The Buried Giant (36 page)

As they ascended the next path, the wind grew less harsh, even though they felt more than ever to be touching the sky. The knight and the warrior were striding steadily before them, for all the world like two old companions taking the air together, and before long a distance had opened between them and the elderly couple.

“This is foolishness, princess,” Axl said as they walked. “What business do we have following these gentlemen? And who knows what dangers lie ahead? Let’s turn back and wait beside the boy.”

But Beatrice’s step remained determined. “I’ll have us go on,” she said. “Here, Axl, take my hand and help me keep my courage. For I’m thinking now I’m the one to fear most the mist’s clearing, not
you. I stood beside those stones just now and it came to me there were dark things I did to you once, husband. Feel how this hand trembles in yours to think they may be returned to us! What will you say to me then? Will you turn away and leave me on this bleak hill? There’s a part of me would see this brave warrior fall even as he walks before us now, yet I’ll not have us hide. No, I’ll not, Axl, and aren’t you the same? Let’s see freely the path we’ve come together, whether it’s in dark or mellow sun. And if this warrior must really face the she-dragon in her own pit, let’s do what we can to keep up his spirits. It may be a shout of warning in the right place, or one to rouse him from a fierce blow will make the difference.”

Axl had let her talk on, listening with only half his mind as he walked, because he had become aware once more of something at the far edge of his memory: a stormy night, a bitter hurt, a loneliness opening before him like unfathomed waters. Could it really have been he, not Beatrice, standing alone in their chamber, unable to sleep, a small candle lit before him?

“What became of our son, princess?” he asked suddenly, and felt her hand tighten on his. “Does he really wait for us in his village? Or will we search this country for a year and still not find him?”

“It’s a thought came to me too, but I was afraid to think it aloud. But hush now, Axl, or we’ll be heard.”

Indeed Sir Gawain and Wistan had halted on the path ahead to wait for them, and appeared to be in genial conversation. As he came up to them, Axl could hear Sir Gawain saying with a small chuckle: “I’ll confess, Master Wistan, my hope’s that even now Querig’s breath will rob you of the memory of why you walk beside me. I await eagerly your asking where it is I lead you! Yet I see from both your eye and step you forget little.”

Wistan smiled. “I believe, sir, it’s this very gift to withstand strange spells won me this errand from my king. For in the fens, we’ve never known a creature quite like this Querig, yet have known
others with wonderful powers, and it was noticed how little I was swayed, even as my comrades swooned and wandered in dreams. I fancy this was my king’s only reason to choose me, for almost all my comrades at home are better warriors than this one walks beside you now.”

“Impossible to believe, Master Wistan! Both report and observation tell of your extraordinary qualities.”

“You overestimate me, sir. Yesterday, needing to bring down that soldier under your gaze, I was all too aware how a man of your skill might view my small accomplishments. Sufficient to defeat a frightened guardsman, but far short of your approval, I fear.”

“What nonsense, sir! You’re a splendid fellow, and no more of it! Now, friends”—Gawain turned his gaze to include Axl and Beatrice—“it’s not so far now. Let’s be moving on while she still sleeps.”

They continued in silence. This time Axl and Beatrice did not fall behind, for a sense of solemnity seemed to descend on Gawain and Wistan, making them proceed in front at an almost ceremonial pace. In any case, the ground had become less demanding, levelling to something like a plateau. The rocks they had discussed from below now loomed before them, and Axl could see, as they came ever nearer, how they were arranged in a rough semi-circle around the top of a mound to the side of their path. He could see too how a row of smaller stones rose in a kind of stairway up the side of the mound, leading right up to the rim of what could only be a pit of significant depth. The grass all around where they had now arrived seemed to have been blackened or burnt, lending the surroundings—already without tree or shrub—an atmosphere of decay. Gawain, bringing the party to a halt near where the crude stairway began, turned to face Wistan with some deliberation.

“Will you not consider a last time, sir, leaving this dangerous plan? Why not return now to your orphan tied to his stick? There’s his voice in the wind even now.”

The warrior glanced back the way they had come, then looked again at Sir Gawain. “You know it, sir. I cannot turn back. Show me this dragon.”

The old knight nodded thoughtfully, as though Wistan had just made some casual but fascinating observation.

“Very well, friends,” he said. “Then keep your voices low, for what purpose should we wake her?”

Sir Gawain led the way up the side of the mound and on reaching the rocks signalled for them to wait. He then peered over carefully, and after a moment, beckoned to them, saying in a low voice: “Come stand along here, friends, and you’ll see her well enough.”

Axl helped his wife onto a ledge beside him, then leant over one of the rocks. The pit below was broader and shallower than he had expected—more like a drained pond than something actually dug into the ground. The greater part of it was now in pale sunlight, and seemed to consist entirely of grey rock and gravel—the blackened grass finishing abruptly at the rim—so that the only living thing visible, aside from the dragon herself, was a solitary hawthorn bush sprouting incongruously through the stone near the centre of the pit’s belly.

As for the dragon, it was hardly clear at first she was alive. Her posture—prone, head twisted to one side, limbs outspread—might easily have resulted from her corpse being hurled into the pit from a height. In fact it took a moment to ascertain this was a dragon at all: she was so emaciated she looked more some worm-like reptile accustomed to water that had mistakenly come aground and was in the process of dehydrating. Her skin, which should have appeared oiled and of a colour not unlike bronze, was instead a yellowing white, reminiscent of the underside of certain fish. The remnants of her wings were sagging folds of skin that a careless glance might have taken for dead leaves accumulated to either side of her. The head being turned against the grey pebbles, Axl could see only the
one eye, which was hooded in the manner of a turtle’s, and which opened and closed lethargically according to some internal rhythm. This movement, and the faintest rise and fall along the creature’s backbone, were the only indicators that Querig was still alive.

“Can this really be her, Axl?” Beatrice said quietly. “This poor creature no more than a fleshy thread?”

“Yet look there, mistress,” Gawain’s voice said behind them. “So long as she’s breath left, she does her duty.”

“Is she sick or perhaps already poisoned?” asked Axl.

“She simply grows old, sir, as we all must do. But she still breathes, and so Merlin’s work lingers.”

“Now a little of this comes back to me,” Axl said. “I remember Merlin’s work here and dark it was too.”

“Dark, sir?” said Gawain. “Why dark? It was the only way. Even before that battle was properly won, I rode out with four good comrades to tame this same creature, in those days both mighty and angry, so Merlin could place this great spell on her breath. A dark man he may have been, but in this he did God’s will, not only Arthur’s. Without this she-dragon’s breath, would peace ever have come? Look how we live now, sir! Old foes as cousins, village by village. Master Wistan, you fall silent before this sight. I ask again. Will you not leave this poor creature to live out her life? Her breath isn’t what it was, yet holds the magic even now. Think, sir, once that breath should cease, what might be awoken across this land even after these years! Yes, we slaughtered plenty, I admit it, caring not who was strong and who weak. God may not have smiled at us, but we cleansed the land of war. Leave this place, sir, I beg you. We may pray to different gods, yet surely yours will bless this dragon as does mine.”

Wistan turned away from the pit to look at the old knight.

“What kind of god is it, sir, wishes wrongs to go forgotten and unpunished?”

“You ask it well, Master Wistan, and I know my god looks uneasily on our deeds of that day. Yet it’s long past and the bones lie sheltered beneath a pleasant green carpet. The young know nothing of them. I beg you leave this place, and let Querig do her work a while longer. Another season or two, that’s the most she’ll last. Yet even that may be long enough for old wounds to heal for ever, and an eternal peace to hold among us. Look how she clings to life, sir! Be merciful and leave this place. Leave this country to rest in forgetfulness.”

“Foolishness, sir. How can old wounds heal while maggots linger so richly? Or a peace hold for ever built on slaughter and a magician’s trickery? I see how devoutly you wish it, for your old horrors to crumble as dust. Yet they await in the soil as white bones for men to uncover. Sir Gawain, my answer’s unchanged. I must go down into this pit.”

Sir Gawain nodded gravely. “I understand, sir.”

“Then I must ask you in turn, sir knight. Will you leave this place to me and return now to your fine old stallion awaits you below?”

“You know I cannot, Master Wistan.”

“It’s as I thought. Well then.”

Wistan came past Axl and Beatrice, and down the rough-hewn steps. When he was once more at the foot of the mound, he looked around him and said, in a quite new voice: “Sir Gawain, this earth looks curious here. Can it be the she-dragon, in her more vigorous days, blasted it this way? Or does lightning strike here often to burn the ground before new grasses return?”

Gawain, who had followed him down the mound, also came off the steps, and for a moment the two of them strolled about randomly like companions pondering at which spot to pitch their tent.

“It’s something always puzzled me too, Master Wistan,” Gawain was saying. “For even when younger, she remained above, and I don’t suppose it’s Querig made this blasted ground. Perhaps it was
always thus, even when we first brought her here and lowered her into her lair.” Gawain tapped his heel experimentally on the soil. “A good floor, sir, nevertheless.”

“Indeed.” Wistan, his back to Gawain, was also testing the ground with his foot.

“Though perhaps a little short in width?” remarked the knight. “See how that edge rolls over the cliffside. A man who fell here would rest on friendly earth, sure enough, yet his blood may run swiftly through these burnt grasses and over the side. I don’t speak for you, sir, but I’ll not fancy my insides dripping over the cliff like a gull’s white droppings!”

They both laughed, then Wistan said:

“A needless worry, sir. See how the ground lifts slightly before the cliff there. As for the opposite edge, it’s too far the other way and plenty of thirsty soil first.”

“That’s well observed. Well, then, it’s no bad spot!” Sir Gawain looked up at Axl and Beatrice, who were still up on the ledge, though now with their backs to the pit. “Master Axl,” he called cheerfully, “you were always the great one for diplomacy. Do you care to use your fine eloquence now to let us leave this place as friends?”

“I’m sorry, Sir Gawain. You’ve shown us much kindness and we thank you for it. Yet we’re now here to see the end of Querig, and if you’ll defend her, there’s nothing I or my wife can say on your side. Our will’s with Master Wistan in this matter.”

“I see it, sir. Then let me ask at least this of you. I don’t fear this fellow before me. Yet if I should be the one to fall, will you take my good Horace back down this mountain? He’ll welcome a pair of good Britons on his back. You may think he grumbles, but you’ll not be too much for him. Take my dear Horace far away from here and when you’ve no more use of him, find him a fine green meadow where he may eat to his heart’s content and think of old days. Will you do this for me, friends?”

“We’ll do it gladly, sir, and your horse will be the saving of us too, for it’s a harsh journey down these hills.”

“On that point, sir.” Gawain had now come right to the foot of the mound. “I urged you once before to use the river, and do so again. Let Horace take you down these slopes, but once you meet the river, search for a boat to take you east. There’s tin and coins in the saddle to buy your passage.”

“We thank you, sir. Your generosity moves us.”

“But Sir Gawain,” Beatrice said. “If your horse takes the two of us, then how’s your fallen body to be carried from this mountain? In your kindness you neglect your own corpse. And we’d be sorry to bury you in so lonely a spot as this.”

For an instant, the old knight’s features became solemn, almost sorrowful. Then they creased into a smile, and he said: “Now, mistress. Let’s not discuss burial plans while I still expect to emerge victorious! In any case, this mountain’s no less lonely a spot to me now than any other, and I’d fear the sights my ghost must witness on lower ground should this contest go another way. So no more talk of corpses, madam! Master Wistan, have you anything to ask of these friends should fortune not go your way?”

“Like you, sir, I prefer not to think of defeat. Yet only a mighty fool will believe you anything other than a formidable foe, no matter your years. So I too will burden this good couple with a request. If I’m no more, please see to it Master Edwin reaches a kind village, and let him know I considered him the worthiest of apprentices.”

“We’ll do so, sir,” Axl said. “We’ll seek the best for him, even though the wound he carries makes his future a dark one.”

“That’s well said. Now I’m reminded I must do even more to survive this meeting. Well, Sir Gawain, shall we go to it?”

“Yet one more request,” said the old knight, “and this one to you, Master Wistan. I raise the matter with embarrassment, for it touches what we discussed with pleasure a moment ago. I mean, sir, the question
of drawing the sword. With my heavy years, I find it takes a foolishly long time to pull this old weapon out of its sheath. If you and I faced each other, swords undrawn, my fear is I’d provide you with feeble entertainment, knowing how fast you draw. Why, sir, I might still be hobbling about, muttering small curses and tugging at this iron with one grip then another even as you take the air, wondering if to cut off my head or else sing an ode while waiting! Yet if we were to agree to draw our swords in our own time … Why this embarrasses me greatly, sir!”