The Manteceros:
A creature of mist and dream, the Manteceros roams the byways of our imaginations even as it rides the battle standards of our kings. A product only of Nennius’ imagination, for none but he has ever claimed to have seen it, and any mention of it in his presence generally only elicited a giggle—a strange reaction from such a battle-hardened man. Once, when I pressed the issue of the Manteceros, Nennius informed me that a king’s sense of humour was his most valuable asset, and then he winked, but Nennius was old then, and I think his mind was addled by dementia. I would advise the reader to give his remark no credence. I consider it unworthy to waste more space, ink or time upon this ridiculous beast. I spent the last five years of his life counselling Nennius to pick a Flaming Dragon or a Raging Bear as the emblem of his family.
Why did he not listen to such sound advice?
Why?
Gregorius’ sad lament seemed to echo over the centuries and through the great library.
“Perhaps our trail ends here,” Harrald said, trying to soften the blow. “I can think of no more places to—
“Wait,” Garth said. “Does this verse mean anything to you?
‘Come wind and fire and swollen sea,
Come fates that tear the sky from earth.
Release the dream; come, set him free,
So he can test the king’s true worth.’”
Harrald frowned. “Where did you hear that? It sounds like something women use to lull their babes to rest. No, wait, I didn’t mean that. Let me think.” His fingers tapped on the now-closed bestiary, and his brow furrowed in thought. Finally he rose in an abrupt motion. “Wait here,” he said, and picked up the bestiary and disappeared among the stacks of books again.
This time he returned with a scroll. It was bound with a cord of faded purple, and when Harrald undid the cord and unrolled the scroll, Garth saw the creamy parchment was so old it had crumbled about its edges and its surface was fractured with tiny fault lines.
For an instant he was back at the rock-face, watching the fracture lines widen until the rock glowed glassy green and the sea forced its way through.
“Are you all right?” Harrald’s concerned voice broke into the image, and Garth shook himself and nodded.
“Yes. What’s this scroll?”
“Something I’ve never read myself, but I remember Brother Rogem mentioning it once, many years ago when I was but a small boy embarking upon my novitiate. It is called A Calendar of Ordeals and Tests.”
“Ordeals and tests?”
“Yes, the last line of that verse refers to a test of some kind. So, perhaps we’ll find enlightenment here.”
There were no contents listed at the top of the scroll, so Garth had to sit, fighting his impatience, as Harrald skimmed through the scroll. It scratched across the surface of the table as the monk unrolled it further and further, and eventually cascaded over the far edge of the table. Garth made as if to lift it from the floor, but Harrald waved him back in his chair.
“The parchment is stronger than it appears, and, look, I think I have found something. Listen:
On sad occasion it may arise that there might be more than one claimant to the throne of Escator. If such occasion arises, then the Manteceros must be released to walk free from the shaded circle to administer the Ordeal to the rival claimants. It will be the Manteceros who will decide the Claim.
“And then follows another verse,” Harrald muttered irritably. Far from finding keys and open doors, the monk was finding that doors only slammed in his face.
“Who comes to Claim?
Who dares the Dream
And, daring, ———-”
“And, daring…?” Garth asked.
“And, daring nothing!” Harrald snapped, then apologised for his tone. “I’m sorry, but the last word is missing. There is only a line drawn across the parchment.”
“What does that mean?”
Harrald took a deep breath. “It means that whoever wrote that verse knew the last word, but declined to write it—or was forbidden to write it. Perhaps it forms part of the ordeal.”
Garth sat deep in thought. Everything came back to a dream. Maximilian had muttered about a dream. The street trader had talked of dreams. Verses and histories and indignant bestiaries mentioned dreams.
But where was he going to find a dream? And what was the shaded circle that the Manteceros had to step free from?
Over the following weeks Garth spent much of his spare time in the great library of Narbon, and when he wasn’t there Harrald searched on his behalf. But they found little more than they discovered on the first day. Fleeting and vague references to dreams and to creatures of unsubstantiated fact.
But even a single mysterious word or phrase cheered Garth. At least he was doing something, even if he didn’t seem to be getting very far. Perhaps he and Harrald were only an afternoon or an aisle from the book that would reveal what he needed to know—where to find the Manteceros. Hope kept him optimistic, and the library was so vast that Garth remained convinced that sooner or later he or Harrald would succeed in their quest.
Harrald never asked Garth why he was so driven to discover all he could about the Manteceros, and he never asked what the youth fingered so constantly through the material of his tunic.
Garth lost his pale and drawn appearance and, as the summer progressed and Joseph sent him outside as often as he could, he tanned under the blazing southern sun. He shot up another hand-span, and Nona’s good cooking filled out some of his rawboned ranginess. Joseph took him to a barber’s shop one day and watched as Garth’s boyish curls fell to the floor. When they came out Garth seemed more a man than a boy, and he walked with a relaxed confidence that made Joseph’s heart swell with pride. During those days that Garth spent by Joseph’s side in the surgery, he bent his will to learning as much as he could, and his father marvelled at his skill, his patience, and the apparently endless supply of humour and sympathy with which he dealt with those who came to sit under his hands.
Soon more and more patients were asking that Garth touch them rather than Joseph and, far from minding, Joseph’s pride in his son increased.
Joseph and Nona relaxed as the days lengthened and the shadows shortened. Whatever had been troubling their son, whether the horror of the Veins or something he had yet to admit to them, appeared to fade with each passing summer’s day.
Yet dreams still troubled Garth’s sleep, and he spent many a night awake and staring at the cracks in his ceiling, wondering if they had spread or if they remained quiescent.
And Lot No. 859 still swung the pick amid the tarry blackness of the Veins and, when he turned his head to the right for privacy of thought, he found the memory of the boy rapidly fading from his mind
. Eventually, what remained of the bandage about his right arm fell in tatters to the floor of the tunnel and was lost amid the ever-piling gloam, and the old burn on the man’s biceps was covered with a thick and tacky layer of gloam dust.
NINE
INSIDE THE DREAM
Sometimes dreams are found where one least expects them, and so it was for Garth.
Towards the end of summer, when the worst of the heat had passed, Joseph leaned across the breakfast table one morning and asked if Garth would pay a visit for him.
“It’s to one of the marsh families, Garth. I’d go myself, except that I’ve got to see Miriam.” Miriam’s condition was now so bad Joseph made almost daily house calls. “Besides, you’ll need to go out there sooner or later, anyway.”
“A marsh family?” Garth smiled at Nona as she pressed another fruit muffin on him, then turned his eyes back to Joseph. “I didn’t realise that you attended—”
He stopped short, realising he was wrong. On their journey to Ruen almost six months previously they had passed by the marsh, stretching for several insect-infested leagues along the coast, and Garth had noticed a woman and her daughter at a rundown hut a hundred paces back from the road. Then Joseph had said that he occasionally attended the marsh families.
Joseph watched Garth remember. “It’s the same family we saw on our way north,” he said. “You should be able to find their house easily enough—at least it’s not one of those that hide so deep within the swamp they take a guide and a year’s worth of luck to locate. The mother, Venetia, has need of some assistance.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if you went?” Garth asked slowly, further remembering his father’s slight unease about the marsh woman. “What if it’s something I can’t handle?”