Tannis was tethering his horse to the post near the communal house.
‘What’s got everyone so worked up?’ Church asked.
Tannis pointed to the east. Beneath the glare of the sun, Church could just make out a figure in the distance, slowly walking towards Carn Euny.
‘Druidae,’ Tannis said with a subtly nuanced smile: there was respect, certainly, but also apprehension, perhaps even fear.
As the figure approached, Church gradually made out a man in his mid-fifties, dressed in olive-coloured robes splattered with the mud of his journey. He used a staff to propel his forceful pace. His hair was chestnut brown streaked with silver, wild and untamed, his beard incongruously clipped and tidy.
When he reached the edge of the village, three elders greeted him with deference, a quiet word and a slight bow. He barely acknowledged them. Instead, his eyes swept back and forth across the gathered crowd, his face steely. He muttered something. One of the elders turned and pointed directly at Church.
The children gathered in silence and followed as the elders ushered the druid into the meeting house. Everyone waited outside the door, only whispers passing amongst them.
‘He’s come for me, hasn’t he?’ Church said.
Tannis’s reaction was unsettling in its simplicity. His smile faded and he placed a reassuring hand on Church’s arm. ‘Stay true to yourself, brother. That is the only advice I can give.’
Church wandered over to sit on the grassy knoll just beyond the village boundary. The sun warmed him, the whisper of wind in the grass as soothing as ever, but the idyllic setting no longer worked its magic on his troubled mind.
As he brooded, Etain came up and sat quietly beside him.
‘You did a good job of keeping me here until your grand inquisitor could arrive,’ Church said.
‘We have to be sure,’ Etain said, though there was a hint of regret behind her words. ‘We can no longer be at the mercy of those who would trap us in hardship and suffering.’
Church wondered what the druid’s plans were. Torture? He didn’t believe that, though the Romans attributed brutal practices to the druidic class. In truth, the druids had much in common with the Hindu Brahmans, an intellectual caste that encompassed both learning and priestly traditions. Druids insisted that all their knowledge was passed down orally so it wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands, and that practice had left a void at the heart of their history. Some academics even argued that the druids came from a culture that preceded the Celtic tribes, bringing with them an ancient knowledge that had elevated them to a place of respect amongst the Keltoi. Church placed his hope in the belief that if they were intellectuals they would not resort to violence. But this was a hard, bloodstained world and he couldn’t be sure. At least he had his sword, which quietly hummed its pleasant song to him from where it hung against his thigh.
‘Do not be afraid,’ Etain said, as if she could read his thoughts. Her hand crept to rest on the back of his, and when he looked at her, her eyes were dark and numinous. ‘I have belief in you.’
They were interrupted by a tall, elderly man. ‘Your presence is requested,’ he said to Church.
The druid sat in the centre of the meeting house, next to the fire, drinking heartily from a jug of the strong alcoholic beverage and gorging on dried meats and fruits from the village store. He motioned to a rush mat opposite. ‘Sit,’ he said with his mouth full, then waved his hand furiously until all the villagers had vacated the building.
When they were alone, he studied Church over the rim of his cup and then wiped his beard with the back of his hand. ‘My name is Conoran,’ he said, ‘and you are Jack, Giantkiller, also known as Church.’
‘I am. And you are here to test me.’
Conoran smiled and nodded. ‘Good. Then the land is clear and the skies blue.’ Conoran’s eyes were still unreadable, but there was a warmth in his gaze that put Church more at ease.
‘You want to know if I’m one of the gods’ agents sent here to spy on you, or just a man.’
‘There is no just, little boy. A mortal is a good thing to be. The most important thing.’
‘How are we to go about this? An interrogation?’
Conoran mused while he sipped on his drink. ‘Let us talk. You walked out of the morning mists into the world of man carrying the sword of Nuada Airgetlamh — the weapon of a god. And it speaks to you … and it is yours. You slew one of the great giants of Kernow, made of earth and tree and the great green heart of the wild, constructed of the very stuff of the world. You slew it, yet no man has ever been able to slay one of the giants of Kernow before.’ The druid ended with a broad smile.
Church considered his comments and replied, ‘When you put it like that …’
Conoran laughed. ‘My kind have a secret name,’ he said. ‘Amongst ourselves, we are called the Culture. We existed long before the tribes and we shall be here long after they are gone. Our knowledge is beyond your imagination …’ He paused, tugged gently at his beard. ‘Or perhaps not. You are not of this place, little brother. You use our words, but speak with a strange voice. Your skin is soft, your hands uncalloused. Your garments are beyond the ability of even our most skilled weavers-’
‘And you think that makes me a spy from the gods,’ Church began his argument, but Conoran raised a silencing hand.
‘The Culture has a long memory, and our knowledge is great. We can recognise a mortal when we see one. You are mortal, but you are … strange. I would say there is something special about you, little brother. Something that is mortal, yet more than mortal. A quality … a light shining out of you. And in my eyes, it is blue.’
Church felt a shiver of recognition at the druid’s words, but frustratingly it originated in the part of his memory that had been locked off.
‘You are not like us, yet you are like us,’ the druid continued. ‘You are not from the gods, yet you are not from this world. Speak. Tell me the truth. Now.’ The firelight reflected in his eyes.
‘I am from this world.’ Church paused, considered how best to continue, then leaned forward and scratched a line in the hard-packed-mud floor. ‘Time,’ he said, glancing at Conoran to see if he understood the concept. The druid’s expression suggested he did. Church etched a point on the far left of the line. ‘Here we are now, you and me, talking.’ He scratched another point on the far right. ‘Here is my home. I have no idea how I got from there to here.’ He tapped his head. ‘A lot of my memory has been wiped away.’
Conoran nodded thoughtfully. ‘Space and time are prisons that we all need to escape. You have achieved a great thing.’
Church fought back a swell of emotion. ‘I don’t care. I just want to go home.’ Another flash of Ruth, her face strong and defiant.
‘Show me your arm.’ Conoran gestured to where the black spider nestled in Church’s flesh.
Church removed his shirt and Conoran examined the thing without touching it, his expression dark. Finally he sat back and said, ‘There is much mystery here. The mists must be rolled back. Remember: nothing happens without a reason. You are here for a reason. That thing is in your arm for a reason. A great plan is unfolding, but we can see only one tiny part of it.’
‘So I’m accepted?’ Church replaced his shirt.
Conoran ignored his question. ‘First we must remove that creature. I will make arrangements.’
He marched out of the room without a backward glance.
8
It was a perfect summer night, bright and balmy from the heat of the day, with a million stars glittering overhead and the moon as bright as a lantern. A soft breeze occasionally brought scents of the cooling countryside.
Carn Euny had been transformed. Torches blazed along the main thoroughfare, the flickering shadows making the village hazy and unreal. Church stood with the community silent at his back. The atmosphere was pregnant with anticipation.