The Saint Magazine. January 1967. Volume 24, No. 5.

Druid Doom by Richard S. Ullery

I met Richard S. Ullery, Dean of Administration and Director of the Summer Division at American International College, in Springfield, Mass., when I spoke there this July at SM author Wenzell Brown’s course. I think you will agree with me that Dean Ullery’s story of the Druid Talgarth is the story of many men who, over the centuries, have misused such authority...

H.S.S.

The island crouches off the northwest coast of Wales. Flat sands edge into the Irish Sea, dotted with beach-houses and amusement places. Steamships, coal barges and sometimes yachts slide through bays and straits.

Twenty centuries ago the island was known as Mona. What is beach today was then swamp, where lived snakes, scorpions, birds and the fish on which they fed. Inland, wolves and wild boars ranged the forest where are small busy towns today. Ships were seldom seen. Occasionally a Phoenecian trading vessel, a Scandinavian galley or a Roman trireme passed the island headed for more important places.

Cedmon pushed through the brush hedging the forest and limped onto flat pasture-land. Beyond him lay the village, where torch-flares were wavering red streaks against the black of night. He forced himself into a stumbling run.

A sharp command cut through the darkness. “Stop there!”

Into the circle of light cast by the nearest torch strode a man. Beads glittered at the collar of his sleeveless cloak and the knife he gripped was ready.

“Hail, Artog. It is Cedmon.”

Artog took a step closer and peered into the other’s face. He thrust his knife into his belt.

“We had thought you dead.”

“I have been near death,” Cedmon answered. He hobbled forward into the full light of the torch.

“You are lame! And your face is scarred from cheek to chin!” Artog exclaimed.

“What has happened to you?”

“It is a long tale. I must go to my house to eat and rest. Is Dara well?”

“Cedmon, your wife is dead,” Artog said softly.

Cedmon cried out and clutched Artog’s arm. “Dead? When? How?”

“Food is on the fire at my house,” Artog said. “Come. Lanilar will give you something to eat, and I will tell you what happened.”

In the middle of Artog’s one-room homestead a fire of thorns and bark blazed and hissed. Cedmon lay on the hide-covered bed that extended along the wall, his ragged cloak tossed aside. The children of Artog and Lanilar slept, under a cover of skins, at the far end of the bed.

“Drink this,” Lanilar said. She handed him a wooden bowl brimming with broth and chunks of meat, her long skirt swirling as she turned, its beaded fringe gleaming many colors in the firelight.

Cedmon put the bowl to his lips and drank deep of the broth.

“Ah!” he sighed. “There is warmth and strength in that. It is long since I—” He set down the bowl. “What of Dara?”

“She was bitten by a swamp adder,” Artog said. “During spring sowing, soon after you left.”

“She was in the swamp?” Cedmon asked, surprised.

“That is the strange thing,” Lanilar said. “She was in the pasture-land, had lain down to rest and fallen asleep.”

“She did not die at once,” Artog said. “Your half-brother Talgarth was there — he who is studying to become a Druid priest. He took her to your house and cared for her. The snake had not bitten deep and it seemed that she might live. But she became worse, even with Talgarth’s medicine, and next morning she had died.”

Cedmon groaned. “If I had been here—” he began.

“Talgarth never left her side,” Artog broke in. “And as an apprentice Druid he knows more of medicine than a hunter like you.”

“But why were you not here?” Lanilar asked. “The moon has been full several times since you left — where have you been?”

“When I left on my hunting trip I went deep into the forest,” Cedmon answered. “I climbed a high ridge. From the upper end a wild boar charged down. Not at me, but at a man beyond me facing the other way. I shouted and as the boar rushed by me I threw my long spear into its side, and it turned on me. My face was gored, as you can see. I fell backward into the gulley below the ridge. My leg crumpled and I could not rise. The man whom I had saved and some others came down to help me.”

“Who were they?” Artog asked.

“They had come from the sea,” Cedmon replied. “They wore shiny hats with wings. They spoke a different tongue. I asked them to take me to our village, but they did not understand. They were kind because I may have saved the life of one of them. They made a sort of bed from branches and carried me away.”

“To their camp?” Lanilar asked.

“They had no camp. They circled the swamp and finally we came to the sea. There they had a ship, as long as your house and mine and two more like them.”

Artog stirred uneasily. “You had fever from your injuries?” he suggested.

“I was on that ship after I was well,” Cedmon answered. “My leg healed — badly, as you have seen — but then I walked from end to end of the ship. And later we rode on it.”

“Where to?” Lanilar asked.

“I do not know. The Winged Hats knew. They had a small round box fastened to the ship which told them which way to turn when they were in doubt.”

“Did it speak to them?”

“It did not speak, but it pointed the way,” Cedmon answered. “We rode a great distance, watching the box, and after a long time we were back here again. We stopped above the swamp, and they let me come ashore.”

“It is a marvellous tale,” Artog said doubtfully.

“They made me a gift,” Cedmon added. He took from his belt a small flat piece of metal, shiny in the firelight. “Have you ever seen such a thing as this?”

“It is like the surface of the lake when no wind blows, and makes a picture of what is above,” Lanilar said. “But it is not water.” She stared at her reflection and reluctantly handed back the steel mirror.

Cedmon pulled himself to his feet. “I thank you for the food. Now I must go to my own house.”

Artog rose and laid a hand on Cedmon’s arm. “Do not go,” he said. “For — you have no house!”

Cedmon swung about to face Artog. “I have no house! What are you saying?”

“After Dara died Talgarth saw a vision of you lying dead in the forest. He said that your spirit came to him saying that since he is your half-brother he should have your house and all your goods!”

“He is my brother, Artog. We were not friendly — he wanted Dara too, as you know, and Dara disliked even looking at him — but he is my brother. When he sees me he will give back what belongs to me. I will go to see him now.”

“I will go with you,” Artog said.

In the dancing red flicker of torches Cedmon and Talgarth faced each other before what had been Cedmon’s house. A dozen or so villagers who had recognized Cedmon stood in a half-circle around them.

“You see I am not dead, Talgarth. Your vision was false.”

Talgarth, tall, robed in white, his plumed headdress casting a gigantic shadow, regarded him calmly.

“Is it truly Cedmon?” he asked.

Cedmon took a step forward. “Look well and see.”

Talgarth stared back steadily, then touched his fingers lightly against the scars on Cedmon’s face.

“This is not Cedmon,” he said, his voice full and resonant.

“What does he mean?” a villager asked. “It is surely Cedmon, is it not?”

“What trickery is this?” Cedmon demanded.

“Tell the tale of your wanderings, Cedmon,” Artog called out. “Tell of the wonders that you saw!”

Cedmon swung away from Talgarth and retold the story of his adventures. When he had finished an uproar broke out from the villagers.

“Your vision was only partly true, Talgarth. Cedmon was near death but was saved!”

“Return his property, Talgarth! It is yours no longer!”

Talgarth raised his hand high, then stood silent and motionless. His large eyes, glinting in the firelight, raked the faces before him. The cries and murmurs of the villagers trailed into silence.

When all was quiet Talgarth lowered his arm. “You have heard the words from Cedmon’s mouth,” he exclaimed in deep tones that floated somberly on the night air. “Now I will tell you the truth. This is not Cedmon who stands before us.” His voice rolled out in a swelling volume that overwhelmed Cedmon’s protest.

“The vision I saw was truth,” Talgarth continued. “I saw Cedmon dead. He is dead. A wicked spirit has entered the body of my brother. That spirit has come here to do us great harm.”

Cedmon staggered as if struck. He knew that sometimes a human body became inhabited by a wicked spirit, but this had not happened to him, he was certain of that. What was Talgarth doing to him? He pulled a knife from his belt and made a stumbling dive at Talgarth but his rush was blocked by the villagers. “You have told your story, Cedmon,” said one. “Let Talgarth speak now.”

“These things I can prove,” Talgarth went on. “You know that when a wicked spirit enters a body it always damages the body in some way. You remember Ronad the wolf, whose body carried a devil that made him invisible for so long? And you remember, do you not, that it was only after Karmat, our Arch-Druid, made a spell that the spirit left? And was not Ronad the wolf lame because of the evil soul that broke into his body?”

“I remember Ronad the wolf,” one of the villagers said. “For a long time we saw only his tracks which proved him lame.”

“And it is true that we never saw him until Karmat had cast the spell,” another added.

Talgarth spoke again. “You see that Cedmon is lame, and scarred also, proving that the wicked spirit in his body is one of greatest evil since it had to damage the body so badly to enter. And here is more proof. Just now you heard words from Cedmon’s mouth of magic boxes and giant ships. We know that Cedmon has no knowledge of magic, therefore it is not Cedmon who speaks but the devil-spirit that now lives in his body, wishing to confuse us and gain power over us.”

“Cedmon was never lame or scarred,” someone in the crowd muttered. “And we know that those who carry wicked spirits within them are never whole of body.”

Talgarth swung his arm to point at Cedmon, tightly held by two villagers. “Look! We know my brother Cedmon was a calm and peaceful man whose speech was always reasonable. Tonight we heard words from him in tones that are not those of Cedmon. See how he struggles to attack and silence me because it is Talgarth’s eyes which can see through the body to the wicked spirit within! That is not Cedmon!” He raised his arm above his head.

“Let us drive out the spirit that is in my brother’s body!” he exclaimed. “Let us pierce that body with spears until the evil soul flees from our village!”

A few men in the group began to move ominously to ward Cedmon. Several other villagers headed for Artog cut in front of them. The two parties faced each other, and knife blades gleamed in the torch light.

“There will be no fighting among ourselves!” called out a new voice. A short-legged, heavy-set man, white-robed and with headgear even taller than that of Talgarth thrust his way forward. His huge head seemed to rest upon wide shoulders as snugly as if there were no neck between.

“It is Karmat, the Arch-Druid!” called out a villager.

The Arch-Druid strode with short staccato steps to a point between the opposing groups.

“Put away your weapons, my people.” The great round head swung back and forth like a huge ball as his eyes swept from one faction to the other.

“If Cedmon is dead and a bad spirit now lives in his body we should drive out that spirit before it does us harm — already we have come close to fighting among ourselves. Perhaps that was the spirit’s work. Should we strike our spears into Cedmon’s body, as Talgarth urges, we shall force out the wicked spirit, if it is there. But if it is Cedmon’s spirit, we have murdered one of ourselves!”

He turned toward Talgarth.

“Although only an apprentice Druid as yet, Talgarth, you have shown unusual powers. Can you cast the spell to drive out an evil spirit as I did with Ronad the wolf?”

“I can, Karmat,” Talgarth answered.

“Then there is no need of spears. Talgarth will go to the Great Oak tomorrow at sunrise to cast his spell. If by the next sunrise the evil spirit has left Cedmon’s body it will be proof that there is a demon within him. But if Cedmon is still well and strong at that time, we shall know that there was no wicked spirit, and Talgarth will return his house and goods. Is this a fair test, my people?”

“It is indeed fair,” one of the villagers said.

“I accept the test,” Karmat, Cedmon stated.

That night Cedmon slept at the house of Artog and Lanilar. After the first meal of the next day word came from a passer-by that Talgarth, carrying a Druid wand and a serpent’s egg, had stood at the foot of the Great Oak at sunrise, built a fire, burned the egg, and made his incantations over its charred shell.

“Are you going to do nothing against his spell, Cedmon?” Artog asked.

“No wicked demon is in me, so his magic cannot do me harm,” Cedmon replied. “But I should like to go hunting this morning. I have not thrown a spear for a long time. Perhaps I can bring something back for the evening meal. — If you will lend me a spear.”

He limped away over the pasture-land toward the forest. Artog shook his head. “I know it is Cedmon, and no evil spirit,” he said to Lanilar. “But I still fear Talgarth’s powers.”

Cedmon returned before the sun had reached its height, a pair of rabbits slung over his shoulder. Lanilar eagerly took charge of them for cleaning and cooking. Cedmon tossed the spear on the ground behind him and squatted beside Artog at the entrance to the house.

“I do not think that Talgarth believes I have a foreign spirit in me,” he said. “And it is not that he wants my house and goods enough to destroy me. He fears me for something else. And when the sun has risen tomorrow—”

“You will not be here!” a harsh voice interrupted. Behind them stood Talgarth, his large eyes fixed on Cedmon.

“The spell I cast is working. Its power increases as the time grows shorter.” He took a long step over Cedmon’s spear and strode away.

“He is dangerous,” Artog said. “And he heard what you were saying.”

“It does not matter,” Cedmon replied. “But perhaps I should keep this by me for awhile.” He stood up and reached down for the spear. As his hand closed upon it a searing pain stabbed into his palm. He gazed in horror at the many-clawed little creature clinging to the spear’s shaft, its brown body almost invisible against the dark wood. Tiny malignant eyes glared upward while the barbed tail that had struck deep into the flesh of Cedmon’s hand thrashed frantically.

“Scorpion!” he cried out. “Poison scorpion!”

Artog was at his side and Lanilar came rushing from the house. Artog whipped out his knife and sliced twice across Cedmon’s palm, then made two more cuts across the first pair.

“Now press hard, Lanilar!” he ordered. Lanilar gripped Cedmon’s hand between both of hers and squeezed with all her strength. Artog put his lips to the gashes and sucked in his breath with a mighty pull. He spit out a mouthful of blood mixed with yellow fluid, alternately applying his lips to the wound and ejecting blood and poison while Lanilar maintained the pressure against the palm of Cedmon’s hand.

“The most of it is out,” Artog said at last. “Rest upon the grass, Cedmon. A bandage of wet leaves and the sting will be no more than a fly-bite.” He spat again. “Faugh! It was well we were nearby.”

Cedmon, reeling with pain and shock, sank to the ground. “You spoke of magic and spells,” he said. “It is the greatest magic of all to have such friends!”

“Artog!” Lanilar called, pointing to the spear. “Look! the scorpion! It is still there!”

The deadly little reptile, lashing out with claws and tail, had not left the spear-handle.

“Tied by the head with swamp-grass just where a man would grasp it!” Artog said. “See the spot beneath the scorpion where the sweat of Cedmon’s hand has stained the wood!”

“Talgarth stood there, and our backs were to him,” Cedmon pointed out.

“How could he handle a scorpion and not be stung himself?” Lanilar wondered.

“A drop or two of spirit-water on its head and it would sleep for awhile,” Artog answered. “Long enough for Talgarth to bring it here and fasten it on the spear while we were talking.”

Cedmon struggled to his feet. “I do not feel well,” he said. “Take me inside.”

They helped him onto the bed. “I am not so ill as I appear,” he said. “Do not worry. One more favor — Lanilar, will you go through the village, telling everyone that I am sick and have taken to my bed?”

For the rest of the day Cedmon lay on his pallet, with Artog lounging and playing with his children just outside the entrance.

“All the people now believe that Talgarth is right, that his spell is working, and the evil spirit is being driven out of Cedmon’s body,” Lanilar reported after her journey through the village.

“That is good,” Cedmon stated. “What has Talgarth to say?”

“The spirit within you will be gone before sunrise.”

“He thinks that your blood is filled with the scorpion’s poison,” Artog said. “If that were so, you would surely die tonight.”

A brief smile rippled the scar on Cedmon’s cheek. “Let him be happy in that thought for now,” he said.

Lanilar prepared the evening meal, and she, Artog and their children crouched beside the bed to share it with Cedmon.

“I have another favor to ask,” Cedmon announced when they had finished. “Will you take your children somewhere for the night and send word to Talgarth to come here. Tell him that I have things to talk about with him.”

“My sister will take the children,” Lanilar said. “But the other — is it wise?”

“While he believes you are dying, you are safe,” Artog warned. “But when he sees you he will know that you are not sick, and he will become dangerous again!”

“I shall be on my guard. And you and Lanilar will be just outside the doorway while he is here. There will be nothing to fear.”

Darkness had fallen when Lanilar returned.

“Talgarth is coming,” she reported. “The village thinks that your evil spirit, knowing itself conquered, has sent for Talgarth to plead with him to remove the spell.”

“That is well,” Cedmon replied. “Let the torch be set in the doorway so the light will be bright. You have some spirit-water, of course?”

Lanilar nodded.

“Good. Fill two gourds and leave them with us when he comes. Then sit outside with Artog while he is here.”

While Artog placed the torch in the doorway Cedmon marked with his knife a small circle on the dirt floor beside the bed. Then, kneeling, he took from his belt the steel mirror given him by the Winged Hats and held it above the bed against one of the poles supporting the roof.

He was very careful as to the height of the mirror and its angle of reflection. When he was satisfied, he stuck the mirror into the bark of the pole so that as he lay he could see reflected the little circle which he had marked on the floor beside him.

The tall form of Talgarth momentarily blocked off the light from the torch in the doorway. Cedmon rolled on his side, lifting his left shoulder enough to conceal the mirror hanging above and behind him, and slid his right hand beneath him until it touched the handle of the knife in his belt.

“Hail, Talgarth.” Cedmon’s greeting was little more than a whisper. “Enter, and sit. Lanilar, bring spirit-water for my brother.”

From the rear of the house Lanilar brought two tall gourds, set them on the floor between the two men, and glided outside to join Artog.

“There is no use begging my mercy now,” Talgarth declared. “You have seen the sun for the last time. The power of my spell is too strong for the evil spirit within you.”

Cedmon reached for one of the gourds and pulled out the tuft of cow’s tail with which it was corked. “The power of the scorpion’s poison is what you mean, Talgarth,” he muttered.

“The spell brings death by one means or another,” Talgarth retorted. “If a scorpion has stung you, the greater the power that made it happen.”

Cedmon drank deep from the gourd and set it back beside the bed. “You have no power, Talgarth,” he said in a loud voice that made the Druid start with surprise. “I saw, and Artog and Lanilar too, how the scorpion was fastened to my spear. The scorpion for me — and the swamp-adder for my wife Dara.”

Talgarth sat motionless, his huge eyes raised in a stare of amazement and alarm.

“Your spell can do me no harm. I am as well as you, and will live as long!” Cedmon declared. “All the village will know these things when the sun is risen. Then you can try to make a spell that will explain how it happens that I am still alive!”

Talgarth sprang to his feet. He threw a glance toward the doorway. Artog had also risen, and the torch light gleamed red on his spear.

“Sit, Talgarth,” Cedmon ordered. “We have a long night before the sun rises and I show the village how weak are your spells!”

He took up one of the gourds. “Will you not drink, while we wait?”

“I will,” Talgarth answered. His voice was pinched. He took up the other gourd. Cedmon, lying on his side, with one hand on his knife, sipped his drink, keenly aware of Talgarth’s eyes watching his every move, then replaced the gourd on the ground. This time he was careful to set it exactly in the small circle which he had marked out earlier.

“This lying in bed wearies me,” he complained, rolling over so that his back was toward Talgarth. By lowering his right shoulder slightly he was able to see his gourd reflected in the mirror above his head.

“Rest, if you will. You have nothing to fear from me, my brother,” Talgarth said in a low voice.

Cedmon, squinting in the mirror, caught a flashing glimpse of long fingers fluttering for an instant above the gourd. He sat up suddenly.

“Talgarth, I learned a bit of magic while I was away. By making a picture of a man in my mind, I can see what he is doing even though I am not looking at him.”

Talgarth regarded him steadily, his eyes enormous.

“I made a picture of you in my mind just now,” Cedmon continued. “Tomorrow the village will know what I saw.”

Talgarth jumped to his feet and Cedmon leaped off the bed, his knife ready.

“They will not believe you,” Talgarth said in a strangled voice. “I can tip over the gourd and then you cannot prove what you say.”

“Now I know that you murdered Dara!” Cedmon shouted. “You hated her because she would have nothing to do with you! Your swamp-adder did not kill her, so you gave her poisoned medicine. When I returned you feared I would discover your wicked deed — and you had to kill me too!”

Talgarth moved a step forward and Cedmon levelled the knife at his heart. “I am not sleeping, as was Dara when you brought the swamp-adder. And I have not my back to you, as when you fastened the scorpion to my spear. Take one more step, Talgarth!”

Talgarth stood motionless, the knife an inch from his heaving chest.

“I will not kill you, Talgarth,” Cedmon added. “I have another picture of you in my mind. I see the former Druid, stripped of robe, headdress and serpent egg. All the village knows him as the man who pretended to make spells but had no power, who tried to kill me when he was found out, and failed in that too. I see him scorned by the men, laughed at by the children, helping the women break sticks for the fires, washing the cook-pots—”

“That you will never see!” Talgarth shouted. He ducked below Cedmon’s knife and seized the poisoned gourd.

“Your magic, too, will fail,” he said as he drank.