Alys Clare - The Way Between the Worlds

‘No time to be coy, Lassair,’ he said with a grin. ‘Don’t forget, I’ve already seen what you can do with a concealed path across a bog.’ I knew what he meant, although I could have argued with his description. ‘These greenways,’ he went on, ‘link particular places, you said?’

‘Yes.’ It seemed that he would not be content with the brief explanation, so I thought quickly for a way to elaborate that would not involve being there all day. ‘Our ancestors have always lived in these lands,’ I began, ‘or so we are led to believe. Our bards trace the lineage back to the days of the gods, and legends tell of a time long, long ago when men were given the gift of fire and taught how to use metals. In those days the spirits still walked the earth, teaching mankind and encouraging them always to question, always to explore, to push back the boundaries of darkness and superstition so that they could see the pure light. In return, mankind honoured the spirits, making sacred spaces where they were worshipped and where sacrifices were made. These holy sites are long gone, but their power was so strong that they have left an echo.’

‘Which people like you can sense,’ he said softly.

‘I — yes.’ It was not really a time for false modesty. I was about to go on, but a glance at his expression suggested he had something very important on his mind: his dark eyes were full of light, and he looked as if his entire being had suddenly been lifted up.

‘That place at the end of the path,’ he said, ‘where I was about to die and where you found me. Is there one of these sacred places anywhere near it?’

‘There is,’ I whispered, although there was nobody anywhere near enough to have overheard, and those who were passing by were far too intent on their own troubles. ‘There once was an ancient wooden circle, in the centre of which stood an upturned oak stump, its splayed roots open to the sky.’

And I went on to tell him, as briefly as I could, about the dream I’d had which had led me to him.

When I had finished there was a long silence. After a while he reached out and took my hand. I had no idea what he felt about magic; on the one hand he was a Norman, and the Normans were not renowned for being sympathetic to the old ways. On the other hand, the strange abilities with which I’d been bestowed had saved his life.

When at long last he spoke, it was not at all what I was expecting.

‘Before we go any further,’ he said — in itself a lovely remark because it suggested we would go on together — ‘I should tell you that, while my father was born into a powerful Norman family, he refused to marry the suitable but dull daughter of his father’s best friend who had been selected for him. Instead he chose my mother — they never bothered to get married — and she is a dark-haired, black-eyed woman of the south, fiery and fierce, and the peasants of Sicily fear her because they say she is a strega .’ A shadow passed over his face, and for a moment he looked grief-stricken. ‘Strega means witch,’ he said huskily. ‘My mare was called Strega.’

Then I understood the sorrow. Before we left our shelter in the pine trees, we had said a blessing for his lost horse. I had seen his face wet with tears, and loved him the more.

I felt the sharp edge of his grief retreat a little, and the respite allowed me to reflect on what he had just told me. So his mother was a witch, was she? That answered quite a lot of questions I’d been storing up about him. .

One of us had to reassert the impatient present, and it was him. ‘So this old road led up to the wooden circle?’ he said.

‘They do say so,’ I agreed. ‘It’s claimed that it was built by the southern invaders when they needed to be able to move their armies around quickly — after the Great Revolt — but we know there was a greenway there long before that. There’s nowhere else it could lead to except the shrine of the crossing place.’

‘The crossing place,’ he repeated, almost to himself. I knew there was no need to explain; he already understood. Then, so abruptly that it took me by surprise, he stood up, pulled me up after him and said, ‘This is a crossroads, and where you find them you usually also find an inn, so let’s go and seek it out.’

He kept his promise and treated me to the biggest meal I’d ever eaten. It was probably breakfast, because although we seemed to have been awake for ages, it was still early. There was another promise he had made — to explain what he was doing — and he had not yet honoured that one. I was prepared to wait, for a while at least.

We were sitting at a long table, sharing it with other hungry travellers. One of them mentioned the weather — in a group of strangers flung together, someone usually does — and after a few grumbles about it being too wet, too cold, too hot and not hot enough, an old man next to Rollo leaned closer into the group and said, ‘No more storms like that one back at Michaelmas,’ and a sudden silence fell.

It was Rollo who broke it. ‘I heard tell of that storm,’ he said, an awed note in his voice. ‘Many men died, or so it was said.’

‘Many men is right,’ another man agreed. Wide-eyed, he added, ‘Bodies washed up all along the shore, there were! Made you scared to venture out of your door, for fear of what you’d find waiting for you.’

‘That weren’t no normal storm,’ another old man put in. I saw the sudden sharp attention in Rollo’s eyes, as if this were somehow of crucial interest. ‘I’ve lived on this coast all my life,’ the old man went on, ‘and I’ve never seen a force like that. Straight out of the north it came, like a snow spirit whipping up a vast team of wolves and driving them ahead of it. Water built up like a wall, and down it fell on everything and everyone in its way. And cold !’ He paused, rheumy old blue eyes wide for dramatic effect. ‘There’s never been cold like that, I’m telling you; it bit clear through to the bone. Those poor bastards in the sea didn’t stand a chance. They’d have frozen to death even before the waters rushed in and drowned them.’

Poor bastards . I wondered why he had called them that. He seemed sympathetic for the terrible way they had died, and I concluded that the disparaging term was just his usual habit.

‘There was wreckage and all!’ a new, excited voice put in. ‘All sorts of goods washed up on the shore, and we — ouch !’

The abrupt cessation of his remark suggested strongly that somebody had kicked him, very hard, to stop him blabbing to a couple of outsiders how the locals had helped themselves to the bounty that the storm had so kindly provided.

‘What happened to the bodies?’ Rollo asked after an awkward few moments.

‘They were taken away and buried up at Frythe,’ the first speaker said.

‘Where’s that?’

‘Up on the coast road.’ The man waved an arm roughly towards the north and the sea.

‘They came from the water,’ the very old man said in a wavering voice. ‘Seemed only right to lay them to rest close as possible to the place they were lost.’

Frythe. I committed to name to memory. Glancing at Rollo, I knew he had done too.

We stayed chatting to our fellow diners for a while longer, talking about everything except the storm. Then Rollo got up, saying we had to be on our way. It might have been just my imagination, but I don’t think the men were sorry to see us go.

Frythe turned out to be a small village set to the west of the road as it drove on towards the sea. There was an open space with a pond, a row of mean-looking dwellings, one or two bigger houses and some hovels. There was also a dilapidated inn and a church, beside which was a graveyard enclosed within a stone wall set with flints. Rollo and I went to look, and straight away we saw several lines of raw new graves. Not one had any flower or token to indicate there was someone who cared about the dead body lying down there in the earth.