The Seeing Stone (9 page)

I
COULD HEAR THEM SHOUTING FROM INSIDE THE VESTRY,
and as soon as my reading lesson was over I hurried out. Gatty was sitting on the church wall with a boy on either side of her.

“Over here!” yelled Gatty.

I zigzagged across the churchyard between the gravestones.

“What's going on?” I said.

Gatty was grinning from ear to ear. “It's a flyting,” she said. “You can be the judge. The first to laugh is the loser.”

Jankin and Howell are the same age as I am. They groom the horses and muck out the stables, and Jankin and Gatty are going to be betrothed next year.

“Now…” said Jankin, and he leaned forward and turned to look at Howell with his bright blue eyes, “you walking, talking scrot of fungus!”

Howell's eyes danced. “You bluebottle!” he said. “You crock of mucus!”

“You bubble-butted bullfrog!”

“You herring-pouter!”

“You! You clucking clinchpoop!”

Howell grinned and snuffled, but he didn't laugh. “You…pismire!” he said.

“You, Howell! You pulpy stew! You rotten flap-mouthed maggot!”

“You!” shouted Howell. “You, Jankin! You hairy embryo! You bird-slime soup!”

“You piddle-scum!”

“You greasy bladder! You ghastly crow!”

“You, Howell. You…you humming weasel! You bug-eyed horseradish!”

As soon as Jankin said that, Howell waved his hand in the air and snorted. Then he brayed like a donkey.

“Stop!” I exclaimed. “Jankin, you're the winner. Into the water, Howell!”

Then we all ran over to the pond, and Howell waded straight in and fell flat on his face. After that, Jankin grabbed squealing Gatty and threw her in as well. “Come on, Arthur!” he shouted.

“I've got to practice in the Yard,” I said.

So Jankin waded into the pond after Gatty and Howell, and left me high and dry on the bank.

For a while, the three of them splashed and staggered around the scummy pond, and as soon as they got out, Jankin and Howell lolloped off, dripping and laughing.

“Go and put some dry clothes on,” I said to Gatty. “I'll wait.”

“Can't,” said Gatty.

“Why not?”

“I haven't got none.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only got these, haven't I?” said Gatty. “Doesn't matter.”

So Gatty and I hoisted ourselves back up onto the churchyard wall.

“When you signed that cross on my head…” I began. “You know, with Stupid's blood…”

Gatty nodded.

“Well…Why?”

“I saw Serle, didn't I. He shouldered you. He made you drop the blood.”

“Yes, but why the cross?”

“Just came into my head. I thought as you were a Crusader, like them Crusaders you told me about. Serle's a Saracen.”

I put one arm round Gatty's sopping shoulders. “Thanks, Gatty,” I said.

“Where is Jerusalem, anyhow?” asked Gatty.

“A long way. A very long way from here.”

“Is that further than Chester?” asked Gatty.

“Oh, Gatty!” I said, and I laughed.

“Is it?”

“Much, much further,” I said. “Why?”

“Why's because I want to see where Jesus was born. Instead of Ludlow Fair, let's go to Jerusalem.”

“Gatty!” I said. “You can't walk to Jerusalem.”

“I can and all,” said Gatty.

“You can't,” I said. “Only a magician could. It's across the sea.”

Gatty lowered her head and looked at the ground. “I didn't know that,” she said in a quiet voice. She sniffed, and then she drew in her breath, and sneezed.

T
O BEGIN WITH, THE ONLY PEOPLE IN THE HALL
with me were Nain and Sian.

As soon as the fire began to crack and spit orange sparks, Nain told us to sprinkle water onto the rushes around it. “Keep it damp,” she said.

“Spitfire's ghost is inside that fire,” I said.

“Really?” exclaimed Sian.

“If you look into the flames,” I told her, “and keep looking until your eyeballs burn, you may see her tonight.”

“If that's all we had to fear…” Nain began. “The walkers are out and about tonight. So are the witches, riding to meet Old Nick.”

“What's that?” asked Sian.

“The devil,” said Nain. “Are the turnips by the door?”

“Yes, Nain.”

“You carved one?”

“Arthur did too.”

“And they're burning?”

“Yes, Nain.”

“So they should be. I'll tell you what happened one Hallowtide…before my father died. Our little housegirl Gweno always used to lay out the washing to dry on the church wall; but one
time, when she came to collect the clothes, she saw someone sitting on the grave, wearing a white nightcap. Gweno thought it was one of the village lads, trying to scare her. You know what? She went right up to him, and snatched the nightcap off his head.

“'You stop trying to scare me!' she exclaimed. And with that, she ran back into our hall.

“When Gweno looked at the white nightcap, though, she saw it was all dirty and earthy on the inside, and it smelt of death.” Nain shook her head. “Next morning,” she said, “the someone was still there. Sitting on the gravestone. His head was bowed.”

I could feel Sian leaning into me. That's what Tempest does when he wants me to fuss over him.

Nain waved her stick. “My father told Gweno there was nothing for it. ‘That's a specter,' he said, ‘and you must put the cap back on its head. He'll trouble us all year long otherwise.'

“Little Gweno was very scared. My father went with her to the churchyard gate, and then she ran up to the specter, and jammed the nightcap down on to his head. ‘There!' she shouted. ‘Are you satisfied now?'

“At once the dead man leaped to his feet. ‘I am!' he shouted. ‘And you, Gweno. What about you?' Then he raised his left fist and thwacked her on the top of her head.”

The hall door creaked and swung open, and Sian and I both took a step backwards. But it was only my father and Serle.

“It's dark, almost,” said my father.

“Listen, father!” cried Sian.

“Poor little Gweno,” said Nain. “The dead man gave her a great thwack and she fell to the ground. My father ran through the
churchyard, but by the time he reached Gweno, she was already dead. And the specter, he just flowed back into his grave.”

“Yes,” said my father. “I've heard that one. Oliver's on his way.”

“The Seven Sisters are up,” said Serle.

“Who?” asked Sian anxiously.

“The Seven Sisters,” Serle repeated. “Stars, stupid!”

“And the Black Sow's on the run,” said Nain. “Snuffling and snorting.”

“What does she do?” asked Sian.

“Follow guisers as they hurry through the dark,” Nain replied. “She nips at their heels! That's what she does. And heaven help the stragglers! The Black Sow always eats her fill before daylight.”

“The lanterns,” said my mother as she walked into the hall from the chamber. “Are they burning?”

“They are,” said my father, and he crossed the hall and put an arm round my mother's shoulders. “One for each of us. Six lanterns, burning.”

“I was looking in the mirror,” my mother said.

“Whom did you see?” Nain asked.

“Mark, my baby,” said my mother in a low voice. “I saw him peering over my left shoulder. He was beckoning. Then I held the mirror to little Luke's face.” My mother stared at my father. “There was no reflection,” she said. Then at once she buried her face in my father's shoulder, and I could see her whole body was shaking.

“As God wills,” said my father gently.

“No!” cried my mother. “Not again. Why does He will it?”

“You must ask Oliver that,” my father said.

By the time Oliver walked in, though, my mother had gone
back into the chamber. But I don't think human beings can say what is in God's mind, any more than horseflies can say what are in human beings' minds. No one can. Not even Oliver.

My father greeted Oliver. “Have you seen Merlin?” he said. “As soon as he's here we can bob for apples. Where is he?”

“Oh! Flying around somewhere,” Oliver replied. We all laughed at that, and Oliver laughed the loudest.

“I've brought the snails, anyhow,” said Oliver. Then he reached into his surcoat pocket and pulled out a whole cluster.

“Let me see!” squeaked Sian.

“I've laid them on the altar and blessed them,” said Oliver. “Each of you must take one—except you, of course, Sir John.”

“Why?” demanded Sian.

“Now stick your snail to the wall,” said Oliver, “and by tomorrow morning, its slime will tell you who you're going to marry.”

“Dear God!” exclaimed Nain.

“How can it?” said Sian.

“The shape, of course. It will trace the first letter of your husband's name.”

“I can't read,” said Sian.

“Then Arthur will read it for you,” said Oliver. “Ah! Merlin. How long have you been standing there?”

“O is for Oliver,” said Merlin.

“Here's your snail,” said Oliver.

“What is it?” asked Merlin.

“It is a snail, Merlin,” said Oliver in a dry, flat voice.

“Not a caterpillar?”

“No.”

“But you're going to make it vanish.”

“No, Merlin, I am not going to make it vanish. You are going to make it talk. It will tell you the name of your future wife.”

“Are you going to marry?” asked Sian.

“Most certainly not,” said Merlin. “Unless you, Sian…”

“Erk!” exclaimed Sian.

“Come on, Merlin!” said my father. “Stick your snail to the wall.”

But Merlin's snail was on Merlin's side. It refused to stick to the wall, or to anything else. And when I inspected the snails this morning, Sian's and Serle's and mine had scarcely moved at all; but Oliver's snail had traced a glistening zigzag while Nain's snail had made itself dizzy going round and round in circles. Nain and Oliver? That's impossible!

“Right!” said my father. “I'll go and get the apples. You tie them up, Merlin.” He threw Merlin a bundle of pieces of string, the same ones we have used for as long as I can remember.

“It's Merlin who's tied up,” Oliver said, “with all his tangled ideas.”

“What are brains for?” Merlin replied. “Some people have subtle minds, some have simple ones.”

By the time my father came back into the hall bringing my mother with him, Serle and Sian and I all had our hands tied behind our backs, and were kneeling in front of the tub.

“Good!” said my father, smiling. “And the tub's full.”

Then my mother dropped three apples into the water, and at
once Serle and Sian and I started nosing and terriering for them, splashing and snorting and choking and spitting, gasping and yelling, jostling and banging heads, weaseling and snapping, blinking and coughing, half-blind with the water in our eyes, half-sick with the water up our noses.

Sian was the first to catch an apple. That's because her teeth are so sharp. And I was the second. So Serle had to duck his whole head underwater and stay down for as long as he could hold his breath. When he came up, he shook himself like a dog, and then he started laughing.

“Now!” panted Sian. “Bounce and Fly.”

“No,” I said. “Apple Twirl.”

But at that moment there was a fierce banging at the door.

“The guisers!” we shouted—we all shouted. Even my mother. Even puffball Oliver. And my half-deaf, toothless Nain waved her stick in the air.

“Untie the children!” said my father, as he walked over to the door.

As soon as he had unbarred it and swung it open, a big nose poked into the hall. And spiked teeth! Then we saw staring eyes, waxen and red, and pricked cloth ears.

Sian stood behind me and wrapped both her arms around my waist.

All the guisers neighed then, all except one who hooted like an owl, and their horse started forward and lolloped into the hall. Its body looked as though it was made from the same material as the saffron cloth wrapped round my obsidian, and it was just as dirty.
Two men were crouching under it, one behind the other, and all I could see of them was their legs.

Close behind the horse pressed all the guisers, carrying their scowling lanterns. Some men were wearing women's clothing and women men's clothing, and some boys were wearing girls' clothes and girls boys' clothes; and all the women with long hair had pinned it up and covered it; and everyone had blackened their faces and hands with soot. So, to begin with, it was impossible to say who was who. Each of the guisers was someone else, like a shape-changer. I couldn't even pick out Gatty or Hum.

“Helen!” said my father in a loud voice. “Tell Slim the guisers have come.”

Slim was ready. He followed my mother straight back into the hall, and Ruth followed him, carrying oats for the horse, and a collop and a swig of ale for each guiser.

“For you, Sir John, and your family,” said Slim, “there's black pudding.”

“Very good,” my father said. “And for Merlin and Oliver too.”

“I'll lay it out on the table,” said Slim.

When I climbed halfway up our staircase, I could see everyone at the same time. I looked and I thought how our roofbeams and old thatch were sheltering every man and woman and child who lives on our manor land —well, everyone who can walk. Three times I tried to count how many of us were in the hall, but each time the number was different. Forty-one, then thirty-nine, and then forty-two. My father says that altogether there are sixty people living at Caldicot.

Looking at all the people in our hall, I remembered King Uther's hall, and all the earls and lords and knights feasting there. I wonder whether Uther and the hooded man did follow Ygerna and Duke Gorlois back to Cornwall.

The first guiser I managed to recognize was Gatty, because she grinned at me. And the second was Tanwen, because I saw Serle edge right up behind her. She was wearing a kind of black shift and a white head-warmer, and I thought that in the flickering candlelight she didn't look quite human. Her eyes were sloeblack and her skin so pale I could almost see through it. I don't think Tanwen can be a changeling or anything like that, but here on the March we all live in between—that's what Nain and Merlin say.

When I saw Slim coming back into the hall, proudly carrying the black pudding on its lattice of willow twigs, I ran down the stairs again.

“Not as much as I hoped for, Sir John,” said Slim. “You heard what happened.”

My father nodded.

“A waste of Stupid,” said Slim. “That's what I say.”

“Yesterday is yesterday,” said my father. “Anyhow, this looks good.”

As soon as I had taken my piece of pudding, I pushed my way across the hall until I reached Gatty. “Here!” I said.

“What is it?”

“Black pudding. Remember?”

“Stupid!”

“I said I'd give you some—and Giles.”

“You did and all,” exclaimed Gatty, and she sounded quite astonished.

Then I broke my piece in two and gave her half, and she crammed it all into her mouth. A moment later, though, she spat it all out again.

“Waargh!” she exclaimed. She cleared her throat, and then she scraped her tongue on her front teeth. “You taste it,” she said.

Gatty watched me nibble and chew and then swallow part of my piece. “See? You don't like it neither.”

“I do,” I said.

“I can tell,” said Gatty.

Gatty was right, of course, but sometimes it's better to pretend. I used to pretend I didn't mind eating slimy kidneys, and now I quite like them. And most of the time I pretend I don't mind Serle's insults, because otherwise I think he would scent blood and try to hurt me all the more.

“Where's Giles?” I asked Gatty. “Can you see him?”

But before we were able to find him, my father and Oliver had climbed up to our little gallery, and my father rang his handbell. He welcomed the guisers and then he invited them to sing the song of the year, as he always does when manor people gather in the hall.

“January,” called my father, and he struck his bell.

“By this fire we warm our hands,” sang the guisers.

“February,” my father announced. And he struck the bell again.

“And with our spades we dig our land.”

“March.”

“The seeds we sow grow into spring.”

“April.”

“And now we hear the cuckoo sing.”

By now, the guisers were singing very loudly. By the time my father reached the end of the year, though, some of them were just bawling.

“November.”

“Time to kill and salt our beasts.”

“December,” my father proclaimed. And for the twelfth time, he struck his little bell.

“And now we rest. And now we feast,” chanted the guisers.

Much cheering and shouting followed the end of this song. Then Oliver stepped forward and raised one hand.

“We know they are here,” said Oliver. “Tonight they are all around us. The enemies of God are everywhere. Keep your lanterns trimmed. Speak the old words.” Then Oliver began to intone a sort of prayer-spell:

“Dear Jesus, guard our doors tonight,
Our roofs and windows, floors and walls,
As Hallowe'en darkness falls.”

Oliver stretched out both hands and called out in a loud voice: