Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

I followed, pulling up the hood of my cloak. The rain had soaked through the cloth and was dripping down my neck and under my collar. Fortunately I had acquired stout new boots of greased leather while in Zaragoza and, while not watertight, they kept out most of the water as we tramped our way through the puddles.

We walked steadily uphill for at least an hour, following the line of a narrow glen until the track brought us out onto level moorland. Huddled inside my hood, I paid little attention to our surroundings. When I did raise my eyes, it was to note that we had climbed to where the mist had turned to low cloud and was even thicker. I could see no more than thirty paces in any direction, a bleak vista of rock, heather and low scrub. Everything was dripping wet. I presumed that there was only one track leading inland, and wondered just how far we would have to go before we reached the next settlement. It was useless to ask Gallmau. He spoke only his own language and showed no interest in trying to communicate with me. Also, I was growing increasingly uneasy about being on the moor alone with him. He could easily knock me down with his heavy staff, steal my money and disappear into the mist.

I was plodding along, head down and looking where I was putting my feet when all of a sudden the two dogs rushed away from the footpath. They were barking excitedly, doubtless chasing a rabbit or a hare. Gallmau roared at them so fiercely to come to heel that I glanced up to see the reason for his anger. The sight that greeted me made my skin prickle. Our way lay between two rows of huge grey stones. They were set at intervals, some fifteen paces apart, and a little way back from the track. Each stone was its natural shape, a massive boulder longer than it was broad and weighing many tons. It must have taken unimaginable labour to drag each one of them into its right place. Then, by some feat of ingenuity, they had been tilted and set on end so that they resembled gigantic tombstones. In the half-light of the overcast day they were eerie and mysterious, as if not of this world.

Gallmau treated them with great respect. After the two dogs had returned obediently to their master, he used the tip of his staff to mark some sort of shape in the turf, before bowing his head and dropping down to one knee as though to pay homage to the great stones.

The mist grew even denser as we proceeded, until I could barely make out the looming shape of the nearest stone on either side. As we moved through this silent, opaque world I became aware that we were not alone. Someone had joined us. It was just a fleeting impression at first, a shadowy figure a short distance ahead of Gallmau, someone walking along the path in the same direction as us. The figure was indistinct, appearing and then disappearing as the thickness of the mist varied. Gallmau was striding along ahead of me and the track was too narrow for me to overtake him to investigate. Besides, I had no wish to intercept the stranger. Only after several minutes did I realize there was something familiar about our new companion. He was dressed like me, in a long cloak. He had the hood pulled up so I could see only his general shape. It was the manner of his walking and the way he held his shoulders that was familiar. Finally I realized who it was: my twin brother. His fetch was travelling with us, leading the way. I wondered if Gallmau could also see him, but the fisherman gave no sign of it. Only the two dogs reacted. They ran forward along the path and I watched them investigate the distant wraith, sniffing at its heels, wagging their tails, and then padding back to their master. The confidence of the dogs reassured me. I knew I could not attract my brother’s attention. The otherworld pays no heed to mortals, and if he wished to speak to me, he would do so. Yet I half-hoped that he would stop and turn to greet me. But he kept walking forward through the mist, and I tramped along behind him, strangely comforted by his presence. I was certain that as long as my twin brother was with me on my journey, no harm would come to me.

After some hours the path finally began to descend. We left the high moorland and emerged from the worst of the mist. About that time my brother’s fetch vanished. He disappeared in much the same manner as he had first arrived, showing himself indistinctly for a few moments, then vanishing, only to reappear for another brief glimpse. When he did not show himself for several long minutes, I knew that I would not see him again that day.

We had reached a fold in the land, which sheltered a hamlet of a dozen small cottages. The two dogs ran ahead of us, straight to one of the buildings, and scratched at the door. A voice called out and when Gallmau answered, the door was opened by a bald, very overweight man of middle age. He had a round head, a neck that spilled over his collar in folds of fat, and his small sharp eyes looked as if they had been set in a pudding. His gaze travelled slowly over me, and then to Gallmau before he gestured at us to enter. We stepped into a room starkly furnished with a wooden table, a bench and three stools. There was a door to an inner room, a fire burning in the hearth and several farm tools propped in a corner. Gallmau’s two dogs promptly ran to the hearth and lay down on the earth floor as if they owned the place. Soon the room filled with the smell of drying dog.

Gallmau spoke briefly to the fat man, who then turned to me.

‘You travel to the king’s palace at Aachen?’ he enquired. He spoke far better Frankish than Gallmau’s wife.

‘I carry a sacred book for the library of the new chapel,’ I said. I was uneasy. Something about the fat man made me distrust him.

He waved a chubby hand towards the bench by the table.

‘Take a seat. It’s a long walk from the coast, and you must be tired. I’ll get something for you and Gallmau to eat and drink.’

He waddled out of the room and I went across to the bench, removed my cloak and sat down heavily. It was true. I was exhausted. I was also aware of Gallmau’s interest in my satchel so I placed it on the bench beside me, trying not to make it obvious that I was keeping it very close.

Gallmau removed his dripping hat and took his seat on a stool opposite me.

We sat in strained silence, waiting for our host to return. Surreptitiously I scanned the room hoping to see some sign of another person living in the house — a wife, children. There was nothing. The fat man lived by himself, and I began to wonder if I should get up and leave while I still could. I was alone, a stranger in an unknown house and an easy target for a robbery, if not worse. Yet I had not seen anyone else in the hamlet as we arrived, and I knew that country people were clannish. There was no certainty that I would find a better reception elsewhere.

The fat man came back into the room. He was carrying three scuffed, leather tankards in one hand, and in the other a large earthenware jug. He put them down on the scarred table top and, wheezing slightly, pulled up a stool and sat down. His flabby bulk overflowed the stool. He tipped a stream of some pale straw-coloured liquid from the jug into each of our tankards. I sniffed it suspiciously. It smelled of apples, pears and honey. A quick taste confirmed that it was mead mixed with fermented apple and pear juice, something that had been my father’s favourite. I took a long draught. It had been months since I had tasted strong drink. The tiny bubbles tickled the back of my throat as I swallowed. The sweet heady liquid was delicious.

The fat man was eyeing me speculatively. He reminded me of a large boar inspecting its next meal. He put down his tankard and licked his lips, about to speak. I forestalled him.

‘Those big boulders up on the moor, what are they?’ I began.

He blinked.

‘Menhirs, the long stones.’ He sounded as if he did not want to talk about them.