Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

Hroudland knelt down by the little pool and filled the cup with water. Walking across to the great boulder, he tossed the contents over the grey rock, stood back, and looked up at a sky still covered with its thin veil of cloud through which the disc of the sun could just be seen.

Nothing happened. The forest around us remained completely still and silent, the air pressed down on us, heavy and clammy.

‘There you are, Patch,’ Hroudland declared. ‘It can’t even summon up a storm.’

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when, without any warning, there came a hard pattering noise all around us. It was the sound of a myriad of fat, heavy rain drops striking the branches and bushes, splattering on the soggy carpet of dead leaves. There was not a breath of wind so the rain fell straight, as if tipped directly from the sky. The freakish shower lasted only a few minutes, five at most. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the downpour stopped. The eerie silence returned.

Hroudland looked down at the bronze cup in his hand and gave a nervous laugh.

‘Coincidence, Patch. What about the gale? The story of Yvain says that when he poured the water on the stone, a great gale arose and ripped the leaves from the trees.’

‘There are no leaves. It’s winter,’ I pointed out.

We looked at one another, both silent for a moment.

And into that silence came another sound, a hollow rushing noise. It filled the air, coming closer and louder though it happened so quickly and without warning that there was no time to say from which direction the sound was coming. Then my skin crawled as a shadow passed across me, momentarily darkening the sky above the glade.

I looked up. A great flock of birds, thousands of them, was swirling over the clearing. We were hearing the beating of their wings, a noise that rose and fell as the flock circled twice and then came spiralling around our heads to land on the boughs and twigs of the trees and bushes around us. There were so many birds that it was impossible to count their number. They settled on every possible perch until the thinner branches began to sway and sag under their weight. I had never before seen birds like them. They were the size of thrushes, brownish-black and with short yellow beaks. They clung on their perches, seeking to keep their balance, occasionally shifting to get a firmer grip with their feet or to allow yet another bird to land beside them, but never settling on the ground. Then a faint, subdued chatter arose, and the entire circle of the glade seethed with birdlife.

Hroudland and I stood motionless for the few moments it took for the vast flock to rest. Then, just as abruptly as they had arrived, the birds took wing. They leapt from the branches and twigs in a great rustling and flutter of feathers, and a moment later they were climbing up into the air and streaming away over the tree tops like a thick plume of dark smoke.

Hroudland gave a short, staccato laugh.

‘They knew about the pool. They probably came wanting to drink, but our presence frightened them away,’ he said.

‘There were far too many to drink at that tiny pool. And there must be other pools and lakes all over the forest.’

Hroudland looked down at the cup still in his hand.

‘Can you imagine anything more pointless? Even if this thing does summon rain and storms, it would be far more valuable to this soggy country if it caused the clouds to roll away and the sun to shine.’

He tossed the cup into the air, and caught it as it spun back down to his hand.

‘I think I’ll keep this, and wave it under the nose of the next fool who tries to tell me that there is truth in the childish tales of these Bretons.’

‘Perhaps we should leave the cup where we found it,’ I said, trying hard not to sound craven. ‘It may be nothing more than superstition, but the cup was there for a purpose.’

But Hroudland ignored my feeble protest. He turned on his heel and headed back down the way we had come. I started to follow him, but before I left the glade I turned for one last look, and stopped with a jolt.

My brother’s fetch was standing by the stone, watching me silently.

A chill came over me. Hroudland had made a terrible error. The cup should remain where we had found it. For a long moment my brother just stood there and I could find neither anger nor reproach in his face, only regret. Then I heard Hroudland call my name, shouting that we should hurry if we were to get back to the great hall before dark. I had no wish to be left alone in that ominous, supernatural place, so I dropped my gaze and stumbled away, fearful that what I had allowed to happen would have calamitous results, yet knowing that nothing I could say would deflect Hroudland from his chosen course. What had happened at the fountain of Barenton was another step along the path that Fate had chosen for him.

It was only when our little group was back on the main road that I had the chance to ask Hroudland the question that had been troubling me.

‘Why did we go to the trouble of visiting the fountain?’ I asked. ‘What’s so important about disproving an ancient folk tale?’

We were riding at a brisk trot. Hroudland pulled on the reins to slow his horse to a walk so that he did not have to shout. He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure our escort was out of earshot.

‘As Warden of the Breton March it is my duty to defend the frontier and maintain the king’s authority,’ he said.

‘What has that got to do with a tale told by a blind bard?’

My friend’s face clouded for a moment.

‘The Bretons expect the Franks to be driven from this land.’

I laughed out loud.

‘By whom? They can only dream.’

‘That is precisely my problem — their dreams.’

I looked at him in surprise. I had never told him about the Oneirokritikon or my own dreams. But he had something else in mind.

‘Patch, the Bretons await the return of a war leader who will restore their independence. As long as they think like that, the March is not secure.’

‘What’s the name of this saviour warrior?’ I enquired with more than a hint of disbelief.

‘They know him as Artorius.’

Something stirred in my memory, something that I had heard as a child. My teacher had spoken of an Artorius, a king who had led the resistance against my own people when they first came to settle in Britain.

‘If it’s the same person I’m thinking of, you don’t need to worry,’ I said. ‘Artorius has been dead for a couple of hundred years.’

Hroudland threw me a sharp glance.

‘What do you know about him?’

‘He fought my Saxon ancestors and was mortally wounded in battle. His followers set his corpse adrift in a boat.’

Hroudland’s mouth was set in a grim line.

‘Exactly the same story is told here. Bretons and Britons share a common history. They claim that the boat drifted on to our coast and Artorius was buried with a great boulder as his tombstone, a stone like the one we saw by the fountain. They say he will rise and lead them to victory.’

I had to chuckle.

‘That can’t please their Christian priests. It’s too much like their own story about their risen saviour.’

Hroudland frowned at me. He was impatient that I would not take him seriously.

‘You’re wrong. The priests are adding fuel to the fire. They’ve begun using this Artorius as an example of a good Christian ruler. They say he did good deeds and encouraged his very best men to track down the holiest relics from the time of Christ himself.’

‘And did they find any?’

The count reached into his saddlebag, drew out the cup he had stolen from the fountain and held it up.

‘If they did, maybe they looked something like this.’