Wilding

10. 6

6

Thomas awoke from troubled dreams with a start, with Celyn’s hand on his arm.

“Wake up, boy.” Celyn was a dark shadow crouching beside him, backlit by the smouldering fire. “I need some sleep before the morrow. Keep watch. Wake me if anything happens.”

Thomas got up, stiff with cold and bruises, and sat down on the log by the fire. He put his hands out to warm them, glancing at his watch to see the time, and froze.

His watch. He glanced over at Celyn, to see if the other man noticed, but he lay still as stone, wrapped up in his cloak, presumably asleep already.

Thomas peered at the watch. 5:20. Upon closer inspection he realized the second hand was not moving. It must have stopped at the exact time he went through the Thin Place. Appropriate. He stripped it off his wrist and put it in the chest pocket of his jean jacket. Good thing I didn’t look at it earlier.

He poked at the fire with a longer stick, watching the sparks rise and hearing the faint hiss as the wood burned. The flames were mesmerizing in their dance upon the logs, and before he knew it, he found himself nodding off.

Alarm drove him to his feet. Gotta stay awake. He had seen a small stream earlier, not far from the campsite. A short walk would wake him up. Besides, he was thirsty.

The woods were dark, but it was easy to find the stream by the sound it made. He stood on the low bank, looking down at the water, which glimmered under the moonlight. Just below the bank there was a flat, pebbled area that extended a few yards to the water. He waited for a moment, making sure all was clear, and then made his way down the bank and crossed the stones, crouching down to dip his hands in the cold water and lift it to his mouth. He paused again, wondering about bacteria, but with a mental shrug he slurped the water from his hand. Bacterial infection was the least of his worries. At least there’s no pollution.

The water tasted fine, but it was cold, numbing his hands. He wiped them on his jean jacket and began to stand, and in that instant, heard a sound behind him, distinct from the burbling music of the water: the soft scuffing of leather on the rocks.

He dove to the side, twisting to see behind him, and caught a glimpse of a man, moonlight glinting off the sword in his hand as he swung it in a wide arc where Thomas’ head would have been. The man’s snarl of frustration mingled with Thomas’ yelp of surprise as the sword whistled through empty air, causing the man to stagger a few steps forward to gain his balance as Thomas scrambled to his feet.

For a shocked moment Thomas thought Celyn was attacking him. The man growled some terse words at him, and sudden recognition flooded through him: it was the leader of the men they had seen earlier.

As Thomas scrambled to his feet, he heard the sharp whinny of a horse and the clash of steel. Celyn had been attacked as well. But he had no time to think as Mercian raised his sword and Thomas turned and ran.

He clawed up the bank, his attacker close behind. Ahead of him, the ring of steel on steel and the grunts and guttural curses grew louder. He crashed through the trees into the clearing, skidding to a halt.

A figure lay on the ground, motionless. Celyn and the remaining Mercian clashed swords with deadly intent beside the downed warrior.

Taking advantage of surprise, Thomas sprang at Celyn’s attacker and crashed into him, tackling him in his best football form, just as the man behind him broke free of the trees, sword raised. Celyn intercepted the newcomer’s vicious swing, the two swords ringing as they met.

Thomas and the Mercian went down in a heap, the man dropping his sword from the impact. Triumph surged through him, but he didn’t stand a chance against the other man’s greater strength and skill. The man quickly gained advantage over him as they wrestled on the ground, and before he knew it, the man had his hands around his throat, the face above him distorted in rage.

He bucked and twisted, clawing at the warrior’s arms and face. But his strength sapped away as the edges of his vision began to dim. Panic surged and he dug his thumbs into the man’s eyes.

The Mercian snarled and heaved him up, then slammed his head down on the ground. It was an effective tactic. Blackness flared, the man’s face dimming above him. His arms weakened and his hands fell, even the brief spike of fear fading out as he fought for air. Jesus…

From far off he registered a crushing weight, then, blessedly, he could breathe. He sucked in great gasps of air as Celyn’s face appeared above him, orange-lit from the fire beside him. “Thomas!”

Celyn helped him to sit up as he sucked in deep breaths. He glanced beside him, to see the still form of his attacker lying on the ground, and beyond it, the other two Mercians, lying motionless as well. “What…?” he rasped, then stopped. It hurt to swallow, hurt to talk.

“They’re dead.” Celyn seemed unhurt, but he was breathing hard, and he spat into the ground beside him.

A shudder seized him, then another. Pull yourself together. He ground his teeth and tried to concentrate. “They were the men from the road,” he said, his voice hoarse and ragged.

Anger flitted over Celyn’s hard features. “Penda’s men. Yes.”

Thomas’ teeth clattered as another full body tremor shook him, his thoughts a mushy whirl in his mind. Shock, he thought, dimly.

Celyn retrieved the blanket and dropped it around Thomas’ shoulders. “Come to the fire.”

Thomas swayed briefly as he stood, leaning on Celyn for the few steps it took. He sat down, nausea twisting his stomach, grateful for the warmth of the flames. Celyn retrieved his sword and sat down, wiping off dark stains that gleamed red in the firelight.

Three men, dead, just like that. And he could have died, too. His stomach lurched, and he forced himself to think of something else. “How did they know we were here? And why try to kill us?”

Celyn looked up at him, then bent back to his work.

The brief glance clicked the answer into place. “They were looking for you. They knew you were around here somewhere.”

Celyn looked up again, his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged.

“Why did they want to kill you?” Another thought struck him. “Are there more?”

Celyn snorted in grim humour. “Oh—there are more who wish me dead.” The closed look on his face told Thomas that was all he would learn, for now.

Celyn might be dead now, if I hadn’t been here to help. Thomas pushed his hand through his hair, disconcerted. What would that mean for the future? Maybe Celyn was meant to die here, and he had stopped it. Or maybe these men died because I was here, and they were supposed to live.

Is that why the demons had brought him here? To change events to suit their purpose? Cold pierced him at the thought. I have to get out of here.

As if he was reading Thomas’ mind, Celyn spoke up. “We must leave as soon as the day dawns. Others may come, looking for these.” He gestured at the bodies.

Cold panic washed over him. “I can’t. I have to go back to the Thin Place tomorrow, try to get home…” He fell silent, unable to explain his urgency.

Celyn shook his head, impatient. “Think you. You came here on an ysbryd nos. Likely you cannot go back again except on another one.”

“Ees-breed…?”

“I told you before. A spirit night, when the worlds are close together. Like Samhain.”

The chill inside Thomas grew. “And when is that?”

“Candlemas. Or if not then, the summer solstice.”

Thomas shook his head. He didn’t know when Candlemas was, but the summer solstice was too far away to bear thinking about. “No. I can’t wait that long.” He forced down his panic. “You said yesterday it was better to wait until dusk, the time of turning. So what about dawn? Isn’t that another time of turning? Between night and day? I could try tomorrow morning. If it doesn’t work, I’ll—” He sucked in a breath.“It has to work. I can’t stay here.”

Celyn looked at him steadily for a moment, then sighed. “Very well.”

Thomas ignored the skepticism on the other man’s face. A thought struck him, a welcome distraction. “What language was that word? Ees-breed…”

“Ysbryd nos.” One dark eyebrow rose. “’Tis the language of my people, the Cymry.”

Thomas sat back, nonplussed. Celyn’s accent, the unfamiliar words: it all snapped into place.

Cymry. He saw his mother’s face, smiling. We Welsh, we are the Cymry. The People. That’s what we call ourselves. She did not have the accent, only traces of it around the edges of some of her words, as she had come to Canada as a young child. But her brother, Thomas’ uncle, did, and it was the memory of his voice that niggled at Thomas as he heard Celyn speak. “My mother, she is—was—” Grief pierced him, closing his throat. He swallowed painfully. “She was Cymry, too. She died last summer.”

“May God rest her soul,” Celyn said, crossing himself.

Thomas wanted to retort that his mom had wanted nothing to do with God, but stopped himself. He nodded instead.

Celyn leaned forward. “Ach chan Gwynedd?”

Thomas frowned. “I don’t understand. She didn’t know the language, except for a few words. She moved away from there when she was a young child.”

“To where?”

Canada. Thomas again stopped the word before it could escape, and shrugged instead. “I don’t remember.” He glanced over at the bodies, looking for another topic. “What should we do with them?”

“Commit their souls to God, if He will have them. But ’tis likely they are pagans, and their souls consigned to hell.”

“Pagans?”

“The Mercians follow Thor and Woden, as does their king.” Celyn rubbed his face and yawned. “For now, I must sleep. Wake me before dawn. I will take you to the Thin Place. If you are unsuccessful, we will leave together.”

It will work. Still, he had to ask. “To where?”

“I go to Bebbanburg, but the monastery of Lindisfarne is close by. I will take you there, to Bishop Aidan and the monks. The bishop is the wisest man I know, blessed by God. He will be able to help you, and you will be safe there.”

Safe. Right. Thomas hunched down beside the fire as Celyn wrapped himself back up in his cloak.

He let out a deep breath as silence fell, broken only by the small sounds of the leaves rattling on the branches as a breeze blew through them, and the crackle of the fire. As he watched the sparks float up and extinguish in the dark, he tried to compose a prayer to a God who seemed indifferent. Tried to think of something he could bargain with to ensure that he could get home.