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Tom wielded the machete with brutal determination, hacking it back and forth, creating the path to the ritual place as if there were sprites attacking him. Sweat poured into his eyes and stained the front of his thin cotton shirt, and he was covered in small twigs, leaves and dirt.
Woodsmoke was next to him, and together they moved at a good pace. The path started flat, but soon rose upwards towards the grove. It was on a hill – part of the mountain shoulder. Tom wasn’t entirely sure what Beansprout had been on about; there was no original path left at all.
Brenna had flown ahead of them earlier, leading Beansprout, Bloodmoon, Nimue, Arthur and Rahal to the grove. They had slipped through the trees and bushes, hacking small branches away to mark their path, leaving Tom and Woodsmoke to create the path properly. Elan and Filtiarn had remained at the house with Merlin so Filtiarn could rest.
A flurry of wings interrupted them and Brenna appeared. She laughed at their appearance. “You two look like you’re having fun!”
Woodsmoke had tied back his long hair, and a strand had escaped, hanging in front of his face. He pushed it back, smearing his face with dirt. “Yes, we’re having a great time! Having fun flying around watching the rest of us work?”
“Yes, actually. It’s especially fun watching Bloodmoon labouring away in the grove.”
That cheered Woodsmoke up. “Good. Glad to hear he’s not dodging work.”
“No chance. Nimue won’t hear of it.”
Tom laughed as well. “So much for protecting the ladies.”
“Yes, Nimue really needs his protection,” Brenna said with a smirk. She added, “They’ve found the stone altar in the centre of the grove, and some of the trees around the edge – well, the original edge – are oaks, yew and elder.”
“Is that important?” Tom asked.
“Apparently yes. They will add protection to the grove and enhance the spell.”
Magic stuff he would never understand, Tom thought.
Brenna continued, “I’m heading back to Nimue’s, to see how Filtiarn is. Do you need anything? You’re heading the right way.”
“No, we’re fine, thanks. How far have we to go?” Woodsmoke asked.
“You’re about halfway.”
Woodsmoke and Tom groaned, but before they could say anything else, Brenna flew off.
When they finally arrived at the clearing, they found Nimue and Beansprout sitting on the altar stone in the middle. Arthur lay on the floor gazing up at the sky above. All three of them looked hot and bothered. Beansprout, who now usually followed Nimue’s style of long dress, instead wore a cotton shirt and the loose trousers she’d travelled in, tucked into boots. Nimue remained in a dress, having announced she was far too old to change her ways now. Tom didn’t believe that at all, but decided against arguing with Nimue. If he was honest, he was still a little overawed by her.
A ring of old gnarled trees edged the clearing, demarcating it from the rest of the woods, and although some of the larger trees still stood in the centre of the glade, they had managed to fell many smaller ones, and saplings lay strewn across the ground.
“What do you think of our hard work?” Beansprout asked.
“Impressive,” Woodsmoke said, sitting beside them. “Almost as impressive as ours.”
Beansprout laughed, and a tendril of hair escaped and brushed against her cheek. “I think we’ll all need baths later.”
Arthur spoke from where he lay on the floor. “So have we done now?”
“No!” Nimue said, throwing a twig at him. “We need to clear away everything and burn what we don’t need.”
Arthur sat up slowly, picking the twig from his hair, which fell around his shoulders looking knotty and wild. “I knew I should have stayed in the house today.”
“You know you’d have gone mad.”
He poked his tongue out at her playfully, reminding Tom of the fact they were old friends who were very comfortable in each other’s company. Nimue laughed, looking like a teenager.
“Where’s Bloodmoon and Rahal?” Tom asked, looking around.
“Trying to find a path to Giolladhe’s workshop,” Beansprout said. “We think it must be in that direction.” She pointed to the far side of the grove, where the side of the mountain reared in the near distance.
“I suppose you want us to help here?” Tom asked with a sigh.
“No rest for the wicked, Tom,” Nimue said. “You can help us gather the wood up.”
“Is the fire for tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Nimue answered, “and hopefully Merlin is making progress on the spell.”
“So we’re sure this is the grove where it happened all those years ago?” Woodsmoke asked, looking around with interest.
“Fairly sure. The trees on the perimeter are clearly ancient, and aren’t native to the area,” Beansprout said.
“Which means,” Nimue said, “that this was planned. And this,” she patted the altar stone, “was brought here for magical purposes. The stone has an unusual red vein running through it. It’s not from here.”
Arthur looked interested, “How do you know?”
“It’s from Avalon.”
“What?” All of them looked at Nimue in shock.
“I have no idea how it’s here, but the stone is all over the island. It has strong conductive properties. It holds energies – of the elements, plants, growth ...” She laughed at their shocked expressions. “It’s why the island is so magical. It’s one of the things Raghnall used to complain about.” Her face fell momentarily.
Tom jolted with a memory. “You had an argument, sort of, with Raghnall, about Avalon.”
“Yes. It was an old argument. He believed Avalon shouldn’t be hidden. He was wrong. It is powerful, too dangerous, even for the magical place of the Realms. It was the original crossing place between the Realms and Earth. And as Tom knows, things are buried there that should never see the light of day.”
Tom nodded, remembering when he woke Arthur beneath the lake. “I guess it was quite a privilege to be there.”
“And for me to be sleeping there,” Arthur said.
Nimue nodded. “It was. It healed you, Arthur. And it was a difficult decision for me to leave.”
“But you can go back?” Woodsmoke asked, puzzled.
“I can never go back. Not to live. Besides, there is too much to do here.”
“Why can’t you go back?” Woodsmoke persisted.
“You should never go back,” she said enigmatically.
“So how is the stone here?” Arthur asked. He leaned forward, all tiredness forgotten.
“Raghnall or Giolladhe must have been to Avalon. Or a priestess arranged it.”
“How long have priestesses been on Avalon? It can’t have been Vivian.”
“No, not Vivian,” Nimue agreed. “But there were others before her. We priestesses, witches, are of an old order. We serve the Goddess. She has been here forever. Like Herne. Beansprout – we really must revert to your original name,” she said, looking at Beansprout with a shake of her head. “One day, you must go there to complete your training.”
“I must?” she replied, clearly excited. “To Avalon?”
“Of course. Anyway. However it happened, the stone is here. It explains why Giolladhe was such a success with his skills. This stone would have enhanced them. He must have used it many times. And I presume Raghnall would have used it too, when he needed it.”
“It’s fortunate we’ve found it,” Arthur said. “It is meant to be.”
“Maybe,” Nimue said. “Maybe.”
But Tom thought she wasn’t convinced.
––––––––
When they finally returned to the House of the Beloved it was dusk. They all ached, were filthy, and stank of sweat. Rahal and Bloodmoon had rejoined them, having found traces of a path up to the mountain workshop.
They were accosted on the stairs by Merlin. “There you are!” he said. “You need to come to the library now.” In comparison to them, he looked refreshed, clean and dry. Tom thought he had washed his robe, but his beard was still wild, as was his hair. His appearance in many ways mattered little to him. However, his bright blue eyes sparkled.
“Why, what’s happened?” Nimue asked, worried.
“We’ve opened the box. Or rather, Filtiarn has.”
He refused to say any more, instead leading them up the stairs, past their bedrooms, which Tom gazed at wistfully as he passed, and on into the library.
The setting sun cast a warm rosy light over Brenna, Elan and Filtiarn, who were gathered around the table in the centre. In front of them lay the open box, its contents spilling onto the table. Tom saw a scroll, filled with tiny writing, and items that looked like stones, bone, skin and feathers. They turned as they entered, every one of them looking serious.
“What’s wrong?” Nimue asked, striding towards them.
“We’ve found the spell, but the curse has a kick,” Brenna said.
“What sort of kick?”
“A stone from Avalon has powered the spell. How do we get one of those?” Filtiarn asked. He was agitated, his dark eyes troubled, his gaunt, hollowed cheeks exacerbated by the soft light.
Nimue broke into a broad smile. “Is that all? We have found the grove; the altar stone is from Avalon. I’d know it anywhere.”
“Really?” Filtiarn was so excited he started coughing, and Elan passed him some water.
“Are you sure?” Elan said, a doubtful look on his face.
“She’s sure,” Arthur said. “By tomorrow night this could be all over.”
Merlin shook his head. “I’m not so certain.”
“Why?” Nimue turned to Merlin. “How complex is it?”
“Very. Part of it involves a potion that Filtiarn must drink – and that we must make. There are a number of items we need to gather (some common, others not), and conditions must be right in order for it to work, which they are – the stars are aligning and the Wolf Moon is waxing. But the trouble is the language. It’s archaic. Some terms are clear, others aren’t. Which means although I understand some things,” he shrugged, “some I don’t understand at all.” He looked tired and frustrated.
“Surely you must understand the language, Filtiarn?” Arthur asked.
“Yes, regular words and phrases, but there’s an item listed called Arach Frasan Fuil. I don’t know what that is, and neither does Merlin.”
“What? I don’t know what that is either. Rahal, Nimue?” Arthur asked, perplexed.
“No. Sorry,” Rahal said, flustered. “I don’t feel I’m helping at all.”
Nimue looked thoughtful. “I’ve never heard of it either, but we have plenty of old texts. We just have to check and double check everything.”
Silence fell as they understood the implications. And then a troubling thought crossed Tom’s mind. “You know when we were trying to break your spell, Nimue, I was told that only the witch who cast the spell could break it. Or that death could release it? So how does that affect us?”
“Because this spell was designed to be broken. It is time bound, linked to the Wolf Moon cycle. Filtiarn’s change depends on it. Regardless of who is around, he changes form every thousand years for the space of one month. Once in his human form, if we perform the ritual correctly, he will remain as human.”
Merlin agreed. “Part of the curse is the knowledge of the change, and its time sensitivities. What better way to extract maximum torture than to know you are so close to being human, and yet aren’t.” He shook his head. “It’s very cruel.”
“But if the curse is still going, surely that means Giolladhe must be alive, somewhere?” Tom reasoned. “Or why is Filtiarn still changing?”
