The Fellowship of the Talisman (7 page)

“After such a lengthy prelude,” he said, “your questions must be ones of more than ordinary importance.”

“To me,” said Ghost, “they are.”

“I may not be able to answer them.”

“In which case, you'll be no worse than any of the others.”

“So,” said Duncan, “go ahead and ask.”

“How come, my lord, do you think that I should be wearing such a getup? I know, of course, that it is a proper ghostly costume. It is worn by all proper ghosts, although I understand that in the case of some castle ghosts the habiliment may be black. Certainly I was not dressed in such a spotless robe when I was strung up from the oak. I was strung up in very filthy rags and in the terror of being hanged I fear I befouled them even further.”

“That,” said Duncan, “is a question I cannot answer.”

“At least you accord me the courtesy of an honest reply,” said Ghost. “You did not growl or snarl at me.”

“There might be someone who has made a study of such matters who could give you an answer. Someone of the Church, perhaps.”

“Well, since I'm not likely soon to meet someone of the Church, methinks I can then do little about it. It is not too important, but it is something that has bothered me. I have mulled upon it.”

“I am sorry,” Duncan said.

“I have yet another question.”

“Ask it if you feel you must. An answer I'll not promise.”

“My question,” said Ghost, “is why me? Not all people who die, not even all whose lives are ended violently or in shame, assume a ghostly guise. If all did, the world would be filled with ghosts. They'd be treading upon one another's sheets. There'd be no room for the living.”

“Neither can I answer that one.”

“Actually,” said Ghost, “I was not a really sinful person. Rather, I was despicable and no one has ever told me that despicability is a sin. I had my sins, of course, as has everyone, but unless my understanding of sins is faulty, they were very small ones.”

“You really have your troubles, don't you. You were complaining when we first met that you had no proper place to haunt.”

“I think if I had,” said Ghost, “I might be happier, although perhaps it is not intended that a ghost should be happy. Contented, perhaps. It might be proper for a ghost to feel contentment. Contentment, certainly, cannot be proscribed. If I had a place to haunt, then I'd have a task to do and could be about it. Although if it included the jangling of chains and making whooing noises, I would not like it much. If it was just slinking around and letting people catch small glimpses of me that might not be bad. Do you suppose that not having a place to haunt, not having a job to do, may be in the way of retribution for the way I lived? I don't mind telling you, although I would not tell everyone and would not want you to bruit it about, that if I had wanted to I could have done some work, making an honest living instead of begging at the church. Light work, of course. I was never very strong; I was sickly as a child. I recall that it was the wonder of my parents' life that they managed to raise me.”

“You raise too many questions of philosophy,” said Duncan. “I cannot cope with them.”

“You say that you are going to Oxenford,” said Ghost. “Perhaps to confer with some great scholar there. Otherwise, why would one go to Oxenford? I have heard that there are many great doctors of the Church gathered there and that among themselves they hold much learned discourse.”

“When we arrive,” said Duncan, “we undoubtedly will see some of the learned doctors.”

“Do you suppose some of them might have answers to my questions?”

“I cannot say for sure.”

“Would it be too forward to ask if I might travel with you?”

“Look,” said Duncan, becoming exasperated, “if you want to go to Oxenford you can easily and safely travel there yourself. You're a free spirit. You are bound to no place that you must haunt. And in the shape you're in, no one could lay a hand on you.”

Ghost shuddered. “By myself,” he said, “I'd be scared to death.”

“You're already dead. No man can die a second time.”

“That is true,” said Ghost. “I had not thought of that. Lonesome, then. How about my loneliness. I know I'd be very lonesome if I tried to travel alone.”

“If you want to go with us,” said Duncan, “I can't think of a thing we can do to stop you. But you'll get no invitation.”

“If that's the case,” said Ghost, “I shall go along with you.”

5

They had great slabs of ham for breakfast, with oaten cakes and honey. Conrad came in from outside to report that Daniel and Beauty had found good grazing in the corner of a nearby hay field and that Tiny had provided his own food by capturing a rabbit.

“In such a case,” said Duncan, “we can be on our way with good conscience. The bellies of all are full.”

“If you're not in too much of a hurry,” said Andrew, the hermit, “there is one service you could do for me, which I would greatly appreciate.”

“If it did not take too much time,” said Duncan. “We owe you something. You furnished us shelter from the night and good company.”

“It should not take too long,” said Andrew. “It is but a small task for many hands and the strong back of a burro. It has to do with the harvesting of cabbages.”

“What is this talk of cabbages?” asked Conrad.

“Someone made an early garden,” said Andrew, “before the Harriers came. Neglected through the summer, it had grown until I discovered it. It is located not too far from the church, just a skip and jump from here. There is a mystery, however …”

“A mystery with cabbages?” Duncan asked, amused.

“Not with the cabbages. Not entirely with the cabbages, that is. But with other vegetables. The carrots and the rutabagas, the peas and beans. Someone has been stealing them.”

“And I suppose,” said Duncan, “that you have not been stealing them.”

“I found the garden,” Andrew said stiffly. “I have looked for this other person, but not too bravely, you understand, for I am not a warrior type and would scarce know what to do if I came upon him. Although I oftimes have told myself that if he were not pugnacious, it would be comforting to have another person with whom to pass the time of day. But there are many fine cabbages, and it would be a pity should they go to waste, or should all be taken by this garden thief. I could harvest them myself, but it would take many trips.”

“We can spare the time,” Duncan told him, “in the name of Christian charity.”

“M'lord,” warned Conrad, “leagues we have to go.”

“Quit calling me my lord,” said Duncan. “If we do this chore of neighborliness we'll undoubtedly travel with lighter hearts.”

“If you insist,” said Conrad. “I'll catch up Beauty.”

The garden, which lay a stone's throw back of the church, displayed a splendid array of vegetables growing among rampant weeds that in places reached waist high.

“You certainly did not break your back to keep the garden clean,” Duncan observed to Andrew.

“Too late when I discovered it,” protested Andrew. “The weeds had too good a start.”

There were three long rows of cabbages and they were splendid heads, large and firm. Conrad spread out a packsack cloth, and all of them got busy pulling up the cabbages, shaking off the dirt that clung to their roots before tossing them onto the cloth.

A voice spoke behind them. “Gentlemen,” it said. There was a sharp note of disapproval in the word.

The three of them turned swiftly. Tiny, spinning around to face the threat, growled deeply in his throat.

First Duncan saw the griffin and then he saw the woman who rode it, and for a long moment he stood rooted to the ground.

The woman was dressed in leather breeches and a leather jacket, wore a white stock at her throat. In her right hand she carried a battle axe, its blade glistening in the sun.

“For weeks,” she said, in a calm and even voice, “I have been watching this scabby hermit stealing from the garden and did not begrudge him what he took, for skin and bones as he is, it seemed that he might need it. But I had never expected to find a gentleman of the realm joining him in theft.”

Duncan bowed. “My lady, we were simply assisting our friend in harvesting the cabbages. We had no knowledge that you, or anyone, might have better claim to this garden plot.”

“I have taken great care,” said the woman, “to be sure that no one knew I was about. This is a place where one does not make one's presence known.”

“My lady, you are making it known now.”

“Only to protect the little food I have. I could afford to allow your friend an occasional carrot or a cabbage now and then. But I do object to the stripping of the garden.”

The griffin cocked its large eagle head at Duncan, appraising him with a glittering golden eye. Its forelegs ended in eagle claws; the rest was lion, except that instead of a lion's tail it had a somewhat longer appendage with a wicked sting at its end. Its huge wings were folded far back and high, leaving room for its rider. It clicked its beak at Duncan and its long tail switched nervously.

“You need have no fear of him,” the woman said. “He is something of a pussycat, the gentleness of him brought on by extreme age. He puts up a splendid and ferocious front, of course, but he'll do no one harm unless I bid him to.”

“Madam,” said Duncan, “I find this somewhat embarrassing. My name is Duncan Standish. I and my companion, the big one over there, are on a trip to the south of Britain. Only last night we fell in with the hermit, Andrew.”

“Duncan Standish, of Standish House?”

“That is right, but I had not thought …”

“The fame of your house and family is known in every part of Britain. I must say, however, that you have chosen a strange time to embark upon a journey through these lands.”

“No stranger,” said Duncan, “than to find a lady of quality in those same lands.”

“My name,” she said, “is Diane, and I am no lady of quality. I am quite something else again.”

Andrew stumped forward. “If you would excuse me, m'lord, I have grave doubts that the Lady Diane can lay legal, or even ethical, claim upon this garden patch. It was an early planted plot, put in by one of the villagers before the Harriers came with fire and sword, and she owns it no more than I do. If you think back, I never did lay claim to it.”

“It would be unseemly,” said Duncan, “for us to stand here squabbling over it.”

“The truth is,” said the Lady Diane, “that he is quite right. It is not my garden, nor is it his. We both used out of it and that I did not mind. But it roused my ire to see interlopers laying claim to it as well.”

“I would be willing,” said Andrew, “to share it with her. Half the cabbages to me, half to her.”

“That seems fair to me,” said Duncan, “but somewhat unchivalrous.”

“I am no man of chivalry,” said Andrew snappishly.

“If yon hermit can provide me with certain information,” said Diane, “it may be he can have all the cabbages since then I'd have no need of them.”

She dismounted from the griffin and walked forward to join them.

“The information that you seek,” said Andrew. “What makes you believe that I might have it?”

“You are a native of the village?”

“Aye, myself and all my folk before me.”

“Then maybe you would know. There was a man named Wulfert. He is supposed to have lived here at one time. When I arrived here, after the Harriers had left, I took up residence in the church. It was the only roof left standing. I searched the church for records. I found few. Not anything of value. The parish priests you people had, Sir Hermit, were careless in their record keeping.”

“Wulfert, you say?” asked the hermit. “You say a man named Wulfert. How long ago?”

“A hundred years or more. Have you ever heard of him, anyone speak of him?”

“A sage? A saintly man?”

“He might have posed as such. He was a wizard.”

The hermit gasped and put his hands up to his head, his fingers gripping his skull.

“A wizard!” he whimpered. “Are you sure of that?”

“Quite sure. A most accomplished wizard.”

“And not of Holy Church?”

“Assuredly not of Holy Church.”

“What is wrong with you?” Duncan asked Andrew. “What is going on?”

“In holy ground,” Andrew whispered, gasping. “Oh, the shame of it. In holy ground they put him. And him a heathen wizard, for to be a wizard one must be a heathen, must he not? They even built a tomb for him.”

“These are strange goings-on,” said Conrad. “I find no head nor tail of it.”

“No wonder,” Andrew cried wildly. “No wonder that the oak should fall upon it.”

“Wait a minute, now,” said Duncan. “You mean an oak fell upon the tomb? There was a cemetery just the other day.”

“Please tell me,” said Diane, “about this oak and tomb.”

“We passed through a cemetery,” Duncan said. “Just a mile or so from here. There was a tomb and a tree had fallen on it. Quite some time ago, it seemed. It still is there, lying across the tomb. The slab covering the tomb had been shoved aside and broken. I wondered at the time why no one had repaired it.”

“It's an old burial ground,” Andrew explained. “Not used for years. No one bothered. And there may not have been many people who would know who was buried there.”

“You think this might be the tomb of Wulfert?” Diane asked.

“The shame of it!” wailed the hermit. “That such be placed in holy ground. But the people did not know, the people of the village had no way to know. Of this Wulfert I have heard. A holy man, it was said of him, who sought refuge from the world in this lonely place.”

Duncan asked Diane, “Is this the information that you …”