‘I get the feeling,’ he said after a while, ‘that you and Lukas have some kind of secret between you.’
Matthew looked at him with bright eyes, and then took a huge bite of the bread. It was clear that he did not intend to reply.
‘What did you talk about when you were together?’
Matthew frowned. ‘All kinds of things,’ he said.
‘What things?’
‘Dreams and things.’
‘Tell me about the bad dream that made both of you ill.’
Matthew was silent. All that Lukas had told him had been in confidence and nothing on earth would make him betray it. He hoped that Brother Peter would not press him because he loved Brother Peter as a father, but Lukas was his liege lord and friend and he had vowed.
Matthew frowned. ‘Liege lord?’ he thought. ‘Why did I think that?’
‘It may help us to help both of you if we know what is going on,’ gently insisted Brother Peter.
Matthew had stopped chewing now and was sitting on the high stool, crumbling the remaining bread abstractedly on the platter. It looked as though his thoughts were far away . . . searching . . .
Brother Peter watched him, and waited. Suddenly Matthew wriggled off the stool.
‘I must go,’ he said with a worried look. ‘He needs me. He is in trouble . . .’ He ran to the door.
‘Stop,’ cried Brother Peter. ‘Matthew . . . stop! I’ll come with you.’
But in spite of his frailty Matthew was already out of the door and away before Brother Peter could get his great bulk across the room.
Cerdic and a few boys were digging in the herb garden as Matthew rushed past. They stopped what they were doing and looked after him in amazement.
‘Hey! Chicken-bone!’ yelled Cerdic. ‘What’s the hurry?’ But Matthew neither saw nor heard him.
Brother Peter now appeared at the door and called after him.
‘I’ll fetch him back for you Brother,’ shouted Cerdic excitedly, flinging down the hoe and starting to run.
Brother Peter remembered too late that Cerdic had a long history of bullying and that he had a particular dislike of Matthew.
Cerdic had leapt over the low stone wall bordering the little garden and was running after Matthew with long strides.
‘Come back! Come back!’ called Brother Peter helplessly. ‘Cerdic leave him alone! It’s all right. I don’t want him back!’ But even if he heard, Cerdic took no notice. The excitement of the hunt was on and his quarry was proving to be surprisingly fleet of foot.
The other boys stared after them, the small figure of Matthew disappearing round the corner of the refectory, Cerdic’s lanky figure gaining on him, and a long way behind them both, Brother Peter panting and calling.
Matthew was frantic. He had heard Cerdic’s shout and he knew that it was he who was pursuing him. He knew also that even if he were in perfect health he would not be able to outrun Cerdic. Already his chest was beginning to ache with the effort. He really feared Cerdic, and always had. If only Lukas could rescue him now as he almost always had before! But Lukas himself was in trouble. He felt it. He knew it. He looked round himself for somewhere to hide and saw the huge wooden water butt that stood close against the refectory wall to catch the rainwater. There was just room for someone as thin as himself to squeeze behind it. Splinters dug into his flesh as he pushed himself in, but he hardly noticed, green slime and moss squelched underfoot where years of dripping had turned the earth to a morass. He could see that the wood was rotten and prayed that it would not give way while he was there to drown him just when he had been given a new lease of life.
Cerdic rushed past. He did not cast a glance at the water butt or the frightened creature hiding behind it, but pounded on around the corner of the refectory. Matthew tried to still the heaving of his chest, terrified that he would cough and give himself away. Before the hermit’s second visit he would not have been able to stop himself, but now, although it needed a tremendous effort of will to breathe as Brother Collen had told him to breathe, he managed it. Perhaps one day he’d be as strong as Cerdic and then . . .
But his train of thought was broken by the panting arrival of Brother Peter. He was still calling Cerdic, and Cerdic having lost sight of Matthew, doubled back to join the monk.
‘He’s gone to ground,’ Cerdic said, ‘but I’ll soon flush him out.’
‘I don’t want you to “flush him out” Cerdic,’ said Brother Peter with considerable irritation. ‘I have sent him on an errand. I just wanted to . . .’
Matthew was amazed that they could not hear his heart beating. They were standing very close to him and his heart was pounding like a drum.
Cerdic looked disappointed and sullen. ‘I could have run your errand for you Brother.’
‘You could have, but I didn’t ask you. I asked Matthew.’
Cerdic bit his lip and glowered at the man. ‘You never ask me,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘I said you never send me on any interesting errands. It’s just work, work and more work with me and if I stop for a moment it’s punishment I get.’
‘You know you’re talking nonsense. You must learn to discipline that bitter, complaining tongue of yours.’
Brother Peter squared his shoulders and walked away, trying not to say something he would later regret. Try as he would he could not like Cerdic, and it was obvious the boy could sense it. He felt that they had failed with him. Cerdic had never understood what they were trying to do at the monastery. He must have a word with Father Abbot and see if Cerdic could not be sent away from the community to take his chances in the world. He was old enough and it was quite clear that he would not make a good monk. ‘Whereas,’ Brother Peter thought regretfully, ‘Lukas had the potential to be a true warrior of the spirit, a true seeker.’ Cerdic sought nothing beyond his own animal gratifications.
Matthew held his breath as Cerdic stood on a block of stone and reached into the water butt for a drink of water. He was hidden by the curve of the wood and Matthew could not see him, but he could hear the slurp of the water as Cerdic scooped it out and the creak of the wood as he leaned against it.
At last Cerdic left and Matthew emerged. He found that he had cramp in his muscles from the awkward position he had been forced to stay in so long and could barely walk away. He started to limp towards the orchard, remembering Lukas’ tunnel. He knew that he would have no chance of finding him in the forest.
14
The Abbot paced his chamber. Something was threatening. He could feel change coming. He sensed the onset of disorder, of the unexpected, of the untamed. If he had his way that rebel Collen would be driven away. He was a heretic, a troublemaker. Angrily he thought about how he had come into their infirmary and ‘laid on hands’ as though he were Christ himself. Who was he, a foul smelling degenerate from the woods, someone who had walked out on a calling, who had sneered and jeered at his colleagues and superiors, to call on the name of Christ? He himself had tried ‘laying on of hands’ on more than one occasion and had failed to bring about any kind of change in the wounded or sick person. He had put it down to the fact that the patient was sinful and unregenerate and that Christ did not want him healed. But Collen would have said that He was sinful and unregenerate, that he was not calling on the Name with a clear heart, that He was not calling at all but mouthing meaningless sounds . . . He could feel his hatred of Collen seething inside him. The muscles in his neck and shoulders tightened till they ached. His stomach rumbled and churned.
But even behind his hatred of Collen another shadow stirred. He had always felt something lurked on that Tor, something that would not be controlled by his rules and punishments, something that pulled at that side of himself he believed to be evil — the urge to push his seed into women, to procreate, to spill out in ever increasing abandonment . . . Sometimes the iron rule of chastity was too much to bear and even to see the way nature sported in fecund pleasure in the
forest on the slopes of the Tor made him uneasy. Every time he walked there he felt it. He had to battle with part of himself. Safe in the monastery with every moment of the day under control he was all right. But step into the forest on that magical hill and all the old desires began to stir again. He hated Collen for having broken free and he hated the Tor for making him lust for life.
15
The way to Gwynn’s house was not so easy to find without the wizard’s help and after a few false turns Lukas knew that he was lost.
He stopped.
‘I must sit down,’ he told himself. ‘I must think.’ To go wrong now would only compound the mischief he had done and there would be no help for Collen or for any of them.
He thought about the amber talisman he was seeking, and wondered at the mystery of its power. He knew that there were holy relics in the monastery kept in precious caskets. In times of great need they were brought out and fervent prayers were said over them. He understood that the monks did this to draw on the strength of the man to whom the relic had once belonged, knowing that their own strength or purity was not enough.
Was this how the amber worked?
Lukas found that the image of the amber grew stronger in his mind the more he thought about it. He began to see it clearly with his eyes shut, almost as though it were an after-image on the inside of his lids. He kept very quiet, very still, letting the image float within his mind. Sometimes it almost faded. But it came back, and the longer he sat quiet, the steadier and stronger the image became.
‘Perhaps it will help me if I allow myself to be helped,’ he thought, and waited, in readiness. Soon he felt strengthened and stood up to continue his search for the sorcerer’s house, this time finding his way through the forest by ‘following’ the image in his mind’s eye.
Having in this way finally located the house, he was startled to find it guarded by two large and vicious hounds snarling at the door. He retreated to the cover of the forest, the initial feeling of elation at the success of his search fading fast.
But then a thought struck him. What if the dogs were not there at all? What if his own fear had conjured them, or allowed the sorcerer to conjure them for him? The house had never been guarded before, and two such great hounds could not have been found in the village or anywhere nearby and trained to guard in the little time that had passed since Gwynn had left Collen paralysed.
Lukas resolved to ignore them and took a bold step forward. But then he paused. The black pot that Gwynn had conjured from the table had felt very real and very solid.
He hid behind a tree and looked at the hounds. Their teeth and the saliva that dribbled from their mouths looked very real indeed. And yet . . . and yet the ring that he had worn, that he had seen, and felt, upon his hand had not been there.
What was real and what was not, no longer seemed to have any meaning . . . or at least it seemed to have a different meaning to the one he had always accepted without question. The only thing he was sure of was that he, the person who was doing the thinking at the moment, was real, even if he was no longer exactly sure who he was.
He felt suddenly very tired.
If only he could just walk away, return to the kitchen and say to Brother Peter: ‘May I come back? May I scrub pots and chop wood for you again . . . and have everything back exactly as it used to be.’ But he knew that the shoot that had broken through the seed casing and was reaching for the sun could never return to the seed again. The process of life and growth had started and must be followed through to the end, before a new beginning. And that each new beginning was never exactly the same as the last.
He sighed. But then he remembered that the strengths and weaknesses of this life are not the only ones that make us what we are!
Another flash of memory came and he moved boldly forward.
‘Gwynn, son of Nudd,’ he called, remembering now his enemy’s name. ‘Give me the talisman you have stolen!’
The hounds were sharply called to heel by a stern voice from within the house, and then Gwynn himself appeared at the door.
The two stood gazing at one another for what seemed a long time, neither giving ground.
‘Gwythyr, son of Greidyawl,’ Gwynn said at last, coldly, harshly. ‘I envied you once. But that was long ago. I defeated you once. But that too was long ago. Do you come now to challenge me knowing that I am even stronger than I was then, and that you are weaker?’
‘No,’ Gwythyr said, equally coldly. ‘I challenge you now knowing that I have knowledge that I did not have then. Time has passed for me too and taught me many things. You will give me that talisman and I will heal the hermit Collen and release the Lady Creiddylad.’
‘Never!’ snarled Gwynn, lifting his arm and starting to point. But Gwythyr’s hand was up before the sorcerer could direct his power. He held his own palm outwards, facing Gwynn as though to stop a beam of light. Gwynn staggered and dropped his hand, rubbing it with the other as though it was painful.
Gwythyr walked forward steadily, holding up his hand.
Gwynn took a step back, his eyes full of hate.
The hounds growled ominously, but Gwythyr ignored them.
He held in his mind’s eye the image of the beautiful Creiddylad and the amber that she had worn as token that sun and earth, spirit and body, were joined in a great cosmic dance — a dance from which life flowed in ever increasing splendour.
He did not even see Gwynn as he strode towards the door, nor hear him shriek with rage. It was as though there were a great area of light in his mind, within which stood the image of Creiddylad, tall and free, holding the amber above her head, and from it rays of beaded light spread to the far corners of the universe. He did not even notice that he had given the man a push and sent him sprawling, nor did he hear the hounds yelping as though they had been struck.
He reached into the cupboard and seized the crane-skin pouch.
As his hand touched it the brilliant image in his mind burst into a thousand fragments of light and scattered in every direction . . .
Suddenly he was Lukas once more in the sorcerer’s den, holding the talisman, Gwynn’s crouched figure between him and the door. In that instant Gwynn seemed to sense the change of power, and leapt towards him.
Lukas darted forward, slipped through the man’s grasp and ran from the place as he had never run before, the pouch and its precious contents firmly in his hand.
‘After him!’ He heard the dreadful voice command, and then he heard the hounds!
Sick with fear he dodged and ran. He jumped and caught on to the overhanging branch of an oak. He struggled up to the highest branches. The hounds barked below him, hurling themselves into the air and falling back yelping when they found that they could not reach him.
But Gwynn had not given up. He lifted his hand once more and a great wind roared through the forest, bending the boughs, tearing at them, ripping the smaller trees from the earth.
Lukas clung in desperation to the stout branches of the oak, never letting go his hold upon the pouch, knowing that in spite of everything, what he held there was not in the power of the sorcerer and was his only chance of victory.
Following the wind came sheets of rain . . . thunder . . . lightning . . . Hailstones as big as pebbles beat upon his head. But soaked and bruised and terrified, he still clung to the branches and to the pouch.
And then a small ray of hope came to give him cheer. There was an advantage after all in not being able to return to the seed, not being able to undo what had been done. He had grown. He had learnt. He was no longer as ignorant as he had been when this adventure began. He would outwit Gwynn yet!
He called his name into the wind.
‘Gwynn, son of Nudd,’ he called. ‘Lord of Winter, of Darkness and of Death!’
The raging storm ceased. Gwynn thought that he was surrendering. As he watched Lukas climb down the tree, his eyes gleamed with triumph.
‘Gwynn,’ Lukas said as he stood once more upon the earth. ‘I will not
give you this talisman. It is not yours, and I know you cannot take it.’ Swiftly he pulled the thread of gold and held the amber in his hand. He raised it and held it towards Gwynn.
‘Look at it . . . it is the very opposite of the power you use — it is the power of Light, the power of Love. You cannot touch it now unless someone willingly gives it to you, for when you had it, you threw it away.’ He remembered how Collen had told him the man of shadows had once been an archangel of light and he himself, as Gwythyr, remembered how Gwynn had once been one of the Lords of Annwn, a mighty shining warrior riding through the clouds, gathering the souls of those who were ready for the far kingdom, for the golden lands beyond the water. He had not been a dark and evil figure then. What had changed him? What had made him greedy to take what was not his and hold it with such ruthless cruelty? What had soured and corrupted him?
Still holding the amber and using its power, he walked boldly past Gwynn and away through the forest to Collen’s hut.
The sorcerer stared at him with smouldering eyes, but could do nothing.
* * * *
Lukas laid the talisman on Collen’s chest and folded the hermit’s hands around it. Then he knelt beside him. He believed the amber to be capable of bringing about magical transformations and tried to will it, by his concentrated thought, to perform its magic on Collen. But gradually his own mind seemed to stop thinking, and a feeling of great quiet and peace took over. He felt a kind of resignation. The amber was nothing in itself, only its association with love had any relevance to them now. Love, greater than themselves — the love of harmony and order and wholeness . . .
It was at the moment that this vision took over and the thought of superficial magic faded that Collen found that he could move his fingers.
The light from the jewel pulsed and glowed, sending the warmth of the sun, ancient forests and living trees throughout his limbs.
‘How beautiful,’ Lukas thought. ‘How beautiful!’
The Green Lady and the King of Shadows Page 10
