“Pelts,” they said, “and hunting dogs. We saw hounds from this island across the sea – they are the best in the world.”
The chief and his sons were delighted with the merchants’ goods. The wine they found thinner and sweeter than the island’s native dark beer, but less sweet and potent than the mead which the farmers of Sarum made from the honey they collected in the woods. Many goods were bartered. And finally, for each of his two sons, Krona chose a small bronze dagger, decorated with gold – finer even than the metalwork that came from the craftsmen of Ireland – and encrusted with flashing gems unlike any they had seen before.
For each of these daggers, the merchants demanded six pairs of hounds; and when Dluc protested at such a price, Krona threw back his long head and laughed.
“How else can a great chief honour his sons?” he cried. “I have other hounds.”
The memory of that sunny day was still vivid to the priest: Krona stalking impressively amongst the merchants, his head high, his eyes shining, his harsh laugh ringing over the waters of the harbour; and his two sons, the elder sixteen, the younger fourteen, both his children by faithful Ina, walking beside him.
Like their parents, both were tall and well made, with noble features and flashing black eyes. The younger was just starting his first beard. The sons of Krona were wonderful hunters, never trembling before the boar, or even the rare and mighty auroch. Dluc could see them so clearly in their short green cloaks, fastening the splendid daggers into their belts and smiling at their father. His heart had gone out to this handsome pair.
“The sons of Krona will rule after him,” the chief said. “Let them be adorned like chiefs.”
But while the chief and his sons made their bargains with the merchants, Dluc had asked the sailors other questions.
“Where have you come from?”
“From a great sea, far to the south, that extends from east to west several months’ sailing,” they told him.
He nodded. He knew of this sea’s existence from other merchants. But usually at this time, the sporadic trade between Britain and the Mediterranean was conducted through intermediaries who controlled trade on the great rivers of south-west Europe, and others on the northern coast of France. It was rare indeed for merchants, even in search of new goods to barter, to undertake such a long voyage round the Atlantic coast of Europe to the distant island in the north.
These mariners were of particular interest to the astronomer priest, because he knew that they steered their long course by the stars and he was anxious to elicit all the information from them that he could. He was not disappointed.
The leader of the mariners told him many things. A fat man with a round head that was entirely bald, and small, intelligent eyes surrounded by deep creases, he soon became so voluble that the interpreter could hardly keep up with him.
“Not only is it hotter in our lands,” he said, “but the sun rises higher in the sky – so high that it is nearly overhead. And once,” he went on, “I made a long journey – many months – far to the south of our lands. And there I saw things stranger still; for there were other constellations of stars over the horizon: stars that I had never seen before.” He shook his round head. “How do you explain that?”
Dluc had heard such tales before and he had decided that they must be true. For there must surely be stars, he thought, which are so far away to the south that their angle above the horizon would be too low to allow him to see them clearly. After all, did one not lose sight of distant lands, even across the sea, for the same reason? And similarly, since the sun at its greatest height was still to the south of Sarum, it must be that at some point in that direction, it would indeed pass directly overhead in its daily course over the land.
When he discovered that the merchant had actually come near such a place he became eager.
“How far – how far to the south before the sun is overhead?”
The mariner thought.
“Hard to tell. Perhaps a four months sailing – maybe six months.”
Dluc was thoughtful.
“And the sun was overhead?”
“Nearly.”
Six months sailing. The distance was very inexact, but it was at least a rough indication of the magnitude of the distance. And as he considered the matter, the normally severe face of the priest relaxed into a smile. For if he knew the distance along the ground from the island to the point where the sun was overhead, and since he knew, with minute accuracy, the angle of the sun at its highest point, it seemed to the priest that he could with his sticks and lines, by the simple method of triangulation, make an estimate of the sun’s distance from the earth – an important piece of information that was nowhere recorded in the sacred sayings of the priests.
Many similar speculations entered the mind of this intelligent priest. If the angle of the sun changed – as he saw that it must – then was there a region far to the north, where the sun itself would be so low on the horizon as to be almost invisible? Or was such a point already off the end of the world?
And where was the end of the world? Had the mariner ever seen it?
“No. But I have met a man who has.”
“Where was it?”
“He would not tell me.”
“He was probably lying,” Dluc replied sadly.
Nonetheless, it had seemed to him that day that the gods were smiling on Sarum. Both the powerful chief, his fine sons, and he himself had been satisfied with their day’s work; and that night, by the harbour’s edge, they feasted with the merchants.
On the morning after the feast, the mariners had decided to leave, since they intended to make their way west along the coast where they could find tin, and then across to Ireland to seek gold before they journeyed south again.
Dluc would never forget that day. It dawned bright and clear; at sunrise he sacrificed a sheep by the water’s edge to give the mariners a safe journey; and by mid-morning, when a brisk south easterly breeze had sprung up, bringing with it small banks of clouds that gathered along the horizon, the mariners took their leave.
It was as they pushed away from the jetty and rowed slowly out into the harbour that there was a cry of merriment from the islanders’ boats; three of them suddenly left the bank and sped out into the shallow waters to accompany the visitors round the headland. Both Krona’s sons were in this party and as they raced past after the larger vessel they waved gaily.
“Farewell,” they cried. “We’re going south with the merchants!” They paddled furiously to shouts of laughter and encouragement from the bank.
Krona, the priest and their attendants climbed the hill so that they could watch the progress of the boats as they left the harbour and went out to sea.
The sky was now becoming grey and overcast; but there were breaks in the heavy clouds, and through these huge rays of sunshine burst down making shining patches on the dull sea below. As the boats rounded the eastern point of the headland and slipped through the narrow channel into the open sea, the wind was already starting to blow more strongly, catching the tops of the little waves and sending the surf skimming over the surface. Having passed the point and turned towards the west, the boats began to leave the shore behind, and though the water was choppy, they managed well. It was a brave sight: the stout boat of the merchants pushing out firmly into the sea and just behind it, dipping and bobbing, the three brightly painted canoes gaily following. Slowly the boats came level with Krona and his party, all the time drifting further away from the shore.
“They go too far,” Krona murmured. The canoes were two miles out, perhaps more. They now seemed very small, sometimes disappearing entirely behind a rolling wave.
Then Dluc saw the storm. At first it seemed to be only a single brown cloud somewhat darker and heavier than the others, rising harmlessly over the eastern horizon; but then – and with astonishing speed – it grew: below the single cloud now he saw others, huge banks of them all along the horizon, not brown, but black and threatening. Within
minutes, the storm rose in the east like an enormous, dark bird: first the head, then the great angry wings, swooping over the water.
At the first sign, he had touched Krona’s arm and pointed; and as soon as the chief saw the storm he frowned.
“If they don’t turn back at once,” he began, “they’ll be caught.”
As Dluc stared into the barrelling thunderous cloud, it seemed to him no longer like a bird, but now like a huge dark flower that was opening towards them. He gazed at it in horror. The canoes however, eagerly pressing west behind the wooden boat, did not appear to see the storm behind them; for the sky above was still bright.
The party on the hill shouted to the boats, but it was futile: they were far out of earshot, and still drifting further from the shore. At last the mariners’ wooden boat, with its sail hoisted, began to run before the wind and plough away towards the west; only then did the canoes turn around and start to creep back eastwards towards the point. Now they too could see the storm approaching. Their progress was painfully slow.
“Run for the shore, you fools,” the chief muttered.
It was the only sensible course. The beach was sandy, and the waves would have carried them in. But they continued boldly back towards the point, where the cross currents were always treacherous and where now the coming storm was whipping the sea into a froth.
“They are mad!” Krona cried.
When the storm reached them, it seemed that the whole world was plunged into darkness. The sea rose like a wounded animal, and huge waves began to thrash the shore. The wind threw the salt spray up even to the hilltop where it stung the faces of the watchers and forced them to turn away. After a few minutes, Dluc could not even see the canoes. Surely now they must be making for the shore. But in seas like that, could any canoe stay afloat?
As he saw his two sons caught in that terrible storm, even great Krona trembled.
“Save us brother,” he cried urgently to the priest. “Speak with the gods.”
In a loud voice Dluc cried out the ritual prayers to the sea god. He took gold dust from a little pouch on his belt and hurled it towards the water. But the prayers, and the gold dust, were thrown back in his face by the wind.
For some reason, the storm struck only the sea. In front of the hill were roaring waters and blinding rain; yet behind it in the harbour, the surface was ruffled only by tiny waves no bigger than a man’s hand. It was a strange sight.
The canoes never reached the shore. That terrible day, as the stout merchant ship continued on its way towards the west, Krona lost both his sons. Their bodies were found, many days later, far along the shore. Dluc buried them at Sarum.
For the first time in her history, Sarum was without an heir. Krona had no other brothers: of the entire family at present, only the chief and the High Priest were living, and Dluc as a priest had vowed never to know woman.
The peace that Sarum had known for generations came from the fact that the family were strong and known to be favoured by the gods. No other chief on the island, however jealous he might be of Sarum’s wealth, would be likely to attack the guardians of the sacred grounds. But without the family of Krona to rule with a firm hand, it might be a very different story. The territory would dissolve into chaos.
From that day, a cloud of sadness settled over Krona’s spirit and over the place where the five rivers met; all over the island it was said:
“The gods have turned their faces from Sarum the fortunate: even sun himself no longer loves the guardians of Stonehenge.”
And indeed, when the following month there was an eclipse of the sun, Krona turned to the High Priest and said:
“I think we are doomed.”
The physical change in Krona had begun then. His jet black hair began to turn grey, his tall, proud body to stoop; his piercing eyes seemed to be glazed over and he would spend long days alone in his house, occasionally summoning Dluc to ask him:
“Do you believe that the gods have cursed me and our family?”
To this question Dluc had no definite answer.
“It is clear that the gods have punished us,” he said, “but we must discover what it is that they want us to do.”
“Discover quickly,” Krona replied. “If I die and the house of Krona ends . . .”
There was no need to say more. Each day Dluc made sacrifices and prayed to the gods at the temple, so far with no result. But both he and the chief knew only too well the most urgent need: Krona must have new heirs.
It was many years since faithful Ina had given her husband his two fine sons. Dluc had watched the effect upon her of their loss.
Always quiet, always dignified: when her two sons had triumphed in the chase, they had stood tall and proud before their father and she, though she smiled her approval, seldom said a word; but if in some way they had failed, it was to Ina they would come, avoiding Krona if they could, and then, though she suffered with them, she was wise and never showed it. Always she was the same – the quiet centre of the family; and if the chief and she had left behind the early days of their passion, Krona would still turn to her with affection and say: “Come to me now, mother of my sons.”
Now they were gone. What was left? The searing pain she had borne, as washer way, in silence. And strangely, though she knew that his love for her was bound up in their sons, the loss of them had awakened in her a renewed passion – not to restore their family, for that she knew she could never do now, but to heal with her love the stricken, wounded man she saw before her.
She had tried. She had failed.
“I shall not give him more children,” she told Dluc; and it was she who had then urged the chief:
“You must take new wives, young women who will give you children. Let the priest choose them for you.”
And so, early that winter, the process of finding Krona’s new wives had begun.
Soon after the autumn equinox, Dluc had made a great sacrifice: fifty-six oxen, fifty-six rams, and fifty-six sheep. When it was done, he had brought to the chief two young girls of good family.
He had lain with each, many times.
Spring had come, then summer; the harvest had been poor, spoilt by heavy rains; neither girl conceived; and the people of Sarum were discouraged.
“The curse is not lifted,” they said, “not even by the great sacrifice.”
In his heart, the High Priest knew that they were right. He knew it even when he made the sacrifices. The great slaughter had been useless: whatever it was the gods wanted, they were not appeased.
Krona was depressed.
“You are not old yet,” Dluc reminded him, although it grieved him to look upon this sad, grey-haired man who had been a magnificent chief in the full pride of his manhood only months before. “We will find others.”
It was some time after the summer solstice that he brought this latest girl to Krona. With her ripe, inviting and rather plump young body, even Krona, who had seemed to take little pleasure in the other girls, smiled when he saw her. The priest had chosen her because in the recent bad harvest her father’s crops, for some reason, had been excellent, and since the gods had clearly marked her father out for their special favour, he was hopeful that at last he had found a bride who would be pleasing to them.
Now he was looking at her, cowering on the floor, while the chief stared at him with eyes that were wild, and Ina sadly shook her head.
“Very well,” he said at last. “It shall be as you wish.” He did not believe that sacrificing the girl would do any good, but it was better to try every remedy. He did so at dawn the following day, with a heavy heart; and that same evening, Krona reported to him that he was well again.
“Send me more girls,” he urged.
But this time Dluc did not. For it was clear from the signs from the gods – and his own instincts also told him – that the causes of their present troubles were deep-rooted. They would not be overcome by making a sacrifice and sending the chief another girl.
“I do not think o
ur sacrifices are enough,” he told the chief. “We must do more.”
“What?”
Dluc shook his head.
“I don’t know. But we must find out. We shall read the auguries.”
This process, by which the priests asked the gods direct questions and received their answers was a lengthy one which Dluc did not like to use: not because he had any doubts that the gods would reply, but because of the extraordinary difficulty of interpreting their answers, against which his precise, mathematical mind secretly rebelled. In this instance however, he could see no other course. For several days the priests roamed the woods, netting birds which they kept in cages, where they were fed with grain into which was mixed all kinds of other material – herbs and grasses, gold dust, tiny pellets of stone and coloured earth – all of which would leave a tiny residue for inspection in their gut.
Early one morning, when over a hundred birds had been collected, fed, and brought in their cages to the henge, Dluc aided by a circle of priests began the delicate task of reading the signs.
Carefully, using a small bronze knife, he slit the bird’s breast open and then, with sharp sticks, pulled out its intestines for inspection, cutting here and there to see what signs could be found which would indicate the wishes of the gods.
The questions were simple, and before opening each bird, Dluc called them out:
“Tell us, great sun god, is Krona to have an heir?”
To this, by noting the sex and state of the innards of each of ten birds, an affirmative answer was soon reached, and Dluc gave a sigh of relief.
But to the following questions, the answers were less simple. What must be done to appease the gods? No less than three kinds of intestine were discovered, suggesting three different conditions, each of which caused gasps of astonishment as they were understood; and several times as the priests peered at them Dluc had to call:
“More birds.”
Thirty-three were inspected before Dluc said:
“Then we are all agreed?” and his priests, glancing at one another in apprehension, nodded.
But it was the last question: “How are we to know Krona’s chosen bride?” that produced the strangest and most enigmatic answer of all, for in each bird, and twenty were opened, small specks of gold dust were found in the very top of the intestine: a very rare phenomenon which was repeated again and again. At last, when the priests had agreed on the message that the entrails conveyed, they were hardly less puzzled than when they had begun.