Land of the Silver Dragon

THREE

The weather was so foul that I didn’t concentrate on anything much beyond staying on my feet against the force of the rising easterly wind. I was soaked to the skin within a few paces of leaving the house, and my attention was focused on images of how good it would be to get back to the fireside and start drying out.

All of which explains why it was not until I’d gathered my lichens and was well on the way back that I realized what I ought to have spotted straight away: somebody was watching me.

I did as I’ve been taught, and gave no indication that I knew of the unseen watcher’s presence. I carried on without breaking stride, thinking all the time what I must do to keep myself safe.

I should never have gone out alone! It was so easy to be wise after the event, and, indeed, who could I have asked to come with me? Everyone was out working, either on their own behalf or on Lord Gilbert’s land. People like us didn’t sit around in our houses all day waiting for someone to invite us out for a walk.

My mind was racing, going through possibilities. I didn’t dare stop and look around; it still seemed best to go on pretending I didn’t know anyone was there.

But he was there, all right. And I was afraid.

Given what had so recently been happening within my family, fear was quickly turning to terror.

With a huge effort, I brought myself under control. I had decided what to do.

I’d gone out to the south of the village, down beneath where the bulge that is Aelf Fen sticks out into the watery marshland. Between the road and the shore there’s a line of pine trees, their roots in the band of sandy soil that meanders along for half a mile or so before petering out. The lichen grows in the shadow of the trees.

Lord Gilbert’s manor, Lakehall, was some way off up to my right, and between it and the village was the church. I would pretend that, on my way home, I was stopping to kneel by a relative’s grave and pay my respects. With any luck, my pursuer would be deterred by the proximity of the church, and the possibility of goodly, decent people within, and slip away. As soon as I sensed he had gone, I could leave the graveyard by the side gate and hurry across the higher ground to Edild’s house.

That was the plan.

I reached the graveyard and, choosing a random mound, knelt on the wet grass and pretended to pray. Peeping between my hands, pressed against my face, I looked all around.

There was nobody there.

I made myself go on kneeling, keeping very still, and with all my senses I tested to see if I still felt I was being watched. After a long, cold, shivery moment, I realized I was alone. He’d gone.

Slowly I got up, picking up my small sack of lichen.

It was then that I noticed.

Somebody had disturbed the graves over beneath the stumpy trees on the far side of the churchyard. They were the most recent graves, of those villagers who had died within the last couple of years or so. Aghast at such desecration, all thoughts of my unseen pursuer flew out of my head and I raced across the sodden ground as if it was my job to grab a spade and instantly start repairing the damage.

I slid, panting, to a halt beside the first of the ruined grave mounds. Staring down into the muddy hole — the incessant rain had already made large puddles in the earth — I was horrified to see the yellow-white of human bone. Leg bones, ribs arching up like a cage, a domed skull and blank, unseeing eye sockets. I stumbled on to the next grave. This one was worse, for it was more recent and, in places where the shroud had torn or been chewed by rodents, I could make out putrefying flesh. As if in a ghastly daze, I moved on to look at the rest.

In all, seven graves had been violated. Seven of my fellow villagers lay exposed in death, and I had known every one. In age, they ranged from the very old to the newborn, and that grave — of a tiny boy who had come into the world too soon and survived only for three days — was the most poignant of all.

I could not leave them like that. Wiping my hands over my face, wet with both rain and tears, I silently promised the dead that they would soon be decently buried once more and, at last tearing my eyes away and turning my back, I hurried off to find the priest.

Father Augustine was in his little house, adjacent to the church. He was alone. The house smelled of onions and cabbage, and I guessed he had just eaten. I blurted out my news, and the expression in his face suggested he was as horrified as I was.

‘How many graves?’ he demanded, grasping my arm in a tight grip.

‘Seven, all quite recent.’

‘The ones beneath the trees?’

‘Yes.’

Slowly he shook his head. ‘Why?’ he breathed.

I had no answer. Belatedly he realized he was still clutching my arm and, abruptly letting go, he muttered an apology and stepped away.

For a moment we both stood there, not moving, not speaking. It was as if we were frozen with shock. I studied his face, which had gone quite white. He’s always pale; he is tall and thin, and has one of those aesthetic faces that seem made for suffering. He is an intelligent man, learned and devoted to the minutiae of the Bible; there’s no doubting his faith or his devotion to his saviour. However, I think if Father Augustine’s heavenly lord were to be asked to judge the man’s performance, he might be inclined to say that our priest lacks the human touch. No matter how hard I try, I can’t really imagine Father Augustine consorting with and comforting beggars, cripples and lepers. He just doesn’t have the compassion.

Father Augustine gave a deep sigh, as if coming out of a reverie, and said briskly, ‘I shall go straight to the graves. Fetch the sacristan, if you would, and bring him to me there.’

I nodded. Hurrying out of the house, I ran down the track to the sacristan’s house and, dragging Old Will away from his hearth, took him to where the priest crouched by the spoiled graves.

Father Augustine was beside the grave of the newborn baby. He had one long arm stretching down into the earth and he was stroking the tiny skull. He had tears in his eyes.

I stepped away, embarrassed at having witnessed such emotion. I realized, as I stood there, that my assumptions on the nature of our priest were going to need urgent and fairly drastic revision.

Presently Father Augustine stood up, brushing the dirt from his black robe. He nodded to Old Will, who spat on his hands, picked up his spade and began to repair the damage.

Back at Edild’s house, I got straight down to helping her prepare the expectorant remedy, so relieved to be out of the rain and back in the warmth that I didn’t mind the minor inconvenience of my clothes steaming as they began to dry. I had told her as soon as I got in about the despoiled graves, and of my suspicion that somebody had been watching me. As we worked, we speculated on what could possibly be going on, and tried to decide whether my hidden watcher, and whoever had tampered with the graves, were somehow linked to Utta’s murder and the searching of Goda’s, Edild’s and our family’s dwellings. Was the same person responsible for everything that had happened? Had it been the red-bearded giant who’d been spying on me, and was it also he who had dug down into the graves in search of heaven knew what?

Our musings were interrupted by a tentative tap on the door, and Edild left me chopping and crushing while she went off to see to her patient. Something was nagging at me, demanding my attention, and, as my aunt has taught me, I stilled my mind to let the inner voice speak.

After a few moments, I knew what it was. My kin had been the object of all three searches; as far as we knew, we alone had been targeted. Now, someone had disturbed the peace of the recently dead, and now I realized why: it was an extension of the same search. One member of my family had died within the last couple of years — my Granny Cordeilla — and whoever had ransacked the homes of the living had also attempted to discover what he sought within her grave.

He had failed. Having somehow discovered that Granny had died recently, he had gone to the graveyard thinking to find her there. He had investigated the newest burials, ruthlessly breaking into the eternal peace of the dead, but it had all been in vain. My Granny Cordeilla, of course, did not lie in the graveyard, for we had buried her out on the secret island, in the company of her ancestors.

Edild was busy with her patient, and, out in the still room, I was not visible to her. There was no let-up in the rain — I could hear it beating on the ground outside — but, since I was still almost as wet as when I’d just returned, that didn’t really matter.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I knew.

I draped my sodden shawl around me and slipped outside, emerging at the rear of Edild’s house. It was getting dark. The sky was thick with cloud, and twilight was fast approaching. Good. I would be that much harder to see. I circled round to the track that ran in front of the house, keeping my distance so that no one would hear my footfalls. Swiftly I crossed the track and set out across the marsh. When I had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile, I stopped and made myself stand quite still. I strained my ears for any sound other than the driving rain and the rising wind, and then set my other senses to work, trying to detect if anyone had followed me or was watching me.

Nobody was there. The certainty I’d experienced earlier that I was not alone had gone, as if it had never been. Whoever he was, he’d obviously had enough of the foul weather and, very wisely, had sloped away to find shelter.

I smiled in grim satisfaction and continued my quest.

The island where our ancestors lie buried is only a short distance from the fen edge, rising like the humped back of some sleeping animal out of the black water. Some time in the distant past, my kinsmen drove stakes of alder wood down into the mud and, when access is required, struts and timbers are fitted to them to make a temporary walkway to the island. The timbers were not now in place, for it was months since anybody had visited the island.

I stood on the bank looking out over the water. Although it was raining now and the levels were visibly rising, the past few weeks had been dry. I could wade out to the island, and the water would only come up to my thighs.

Probably.

There was no point standing there thinking about it. The sooner I went, the sooner it would be over. I lifted up the skirts of my robe and under gown and secured them around my waist. I took off my boots and tied them round my neck. Then I went down the steep, slippery bank and walked into the water.

It was so cold. I’d thought I was wet and uncomfortable before, but it was nothing compared to this. The mud beneath my feet was slimy, thick and very slippery, and I had to lurch from one stake to the next to avoid falling. As it was, the water quickly rose up to my knees, thighs and my belly. I hitched my clothes higher, although they were so wet already that I didn’t really know why I was bothering.

After an eternity, the claggy marsh bed began to rise again and I clambered out on to the island. I shook the water off my legs, let my robe fall to the ground and strode off to where Granny Cordeilla lay buried.

The low bump of her grave lay nearest to me as I approached. Beyond her were our honoured ancestors, and I liked to think they had given the newest arrival a warm welcome. The kin who Granny would most have liked beside her, however, were not there; of her three beloved brothers, two had died at Hastings, their bodies lost for ever, and the third, Harald, had left England after the Conquest, never to be heard of, or from, since.

Hardly daring to look, I crept up to Granny’s grave. I realized I was holding my breath.

With a rush of relief, I let out a sob. Granny’s last resting place lay undisturbed, the turf over it green and smooth. I knelt down and, as if I were kissing her dear face, pressed my lips to the springy grass. I closed my eyes, visualizing her, and instantly images burst into my mind.

At first they were all of Granny Cordeilla, as she had been in life. I saw her seated beside the hearth, telling a story to an enthralled audience. I saw her face creased in wicked laughter as she played a trick on Goda; she never had much time for my eldest sibling. I saw her watching my father, her expression so soft, so piercingly loving, that it moved me to tears.

After a time — I don’t know how long — I became aware that the visions had changed. Now I no longer saw things from my own memory. I knew, without knowing how I knew, that I was seeing into the past …

I saw a long shore, the sea grey and shot with silver where a ray of sun pierced the heavy clouds. Through the mist I saw a ship, its square sail filled with a powerful wind, racing towards land. The ship had a high prow, and the prow terminated in the startling, frightening figurehead of a dragon. Its long neck curved gracefully, its snout ended in a curling swirl that suggested fire and smoke, and its elongated eyes stared out with furious determination. Inside my head someone said, Malice-striker.

The ship was running before the wind, its long, graceful lines appearing to fly over the waves as if the dragon had spread its wings. It was stunningly beautiful, and, at the same time, deeply frightening. Had the ship come for me? Was it headed for this shore, where its fierce crew would disembark and fall on my own village?

No, said the voice in my head, for this is not now, but a window into the past.

I felt an instant of sweet relief.

Then abruptly the ship disappeared into the mist and the vision faded. Coming back to myself, I shook off the trance and struggled to sit up. Staggering slightly, I stood up and made my way back to the end of the island nearest to the shore, gathering up my garments once more and bracing myself to plunge back into the dark water.

I scrambled ashore and set off for the village, telling myself over and over again, It’s over, it’s done, Granny’s safe. It helped, a little.

I was almost back at the track when it happened. I hadn’t seen a soul; my fellow villagers apparently had far more sense than I, and, once the day’s toil was done, had headed for home and shut themselves firmly inside. Smoke rose from many rooftops, and imagining the warmth of the hearth fires was making me feel even colder.

I saw a huge figure: a giant of a man, broad-shouldered, his pale-coloured hair hanging in braids either side of his heavily bearded face. His light eyes seemed to shine in the deepening dusk, as if lit from inside. He stood on the edge of the track, looking up at the village.

He was half-turned away from me, and I did not think he had seen me. I dropped to my knees, then to my belly, wriggling through the tufty grass and the low knolls that dotted the sodden ground of the fen edge. I made my way to the meagre shelter of a clump of scrawny hazel bushes, then lay still. I could feel the water soaking into my clothes, from my neck to my knees, but I ignored its chilly embrace. Better to be wet than visible to that monster of a man …

After a moment, I made myself look up.

He had gone. He was nowhere to be seen.

I shook my head, puzzled, for surely my eyes were playing me false. In the short time that I hadn’t been watching him, it was inconceivable that he’d managed to get out of sight; there was simply no place of concealment he could have reached so quickly.

Had I imagined him, then? Was he a vestige of that strange vision I’d had out on the secret island?

I did not know.

I was shivering, my teeth chattering. I was so cold that I couldn’t feel my feet, and my hands were blue-white and clumsy. If I didn’t get into the warmth soon, I’d make myself ill.

I checked once more, very carefully, to see if the giant had reappeared. There was no sign of him. Then I got to my feet and, stumbling, tripping over my own feet, I hurried home to Edild.

She was alone, sitting cross-legged by the hearth, hands folded in her lap. I wasn’t taken in for a moment by her air of serenity. I could feel her ire crackling and fizzing just beneath the surface.

She looked up at me, raising one eyebrow.

I flopped down beside her, drips from my hair and garments hissing into the fire. ‘I’ve been out to the island to check on Granny,’ I said. There was no point in dissimulating.

She did not speak. Shooting a quick glance at her, I noticed that she had gone very white, and her instant concern for the danger I’d just put myself in touched me. It also made me feel very guilty.

‘I worked out that the giant who’s been searching for whatever he’s after in all our dwellings has turned his attention to trying to find Granny’s grave,’ I hurried on. ‘He seems to know a lot about us, such as where all of us live, and apparently he’s also aware that Granny died only a couple of years ago, since it was only the most recent graves that he disturbed. We know she’s not there, of course, and I suddenly had the most awful fear that maybe he had found that out too.’ I hesitated. ‘I’m sorry I worried you. I just had to go and make sure.’

‘And?’ The single syllable was barely even a whisper.

‘It’s quite clear that nobody’s been on the island for ages,’ I replied. ‘All the graves, Granny’s included, are just as they ought to be.’

I felt my aunt’s relief coming off her in waves.

After a short silence, she said, ‘How can you be sure your rash action didn’t lead this giant straight to the one place we don’t want him to find?’ She quickly corrected herself. ‘I mean, one of the places. We don’t really want him near any of us!’

I wondered at her suddenly light tone. It was unconvincing, and I thought perhaps she was trying to take my mind off the dark threat that seemed to swirl around us.

‘Don’t worry, I was very careful,’ I assured her. I told her briefly how I’d checked for any malicious presence, and detected nothing. ‘But I …’ I was on the point of telling her how I’d thought I’d seen the figure of a huge, bearded man just as I returned to the village, but I decided to keep it to myself. Now that I was back in the warmth and safety of Edild’s house, I was even more convinced that it had been merely some sort of after-image from my strange vision.

My aunt was looking at me oddly. It felt almost as if she was trying to see inside my head. Deliberately I put up a barrier, and after a moment she turned away.

Presently she said, ‘Your father will be here to collect you soon.’

I had quite forgotten my promise to my father that I would sleep under his roof again that night. Getting up and going out into the rain again was the last thing I wanted to do, but a promise is a promise. I stretched out my hands to the flames and waited for his knock on the door.