The Language of Stones. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

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       CHAPTER SEVEN LAMMASTIDE

      They rose early, just before dawn. Gwydion turned about on his heels, tasting the air warily until he was sure that no danger had been laid for them. Then he danced and paced and danced a little more. He spoke words to himself until it seemed to Will that a billowing net of blue gossamer came into being around their sleeping place. As Gwydion spoke, the light was drawn down to his hands and vanished inside him. Then, as if nothing had happened, he raked the ashes out of the fire and scattered them about, while seeming to thank the grass for having made them welcome. Will watched with raised eyebrows.

      ‘And now we must remake the ground,’ Gwydion told him. ‘Do you want to do it?’

      He shrugged, feeling a little foolish. ‘What should I do?’

      He was told to replace the turfs just as they had been before, and ritually water them. This he did, not really knowing how ritual watering differed from pouring the jug out over the ground, but Gwydion seemed to approve his actions, and when all was done and the ground looked almost as if they had never come this way, they set off.

      ‘What were you doing before?’ Will asked.

      ‘I was dancing back the magic that I laid forth last night as our protection.’

      ‘Against Maskull?’

      ‘Against all harm.’

      Will’s heart felt suddenly leaden. ‘Why does Maskull want to kill the one spoken about in the Black Book?’

      ‘Because he was “…born of Strife, born of Calamity…born at Beltane in the Twentieth Year…when the beams of Eluned are strongest”.’

      Will tried to be withering. ‘I suppose that’s meant to tell me everything.’

      ‘Perhaps it does not make much sense to you, but Maskull knows that the prophesied one will eventually stand between him and that which he most desires.’

      ‘And what’s that?’

      ‘To be the one who chooses the direction of the future.’

      ‘Well, I’ll not stand in his way. He can do what he likes with the future for all I care!’

      The wizard smiled knowingly. ‘If you are the one, then you will eventually confound him. This he knows, and knowing it he cannot rest.’

      ‘And because Maskull is your enemy too, you’ve become my friend. Is that it?’ he said gloomily. It felt like he had been caught between gigantic forces, and that they were fast closing on him.

      But the wizard smiled another wistful smile and shook his head. ‘I see that you doubt my sincerity, Willand. But I was a friend to you long before I suspected whom you might be.’

      They continued south, skirting villages and avoiding the most well-travelled roads. They kept off the fields where golden grain awaited harvest, and Will enjoyed the walking. After weeks of homesickness and stifling study in the tower he felt truly free at last. Still, the wizard’s words had unsettled him more than a little.

      He took his knife, went to the hedge and cut a bough from the blackthorn. It was an arm’s length from end to end and two fingers around. As Gwydion looked on he began stripping it of twigs and bark, shaping the torn end into a handle, the other into a point. But he felt ever more uncomfortable as he worked, for Gwydion’s eyes rested upon him and at length he stopped and looked up. ‘Is there anything amiss, Master Gwydion?’

      ‘What is it you are at, lad?’

      ‘Just carving a new stick for walking.’

      ‘Blackthorn is a good choice. Like ash, fine wood for tool handles, a wood that is strong and dense.’

      Will smiled back, encouraged.

      ‘But you neglected to ask first if the blackthorn minded.’

      ‘Should I have done that?’

      ‘It would have been the polite thing to do.’

      Will looked at his stick, confused. It was just a stick. ‘Do you mean I should have asked forgiveness of a bush?’

      ‘Not forgiveness, Will.’ Gwydion’s voice grew mellow. ‘Permission.’

      ‘But surely a bush couldn’t hear what I said to it.’

      ‘That is quite true. But also quite beside the point. One day you will understand. Meanwhile, tell me: are you versed in any weapon?’

      ‘Only the quarterstaff, Master Gwydion.’

      ‘In the wider world it is important you know how to protect yourself. When next you cut yourself a quarterstaff, make it as long as you are. And remember that you will double its strength if you give thanks for it beforehand.’

      Will narrowed his eyes at the wizard. ‘They say a quarterstaff is always to be preferred to a sword, but I can’t see how that can be true.’

      ‘Can’t you?’ Gwydion opened his crane bag and drew out an impossibly long staff. ‘No swordsman, no matter how fine his weapon, can hurt you if he cannot reach you. You need only learn how a suitable distance may be kept.’

      Suddenly Gwydion rose up and danced, stroking the staff about him in eye-fooling twists and thrusts, then, equally suddenly, he halted, pushed the staff back into the crane bag and motioned him to follow on.

      ‘That was amazing!’ Will said. ‘You moved the staff so fast I could hardly see it!’

      ‘Practice, as the rede says, maketh perfect.’

      They pressed on across a river, the broadest yet, which they crossed easily by walking ankle-deep across an eel weir. Will dogged Gwydion’s steps three paces behind until, as night fell, they came near to a barn. Gwydion made it safe by crumbling bread СКАЧАТЬ