Well monk,’ said the voice from the dark cavern. ‘Such is our story, and so it ends.’

And I said nothing, but sat awhile in darkness, stroking Flynn, and my eyes were pricked by tears. For though I should be cau- tious of this tale, it had seemed to touch strange verities, and its ending was keen with pain. And then came the sparking of flint and the storyteller lit his torch, so that I saw before me the same gaunt man of yesterday, with his face still cowled, and his visage grim, and the whole of him pinched upon some secret trouble. I stared at him awhile.

‘You are Connor,’ I said.

‘Yes, monk.’

And most surely then, you did not abandon the boy’s body in that place, but carried back his brave bones to the village?’

Then did Connor laugh, and it was no pretty sound, that stopped as suddenly as it began, and he held me with his pierc- ing gaze.

‘Monk, you know nothing. He brought himself back, for even as he began to fall he screamed, and awoke from his dream.’

Then you never left the cave,’ I said. ‘It was just a dream.’ And in truth the thought made me happy, for it seemed bet- ter that the monsters of the tale should have life only in some eldritch imagination, and better that the boy should live.

‘Just a dream? No!’ cried Connor, and he seized my habit, and thrust his face to mine. ‘The boy was a seer! His spirit was else- where that night, and it was no realm of dream, but a place — such a place. For how else did he hold us in such thrall throughout that terrible night? He saw! And he spoke what he saw! And it was vivid, and real and deadly!’

hen Connor’s passion subsided, and he grew quiet, and the brokenness returned, and he spoke softly.

The story does not finish there. If you would know it all, you would know my shame, and such betrayal of the boy’s faith in me that torments me to this day.’

I went to him, and put a hand on each of his shaking shoulders, and looked at him though his eyes were downcast.

‘Tell me,’ I said.

When the boy started awake from his dream the sun had just arisen, and the bell of the village had begun distantly to ring. And away from that cavern, and towards that joyous ringing the men trudged, and found the villagers swarming towards them with the glad cries of reunion, and the breathless news that no one had fallen ill. And all of the band were pressed for detail of their journey, and praised as heroes, and Griffin the boldest of them.

The pent-up fear of the night now turned to joy that the moon had sunk, and the sun arisen, and no contagion had hatched, and the joy turned to wonder that the dream journey might indeed be a sign that they were to be kept safe.

And even Searle thought perhaps it was so, and the pipers were roused to play, and the villagers gathered to dance upon the smelting ground.

Griffin danced with the rest, believing in his dream, and danced the wilder in the fling;

And then he staggered, and sneezed, and felt under his arms the little lumps, like eggs, and then did the events of the night stand before him in stark array, and he saw their terrible pattern, and he saw their cause, and looked about him …

Death casts its shadow upon Griffin, has their journey been in vain?

SEE CHAPTER XXII