed nights. It’s unusual for a boy that age not to sleep well—”

  Annie’s hands jerked on the wheel; involuntarily, she swerved. Fortunately, they were on a quiet country road with no other traffic in sight. She mounted the shoulder and braked sharply, breathing hard.

  “Mrs. Ward—”

  “Sorry. Sorry…”

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you. These are minor worries. I’m sure Nathan’s perfectly healthy.” He had a deep, resonant voice, as if there were a tiny echo somewhere in his throat. Annie should have been soothed, but she wasn’t.

  “Insomnia isn’t a serious problem,” Father Crowley continued. “It was simply that—last year—his absence from the dormitory was noted, no doubt to go to the bathroom, and I believe he asked about sleeping pills once. It concerns me a little. I will watch to see if it recurs.”

  Annie pulled herself together as best she could. “Thank you,” she said.

  “There. Are you all right now? You mustn’t drive on till you’re ready.”

  “I’ll be okay.” The engine had stalled. She restarted it, slowly, annoyed to find herself trembling with the aftermath of shock.

  “Tell me,” said the abbot, “does Nathan dream vividly?”

  NATHAN WAS talking to Eric Rhindon in the apartment above the antiques shop where he lived with his new wife, Rowena Thorn. Rowena, a gray-haired woman of sixty-odd, long widowed, whose recent marriage to an impecunious asylum seeker had stunned her entire acquaintance, was out at a weekend antiques fair. Eric was a former Eosian, accidentally pitchforked into this world (by Nathan), who had adapted with unexpected ease to what was, for him, a low-tech, low-magic, quasi-primitive society. He was seven feet tall and a couple of thousand years old, with a long, curving face, wild dark hair, deep purple eyes, and an outlook on life permanently colored by his seeing the early Star Wars trilogy shortly after his arrival here, and believing it was a factual account of a more civilized past.

  Nathan was telling him about his latest dreams, and the mention of the sword.

  “The Sword of stroar,” Eric affirmed. Stroar, Nathan knew, was a metal peculiar to the world of Eos, superstrong and harder than steel—but he always thought of the artifact as the Sword of Straw. “Is very powerful weapon, but cursed. The first Grandir who made the three—the Cup, the Sword, the Crown—he was killed by friend, best friend, with the sword. His blood filled Cup.” The definite article came and went in Eric’s speech. “He saw it before, with aid of force, but could not avert.”

  “Why not?” Nathan wanted to know.

  Eric shrugged, a lavish shrug of huge shoulders. “His fate to die. Must accept fate.”

  “Did his friend hate him?”

  “I not know. Maybe. The story is old, old even in my world. Details forgotten. Maybe there was a woman.”

  “Could it have been a sacrifice?” Nathan suggested. “Perhaps the first Grandir ordered his friend to kill him, to—to empower the three. It could have been a sort of preliminary to the Great Spell—the one the present Grandir has to perform, if he can work it out.”

  “Good idea.” Eric brightened. “Much force in lifeblood. Is new thought, but good. Maybe Grandir not murdered at all.”

  “You said once, the sword moved…by itself?”

  “Is legend, but make-believe illegal in my world, so could be true. Three kept in cave for thousands of years, but last Grandir move them, hide in other worlds, away from people who try to steal them and make Great Spell themselves. So Sangreal in this world, Sword and Crown—” He made a broad gesture signifying that their whereabouts was open to conjecture.

  “Away from the neo-salvationists,” Nathan agreed. “Like poor Kwanji Ley.”

  “But even in other worlds, three need protection,” Eric went on. “We know last Grandir send gnomons to protect Sangreal.” Nathan shuddered, remembering. “In one legend, ancient spirit imprisoned in sword so only one person can lift it, or member of one family—Grandir’s family. Spirit very powerful, very angry—not like to be trapped in sword. When wrong person touch it, spirit take over, stab him.”

  “What kind of spirit is it?” Nathan asked.

  “Something very old—from the Beginning, when universe in chaos. Before humans learn to control force, it is free, wild. Many spirits on different planets—some move through space. You would call them—spirits of element? Weather spirits, spirits of water, fire, rock…”

  “Elementals?” Nathan hazarded. “We have them here, Uncle Barty told me, but I don’t think they’re very powerful. He says they’re all instinct, no thought.”

  Eric nodded enthusiastically. “But early ones have power. Men get power, fight them, subdue, mak
e them sleep forever, but a few survive, learn to think like humans. Those ones most dangerous. But Grandir stronger than elemental; they say, he fix one in sword, use many spells. So no one can touch sword till right person, right time.”

  “The Sword in the Stone,” Nathan said dreamily. “Except this one is more likely to be the sword in the foot.”

  “If you find this thing,” Eric said seriously, “you not pick it up. I not want you hurt.”

  “Maybe I could muffle it in cloth,” Nathan said. “Or wear gloves.”

  “You think people not try that?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, I may not need to pick it up. I mean, I know I had to find the Grail, but I don’t know about this. Perhaps it should stay where it is.”

  “Is better, yes.” Eric, who was partial to coffee, got up to make some more.

  “Does the legend say anything about a princess?” Nathan inquired cautiously.

  “A princess? No. Why you ask?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. There are always princesses in these kind of stories. I thought it would make a change from diabolical spirits and stuff.”

  Eric looked at him out of gemstone-bright eyes that were suddenly very shrewd. “I have bad feeling about this,” he announced.

  AT TEA with Bartlemy, Annie told him about her investigations. “I don’t really think Father Crowley knows anything,” she said, “but he’s awfully perceptive. Actually, he reminds me a bit of you. Only—”