But spring, with her promise of sunshine and plenty, was a season to be loved. The burst of colour that appeared on the hillsides as the first flowers pushed their way through the cold earth, the singing of birds in the trees, the fragrant blossom on bush and branch – all these things spoke of life.
The ache in Gwalchmai’s back had faded away in the morning sunlight, as he sat in the old chair on the porch of his cabin. I almost feel young again, he thought happily. A faint touch of regret whispered across his mind, and he opened the parchment he had held folded in his hand. It had been so long since he had written anything that the words seemed spidery and over-large, like a child’s. Still, it was legible.
Time for the last of the mead, he thought. Leaning to his right, he lifted the jug and removed the stopper. Tipping it, he filled his mouth with the sweet liquor and rolled it over his tongue. He had hidden the mead the year Sigarni was brought to him, which had been a vintage year. Gwalchmai smiled at the memory. Taliesen had walked into the clearing, leading the child by the hand. In that moment Gwalchmai had seen the vision of his death. That night, as the child slept, he had taken two jugs and hidden them in the loft, ready for this day.
This day . ..
The old man pushed himself to his feet and stretched his back. The joints creaked and cracked like tinder twigs. Drawing in a deep breath, he swirled the last of the liquor in the jug. Less than half a cup left, he realized. Shall I save it until they come? He thought about it for a moment – then drained the jug. Letting out a satisfied sigh, he sank back to the chair.
The sound of horses’ hooves on the hard-packed ground made him start and panic flickered within his breast. He had waited so long for this moment – and now he was afraid, fearful of the long journey into the dark. His mouth was dry, and he regretted the last swallow of mead.
‘Calm yourself, old fool,’ he said, aloud. Rising, he strolled out into the wide yard and waited for the horsemen.
There were six scouts, clad in iron helms and baked leather breastplates. They saw him and drew their weapons, fanning out around him in a semi-circle. ‘Good morning, my brave boys!’ said Gwalchmai.
The riders edged their horses closer, while scanning the surrounding trees. ‘I am alone, boys. I have been waiting for you. I have a message here that you may read,’ he added, waving the scrap of parchment.
‘Who are you, old man?’ asked a rider, heeling his horse forward.
Gwalchmai chuckled. ‘I am the reader of souls, the speaker of truths, the voice of the slain to come. They found the body, you know, back in your village. Upon your return they intend to hang you. But do not let it concern you – you will not return’
The man blanched, his jaw hanging slack.
‘What’s he talking about?’ demanded another rider. ‘What body?’
Gwalchmai swung to the speaker. ‘Ah, Bello, what a delight to see you again! And you, Jeraime,’ he added, smiling up at a third rider. ‘Neither of you like each other, and yet, together you will stand back to back at the last, and you will die together, and take the long walk into Hell side by side. Is that a comforting thought? I hope not!’
‘Give me the message, old man!’ demanded the first rider, holding out his hand.
‘Not yet, Gaele. There is much to say. You are all riding to your deaths. Sigarni will see you slain.’
‘How is it you know my name?’ demanded Gaele.
‘I know all your names, and your sordid pasts,’ sneered Gwalchmai. ‘That is my Gift – though when I gaze upon your lives it becomes a curse. You buried her deep, Gaele, by the river bank – but you never thought that the old willow would one day fall … and in so doing expose the grave. Worse yet, you left the ring upon her finger, the topaz ring you brought back from Kushir. All the village knows you killed her. Even now a message is on its way asking that you be returned for trial! Fear not, brave boy, for your belly will be opened at the Duane Pass. No hanging for you!’