CELTIC MIST

CELTIC MIST

"Twyn-y-draig? You wouldn't want to go up there," said the landlord,
"Nasty place. Especially after dark."
"In what way, nasty?" Smith huriedly reached for his virgin note-book,
"And what exactly does this, uh, toonywhatsit mean?"
"Dragon's mound. You a reporter?"
"Writer," Smith said, self-consciously.
"Oh, yes. Should I have heard of you?"
"Er... you will."
The landlord gave the bar a swift polish. "Far as I'm concerned, you
can't beat that Pratchett bloke. Phil-o-sophical, ent he? Mind you,
they all come to Hay for the festival. Two a penny, famous writers,
during the festival."
"About this Dragon place..."
"Story goes, a dragon was terrorising the countryside, carrying off
young men and girls. Killed by some Englishman in the end. Usual thing.
What you want to do is ask Thomas over there. Retired shepherd. Knows
these hills like the back of his hand. Remembers all the old
tales."
Thomas eyed Smith with deep suspicion. "Saeson!" he grunted, spitting
into the fire. Smith stood his ground.
"Landlord says you're an expert on local folklore."
"Ah."
"I'm writing a book."
"Ah?"
"I'd like to hear some of your stories."
"Ah."
Thomas stared pointedly at his empty glass. Once it was refilled he
brightened considerably.
"Stories about dragons?" prompted Smith.
"Daft sawneys!" sneered Thomas, "Ent no dragons never been near the
place."
"Of course not, but..."
"Been telling the soft buggers for years how it's the Twyleth Tegs'
place."
"Tulleth what?"
"Don'y you poor benighted English know nothing? The Pharisees. You
know," he lowered his voice, "The Fair Family."
"Fairies?" croaked Smith, incredulously. Bloody fruitcake. Daft as a
brush.
"Ust!" hissed Thomas, widening hideously bloodshot eyes. "Quiet! Them
don't like being called that."
"Oh, I see," smirked Smith, "Sorry."
"Ent no laughing matter. Better wipe that grin off your physog damn
quick. Dangerous lot, them. Always on the look out for slaves.
Especially with orange hair like yours."
"Auburn, actually."
"Keep clear, I'm warning you. Years and years you'd be gone. That's
always been the way of it." Thomas drained his glass and sighed
theatrically.
"Have another, Smith urged.
"Ah. They don't grow old, see. Just travel among the stars in their
enchanted crystal ships."
"Right."
At the bar, Smith realised that the regulars, ostensibly minding their
own, largely ovine, business, had in fact been hanging onto every word.
Faintly hostile smans became coughs. He'd been set up. They probably
sent every English newcomer tio have his ear bent by this demented
scarecrow.
Flushed, he returned with the drinks. Thomas raised wildly unkempt
eyebrows.
"Don't believe me, do you boy? Nobody don't. But I seen them. I got
their measure. This time of year, most clear nights they come. Moving
along invisible lines. Stopping here. Stopping there, Sucking the
goodness out of the Earth. Ah."
"So why don't we ever hear anything about them?" ventured Smith, "I
mean on the News or whatever?"
"You Saxons don't believe in nothing you can't own or pick a fight
with," jeered the old man. There was a round of applause. Smith beat a
hasty retreat.
Another drink or five and he headed unsteadily home. As he stumbled
past Twyn-y-draig the full moon broke free of the ragged clouds,
throwing into sharp focus a deeply etched sheep track spiralling
steadily up the hillside. He stopped. Why not take a look? Now. This
minute. Anything was better than facing the affronted glare of his
impotent PC.
Sheep stampeded away in creamy waves as Smith staggered upwards. The
summit was a shallow bowl, fifty feet across and enclosed by deep
banks. Inside, the grass was sparce and pale, the ground ribbed with
granite outcrops. He crouched behind a stunted gorse halfway down one
slope. Just until midnight then. His vision blurred. Perhaps he
slept.
Suddenly he was wide awake. Stone cold sober. The light had changed.
Something had turned the sky silver.
Heart thumping, Smith peered cautiously between the thorns. And
whimpered his disbelief. Something sleekly reptilian had intruded
itself upon the bleak landscape. On it came, cruising slowly, circling
the hill, growing relentlessly larger by the minute. Finally it stopped
and hung in the air. Flames belched from its underside, great licking,
leaping flames shot through with violet and emerald and peacock.
"The dragon," breathed Smith, "Oh, God."
The Beast alighted slowly. Smith rubbed his eyes. He could see now that
Thomas's crystal ship owed more to technology than enchantment.
Humanoid shapes moved inside the great glass dome. Spellbound, he
watched slender figures stream from the vessel, leaping about its
periphery so lightly that they were almost dancing. Or flying. At any
rate, their feet hardly seemed to touch the ground.
He straightened, wishing he'd brought his camera, and knew he'd been
seen. Everything became eerily still. A feeling of well-being spread
out to embrace him. He felt ecstatic, totally relaxed, sinking
blissfully into the dream-like theta state he'd touched only rarely in
deep meditation. The choice was his. He could live forever. Eternal
pleasure. Endless possibilities. The choice was his. Smith made it,
willingly allowing himself to be drawn forward.
Something grabbed his ankle, yanking his leg back and up with a deft
movement which had him lying full length on the damp grass.
"Get of!" he screamed, "Leave me alone. I'm going."
His hands scrabbled desperately for a fingerhold, but he was slowly
dragged backwards. Something heavy landed on his shoulders, pinning him
to the earth. A million stars exploded inside his head.
When he came to, the ship had gone. A faint smell of sulphur hung on
the air.
"Good job I come. You was nearly a goner," grumbled Thomas, "Didn't I
tell you to stay away?"
"I wanted to go, damn you." Smith hauled himself into a sitting
position. "That was a space-ship, not your magic thingamajig, you
interfering geriatric. And aliens, not bloody fairies."
"Ah." Thomas shrugged. "What's it matter what you call them? Devils,
gods, angels, fairies, spacemen... they'll still come. Next
generation'll think up some new name yet again, I don't doubt. Only
words, ent they/"
In silence, they walked back down into the valley.
At the back of Smith's mind lurked the uncomfortable conviction that
nobody would ever believe his story, any more than they believed daft
old Thomas the Sheep. Left to himself, where would he be now? And
when?
He grinned. What did it matter. His imaginary travels could span the
whole of Celtic history, from pre-history myth to future fantasy mist.
He would start immediately. Write all night. This would be the greatest
novel of the new millenium.