The Seeing Stone (8 page)

S
OMETHING VERY STRANGE HAS HAPPENED.

I woke up at green dawn and I felt rinsed. I felt fresh. Yesterday's mud and blood and angry words and stony silences had all dissolved. Somehow, I felt ready. I felt as keen as the edge of my jackknife when I have just ground it.

It was quite warm in the hall but it's cool in my writing-room, so I wrapped myself in my house-cloak and put on my rabbitskin cap, and then I crept upstairs. The fourth and fifth stairs creak, and so do the ninth and tenth, so I haul myself up and over them.

Over my wind-eye a spider had woven its web, and it was trembling and shining. It was silver unless it was gold.

I reached into the dusty gap between the blocks of stone, and pulled out the saffron bundle. I've done that each day since Merlin gave it to me.

First, I warmed my obsidian between the palms of my hands. Then I scratched one of the white spots on the lumpen side, but I couldn't dig it out. The stone is very hard. I can't mark it at all.

Then I turned the stone over and stared into its dark shine. Its deep eye that never blinks. I stared into it and, after a while, I had a strange feeling that it was staring back at me.

At first, all I could see was what I've seen before. Me! My ears and my blob nose. My rabbitskin cap. But then my stone began to glow. Slowly its darkness cleared. Day dawned in my stone.

I can see a man sitting on a grassy bank. He's wearing a crown. There's another man standing beside him, but I can't see his face because he's wearing a dove-grey hood.

“Dig the ground!” this man calls out in a deep voice. “Dig the ground!” I know that voice. I'm sure I do. But I can't think where I've heard it before.

Beneath the bank, there's a shallow pit. Many people are shoveling earth and rocks out of it and, as they do so, the pit begins to fill with water. The water wells up out of the ground. It covers their feet, their ankles, it climbs their shins until they can no longer dig. It washes around their waists.

“Drain the pool!” calls the hooded man in his deep voice. “Drain the pool!”

Then all the people wade and splash out of the pit. They cut canals from its four corners, and the water in the pool sluices out and away.

At the bottom of the pit I can see two caves. Two open, dark mouths. Out of one writhes a dragon with scales as white as lily spathes. Out of the other writhes a dragon with scales as red as quick, fresh blood. The moment the dragons see each other, they snarl. They pant. They throw spears of flame at each other.

First the white dragon forces the red dragon back until he's at the very edge of the soggy pit. Blood oozes out from between his scales, and he's spattered with mud. He snarls, his chest heaves. Then the red dragon raises his head to heaven; he roars and wraps the white dragon in flames…The smoke! All the smoke! My eyes cannot see. But the hooded man, I can hear his deep voice again.

But what is he saying? I can't make out his words.

“…the king who was…and will be…”

All the people are shouting, and I can't make out the hooded man's words.

Then the smoke in my stone began to clear. It drifted; it cleared. But the king and the hooded man had gone. The dragons and the people and the pit: They had all gone. All I could see was myself again.

A
S SOON AS I'D FINISHED MY YARD-SKILLS, I CAME
back up here. It is almost dark now, so I have sat in this window seat for a long time. In fact, I feel as if I have been sitting here all my life.

I know my parents and Serle think I am strange because I like to be on my own sometimes, but I need time to work things out. To write down my thoughts and feelings.

“On your own half the time,” Nain complained to me. “It's unnatural! You're not one of us.”

I need to talk to Merlin. I need to tell him what happened this morning. But he has ridden to the fair at Ludlow and last year he didn't come back for four days.

I have never heard of a seeing stone. But that's what my obsidian is. I looked into it. I saw through it. And it spoke to me.

Why now? Was it because of the way I held it? As soon as I came up here, I unwrapped my stone again; but although I turned it round and turned it over, and held it in my left hand and my right hand and in both hands, and looked deep into it, it was dark and silent. So how did I hold it and will I ever be able to see into it again? Why were the dragons fighting? And who was the king? Who was the hooded man?

“The king who was…and will be…”

What does all this mean?

E
ARTH-FROST! THE FIRST OF THE AUTUMN.

A tide of cool air flowed through my wind-eye and washed my face and wrists. It flowed through the copper beech and hundreds of leaves broke loose. A whole fleet of them, staggering and spinning. Drowning in air.

Some of the leaves fell into the fishpond, and that always happens if the wind blows from the north. It annoys my father because he likes to watch our perch and waving trout and little golden fish silently nosing around their kingdom.

“They can't answer him back,” Serle told me once. “That's why he likes them.”

When most of the leaves have fallen, my father gives two of the villagers, Brian and Macsen, day-work, and they wade into the pond up to their chests, and rake off as many leaves as they can. But although the pond is stepped, the bottom is uneven and sticky, so usually one of them falls right in.

Brian and Macsen also rake up the leaves around the base of the tree. Last year, they made a huge pile, and Sian and I tried to go to sleep in it. We got too cold, though, and couldn't stop shivering even when we hugged one another. So when the Swan glittered right over us, and Arcturus was already low in the west, we gave up and went back into the hall.

Through my wind-eye I watched Sian skipping and waving, and Nain hobbling after her. Sian tried to catch the leaves falling from the copper beech before they touched the ground, and her legs kept getting in each other's way. Three times she fell over!

I don't know how many leaves she managed to catch, but enough anyhow to stuff into her pillow and save herself from sniffs and snuffs for the whole of this coming winter.

If only little Luke was old enough to catch leaves too! Each evening my mother dips his feet in hot water, and then holds his soles close to the fire until its heat has dried them. After that, she rubs garlic and Stinking Roger into them. But Luke still coughs and shivers, and he whimpers for half the night, and my mother is afraid for him.

Then, through my wind-eye, I saw Merlin! Merlin coming out of the orchard, eating an apple! I put down my pen and levered myself out of my alcove; I ran down the stairs and met him outside the hall door.

“Merlin! Where have you been?”

“Where I always am,” said Merlin.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“With myself.”

“I mean…”

“I know!” said Merlin, smiling, and he took another bite of his apple.

“I need to talk to you.”

“And it can't wait,” said Merlin.

I led Merlin away from the hall, past the fishpond and into the
herb garden, and there was no one there. We sat down on the coping of the well.

“Heigh-ho!” sighed Merlin, and he began to warble:

“Now the rose withers

And the lily is spent

That both once bore

The sweetest scent

In summer, that sweet time…”

“Merlin!” I said.

“Leaf-eaters!” said Merlin accusingly. “Look at all these holes! Do you know what to do if you want to get rid of caterpillars?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“You have to take them to church and sit them on a cabbage,” said Merlin, grinning, “and invite them to listen to Mass…Ask Oliver! He knows all about it. Now, Arthur. What is it?”

“The stone! My obsidian!”

“Yes?”

“Its darkness…it cleared.”

“Ah!” said Merlin slowly, and he took another bite. “Very sour, this apple! It needs more straw ripening.”

“It cleared. There was a king. I think he was a king. He had a crown. And a hooded man. And a crowd of people digging out a pit. There were dragons, and they started to fight. One was red and the other was white.”

“Yes,” said Merlin. “The red dragon of Wales—Wales and all the Britons! The white dragon of England.”

“They were fighting to the death.”

“Who won?” asked Merlin.

“I don't know! The dragons opened their jaws and threw flame-spears at each other. But their smoke blinded me! And when the smoke cleared, the stone was dark again.”

“Begin at the beginning!” Merlin said.

I told Merlin everything. And I asked him all the questions I had already asked myself. Who was the king? And who was the hooded man? Who were the dragons and why were they fighting?

Merlin's eyes were shut. He always closes them when he is listening carefully. “Questions! Questions!” he said.

“Who was the king?” I asked again.

“What if I said he was Vortigern?”

“Who? Where was his kingdom?”

“You see. The answer to that question leads to more questions; and you have to know the answer to them before the first answer means anything. Vortigern was king of Britain.”

“When?”

“After the Romans left Britain in peace. Before the Saxons broke that peace.”

“How do you know?”

“I've heard an old story,” Merlin said, “very old, that Vortigern wanted to build a tower, a fortress. But he was unable to do so because each night the earth swallowed up the foundations laid by his masons on the previous day. So the king summoned a wise man, and the wise man told him, ‘Dig the ground!' And when the king's people dug the ground below the foundations, they unearthed a pool…”

“That's it!” I cried.

“Many questions,” Merlin said, “are like nutshells— with their nuts still inside them.”

“That's what my mother says,” I said.

“We all echo each other,” said Merlin. “You asked me who the dragons were, and why they were fighting. But haven't you heard of the red dragon of Wales and the white dragon of England? Why, the Caldicot coat of arms has a red dragon in one quarter because of your mother's blood. And the Welsh and the English have always been enemies, haven't they? Sometimes they fight; sometimes they lick their wounds and get ready to fight again.”

“I see,” I said.

“But you must see for yourself,” Merlin said. “That is what you must learn. That's what I told you up on the hill.”

“But you've told me about Vortigern and the dragons,” I said, “and now I understand.”

“It's right to hear the old stories,” said Merlin, “and to learn from ancient books. But what use is knowledge? It's dry as dead leaves; it's no use at all unless you're ready for it.”

“I am ready,” I said.

“Mmm!” said Merlin, as he dropped the core of his apple into the well. “Has Oliver told you about the man who sowed seeds? He strewed some by the wayside and the birds ate them. He dropped some on stony ground, and they soon withered. He threw some among thistles which sprang up and choked them. But some seeds the sower planted in good earth… That's it, Arthur. You have to be that earth. You have to ready yourself.”

“I am ready,” I repeated. “I want to be.”

“You want to be,” said my father in a loud voice. “What do you want to be?”

Merlin and I stood up.

“It doesn't matter,” said my father, shaking his head impatiently and advancing towards us. “What matters, Arthur, is that I can never find you when I want to speak to you. What matters is that you're so disobedient. You didn't come to the mill yesterday…”

“Sir, I was coming…”

“…and Serle says that instead of practicing your skills…”

“It was Serle's fault I couldn't come,” I said fiercely.

“Merlin!” said my father pleasantly, and he took Merlin's right hand between both of his own. “Welcome home!”

“Greetings, Sir John!” said Merlin.

“Ludlow, was it?” my father asked. “I want to hear. But not now! Hum is waiting for us in the hall. Come on Arthur!”

Merlin looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Unless you behave,” he said, without the flicker of a smile, “I'll turn you into a caterpillar. And you know what will happen to you then, don't you.”

My father turned on his heel and I followed him out of the herb garden. “First the bulls!” he said over his shoulder. “And now Stupid!” He stopped and turned right round. “No, Arthur! I won't have this. I've told you before what your duties are.”

“But I do practice,” I said. “And I study with Oliver, and I write. And anyhow, Serle has kitchen duties, doesn't he? I saw him in the kitchen.”

“Stop talking nonsense!” said my father.

In the hall, my father took his chair and Hum and I stood across the table, facing him.

“Now, Hum!” said my father, wagging his right forefinger, “I've reminded Arthur of his duties. He understands what they are. He is not to work in the fields or the sties or the stables or anywhere else unless he has my permission.”

“It's my Gatty!” said Hum, shaking his head.

“No,” said my father. “We are all responsible for our own actions. Isn't that so, Arthur?”

“Yes, father.”

“I trust Arthur to obey me,” my father said. “And I trust you, Hum, to tell me if he does not.”

“Yes, Sir John.”

“All right!” said my father. “The three of us understand each other.”

T
HE WIND HAS DROPPED. SO MY WRITING-ROOM
isn't too cold and I can smell the thatch again. It hangs round my shoulders like an old cloak, out of shape and stinking, but comfortable all the same.

Our sparrows have been pecking at the mortar. This morning my seat in the alcove was covered with grit and my apple tree stump smeared with white paste, still slimy. But now Slim has given me a shaggy towel and I'll hang it from the spike above the wind-eye when I am not there. That should keep the birds out.

Almost as soon as I stared into my stone, its darkness cleared. The hooded man! I saw him again. And I heard his deep voice. But the king was not the same king I saw before. Vortigern…And the people were not the same people who dug the ground and drained the pool.

Dukes and earls and lords! In a high hall, each man stands next to his own squire, and many of the squires look the same age as I am. Some of the noblemen have brought their wives, their children with them, and each of them waits on the king.

The king is tall and well-built. He has a ruddy complexion and a sandy beard, but he's bald as an egg.

“Nine daughters!” he says to the earl kneeling in front of him.

“Nine daughters, is it? Talk to my wise man! He has a powder made from the hairs of caterpillars.”

Now the earl stands up, rather stiffly, and the herald blows his trumpet.

“Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall!” announces a chamberlain with a neck like a plucked chicken and a very loud voice. “King Uther will greet the Duke of Cornwall and his wife, Ygerna.”

A handsome man with a mane of dark hair steps out of the crowd, and the most beautiful woman in the hall follows three steps behind him. She has violet eyes and her lower lip is slightly puffy, as if it has been stung by a bee. Her shoulders are gentle slopes. First Ygerna and Duke Gorlois look at each other, then very slowly get down on to their knees.

King Uther leans forward. “Gorlois,” he says in a cold, hard voice.

Gorlois stares at the king.

“Greetings at Easter!” says the king.

“Greetings!” says Gorlois, and he inclines his head.

Now the king leans forward again, and lightly brushes the woman's wrist with his sandy fingertips. “And you, Ygerna,” he says quietly. “I am very glad to see you.” But Ygerna's head is bowed. She kneels beside her husband, and her eyes do not meet the eyes of the king.

Now the herald gives seven short blasts on his trumpet, and at once stewards and panters and kitchen boys wade in with dishes and platters. One steward bears a roast peacock in his arms, with all its feathers stuck back into its body. One carries a strange-looking beast with a front half like a capon but a back half like a suckingpig.
And here's another with a front half like a sucking-pig but a back half like a capon!

At the feast, Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, sits on the king's left and Ygerna, his wife, sits on the king's right.

Eel pasties! And now a dish of meat surrounded by crayfish tails! Blancmange with minced chicken and chopped almonds! The longer the feast goes on, the more King Uther talks to Ygerna and the less to her husband Gorlois.

“Pears in cinnamon and honey!” exclaims the king. “Sweetness and spice!” And with that, he almost completely turns his back on Gorlois, and starts to pat Ygerna with his sandy paws, and offers her wine from his own gold goblet.

But Ygerna shakes her head.

“Wood is unworthy of you,” Uther says, and he hiccups. “You can't drink from wood. Silver's not good enough for your lips.”

Ygerna sits very still. She does not look at the king.

“I desire you, Ygerna,” says the king…

Mist in my stone! It rose like October mist that often dips and lifts over Nine Elms and Great Oak and Pikeside. Its white silence spread across the stone's shining face. But I looked. I still looked. And after a long time the mist thinned, and cleared again.

The king has gone. All the feasters have gone. I can see no one but Duke Gorlois and his wife Ygerna.

“Outrageous!” shouts Gorlois.

“He insulted me,” says Ygerna, “with all his honeyed words, his bumbling and fumbling. He insulted me by thinking I would not be true to you.”

“He insulted us both,” says Gorlois coldly.

“If you care for me and our marriage,” Ygerna says, “take me away from this place. Away from London! Away from this Easter feast!”

“I will take you home,” Gorlois says. “But when Uther hears we have gone, you can be sure he'll be angry. He'll send messengers and order us to return.”

“What will we do then?”

“Ignore them! You'll be safe at Tintagel. No one and nothing can touch you there.”

“And you, Gorlois?”

“I'll go to Castle Terrible and prepare for a siege. King Uther will sit outside the walls and try to starve me out.”

“My husband,” says Ygerna. “I will wait for you…”

Waves in my stone! Washing and swelling! I have never seen the sea but I have seen the lake under Gibbet Hill, the nine waves and their daughters, rolling, then slowly folding into themselves, creaming and sparkling, and that's what I saw in my obsidian.

White waves! They rolled and rose and broke, and when my stone began to grow calm again, I could see King Uther and the man in the dove-grey hood, sitting in the hall, with a large bowl of apples and nuts between them.

“I helped Vortigern, your father,” the hooded man says, “and I will help you too.”

“How dare he leave court without my permission?” the king demands.

The hooded man sighs. He takes a nut from the bowl and rolls it between his right thumb and forefinger. “Fear,” he says, “fear and anger sometimes make a man very bold.”

“I am wild for that woman,” says the king.

“We will follow them to Cornwall,” says the hooded man.

“Gorlois will take her to Tintagel,” the king says.

“No one and nothing can stand in the way of great passion,” replies the hooded man. “And great passion can cause amazing things to happen.”

The king stands up. “I am on fire!” he shouts.

“I will help you,” says the man in the dove-grey hood.

“Gorlois!” says the king in a dark voice. “He's a pest! A Cornish pustule! I will swaddle him in his bright coat of arms and paint a black cross on his forehead.”

“And I,” says the hooded man, “will bury him in the earth, a mile deep.”