Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  The blast of the horn, even from such a distance, succeeded in drawing the dragon lady’s attention. The dragon turned and flew closer and closer, until it loomed gigantically overhead. From behind his rock Wyrd could see the dragon lady looking first at the dwarf with the horn and then around him.

  “Where is he?” asked the dragon lady, pulling on the dragon’s reins so that it hovered above Drains and a little in front of him.

  “Where’s who?” asked Drains.

  “Where is the boy who blew the horn?”

  “What horn?”

  “That horn.”

  “Oh, this horn,” said Drains, looking down at the horn he was holding. “I expect he’s somewhere about.”

  “You look familiar,” said the dragon lady. “Aren’t you the dwarf I cursed with exceptionally repulsive body odour?”

  “Yes, I’m the one,” said Drains. “I don’t suppose you fancy lifting that curse?”

  “I might,” said the dragon lady. “But first you have to tell me where the boy is.”

  “He’s behind that rock,” said Drains, indicating the rock behind which Wyrd was indeed squatting.

  “Scorch him!” snarled the dragon lady.

  “Which one?” asked the dragon. “The dwarf, or the boy behind the rock?”

  “The boy first,” said the dragon lady.

  Her dragon emitted a mouthful of fire. Wyrd dived away from the rock, scrambled to his feet and took aim with his slingshot. He hit the dragon in one of its eyes and then the other. It let out a terrible howl, and reared.

  “You’ve blinded my dragon!” said the dragon lady. “Yet another reason for me to kill you!”

  “Got a Plan B?” Drains whispered to Wyrd. “All you seem to have done is annoy her.”

  Wyrd’s attention was caught by a highly unexpected arrival. It was Mrs Scraggs on a broomstick.

  “You’ll have to kill me first!” said Mrs Scraggs, pointing her leg at the dragon lady.

  “But you’re dead,” said the dragon lady. “I reduced you to a pile of ash.”

  “No,” said Mrs Scraggs. “I’m a shape-shifter. I reduced myself to a pile of ash. Your flame went straight over my head.”

  “Don’t point that leg at me,” said the dragon lady.

  “I’ve already killed your son,” said Mrs Scraggs. “Now it’s your turn.”

  With a concentrated blaze of fire from her magic leg, Mrs Scraggs incinerated the dragon lady. Her dragon howled and flew off.

  “Bloody wizards,” said Mrs Scraggs. “Flying about as though they own the place. Oh blimey, here’s another one.”

  Merlin flew up on his gigantic black dragon.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “But Mrs Scraggs seems to have handled the situation more than adequately. Wasn’t that my mother’s dragon? I say, Mrs Scraggs, have you just murdered her?”

  “She tried to kill me first,” said Mrs Scraggs. “I done her in self-defence.”

  “I can’t say that I blame you,” said Merlin.

  “The dragon lady is… was your mother?” asked Wyrd.

  “I’m afraid she is and was,” said Merlin. “My estranged mother, of course. Gaia. Used to be the Oracle of Delphi. She was always closer to Buzzard than me. We disagreed politically.”

  “I think I killed your brother too,” said Mrs Scraggs.

  “Ah,” said Merlin, remarkably unperturbed. “You don’t happen to know which one?”

  “Buzzard,” said Mrs Scraggs.

  “Oh dear,” said Merlin. “Never mind, I daresay he deserved it. My word, he and my mother seem to have done a pretty good job of trashing Atlantis. There’s not much left of the castle, and there seems to be a certain amount of flooding.”

  “Where have the kraken gone?” asked Wyrd.

  “That was me,” said Merlin. “Or, more grammatically, I. That was why I was a bit late. I had to call on a behemoth to rise from the deep and gobble them up.”

  “What happened to the dragons?”

  Merlin gave his dragon a pat.

  “Ali Kazara saw them off.”

  “They were cowardly curs,” said Merlin’s dragon. “They saw sense and flew away before I could scorch them.”

  “And now, Mrs Scraggs,” said Merlin affably, “perhaps you and I should fly back to the castle and hunt for survivors.”

  “Will you two be all right without us?” Mrs Scraggs asked Drains and Wyrd.

  “I do have one or two questions,” began Wyrd.

  “No time for that now,” said Merlin. “The main thing is you’re alive and well.”

  “Merlin,” said Drains, “don’t you think the lad is entitled to an explanation?”

  “Explanation?” Merlin paused to consider. “Of what, exactly?”

  “An explanation of why your mother was trying to kill him; perhaps a hint of who he is? You could even tell him who his parents are.”

  “Yes,” said Merlin, stroking his chin. “I suppose you have a point. But I haven’t time for that now. Besides, exposition has always bored me. Why don’t you fill him in? I’ll leave him in your capable hands. Righty ho?”

  As Merlin and Mrs Scraggs flew off towards the ruined castle, Wyrd turned to question Drains.

  “So, why didn’t Merlin tell me the dragon lady was his mother?”

  “Weren’t you listening?” said Drains. “He just did.”

  “I mean before that,” said Wyrd. “He must have suspected.”

  Drains hesitated before taking pity on the young man.

  “Family loyalty,” said Drains. “He was probably embarrassed.”

  “But what was I to Merlin’s mother?”

  “You were her worst nightmare,” said Drains. “You see, long before she gave birth to Buzzard, Merlin and Osprey, she was an Oracle.”

  “What was all that about the Oracle of Delphi?” asked Wyrd.

  “She was the Oracle of Delphi,” said Drains. “It was her first proper job. Gaia was her name. She told a Roman emperor that the end of his empire was coming, and he tried to have her killed.”

  “The Emperor Theodosius?” said Wyrd, remembering something he had once read.

  “That’s the one. But she escaped and, to cut a long story short, ended up in Britain, or rather under Britain, shacked up with Satan, Prince of Darkness. She had three sons by him – Buzzard, Merlin and Osprey. And the rest you know.”

  “But I don’t know,” said Wyrd. “Why me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Because you’re the one in the prophecy,” said Drains.

  “I can’t be,” said Wyrd.

  “You could be,” said Drains. “And I reckon Merlin thinks you could be too. The trouble is that so did his mum.”

  “But she was just an Oracle,” said Wyrd.

  “She used to be an Oracle,” Drains corrected him. “Later in life, she became more of an activist, a campaigner. And if you ask me, a homicidal maniac. Look what she did to your village, not to mention Atlantis.”

  “But why did Merlin’s mother care about the fall of the Roman Empire?” asked Wyrd. “And what have I got to do with it? I’ve nothing against the Roman Empire. It seems to be falling apart of its own accord.”

  “It’s not the Roman Empire she cared about,” said Drains. “What she cared about was all the races that are going to disappear once the prophecy comes true. You know, dragons, ogres, bugbears, elves. Those kinds of things. The old races.”

  “But I’ve nothing against them!” said Wyrd. “Well, not much. I mean, not enough to make me want to exterminate them.”

  “You may not mean to exterminate them,” said Drains. “I don’t think the prophecy says that you’re necessarily the one who will do the exterminating.”

  “I see,” said Wyrd. “So, that’s why she exterminated my village.”

  “Ex
actly,” said Drains. “And it’s pretty obvious she ordered Buzzard to kill you.”

  “Yes,” said Wyrd, nodding. “That makes sense. He only started trying to kill me after he’d gone away somewhere and come back.”

  “There you are,” said Drains. “I expect he’d been visiting his mum.”

  Wyrd frowned and shook his head. There was so much he still didn’t understand.

  “So, who are my real parents?” he asked Drains.

  “I’m afraid they’re no longer alive,” said Drains. “In fact, there’s no easy way to say this, but you killed your own mother.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother,” said Drains. “The Empress Honoria.”

  “That can’t be true,” objected Wyrd. “That would mean Princess Morgana is…”

  “Your twin sister,” said Drains.

  “No!” cried Wyrd. “She can’t be!”

  His mind was whirring. It couldn’t be that he’d murdered his own mother – or that he’d slept with her. Or that he’d impregnated his own twin sister. Could it?

  “I realise this may come as a bit of a shock,” observed Drains.

  “You could say that,” said Wyrd.

  “There is a persistent rumour that Morgana is expecting your child,” said Drains. “May I ask if there is any truth in it?”

  Wyrd wondered for a moment whether to lie; but something about the dwarf’s demeanour told Wyrd that he was to be trusted.

  “Yes, there is, as a matter of fact.”

  The dwarf whistled.

  “Tricky!”

  “That isn’t all,” said Wyrd. “Strictly between the two of us, I slept with my own mother a few weeks before she turned into a werespider and I had to kill her.”

  “Blimey,” said the dwarf.

  “Of course, I didn’t know she was my mother, any more than she knew I was her son.”

  “I should hope not,” said Drains.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “You know,” continued Drains, “this reminds me a lot of a Greek bloke called Oedipus. Made more or less the same mistake. Heard of him?”

  “No. What happened to him?” asked Wyrd.

  “You don’t want to know,” said Drains. “Let’s just say he took it badly, refused to wash and tore his eyes out.”

  “I don’t think I would want to do that.”

  “I don’t see why you should,” said Drains. “Anyway, I blame Merlin. He could have told you. After all, you weren’t to know you were related. Sleeping with your sister and your mum, then murdering your mum. I mean, let’s face it, it could happen to anyone.”

  “So, does that mean,” said Wyrd, wrinkling his brow, “that my father was… Oh no, it can’t be… Attila the Hun?”

  “Exactly,” said Drains; “which is another reason why your identity had to be hushed up. If old Attila had known he’d had a son by the Empress here in Albion, he might have invaded Britain, which nobody would have wanted, least of all Merlin. And then, of course, there’s the prophecy.”

  “Are you sure that’s got anything to do with me?”

  “It has everything to do with you,” said Drains.

  “Doesn’t Merlin think the prophecy refers to some son of Vortigern ruling over all Albion?”

  “No, he doesn’t,” said Drains. “It’s the High King who thinks that, and Merlin isn’t so foolish as to tell him otherwise.”

  “Who do you think it is?” asked Wyrd.

  “Not Catigern or Paschent,” said Drains. “If either of those two nutters ends up as King of Albion, we’ll all be in trouble.”

  “So, couldn’t the real Arthur be Queen Elinor’s brother, Aurelius?” asked Wyrd.

  Drains shook his head.

  “No,” said Drains. “Too old. And, just between the two of us, too thick. A right upper-class twit.”

  “So, it has to be Prince Artorus,” said Wyrd. “The prophecy must refer to him. Especially now he’s married Morgana. He is the purple blood of Atlantis, and she’s the crimson blood of the Hun. It all makes sense.”

  “Prince Artorus? You’re joking,” said Drains. “He’s no more capable of uniting Albion than I am.”

  Drains paused and looked Wyrd straight in the eye.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” said Wyrd. “I’m only pretending to be Prince Artorus. I’m not actually him.”

  “No,” said Drains, “you’re better than him. Not that that’s saying much.”

  “Thanks,” said Wyrd.

  “You still have a lot to learn,” said Drains, “but back there in the castle people looked up to you, and it was nothing to do with your being well born or having powerful parents. I know you’ve made a few mistakes and things aren’t looking bright for you right now…”

  “Such as that I’ve had to assume the identity of a person I heartily despise, and I’m on my way to certain death.”

  “Near-certain death,” said Drains. “Don’t worry, I’m working on it.”

  “Look, Drains, whatever Merlin’s mother thought, I can’t be the person in the prophecy,” said Wyrd, suddenly. “If I’m the crimson blood of the Hun, then wouldn’t I have to marry the purple blood of Atlantis?”

  “Yeah, it sounds like you’d have to marry either Melisande or Beatrice, and I wouldn’t be too sure about Beatrice still being alive. She’s probably drowned in those big tidal waves. Anyway, there’s a lot of people who say her real dad is Osprey,” said Drains. “No, if I were you I’d concentrate on Melisande.”

  “Really?”

  “I know she’s stupid and unreliable, but at least she’s alive and good-looking. Long legs,” added Drains wistfully.

  “And she’s betrothed to Prince Catigern,” said Wyrd. “Besides, she’s a terrible social climber, and I’m a nobody.”

  “But now you’re not a nobody, are you?” asked Drains.

  “To her I am,” said Wyrd.

  “Your real parentage is bound to come out, sooner or later.”

  “And you think that’s a good thing?” asked Wyrd. “Anyway, by that time she’ll be married to Catigern.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” said Drains. “Remember I’ve met him, and you haven’t. He’s not what you’d call husband material. Unless you’re a reindeer. Probably not even then.”

  “You don’t know Melisande,” said Wyrd. “She’d rather marry Prince Paschent than get hitched to me.”

  “Prince Paschent?” snorted Drains. “He’s a bigger blot on the landscape than Catigern. Why don’t you just tell Melisande who you are?”

  “You think she’d believe me?” asked Wyrd. “Not in a thousand years! Besides, I don’t really know who I am. Merlin wouldn’t even tell me my real name.”

  “Come off it! Isn’t that obvious?” asked Drains.

  “You really mean…?” said Wyrd slowly.

  His head was reeling – whether from the heady scent of the apple blossom or from so much new information, he couldn’t be sure – and he wanted Drains to make his true identity perfectly clear. He stared at Drains, unsure if his ears were deceiving him.

  “Are you slow on the uptake, or what?” asked Drains, watching the realisation dawn on Wyrd’s face. “Look, mate, it’s high time you knew this. Your real name isn’t Wyrd. Or Uther. It’s Arthur.”

  “Wow,” said Wyrd.

  “Wow,” echoed Drains. “Is that all you can say?”

  “It’s… such a responsibility,” said Wyrd. “Uniting a kingdom and all that.”

  “Exactly,” said Drains.

  “Why me?” asked Wyrd.

  “Why not?” said Drains.

  “I’m not sure if I’m up to the job,” said Wyrd.

  “You’re not,” said Drains. “Not yet. You’ll have to grow up, stand up, man up.”

  “Wow,” said Wyrd. “I
mean wow.”

  “It might also be an idea to become a bit more articulate,” said Drains. “Less repetitive. More, you know, inspirational. A leader of men. Start looking as if you know what you’re doing.”

  “I can see that,” agreed Wyrd.

  “So, what about it?” demanded Drains.

  Wyrd thought about his new identity.

  “I’m not very… Arthurian,” he said.

  Drains thought for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Who is?” he said.

  THE STORY WILL CONTINUE

  Afterword

  Any reader who has visited the Isles of Scilly, off the western coast of Cornwall, England, may already be aware that many of the locations in this book still exist.

  At the time Scilly Seasons is set, the fifth century AD, the Isles of Scilly (also known as The Fortunate Isles because of their clement weather and short winters) were mainly one large island, which some people believe may have been the site of Atlantis.

  This island consisted of the seven major isles: Bryher, Tresco, Saint Martin’s, Saint Mary’s, Saint Agnes, Annet and Samson. They were joined together, although the way between Saint Agnes and Annet could be crossed only at low tide. Nowadays, all the islands have to be visited separately, but the boat rides between them are very short.

  The remains of an ancient castle can still be seen on the north-westerly point of Bryher.

  Hell Bay, where Wyrd first encounters Merlin, still exists under that same evocative name, and the bay where Sir Tancred meets his unpleasant end is the next bay to the south, where the Hell Bay Hotel now stands.

  The forest called Leafmould, where King Otto and his party hunt werewolves, is now underwater and would have lain between Bryher and Tresco.

  Most of the northern moors and woods crossed during the two expeditions to the Villa Honoria have been lost to the sea. But anyone who wishes to see what they might have been like can still walk across the little that is left, in the northern area of Tresco, called Castle Down, near what used to be the Island Hotel.

  Samson was lived on for many centuries but is now an uninhabited island off the southern coast of Bryher. It has two rounded hills, one of which may or may not be the burial mound for a giant.

  The Villa Honoria may have been situated in what is now St Martin’s Bay, on the northern coast of St Martin’s. The island was long associated with the flourishing flower trade of the Scillies. Roman remains have been found on the island.