The boy had contracted the Death, and it was from his brother, and in that moment he knew it, and dashed to where Connor stood at the lake shore, and stripped away his tippet, and saw there upon his brother’s neck the plague scars.
‘Con! You knew! All the time you were sick! And you knew!’ Connor could say nothing. ‘How could you have come back?’ And he who had never shouted at his brother shouted now with such mortal hurt as would haunt Connor forever.
For Connor knew who had picked the boy up and swung him around for joy upon his return from the lowland towns. And Connor knew who had hastened Griffin ever onwards upon his dream journey. And worse than that, Connor knew that the black boils upon his neck were drying up and he would get well, yet now that Death was upon Griffin.
And he who had been so high in his brother’s esteem now fell so low, and could do naught but appeal to the boy, that he might salvage a little of Griffin’s respect.
Griffin. It’s true I felt the sweat upon me when I returned from the lowland towns. I — dismissed it as of no consequence. And I swear I did not know for sure . . . not until your story was hours old . . . and the black evil rose from the depths. It was Death! And it bore me away.’
And by now, all that band which had made the dream journey were gathered about, and Connor appealed to them all.
‘Then it was I felt upon my neck . . . ugh! The boils. And backed away from you all, lest by poisonous breath or gaze I condemn you. I kept my distance. I believed I should die, yet Griffin — without knowing, still he sensed my mortal danger, and in his vision he told my story and kept my hope alive, and fought to save me. To save us all!’
‘And yet,’ said Searle, and the fear was back in his voice, ‘if the infection’s loose.’
‘No!’ said Griffin.
And then it was that Linnet, in sudden knowledge that it was the boy who died, started forward to gather him up.
‘No!’ said the boy. For the village is safe, but I must go alone.’
And he pulled from his pocket the tin cross, and kept his gaze upon it, and backed away, and stopped, and they saw his eyes were already dark with the dream.
‘It seems to shimmer. Con! And it is deep, deep in the water.’
He died that same day, monk,’
And I bound the Celtic cross to the coffin by its leathern strap, for it was a thing he much treasured, and it trailed away be- neath the lake water as I pushed the coffin out. I saw it shimmer, monk!
And I knew then he was arisen, and gone, and bade him . . . . Godspeed.’
Whether it was panic or quest which had driven me upon strange roads far from Kil- kenny, it seemed now, by the hearing of this tale, much abated. For in truth I who fled the abbey had lost my faith, but now had uncovered a miracle that seemed to yield hope, though whether of the Deity or some stranger force was moot, for if miracle it be, it was most savage.
So I foresook the road west, and walked back with my dog and the silent Connor to the village, then on down the track to the lake.
While I awaited passage, I spoke to Ulf the Fat, who stood beside the jetty, his hand still upon the shrine.
‘So, Ulf,’ and I teased him a little. ‘You got stuck at the black highroad.’
‘Aye,’ he replied, and looked glum, yet his smile was soon back. For he was broken-hearted too that night in the cavern, but at daybreak, on the walk back to the village, Griffin had recounted the rest of Ulf ’s story.
Pluck,’ said Ulf. ‘Real pluck, that’s what he said I had. I went under the black highroad you see.
Long after everyone was gone I dug through, and crawled up the hilt on the other side. Right to the top.
And I held up the Little Virgin. I showed her the lights of the Celestial City. I did that much, monk. Griffin said so.’
hen Ulf took my hand and placed it upon the shrine, saying it was luck for any traveller, and I saw therein a lock of hair, and the fingernail parings of some small saint, and knew it was no saint hallowed by the church.
By then Arno was ready at the oar to row me back across the lake, and I took my leave, but my gaze was ever back over my shoulder at the village, which seemed indeed a place apart from the world to which I was returning.
The further from Griffin’s village I travel, the further that glow of a supernal will does recede into darkness, for in the experi- ence of all who have faced the contagion, it skips over no place for long, and if it passes by, either not affecting the people of
a place or touching them in indifferent manner, still at a later time it always comes back. And I have known doubt, yet hold to that tiny light in a world darkened by the Evil One.
And any who cherish hope would do well to visit the village in the years ahead to bear witness that it was neither by luck, nor chance, nor smokepot that the village was vouchsafed its particular sanctity, but by some boon granted a young boy, in realms of terror, at a terrible cost.
And I await passage to Ireland, yet this very day a magpie stood upon my windowsill, and this night, be- yond the window of my inn, there is a star in the horn of the moon. Such omens are not good. Death’s snare is all around, the charnel crews come through the streets of Holyhead, and my ship is unaccountably delayed.
So it is that I, Brother John of Kilkenny, writing as if among the dead, have put down what I have heard and verified. And that the writing may not perish with the scribe, and the work fail with the labourer, I add parchment to continue it, if by chance anyone may be left in the future, and any child of Adam may escape the pestilence and aid the work thus commenced.
It seems likely the monk died at Holyhead. The manuscript was found in the crypt of a parish church there, suggesting he travelled no further than the port town.
It had lain unread for centuries. No subsequent writing was appended to it, and the strange tale was without influence on church history.
