ABACUS (6 page)

Chapter 7: The Vipers' Nest

The black sky was studded with stars and the chill in the air hinted of fall. Warriors stamped their feet and blew into their hands as they waited in the compound. Names were called, groups formed, and weapons checked. The bowmen, outnumbered by the swordsmen, took up their positions in the middle of the column. Each man carried a day's food rations—the rest were loaded onto packhorses.

Some wives and sweethearts had left their warm beds to see their men off. AP was glad he and Kate had faced their farewells hours before. Gwendolyn comforted the women with her strength. Medoc was there too, his robes flapping like a giant crow's wings. Passing among the men, he touched each one with a bundle of herbs, chanting mysteriously. When he got to AP, he put on an extra show, drawing wide circles in the air with his hands.

The great gate swung open. It was time to leave. Arthur, striding over to AP with sword in hand, laid an arm across his shoulder. “Walk beside me, young Arthur. You shall be my second sight.”

AP smiled pensively, wondering how he'd measure up in the days ahead.

As the column was about to move, Medoc swooped down and whispered something into AP's ear. Then they were off.

* * *

For several hours they'd been marching at the same brisk pace. AP, anxious to know what was expected of him, asked Arthur what Medoc did during battles.

“He's a powerful sorcerer,” Arthur began. “He sticks to my side like a shadow, reading signs and interpreting omens. And when we sight the enemy he turns into a falcon, flying overhead to read their minds.”

“He doesn't stay by your side during the actual fighting?” queried AP.

“No—not in human form—though I've sometimes seen him flying over the battlefield.”

AP let this new information sink in slowly. Then, after a long pause, he asked when Medoc transformed back into a man.

“Usually when the battle's over,” replied Arthur. “Yet there have been times—during long campaigns—when he appeared as a man before the fighting was done.” Arthur stroked his beard. “One such battle occurred several years ago. We were laying siege to a fortress that took many days to win. Although the fighting was fierce during the day, we could rest in peace at night. Every evening Medoc returned as a man, to share his secrets and to eat.”

AP weighed his next question carefully. “Have you ever seen Medoc turn into a falcon?”

“Yes. Many times.”

AP looked Arthur straight in the eye.

“Rather,” said Arthur, after a pause, “I've seen him slip into the bushes many times, but have not actually witnessed his transformation. As you know, he must focus all his energies on this. That requires seclusion.”

* * *

AP, feeling more relaxed than when he'd left the fortress, had been walking on his own for the last two hours—Arthur had dropped back to talk with his commanders. Flanked by rolling hills and woods, they were following the river's course. Suddenly a falcon swooped on a flock of sparrows, and AP was reminded of Medoc. Just hours ago he was only a fraud. Now AP realized Kate was right—he did mean him harm. Why else would the sorcerer have whispered that warning in his ear as they were leaving? “Stay beside Arthur throughout the battle and you will be safe.” Now AP knew how to avoid danger—he'd follow Medoc's example and disappear into the bushes!

AP pondered his new role as Arthur's “second sight.” The leader obviously valued Medoc's guidance, even though he could tell him nothing new. Medoc's sole usefulness was to confirm Arthur's own conclusions. Arthur didn't need him, he merely thought he did. “Well, I can do the job as well as Medoc,” AP thought. And if that involved playacting, he was up to the challenge.

As time was of the essence, there was no stopping along the way and each man ate his rations on the march. They maintained the same tough pace until darkness. Most of the men then fell fast asleep, but Arthur, full of nervous energy, seemed ready to talk all night.

“I must tell you about my omen,” he began. “A large crow flew down from a tree and landed only two spans from where I was walking.”

AP stared into the distance, frowning in fake concentration. “Which way did it face?”

“Downstream,” affirmed Arthur.

“Toward the enemy?”

“Yes.”

“And what do we know of crows?”

“They are omens of death.”

“Exactly,” agreed AP. “So this can only mean one thing.”

“Death of the enemy.”

“Yes,” said AP, nodding wisely. “You will succeed in your quest.”

Arthur was elated. His young namesake had truly outstanding mystical powers. He'd been right to bring him on this dangerous mission.

* * *

Arthur's forces reached the bend in the river on the third day. Anxious to see the enemy camp, Arthur summoned the scouts who had located it. The other commanders wanted to go too.

“No!” said Arthur, “there is too much risk of being seen. Hector, you shall come. And Thomas,” he nodded toward one of the scouts, “you will lead the way.” Then, turning to AP, “Young Arthur will come also—to read the omens. There will be a battle council immediately upon our return.”

The left bank was dappled with color—purple vetch, buttercups and pink knapweed. The broad expanse of grasses and bulrushes was a haven for butterflies and birds. A high ridge backed the opposite bank. Densely wooded, it provided the perfect vantage point for the third scout, the one still spying on the enemy. Thomas pointed up to his hiding place.

“What are we waiting for?” exclaimed Arthur. “Let's get up there and see for ourselves.”

Hector, for all his large size, moved through the woods like a cat and maintained a brisk pace all the way to the top. AP had to jog to keep up.

“They're still there,” said young Wilf, who was the same age as AP. He pointed down at the enemy camp. “About forty of them raided another village today, but they didn't leave until midday—these warriors like their beds! They returned loaded with goods. Barrels of wine too. They've been drinking ever since.”

Loud singing carried across the river.

“They'll feel bad in the morning!” declared Arthur jubilantly. “Well done, Wilf. Keep a close watch on them tonight.”

Arthur described what they had seen to his battle council. He favored a dawn attack and everyone agreed. Then they devised a battle plan. Arthur would lead his swordsmen into the sleeping camp before dawn. Meanwhile, the archers would form an encircling ring. At first light, the swordsmen would attack the sleeping invaders. The bowmen's job was to stop anyone escaping.

“I want everyone to eat his fill,” Arthur told his men, “but no fires—they might see the smoke—and no noise.” His men listened intently. “Then we sleep. We have a battle to win tomorrow.”

AP was in a deep sleep when suddenly everything started shaking. “Wake up!” Arthur whispered. “I've just had another omen.”

“What did you see?” AP murmured.

Arthur leaned forward, eyes blazing. “A shooting star. Is that a good omen? Did I make the right decision?”

AP was no military strategist, but Arthur's plan made perfect sense. More importantly, his commanders—all seasoned warriors—endorsed it.

“Which way did the shooting star point?” AP was now enjoying his role as wise oracle.

“To the east.”

“What direction is first light?”

“To the east—” Arthur paused. “So my plan for a dawn attack is the right one?”

“Yes,” said AP solemnly.

Arthur slumped back as if a great burden had been lifted.

“It is strange,” Arthur began. “Despite your youth I can confide in you.” He then spoke of his concerns regarding the battle. AP was shocked to hear such uncertainty from someone whose actions were so decisive.

Still playing his role, AP reminded Arthur that his most experienced warriors had all agreed on the plan. “Trust your judgment, as do your men.”

They sat in silence watching the stars, feeling remote from their world and what lay ahead.

“We have a big day tomorrow,” said Arthur at last. “Both of us must rest.”

AP lay down, but it took ages to get back to sleep.

* * *

Arthur always addressed his warriors before battle. Raucous yelling and the clashing of swords then followed. On this day, though, he had to rely on the force of his words to raise fighting spirits. As AP listened to his rousing speech, he could scarcely believe their conversation beneath the stars. When Arthur was finished, everyone believed victory was inevitable.

The warriors set off before daybreak, snaking through the dark countryside in an orderly column. Hector strode on Arthur's left, with AP symbolically on his right. Wet grass soaked their legs and feet, but nobody seemed to notice. Everyone heard the singing of the birds though. AP wondered if the dawn chorus had ever sounded so loud.

“I wonder what they're saying,” whispered Arthur.

“Time for breakfast!” suggested Hector, patting his big belly.

“Tell me what you hear, young Arthur.”

AP cocked his head to one side. “A good omen,” he declared. “They thank you in advance for ridding their home of intruders.”

Arthur gazed at the birds. Then, turning to AP, he asked whether AP was going to do what Medoc did and turn into a bird.

“No, not yet. I'll stay longer.”

When they reached the top of the ridge young Wilf appeared, rubbing his eyes. “Nothing changed during the night,” he reported. “The invaders are asleep.”

Suddenly Hector's stomach gave an enormous rumble. “Hush that belly!” whispered Gavin. “You'll wake the entire camp.”

Arthur gave the order and the warriors set off, moving like stalking lions.

Soon Arthur's men were in position, waiting for dawn. The invaders slept on, oblivious to the peril surrounding them.

AP could have stayed behind on the ridge and “disappeared” like Medoc. Instead, he was now standing beside the camp, beneath the fading stars. Time seemed to stand still. But as he stood there, staring at the heavens, the eastern skyline was turning gold. It was time.

Swords raised high, the warriors moved forward, each picking his own man. Then, on a signal from their leader, the battle began. AP, horrified by the scene, was riveted to the spot. Sights and sounds assaulted his brain—swords slicing flesh, agonized screams, blades chopping bone, spurting blood. Then the odor of carnage wafted his way—a revolting blend of butcher shop and farmyard. Sour bile bit the back of his throat and he could feel the world beginning to spin.

AP could have blamed the warriors for the bloodshed, but that would have been unfair. The invaders had slaughtered defenseless villagers—now they were paying the price. Maybe what disturbed him most was the euphoric way the swordsmen went about their grisly business.

Eventually it was over. Arthur's men, although heavily outnumbered, had killed every invader and suffered few casualties themselves. All was deathly still. AP could hear the sound of the sea, being carried on the wind. He thought the warriors would be shouting with joy, but most of them just stood there, surveying the scene as if shocked by their deeds.

Arthur strode up and laid an arm across AP's shoulder. “You never changed into a falcon.” He sounded surprised

“No.” AP's voice was flat and lifeless.

“You have helped me win a great victory. I am again in your debt, young Arthur. First my grandfather's dagger, and now—this.”

AP remained silent.

“Medoc was right. After our council meeting, when he suggested I take you with me, I thought he'd lost his mind. ‘How can I take a boy who cannot even handle a sword into battle?' I asked him. Th
en Medoc reminded me of your great powers as a sorcerer, and it began to make sense.”

Suddenly the horror of the battle, and the thought that somebody hated him enough to want him killed, was too much for AP. He needed to be alone.

“The time has come for me to become a falcon. I must fly over the land to restore my powers.”

Arthur smiled. “As you wish, my gifted young friend.”

AP headed for a lone tree, off in the distance. Walking around to the other side, he crouched down and vomited.

Chapter 8: Marooned

News of the victory reached the hill fort before the warriors returned, giving everyone time to plan a rousing welcome.

People waved and cheered from the top of the fence. They lined the path leading up to the gate. Some ran down the hill to greet the returning heroes. There was shouting and clapping, laughter and tears.

Kate grabbed her brother before he reached the gate, lifting him off the ground.

“I thought you were dead!” she cried, forcing the air from his lungs.

“Keep this up and I will be,” he croaked. “I can't breathe.”

Medoc waited inside the gate to hail the returning heroes, alongside Gwendolyn. After greeting Arthur and his commanders, he turned to AP.

“Welcome home young Arthur!” he cried aloud for all to hear. “I see my protective spell kept you safe.”

“More like a curse,” AP thought to himself. Kate shot Medoc a look that said exactly what she thought of him.

AP planned to keep well out of Medoc's way, but the old man disappeared from the fort soon after their arrival. Arthur explained this was normal—the sorcerer needed solitude to meditate.

When the excitement had died down, Kate and AP walked down to the river so they could talk.

“Here,” she said, slipping the abacus over his head, “back where it belongs.” Then she asked, “So, how was the battle?”

“Bad.”

The long trek home had given AP time to think, and now he was ready to talk. His account of the fighting shocked her into silence. Then he told her that his going with Arthur had been all Medoc's idea. Kate was enraged.

“That evil, scheming, lying old goat needs a lesson. I'd like to—”

“Save your breath Kate, he's not worth it. We'll just stay out of his way and keep an eye out for him.”

“I'll tell you one thing AP, I'm not letting you out of my sight. Nothing's going to happen while I'm around.”

AP told her how Medoc “turned” into a bird just before battles began.

“Typical!” she scoffed. “Just what I'd expect from a fraud like him.”

“But get this,” AP continued. “He turns into a falcon! One of the English falcons is called a Merlin—I read about it in that field guide.”

“Medoc—Merlin,” murmured Kate.

“Exactly. This must be the way the Merlin legend started.”

The final straw was when AP told Kate what Medoc had whispered before he left the fort.

“WHAT?” she exploded. “He told you to go into battle, knowing you were unable to defend yourself?” She was yelling so loudly that AP wondered whether she'd be heard all the way back at the fort. “I'd like to string that hateful old devil up by his beard and let the crows peck him to pieces!”

AP had never seen his sister so mad. Thinking it best to change the subject, he asked what she'd been doing while he was away.

“Mostly thinking of what I'd say to Mum and Dad if I returned without you.”

“That won't happen. We'll go home together, or not at all.”

“Not at all?” Kate shot back. “Are we stuck here?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “We've tried activating the abacus so many times with no luck. Something must be wrong.”

“The thing's broken?”

“It seems okay,” he said, pressing the white button. “See? The map and the displays still light up.”

“Could it need a new battery?”

“Well, if it does we're out of luck.”

“So what do we do?”

“We try the abacus, every so often. But we…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“But we what?”

“We might…have to stay here.”

“Never go home again?” she gasped. “Never see Mum and Dad again? Or any of our friends?”

“I—don't know.”

Kate was distraught.

“If it comes to that,” he began, hesitantly, “the people are nice…”

“It's okay for you!” she snapped. “You can be the big sorcerer. And play sword-fighting and bows and arrows with the grown-ups. What's here for me?”

“You like Gwendolyn and her friends. I thought you were having a good enough time.”

“Gwendolyn's cool. Some of the others are okay too. But I want more from life than sitting around talking with the girls and playing with children.”

“Maybe you'll meet Sir Galahad, you know, get married,” he joked, but she wasn't amused.

“Look, the last few weeks have been better than I expected. But I want to get back to our own world. I want to take a shower, text my friends, watch TV—”

“Let's try it again.” AP checked the settings. “Are you ready?” he asked, finger poised.

Kate, dreading disappointment, nodded and grabbed his arm. AP pressed the button. Nothing. He tried again. Still nothing.

AP tucked away the abacus and they continued walking. A dove sang a mournful song to the sky.

“Guess what Arthur said on the way home?” AP began, after a long silence. “Medoc is getting frail and has only a few years left. Arthur asked if I'd take his place—he trusts me.”

“Laying that on a twelve-year-old is a bit unfair.”

“So what will he do when Medoc's gone?”

“He'll manage. You said he makes the right decisions by himself.”

“But he thinks he needs help. Before the battle, he was so unsure. What if I hadn't been there?”

Kate snorted. “You're really sold on this mystic thing! Do you want to be the power behind the throne?”

“No!” AP protested. “I just…feel sorry for him.”

As they headed for the fort, Kate told him about the planned victory feast. She was bursting to share something else too. AP recognized the signs—Kate was hopeless at keeping secrets.

“Okay,” he said. “What's the big news?”

“I can't tell you. It's private.”

“So what's Gwendolyn's secret?”

“Who said anything about Gwendolyn?”

“Come on—I know it's about her!”

Kate hesitated. “Promise not to tell anyone.”

AP gave his word.

Kate looked around furtively, even though nobody was in sight. “Gwendolyn's expecting a baby!”

“That's nice,” he said with a shrug.

“Is that all you can say? I've just given you the most amazing news.”

“Well, she is married.”

“Oh, why did I even bother?” Kate groaned. “I can see my secret's safe with you.”

* * *

On the day of the feast, people were in a festive mood. Those not involved in the preparation—most of the men—relaxed and enjoyed themselves. Arthur spent the morning with AP, working on his swordsmanship.

“I see an improvement,” said Arthur. “You're sidestepping well, and parrying my sword. Let's work on your attack.” Holding his own weapon upright to fend off AP's blade, Arthur instructed him on lunging.

AP swung the sword toward Arthur's right shoulder. The two weapons met with a deafening clang. AP immediately raised the blade and aimed in the opposite direction.

“Good!” shouted Arthur.

They continued for several minutes, until Arthur noticed AP was tiring.

“Let's take a rest.”

“No!” AP defied, and continued lunging with renewed determination.

“Enough!” bellowed Arthur. “You'll injure yourself. We will rest.”

Slumping to the ground beside his mentor, AP panted to catch his breath.

“If I had a son I'd want him to be like you,” Arthur declared, pa
tting him on the shoulder. “You've got courage. You refuse to let your small size stop you.” He paused, “So, will you be Medoc's successor?”

AP thought long and hard before answering. “Kate and I may be going away,” he began uncertainly. This caught Arthur off guard. “If we stay though, I'd be honored to do so.”

Arthur smiled, wistfully. “I can't ask more than that.” A comfortable silence followed.

“I may be having a son of my own soon. Gwendolyn is with child.”

AP blushed. Nobody had ever talked to him that way before. Arthur's words made him feel special.

Shortly before noon, someone started a bonfire in a shallow pit. Once the fire died down to burning embers, some men erected wooden spits and began roasting pig carcasses. AP watched, fascinated.

“I wonder whether one of them is our pig?” asked Kate.

“Maybe.”

“That's it for me,” she said, making a snap decision. “From now on I'm a vegetarian.”

Early that afternoon AP learned that the old scribe wanted to talk with him about the battle. “I won't be long,” he told Kate.

“I'm going with you,” she said firmly.

“But it's the scribe who wants to see me, not Medoc.”

“Suppose he's in league with him? They're both oddballs.”

“You don't even know the scribe!”

“All the more reason to suspect him!”

* * *

The scribe lived in a tiny shack close to the gate. AP knocked on the door, wrinkling his nose against the stench from the nearby garbage.

“Is he home?” asked Kate when there was no reply.

“Somebody is—I can hear noises.”

Several moments later the door opened a crack and the scribe's wizened old face appeared. He had pale watery eyes, shoulder length hair and a long straggly beard. His hair, once snow white, had discolored to a pale shade of straw. Seeing Kate confused him at first. Then AP made the introductions and the scribe invited them indoors.

“I'm afraid it's cluttered,” he apologized as they squeezed inside his one-room home. His faded brown robe reached the floor. Both elbows were threadbare from long hours spent leaning over his work.

A large table occupied most of the space, piled high with parchment scrolls. [4] Each cream-colored roll was tied with a red ribbon. More scrolls were stacked on the shelves along the walls. A bed was crunched into one corner. The only other furniture was a pair of rickety chairs.

“Please, sit down,” he told AP, pointing a bony hand toward one of the chairs. He turned to Kate. “I fear there's nowhere else to sit but my bed.”

“That's fine,” she replied, stepping over a pile of rumpled clothes.

“Now my young sir,” he said, lowering himself into the chair opposite AP. “I would like to hear everything you remember of the battle.”

AP's account lasted almost an hour. The old man scratched notes on a piece of parchment, using a quill pen. He kept stopping and squinting, holding the parchment at arm's length to read it.

“What are all those other scrolls?” asked AP.

“Records of our great leader's exploits,” he replied reverently. “I'll show you.”

Arms outstretched, the scribe read from the most recent one. “…young Arthur streaked through the water like an arrow, to rescue the precious dagger. He moved so quickly that the water boiled, sending up great clouds of steam that could be seen far across the land…”

Kate and AP were astonished at how exaggerated the story had become. So this was how legends began!

The records dated back to Arthur's birth. Unfortunately, the scribe could no longer read them. “In those days my eyes were bright and my writing small.”

AP had an idea. “Have you got a scrap of parchment and a pin?”

AP pricked a hole through its center, and held the parchment up to his eye. Then he handed it to the scribe.

“Try reading one of your scrolls through the hole.”

The old man tried, with no luck.

“Hold the scroll closer,” said AP, raising the frail hand. “Can you see anything now?”

The scribe peered intently for several seconds. Then, with a whoop he cried, “I can read! This is miraculous!”

He wept for joy, proclaiming AP to be the greatest sorcerer.

“I'm confused,” said Kate as they left the shack. “Why did the hole in the parchment help him read?”

“The lens in your eye, like the lens in a camera, is curved, back and front.” AP cupped his hands together to make the point. “The two surfaces must be perfectly rounded, otherwise the image at the back of the eye—on the retina—will be out of focus.”

“That makes sense.”

“As people get older, the lens changes shape, making the image fuzzy. This distortion get worse toward the edge of the lens.”

“So it's better in the middle,” said Kate.

“Exactly. Holding a pinhole in front of your eye blocks out the distorted part.”

Kate was impressed by the simplicity of the solution.

“It's still early,” said AP. “What do we do with the rest of the afternoon?”

“I haven't swung a bat in ages,” said Kate. “How about doing some pitching for me?”

“Sure, I can work up an appetite for that delicious pork and crackling.”

Kate groaned.

* * *

The longhouse was barely big enough to house all the merrymakers at the feast. People had to sit shoulder to shoulder along the makeshift tables running along its length, but this only added to the festive mood. After eating, drinking, and enjoying themselves, the speeches began. Hector was first on his feet and gave a stirring account of the battle.

“When the deed was done we counted their dead,” he concluded. “Our small force of fifty three men had slain more than twice that number of raiders!”

The burst of applause carried all the way to the river.

Several other commanders described the fighting. The men listened intently, cheering in all the right places, but the women were less interested in warfare. When Arthur's turn came though, everyone wanted to hear.

Arthur began by honoring their fallen comrades. Then, after praising each of his commanders, he paid tribute to his warriors. “No leader has ever been so proud of his men,” he roared, raising his goblet.

“But there is one among you who is not a warrior, though he tries so hard to become one. His miraculous powers helped secure our victory.”