He caught Rhiannon staring meaningfully at him. Owain could so easily have been lost that fateful night in the woods. Although the boy appeared none the worse for his encounter with the wolves, Dodinal felt this conversation was perhaps one he should not overhear. He need not have worried; when he looked down at Owain, the child had placed his head on his hands on the table and was asleep.
Once he had composed himself, Ellis told them his story. The first child to disappear was his sister’s daughter, a beautiful blonde girl named Angharad. She had been playing with her friends in the woods at the edge of the village. It had been the summer of the previous year, when the days were long and heavy with heat.
The children had been taught not to stray too far, and dutifully returned home as dusk fell. Only then was it was discovered that Angharad was not with them. Men were quickly summoned and the forest searched in all directions until darkness defeated them. They returned the next morning, this time with hounds. There was no scent of the child to be found, nor of any predator.
“My sister harboured hopes that one day she would return,” Ellis said, eyes seeing something far away. “It broke her. Madoc made the forest out of bounds to the children after that. We found no trace of wolves, but something must have happened, though we know not what. Children do not just blow away like smoke.”
His tale continued. The months passed. Life moved on, until winter came and the food became scarce in Madoc’s village, as it did in every settlement along the borderlands. Men hunted, but found no game. The struggle to survive pushed the tragedy of Angharad to the back of their minds. They had thought no more of it, until last night.
A frail and sickly boy named Wyn had been stricken by a coughing fit. His mother had sent him to the wood store, thinking the air would clear his lungs. Wyn had kissed her on the cheek and she had placed one hand on his face just before he left.
It was the last time anyone saw him.
“Was the snow still falling?” Dodinal asked.
“Yes. Very little, but it still lay deep on the ground.”
“Were there tracks?”
A frown etched lines into Ellis’s forehead. “Yes, but that’s the strangest part. The boy’s tracks were clear, leading from his hut to the store. Then there were other tracks. Strange tracks. They appeared as if out of nowhere in the woods, came into and out of the village. When they reached the forest again… nothing. They vanished.”
Idris leaned forward. “They just stopped?”
“In the middle of a drift.”
The old chieftain brought a meaty fist down on the table so hard, Dodinal half expected Owain to wake up. The boy, however, was too far gone to have heard or felt anything. “Impossible!”
“That’s what we thought, too. But the proof was there before our eyes. Or, rather, it wasn’t. The tracks were there and then they were gone. The snow all around was unbroken. Again, we searched for as long as we could, but we had no idea which way to look. The cold drove us back. By next morning the snow had filled in what tracks there had been. It was like the spirits had made off with him.”
“Enough of that,” Dodinal snapped. There was a rational explanation for everything. He had no time for those who blamed the gods or spirits for their tribulations. They were hiding from the truth: every death, every tragedy or misfortune in the world was down either to uncaring nature or to the cruelty of man.7
“I’m sorry,” Ellis stammered. “But if you had been there and seen it with your own eyes then you would have felt the same way.”
“Perhaps so,” Dodinal said softly, reminding himself that the man had suffered personal tragedy as well as a hard and exhausting journey. “But you say you need our help. If you have searched and not found the boy, I fail to see what more we can do.”
“Everyone believes whatever took Wyn, took Angharad as well, and they are scared it will happen again. They are afraid to leave their huts and will not let their children out of their sight. We need help to hunt down whatever took Angharad and the boy and put an end to it.”
“But why us?” Idris asked. “I know Madoc and he knows me. We have shared stories and flagons of ale at the gatherings. We have respect for each other, but we’re far from close.”
Ellis shook his head. “It’s not only you. He has sent a man to every village within a day’s walk to seek their help. I would have been here hours ago, had I not lost my way. It was pure good fortune your…” — he eyed Dodinal nervously, not certain of the big man’s status — “your friend here found me when he did.”
Idris eyed him for a moment, chewing his lip. “Very well,” he said. “We will help with the search. God knows, we have nothing else to occupy our time. We leave at first light.”
Ellis looked ready to argue, to press the case for leaving there and then, but common sense prevailed. Any man who went out into the woods at this hour was as good as dead. Even in his anguish, he understood dead men were no good to anyone. “Thank you.”
“You will stay here as my guest,” Idris said. “We have little to share but what we have, we will share with you.”
“I will go with you,” said Dodinal. “I know the forest and can track better than any man. Believe me, that is no idle boast. If something out there has taken your children, I will find it.”
Shortly afterwards he returned to Rhiannon’s hut, where he tended to the fire all the while deep in thought.
He had come to believe he might have found peace, out here in the wilderness. He had come to hope there would finally be an end to the bloodshed that had been part of his life ever since he was a boy. Now he feared he had been wrong.
Before turning in, he sat at the table and used the stone Idris had given him to sharpen his sword and spear, running it along each blade in turn until they felt keen enough to cut the air itself. Something in his bones told him he would need them before long.
Sleep did not come easily that night. When it did, it was filled with such tormented dreams as to make him to cry out in despair.
7Clearly an extraordinary position for a medieval warrior to hold, especially in Malory’s world of miracles.
NINE
They set out at dawn, Ellis leading the way. With him were Dodinal and Idris and three of the chieftain’s most trusted men. There was Emlyn, dark of hair and quick to smile, who had the surest aim. Then there was Hywel, dark also, a wiry man who rarely spoke but who was considered their most skilful tracker. And finally there was Elfed, a giant of a man whose blonde hair and beard set him apart from the others and who was said to have once wrestled a bear to the ground.
All three were younger than Idris but older than Dodinal. Each man held a spear, the weapon of a hunter. Their eyes were restless and vigilant, missing nothing. Dodinal carried the spear that Idris had given him, his sword sheathed at his side.
Idris had insisted on bringing his son. Why was anyone’s guess. Gerwyn did not want to be there, and made his reluctance known by constantly scowling and muttering under his breath. He held back from the rest of the party as if to reinforce his displeasure. Dodinal grinned as understanding dawned; Idris was punishing him.
The sky, as before, was steel blue and cloudless. Though it was cold when they set out, the air grew noticeably warmer as the hours passed, though not so warm as to melt the snow that crunched under their feet as they walked. While there was still no game to be found, Dodinal felt renewed hope that spring was finally on its way.
They journeyed in silence, troubled by the story Ellis had told. Children, vanishing as if into the air. Stolen away, so Ellis had said, although Dodinal still harboured doubts. The borderlands were harsh and unforgiving. There were countless ways a man could lose his life, let alone a lost and helpless child. If ravines or rivers did not claim them, there were creatures that could. Dodinal knew that better than anyone.