The Seeing Stone (7 page)

I
CAN SEE MYSELF QUITE CLEARLY IN THE BLACK FACE OF
the stone Merlin has given me. My mother says that when God made me, He had a spare blob of clay which He put on the end of my nose. I can see that, and my red ears which stick out more than Serle's or Sian's.

I like the rough-and-silky feel of the stone, and I like the way it quickly warms between my hands. But what is it for? And what did Merlin mean when he said it was time for me to have it, and time for him to let it go? “Until the day you die,” he said, “you will never own anything as precious as this.”

Serle always keeps an old arrow-tip in one of his pockets; he says it protects him from ever being wounded by an arrow. And Oliver has a coin from Jerusalem strung on the greasy key-thong around his neck. “The pope has blessed it,” he says, “and I wear it day and night. It drives away dark spirits.”

Is my stone like this? A kind of charm? Or does it have some other power? My obsidian! Merlin said it is made of ice and fire.

I
CANNOT REMEMBER WHEN I DIDN'T KNOW MERLIN. HE
lived here before I was born and when I look at his strange, unlined face I sometimes wonder whether he'll still be here after I'm dead.

I can see Merlin in one of my earliest memories. I am two, that's what my mother says, and Merlin is holding up a large square of golden silk. When he shakes it, it waves and floats like a flag or a banner. Or a gonfanon! I like that word. It's got air inside it. I keep reaching up to catch this silk, and it brushes the tips of my fingers. I strain and squeal. But I still can't catch it. Then Merlin wraps the silk right round me; it winks and shimmers, and I feel much too hot.

Each Sunday, my mother invites Merlin to eat dinner with us, and I know she and Nain like him. My father likes him too. He listens to Merlin and even asks his opinion. Sometimes they walk and talk together.

Merlin isn't a lord or a knight, but he isn't a priest or a monk or a friar. He isn't a manor tenant or a laborer; he doesn't do any days' work for my father. And he isn't a reeve or a baker or a brewer or a beadle. So what is he? Has he always lived here, next to the mill? Why doesn't he ever talk about his mother or his father? Has he any brothers or sisters? How is he able to pay for meat and bread and ale? I realize I know almost nothing about Merlin.

“It's obvious, Arthur,” said Oliver. “Merlin has something to hide.”

“What?” I asked.

“I'm sorry to say it but he's hiding something. That's why he never talks about himself—his childhood, his family, where he's come from. People with nothing to hide are open about these things.”

“But what is he hiding?” I asked.

“Have you ever thought,” said Oliver, “why Merlin prefers shadows to sunlight? What does that tell you?” He lowered his voice. “Some people say he's the child of his own sister.”

“What do you mean?”

“Work it out, Arthur. His father was his father and his mother…”

“Who says that?” I exclaimed.

“And some people think his mother was a nun…”

“But nuns…”

“…and his father was an incubus.”

“What's an incubus?”

“A demon,” said Oliver between his teeth. “An evil spirit! It comes during the night and enters a woman while she lies asleep.”

“You don't think that?”

“I don't know what to think, Arthur. But when I hear what comes out of Merlin's mouth…His delusions! His dangerous opinions!” Opinions! Oliver spat out the word with such force that he sprayed me with saliva.

“Merlin's an infidel!” he exclaimed. “He's not true to the three-in-one and one-in-three. I'll tell you something: Your father
shields Merlin. Were it not for him, Merlin would be in mortal danger.”

“You mean…”

“I mean people with false beliefs must admit their mistakes. Otherwise, they're cursed. Last year, in Hereford, an old woman went around telling people she was the Virgin Mary. She said she'd been sent back to earth by her son to tell people to repent.”

“What happened to her?”

“She was tried,” said Oliver darkly. “And then she was walled up.”

“Alive?” I exclaimed.

“She defiled the name of Our Lady,” said Oliver. “And believe me, the same fate would befall Merlin but for your father. I can't think what Sir John sees in him.”

Until I talked to Oliver, I didn't realize how much he hates Merlin. But can what he said be true? Merlin's own sister and his father…or a nun and an incubus?

I think I will ask my father about Merlin—and my mother too. And maybe Serle knows something. There's not much point in asking Merlin himself because he'll just smile, and answer a question with another question. I don't believe Merlin is dangerous or cursed, but it's true there's something strange about him.

K
ING JOHN'S MESSENGER TOLD US TO MUFFLE OUR
church bell until next Sunday, so Oliver has climbed the belfry and tied a kind of leather hood over the clapper of the church bell.

“Your father's doves,” Oliver told me, “are so pea-brained they seem to think my belfry is their cote. They've painted the whole place white. The walls are streaming. And I had to be careful going up the steps because they're so slippery.”

So when Oliver tolled the bell for Vespers this evening, it sounded very far away and lost in a thick fog.

“If memories had voices,” my mother said, “the sad ones would sound like muffled bells.”

A
PEDDLER WALKED IN YESTERDAY AFTERNOON, AND HE
had come all the way from Sir Josquin des Bois. That's fourteen miles.

“I've got something here for each of you,” the peddler said, and he delved into his dirty sack and pulled out colored silken threads, and leather pouches, and little cushions for pins, and linen kerchiefs, and a black leather belt, and gold-thread tassels, and two nightcaps.

“These will keep you ladies warm,” said the peddler. Then he put a pointed, cornflower-blue cap on my mother's head and a rustbrown cap on Tanwen's.

“Gogoniant!” exclaimed Tanwen—her mouth is full of strange Welsh words like that.

“Glory be!” exclaimed my mother. “We look like two of the little people!”

They both laughed and hugged each other.

My mother bought the two nightcaps, and also a little pot of ointment for sore breasts; and before supper, my father decided to buy a square clay tile with a strange face on it: a wide-eyed man with a face as long as an almond, and a mess of hair, and an unkempt beard, and leaves sprouting out of his nose and ears.

“He is beautiful and horrid,” my father said.

“Just horrid!” said Sian.

“Both,” said my father. “As we all are. And something else: If you move, the man's eyes move too. His gaze follows you. He's always looking at you.”

“Threepence!” said the peddler.

“Never!” said my father. Then he bargained with the peddler, and in the end he bought the face for one penny. “We'll feed you well,” my father said, “and you can sleep in the hay barn.”

When we woke up, the peddler had already gone. But so had Sian's cat, Spitfire. She didn't come in for dinner, and she has never missed dinner before.

“Why did he take her?” wailed Sian.

“Her white fur,” said my father.

“What for?”

“That'll make a pair of mittens.”

Then Sian banged her forehead on the table and howled.

“That's quite enough, Sian,” said my father. But my mother put an arm around her, and Sian buried her face in my mother's lap.

After dinner, Sian and Tanwen hunted for Spitfire everywhere, even in the stables. I kept hearing them calling for her, and Sian went right round the village asking if anyone had seen her.

“Pointless!” said Serle.

“No,” said my mother, “she may not find her, but it's not pointless, Serle.”

When we were alone, I asked my mother about Merlin.

“He came to live here soon after you were born,” she said. “Twelve years ago now. Your father made an agreement with him, and rented him his cottage and croft.”

“Where did he come from?”

“Merlin keeps himself to himself,” my mother said, and she shook her head.

“What about his family?”

My mother shook her head again. “I don't know much of his story,” she said.

“Oliver hates him,” I said. “He says Merlin may be the son of his own sister. Or a nun and an incubus!”

My mother screwed up her eyes. “Shame on him! That's dangerous talk, and he doesn't know anything about it.”

“You like Merlin,” I said.

“So do your father and Nain. Merlin's Welsh and wise, and he makes me laugh.”

“And me,” I said.

“He has always cared for you,” my mother said.

“Why?”

“I don't know. You're always asking questions and they're as hard as nutshells.”

“Mother,” I began, “do you know what my father's plans are? For me? He does want me to be a knight, doesn't he? He will let me go away into service…”

My mother gave her quick little nod which doesn't mean yes and doesn't mean no, but means she is listening very carefully. Then she spread her right hand like a comb and ran it backwards through my hair.

“He hasn't got another plan, has he?”

“Arthur!” said my mother, and gently, quite firmly, she pressed her warm hand down on the top of my head.

“Will you ask him to talk to me?” I said. “Please will you?”

T
HE MOST PRECIOUS GIFT IN OUR LIVES,” LADY
Alice said once, “is good health.”

She told me she used to have stiff fingers and stiff toes, but now she always keeps a hare's foot in one pocket, and each day she rubs it along the joints.

So when Merlin gave me my ice-and-fire stone and said it's the most precious thing I will ever own, was he giving me good health?

If so, I wish I could share it with Luke. Today is his name day but he blew bubbles and whimpered all morning. Saint Luke was a physician, and he must have had good health himself because Oliver says he lived for eighty-four years, but he doesn't seem to be able to hear our prayers for my brother.

I
'LL HELP YOU,” I TOLD GATTY. “I DON'T MIND.”

I do mind, though. I mind Serle's hot words and my father's cold silences. I mind the way my father doesn't understand me. I mind how a pig's eyelashes go on twitching.

But I think it's unfair of Hum to make Gatty do all the mucky work, like debloating the cows and shoveling up the afterbirths and digging out the latrines, so that is why I sometimes offer to help her.

First, our pig-man Dutton tied a rope to one of Stupid's back legs, and Stupid snuffled and snorted because he thought Dutton was taking him to root for beech mast. Dutton always puts the pigs on long tethers because otherwise they might stray too far into the forest.

But when Dutton and Giles took hold of his collar and led him in the wrong direction, away from the forest, Stupid sensed something was wrong and began to squeal. He didn't want to cross the ford, so while Dutton and Gatty tried to drag him, Giles and I shoved him from behind, and we all got wet.

“Bones!” said Dutton. “He's just as cussed as his brother was. Shove, Arthur! Shove!”

When we had half-pushed and half-dragged Stupid to the yard
behind the barn, Dutton told Gatty to run over to the kitchen and bring back the large mallet and three wooden bowls. “And this time be quick!” he said.

As soon as Dutton saw Gatty coming back, he knelt down and grabbed Stupid's front legs, and tried to get him to kneel down too; and then Giles took the big mallet.

“Come on, Stupid!” gasped Dutton. “Say your prayers!”

But Stupid stamped and squealed, and then he lurched out of Dutton's grasp and ran off across the barnyard.

“The rope!” shouted Dutton.

I pounced on the rope tied to Stupid's back leg, and Gatty got hold of it too, and when the tether was at full stretch, we gave it a jerk. That stopped poor Stupid in his tracks.

“Right!” panted Dutton. “Giles! You ready?”

Giles grunted and Stupid squealed louder than ever. He knew! He's not as stupid as all that.

Then Dutton squatted and reached out and wrapped both arms round Stupid's forelegs and brought him to his knees, and at once Giles raised the big mallet and thwacked Stupid on the top of his head.

Stupid gave one short, sudden, hoarse woof. Then he simply dropped his dripping snout onto his chest, and slowly settled back onto his haunches, and all at once the yard seemed a very quiet place.

Dutton let go of Stupid's forelegs and stood up. “Right!” he said. “Ready?” And he cut Stupid's throat.

As soon as Gatty, Giles, and I had filled the three bowls
with blood, Dutton rubbed the bristles on the top of Stupid's head and Stupid's sandy eyelashes faintly flickered and twitched.

“Good pig!” he said. “Right, you three! Get those bowls into the kitchen before the flies drink the whole lot. And be careful! If you spill a drop, Slim will slice up your guts for sausages and chitterlings!” Dutton guffawed at the thought of it. “He'll skin you alive,” he said. “Look at the three of you! So worshipful! Like you're celebrating Easter Mass, and holding up the sacrament.”

“No, Dutton,” I said. “You shouldn't say that.”

“Says who?” asked Dutton. “Fat Oliver? You coming back, Arthur?”

“If Gatty is, I am,” I said.

“A good thing too,” said Dutton. “All the skinning and butchering—that needs four of us.”

“It needs four of us,” said Giles.

“Yes, Giles,” said Dutton. “I just said that.”

Then Gatty and Giles and I walked slowly across the yard, carrying our bowls of blood.

“What's it for?” asked Gatty. “All this!”

“Black pudding,” I said. “Slim adds vinegar and spices to it, and whips it with a sprig of sage to stop it from curdling. And after he's salted all the joints—the neck and the shoulders and the ribs, the belly and the loin and all that—he'll make black pudding.”

“Never tasted it!” said Gatty.

“Slim says he's making it for Hallowe'en,” I said, “so I'll save you a piece for when you come guising. You too, Giles.”

“What's it made of?” Gatty asked.

“Stupid!” I said. “Mainly! And fat and spice. And onions. You mix it all up, and pour it into the gut, and poach it. Slim showed me.”

Serle must have heard us because he came bursting out of the kitchen and met us just outside the door.

“Serle!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“What's that?” demanded Serle.

“It's Stupid! His lifeblood.”

“You! You, doing yardwork?”

“I'm helping Gatty.”

“First fieldwork! Now yardwork!”

“Arthur's a helper,” said Giles. “That needs four.”

“It does, does it?” said Serle, and he stepped up very close to me. “I've been looking for you everywhere. Where have you been?”

“I've told you,” I said.

“Father's waiting. He's at the mill.”

“What for?”

“Us. He told me to find you.”

“Why?”

“I don't know,” said Serle, and then he shouldered me. I gripped my bowl but it was so slippery. It slopped and then it slid out of my grasp, and I dropped it. The blood splashed all over my tunic and my leggings.

“You cack-hand!” crowed Serle. “You can't even carry a bowl of blood without dropping it.”

“You saw what happened,” I said to Gatty and Giles.

“They saw you drop it,” said Serle in a measured way, and he stared at Giles and Gatty. “You saw him drop it,” he said. “Didn't you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Giles.

“Didn't you, Gatty?”

Gatty looked at Serle, and she said nothing.

“Didn't you, Gatty?” said Serle, much more loudly.

Gatty carefully dipped one little finger into her bowl. Then she reached out and made the sign of the cross with it on my forehead. I felt it, cool and wet; I felt it burning into me.

“What do you think you're doing?” Serle demanded. “You fleabag! How dare you?”

Gatty said nothing. She just stepped through the kitchen door, and Giles followed her.

“Come on!” Serle said. “He's waiting.”

“I must explain,” I said. “I must tell Slim.”

“He's not here,” said Serle.

“Or Ruth…”

“No! No one's here!”

But Serle was lying, and I knew he was, and he couldn't stop me from stepping into the kitchen. Tanwen was there. She was standing on the other side of the table and holding a pestle so tightly I could see the whites of her knuckles. Her face was flushed.

“Tanwen!” I exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

“Come on!” insisted Serle in a hoarse voice.

So I went with my brother, though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

“You're covered in blood,” jeered Serle.

“Leave me alone.”

“How many times has our father told you that pages shouldn't humble themselves?”

“Slim will be furious,” I said. “Oh Serle! If only…”

“What?”

“Don't you care? Don't you understand?”

“What?”

“I know what my duties are. My Yard-skills. My reading and my writing. I keep working at them. But why should Gatty do all the mucky work?”

“Why?” exclaimed Serle. “Because she's…who she is. Hum's daughter. Gatty has her duties, and you have yours.”

“Is that what you really think? In your guts?”

“Everyone does. Lord God gives each of us our duties on middle-earth. And our first duty, Arthur, is to obey Him.”

For a little while we walked along the stream in silence, matching stride for stride.

“What were you doing in the kitchen?” I asked. “You and Tanwen.”

“Nothing.”

“You were.”

“That's enough, Arthur.”

“Her face and eyes were hot.”

“I've warned you, Arthur.”

I could tell Serle was feeling nervous, because he had started to threaten me.

“It's all right,” I said. “I won't tell.”

“There's nothing to tell,” said Serle.

“I won't, anyhow.”

“No, you won't!” snarled Serle. Then he shouldered me again. He shoved me so hard that I staggered sideways and fell into the millpond.

When I surfaced, I could hear Serle shouting, “Hogwash, and you know it! Pig-swill!”

When I had splashed back to the bank, Serle offered me his outstretched hand, but I refused it. Smiling his thin smile, he stood there in his oatmeal tunic; I stood below him, dripping, daubed with millpond mud, stained with poor Stupid's blood.

I wouldn't mind if Serle had pushed me into the millpond, laughing; and I would have tried to push him back. But it wasn't like that. It wasn't what my mother calls horseplay, and it never has been.

Why has Serle never liked me? He is the firstborn, and he's almost seventeen. Serle is a squire and will soon be a knight, while I'm only a page and may never be a squire. And he's much stronger than I am. So why does he sneer at me and shoulder and shove me?

I could never tell Serle one of my secrets because he would only keep it for so long as it suited him. He doesn't know
about Lady Alice's secret and he never will because I promised her I would never tell anyone. But he must never know about my tailbone either, or else I could be in danger. And if I tell him about my obsidian, that might take away all its power.