Page 53 of The Quest for Excalibur
The sun had risen high in the sky by now, burning off most of the marsh mists that so often hid this mysterious isle from the outside world. No wonder stories about magic had seeded themselves here, linking this hilly protruberance back through time to Gwynn ap Nudd himself, lord of the Otherworld.
A little shiver ran down my spine at the thought of how far I’d come since the day I’d found myself here, lost in time, and how hard, back then, it had been to believe it. Right now, I felt ready to accept anything that came my way– including, perhaps, an underwater woman holding up an ancient emperor’s sword for my husband to take.
No. Scotch that one. I didnotbelieve we’d be seeing her.
Arthur took hold of my hand as we walked, and I felt grateful for the warm contact with his skin. The rough calluses on his palms, and the firmness of his grip anchored me in reality and pushed the idea of this magical isle to a distance I could manage.
“The boy seems to know the way,” he whispered, leaning close to my ear as we walked.
I nodded, keeping my gaze fixed on Con’s lanky frame as he strode in front of us. Slightly better dressed than the last time I’d seen him, he wore a dirty, mud-colored tunic over braccae that reached to just below his knees, and went bare-footed. A knife, the hilt bound with twine, nestled in a plain scabbard on his belt, and around his throat a necklace of wooden beads completed his ensemble. His dark hair hung loose and unkempt about his shoulders.
“We’ll be giving the abbey a miss, I think,” Arthur said, as it came into view. A few monks were working in the gardens close by the cluster of thatched buildings, but the small, square fields were empty, as our arrival must have denuded them of the lay workers. No doubt the men would return… eventually.
“Milord, Milady. This way if yer please.” Con indicated a narrow path that skirted the fields, making its way along the most distant edge of the apple orchards. Beside the abbey buildings, the monks downed tools to stand and watch us pass, squinting against the brightness of the light.
Even from here I could make out the curious expressions on their faces. Was Gildas one of them? He was much the same age as Con now, a man grown, but I hadn’t seen him for some while. The last news I’d had, he was working in the copying house, laboriously writing out manuscripts, something far more suited to his nature than slaving in a garden. He’d complained, of course. When did he ever not complain? He wanted to be writing his own compositions, not copying out the work of others.
We left the apple orchards and abbey behind, passing through open grazing lands where sheep dotted the slopes. Here and there a few cattle waded belly-deep in the mud at the marsh edge, where the choicest morsels grew, and the whine of insects filled the air. With an impatient hand, I swiped away the flies that circled my head.
At last, Con brought us to a finger of dry land that stretched out between two narrow inlets of rush-fringed water. He halted. “’Tis ’ere,” he announced, turning to look at us out of wary, knowing eyes. “This side.” He indicated the left tip of the small peninsula.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. This place looked no different to any other. “Are you certain?”
The boy nodded. “I should know it well. Old Mother did bring me here ’nough times to show me where the ancients worshipped.” He wiped a hand across his nose. “When I were a boy an’ then again when she did see her own end comin’.”
It looked just like the rest of the island. Grass, cropped short by sheep and peppered with their droppings, lay under our feet, and scrubby willow and alder trees dotted the sloping ground. Nearer the water, the reeds and rushes began as the land softened. Beyond the reed beds, water glinted, and beyond that, distant marshy islands lay, still festooned with shreds of mist. It didn’t resemble the open, lily-infested water I’d seen in my dream at all.
“Well?” Arthur asked, turning to fix me with an enquiring gaze. Behind him, Con fidgeted, his large bony hands picking at loose threads in the sleeve of his tunic.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, avoiding meeting his eyes and staring around. “Nowhere here looks anything like what I saw.”
Further out, small reedy islands rose just a few feet above the water, not big enough for habitation, but enough to reduce the visible waterway to just a few braided channels.
I shook my head. “I don’t think this can be the right place.”
Arthur turned back to Con. “Any boats kept here?”
For answer, Con trotted down the slope to where the reeds grew thickest and picked up a frayed rope from the grass. He gave it a tug, and the reeds parted as the nose of a boat pushed between their stalks. “She be mine,” he said. “For fishin’. I do keep her here ’cause ’tis a spot no one do dare to come. On account o’ the ghosties.”
She so resembled the boat in my dream I had to do a double take. But then, so had Nial’s boat. Flat-bottomed, old, nestling in reeds like some enormous water bird.
Inspiration came. “Are there any open stretches of water near here?” I asked, stepping closer to the boy. “With water lilies?”
He took his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, staring into my eyes. Did he want to ask me another question? I could almost hear it on his lips.
But no. He gave himself a shake, and wrinkled his nose. “There might be.” The feeling that he was keeping some secret hidden away deep down in his heart rose again, but no instinct warned me of threatening danger. Whatever it was he knew, it didn’t frighten me. More a feeling of an underlying current of excitement running through him, as of someone who was finally drawing close to what they’ve long desired or waited for.
However… notanothertrip in a boat. Mentally girding up my loins, I turned back to Arthur. “Then that’s where we have to go.”
He nodded. “Can you take us there, boy?”
With a nod, Con pulled the boat in closer, and held the prow while Arthur handed me into it. A moment later, Arthur settled beside me, and Con moved to the flat stern, long pole in hand.
With infinite care, he poled the boat out of the rushes and into the narrow, reed-fringed channel, showing an expertise to match Nial’s. The plain little workboat skimmed across the water as though winged, causing scarcely a ripple to disturb the dark surface. At the edge of the reeds, the moorhen and coot watched us with equanimity, as though once in Con’s boat, we’d become part of their world, and they didn’t fear us.
After only a few minutes, the channel widened to open water, and there before us stretched the water lilies of my dream. Flat green pads, round as illustrations from a children’s story, covered the water, the creamy cups of the flowers sitting on them like porcelain sculptures.
The pool was large, the distant shores still hung with mist where trees had snagged and held it, bestowing on them the look of a mystical fairyland. Perhaps not too far from the truth, if my dream and Nimuë’s messages were to be believed.
