“Still just two,” my bride told her mother. She squeezed my hand.
“Well,” Scatha allowed, “you are no less welcome. I have longed for you each day.”
We embraced again, and I glimpsed the crannog in the lake beyond. “I see that Dinas Dwr has survived in our absence.”
“Survived?” boomed Calbha, wading toward us through the crowd to stand before us. The Ravens we had left behind followed at his heels. “We have thrived! Welcome back, Silver Hand,” he said, gripping my arms. “You have fared well?”
“We have fared exceedingly well, Calbha,” I answered. “The circuit of the land is complete. All is well.”
“Tonight we will celebrate your return,” Scatha announced. “In the hall, the welcome cup awaits.”
Thanks to Tegid’s foresight, Scatha and Calbha had had time to prepare a feast for our return. Trailing well-wishers, we made our way down to the city on the lake; in the golden light of a setting sun Dinas Dwr seemed to me a gem aglow in a broad, shining band.
At the lakeshore, we climbed into boats and paddled quickly across to the crannog, where we were welcomed by those who had stayed behind to attend to the preparations.
The tang of roasting meat reached us the instant we stepped from the boats. Two whole oxen and six pigs were dripping fat over pits of charcoal; ale vats had been set up outside the hall, and skins of mead poured into bowls. At our approach, a dozen maidens took up gold and silver bowls and ran to meet us.
“Welcome, Great King,” said a dimpled, smiling maid, raising the bowl to me. “Too long have you been absent from your hearth, lord. Drink deep and take your ease,” she said prettily, and it melted my heart to hear it.
I accepted the bowl, lifted it to my lips, and drank the sweet, golden nectar. It was flavored with anise and warmed my throat as it slid silkily over my tongue. I declared it the finest drink I had ever tasted and passed the bowl to Goewyn. The king having drunk, the remaining bowls, cups, and jars could be distributed; this was done at once and the feast began.
No one was happier than I to be back home. I looked long on the hall and on the happy faces of all those I had left behind. They were my people, and I was their king. I truly felt I had come home, that my absence had pained, and that my return was pleasing.
It was not until I stood before my own hall with the taste of herbed mead in my mouth and the shouts of acclaim loud in my ears that I realized Tegid’s wisdom in proposing the circuit. In going out like a king, I had become a king indeed. I belonged to the land now; heart and soul, I was a part of it. In some ancient, mystical way, the circuit united my spirit with Albion and its people. I felt my soul expand to embrace those around me, and I remembered all those I had met in the course of my circuit of the land. As I loved those around me, I loved them all. They were my people, and I was their king.
I saw Tegid standing a little distance apart with a bowl to his lips, surrounded by his Mabinogi. He sensed me watching him and lowered the bowl, smiling. The crafty bard knew what had happened. He knew full well the effect circuit and homecoming would have on my soul. He smiled at me over the bowl and raised it to me, then drank again. Oh yes, he knew.
Goewyn pressed the bowl into my hands once more, and I raised it to Tegid and drank to him. Then Goewyn and I shared a drink. Garanaw, who had stayed behind to help Scatha train the young warriors, came and greeted me like a brother. We drank together then, and I embarked upon a long round of drinking the health of all my long-absent friends.
Food followed, mounds of bread and cakes, and crackling joints of roast meat, great steaming cauldrons full of leeks, marrows, and cabbages. It was a splendid feast: eating by torchlight under the stars, the night dark and warm around us.
After we had eaten, Tegid brought out his harp, and we drifted away on wings of song. Under his peerless touch, the sky vault became a vast Seeing Bowl filled with the black oak water of all possibilities, each star a glimmering promise. Dawn was glinting in the east when we finally made our way to bed, but we slept the sleep of deep contentment.
We bade farewell to Calbha a few days later. He was anxious to return to his lands in Llogres and establish himself and his people before Sollen set in. I did not envy him the work he faced. I made certain he took a large portion of seed grain and meal, and the best of the pigs, sheep, and cattle to begin new herds. I gave him everything he would need to see him through the first winter, and we parted with vows of everlasting friendship and promises to visit one another often. He and the remnant of his tribe left with a dozen wagons piled high with provisions, tools, and weapons.
As Calbha had said, Dinas Dwr prospered in our absence. The crops and herds had flourished, the people had plenty and were content. The horror loosed by the Great Hound Meldron was fading, and with it the tainting abomination of his reign.
Having completed the Cylchedd of the land, I was not content to sit on my throne and watch the world go by. Indeed, I was more eager than ever to be a good king. As the warm days passed, I found myself wondering what I might do to benefit my people. What could I give them?
My bard suggested I give them wise leadership, but I had in mind something more tangible: an engineering feat like a bridge or a road. Neither seemed quite right. If a road, where would it go? And if a bridge, what body of water needed spanning?
I ambled around for a couple of days trying to decide what sort of endeavor would serve the people best. And, as luck would have it, one morning I was walking among the sheds and work huts on the lakeshore when I heard the slow, heavy mumble of the grinding wheel. I turned and lifted my eyes from the path to see two women bent over a massive double wheel of stone. One woman turned the upper stone with a staff while the other poured dried grain into the hole in the center. They saw me watching and greeted me.
“Please continue,” I said, “I do not wish to interrupt your work.”
They resumed their labor and I watched the arduous process. I saw their slender backs bent and their shapely arms straining to turn the heavy stone. It was hard work for meal that would be eaten in a moment, and there would be more grain to grind tomorrow. When they finished, the women collected the flour from around the stone, using a straw whisk to sweep every last fleck into their bag. They bade me farewell then and left. No sooner was the grindstone idle, however, than two more women appeared and, taking grain from the storehouse, they also began to grind the flour.
This was no new chore in Dinas Dwr. It had been performed in just this way since before anyone could remember, probably since the first harvest had been gathered and dried. But this was the first time I had seen it as the backbreaking labor it was. And so I arrived at the boon I would give my people. I would give them a mill.
A mill! Such a simple thing, rudimentary really. Yet a wonder if you do not have one. And we did not have one. Neither did anyone else. So far as I knew there had never been a grain mill in Albion. When I thought of how much time and energy would be saved, I wondered I had not thought of it before. And, after the mill, I could see other, perhaps more exalted ventures. The mill was just the beginning, but it was as good a project as any to begin with.
Returning to the crannog, I called my wise bard to me. “Tegid,” I said, “I am going to build a mill. And you are going to help me.”
Tegid peered at me skeptically and pulled on his lower lip.
“You know,” I explained, “a mill—with stones for grinding grain.”
He looked slightly puzzled, but agreed that, in principle at least, a mill was a fine thing to build.
“No, I do not mean a pair of grindstones turned by hand. These stones will be much bigger than that.”
“How big?” he wondered, eyeing me narrowly.
“Huge. Enormous! Big enough to grind a whole season’s supply of grain in a few days. What do you think?”
This appeared to confound Tegid all the more. “A worthy ambition, indeed,” he replied. “Yet I cannot help thinking that grindstones so large would be very difficult to move.
Are you suggesting oxen?”
“No,” I told him. “I am not suggesting oxen.”
“Good,” he remarked with some relief. “Oxen must be fed and—”
“I am suggesting water.”
“Water?”
“Exactly. It is to be a water mill.”
The bewilderment on his face was wonderful. I laughed to see it. He drew breath to protest, but I said, “It is a simple invention from my world. But it will work here. Let me show you what I mean.”
I knelt and drew with my knife. After scratching a few lines in the dirt, I said, “This is the stream that flows into the lake.” I drew a wavy circle. “This is the lake.”
Tegid gazed at the squiggles and nodded.
“Now then.” I drew a square on the stream. “If we put a dam at this place—”
“If we make a dam at that place, the stream will flood the meadow and the water will not reach the lake.”
“True,” I agreed. “Unless the water has a way past the dam. You see, we make a weir with a very narrow opening and let the water out slowly—through a revolving wheel. A wheel made of paddles.” I drew a crude wheel with flat paddles and indicated with my hand how the water would push the paddles and turn the wheel. “Like so. See? And this turning wheel is joined to the grindstone.” I laced my fingers to suggest cogs meshing and turning.
Tegid nodded shrewdly. “And as the wheel turns, it turns the grindstone.”
“That is the way of it.”
Tegid frowned, gazing at the lines in the dirt. “I assume you know how this can be accomplished?” he said at last.
“Indeed,” I stated confidently. “I mean, I think so.”
“This is a marvel I would like to see.” Tegid frowned at the dirt drawing and asked, “But will it not make the people lazy?”
“Never fear, brother. The people have more than enough to keep them busy without having to grind every single seed by hand. Trust me.”
Tegid straightened. “So be it. How will you proceed?”
“First we select the place to build the weir.” I stood, replacing my knife in my belt. “I could use your advice there.”
“When will you begin?”
“At once.”
We left the crannog and walked out along the lakeshore to the place where the stream, which passed under the ridge wall, flowed into the lake. Then we followed the stream toward the ridge. We walked along the stream, pausing now and then to allow Tegid to look around. At a place about halfway to the ridge wall—where the stream emerged from deeply cleft banks at the edge of the woods which rose up on the slopes of Druim Vran, the bard stopped.
“This,” Tegid said, tapping the ground with his staff, “is the place I deem best for your water mill.”
The location seemed less than promising to me. “There is no place for a weir,” I pointed out. I had envisaged a flat, calm millpond, with brown trout sporting in dappled shade—not a steep-banked slope on a hill.
“The weir will be easily dug here,” Tegid maintained. “There is wood and stone within easy reach, and this is where the water begins its race to the lake.”
I studied the water flow for a moment, looking back along the course of the stream; I considered the wooded slopes and the stony banks. Tegid was right, it would be a good place for a mill. Different from what I’d had in mind, but a much better use of gravity to turn the mill wheel and much less difficulty in keeping the water from flooding the meadow. I wondered what the shrewd bard knew about such things as gravity and hydraulics.
“You are right. This is the place for us. Here we will build our mill.”
Work began that same day. First, I had the site cleared of brush. While that was being done, I searched for a way to draw some of my ideas, settling for a sharpened pine twig and a slab of yellow beeswax, and I began educating my master builder, a man named Huel Gadarn, in the ways of water-powered mills. He was quick as he was clever; I had only to scratch a few lines on the beeswax and he grasped not only the form of the thing I was drawing but, often as not, the concept behind it as well. The only aspect of the procedure he found baffling was how the power of the water wheel was transferred to the giant grinding stones. But this difficulty owed more to my poor skill in sketching a gear than to any failing on Huel’s part.
Next we built a small model of the mill out of twigs and bark and clay. When that was finished, I was satisfied that Huel had all the various elements of the operation firmly under his command. I had no fear that, given time and inclination, Huel the master builder could build the mill himself. We were ready to proceed.
Once the site was cleared, we could begin excavating the weir. But then it rained.
I spent the first day drawing various kinds of gear. On the second day I started pacing. By the fourth day, which dawned just as gray and wet as the three before it, I was pacing and cursing the weather.
Goewyn endured me as long as she could, but finally grew exasperated and informed me that no grindstone, however huge, was worth the aggravation I was causing. She then sent me away to do my stalking, as she called it, elsewhere.
I spent a wet, restless day in the hall, listening to idle talk and itching to be at the building site. Fortunately, the next day dawned clear and bright, and we were able, at last—and with Goewyn’s emphatic blessing—to begin digging the foundations for Albion’s new wonder: the Aird Righ’s Mill.
14
INTRUDERS
Through Maffar’s long days of warmth and bliss, the Year’s Wheel slowly revolved. Rhyll came on in a shimmering blaze, but the golden days and sharp, cool nights quickly dulled. The high color faded and the land withered beneath windy gray skies and cold, drenching rain.
Our harvest, so bountiful the previous year, yielded less than anticipated due to the rain. Day after day, we watched the skies, hoping for a break in the weather and a few sunny days to dry the grain. Rot set in before we could gather it all. It was no disaster, thanks to the bounty of the last harvest, but still a disappointment.
Progress on the mill slowed, and I grew restive. With Sollen’s icy fingers stretching toward us, I was anxious to get as much finished as possible before the snow stopped us. I drove Huel and his workers relentlessly. Sometimes, if the rainfall was not heavy, I made them work through it. As the days grew shorter, I grew more frantic and demanding. I had torches and braziers brought to the site so that we could work after dark.
Tegid finally intervened; he approached me one night when I returned shivering from a windy day in the rain. “You have accomplished a great deal,” he affirmed, “but you go too far. Look around you, Silver Hand; the days are short and the light is not good. How much longer do you think the sky will hold back the snow? Come, it is time to take your rest.”
“And just abandon the mill? Abandon all we have done? Tegid, you are talking nonsense.”
“Did I tell you to abandon anything?” He sniffed. “You can begin again as soon as Gyd clears the skies once more. Now is the time for rest and for more pleasurable pursuits indoors.”
“Just a few more days, Tegid. It is not going to hurt anyone.”
“We neglect the seasons to our peril,” he replied stiffly.
“There will be plenty of time for lazing around the hearth, never fear.”
Riding out to the building site early the next morning, I regretted those words. We had worked hard, very hard, but the mill had been begun late in the season and now the weather had turned against us. It was absurd of me to expect men to work in the dark, wet, and cold, and I was a fool for demanding it of them.
Worse, I was becoming a tyrant: self-indulgent, insensitive, obsessive, and oppressive. My great labor-saving boon had so far produced nothing but plenty of extra work for everyone.
My wise bard was right. The time-honored rhythm of the seasons, of work and play and rest, served the purpose of balance in the sacred pattern of life. I had tipped the scales too far, and it was time for me to put it right.
The day dawned cris
p, the sunlight thin, but bright; the chill east wind tingled the nostrils with the fresh scent of snow. Yes, I thought as I came upon the vacant site, it was time to cease work for the winter. I dismounted and walked around, inspecting the excavations, waiting for Huel and his builders to arrive.
Despite the incessant delays, we had made good progress on the construction: a shallow weir had been dug and lined with stone; the foundations, both timber and stone, for the mill house had been established. In the spring, we would quarry the huge grindstones and set them in place—the mill house would be raised around them. The wheel would be built and then the shafts and gears attached. If all went well, I reflected, the mill would be ready to grind its first grain by harvest time next year.
Preoccupied with these plans, I wandered around the diggings and slowly became aware of a peculiar sound, faint and far away, but distinct in the crisp autumn air: a slow rhythmic thump—like stones falling onto the earth at regular intervals. What is more, I realized with a start that I had been hearing it for some time.
I glanced quickly toward the ridge trail, but saw no one. I held myself completely still and listened. But the sound was gone now. Intrigued, I remounted my horse and rode up the slope of the ridge and into the wood. I paused to listen. There was nothing but the whisper of the wind in bare branches.
Turning away, I thought I heard the soft thudding pat of running steps on the path ahead—just a hint and then the wind stole the sound away again. Raising myself in the saddle, I called out, “Who is it?” I paused. No answer came. I shouted again, more loudly, “Who is there?”
Lifting the reins, I rode forward, slowly, through the close-grown pines and came upon one of the many tracks leading to the top of the ridge. Almost at once, I came upon a footprint in the damp earth. The print appeared fresh—at least, rain had not degraded it overnight; a swift search revealed a few more leading into the wood.