Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  Trolls had done much of the labouring on Castle Otto and were constantly to be seen repairing battlements, straightening towers or strengthening sea defences. One wintry morning Wyrd had even woken up with a shock to discover a troll looking down the chimney on him. It had dislodged a few pebbles from the roof that had fallen on the boy. The troll, however, was not apologetic.

  “Out of my way,” said the troll in a deep bass voice. “You’re in the way, lying there. You could have been killed.”

  “Sorry,” said Wyrd. “How on earth did you manage to get up there?”

  “I climbed,” replied the troll. “It’s what we do. Now out of my way. I’ve repairs to make.”

  Later, Wyrd asked Wenda if the castle trolls were dangerous.

  “Don’t mind the trolls,” Wenda told him. “They’re none too friendly, but they won’t do you any harm as long as you stay out from under their feet.”

  So it came as a nasty surprise when, one day in late autumn, as Wenda and Wyrd were fetching water from the Fountain of Neptune in the school courtyard, a troll came crashing down not six feet from them, followed by another and then a third. A fourth would have flattened the old man strolling by in a druid’s habit, had Wyrd not looked up, seen the troll start to topple and pushed him to safety.

  “By the planets! What are you doing?” asked the old man. He had evidently been concentrating so hard on some mental complexity that he had failed to notice any danger to himself.

  “Sorry, sir, but…” Wyrd indicated the remains of the troll that had landed nearby. It had broken into a dozen pieces on hitting the courtyard, but any one of these were big enough to kill a grown man.

  “Great heavens!” said the old man, blinking. “It’s raining trolls!”

  Just then a booming, bass voice rang out from the battlements above them.

  “Hear ye! Hear ye!” it said.

  Wyrd looked up at the speaker. It was an enormous troll, bigger than any that had fallen to earth so far.

  “I call upon humans to leave these lands forthwith. You have lived off our labours for long enough. Our brothers have perished at sea for the sake of your traders. You do not belong here. You do not understand the ancient ways. Death to the ape-men!”

  With that, he threw himself from the battlements and landed on a couple of his fellow trolls who were groaning with pain but not quite dead, killing them instantly, along with himself.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Wyrd. “What did he do that for?”

  “Ah, well,” said the old man he had just saved from death. “They do have a point, you know. They were in this land first. They do have a legitimate, ah, cause for complaint.”

  “But why have they killed themselves?”

  “Judging by the cry ‘Death to the ape-men!’ I think their intention was probably to kill the people below, including us,” said the old man, “though they appear to have missed everyone and succeeded only in harming themselves. I’m afraid trolls are not the most intelligent of creatures.”

  “They nearly flattened you,” said Wenda, coming up to him. “They would have done if Wyrd hadn’t saved you.”

  “Indeed they would,” agreed the old man, turning to Wyrd. “Thank you kindly, young gentleman. And whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Oh, I’m Wyrd.”

  “What an extraordinary name! Mine is Buzzard.”

  “I know,” said Wyrd. “Merlin’s brother.”

  “Yes,” said Buzzard, regretfully. “I do carry that heavy burden. So, you know Merlin?”

  “Yes,” said Wyrd. “In fact—”

  “I’ve met him too,” said Wenda, hurriedly, before Wyrd could reveal too much about how he came to be at Castle Otto. “He seemed a bit unpredictable.”

  “Unpredictable?” mused Buzzard. “Yes, I suppose Merlin is unpredictable. And I can’t say I approve of the company he keeps. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Do you happen to know where he is at the moment?” asked Wyrd, curiously.

  “Not precisely.” The old wizard shook his head. “We do not have a great deal in common, and I cannot say that I approve of Merlin’s obsession with the monarchy.”

  “What monarchy?” asked Wyrd.

  “He seems to think that a more effective monarchy, a stronger central government, will lead to law and order, a new golden age, that kind of thing. I must say I have my doubts. They say he is grooming King Vitalinus to be the ruler of all Albion and will forge some kind of alliance, some marriage of convenience, with the foreign invaders. A foolish idea, if ever I heard one. I mean, Vitalinus! Really! Have you come across him?”

  Wyrd shook his head, as did Wenda.

  “Well, you can count yourself lucky,” said Buzzard. “Suffice it to say that he is not my kind of person at all. Lecherous, treacherous, murderous and (here he sighed, as if this was the unkindest cut of all) a man with absolutely no sense of history.”

  “Merlin must see some good in him,” suggested Wyrd.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Buzzard, sadly. “For my brother, the end justifies the means. Merlin is obsessed with finding what he calls an inspirational leader, someone to lead Albion forward into the sixth century, as he puts it.”

  “Someone like Queen Elinor’s brother?” asked Wyrd.

  “Aurelius? He might be better than Vitalinus,” said Buzzard. “You know, not so dictatorial. But he’s a tad too Roman for my taste. I’d prefer just to have a lot of much less powerful, wiser kings who are sensitive to Albion’s ancient traditions, our culture, the old ways of life before the Romans came.”

  “So, you do have sympathy for the trolls,” said Wyrd.

  “I do,” admitted Buzzard. “At least these outrages, however self-destructive, show they’re finally thinking for themselves.”

  The old man consulted an egg timer he had sewn into the front of his habit.

  “Good heavens. Is that the time?” he muttered. “I’m supposed to be lecturing my pupils on the ancient crafts of the wood-elves. Farewell!”

  With an affable wave, Buzzard walked off.

  “He seemed nice,” Wenda commented, “if a bit eccentric. Anyway, I’m glad a troll didn’t fall on him.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Wyrd, looking at the remains of the trolls that lay around in the courtyard, “however justified their complaints, one thing’s obvious.”

  “What?”

  “Trolls,” said Wyrd, picking his way through the rubble that had once been trolls, “have rocks for brains.”

  ***

  Over the next few weeks, Wyrd came to regard Buzzard as one of the few people he could trust. Not long after the day of the falling trolls, Wyrd woke up to find a bird of prey on his window ledge. At first he thought it was Merlin and that the wizard had finally come to see how he was getting on, but then Wyrd noticed its markings were different.

  “Oh, hullo,” said Wyrd, as it transformed itself into the human shape of Buzzard.

  “I’ve been looking all over the castle for you,” said Buzzard, stepping down from the window ledge. “I’m sorry if I gave you a fright. These days I do quite a lot of moving around in bird form. My knees are in a terrible state, and I didn’t fancy walking all the way up those stairs.”

  “That’s all right,” said Wyrd politely. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Well, yes, there is, as a matter of fact,” said Buzzard. “I’m badly in need of seaweed, and I wondered if you could be of any assistance.”

  “I don’t know where any seaweed is,” replied Wyrd, “except in the sea, obviously.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Buzzard, nodding. “I need to go outside the castle, to Hell Bay, in fact, and I need a pair of helping hands. It’s a lovely day for it.”

  Wyrd hesitated. Merlin had warned him that he would only be safe inside the castle; but, after
five years of life within Castle Otto, Wyrd was curious to see beyond the walls. He had almost forgotten what the outside world looked like. All he could see of it was from his window, looking out to sea; and since the extermination of the sea serpents, there wasn’t that much interesting to look at.

  “I see you have a fine view of the ocean,” said Buzzard, “but believe me, there’s nothing like the feeling of sand between your toes and the smell of salt water on the skin.”

  Wyrd relaxed. He felt he could rely on a wizard like Buzzard at least as much as he could on Merlin. Besides, Merlin wasn’t here and Buzzard was.

  “I’ll need a basket, won’t I?” asked Wyrd.

  “Will this do?” asked Buzzard, making one appear in Wyrd’s right hand.

  “Magic!” gasped Wyrd, his eyes shining.

  “Of course,” smiled Buzzard, bending forward slightly. “I may be a schoolteacher and creaking a bit in the limbs, but I flatter myself my magical powers remain intact. Hop on my back.”

  Wyrd hesitated again.

  “Why do you hesitate?” asked Buzzard.

  “It’s just something that someone once told me. About not trusting anyone.”

  “Well,” said Buzzard, “you may be disappointed if you trust too much, but it’s equally certain that you will live a life of regret if you trust too little. Don’t you think?”

  The magician resumed his bird shape. Wyrd clambered on to his back and together they flew out of the window. Within a minute, Buzzard had dropped him on to the sandy beach that looked out to Hell Bay. Today, the sea was calm and blue. Everything seemed clear, bright and lacking even the slightest element of danger.

  Wyrd grinned as he felt the sun beating down on him. This was like being outside with his sheep in Dumnonia, on a beautiful summer’s day… His reverie was cut short by Buzzard changing into human form.

  “Now, where shall we start?” asked Buzzard, looking around impatiently while the last of his plumage disappeared. “I know! Over there!”

  “What do you need this seaweed for?” asked Wyrd, minutes later, as he straightened up and took a few deep breaths of the fresh, salty air.

  “Potions,” replied Buzzard. “There’s nothing like seaweed for bulking out a potion. This is the kind to watch out for. It’s called sea beech.”

  “Oh, I can see why. These look just like beech leaves.”

  “While here is sunset cup-coral…” said Buzzard.

  “Beautiful!”

  “And these are pink sea-fans.”

  “Wow!” said Wyrd. “I never knew there were so many kinds!”

  “That’s only in this bay,” replied Buzzard, with the crazed look in his eye of an inveterate collector. “In the next one to the south, there are even more. Follow me!”

  As they clambered over a rocky promontory, Buzzard held up his hand.

  “Ssh!” he whispered. “I fear we are not alone!”

  Below them on the next beach lay a young man, completely naked. From above, Wyrd could see he had broad shoulders, and his body was a deep brown.

  “It’s Sir Tancred!” whispered Wyrd. “What’s he doing?”

  “It’s the latest thing,” murmured Buzzard. “I believe it’s called sun-bathing.”

  “But he’s not doing anything,” said Wyrd.

  “That’s just it,” said Buzzard. “The idea is to lie in the sun until your skin changes colour.”

  “What’s the point of that?” asked Wyrd.

  “I was hoping you might tell me,” said Buzzard. “After all, you’re the human.”

  “Perhaps he thinks brown is a better colour,” suggested Wyrd. “Or white reminds him of something bad.”

  “Maggots, perhaps, or day-old corpses,” said Buzzard. “Could be. Could be. Hullo! What’s that?”

  Out at sea, beyond the innermost circle of rocks, could be seen the top half of a young girl. She was splashing in the sea to attract the young man’s attention. She seemed to be naked, although her long blonde hair covered her breasts.

  “Help!” she called. “Help me, please! Help!”

  “A damsel in distress,” said Wyrd. “Shouldn’t you change back into a bird? We could fly out and help her!”

  “Not necessarily,” said Buzzard. “Let’s see what happens first.”

  The drowning damsel had certainly managed to attract Sir Tancred’s attention. He stood up, stuck out his jaw, struck a heroic posture, raced into the sea and dived underwater. When he came up again, he started to swim towards the young woman with strong, rhythmic strokes. Curiously, though, the further he swam from the shore, the further out to sea the young woman drifted.

  Wyrd watched Sir Tancred with mixed feelings. Wenda had told Wyrd how crudely he had propositioned her after saving her from the sea serpents, and how he had seemed less perturbed at discovering that she was female than that she was partly elvish. At the same time, Wyrd felt envious of Sir Tancred’s good looks and popularity, and jealous that he had saved Wenda from certain death.

  “Sir Tancred’s never happier than when he’s saving people, is he?” said Wyrd, with a trace of bitterness mixed in with his admiration. “No wonder he’s the most popular knight in the castle!”

  “Don’t you notice anything wrong?” asked Buzzard.

  “Wrong?” asked Wyrd. “She’s drowning! Isn’t that wrong enough?”

  “Ah,” said Buzzard reprovingly. “You haven’t noticed. There is no sign of a boat.”

  “Perhaps she was out swimming and got into difficulties.”

  “Perhaps so,” said the wizard. “But do you observe anything else that’s strange about her?”

  “No,” said Wyrd.

  “Perhaps I’m imagining it,” said Buzzard, “but if you look there – you see? – doesn’t she have something shiny below the waist?”

  “Some kind of bathing costume?” suggested Wyrd.

  “I don’t think so,” said Buzzard.

  By this time, Sir Tancred had reached the girl. No sooner had he done so than three men surfaced around the girl. All had green hair.

  “As I thought,” exclaimed Buzzard, excitedly. “Mermen! It’s extraordinarily rare to see them this far north!”

  The three mermen grabbed Sir Tancred and pulled him to a nearby rock. They lashed him to it with seaweed. Wyrd could hear the young man’s screams as one of the mermen bit into his leg. The mermaid produced a knife of some kind – Wyrd thought it might be some kind of shell, but it was obviously razor-sharp, for the mermaid drew it across the young man’s stomach and then down to his groin. She peeled back the flap of skin and watched as the young man’s innards spilled on to the rock and into the sea. One of the mermen dabbled his fingers in the floating entrails and crowed triumphantly.

  “Can’t you do something?” asked Wyrd. “This is horrible.”

  “No, just the natural law,” said Buzzard. “The hunters and the hunted. The young man was foolish to be swayed by the beauty of the mermaid. One of the few advantages of growing old is that such temptations diminish to the point of… Oh my word!”

  Despite Buzzard’s determination to keep a philosophical distance, he could not help some element of revulsion from entering his voice. Now the fishy lower halves of all four merpeople could clearly be seen as they climbed all over Sir Tancred, eagerly biting and gnawing at him, ignoring his cries of agony as they sank their jaws into his flesh.

  “Look! They have no mercy!” cried Wyrd. “They’re eating him alive!”

  “Ah well,” said Buzzard, recovering his composure, although he had turned a little green, “humans boil lobsters alive. Humans eat oysters alive. Mermen eat humans alive. What makes you think they shouldn’t? What it comes down to is: they like their food fresh.”

  Buzzard’s tone was mild, but Wyrd couldn’t bear the sight of the mermen tearing the young man limb from limb and gnawing o
n his entrails.

  “But it’s disgusting!” said Wyrd.

  “It is the natural way,” said Buzzard, placidly, “and it is better that you see such things for yourself. Besides, it is as well to know that not every damsel in distress is everything she appears to be.”

  ***

  Buzzard seemed oddly unmoved by the grisly event, describing it airily as “death by misadventure”. The whole castle seemed to be in mourning for Sir Tancred for days afterwards, and the King ordered a minute’s silence in memory of his bravest knight. Many of the young women, and a few of the especially good-looking younger knights, were red-eyed and weeping for more than a week.

  Wyrd never forgot the sight of Sir Tancred being pulled apart by mermen, and it continued to haunt his dreams long afterwards, making Wyrd more suspicious than ever of the world outside the castle. Wenda had nearly been eaten by a sea serpent, and now the most confident of all King Otto’s knights had fallen victim to mermen. What chance would Wyrd have of surviving outside the castle walls?

  He wished Merlin was there, to offer him advice on how to overcome his fears. In the mage’s absence, Wyrd decided never to stray outside the castle unless he had Buzzard to protect him. The day came, however, when his faith in the older wizard was sorely tested. They were exploring a rocky promontory that stuck out into the sea to the south of Hell Bay, when they saw Mrs Scraggs and Wenda gathering herbs a few yards away. Mrs Scraggs was in her full outdoors outfit of black coat and black feathery hat and was using her gnarled black stick to point out the herb that she wanted Wenda to bend down and pick.

  Wenda looked up as she heard approaching footsteps and smiled when she saw Wyrd.

  “I thought you never left the castle,” she said. “This is a surprise!”

  “I sometimes help old Buzzard,” replied Wyrd, glancing over his shoulder at the old wizard wheezing up behind him. “When he needs stuff from the beaches – seaweed, shells and suchlike. For his spells, I think. I help him carry it.”