Jack of Ravens

4

For the next three days, Church tried to rest and recuperate. His wounds were all superficial, apart from the sickening black spider that continued to burrow into his flesh whenever he made any attempt to remove it. While it did not cause any immediate pain, Church was convinced it was somehow involved in the disappearance of his memory, which still continued to fade in random patches. Etain told him bluntly that it was killing him.

On the second day, unable to restrain himself, he attempted to gouge it out with a hot knife, but only succeeded in burning his skin. The spider dug its legs so deeply into his flesh that he felt an ache at the bone.

The mysteries of his existence tormented him with unanswerable questions: how had he walked out of his modern life and into a landscape more than 2,000 years earlier? What was the black spider and where had it come from? Where had he gained the sword, which left the villagers in such awe that they refused to enter the room where it was stored? And why had he forgotten all the details of the recent past that might have explained his situation?

His own emotions see-sawed wildly: shock, anger, depression, frustration and a desperate yearning for what he had left behind. One feeling burned brighter than all the others: how much he missed Ruth Gallagher, the woman he loved. He remembered her pale face, her hopeful, dark eyes that hinted at internal scars, her tumbling brown hair. He remembered her cathedral-like importance in his life and that somehow they had finally come together after a period of strife; that he was bereft without her. He recalled her last, grief-stricken words: ‘I’ll love you. Always, Church. Always.’ But all other detail had faded, and he was afraid that as long as the spider continued to suck out what was important to him, it was only a matter of time until the rest of Ruth would be gone, too. In that strange place, so far from everything he knew, adrift in loneliness and confusion, that memory was the only thing that gave him the strength to continue.

Unable to make sense of anything, he found it easier to cope if he didn’t try. And so he spent his time getting to know the people who had taken him in, and sharpening his use of their language. Part of the Dumnonii tribe, they were farmers who occasionally traded the lumps of Cornish tin they found in the local streams at the nearby port of Ictis, which Church knew as the modern-day St Michael’s Mount. They were, as historical records said, friendly to strangers but fiercely combative when threatened. But though they told him much about their existence, whenever anything he felt was important came up in conversation they walked away, muttering that it was neither their place nor the time to discuss such things. It infuriated Church, but they could not be persuaded to change their views. ‘They are waiting,’ Etain told him, but for whom and for how long was never defined.

Etain was his guide, introducing him to the good-natured families who made up the settlement, with whom he would attempt to converse in the Brythonic Celtic language interspersed with untranslatable modern English words. Her nature was naturally sphinx-like and many times Church found himself using her as little more than a sounding board for his own troubled thoughts. It eased his mind somewhat and she appeared unconcerned about it, so he couldn’t see the harm. Yet he was always cautious about revealing too much of his origins for fear of disturbing the villagers; displacement in time was troubling enough for him to understand.

‘I remember just about everything from the early part of my life,’ he mused to himself one morning as he and Etain returned from an exploration of the surrounding countryside. ‘University, studying archaeology, feeling disillusioned when I graduated. Then hacking out bits of journalism for technical manuals. I had a girlfriend, Marianne. She was killed. It took me a long, long time to deal with that.’

Etain listened apparently without understanding a single thing he was saying, but she appeared content to let him speak if it made him happy.

‘After that I recall a misty morning, like the one when I arrived here … and a river … and … that’s it. After that, there’re faces, images, bits and pieces, nothing I can put together to make any sense. And I remember Ruth-’

‘Your love.’ Etain stooped to pluck a wild flower from beside the path.

‘I can remember what she looked like, the kind of person she was … strong, thoughtful, kind. I remember that she was a solicitor. But I can’t remember how we met, or anything we did together, or how I fell in love with her. I just know that I was in love with her. The feeling is so strong, but it’s cut off from everything around it. It feels as if she’s a ghost, haunting my life.’ Church fought back another wave of disorientation.

‘Stay true to your heart. It is wiser than your head.’

Church glanced at Etain, but she didn’t return his look. ‘That’s very profound.’

They were interrupted by three of Etain’s friends who were bickering as they wandered out of the village. Ailidh was barely out of her teens, but heavily pregnant. A good-natured young woman, Etain doted on her like an aunt. Owein’s muscular, lumbering frame belied his sharp intelligence, while his friend Branwen was flinty with a sharp tongue that could cut anyone down.

‘Etain, help me.’ Ailidh laughed. ‘They will not let me work.’

‘You must rest,’ Owein insisted, clearly troubled by the discussion. ‘The baby will be here soon. You must save your strength.’

‘My hands are still strong.’ Ailidh showed them to Etain and Church. ‘We must all labour while summer is here.’

Branwen shook her head with unconcealed contempt. ‘Then let her. If she brings her child forth in the fields or at the stream, he can help with the labours.’

Etain took Ailidh’s shoulders and turned her around. ‘Owein and Branwen are right. Your days are short. The birth will take you to the edge of death. If you are too weak, you will not return.’

Ailidh made a childish expression of disdain, but obviously valued Etain’s opinion. She stomped back along the track to the village.

Owein shook his head wearily at Church. ‘Women never listen.’

‘That is because they must close their ears so they do not go mad from the witterings of men,’ Branwen said sharply.

They continued their argument all the way back to the village. Etain shared a wry smile with Church, and it was a moment of awakening for him. He had always unconsciously considered the people of the past as an alien race, but they were hardly different from modern people at all.

The warriors Church had saved from the giant tended to their horses in a makeshift camp on the outskirts of the settlement. They were not from Carn Euny. They kept themselves to themselves, but while they told Church politely that they had travelled for several days to protect the village, they too kept the important details infuriatingly secret. Their leader Tannis, however, was intrigued by Church and showed a deep respect whenever they conversed. He always greeted Church as ‘Giantkiller’, however much Church tried to escape the title.

In the moments when Church felt the insanity of his situation threatening to run away with him, he would find solace in the wild, sun-drenched Cornish landscape, unspoiled and filled with wildlife. On the lonely uplands, he would sit and watch the distant sea, feeling lost and desperate.

The nights were the best. Then the villagers would gather around a fire in one of the homes and drink a strong brew while swapping tales of their gods and heroes. They were raucous events filled with great humour. Church sat on the fringes, but from the stolen glances he knew everyone was deeply aware of his presence, though they tried their best not to make him feel uncomfortable. After several draughts of the powerful drink he no longer cared, about anything.

It intrigued him to learn that their society was just as he had been taught in his university classes. There was an equality amongst the men and women that was surprising for such an ancient culture. The women were unafraid to speak their minds, and the men listened intently and with respect to their views. Indeed, some of the women present put forth their views more forcefully than their male counterparts, and were even more raucous in their enjoyment of the nightly festivities.

They were a lusty group. The storytelling eventually devolved into arguments and fist fights amongst the men, which tumbled out into the muddy street to be resolved. But once it was over, the men returned, bloody and bruised, and immediately appeared to be the best of friends once more. Regularly, men and women would walk outside for a bout of noisy lovemaking, the sounds often interrupting the stories, and the assembled group would cheer loudly. When the couple returned, they wore it as a badge, with no embarrassment.

On the night of the third day, a ferocious storm swept in from the Atlantic. Thunder banged loudly and white lightning flashes burned away the dark, while the wind whipped around the roundhouses that were scant protection against the elements. Yet with the central fire stoked and the sparks surging up to the tiny hole in the roof, and all the villagers huddled together to hear tales of a darker bent, it was undeniably cosy.

As the warm glow of the alcohol suffused him, Church vacated his seat at the back and slipped out. A maudlin feeling had been creeping up on him all day. He hated his inactivity and his inability to find a solution to his predicament. He wasn’t someone who could lie back and let life wash over him.

In the doorway, he watched lightning play across the horizon as the rain fell heavily. Spindly trees bowed in the face of the wind, and the swirling clouds were caught starkly in each flash. Something about the wild work of nature comforted him.

‘There is beauty in the wildest thing.’ Etain was at his side, her cloak pulled tightly around her. The voluminous swathes of cloth made her face appear unusually delicate.

‘The villagers have got you to spy on me, haven’t they?’

She showed no emotion. A long moment passed, filled only with the driving beat of the rain pounding all around, as she stared towards the black horizon. Finally she said, ‘Our lives have been harsh. In recent times, many have died. But we have survived, and as this new age dawns, we will not allow ourselves to fall back again.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Church said.

Her eyes reflected the flare of the lightning. ‘The gods have withdrawn. We will never be herded by them again. This land is ours now, as it was in the beginning. We all stand together, men and women, shoulder to shoulder, brother and sister, carving out our own path.’

‘You think I’ve come from the gods — a spy, or an agent of some kind, to watch you and report back.’ Church knew how dearly the Celts held their religious stories, one of the richest mythologies in any world culture, filled with symbolism and wisdom. The gods were stitched into the very fabric of Celtic life and death.

‘You carry the sword of Nuada Airgetlamh.’

‘But I’m human, like you.’

‘The gods take many shapes. And only a representative of the gods could wield such a weapon of power.’

Church couldn’t argue with her logic. The sword troubled him, too: where had it come from? Why was he carrying it? The blue light that limned the blade. The way it felt alive in his hand. His fleeting glimpse of it as something that was not a sword at all.

‘You used it to slay one of the great giants of Kernow, and yet you say you are a man, like Finn, who falls in the mud every morn when he tries to catch his mare?’ Etain’s smile was knowing. ‘Yes, I am charged to watch you Jack, Giantkiller, because we will not abide the gods ruining us any longer, after so many seasons of ruin. We will not see our children stolen from their cribs, or our women unwillingly impregnated, or our men turned into goats or stags or trees.’

‘Do I have to worry that you might kill me in my sleep to keep your people safe?’

‘I do not think you are a threat to us, Jack, Giantkiller.’ Another smile, wise and teasing at the same time. ‘But my mind could be changed on the matter.’ She stared deeply into his eyes for a moment, but Church couldn’t divine the emotions that skimmed fleetingly across her features. She may well have said more, but Tannis appeared at the door, drunk and coughing up a mouthful of phlegm. Etain nodded to the new arrival and pushed past him back indoors.

‘That one wants to offer you the friendship of the thighs,’ Tannis said with a wink.

Church ignored him. ‘Do you think I’m a threat sent from the gods?’

Tannis mused, staring into the depths of the storm. ‘I saw you fight. You are a warrior. You saved my men, for the giant Cormoran would not have relented until they were all crushed. The giants do not like humans, like many of the things from Otherworld.’

The giant still loomed large in Church’s thoughts, another of the many things he couldn’t explain.

Tannis nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would show my back to you, Jack, Giantkiller. And I would fight beside you again.’

In the split second during which another flash of lightning turned the world white, Church’s attention was caught by a curious sight. It looked as if there was a surge of black fire away on the rolling grassland above the village, about two miles distant. It showed up starkly in contrast with the lightning, but was gone so quickly that Church couldn’t be sure whether it was anything more than the after-burn of the glare on his retina. For some inexplicable reason it set his nerves on edge. At the same time, the spider-thing burrowing into his arm clenched as if in response.

Tannis followed Church’s glare into the impenetrable storm. ‘You saw something?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ If it had been something tangible, the night was too dark to look for it again until the next lightning flash. ‘You’re not from Carn Euny,’ Church noted, changing the subject. ‘These people are farmers and traders. You and your band are warriors.’

‘When the word went out about the Great Battle, we were dispatched to protect those who were closest to the field.’

‘What battle?’

Tannis eyed Church curiously. ‘Between the Tuatha De Danann and the Fomorii.’

Church was puzzled. He presumed Tannis was talking about the Second Battle of Magh Tuireadh, a major event in Celtic mythology when the godlike Tuatha De Danann finally defeated the demonic Fomorii and slew their leader Balor, the one-eyed god of death. ‘You believe that actually happened?’ Church asked hesitantly.

‘It took place these four days past. On the night before you came upon us.’

More superstition, Church thought. There was no point questioning it. ‘Then you’ll be leaving soon?’

‘No. We are waiting.’

‘Everyone’s waiting. What for?’

Tannis grinned. ‘Does it concern you?’ He punctuated the question with a laugh, slapped Church on the back and returned to the raucous noise emanating from inside the house.

Church let the unceasing rhythm of the rain ease his troubled thoughts for a few more minutes. In another lightning flash, he thought he saw the black fire again, though he knew it could easily have been his imagination. He immediately went back inside, shutting the door tightly. But for the rest of the night he found himself listening intently to every sound made by each gust and eddy of the wind against the building, strangely fearing it was a hand trying the door, searching for a way in through the window.

He didn’t know why he thought that. He didn’t know anything any more. Nor did he know why a scraping fear was clawing its way slowly up from the deepest part of him, whispering words of warning: run away. Run away, Jack, Giantkiller.