Druid's Moon

Chapter 1“‘The Curse of the Octopus,’” Lyne read, translating the Middle English script. Octopus had to be wrong, for a start. A sudden gust of wind across the mouth of the cave riffled the sheet in her hand. She held the paper closer, angled towards the grey afternoon light filtering through from outside, and reread the first line, this time out loud. “Octopus? Are you certain of that?” Professor Meadwell, her PhD supervisor, gave her one of his trademark try-harder-lowly-student looks from over the top of his glasses. From the moment she’d been accepted to his team on a dig at Afanc Cave in Cornwall, Lyne had secretly hoped for an exciting, mysterious find, or at least an object that might earn her a co-writing credit on the professor’s paper. But the manuscript that turned up in the first week of excavations was not quite the type of puzzle she had allowed herself to daydream about. She’d rather not consult the dictionary—or ask the professor’s advice—so soon and moved on to the next two lines. “Beast brought forth by man’s blood / the mound-keeper repays the sacrifice but shall sense the wind.” A thrill went through her at the words. There was violence inherent in their tone, even if she had no idea what the phrases meant. Images came to her mind of warriors raising a cairn, robed men circling a low mound, a gleam of yellow eyes in the dark under the ground. The breeze fluttered the corners of the paper. Rain clouds gathered, and the evening light grew shadowy and dim. Professor Meadwell slipped the sheet from her grasp and stepped across to the trestle table, lighting one of the battery-powered lamps. Lyne hurried after him, boots clomping on the uneven stone floor. The rest of the team worked outside, tiny figures in the distance, kneeling on grass and mud. As the student with the highest qualifications in Celtic studies among the professor’s assistants that summer, Lyne had been given her choice of location on the site. After a test pit unearthed some intriguing pottery sherds and a dagger handle, she’d chosen to excavate by the northern boundary, overlooking the formal gardens of Cockerell Manor. Yesterday, she’d barely started work near the old well when she uncovered the crumbling manuscript, suspiciously close to the surface. The team had all gathered when they saw her race back to the cave to alert the professor and gather up the protective covering and other tools. The lack of other objects in the soil around the scroll, whether directly beneath it or even a few contexts down, had baffled both her and the professor. There wasn’t so much as a lead case that might once have held the lone parchment. Lyne had discovered it unrolled, but the creases lining the page showed it had been tightly curled for a long time before someone buried it flat. After hours of careful digging and brushwork, they’d wrapped up the manuscript and sent it for testing at the nearest conservation centre. “We’ll have to wait for the tests, of course, but I believe this manuscript predates our excavations thus far,” the professor said, speaking slowly, as though reluctant to make such a claim for the mystery manuscript so early in their study of the artefact. Lyne had taken high-resolution photos of the original vellum from every angle. That afternoon she’d been allowed to put off her other assigned tasks, to remain in the makeshift office and storeroom set up in the entrance to Afanc Cave and begin work on a translation from the printout of the clearest image. If only her mind could be as nimble as her fingers. “If this is an authentic document,” the professor added, “we must determine how it came to be so near the surface, unprotected.” They excavated on land owned by the wealthy Cockerell family. Afanc Cave was a known Druidic site, but the Cockerell family had never permitted an excavation before. One of Lady Cockerell’s first demands had been that a fence be erected, to delineate the limits of where the professor and his team were allowed. No one could get in without a pass and the alarm code. They’d even sealed the cave opening, adding a set of wooden doors. Besides, who’d break in just to bury a fake ancient curse? If there was any chance that the manuscript was genuine, Lyne wanted to be part of the investigation from first to last. She cudgelled her brains, aiming to be the first to work out a practical theory for the manuscript’s location. She climbed onto a stool and pushed aside laptops and cameras, sample boxes and contact charts, clearing space on the table for the printout. The rising wind rattled the sheet and she slapped a hand over it to keep it from blowing away. Professor Meadwell cast a scowl at the half-open doors. But Lyne glanced back, towards the narrower opening that led deeper into the caverns. The wind seemed to have come from there. “Blasted weather.” The professor slammed the doors shut and returned to stand beside her. “There seems to be a mark here,” he said, his finger creating a shadow on the page. “If we take it as the letter ‘e’, then it changes the meaning.” “Instead of ‘wind’, then—” She stopped, but the professor didn’t offer an alternate translation. He could easily read the Middle English without her. Despite the high-resolution image, the faded ink was hard to make out, especially with the professor hovering, questioning her every interpretation with a raised brow. “Perhaps it’s ‘wave’,” she offered. “This cave is on the coast, after all.” “Read on,” Professor Meadwell commanded. Slowly, tracing each line with a hovering finger, she read the rest of the inscription out loud, trying to remember everything she’d ever studied about Celtic legends and Norman tales at McGill University and in her online extra credit courses. The last line was the hardest to decipher and the nearest she got was “unless Beast be freed and Octopus fall / yet no-hope rules lest Beauty calls.” “What does that mean?” She’d promised herself never to act uncertain in front of the professor—the highest authority on Celtic scholarship in Europe—and hurried on with a suggestion. “If it refers to a woman who falls in love with the beast and—” “I hardly think it’s as fanciful as that,” the professor snapped. “We’re dealing with Druids, Miss Vanlith. The educated class. Not old wives’ and fireside tales.” A damp breeze came up from the caverns and, thwarted by the closed doors, wafted round to them. Lyne’s shoulders shivered, but she held herself still at once. “Yes, sir.” Professor Meadwell was right. There was no point inventing stories. Once they had a solid date for the original vellum, she could work out the real meaning of the curse—or whatever it was—and what connection, if any, it might contain to older Celtic lore. Then she could impress him with her deductions. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” Yet her mind continued to dwell on the image of the glowing eyes of a creature trapped under the earth.