Imogen Robertson - Island of Bones

‘Saw you, Mr Quince, and the young one on the boat. Thought I’d come and meet you. Wondered if you’d like to go up and see the stones, as if you’ve a mind to be guided, I’ve time.’

Now Mr Quince’s eyes seemed to shine. ‘The Druidic stones? Oh yes, I should like that very much indeed. I had hoped to see them as we came into town yesterday, but I missed them, I fear. We were thinking of visiting the museum, but no doubt we may do that on the morrow.’

Sophia tilted her head to one side. ‘Druidic? I do not know this word.’

Quince thought her frown delightful. ‘Of the Druids,’ he explained. ‘The ancient religion of the area.’

She nodded. ‘Of course, foolish of me. We have the same word in my language.’

Casper addressed her. ‘You would be welcome to come too, miss. They can be a comfort and help, the stones. Men have spoken there of serious things since time began, and they keep the wisdom, I reckon. If I have a thought needs cracking, it’s where I go.’

Quince turned to her with a formal bow. ‘If you are at liberty, Fraulein, we would be very glad of your company.’

She paused before making her decision, but when she did, she smiled. ‘I thank you. My father, with whom I am travelling, today has business elsewhere. I should be happy to come.’ She took his arm, and Quince wished some of his acquaintance might observe him dressed as a gentleman, with this beautiful woman at his side: they might mistake him for a man of consequence. Stephen approached them again, with Joe perched on his shoulder.

‘I am glad you are coming, Fraulein,’ he said, then tugged on Casper’s sleeve. ‘May I have Joe on my shoulder as we go, Mr Casper?’

‘You may,’ he replied, turning on to the track again, ‘though the lazy beggar could just flap his wings.’

Quince glanced at the Fraulein’s profile, though he saw only in her face a slight glimmer of amusement that gleamed in her eyes like reflections in polished marble.

It was further than Quince had guessed; the path was steep and they went slowly in the heat. The tutor estimated they must have walked some two miles from the lakeshore when Casper let them into a cornfield off the Penrith road and he saw the Druidic stones for the first time. He held his breath. They were arranged in a slightly elongated circle some thirty yards in diameter, perhaps fifty hulks of grey granite of varying size. Casper led them between two individuals which seemed to form a sort of gate and into the centre, then watched them as they took in the sight. The ground where the stones had been set was on the top of a smooth rise, and the field around them gently curved like the backbone of a cat that wishes to be stroked. The lake itself was hidden from them; instead they seemed to be at the centre of a wide amphitheatre of hills that hid the horizon like piles of crumpled linen. There were fields and farms visible at their bases, then they climbed and tumbled over each other till they disappeared into the haze of the sky. Behind them Skiddaw slept, softer seen from here. Mr Quince thought of ancient peoples gathering in this place, and wondered if they had lit grand fires between the stones, and what was consumed in their flames, what prayers made, what bargains struck with their gods and each other.

Stephen was not as bloodthirsty as many boys of his age, no matter how much he liked to re-enact the naval battles of his father on the lawns of Caveley Park. His first question, however, was still about whether human sacrifice had taken place there.

‘Maybe, maybe, Master Stephen,’ Casper replied. ‘They say there was a time the cunning-men used to burn maidens here for their gods till one day, such was the love the son of the tribe’s leader had for the girl to be burned, the skies opened up in mercy and the rains put out the fires. So they let her live and no other girls were killed thereafter.’

Mr Quince smiled. ‘Do you believe that, Mr Grace?’

Casper shrugged. ‘There are many stories about the stones, and I am sure they have some power in them, though I hope it was not bought with blood. That was an old story, and here’s a fresh one. I know that one time a year or two back, when that Mr Sturgess wished to excavate this place with gunpowder, there was such a storm on the day he came up here! Such lightning and rain to make this year’s weather look like a summer shower, and it seemed to fall right here.’

‘The excavations were halted then?’

‘They were. And he was told there’d be no more. So I reckon the stones and sky do talk.’

‘I have met Mr Sturgess at Silverside,’ Quince said, frowning.

‘He came with a passion to know of old things and old ways,’ Casper said. ‘Though perhaps he just likes to dig like a badger. He carved out a cave on his own land and had it lined with seashells.’

‘How charming!’ Quince said at the thought, then saw something in Casper’s look that made him blush and drop his eyes.

‘Still, he found some stone axe heads for Mr Askew’s museum, before the rain drove him off and his workers’ pay was stopped,’ Casper finished.

Quince turned to see if Fraulein Hurst was listening. He could not say, since she seemed lost in contemplation of the hills surrounding them.

Stephen spoke. ‘Are you a cunning-man, sir? Miriam at Silverside Hall says you are.’

Casper scratched the back of his neck and Mr Quince began to fear he was finding them wearisome. ‘She may call me what she will. There are some who come to me. Hope I have some influence with them when their animals get sick, or they have a pain in their belly.’

‘And what do you do? Are there really witches still? Can they change shape? Was Joe a witch once — is that why he can talk?’

Quince stepped forward to put a warning hand on Stephen’s shoulder, but Casper sank down on his haunches and looked the boy in the eye.

‘Joe was always what he is. I found him fallen from the nest when he was but a bit of a thing, and he learned his speech from me. I know something of the calendar and of healing, maybe enough of flowers and roots to be thought cunning. Witches there are. Though I think ’em for the most part like that lightning rod stuck up on Crosthwaite Church. There are people that just suck up the magic in the air whether they will it or not, and it can flash out of them. Some know it though, and learn its ways. Some use it to help and heal, some to curse and trouble — and magic does to them as they do to others. Most people carry a bit of rowan with them, stop it flashing at them and theirs. You have yours now in that cross I gave you. Have you kept it?’ Stephen nodded, and Quince noticed the lad’s fist clenching in his coat-pocket. He wondered what his employer would think of her son learning a philosophy of witchcraft when under his care. ‘There, that’s rowan, so you’ll have nothing to fear.’

Quince cleared his throat. ‘Stephen, it is said to be impossible to count the stones twice and get the same number. Will you try it?’

Stephen looked a little surly for a moment, as if he might resist so obvious an attempt to separate him from Casper, but the challenge was an interesting one, so he walked to the edge of the circle and patted one of the blocks, then moved onto the next, allowing his elders to return to a contemplation of the view.

‘I think you have no belief in witches then, sir?’ Casper said to the tutor.

‘No,’ Quince replied, ‘but if I had lived my life among these hills and alongside these stones, I might.’

‘Vicar tries to beat it out of us,’ Casper shrugged, ‘but his God seems like a child to me at times.’

Quince found his mind’s eye filling with ancient fires again. He noticed Casper’s hands, callused working hands, then looked at his own, white and clumsy. The two men watched Stephen on the other side of the circle pause for a moment, then continue in his count. Fraulein Hurst was turned away towards the road, deep in thought. Quince fumbled for his watch and cleared his throat.