Jack of Ravens (4 page)

Church listened carefully, saying nothing that would show his disbelief. He understood that the Celts saw the world as a magical place, filled not just with gods, but with spirits and strange beasts. After encountering the giant, he could not dismiss their worldview so easily, but he still hoped for a rational explanation.

‘The … gods fought a great battle here recently – the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘They defeated their great enemy, the Fomorii, the Night-walkers. But they have suffered greatly, too, and they have returned to T’ir n’a n’Og to lick their wounds. They will be back. But until then we have time to forge our own destiny, free of their influence.’ She raised her face, proud and defiant, and pressed his cup to his lips. ‘So drink now, for our poor, frail kind, and know that we will find strength. And we will not be broken down again.’

As Etain rejoined the others, Church was left with a great admiration for her, and for the community. They understood and accepted the hardship of their life, even if they did characterise it as the work of the gods, and they remained unbowed, determined to rise above it.

Lost to his thoughts, he was startled when he saw something peculiar
peeking at him from behind a nearby tree. At first glimpse it looked like a man, but it appeared to be covered with brown fur, like seal-skin. He hurried over to investigate but found nothing, at the tree or anywhere nearby.
Just a figment
, he thought, but he was left with an impression of mischievous eyes and a dark, toothy grin.

6

Church returned to the roundhouse and removed the sword from where it had been hidden. He had decided to carry the weapon with him at all times. He tried to explain to himself that he was in a dangerous time when death was always close, but there was another, deeper reason, like a stain on his subconscious. His fingers tingled as they reached for the sword, and not just with anticipation. When they closed around the hilt, the faint blue light edging the blade lit up the dark corner of the hut.

Sitting around in the village until the next drinking session would mean being alone with his thoughts. Activity was the only answer to keep the ache at bay. He took the opportunity of Etain’s immersion in her daily chores to slip out of the village and made his way over the grassland to higher ground.

Beyond the well-trodden area close to the settlement, the landscape became wild: long grass, rocky outcroppings, vast clusters of spiky yellow-flowered gorse and shadowy, near-impenetrable copses. Church enjoyed the exertion after the long days of recuperation. When he reached the high ground, he looked back towards the village, a small oasis of humanity in the wildness of nature. The land glowed green and gold in the morning sun. A symphony of whooshes and rustles and whispers soothed him as the Atlantic wind blew in, filled with the fragrance of growing things. Songbirds joined the wild melody, adding complex high notes. No discordant sounds, no sour odours of pollution. His senses had been numbed by modern living, but in that moment they came alive and he tasted a remarkable peace that he had never experienced before.

Jewelled butterflies and humming bees rose up from his path as he forced his way through the long grass towards his destination. As he neared, his mood darkened. On a hillock where a lone hawthorn tree had been twisted into the shape of a hideous old man by the blasting wind, he paused and looked around. He was sure this was the spot where he had glimpsed the peculiar burst of black fire. He didn’t know what he had expected to find, but his deep, secret mind wouldn’t leave him alone until he had gone there. From the hillock he had a clear view of Carn Euny, but it would not have been visible in the dark of the storm.

‘You shun your own kind.’

Church started at the voice. The seductive, honeyed tones came from a
beautiful woman in a dark-green dress, her auburn hair blowing in the wind. Her skin had a rich, golden hue, but her features were hard. Church thought he saw a shadow of contempt in her expression. She sat on a rock, examining a pack of cards that she should not have had there, at that time.

‘Where did you come from?’ he asked.

The woman haughtily ignored Church’s question. ‘Have you turned your back on your own kind?’ she stressed.

Church shook his head, not understanding. ‘My own kind? You mean the people of Carn Euny?’

‘At the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh, you fought with a courage and skill that surpassed those of the Fragile Creatures with whom you associate. You have moved beyond them now. Why should you stand with them?’

Church was stunned for a moment, as he tried to assimilate the woman’s words. ‘I fought at the battle—’

The woman sized him up. ‘You do not remember? You do not recall our meeting before the battle?’

Church shook his head. ‘We met?’

The woman’s forensic gaze held Church fast until he felt himself squirming beneath it. ‘I find you strange and troublesome,’ she said. ‘What is your name?’

Her attitude was irritating, but Church contained himself. ‘Jack Churchill. And you are … ?’

Her smile was unsettling. ‘You may call me Niamh.’

‘You’re from another village nearby?’ Church turned and scanned the area, knowing how well the roundhouses merged into the landscape. But there were no telltale smoke trails from any fires apart from the ones that hung over Carn Euny. When he turned back, Niamh was gone, and there was no sign of her anywhere nearby.

7

Church planned to ask Etain about Niamh, but she was soon forgotten as events unfolded. Despite the warmth of the summer day, he felt a growing chill. The memory of the burst of black fire blossomed in his thoughts like a sable rose. The spider in his arm felt as if it had settled deeper, and there was now a coldness running from it deep into his bones that made him feel vaguely nauseous. He would have to remove it soon, even if it meant carving it free with a knife. The maddening ache of his missing memories left him on edge, troubled by an itch he couldn’t scratch. All in all, he felt so thrown off balance that he couldn’t begin to see what he was going to do next.

When he arrived back in Carn Euny, he was surprised to find the
residents in a state of mounting excitement. The children ran back and forth, in and out of each other’s houses, whooping and calling. The adults stood around, talking in quiet but animated voices.

Tannis was tethering his horse to the post near the communal house.

‘What’s got everyone so worked up?’ Church asked.

Tannis pointed to the east. Beneath the glare of the sun, Church could just make out a figure in the distance, slowly walking towards Carn Euny.

‘
Druidae
,’ Tannis said with a subtly nuanced smile: there was respect, certainly, but also apprehension, perhaps even fear.

As the figure approached, Church gradually made out a man in his mid-fifties, dressed in olive-coloured robes splattered with the mud of his journey. He used a staff to propel his forceful pace. His hair was chestnut brown streaked with silver, wild and untamed, his beard incongruously clipped and tidy.

When he reached the edge of the village, three elders greeted him with deference, a quiet word and a slight bow. He barely acknowledged them. Instead, his eyes swept back and forth across the gathered crowd, his face steely. He muttered something. One of the elders turned and pointed directly at Church.

The children gathered in silence and followed as the elders ushered the druid into the meeting house. Everyone waited outside the door, only whispers passing amongst them.

‘He’s come for me, hasn’t he?’ Church said.

Tannis’s reaction was unsettling in its simplicity. His smile faded and he placed a reassuring hand on Church’s arm. ‘Stay true to yourself, brother. That is the only advice I can give.’

Church wandered over to sit on the grassy knoll just beyond the village boundary. The sun warmed him, the whisper of wind in the grass as soothing as ever, but the idyllic setting no longer worked its magic on his troubled mind.

As he brooded, Etain came up and sat quietly beside him.

‘You did a good job of keeping me here until your grand inquisitor could arrive,’ Church said.

‘We have to be sure,’ Etain said, though there was a hint of regret behind her words. ‘We can no longer be at the mercy of those who would trap us in hardship and suffering.’

Church wondered what the druid’s plans were. Torture? He didn’t believe that, though the Romans attributed brutal practices to the druidic class. In truth, the druids had much in common with the Hindu Brahmans, an intellectual caste that encompassed both learning and priestly traditions. Druids insisted that all their knowledge was passed down orally so it wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands, and that practice had left a void at the
heart of their history. Some academics even argued that the druids came from a culture that preceded the Celtic tribes, bringing with them an ancient knowledge that had elevated them to a place of respect amongst the Keltoi. Church placed his hope in the belief that if they were intellectuals they would not resort to violence. But this was a hard, bloodstained world and he couldn’t be sure. At least he had his sword, which quietly hummed its pleasant song to him from where it hung against his thigh.

‘Do not be afraid,’ Etain said, as if she could read his thoughts. Her hand crept to rest on the back of his, and when he looked at her, her eyes were dark and numinous. ‘I have belief in you.’

They were interrupted by a tall, elderly man. ‘Your presence is requested,’ he said to Church.

The druid sat in the centre of the meeting house, next to the fire, drinking heartily from a jug of the strong alcoholic beverage and gorging on dried meats and fruits from the village store. He motioned to a rush mat opposite. ‘Sit,’ he said with his mouth full, then waved his hand furiously until all the villagers had vacated the building.

When they were alone, he studied Church over the rim of his cup and then wiped his beard with the back of his hand. ‘My name is Conoran,’ he said, ‘and you are Jack, Giantkiller, also known as Church.’

‘I am. And you are here to test me.’

Conoran smiled and nodded. ‘Good. Then the land is clear and the skies blue.’ Conoran’s eyes were still unreadable, but there was a warmth in his gaze that put Church more at ease.

‘You want to know if I’m one of the gods’ agents sent here to spy on you, or just a man.’

‘There is no
just
, little boy. A mortal is a good thing to be. The most important thing.’

‘How are we to go about this? An interrogation?’

Conoran mused while he sipped on his drink. ‘Let us talk. You walked out of the morning mists into the world of man carrying the sword of Nuada Airgetlamh – the weapon of a god. And it speaks to you … and it is yours. You slew one of the great giants of Kernow, made of earth and tree and the great green heart of the wild, constructed of the very stuff of the world. You slew it, yet no man has ever been able to slay one of the giants of Kernow before.’ The druid ended with a broad smile.

Church considered his comments and replied, ‘When you put it like that …’

Conoran laughed. ‘My kind have a secret name,’ he said. ‘Amongst ourselves, we are called the Culture. We existed long before the tribes and we shall be here long after they are gone. Our knowledge is beyond your imagination …’ He paused, tugged gently at his beard. ‘Or perhaps not.
You are not of this place, little brother. You use our words, but speak with a strange voice. Your skin is soft, your hands uncalloused. Your garments are beyond the ability of even our most skilled weavers—’

‘And you think that makes me a spy from the gods,’ Church began his argument, but Conoran raised a silencing hand.

‘The Culture has a long memory, and our knowledge is great. We can recognise a mortal when we see one. You are mortal, but you are … strange. I would say there is something special about you, little brother. Something that is mortal, yet more than mortal. A quality … a light shining out of you. And in my eyes, it is blue.’

Church felt a shiver of recognition at the druid’s words, but frustratingly it originated in the part of his memory that had been locked off.

‘You are not like us, yet you are like us,’ the druid continued. ‘You are not from the gods, yet you are not from this world. Speak. Tell me the truth. Now.’ The firelight reflected in his eyes.

‘I am from this world.’ Church paused, considered how best to continue, then leaned forward and scratched a line in the hard-packed-mud floor. ‘Time,’ he said, glancing at Conoran to see if he understood the concept. The druid’s expression suggested he did. Church etched a point on the far left of the line. ‘Here we are now, you and me, talking.’ He scratched another point on the far right. ‘Here is my home. I have no idea how I got from there to here.’ He tapped his head. ‘A lot of my memory has been wiped away.’

Conoran nodded thoughtfully. ‘Space and time are prisons that we all need to escape. You have achieved a great thing.’

Church fought back a swell of emotion. ‘I don’t care. I just want to go home.’ Another flash of Ruth, her face strong and defiant.

‘Show me your arm.’ Conoran gestured to where the black spider nestled in Church’s flesh.

Church removed his shirt and Conoran examined the thing without touching it, his expression dark. Finally he sat back and said, ‘There is much mystery here. The mists must be rolled back. Remember: nothing happens without a reason. You are here for a reason. That thing is in your arm for a reason. A great plan is unfolding, but we can see only one tiny part of it.’