The Book of Dreams(75)

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when, without any warning, there came a hard pattering noise all around us. It was the sound of a myriad of fat, heavy rain drops striking the branches and bushes, splattering on the soggy carpet of dead leaves. There was not a breath of wind so the rain fell straight, as if tipped directly from the sky. The freakish shower lasted only a few minutes, five at most. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the downpour stopped. The eerie silence returned.

Hroudland looked down at the bronze cup in his hand and gave a nervous laugh.

‘Coincidence, Patch. What about the gale? The story of Yvain says that when he poured the water on the stone, a great gale arose and ripped the leaves from the trees.’

‘There are no leaves. It’s winter,’ I pointed out.

We looked at one another, both silent for a moment.

And into that silence came another sound, a hollow rushing noise. It filled the air, coming closer and louder though it happened so quickly and without warning that there was no time to say from which direction the sound was coming. Then my skin crawled as a shadow passed across me, momentarily darkening the sky above the glade.

I looked up. A great flock of birds, thousands of them, was swirling over the clearing. We were hearing the beating of their wings, a noise that rose and fell as the flock circled twice and then came spiralling around our heads to land on the boughs and twigs of the trees and bushes around us. There were so many birds that it was impossible to count their number. They settled on every possible perch until the thinner branches began to sway and sag under their weight. I had never before seen birds like them. They were the size of thrushes, brownish-black and with short yellow beaks. They clung on their perches, seeking to keep their balance, occasionally shifting to get a firmer grip with their feet or to allow yet another bird to land beside them, but never settling on the ground. Then a faint, subdued chatter arose, and the entire circle of the glade seethed with birdlife.

Hroudland and I stood motionless for the few moments it took for the vast flock to rest. Then, just as abruptly as they had arrived, the birds took wing. They leapt from the branches and twigs in a great rustling and flutter of feathers, and a moment later they were climbing up into the air and streaming away over the tree tops like a thick plume of dark smoke.

Hroudland gave a short, staccato laugh.

‘They knew about the pool. They probably came wanting to drink, but our presence frightened them away,’ he said.

‘There were far too many to drink at that tiny pool. And there must be other pools and lakes all over the forest.’

Hroudland looked down at the cup still in his hand.

‘Can you imagine anything more pointless? Even if this thing does summon rain and storms, it would be far more valuable to this soggy country if it caused the clouds to roll away and the sun to shine.’

He tossed the cup into the air, and caught it as it spun back down to his hand.

‘I think I’ll keep this, and wave it under the nose of the next fool who tries to tell me that there is truth in the childish tales of these Bretons.’

‘Perhaps we should leave the cup where we found it,’ I said, trying hard not to sound craven. ‘It may be nothing more than superstition, but the cup was there for a purpose.’

But Hroudland ignored my feeble protest. He turned on his heel and headed back down the way we had come. I started to follow him, but before I left the glade I turned for one last look, and stopped with a jolt.

My brother’s fetch was standing by the stone, watching me silently.

A chill came over me. Hroudland had made a terrible error. The cup should remain where we had found it. For a long moment my brother just stood there and I could find neither anger nor reproach in his face, only regret. Then I heard Hroudland call my name, shouting that we should hurry if we were to get back to the great hall before dark. I had no wish to be left alone in that ominous, supernatural place, so I dropped my gaze and stumbled away, fearful that what I had allowed to happen would have calamitous results, yet knowing that nothing I could say would deflect Hroudland from his chosen course. What had happened at the fountain of Barenton was another step along the path that Fate had chosen for him.

*

It was only when our little group was back on the main road that I had the chance to ask Hroudland the question that had been troubling me.

‘Why did we go to the trouble of visiting the fountain?’ I asked. ‘What’s so important about disproving an ancient folk tale?’

We were riding at a brisk trot. Hroudland pulled on the reins to slow his horse to a walk so that he did not have to shout. He threw a glance over his shoulder to make sure our escort was out of earshot.