The Language of Stones. Robert Goldthwaite Carter

hands and vanished inside him. Then, as if nothing had happened, he raked the ashes out of the fire and scattered them about, while seeming to thank the grass for having made them welcome. Will watched with raised eyebrows.

      ‘And now we must remake the ground,’ Gwydion told him. ‘Do you want to do it?’

      He shrugged, feeling a little foolish. ‘What should I do?’

      He was told to replace the turfs just as they had been before, and ritually water them. This he did, not really knowing how ritual watering differed from pouring the jug out over the ground, but Gwydion seemed to approve his actions, and when all was done and the ground looked almost as if they had never come this way, they set off.

      ‘What were you doing before?’ Will asked.

      ‘I was dancing back the magic that I laid forth last night as our protection.’

      ‘Against Maskull?’

      ‘Against all harm.’

      Will’s heart felt suddenly leaden. ‘Why does Maskull want to kill the one spoken about in the Black Book?’

      ‘Because he was “…born of Strife, born of Calamity…born at Beltane in the Twentieth Year…when the beams of Eluned are strongest”.’

      Will tried to be withering. ‘I suppose that’s meant to tell me everything.’

      ‘Perhaps it does not make much sense to you, but Maskull knows that the prophesied one will eventually stand between him and that which he most desires.’

      ‘And what’s that?’

      ‘To be the one who chooses the direction of the future.’

      ‘Well, I’ll not stand in his way. He can do what he likes with the future for all I care!’

      The wizard smiled knowingly. ‘If you are the one, then you will eventually confound him. This he knows, and knowing it he cannot rest.’

      ‘And because Maskull is your enemy too, you’ve become my friend. Is that it?’ he said gloomily. It felt like he had been caught between gigantic forces, and that they were fast closing on him.

      But the wizard smiled another wistful smile and shook his head. ‘I see that you doubt my sincerity, Willand. But I was a friend to you long before I suspected whom you might be.’

      They continued south, skirting villages and avoiding the most well-travelled roads. They kept off the fields where golden grain awaited harvest, and Will enjoyed the walking. After weeks of homesickness and stifling study in the tower he felt truly free at last. Still, the wizard’s words had unsettled him more than a little.

      He took his knife, went to the hedge and cut a bough from the blackthorn. It was an arm’s length from end to end and two fingers around. As Gwydion looked on he began stripping it of twigs and bark, shaping the torn end into a handle, the other into a point. But he felt ever more uncomfortable as he worked, for Gwydion’s eyes rested upon him and at length he stopped and looked up. ‘Is there anything amiss, Master Gwydion?’

      ‘What is it you are at, lad?’

      ‘Just carving a new stick for walking.’

      ‘Blackthorn is a good choice. Like ash, fine wood for tool handles, a wood that is strong and dense.’

      Will smiled back, encouraged.

      ‘But you neglected to ask first if the blackthorn minded.’

      ‘Should I have done that?’

      ‘It would have been the polite thing to do.’

      Will looked at his stick, confused. It was just a stick. ‘Do you mean I should have asked forgiveness of a bush?’

      ‘Not forgiveness, Will.’ Gwydion’s voice grew mellow. ‘Permission.’

      ‘But surely a bush couldn’t hear what I said to it.’

      ‘That is quite true. But also quite beside the point. One day you will understand. Meanwhile, tell me: are you versed in any weapon?’

      ‘Only the quarterstaff, Master Gwydion.’

      ‘In the wider world it is important you know how to protect yourself. When next you cut yourself a quarterstaff, make it as long as you are. And remember that you will double its strength if you give thanks for it beforehand.’

      Will narrowed his eyes at the wizard. ‘They say a quarterstaff is always to be preferred to a sword, but I can’t see how that can be true.’

      ‘Can’t you?’ Gwydion opened his crane bag and drew out an impossibly long staff. ‘No swordsman, no matter how fine his weapon, can hurt you if he cannot reach you. You need only learn how a suitable distance may be kept.’

      Suddenly Gwydion rose up and danced, stroking the staff about him in eye-fooling twists and thrusts, then, equally suddenly, he halted, pushed the staff back into the crane bag and motioned him to follow on.

      ‘That was amazing!’ Will said. ‘You moved the staff so fast I could hardly see it!’

      ‘Practice, as the rede says, maketh perfect.’

      They pressed on across a river, the broadest yet, which they crossed easily by walking ankle-deep across an eel weir. Will dogged Gwydion’s steps three paces behind until, as night fell, they came near to a barn. Gwydion made it safe by crumbling bread crusts in the corners and dancing out an eerie-sounding protection. But for half the night Will lay awake in the straw, listening to every sound. He curled himself tighter in his nest and did not have the courage even to wake the wizard, but in the morning he made his admission.

      ‘Master Gwydion, I heard noises last night. I thought they must be Maskull’s spies.’

      ‘I heard them too.’

      ‘You did?’ His eyes widened. ‘Then I was right?’

      ‘Oh, indeed. They were spies. Three of them, in fact. All in brown velvet coats. All about this long.’ He placed his hands a little way apart.

      Will tutted. ‘Rats?’

      ‘Rats. Exceptional creatures. They were looking out for our safety as I asked them.’

      With the dawning of the day they went down into the village of Uff, and Will saw the Blowing Stone. It turned out to be only a great block with three holes in it that stood in the yard of the village alehouse. ‘It is played like a stone flute every second year,’ Gwydion said. ‘It calls men to the Scouring. Do not hang back from it, it is not a battlestone, nor anything to be afraid of.’

      ‘Scouring? What’s that?’

      ‘You will know all about that by the end of Lammas.’

      All that morning while the wizard talked with the villagers, Will waited and waited. The wizard was well liked in Uff, and well used to tarrying there, for it was horse country and he seemed greatly fond of horses. Word soon got about that a famous horse leech had come into the village. Food and cider were brought out for him, but he gave both to Will to offset his fears and forestall his impatience. And after so much cheese and bread and a quart of best apple dash to wash it down, Will lay in a corner and did not get up again until a goodly while had passed.

      ‘When are we going to leave?’ he asked Gwydion, feeling more than a little wretched and dry in the throat. ‘I thought you wanted to get along, yet you’ve nearly wasted the whole day.’

      ‘And lying dead drunk on your back all day is wasting nothing at all, I suppose?’ the wizard said, ruffling the mane of a fine, white horse.

      ‘Come on, Master Gwydion. You know what I mean.’ He rubbed his arms and looked around unhappily. ‘Maskull.’

      ‘But first things first. You must learn patience, and understand that old debts must always be paid. Anyway, we cannot go on more urgently if we are to spend Lammas night on the Dragon’s Mound. Behold