Alys Clare: Land of the Silver Dragon

I waited. I could see he was deep in thought — lost in it, indeed — and I did not want to interrupt.

Finally, after what seemed a very long time, he said softly, ‘Cover it now, Lassair, if you would.’

I did as he asked.

He sat looking at the sacking, so intently that it was as if his eyes were trying to penetrate through to the stone. Then he drew a shaky breath and said, ‘Remind me where this came from.’

I closed my eyes, the better to remember how Freydis had described that strange land where Thorkel acquired the stone. It helps, I find, that I’m training to be a bard, for my memory seems to be developing the facility to recall bits of other people’s narratives. Especially the dramatic parts.

‘Thorkel sailed to the land behind the sun,’ I said, eyes still shut, ‘driven by a prophecy that he would cross the endless seas and come to a land of liquid gold. He described this land to his crewmen, telling them it was a place of brilliant light and colour, where they worshipped strange spirits under a sun so hot that men’s skins turned brown, and where the fierce, hungry gods had to be appeased with the blood of the people.’ I opened my eyes. ‘I don’t know where that land is,’ I admitted. ‘Nobody in Iceland actually said, although Hrype said it was in the west.’

And, I could have added, I had been hoping and praying ever since hearing the story that somebody else would elucidate; somebody, in fact, who was now sitting across the table from me.

As if he knew exactly what I was thinking, Gurdyman smiled. Then he reached over to his work table and picked up a large rolled parchment. Even as he untied the ribbon that held it in its roll, I knew what it was.

I waited while he spread it out.

It was the map I had seen before, but now it was twice as big, for another whole section had been stuck to its left-hand side. I leaned forward, trying to take it all in at once.

Gurdyman was pointing at a dot about halfway across the new section, high up towards the parchment’s upper edge. ‘This represents Iceland, where you have lately voyaged,’ he said. I nodded encouragingly, eager to hear more. ‘Here — ’ his finger moved left and up a little — ‘is Greenland, although men say it is covered in ice and snow, and there is little green to be seen. Here is Helluland — ’ he had moved left again — ‘and here Markland, and, below it, Vinland.’ Now he moved down and a little to the right.

The names that Hrype mentioned , I thought, remembering. I stared at where Gurdyman was pointing. The wavy line that I knew represented the edge of the land ambled on down the page, moving generally left, but there were no details and no more carefully written words.

Feeling my spirits sink in disappointment, I looked up at him and said, ‘Is that it? Is that all?’

‘ All? ’ I heard him echo, with an ironic laugh. ‘Lassair, if you only knew the toil, the head-scratching, the quill-biting and the pain it has taken to work it out this far!’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said instantly, ‘I didn’t mean to diminish your achievement. It’s just that …’ I stopped. Just that I was hoping to see exactly where Thorkel went ashore and returned to his ship a changed man sounded hopelessly optimistic and rather naive, so I kept it to myself.

I think Gurdyman understood, anyway, for he patted my arm in an absent-minded but kindly way, then said, ‘The lands where your ancestor sailed may be a mystery to us, but I do know what your stone is, or, at least, I believe I do.’

‘You know what it is?’ It was more than I could have hoped for.

‘Would you like me to tell you?’ Now there was a definite glint of mischief in his eyes.

What a silly question. Since I could hardly say that, I simply replied, ‘Oh, yes please!’

I wondered if he would need to look at or hold the stone again, but it seemed not. ‘This is also known as a shining mirror,’ he began, indicating the stone in its wrappings. Yes , I thought excitedly. Freydis referred to it in those words . ‘It is properly called obsidian; that is the name bestowed upon it by the lifelong student of natural history who observed at first hand its method of formation. But I am wandering from the point.’ He frowned in thought, then went on: ‘You will never guess, Lassair, where and how it originates, and so I shall tell you.’

He turned to his work table, rummaging among the parchments until he found the piece of vellum he used for the rough notes and jottings he habitually makes while a line of thought is coming to fruition. He smoothed it out, then dipped his quill in the ink horn and swiftly drew a little picture.

I stared at it as it formed beneath his skilful hand. It was cone-shaped, and the cone had steep, regular sides. Its base flattened out either side into smooth lines, and I realized he had drawn a hill, or perhaps a mountain. The top of the mountain had a cut-off appearance. Once he was satisfied with the outline, he dipped the quill again and a sudden explosion of straight and wavy lines appeared, as if the insides of the earth were pouring out of the mountain’s summit.

‘This, Lassair, is a volcano,’ he said, still drawing. ‘It is named for Vulcan, who was the Roman god of the forge and its fire. Volcanoes form where the molten rock within the earth has no more room to expand, and comes blasting out of the weakest point in the cone.’

‘ Molten rock?’ I repeated. Surely not …

‘Yes indeed. Melted,’ he said firmly, clearly picking up my incredulity. ‘Rock heated to so high a temperature that it becomes liquid.’

‘ Liquid? ’ I was finding this very hard to accept. Surely he was wrong?

‘When this substance encounters water,’ he went on, sensibly ignoring my interruption, ‘when, for instance, it flows into a lake, a river or the sea, it cools very quickly — and what do you think happens?’ He turned to me enquiringly.

‘Er …’

His little sigh was all but inaudible. ‘It is only molten because it is very, very hot,’ he said patiently. ‘As soon as it cools, it-’

‘It turns back into rock!’ I cried triumphantly, suddenly seeing what he was explaining.

‘It does indeed!’ He beamed. ‘But its nature is forever changed from what it was, for the cooling process is too fast for it to resume its former nature.’ His eyes strayed to the sacking-wrapped object, and I guessed he was visualizing the shining stone. ‘It is as if, through the medium of fire and water, rock has been turned to glass …’ His eyes seemed to slide out of focus, and I sensed he was lost in some private reverie.

An aspect, indeed, of what he had just said was reminding me of something he’d once taught me; something very, very important. I forced myself to concentrate, and out of the depths of my mind I heard a whisper: alchemy .

I left Gurdyman to his meditation as long as I could bear. When he showed no sign of returning his attention to me, and to the here and now, eventually I said softly, ‘Gurdyman?’

He turned to me, his expression hazy, as if he was still absorbed in whatever he had been contemplating so deeply. ‘Lassair!’ It seemed to come as a surprise that I was there.

I should have left him to his thoughts, but my anxiety was too great to let me. ‘Is the shining stone dangerous?’ I hissed in an urgent whisper. I was very afraid: the stone had come into being via an arcane, magical process that I didn’t even dare think about; it had the power to summon spirits; it forced you to face up to your true self; it had almost driven Thorfinn out of his mind, and Skuli had been prepared to kill in order to get his hands on it.

And I had just asked Gurdyman if it was dangerous !