Triduum

August 1966, B.Chatwin Journal No. 86

Interviewed two brothers today near the Black Hills for the auction house. Smelled of pipe tobacco, lanolin and horse manure for the remainder of the day. Lewis and Benjamin have spent their entire lives on this same farm bordering Herefordshire. Might make a great story – an example of the palimpsest of history’s treasures and a contrast to my tales from the end of the world.

Several interesting finds on the place; possible value beyond Sotheby’s for the archeological museum. Brought to light a chest in a crestfallen oxcart with what looked at first to be a moth-eaten dense blanket. Closer inspection revealed a tight-woven tapestry: medieval or older with an intact bronze sheath sewn into the reverse. Compare scabbard with skeen recovered from Llanthony Priory housed in the Pitt Rivers Museum.

Located three amphorae that look to be quite ancient, even first century. Two large, sealed (wine?) and one smaller, unsealed, which contained gold coins, and a few metal bracelets. Compare to Heyope gold ribbon torcs, Middle Bronze age.

When asked about provenance of items, brothers shared competing stories about Saints Dyfrid, Non, Illtud and even St. Mark. Also mentioned search for Molis’s kin. (NB: Who is Molis?)

The estate becomes property of an estranged sister, Rebecca. Last seen when cast out for arriving home pregnant after a summer camp on Caldey Island. How to locate her or her child?

The Brecon Beacons, circa 40 C.E.

Here at the edge of the world, the air is not just cooler, but thinner, closer somehow to the unfamiliar stars. The breeze sweeping over the black mountains drives away the monotony of long weeks staring past corners of the cargo ship’s sail. John Mark stands, grateful for the gift of solid ground, and catches his breath. His hands move to the satchel bound close to his side. He unwinds the leather folds, removing a simple weapon from its sheath. The motion sends a single red kite leaping into the air, where she circles above the snapping battle standards to the east, ascending.

Searching for loose stones to fit into a cairn, the young man kneels down among the autumn crocus beside the pass and begins to dig. In his inner landscape, the stone circle he shapes in the afternoon sun cools into the face of a distant full moon. The high winds curling through his dark hair deepen into the warm stillness of an olive grove.

I press my chin close to the gnarled roots, close enough to see anger flash across Simon’s face, a massive shoulder eclipses my view. It must belong to the guard they call “Molis” (the Boulder) or “Malchus” (the King). The hulking back buckles as a glancing blow catches his ear.

Quick words come from the Teacher to my master, “Enough! Put that away!” Molis measures his next move as the Teacher, already checked by other soldiers, places his free hand on the bleeding wound.

The Boulder, the King, falls to his knees and offers his sword. With one motion, the Teacher rips the sheathed sword away from Peter and casts it in my direction, together with the giant's surrendered weapon. In the press and grab of the melee that follows, I lose my linen tunic but find my way home.

As the fading sun touches the skies above, the memory of distant torchlight fades into the arrival of stars.

Snowdonia, circa 500 C.E.

The winter snows fade into dappled streams that leave the mountain lake brimming with life. Two women sit a stone’s throw up the hillside. Water lapping along the shore betrays the motion of currents at work beneath the surface.

“To see him swimming like this, one would hardly believe the way he came into the world,” says the younger woman. Her eyes hold a steady gaze of green and bronze, her face framed by raven hair caught up in braids.

“I can hardly see him at all,” replies the older woman, dressed in the trimmings of a servant. “He’s more fish than boy, I would say. Just like his mother, he is. It doesn’t surprise me that he took his first breaths in a wild rain. Truly the heir to the Lady of the Lake.”

“You will not catch me in the lakes again, not with these old bones and that bracing chill. I have done my part for the kingdom.”

“Don’t speak to me ‘bout old bones, dear Nonette. I sound like an oak door on rusty hinges every time I bend over. And don’t count yourself out too quickly, dear one. There are plenty more days ahead, and more to be done.”

Efrddyl reaches out her hand toward Non and, with difficulty, props herself up on her knees. “Not many saints or sinners can say they have lived through what I have lived through: nearly drowned to death by my own flesh and blood, then dragged to the stake to die in the fire, and for what cause? For the shame of carrying my children, one son who grew up to lay the crown on Arthur’s head and the other a wise wizard who advises the same. I know the pain that goes deeper than conceiving in shame and giving birth among ashes and angels. Look at me, now. I want you to hear what I’m saying to you. I know the pain, but also the miracles, miracles with names. One of them is swimming in that lake and one of them is listening to this old crow, wondering whether or not to believe her.”

“I fear for my son if his father ever learns about this deception. More trouble follows this blade than any relic. I wish St Mark had thrown both swords into the sea instead of setting in motion this never-ending game of cat and mouse”

“We have Excalibur, thanks to your watery theatrics. I count on you to take the Giant’s sword and get it to Bishop Illtud for safe keeping. As for the sword in the stone cairn, the monks below Godspell Pass keep St. Peter’s blade safe for now. We just need to find where St. Mark might have hidden that leather sheath, which holds the power of peace. Now, young lady, help an old woman to her feet. You there, Dewidd, my lad, come here and get some air in your lungs. Have you found anything interesting?”

“Nothing so far. Just these big pots.”

“Your little fish has gone and found my secret cache of wine,” Efrddyl remarks to Non.

“They’re too heavy to move, Auntie, but I found one that is smaller and lighter.”

“Yes, well. You bring that one up the hill to your godmother. Those others are full of red and white dragons, so don’t you go disturbing them!”

“Effie, now don’t be filling my son’s head with mindless nonsense, not on God’s Friday.”

“This day is no more or less holy than any other, if you’ll forgive me. Alright now, Dewi, here’s a blanket for you to warm yourself. Did your mother tell you that her sword belonged to a giant?”

The young man’s eyes grow as wide as pools. “A good giant or a mean one, like my dad?”

“Ermm, well. It is not for me to judge good or bad, but he did lay his sword at the feet of our Lord, the evening before the crucifixion.”

“Did he pick it up again to fight?”

“Listen to this young theologian here! Yes, Dewi, the giant Molis came here to fight with Caradog against the Roman conquerors.”

“I believe that what my son wants to know is if these giants of yours are good enough to protect him, and me, from his father.”

“Oh, yes. Why, I made a point of asking my sons, both Dyfrid and Idris, to meet your father at the Giant’s Dance and speak a prophecy to him from among the shadows: “Your soul will not rest until the sacred stones are moved to the ‘Plain below that Mount where the Waters from Heaven divide into Three Seas.’”

“What in the world are you talking about? How would he move the Giant's Dance?”

“That, my dear, will become his life's work. I feel certain that your Prince will not be troubling you for years, if ever again. Ceredig’s son will be working his way south by the time we meet up again at Eagle’s Rock, where the three kingdoms come together. In case we need protection, we will have some of Molis’ kin along with us from among the Queen’s people up in Gawr. In the meantime, we have our own work to do. I will continue working on the tapestry to conceal St.Peter’s sheath, which I feel certain is closer than ever.”

“All this scheming, Efrddyl. Men threaten and fight, laying down their weapons and picking them up again. Where does it end?”

“We may not see the end, but as the sages tell us, that does not excuse us playing our part. Life overflows with treasure, Nonny. Let the greedy be damned by their own greed. Let it be enough for us to thwart their schemes and birth some joy by our conspiracies of grace. Savor this water, feast on these daffodils. Let each moment of your life be your own sweet sacrament.”

“Aunt Effie, look how tall I am when I stand on this clay pot! I’m a giant!”

“Dewi, you are a giant! I think you have found something even better than a magic sword. Shall we see what’s inside that old vessel?”

Neath Abbey, circa 2007

From the hills above Hirwaun to the Port where the River Neath enters Abertawe Bay, the land and its people grow weary with rain. Those intoxicated with industry have inflicted progress on the descendants of druids and saints, shaming them with Welsh Not scars, crushing them with trauma by the tonne in Aberfan. But across from The Rock and Fountain Pub, a Malca-Amit armored truck interrupts a row of granite houses. A curtain parts inside one of the white lintel windows.

“Cathy, did you order something from Sotheby’s? There’s a delivery man knocking on the door in the pouring rain.”

“It’s hard to say what I’ve ordered at the end of a bottle of pinot grigio,” chimes a tired woman with fiery red hair. “Maybe roll yourself over and open the door?”

The man puts out his cigarette and repositions his wheelchair to let in the dim light of the dreary morning. A delivery man stands on the threshhold, eclipsing some of the draft. “These are all very heavy, sir. I say, it looks rather like Christmas in here!”

“Are you telling me that none of the other homes along the canal greet you with a dancing Santa and a Christmas Cow?”

“No, sir, not on the day before Easter. Sign for this letter please, as well the crates. Shall I bring them in?”

“Let me take a look at that letter first. Lady Catherine, do you know anyone from over near Three Cocks? Some lawyer’s office there. Imagine the ribbing they get! The notecard says, ‘Special thanks for all you have done. You listened to my story, reminding me of something I had lost long ago: a treasure I had parted with. You gave me hope enough to catch the wind again. Please accept some blessings for yourself, as you bring peace to others.’ It’s signed Rebecca."

"Let me see that. There’s a small notebook here in the envelope, along with legal papers and two keys; looks like they’re for a safe deposit box. The copy of the Deed of Trust is for property in Abergavenny, a farm entrusted to the Cadw. The documents name me as Trustee of the property, at an annual salary of 20,000 pounds sterling, to be paid from the estate of a Mr. Chatwin! ‘His Moleskine journal is enclosed for reference as to the value of the estate of his birth mother, Rebecca Jones.’”

“One of your clients, from down at Social Care, or some friend of Jack’s? Sounds like an elaborate prank. I suppose we could look inside the packages. The banks are closed already, so we’ll have to wait until Monday to verify the legal papers. ”

“Until Tuesday, you mean. Easter Monday is a holiday as well, though I never understood why.”

“An extra day to recover from the shock of Easter. This gold bracelet certainly looks real.”

The delivery man clears his throat and offers his blessing, “Good day to you, then. I’ll leave these crates just here. It appears that the rain has begun to stop.”