“Oh – and ‘Belbo’? Well, I strongly suspect that’s a lightly mangled version of ‘Barba’. If so, then the knights of the tale would be the numeri exploratorum, the Roman equivalent of the SAS, of reality.”
Maxwell leaned towards the camera once more. Looking serious, and just a little wide-eyed, he tucked his long hair behind both ears, and breathlessly said, “It all fits. This is marvellous; it’s an independent corroboration of the story that my team and I have been digging out!”
Maxwell shot an enthusiastic grin at the camera, winked, and gesture for Owain to stop filming.
“But…” Tori began, then hesitated to go on.
“Spit it out, Tori darling,” urged Maxwell.
“But there aren’t any dragons. Why is this tale going on about a dragon? I don’t get it.”
Maxwell grinned. “It’s a MacGuffin. The story is about the noble Belbo and how, fortified by the Holy Spirit, he journeys to the West to overcome evil and save the people, thus justifying his identification as ‘hero’. It doesn’t matter what the adversary is, not really. What matters is that Belbo is presented with the chance to do something heroic. A Bard in the Dark Ages would use plot devices like monsters the way modern thriller writers use terrorists. It’s just an excuse for the hero to be heroic.”
“So it’s sort of a metaphor? The hero did something, and the bard isn’t sure what it was, but must have been heroic so they just made up something fierce to get the idea across?”
Amanda noticed that Owain and Gilda exchange eye-rolling glances behind Tori’s back, and she was sure Gilda mouthed, “Three syllables, O M G!”
“Spot on, Tori. Well done.”
“So what would it really have been?”
“Probably raiders or slave traders from Ireland or the Isle of Man, I’d bet,” suggested Owain. “Those tribes used to cross over to plunder western Britannia until the Romans set up treaties that made it more profitable to trade with the Empire.”
“Quite possibly, Owain,” said Maxwell. “But what makes this story intriguing is the secrecy. In a way, we don’t want to have a mundane explanation, at least not on TV. We need to leave ’em wanting more. We’ll get some nice scholarly papers out of the answer, assuming we find it, but a TV audience will be more entertained if we pitch some wild ideas and then leave them thinking.”
“The answer will be where the story ends,” Gilda said. “What was the place?”
“Mynydd Draig,” said Owain.
“No, that was a battlefield,” said Amanda. “It literally means, ‘Mount Dragon’. Since there are lots of mountains and valleys in North Wales, it could be anywhere. No, the place to focus is Ynys Anghenfil. Work backwards from there, and I think Beardy’s trail will lead right back here.”
“Ynys Anghenfil? Well, literally, that would be ‘Monster Island’. Sounds a bit ‘cromulent’ to me,” said Owain with a snort of laughter.
“Monster Island’s just a name,” laughed Gilda. “It’s actually a peninsula!” Owain and Gilda high-fived each other again, to Maxwell’s apparent bemusement.
Amanda ignored them and carried on. “There are relatively few islands. And the story gives us some clues. It’s at the mouth of the ‘swift river’. And when you look at a decent map…” She pointed to an Ordnance Survey map pinned to the wall. “What do we see? The Arwen, running roughly north-west to the sea, and at its mouth, ‘Anifail Island’.”
“If ‘anifail’ is supposed to be Welsh, that would literally be, ‘animal island’,” supplied Owain. “Cool! Sounds like we really do need to head for Monster Island!”
“If we look underneath the church there, we should find some more clues,” Gilda said.
“If there’s a church, which I doubt,” said Tori. She was peering at the map. “It’s just a dot on the map so it’s probably too small to sustain a church.” She looked round sceptically. “So maybe it’s just a bard’s flight of fancy.”
Amanda produced another piece of paper. “That nice Mr Broadleaf photocopied an old 1930’s Ordnance Survey map of Arwensmouth and Anifail for me.” She dropped it in the middle of the table, and placed her finger just beneath a tiny black ‘+’ symbol.
“A place of worship, if recall correctly,” said Owain.
“I rest my case,” said Amanda, straight-faced. “I need to be in Bristol for a few days, but what say I come up to Anifail in a week’s time? You can show me what’s left of the dragon!”
Chapter 11
Chen Yongjun stood on high ground behind the rocky shoreline, just outside the village of Arwensmouth, and carefully studied the island of Anifail through binoculars. The fresh breeze stirred his black hair, but otherwise it was a fine, sunny late spring day here on the mainland. In contrast, he could see that the far side of Anifail, where the ground rose to the island’s highest point, was shrouded by a foggy haze. Sea birds squealed and wheeled in the sky above him, and dipped into the sea in front of him. There were none to be seen over Anifail.
He lowered the binoculars, feeling satisfied. There really was something worth looking into over there. It was happy coincidence that he had been visiting his brother at the Embassy in London, and had chanced upon a small item in a newspaper. He smiled to himself. Fate had put the newspaper in his hands, and himself in a position to investigate without any interference from his superiors. He was here on his on time, and he intended to enjoy himself.
He turned away and followed the footpath that led down to the village. Arwensmouth was a tiny collection of sturdy grey cottages surrounding a village green which boasted a flower shop, a general store, an inn, and three gift stores and an art gallery full of colourful trinkets designed to catch a tourist’s eye. But as far as Chen could tell, there were no tourists.
As he drew level with the Arwensmouth Inn, he noted its proprietor, Jim Dilby, unloading food from a delivery van. Dilby called out, “Mornin’ Mr Chen. It’s a fine day for a walk, no?”
“It is, Mr Dilby,” replied Chen. “A fine day indeed. I was contemplating crossing over to the island. Does the chain ferry run at this time? I tried to decipher the timetable, but I am ashamed to say that its logic defeated me.”
“Aha, now, it defeats a lot of us, Mr Chen,” replied Dilby, wiping his bald head with a tea towel. “Thing is, it’s what they call a reaction ferry. It’s the water that moves it, see, so it needs the tide to be flowin’ the same way as the river. Then skipper Bill just sets the rudder right, and the current just pushes it along. You carry on down to the ramp, and it should come over shortly. Dairy Bill should be comin’ over with milk and cheeses from Willem’s any minute.”
“That explains it,” replied Chen with a smile. “I am pleased to learn it is not just me who is confused by its timing. Thank you, Mr Dilby.”
“I told you when you checked in, didn’t I? Call me Jim.”
“Thank you very much,” Chen said with a bow of his head. “I will do so, but you must call me John.”
“All right then, John,” said Dilby. “Have a nice day over there.”
“I am sure I will, Jim.”
Chen continued past a few more grey cottages, until he reached a point where the road broadened into a plaza, with a ramp off to one side leading into the water. He stopped and ostentatiously took a picture of the confusing so-called timetable, with its complicated instructions for calculating the time of the ferry relative to the phase of the moon, the state of the tide, the month, the day of the week… The only reasonable conclusion he could reach was that the timetable was bait for gullible tourists, because the final instruction was obviously a joke. It read, ‘If the ferry is here, you may board. If the ferry is not here, then boarding is not recommended.’ Well, the ferry was here, so he boarded.