She scanned the words again. The rhythm, cadence, and phrasing were similar to those of the transcriptions she’d seen. If these words were his, it would be the only known contemporaneous transcription of his work—written down literally as he dictated it. The value of the manuscript would have just tripled.
“Why Taliesin?” she asked.
“I wanted this part to be created by a higher intellect, so the savages would not be able to find our master if they somehow found my journal,” said Lestinus. “I never understood half of what Taliesin said, so he seemed a wise choice. I think he leaves some clear directions to my master’s tomb.”
“On what planet?” she said, dropping the translation notebook to the desk in frustration. “They wouldn’t have been able to read this archaic Welsh anyway.”
“What?”
“How did you expect anyone to be able to figure this out?”
Lestinus stood silently, gazing down upon her.
“Even if they had been able to read this language, this poem describes a place that has fruit trees near ebullient seas,” she said. “That describes pretty much the entire coastline of Wales. And England. And Ireland. And France. And any number of other countries where you might have transported his body.”
“He names Aquae Sulis,” said Lestinus.
“Bath,” she said to herself.
“There are baths there. Hot springs,” said Lestinus. “We washed there. It was wonderful after being filthy for so long.”
“Head from Bath toward the setting sun up the great Sabrina Flumen,” she said.
“The river we crossed on the way here,” said Lestinus.
“The Severn River?” she asked.
“Sabrina Flumen,” he said. “We rode it north.”
She grabbed her laptop, turned it on, and connected to the pub’s Wi-Fi. Typed in “sabrina flumen.” A Wikipedia entry for the Severn came up.
“The wave pushed us far upstream. Then we rowed a while. It was much narrower when we got out of our boats,” said Lestinus.
She turned back to the transcription and pointed to a paragraph earlier in the text, where Lestinus described the battle with the Usurper and Arthur’s death at his hand.
“In this part, where you describe where he supposedly died—”
“It is where he died,” said Lestinus. “We left the boats and marched into the mountains to meet the Usurper. There was a terrible battle with the traitor. In the end, our master died not at the hand of a savage but one of our own.”
Lestinus crossed himself.
“But where was it?” she asked.
“I don’t know what it’s called,” he said. “We used another river to bring his body down to the sea. We passed through a field of flowers. Spotted red. And the flowers all died while we were marching through the field.”
Sadness crossed his face like a cloud.
“I tried to tell the old man about the flowers,” said Lestinus. “But he had been far past hearing for a long time. It all got jumbled up in his mind. He couldn’t remember anything I said. So I stopped trying. I was waiting for you.”
“The old man?”
“The man who found my journal,” said Lestinus. “The man who realized what it was.”
Harper.
“Did you…” she began, but the world seemed to shift around her. She grabbed the side of the table and was overcome by an intense exhaustion, like someone had opened a valve in her foot and all the energy in her body had drained out. As she moved to the bed, stars formed in her eyes and she realized she was going to pass out. She hit the bed just as her legs gave way beneath her.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
Three hours later, Carys woke up. She was shaky and her head was swimming. She felt as if she’d been poisoned. It was half an hour before the shakiness subsided and she dared to sit up. Through the thin walls of the inn, she could hear the crowd below and in the beer garden outside her window.
Lestinus appeared, faintly at first, and then as clear as the desk next to which he stood.
“You must eat,” he said.
She got up and walked back and forth in her room several times, testing her legs. When she felt strong enough to navigate the stairs, she put the manuscript and translation in her purse, left the room, and carefully descended the stairway into the pub.
The place was pleasantly active and had the tangy smell of beer and men. The lamps on the window ledges cast a yellow glow on the pub’s dark wooden tables. Through the rippled glass of the pub’s windows, she could see Swansea Bay, murky in the gray-brown light.
It was an enormous tidal flat, drained of water, like an expansive muddy parking lot. The boats, built to stay upright on the ocean floor when the water drained out from underneath them, sat like sentinels here and there on the mud. Walkers and joggers passed on the boardwalk that ran along the edge of Swansea Bay.
A decrepit playground stood, unloved. There was a merry-go-round in the middle of it, its paint chipped and faded; some of the wooden platform slats were missing. It reminded her of something deep inside herself that she couldn’t quite name.
Then, like a gust of wind, a memory blew into her mind. The dream. She’d been there, on that merry-go-round. It was the last happy moment she’d ever had with her parents. It made her heart ache in that old, familiar way that she’d thought she’d finally outgrown. She looked away. Coming here maybe wasn’t such a bright idea.
Peter was still behind the bar.
“We saved you a spot,” he said to her, motioning to a space at the end of the bar. There were no stools.
She moved to the open spot, ordered a Coke, tried to put the sight of the playground and all the other thoughts that came with it out of her mind, and glanced at the bar menu. She ordered, paid Peter, took her drink, and settled at a small table in the corner of the room.
The bar was a low hum of pleasantries between friends and neighbors. It lulled her. A few minutes later, her steak-and-ale pie arrived. She bent over and stuck her nose into the steam rising from the brown crust. It had the rich, salty, slightly burnt smell of a family kitchen—not her mother’s, though. It was more like the kitchen at Annie’s house. With her first bite, she felt her energy instantly returning.
“Good?” said Peter from behind the bar.
“Amazing,” she said. “Thank you.”
The front door of the pub opened, and a man walked in alone. His thick black hair was damp and combed back. He was wearing a beige wool fisherman’s sweater and jeans tucked into muddy Wellingtons. Several of the men at the end of the bar greeted the black-haired man with a holler and motioned him over.
When she glanced up a few minutes later, the man was standing at the bar with a glass of beer, looking at her. She smiled slightly and looked back down at her food. Her skin started tingling. She reached into her purse and pulled out the translation with the intention of looking busy enough that he’d stay away.
It worked. When she looked up again, the man was engaged in what appeared to be a heated conversation with another drinker. She finished her Coke and packed away the translation. She put her dirty dishes on the bar.
“Get you another?” asked Peter.
“No, thank you,” she said. “But can you tell me where I can find the closest library? I need to do some research.”
“What kind of research?”
“History of the region.”
“There’s a library just up the High Street,” said Peter. “Celeste is the head librarian. I’m pretty sure they’re open tomorrow. It’s up Oystermouth Road, about a mile and a half on the left.”
“Thanks,” said Carys. “Have a good night.” She turned and climbed the staircase to her room.
2
Monday, June 18
It took every ounce of energy Carys had to roll over and swipe her cell phone’s alarm off th
e next morning. She fell back asleep instantly.
She woke again at nearly eleven. After a shower, she examined herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy, with dark circles under them that she’d never had before. There was a gray pallor to her skin. She looked awful. She felt awful, too. Her midsection ached. It was weird. She wasn’t due for her period, and she hadn’t had anything to drink the night before.
She pulled on jeans and a light sweater, grabbed her computer and the books, and headed downstairs. She needed coffee, but no one was behind the bar. She walked out the side door into the parking lot to get her car. It was misting and overcast, and she could smell the funk of another low tide. She slowly and very gingerly maneuvered her Vauxhall down the narrow street that ran next to the boardwalk, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. She kept her eyes glued to the bumper of whatever car was in front of her, mimicking its moves.
Stay to the left, stay to the left, she repeated over and over. Just when she thought she’d gotten the hang of it, she managed to navigate up and over the shallow center island in the middle of the Oystermouth roundabout, drawing a barrage of car honking and a slew of obscenities from several men on the sidewalk.
The stout “Oystermouth Library” sign hung on the front of a square, ancient, whitewashed building at the top of a hill with a panoramic view of the ocean. Carys pulled into a small opening in the tall stone fence next to the building.
The library’s side entrance led her to a bright, fluorescent-lit room filled with metal book stacks. She approached the librarian’s desk. Behind it sat an elderly woman with curly white hair and glasses pushed down to the end of her nose. She had a red cardigan draped over her shoulders.
“Good morning,” said Carys, doing her best to be cheerful despite the gnawing ache in her gut. “I’m looking for Celeste.”
“I’m Celeste,” said the woman. “How can I help you?”
“My name is Jane Roberts. I’m looking for some information on…uh…I…” she paused, searching for the right words. Seconds ticked by. Her brain seemed jammed.
“Take your time, dear,” said Celeste. “I’ll probably live at least another week.”
Celeste stared at her for a beat longer, then the woman’s eyes twinkled.
“I’m kidding,” she said.
Carys laughed self-consciously. The ache in her gut flared.
“I’m researching a flower species that is indigenous to Wales,” she said. “And I’m also looking for the oldest map of Wales that you have.”
“The oldest?” replied Celeste.
“Yes, please.”
“Do you have research credentials?” asked Celeste. “We don’t normally allow the public to view the ancient documents.”
Her ears pricked up.
“Actually,” she said, “I’m a…”
Then she remembered that she couldn’t use her very excellent and appropriate credentials here. She was Jane. From Boston. And that was all.
“I’m looking for any information you have about the ancient path of the Severn,” she said.
“I can do better than an old map,” said Celeste. “I have an excellent modern geography text that shows the route of the river over the centuries. Would you like to see that?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
“What era are you interested in?” asked Celeste
“Sixth century.”
Celeste glanced back at her with an odd, almost amused expression on her face.
“Sure, love,” said Celeste. “Follow me.”
The old woman got up and shuffled down the long line of metal stacks. She paused, stepped into one of the aisles, pulled a set of rolling stairs toward her, and took three tentative steps up. She grabbed a large, thick hardcover book from the top shelf and handed it down to Carys.
Carys found an unoccupied table and opened the geography book. She flipped back and forth between the two pages that showed the Severn River’s course—one from AD 1000 and one from the current era. According to the maps and accompanying descriptions, the river’s course had not changed much since the beginning of the second millennium. It originated, then and now, from a spring high in the flat-topped Cambrian Mountains. It flowed down the mountains, which pushed it northeast, then it bent nearly due east into England. Its course then turned southwest until it met the sea right where she had crossed it the day before. There, it served as the border between England and Wales.
To Carys, it looked like an enormous question mark. And that’s exactly what it was. How far up would Lestinus and Arcturus have ridden the famous Severn bore, a wave that flowed up the river, against the current, created by the second-highest tide in the world? Where did they march after that? Until she answered those questions, a key piece of the puzzle—the location of Arcturus’s death—was missing.
She rested back in her chair and looked at the ceiling. Be methodical, she thought. Tick off one thing at a time. Start with the easy things first. The flowers should be easy. She rose and approached the librarian’s desk.
“I’m trying to identify a flower, and I only have a very basic description of it,” she said. “Can you help?”
“No pictures?” asked Celeste.
“No. I only have a description. It’s a flower with red spots, and it blooms and dies quickly. And it grows in Wales. Probably in the northern portion, near the ocean.”
“Is that all we have to go on?” asked Celeste.
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
Celeste pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll see what I can come up with. I may not be able to deal with this today though.”
“That’s fine. I’m grateful for any help you can offer. Also, I’m trying to figure out how far up the Severn the bore goes.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” said Celeste. “But I’m sure any local surfer could answer the question. When the tides are right, they can surf that wave up the river for miles. It never ceases to amaze me.”
“Do you happen to know any surfers?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Celeste. “But there are plenty of surf shops around here. Although a better bet is the lifesaving station at the end of the pier in Mumbles.”
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
As Carys drove back down the hill toward Mumbles, her stomach growled. She needed to eat. She couldn’t risk another episode like the one the previous night. She pulled into a parking spot across the street from a small supermarket. The fruit and vegetable section was just inside the main entrance. Everything was labeled in Welsh and English. The Welsh words made her head ache. Eggplant was wylys. The cucumbers were ciwcymbrau. Oranges were orennau. Apples were afalau. She couldn’t begin to imagine how they were pronounced. She picked up an apple. A tall, twentysomething stock boy with a severe part in his black hair stood looking at her.
“How do you pronounce ‘apple’ in Welsh?” she asked him. He smiled at her.
“A-val,” he said. “F’s are pronounced like v’s.”
“A-val,” she repeated, and took a bite. “Thank you.”
“Croeso,” he said, and turned back to his work.
Carys grabbed a yogurt and another apple, paid, and went back to her car. She ate and mulled the facts. If she could find out where the Severn bore ended, she could at least narrow down the section of mountain range where Arcturus had been killed. The only other thing she knew for a fact was that once the guy was dead, his army had ridden a river or stream down from the mountains, down four falls—waterfalls, she assumed, unless the translation was off on that word—to the sea. Then they had sailed across turbulent waters to an island of apples. Afalau.
At the end of the boardwalk, a couple of miles around the bay from her inn, there was a long, narrow pier that jutted out a thousand feet into Swansea Bay. At the end of the pier was the Mumbles Lifesaving Station. It was an angular, modern buildin
g and looked completely out of place amidst the Victorian architecture of the buildings along the waterfront. She parked in the pay lot at the base of the pier and took the long walk out to the station. The front door of the building opened directly into a gift shop. She was greeted by a woman behind the cash register.
“Good afternoon,” said Carys. “I’m looking for some information about the Severn bore.”
“Let me get Fiona,” said the woman. “She runs the place.” The woman turned and made a quick call, and a few minutes later, a tall, solidly built woman with short brown hair, wearing an official-looking uniform, appeared in the shop.
“Hi,” said Fiona. “How can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m doing some research for a book, and I’ve got a question about the Severn bore.”
“Fire away,” said Fiona.
“How far up the river does it go?”
“Normally, it stops at the weir in Gloucester,” said Fiona. “But it’s been known to go all the way up to the lock in Tewkesbury during exceptionally high tides.”
“Do you know how far it would have gone before the weirs and locks were built?”
“I don’t know,” Fiona said. “But those locks have been there since the 1800s.”
“And how far up is the Severn navigable for boats?”
“You’re not thinking of going up it, are you?” asked Fiona, her eyes turning sharp. “It can be very dangerous for inexperienced boaters, especially below Gloucester.”
“Oh, no,” said Carys. “I’m just doing some research.”
“I’ve been told you can get a boat all the way up to Welshpool,” said Fiona. “Maybe even farther than that if you’re in a rowing craft.”
“Can you show me where that is on a map?”
“Happy to,” said Fiona. “Follow me.”
The woman led Carys up a flight of stairs and along a balcony that looked out over a bright, shiny orange lifeboat, suspended on straps in the middle of the building. Below it was a huge ramp that sloped down through a big door in the side of the building and into the bay.
The Ghost Manuscript Page 15
