Wings of Cigfran

For my husband Jeff, without whom I could not have accomplished this work.

I am grateful that a company such as Smashwords.com can give wings to my thoughts and for the kindness of Susan Cohen who walked me through the beginnings of this novel. I give my appreciation for the interlibrary loan ladies at the Annapolis Area Public Library; Tori Cameron for her meticulous editing and to Katherine Richardson for wading through voluminous amounts of rough draft, always with a smile and a kind word. And last, but far from least, my thanks go to Robin Soma Dudley for breaking open the door and showing me the world of possibility.

Prologue

The Thinning of the Veil

Brother Shins

What have I done? It must be something most distressing. Why else Lord would I have been transplanted to where only Thee knows the lay of the land? Why, when I am thy willing and dutiful servant, who long, has given up my warring ways and dedicated myself to the cloth and to thy service, am I yanked from the peaceful bucolic fields of Afalau and dumped in this forsaken place?

I confess it is hard to bid farewell to the joys of my wheat mead and I do doze often, allowing my sheep stray; but Ye know, for a fact, I have not touched the mead barrel for weeks. There is no reason I should doze off and find, when I wake, I am without succor or companionship or a place to put my head?

No doubt Myrddin is thy fellow conspirator. I doubt not that thy nasty pagan shaman had first the idea, though I doubt he gave much thought to my well-being. I confess I have doubted long his skills and could have bet the soothsayer's ratty robes I could not step through the veil of time; but this is not the way I would wish him to prove me wrong. I am not fond of dark woods where creatures of the toothy sort find their prey, where the mind gets lost and there is no familiar mark.

And what of this train of mangy donkeys, swollen like ticks, with packs and munching the forest ferns hard by? They are not mine nor do I want to meet the questionable stranger who might claim them as his own. I am sick of Myrddin’s tales and legends that speak of his soul moving from place to place. Let him move himself from his castle promontory to hell’s kitchen for what I care. I would have no complaint, but why move me?

Ye are wise, Lord, and I suppose it could be my old age or the loss of my right-mindedness that has planted me here. I might have been dreaming off a horn of mead I had not intended to drink and this is my punishment. And I suppose there is nothing I can do but make the most of it for who am I to question thy ways? Still I wonder what will happen to my flocks. I grant my Bridget is a wise and gifted dog but her company helps maintain the softness Ye wish to be around my heart and I will miss her sorely. Who will feed her my scraps and remind her of what my whistles mean? What of my hut and my hearth fire which my transplanting has left unsmoored? There is cheese still ripening in the byre and I haven’t paid Bors’s family their share of the last sheering fees. Is it so wrong to feel poorly of this choice ye have made, when I have never walked shut-eyed in slumber, never yearned for wild adventure, never had a conscious thought to travel this far?

At the least, Ye could have warned me Myrddin was hard by. I would have liked to have spoken to him of his purpose. No doubt he is consuming the last of my mead in my absence.

He could have explained. It would have been easier to endure, if I knew what diabolical plan he has up his baggy sleeves. Furthermore, could he not have had the decency to come along?

Aye, Lord, Myrddin’s purpose is forever couched in riddle which means I must use my noggin to understand why he’d leave me before this damp cave hole into which one must enter with a bent back and with a bright torch so I might tell the difference between rock and beast. Real or not, the look of this place suggests Wolf or Wyvern which, at any moment could feed on my bones.

What is that noise, Lord? It sounds like a flutter of wing or is it my throbbing heart? Am I to lay my head here for the night? Will I be stuck here, forever? I would fain Myrddin to move his boney rump to this place, right now, and explain, if for naught else but to explain the dark cloud that seems to be spreading like a mantle over these tree tops.

Oh Lord, I often imagine my end in some feathered loft pallet with thy sun shining down upon me but never did I imagine death’s shape to be this dark cloud lowering at me and making mournful daemonic cawing sounds that I imagine come from hell. I am not fond of such.

I must remove myself and these cuddies into the cave, in spite of its carnivorous tenant, and wait until this dark evil passes; but by the time I have the last braying beast within, the dark shroud has draped itself upon the Ash tree not fifty paces away. Oh, Lord, this is not amusing. The hairs on my neck are stand at full attention. I am clapping my hands over my ears for the noise.

A rush of chaotic fluttering causes me to curl up in to a badger ball, and before I can say a Paternoster, the black unfurls two huge wings across the narrow, rocky outcropping. The shape is huge, towering above me. I imagine a giant Raven about to devour me; but instead, its beak-shaped head points to the sky like a hat and its wings have shifted and flapped like the arms of a man. The awkward and pointedly garrulous, the legs and cape of Myrddin emerge from the large wings and claws which Myrddin is so fond of wearing.

Ah, I see ye have begun to settle in. Myrddin says with his booming voice, while he ruffles the last of his feathers from his robes.

No thanks to thee, my head is pounding, I manage to say, and my eyes are playing tricks. I thought I just saw ye spread a pair of wings like a bird.

Ye are in dire straits, Brother, Shins, the mage says, as he shifts his pointing beak into a sniffing nose. It seems ye have been standing in this same spot for more than an hour. Have ye been sleep-walking, again? I peered at him with squinting eyes. Ah, I thought as much, he continued, but the cuddies… ye must be planning to stay awhile.

They are not a conjuring of thine? I blurted giving him a wide eyed look.

They are not quite what I had imagined, but I suppose they will do, he explained. His explanation was not what I had imagined either. I have labored much to amend my past warring ways but somehow Myrddin always tries to egg on my temper. Ye must sit, Brother, he blathered on. I have been away seeking herbs for a potion that will ease the throbbing I surely knew would be hounding thy head.

The bird man wipes the violet hue from his arms, as he strutted past me. I sit upon a rock and feel the dread come that overpowers me whenever this man is in my presence which, I thank thee, Lord, is not often. He is squirreling through a pack and draws out a piece of shined metal and begins to study his bright white, braided beard and begins to withdraw bits of leaves and moss. His, clouded eyes which see naught but shapes and light, and his bark-like complexion render me can still flush me with fear and remind me I am in the presence of Lord Ambrosius’s notorious architect, not to mention the tutor of Lord Artus and his chieftain father, Uthyr Pendragon. He has not changed a bit since I first met him, at Lord Artus’s court, when I was still an arrogant knave and a mischief maker. Even then he seemed very old.

No sooner do I go to follow him into the cave than he returns with a large pine branch striped of its needles and wrapped in dried grass, which he lights; I do not know how. It flashes huge and emits great sooty puffs of smoke that flatten the cuddies’ ears and leave me coughing and wiping tears from my eyes. With his arms outstretched wide and with a stride to match, he begins to circle, whiddershins, the outsides of the cave and the surrounding hill head, spreading smoke to match the width of the bird flock preening themselves just above us in the trees. He does this three times, being careful not to change his direction, each time he passes nigh.

Dark spirits must not enter, he says. Then he goes around, again. As he disappears behind a rock, his raven familiars increase their chatter, like children, who know the tutor has left the room. It never ceases to amaze me how he can move, as if he could see everything with his eyes closed.

The third time, he returns to the cave opening with sprays of white thorn and yellow gorse spilling from his arms. Well don’t just stand there, Brother, Give me a hand, he crows. At least, I think that was what he said for I could barely hear him for the discord coming from the trees.

Scat! Myrddin said, a word with which was new to me but its power rid the tree of its black-winged burden as if by magic. There, now I can hear my thoughts, he says. On thy knees, he adds so I might act as his stool while he places the flower garlands upon the cave’s lintel. He steps down and admires his handiwork. Now, the food will flow and the tongue will admire the taste, he says. However, I imagine the gods to the feeding of the cuddies.

While unhitching the donkeys from their supplies, also a source of cave echoing noise, he finally graces me with an explanation. Ye will need all this for thy hermitage here, he says brightly. There are quills, ink, parchments, and many books, which ye shall realize, once they are read, are inferior to the tale ye shall be transcribing for me, while ye make this cave into a comfy and cozy home.

Home, I say, But I already have a home which I like well. Why must ye displace me to ask such a deed of me?

What ye shall record, my fine fellow, will not be for others’ eyes, at least not yet. It shall be sacred, one day, and must not be compromised in any way. Privacy and secrecy are of the utmost importance.

Ye, the druid sorcerer, Myrddin, the scorner of evil and feared by kings, want me to be thy recorder? I said, Why me?

Ye do write and read, Brother? He asks with a smirk on his wrinkly face. The right and good lord, Geraint ap Bendigeitfran am y Llyn, has told me much about thee that I did not know before. He says ye are more knowledgeable with the whole of this story than any of the others connected to it and the least likely, and due to thy chosen profession is the least likely, to obscure the facts; a must, in order to remain within the Celtic historical tradition of which this account shall be the first written down.

"I confess, Lord, I did not like what I was hearing and gave him a puzzled look.

Was there not a letter ye wrote that helped save Geraint’s life from being snuffed out like a taper before his time was due? he said to my frown.

He was speaking of my letter to the Afalau hosteller, Caradoc Evans. For this, I could find no argument but was wary of his intent and gave no reply.

Ye can close thy jaw, my good man, he said. Myrddin was fond of touching people, especially, on the top of their heads or under their chins; he was very tall, after all. I confess, he added, ye were not my first choice; but as fate would have it, ye and I have been chosen for this vital task by a higher order.

Lord, those blind eyes have a way of making ye think there is murder in his heart.

And since ye are no longer as spry as ye once were, he said, it is urgent that ye get about this, thy destiny, without further delay."

My destiny? I said.

Ye don’t think I would sweep thee from thy sheep fields for a lark, do ye?

There it was, Lord…the truth of the matter, and I am relieved to see ye are still listening to me.

This duty will not be simple or straight forward, he went on. Thus ye must be mindful of thy purpose, while ye are here. It is of the utmost importance, not only to me but to future generations who will come after us.

Let me have this clear in my muddled head, I said. Ye want me to write the story of thy life.

There is another reason, Lord, why Myrddin makes my stomach lurch and my heart pound. He walks around the cave, his back bent in half, unpacking the packs and arranging the donkeys outside so that they might feed in the shelter of the trees, as if I was not even there, as if we had not been in the middle of a conversation, as if he did not care why I was here.

It was when he turned, suddenly, and with much redness of face and, somehow, standing taller, he said, Are ye daft man? I want thee to write the only story that will see the full circle of history…. other than the Holy Bible. Again, I was speechless, as he turned his back and started walking away as if he would … not come back. This is not to say there will be no excerpts that will tell of my involvement, he added over his shoulder, then blind-eyeing the furze, he bent to grab a pair of quails whose necks he wrenched then gathered the gather the eggs left in the nest. He paused at his task and stared at me, as if seeing me for the first time, his filmy eyes squinting from the sun’s glare; as if changing his mind about this whole event, which made me panic, for I did not want to find space between the earth and my sandals, again, while my eyes were still open. I found my tongue.

Please, Master Myrddin, I shall do anything ye wish, only do not make my head pound any more than it already has.

Is thy head spinning? He asked, as if I he had not heard this before. Ahh, then ye shall be fine, as soon as ye eat a bite and drink the juice I have prepared for thee. However, I would suggest ye dismiss whatever ye are feeling as all part of this day of Beltane’s atmosphere. After all, it is not any other days of the year when the willows brush the beck and the eel can be caught by hand.

Is there a beck, nigh? I asked anxiously.

Aye and so is the veil during the days of Beltane.

The veil?

Aye, it is the thin skin that separates one world from the next and the past and the future from the present. It is only penetrable during the transitions of the seasons or the times of the day or by the edge of some body of water, he added rather honestly.

My forefinger shot out and traced the Trinity upon my heart.

Ye have nothing to fear, Brother, for we are of one mind, he said, as he uncorked a small vial and sniffed it. I confess it is hard to tell in this primitive age in which we live; but there will be a day, when the world will see the veil clearly enough, shining and bright and full of bliss. However, now, the veil is but a wisp of breezy air, as I said before, but I need thee here in the real world. And the need is urgent, I might add, for without this record, the order of things may go awry.

But I have those who depend on me and... I confess Lord I am hard to convince. But Lord, Myrddin is one to go off on tangents.

Humph, this is not a tangent, said Myrddin though I had said not a word to match my thoughts, and I am not a careless ragamuffin as ye so deem me to be. Thy flocks and thy old dog, Bridget, have been corralled within the fields of farmer Brandegoris, whom ye are aware is Bors’s brother, and who now runs their meager family holdings since his ma and pa died and Bors is off on quest.

I had offended him and I had yet so many questions. My heart was racing like a mouse hiding from a swinging broom.

It seems the day has moved forward without my awareness and even though ye are staining the sky with bright and brilliant colors, is it not a bit too soon to stain them the color of Myrddin’s sleeves? I am not fond of creatures of the night, especially, the ones that may be lurking at the back of this cave. I am not one to ask favors but I am desperate. Please, Lord, I do not want to stay here alone or with that silly mage, Myrddin. I’m not happy he is shackling the cuddies and organizing supplies. He need not sweep the cave, in which I refuse to stay. I shall find the courage before dark to ask directions home; and if he wants my services, he can find me there. But he did say it was Ye who has made this choice to burden me with the night’s icy chill and this caves hidden specters?

Alright, for Thee, I shall stay but this cave better be safer than what I fear. I suppose it was nice he remembered to bring candles and flint and is making torches to keep loose wyverns at bay and wouldn’t it be nice, if Myrddin remembered to bring a barrel of ale?

What’s he doing now? How am I going to keep all that vellum free of mold in this damp place? But it will have to be me who will collect the firewood. I will be no strong-armed young buck like young master Bors but I will try to do my best.

Hush thy praying, he says without a by-thy-leave and gestures for me to be seated before one of the bowls which he has placed on the flat rock he has chosen for a table. Waiting to be filled from the cauldron pot he is stirring, in which he is stewing the quail and adding all sorts of things from his medley of vials, my belly is reminding me it needs more than mead to keep it happy. He takes the bowls outside and holds them up to the air as if the ether would wipe them clean. Only then does he fill them with a sauce that made my eyes water and my tongue drool.

Aye, Lord, ye have blessed this man with the gift of cookery. But I do not see why he took offence when I asked him if another would be using the third bowl. Why the mystery? Aye again I question his rituals. Myrddin claps his hand over my mouth and signals we should eat in silence. Though the stew is delightful, Lord, and I thank only thee for its fine taste, I do not understand why after the eating of it, I feel a great sadness fall over me. I watch Myrddin clear the emptied bowls and pull out a long-stemmed device in which he places some weed flakes and lights with a taper. He has this odd affinity for smoke. Pretty soon he will have this whole cave choked with it.

It is best to repast on Beltane night in silence, he finally explained, for the spirits who sit at our table and most want to communicate with thee, will not take kindly to being interrupted with earthly patter.

Thus, the other bowl…,I said and knew it was going to be a long night.

Well, Lord, he lay awake that night for what seemed the whole of forever and told me of his survival of the Anglesey Druid massacre. He and seven other Druids who live in exile in Armorica, were the only ones to escape. He did not hesitate to say unabashedly that he was the most powerful of them all. I asked him just what it was that made him different from the others but he refrained from telling me. It is no secret to me, he can shape-shift and possibly speak to the dead; and from all the jars and jugs that were among the supplies, I figure his reputation as a crack healer is true. And without knowing he let spill that he could see into the future and the past; not just his own view, but those of others, I managed not to faint with the shock of it. Oh, Lord please don’t let him read my thoughts. It makes me most uncomfortable to imagine him squirreling through my brain to find I think less of thee than there should be there.

The only cost for revealing the truth is being able to bear it, he said to me, as I tried to keep my smoke-filled, watering eyes from drooping, Ye must take careful notes. I will not have truth, botched, he insisted as the moon began to wane and the sun singe the horizon. I could not help, Lord, but wonder when he was going to get around to telling the story he wanted me to record. The story is still unfolding, he said, and will take on many shapes before it is all complete.

Do ye mean to say there are others that will be telling this story besides thee? I asked with my mouth open. Dear Lord, I do hope my version will not offend him and my greatest worry is what Ye will think.

The wizard squinted and shook the smoke bowl device at me. There are one or two, who will try for they are major players in this worldly play.

Who might these rapscallions be, Master Myrddin? I said, Will I have need to fear their coming?

They are the very reason I have hidden ye among these rocky promontories, the wizard said with a cocky glance at his knowing nails, Lord Artus is abroad or will be before the snows, as is Lord Geraint, I believe, though my gifts don’t take my vision over water. But the tales told of them speak of their broken bonds and the strength of their angered thought. There is the missing grail and those who seek it and a woman who would tell the tale darkly and with a bitter eye for revenge upon me. I have yet to find any of these harbingers of flame or the whereabouts of the cup, nor have I found the right spell to silence the witch.

What little I know of this tale is amazing enough, I said, humbly, but it seems, in my mind, it will become more telling still. Are ye sure I am the man to be thy eyes, Lord Myrddin?

Patience is a bitter herb, Myrddin replied with a smile dripping with knowing, which will bring forth a bright flower; that is, if perseverance be the fodder to make it bloom.

Oh Lord, if only this wisdom could have ended this smoky dialogue for the night. But Ye have chosen to have him vex my patience another day. Odd that he should begin with tales of the thirteen treasures and the Ogham stone, the one, though still in question, is the fourteenth, He also spoke reverently of the Grail cup of which there cannot be yet another story to tell but he says there is. Lord, when he finally left off, he had thoroughly wet my appetite and unraveled more questions in my mind, which I never dreamed I would ask. I felt I should bow to him; but then I remembered. He was as much a pagan as he was a Christian; and that particular part of him was also in perpetual question in my mind.

He finally shoved a quill into my hand, though my head was bowed into my lap, and I prepared to do my best to write.

1 The Witness

Myrddin

A late afternoon mist crawled up the cliff face, hiding the sea. It slid and folded over to smother the land's gradual rise and soak the matted meadow grass with brine. It shawled the Dariel Mynydds (the purple peaks to the west of me) and spread out like a bird's wet feathers as it hunkered about the mountains’ shoulders. When I was eleven the mountains were my only company, and company enough; for I was full of cockiness and bigger and wiser than those imperious shadow makers. Nevertheless, the haunting atmosphere of holy holidays, like Samhain, could make those peaks give me pause. Coney hunting had brought me out this far and I was excited for the cliff face was the edge of the world.

The mist had soaked my shirt, slicked back my sallow hair and worse, ruined the day’s hunting, my pouch still empty. Home was at the other end of the nearby wood path to Dariellium, a path I should have chosen. The path would take me back to the pair of old sisters and the two mangy dogs that awaited my catch and cared for me though my pouch would bear no fodder for repast. Better they be out gathering herbs when I would have to break the news. The mean winter had left our village thin with wanting and making do with moldy bread and salted pork ends stuck to the insides of the barrel, game spend since before the early Solstice snows.

Now the snow was in abeyance and my fellow acolytes would rat on me. I would get a whipping from the druids. for failing to find provender, even though the cold spring day had spit rain and sleet and covered the face of the world in fog. I would be sent out to hunt, again, to face the encroaching pall of night.

Now, in this wide open heath, beyond the country I knew, I paused to shake the stones from my shoes. From the crest of the meadow's rise, where the mist had thinned, I squinted to search for any movement below. And though I expected none I thought my coming may have routed an un-suspecting buck; but I spied instead a tiny, mud and stone dwelling. I heaved my pouch upon my back, kept my dagger free of its sheath and, with a cautious but loping gate; I let the view of the hovel grow in my site line. Surely, I thought, commoners would be about the place; I thought I could firewood gathered from the nearby wood. If the inhabitants were friendly, I could warm my hands, rest a bit; and then, be on my way. I wiped the back of my hand across my grime-smeared face; but even thus, my appearance would not be readily welcomed by any about the farm; at least, not at first. But back then, I was confident of my charm and my skill to turn suspicious frowns into friendly smiles. All I needed was my Gift and one to notice the glint of my dagger.

As I approached, I made out several other structures: a grass lean-to, a low stone wall that surrounded the house place, and an empty pig sty. But the lack of smoke coming from the chimney halted my step. The hovel was strangely quiet; even at my distance. It was odd a dog had not caught my scent and given warning. When closer, I found the lean-to empty. I slipped around the back and found a disarray of kindling and some strips of peat. The small hen house, I had not seen prior, was barren; and a long, frayed, hemp rope lay in the hen yard. All around the place were freshly torn, mashed clumps of grass and boot and hoof print puddles that twisted the mud into a cluster of tracks that led toward the hill rise. One singular set of tracks led, oddly, in the opposite direction, toward the cliff.

My heart froze. My gift heightened my senses. I could smell horse sweat in the fog and freshly dropped dung, which I discovered, was still steaming, a little way up the rise; whoever had left this place had not been gone long. When I came back round the front, I noticed the hovel door was ajar, a sight that coursed fear through my veins. I stood still, measuring the varying thicknesses of mist, but I did not see the slight slope upon which the door rested and my movement, no matter how small, had been enough to swing the door wide open.

I crouched, tightened my grip around my dagger and blessed the gods for sending the screening mist. I leaned against the hovel's mud and wattle curve, just shy of the door. My fluttering heart paused when my slight movement excited no movement from within. A rank smell caught in my throat. I gagged.

Bending slightly over the threshold, I found the room windowless and dark but there was no missing the sound of stretching rope. I picked up a stone and tossed it in, its bounce uninterrupted, until it came to rest. I dared to enter, which caused something stiff to brush my hair. I cowered, begged for succor from the gods, and waited for a blow from above, but when none came, I could just make out some dark, spectral shapes, suspended in midair. I squirreled in my pocket for my bit of flint and tallow. The flame I made stung my fingers; for what it showed me was no specter but the hovel's family, hump-shouldered, hideous and hanging from the rafters, their hair, ragged and torn; their body's, blood-smeared and feces-stained; their limbs monstrous and limp.

I stumbled backward, tripping over the doorway; then scrambled backwards on the heels of my hands and feet, as the hut returned to darkness. At the steading wall, I got up and ran like a soaring spear, as far away as I could, all the while, calling on the gods and wondering what heathen beasts had torn those footprints into the hillside.

The muddy footprints followed alongside me as I ran. The dead meadow grass was flattened with their going. I could still feel the rearranged air that spoke of an evil had passing, the evil, yet to dissipate with the mist at the top of the rise, where I finally stayed my own fleeing. It was only there, I could abate my breathlessness and let go of my tears. I vomited on my shoes.

Then, I turned to survey what I thought I had seen. The sisters believed the woods were full of giant, grey trolls. More likely, foreigners lurked there, of a more terrifying sort. But then again, the mist could play tricks, especially on those blessed with the Gift. The Gift that, in me, was mostly erratic, unpredictable and most often, absent. But I could not help feeling my Gift was now in full play, sharp as a shearing blade, and the puddle footprints in the grass told me the perpetrators were heavy men on horseback in a furious hurry. But the footprints leading towards the cliff face puzzled me. Could one have escaped? I had no plan to find out. Coney or no, I had no thought of hunger; not even the sisters could wash this day from my soul.

I returned to the thatch-roofed round huts I called