by Whyte, Jack
I found out, once I had regained consciousness and begun to rally, that he had spent the entire afternoon and evening of that first day gathering fuel, which he piled inside the entrance to the cave, taking no time to rest between trips and entering the cavern after each excursion only to check on me and throw more fuel on the fire.
He abandoned his search for firewood only when darkness fell, and by that time he had amassed enough to the keep the fire ablaze throughout the night, providing he awoke often enough to replenish it. I was of absolutely no assistance to him in any of that. I was, in fact, a grievous source of concern, for my breathing became heavy, laborious and irregular so that there were times, he told me later, when he lay straining to listen, holding his own breath while he waited for me to breathe again, all the time fearing I might not.
In the end, in the deepest part of the night, he abandoned his attempts to sleep and set to work to make me as dry, warm and comfortable as he could. Our heavy woollen cloaks, which he had hung stretched behind the fire, had dried by that time, as had our extra tunics and the other articles of clothing from our packs. Somehow, handling the solid deadweight of me, he had undressed me completely and then washed me with water heated on the fire, drying me afterward with a rough, dry cloth, chafing both heat and energy into my chilled limbs. That done, he had dressed me again in a dry tunic and wrapped me in my warm cloak before dragging me closer to the fire.
When he was sure there was no more he could do to increase my immediate, external comfort, he used the last of our provisions—dry, salted venison, dried fruit and roasted grain—to concoct a hot soup, which he fed to me with a bone spoon, until he could coax no more flavour or substance from what remained. The soup lasted for two days and he ate none of it. On the third day, by which time my poor brother was growing frantic, I recovered my senses, my fever dropped away and the wind subsided, although the rain continued to pour down.
All that day, too, driven by his relief that I had not yet died under his care, he hovered about me like a solicitous hen with a single, ailing chick, and even though neither of us ate that day, I had improved sufficiently by nightfall to convince him that I could survive now on my own and tend the fire for the length of time it might take him to go out into the woods and find us something more to eat. That night, he slept at last while I remained awake and fed the fire.
The following morning, satisfied that I was on the mend, Ambrose departed shortly after dawn and was back by mid-morning with the fruits of his hunt: a large hare, a small rabbit, wild garlic, onions, tender young nettles and a scrip full of fresh mushrooms. Within an hour of his return, the aroma from the leather boiling bag above the fire had set our saliva flowing and we were hard pressed to keep our hunger in abeyance until the meat was cooked sufficiently to eat. My contribution to the feast my brother set before us was a single twist of salt, the last I had, which had lain hidden in my saddlebag for weeks, but it was the crowning touch for an Epicurean stew.
My sickness, the debilitating fever and the ague in its train, had passed, but with its passing I inherited another malady, a maddening itch that consumed my entire body from my waist to the top of my crown. I quickly learned that I could not, or should not, scratch to relieve the discomfort it caused, for the mere act of scratching, while producing some slight relief, at the same time increased the burning itch surrounding the scratch marks. My skin bled in places, yet still I could not desist from clawing at myself.
I sought relief, eventually, by plunging my body into the cold stream in front of the cave—the rain had stopped some time that day—but then, chilled to the bone, I had to rub myself briskly to bring the warmth back to my skin, and with the friction and the returning warmth, the agony came back. I tried to dress myself, thinking that fully dressed I might feel better and we might be able to resume our interrupted journey, but the merest sensation of the clothes upon my skin was unbearable.
Two further days of that torment I bore before the itch abated, leaving me weak again and filled with nausea, and it was to be another three whole days before I felt strong enough to mount my horse and travel. From that day on, however, my recovery was swift and total, and we passed the intervening miles to Camulod without further hindrance or mishap.
We had been gone for almost three months and our eventual return was almost an anticlimax. Although our friends were glad to see us safely home again, and to make us welcome, none of them seemed to think we had been gone for any length of time. What had seemed an age to Ambrose and to me had passed in Camulod almost without notice.
Nothing of note had occurred during our absence. The weather had been fine, with no sign of the awful storms that had beset us on the road. The crops were ripening; children had been born; the Colony's cooperage had been expanded into a new building where more barrels could be fabricated at one time; our stonemasons had set themselves to building battlements upon the fortress walls, adding new crenellations to protect the sentries on the parapet walk; the last cantonment of new barrack-blocks had been completed; and a large new workshop had been built upon the hilltop to house the Colony's most hard-worked artisans, the weapons smiths, cobblers and carpenters who kept our soldiers and citizens dry-footed, well-equipped and adequately housed. Life had simply progressed in our absence, without alarums, and because of that our absence, while widely noted, had not been a matter of concern.
On our first night home, we dined with family and friends. Lucanus came to dinner, as did Donuil and Shelagh, and Hector and Julia. Ludmilla played hostess to us all. They made much of us then, so that we soon forgot the slight chagrin we had felt on our unheralded return. I had made Ambrose promise to say nothing of the strange sickness that had laid me low, and he kept his promise.
One change that had taken place during our absence was the remarkable growth that had occurred, in such a short space of time, in my young ward Arthur. In the space of one brief season, he appeared to have shot upward, so that the man he would become was suddenly quite startlingly apparent in the boy. I had left a child behind me in the month of May when we set out, but had returned in July to find a young man waiting to welcome me home.
-
I had made much of the boy at the time of our return, aware of the pleasure that had filled his face as he watched us arrive, although he had hung back on the fringes of the crowd gathered to welcome us, his expression radiant and his cheeks flushed with excitement as his eyes moved constantly from Ambrose to me and back again. As soon as he had seen me watching him, however, he had drawn back out of my sight, taking refuge behind the man in front of him. The gesture touched me, and I suddenly recalled the thrilling pleasure I had felt at his age, watching my father and his men returning from patrol. Then I had been desperately anxious not to miss a single word of what they would report, and frantic with fear that I might not be allowed to listen to the tales of their adventures, so I had always sought to hide, to obscure myself and become invisible, believing that only then would I be able to insinuate myself into their presence and listen from concealment in whatever hiding-place I could find.
Recalling that fevered anticipation with a poignant clarity, I made my way through the crowd and moved directly to the boy, where I squatted on one knee and greeted him as an equal, asking him how he had fared in our absence and then holding out my hand to him, inviting him to come with me. He had faced me squarely and with gravity, his gold-flecked eyes reflecting his amazement that I should seek him out directly. Then he had smiled his wonderful, open smile and placed his hand in mine before walking back with me, his shoulders proudly squared, to join the others.
Ambrose had watched this and now he stepped forward, too, grinning a welcome and winking fondly at the boy before ruffling his thick, brown, gold- streaked hair and drawing him into a quick embrace against his waist. Enjoying the boy's shy, embarrassed delight, I also saw the furtive glance he threw towards the crowd, and following the direction of his look, I saw his young companions Bedwyr and Gwin watching him with awe sta
mped plain upon their faces. Young Bedwyr, I noticed, was of a size with Arthur, a sturdy, strapping lad. The other boy, Gwin, Donuil and Shelagh's eldest, was smaller and younger, six years old to their seven.
As we filed in a small, informal procession from the main courtyard towards the quarters that had once accommodated the Varrus household and now were home to Ambrose and to me, we replied to the greetings of passing well-wishers, and young Arthur Pendragon walked between us, each of his hands in one of ours. Thereafter, ensconced comfortably against a wall in the family room, he listened closely, and no one sought, or thought, to question his presence.
Oddly enough, it was not until the arrival of Connor the following day, on what had become his annual visit, that I became aware of another, more important difference in the boy. Connor's arrival always stirred up a commotion, for he was a flamboyant figure who did nothing by halves, and the ease with which he coped with his infirmity invariably added to the wonder and excitement of his presence. This year, he came in grand style, quite different and more impressive than he had ever been before.
At sea, Connor was the master of his own movement, conning his galley confidently from the swinging chair built into the ship's structure to meet his needs. Ashore, he was scarcely less competent, covering the ground easily in his curious rolling gait, which took little notice of the eccentricities of the terrain. Only over long distances, like those that lay between Camulod and the distant shore, was he at a disadvantage, hampered by the sheer impossibility of crossing miles of rough country afoot, and so we had grown used to the sight of him arriving in a wagon, reclining like a Roman emperor surrounded by his bodyguard. This year, however, he arrived upright, driving a brightly painted, two-wheeled chariot in the ancient style drawn by a matched pair of sturdy Eirish garrons. From the first year of Liam Twistback's coming, since which time his original three-year tenure had been indefinitely extended, the transportation of animals from Eire in specially built galleys had become almost commonplace, but the effect this gaudy chariot had upon everyone was quite spectacular, and Ambrose and I had to push and elbow our way through the dense crowd that gathered around the vehicle, exclaiming in wonder at the cunningness of its construction. While Ambrose and Connor were embracing each other, exchanging the usual friendly banter, I examined the device and smiled in admiration, acknowledging the craftsmanship and insight, and the good memory, that had gone into the building of it.
On his previous visit, I had shown Connor the unique vehicle built years before by Publius Varrus, a high-wheeled, single-axle cart, mounted on springs of bowed iron. Varrus had called it his racing cart, and had used it for travelling about the Colony's farm lands. Connor's new chariot had a leather-covered iron seat, mounted upon a similar set of springs, more solidly fashioned than the high cart's springs and evidently designed to be less resilient, yet far more comfortable than a solid wooden bar or bench. Connor saw me looking at it as he turned to embrace me, and he matched my smile with his own as he threw his arms about me.
"Yellow Head, good to see you, Brother," he said into my ear. "You like my new chariot?"
"Aye," I said, returning his embrace. "It has some interesting features."
"It does, it does." He released me and leant sideways to slap the seat. "Good ideas should be put to work, Merlyn. I told you that the first time I saw your uncle's cart last year. A few adaptations along the lines of my galley chair, and even a one-legged wreck like me may ride in comfort. Where's my nephew?" He turned to look about him, ostentatiously pretending not to see the boy who stood within arm's reach of him, peering up at him in worship.
"Arthur!" he roared. "Where's Arthur?"
"I'm here, Uncle Connor." The boy's voice was almost squeaking with anxiety. Connor looked down towards the sound of it and pretended a great leap of fright.
"By the light of Lud! Are you my nephew Arthur? No, you can't be! You're much too big. Arthur Pendragon's just a little tad. I saw him but last summer and he wasn't half the size of you."
The boy was bright pink with pleasure. "I grew up," he said shyly.
"Grew up? Grew up! You soared, lad, you exploded! Let's have a look at you!" Connor bent quickly and picked him up, holding him effortlessly beneath the arms and swinging him with ease to the level of his eyes. "By the gods," he said, holding him at arm's length, "I soon won't be able to lift you at all if you keep growing this way. You're huge, boyo! Come here to me."
He clasped the lad to his breast, hugging him gently, his eyes closed, and then he opened them again and winked at me before transferring his grip and holding the boy out at arm's length again, his expression changing to dismay.
"Ach, fool that I am, I never thought you would have grown so big so quickly, and I brought you a wee, small gift, never thinking of the size of you today."
Behind young Arthur's back, from the rear of Connor's train, two warriors came forward through the crowd, each leading a brace of ponies, all four animals virtually identical, piebald beauties with a grace and delicacy the like of which I had never seen, They were miniatures of our great war-horses, between one third and one half the size and perfectly proportioned, and they had been groomed until their black and white coats shone like burnished metal. Arthur's eyes were fixed on his uncle's, mirroring the dismay he saw there.
"What, Uncle?" he said, his voice almost quavering. "What is it?"
"Ach," Connor said, savouring the moment and drawing it out. "It's just a wee horse and three of its friends. You might not like it, now that you're so big. Look!"
He transferred the boy smoothly into the crook of his right arm and turned him to where he could see the animals. I moved, too, keeping my eyes on Arthur's. For several moments the boy stared at the four perfect little horses, failing to absorb what Connor had said, but then comprehension dawned and his face became suffused with joy and incredulity and a stillness fell upon the watching crowd.
The boy was unaware of it. His entire world was taken up with the entrancing little horses he was beginning to perceive as his. He turned from them to Connor, his mouth forming a question that his voice was incapable of generating. Connor grinned at him, squeezed him close again and then released him to slip smoothly to the ground.
"Aye, lad," he growled, his voice gruff with emotion at the boy's delight. " They're for you. Go now and look to them."
The crowd fell back, parting to clear the way for the boy, but he stood hesitant, not yet quite able to believe. He took one slow step, and then another, gazing at the sight before him, then turned back to face Connor.
"Four of them? For me?" Connor nodded, and the boy looked back at them and then again at Connor, his face betraying swift-moving thoughts and varying emotions. "Can I . . . ?" His voice trailed away.
"Can you what?"
The boy swallowed hard. "Give some away? I have friends." He stopped short, looking appalled, afraid his uncle might grow angry. But then his young face settled and he plunged on. "Can I give Bedwyr one? And Gwin?"
Connor laughed aloud. "Aye, you can, and Ghilleadh, too, if he's big enough to mount one. But pick out your own first. That's why there's four of them."
It was then, in that moment of courage, determination and unselfishness, that I marked the change in my young ward, and saw the future man within the boy.
XXX
"Merlyn, what's an interregnum?"
It was an evening in early summer, and I was writing in my journal while Arthur, seated across from me, was reading one of his great grandfather's large, parchment books. I put down my pen and stretched, glad of the distraction.
"It's the name given to the time between the death of one ruler and the ascension of another. Where did you find that?"
"In here. Great grandfather Varrus was writing about something your grandfather said . . . That there had been so many emperors in power at one time for so long that there had been no interregnum in living memory." The boy's Latin was smooth and fluent, utterly colloquial, considering that he spoke the Celtic tongue
most of the time.
"And how long d'you think that might have been?"
"Living memory? Simply what it says. . . No one alive could remember such a thing." He frowned slightly, watching my eyes. "Isn't that what it means?"
"So how long would it be?"
"Fifty years . . . sixty?"
I leaned back and locked my hands behind my head. "I think it's longer than that, if you consider the implications. Think about it."
He did, tilting his head slightly to one side, then dropping his eyes again to the page in front of him, a tiny frown of concentration between his brows. Finally he looked up, shaking his head in annoyance at himself. "I don't understand. Living memory is the memory of someone who is alive. Logic says it can't be anything else."
I smiled at his use of logic. "Perhaps so, but would you not expect a source of living memory to be someone very old, and might not his memories include the recollections of others who were old when he was young, and of their similar, stated memories of what others older than they had said?"
