The Making of the Lamb (51 page)

“I think I ended up participating in this ritual more than I expected. I told you I would only watch.”

“I promised that I would not require you to do anything. You chose to scream and try to save your friends. From what you could see, there were murders about to happen. Surely trying to stop murder does not offend your God?”

“My God knows my heart. I put all my faith and trust in him.”

“I want to show you something. Do you remember how you described your concept of one god in three persons to me just before the battle at Rumps?

”I remember.”

“You said that you were different from the druids because the god in three persons was united in purpose. You also said that most of your people accept only one single creator as god.”

Jesus nodded. “Yes.”

“I have been carrying this coin ever since I was a boy. It was struck in Gaul before the time of Julius Caesar.” The druid held it out for Jesus to inspect. The coin depicted a bundle of snakes coiled together in a single mass. “It is called the snake egg. It depicts an ancient prophecy from the Fisher King. There will come a time when all our gods will be made one, united in purpose, perhaps just as you have described the unity of purpose of your Father, your Son, and your Spirit.”

Jesus gazed at the coin. “I see we are closer than I imagined. Once people understand that a god united in purpose can live through multiple persons, the number may not matter so much. It might be easier for your people than for my people to accept the idea of a single god who lives in three persons.”

Pencaire Parish, Cornwall, England, A.D. 1070, during the reign of King William I of England (the Conqueror)

A
s Talfryn, the stonemason, explained his plan for the new guidepost to mark the path to the village church, Father Wigstan thoughtfully nodded his head.
I suppose I had better hear him out. They said this stonecutter from Looe is the mayor of that village.

“It will carry on the tradition of this parish and remind all comers of the time our Lord himself spent here. I will carve it exactly like the worn old carving.”

“Blasphemy!” exclaimed the priest. “We Saxons have allowed you Welsh to spout this nonsensical legend for far too long. There isn’t a village in the south of England that does not claim that the Christ child was driven ashore in a storm, or visited them, or spent his teenage years there.”
We have no time for this. The new Norman bishop will be here anon to inspect the parish. If he hears rumors that I am even discussing this drivel with this Cornish Welshman, it will be the end of me as priest in this parish.

The stonemason turned red in the face. “It is not legend. It is absolute fact. He walked this ground.”

Father Wigstan stood stunned. He was not accustomed to people opposing him, particularly laypeople on religious matters.

The sculptor puffed out his ruddy cheeks and calmed himself. “Our Lord was brought to these shores by his great-uncle Joseph of Arimathea. Scripture mentions Joseph as a rich man who later buried Jesus in his own tomb. He came here to trade with my people, and Jesus came with him as a boy and grew to manhood. Jesus visited many places, because he was working with his uncle in the tin trade. And yes, he came also to Looe, because it is on the way to the Tamar Valley where more tin was to be found.”

Wigstan was about to reply, when the neigh of a horse caused him to turn.

“What are you two shouting about?” The rider was dressed in clerical robes. It was the new bishop. Engaged in the argument, Wigstan had not noticed him approach. “I heard the two of you all the way from the road.”

The priest thought fast as the bishop dismounted and turned over the reins to his attendant. He waved off the stonemason. “It is a foolish business. Nothing that need concern my Lord Bishop.” Wigstan led the bishop toward the church.

“No, tell me. I love to hear about legends, even silly ones.”

Wigstan resigned himself to explaining the matter, but he resolved to put it in the best possible light. “These ignorant Cornish Welshmen hold to the old Celtic Church. We Saxons have tried our best to suppress it ever since the Council of Whitby, more than four hundred years ago. It’s a breeding ground of Pelagian heresy.”

“The only influence I have seen of the Celtic Church in this diocese is their curious crosses and patterns. They look rather attractive to me, actually. Tell me about the legend.”

“These ignorant people believe that Saint Joseph of Arimathea brought Our Lord Jesus to these shores. That stonemason wants to carve a new guidepost for the church in the same form as the old timeworn one. It is one of these infernal tunic crosses. He wants to show Jesus as a boy with his arms outstretched in a gesture of greeting—which is surely not the proper way of showing him suffering on the cross to redeem the sins of the world. These crosses used to be all over the southwest of England, even beyond Glastonbury, until we Saxons came along and suppressed them, but these Cornish Welshmen are treacherous. They even had their own king until Edward the Confessor extended Saxon rule over them. That is why you still see these infernal crosses all over the diocese. I will not have that stonemason carve a fresh one in my parish.”

“What is the harm in allowing these people to hold to their legend?”

“It is heretical. It is outside of Scripture.”

“Scripture says nothing about the life of our Lord, from the age of twelve until he began his ministry. These Welsh people seem to use the legend as a way to be closer to Our Lord. If it helps them do that, I do not see the harm in it.” He stopped and turned to face Wigstan. His tone turned cold. “You Saxons have no respect for these Welsh people, do you?”

“The Welsh are ignorant. The word itself means slaves.”

“I have heard enough,” said the bishop. “The king does not hold to your view. Perhaps you have heard of Cadoc?”

“No, my Lord. The name means nothing to me.”

“Let me give you the news from court, then. Cadoc is the survivor of the line of Cornish kings. Our king has just created him Earl of Cornwall. If that is not reason enough for you to respect these people, you would do well to remember that you are responsible for their spiritual welfare. You will allow the stonemason to carry on with the carving of the new guidepost.”

“Of course, as my Lord Bishop commands.”

The bishop stomped off several paces in evident disdain. Then he turned back. “Rest assured I shall look into this matter again after the stonemason completes his work, and I had better find that tunic cross on display. Oh, and one thing more—the name of this parish—Pencaire, isn’t it? Where does that come from?”

“It’s the name of an old ruined Celtic hillfort atop Tregonning Hill,” Father Wigstan replied. “The only real landmark within the parish. We keep it in sight when we beat the bounds.” He referred to the ancient custom of taking boys around the parish boundaries and beating them, so they would remember the limits of the parish.

“This place needs a proper name, something after a good saint. I am thinking of Saint Hilary of Poitiers. I studied his works when I turned to the cloth. He wrote about how the Word was spread to the islands at the time of the apostles, well before any Saxons arrived. These Cornish Welsh people might take a liking to him.”

Wigstan never explained to Talfryn why he allowed him to proceed with his new tunic cross.

The sculptor suspected the bishop had overruled the priest, but he could not know for sure. Talfryn trusted neither the Saxon priest nor the new Norman overlords.

He was a descendent of the native Celtic race, survivors of so many waves of invaders. The Romans had left his people to their fate as their empire began to crumble. Then came the Saxon barbarians, but just as those bloodthirsty invaders had begun to settle down, Danes arrived, the most bloodthirsty of all. For the last four years, the Normans had been the new rulers. It was too soon to judge them.

Talfryn would carve the wording at the base in Ogham. To a Saxon or a Norman, it would look like random hash marks, but it was an ancient alphabet brought over from Ireland. Talfryn could translate it—“Look for the Secret of the Lord where the lamb turns to the beginning of his life”—though he had no idea what the words meant. All he knew was that the inscription was carved into every tunic cross.

Talfryn took one more look at his creation, before setting aside his hammer and chisel.

What mystery from the ancient past was hidden in those words?

He studied the expression on the childish face he had carved. It seemed to convey more than just a joyous greeting. There was a yearning in it, he thought.
The statue yearns to share its secret. Perhaps it will do so when the world is ready.

Ynys Witrin, Year A.D. 14, during the reign of Augustus, first Emperor of Rome

B
y Celtic custom, the return of family members from a long journey was cause for community celebration. The obligation fell upon the family to organize the feast and invite the neighbors.

Watching the Lake Villagers in the field next to Mary’s house, Daniel took satisfaction in knowing that the preparations for the occasion did not disappoint. The mead flowed freely as the guests feasted, boasted, reveled, and sang.

But he felt oddly pensive, too out-of-place to join in the carousing this time. as had become his wont in the past few years, particularly in the company of his younger cousin.

Daniel smiled, watching a sight he thought he would never live to see. His father, in the center of it all, gyrating this way and that in a wild Jewish dance, to the amusement of the half-drunken Celts.

Papa was back, along with a tall tale of how he had survived a shipwreck and then faced a Roman inquisition. Normally, his father would not go near any pagan festival, but this time Mary had overseen the proper preparation of the food and drink, Joseph had reluctantly agreed to attend, and within minutes he was throwing himself into the celebration.

Jesus was there, too, laughing, drinking with the Celts, and joining in Joseph’s dance.
I suppose I should be glad Jesus made it back safely, and I believe I am. But, everything will center on him now. No one cares that I was the one who held everything together. No one cares what he put me through, leaving me alone to manage everything, even to look after his sick mother, while he ran off to the north.

Grengan’s suggestion to fast against Horshak had worked better than Daniel had dared hope. As he starved himself, Horshak’s workmen developed a sense of shame and gradually abandoned Horshak’s employ. Some of them had worked for Daniel before, but several never had. With his Roman coinage, Daniel was able to hire as many men as he needed to reverse Horshak’s manpower advantage, and he quickly secured the claim to the newly discovered lode.

Elsigar was near the center of the festivities, too. He had brought Jesus and Arvigarus back with him on the boat from Bangor. The druid was staying at Ynys Witrin to sort out the search for Esmeralda’s successor. The druidess was now in disgrace, her treachery and deceit exposed. Horshak had turned on her as soon as Daniel secured the claim.

But for the moment Elsigar had seemed to put these concerns aside. He was not dancing, but he smiled—a rare sight—as he watched Papa and Jesus perform a dance from their homeland.

Daniel did not know what to make of Arvigarus. He knew the Silurian prince by reputation. He could tell Jesus had struck up a friendship with him. Daniel would not admit, even to himself, that he was jealous.

Mary’s voice startled him. “I thought you liked to join these celebrations with the pagans. And yet here you are, just watching.”

“I am in a strange mood,” said Daniel. “I am glad that Jesus and my father are both safely back. I really am, Auntie. I know everything looks fine now. Papa got the smelter going again today. He said the ore from the new lode is different, so everything about the process has changed. I would never have figured that out on my own. And with Jesus back, we’ll be able to find new lodes of silver once this one runs out.” Daniel breathed a sigh, and then he shook his head. “It’s just...”