Alys Clare: Land of the Silver Dragon

‘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.