The Seeing Stone (13 page)

T
HIS HAS BEEN A VERY BAD DAY BECAUSE OF WHAT
Serle told me. And all the worse because it began so well. “A very sharp morning!” said my father while we were breaking our fast with round bread and butter and smoked herring. “Today's the first day of the winter reckoning and Hum and I have plenty to do. But you, Serle. Why don't you and Arthur ride out and search for signs of Hooter?”

“What's Hooter?” asked Sian.

“Yesterday morning, Will told Hum he heard Hooter rattling in his chains,” my father continued.

“What is Hooter?” demanded Sian.

“When the Vikings came to England,” my father said, “they brought Hooter with them. A huge black dog. He has long black hair, and he's larger than a wolf, almost as large as a pony. His eyes are orange. Hooter's master died. He was killed in battle by the English east from Hereford. But Hooter's still alive, and searching for his master and howling.”

Sian's dark eyes were as large and round as my mother's shoulder-clasps.

“Joan has found spoor,” my father told us.

“What's spoor?” asked Sian.

“Footprints,” said my father. “Along both headlands between
Nine Elms and Great Oak. Hum doesn't know what to make of them. They're not wolf or bear—and certainly not boar.”

“Why have Serle and Arthur got to search for him?” demanded Sian.

“He'll eat our hens and geese,” said my father. “He may attack our sheep. If he's anywhere around here, we need to hunt him and kill him.”

“I want to search for him,” said Sian.

“That's quite enough,” said my father, waving away Sian's words as if they were pestering flies. “Serle and Arthur will never get out at all.”

My father has never once before suggested Serle and I should hunt alone together, and I felt proud and rather nervous.

First, we went to the kitchen for food. Slim was busy cooking dinner, but Ruth wrapped up pieces of boiled mutton for us in one shaggy towel, and oatmeal cakes in another. She filled two bottles with ale from the barrel, and stoppered them, and gave us each an apple and a pear.

I like Ruth, and I think she and Howell will be happy when they marry next year because they both laugh so much. Tanwen doesn't like her, though. She told me once that Ruth is a loudmouth, and can't keep secrets.

In the stables, I saddled Pip and Serle saddled Gwinam, and we put our food and drink in our saddlebags. Serle chose a short spear, and I tied my quiver of peacock arrows to my belt and slung my new bow over my shoulder. Then we rode out.

First we picked our way along the headlands to see the spoor
for ourselves; it was very large, and splayed, more like a boar than any other creature. When I dismounted and looked at it, I felt a cold finger touch the back of my neck, and it wasn't Serle's.

The sun had still not burned away the ground-frost as we picked our way down Pikeside to the edge of the forest. Side by side we rode, and quite slowly, searching for signs, and all around us in the forest there were singing birds, bobbing rabbits, a jack-hare, chucklings and rustlings.

“This is a very strange quest,” said Serle, “and it's like looking for one of our mother's hairpins in a barn full of hay, and it could last a lifetime. If we'd brought Tempest and Storm, they might have picked up Hooter's scent.”

What did it matter, though? What mattered to me was riding out together, and the sharp edge of the morning.

Serle was quite friendly when we set out, but by the time we stopped to eat, he had become moody again.

“You know what Nain said about names?” I began. “What they mean. What Serle means.”

“What about it?'

“I'm making up a song about Jack-Hare:

Cat-of-the-wood and cabbage-patch stag,

Squat-in-the-hedge and frisker,

Sit-still and shiver-maker,

Snuffler, twitching-whisker…”

“A hare's a witch,” said Serle.

“I know,” I said. “I'm going to say that too.”

“You think you know everything,” said Serle.

“I don't,” I said.

“You do.”

“The more I know, the less I know.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I do know I want to be like you,” I said. “I want to go into service. I want to be a squire.”

“That shows how much you don't know,” said Serle, and he stuffed his mouth full of mutton.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I mean…” said Serle, but his mouth was so full he couldn't go on.

“What do you mean, Serle?” I repeated.

Serle chewed and chewed and swallowed the mutton. “I mean two things,” he said. “First, you're not good enough at your Yard-skills to be a squire or a knight. You're not, are you? All you're good at is archery.”

“I'm getting better,” I cried. “I keep practicing.”

“Squires use swords,” said Serle. “Swords and lances, not bows and arrows.” Then he stuffed his mouth again, and chewed, and spat out a piece of gristle. “And this is the second thing,” he said. “Our father doesn't mean you to be a squire.”

“How do you know?” I cried.

“It stands to reason,” said Serle, and he was half-smiling. “Haven't you thought about it? A man may have two sons, or three sons, or ten sons, but it's only the firstborn who inherits the manor.”

“But…”

“Think about it, Arthur! The most you can hope for is a little land, with my agreement.”

“Why with your agreement?”

“Because it could have been mine. Do you want to weaken our father's manor? Do you want to break it up?”

“But…”

“Is that what you want?”

“No! No, it's not!”

“And how can you make a good marriage without your own manor? Have you thought about that? You can't.”

“I will!” I shouted.

“You can't.”

“But Lady Alice said…”

“What did she say?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“You're good at reading and writing, Arthur,” said Serle, “and that's just as well. You must become a monk, or a priest if you want.”

“I won't,” I shouted.

“Or even a schoolman. Our father said you'd make a good schoolman.”

“Why do you hate me?” I asked in a low voice.

For a while we sat in silence. All around us the birds sang, and the sun threw its spears between the tall trees.

“Everyone hates a cuckoo,” Serle replied, “because it lays its eggs in another bird's nest. But I'm the firstborn, and I'm stronger than you are. You're not pushing me out.”

Then Serle stood up, and he mounted Gwinam. He galloped away and left me and Pip in the middle of Pike Forest.

For a long time, I sat there on my own, and I felt so sad I wouldn't have minded if Hooter had come out of the forest, and rattled his chains, and swallowed me. Anyhow, I think Serle is more dangerous than Hooter.

I
WOKE THIS MORNING SO SAD BECAUSE OF MY ARGUMENT
with Serle. I felt as if part of me had died, and I could never be happy again. Then I started to ask myself questions. Is it true my father doesn't mean me to be a squire? Does he think I am selfish, wanting to weaken his manor? But if I'm not a squire, how can Grace and I ever be betrothed? What if my father does want Serle to marry her?

Nobody was awake. I crept upstairs and missed out the creaking steps. In the half-dark I stumbled into my writing-room. It's cold and bare, I know, but it is mine; I can warm it and fill it with my thoughts and feelings; with the pictures and stories in my obsidian.

When I pulled the saffron bundle out of the crevice, it glimmered in the dawn light. I unwrapped it and cradled the stone tight between my right palm and my heart.

I felt it grow warm, and then I looked.

There is a boy and he is alone. Kneeling in front of a huge tombstone in a forest clearing. I can't see who he is, though, because his back is turned to me.

For a long time he remains on his knees.

Then I see what is carved on the tombstone. Just one word.
BROTHER
.

I can hear hooves, and then two horses gallop into the clearing. One is riderless and the other carries a knight holding a black
shield with a yellow star on it. Then a second horseman gallops into the clearing. It is the hooded man!

The knight and the hooded man dismount, and kneel down on either side of the boy. Ringdoves sing their throaty, three-note songs and rusty leaves spin down from the oaks and beech trees.

“What is your name?” the knight asks the boy.

“Arthur.”

“That is right,” says the knight.

“What does it mean?” asks the boy.

“One thing and many,” says the hooded man.

“Each of us must grow into his own name,” says the knight.

“What is your name, sir?” Arthur asks the knight.

“Pellinore,” says the knight. “And I'm hunting the Yelping Beast.”

“The Yelping Beast?”

“It's ten years since I last glimpsed him,” Sir Pellinore says with so deep a sigh that his shoulders heave. “He has a head like a snake and a leopard's body, a lion's backside, feet like a hart.”

“The strangest beast on middle-earth,” says the hooded man.

“And strangest of all is the sound he makes,” adds the knight. “He's not so very large, no larger than a pony, but when he yelps he sounds as if there are sixty hounds baying inside him.”

“Why are you hunting him?” Arthur asks Sir Pellinore.

“Because he's my quest.”

“What is a quest?”

“A long journey, with many adventures, many setbacks, many dangers.”

“Where to?”

“Ah!” says the knight. “That's the point. That's what you have to find out. Then you'll grow into your name.”

“Each of us needs a quest,” says the hooded man, “and a person without one is lost to himself.”

“Each of us must have a dream to light our way through this dark world,” Sir Pellinore says.

“So, Arthur,” says the hooded man in his deep voice, “what will your quest be?”

Then the hooded man and the knight take Arthur by the left arm and the right, and raise him to his feet. They bow to him, and give him the reins of the riderless horse. Then they mount their own horses and ride away, deeper into the forest.

Arthur is alone.

He turns round, very slowly, and I recognize him.

I am Arthur: Arthur-in-the-stone is me.

B
UT HOW CAN I BE IN THE STONE?

Merlin told me once about magicians who can appear in two places at the same time, but this can't be like that, because Arthur-in-the-stone and I are not really the same person, and I'm not a magician.

When I woke this morning, I was already thinking about Serle. He's so unfair and unkind to me, and I think he would be glad if I fell ill and died. So is that why the one word on that tombstone was
BROTHER
?

Or was the word because of Luke? He has grown very weak, and none of Johanna's medicines have helped him. He can only mew like a kitten, and I think he will die soon.

The way my stone glistens and fizzes with stars, and the way it looks deeper than the lake under Gibbet Hill! The way it shows and says! It is like a world inside my world.

I
SAT UP WITH A START.

My father was kneeling beside my bed, holding a candle in each hand.

“Luke is dying,” he said quietly. “Will you go and wake Oliver? Ask him to ring the Passing Bell.”

I pulled on my drawers and rolled up my leggings.

“You can wear your house-cloak,” said my father. “Leave the door unbarred when you come back in, and carry this candle through to our chamber. I'll wake Serle and Sian and Nain.”

As I walked down the glebe, each star was sharp as one of the thorns in Christ's crown. I had to bang on Oliver's door seven times before he woke up, and by then I had woken every dog in the village, and some of the goats as well.

When I got back to the house, my mother and father and Nain and Serle and Sian were all kneeling round Luke's cradle, each holding a candle.

Sian stroked Luke's forehead with her right forefinger. “Little one,” she said. “Don't die.”

“He's not dying hard,” said Nain.

My mother gulped, leaned forward, and nuzzled her face into Luke's body.

Nain was right. Luke didn't struggle; he didn't whimper. The
pulse of life in him just faded. He reached out and up with both hands and, between breath and breath, he died.

Our candles shone in the darkness; they did not even flicker.

But suddenly my mother jerked and screamed, as if she had been pierced with a spear. She threw herself against my father, and tore at her long black hair.

“Arthur,” said my father. “Hide the face of the mirror so it cannot trap him. Over there, on the ledge! And open the hall door. We must clear the way for him.”

“My Luke!” keened my mother. “My Luke! My beautiful life!”

My father tried to draw my mother to him, but she tore herself away and banged her head against the ground, and gasped.

“Mother!” said Serle hoarsely. “Please, mother!”

Sian's eyes were quick and bright with tears. “He's not dead for me,” she said.

We all stayed with little Luke through the watches of the night, and when dawn broke, my father sent Serle over to Brian's and Macsen's cottages. “Ask them to dig the grave,” he said. “They know where.”

Then Nain and my mother washed Luke's body. His skin was bluish-white, like milk after the second skimming, and his limbs had become very stiff. I held his cold right hand, and I wanted to squeeze it, but I was afraid I might break it.

My mother and Nain dressed Luke in his new nightshirt and little stockings, and my mother put on his head the cornflower-blue nightcap she bought from the peddler. Then they wrapped him from head to toe in a black winding-sheet. But when the time
came to carry him down to the graveyard, my mother wouldn't let him leave the house.

“No!” she wailed. “He's mine! My life! My life!”

“Helen!” said my father, gently and steadily. And then he reached out for Luke, but my mother held him to her all the more tightly, and I don't think my father knew what to do.

Then Serle put his arms right round my mother—round her and Luke—and for a long while he held her without saying anything. Slowly my mother's passion and energy drained away. She sagged, and Serle had to hold her up. Then she began to shake without making a sound, and my father gently took Luke out of her arms.

Brian and Macsen had opened Luke's grave next to the little mounds where we buried Mark last year, and Matthew the year before.

“The Lord shows mercy to the children He takes away from this evil world,” Oliver told us. “They are alive but in another place. They are angels.”

Again my mother began to shake, and then to sob. She leaned over little Luke as he lay in his winding sheet, cradled in my father's arms, and her warm tears splashed onto him.

“A child,” Oliver said, “is flesh of his parents' flesh. It is natural to feel grief when he is taken away. But it's wrong to mourn as if there's no life after this life. Those who mourn lack faith.”

As soon as my father and Oliver had lowered Luke into his little grave, Sian stepped forward and quickly dropped something on top of him.

“What was that?” demanded my father.

“My knucklebones,” said Sian.

“Why?”

“He may need them.”

My father looked at Oliver and Oliver shrugged his shoulders, but there was nothing they could do about it. You can put things into a grave, but you mustn't steal from the dead—not even a game of knucklebones.

“We brought nothing into this world,” said Oliver, looking down his nose at Sian, “and it is certain we can take nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away.” Oliver reached down and picked up a handful of earth, and gestured to us to do the same. “We commit Luke's body to the ground,” he said, and he cast his handful of earth into the grave. “Earth to earth,” cried Oliver, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust: in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life. Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord.”

Then we all cast our handfuls of earth over Luke, and after that Brian and Macsen filled in the grave with the soft earth. They used their spades as gently as I use this pen.

“Arthur,” said my father. “You're our wordsmith. You must choose the words to be carved on Luke's tombstone. That's right, isn't it, Helen?”

My mother inclined her head.

“Will you do that?” my father asked.

I will; I'll do it for Luke. But I don't want my father to think I'm a wordsmith. I'm going to get worse at reading and at all the writing exercises I do for Oliver; and I'm going to get better, much better, at all my Yard-skills.

“Good,” I heard my father say. “You find the right words, Arthur; and then I'll ask Will to cut them.”