Triduum

The Brecon Beacons, circa 40 C.E.

The breeze sweeping over the black mountains brings a welcome change to many long weeks staring past corners of the cargo ship’s sail. Here at the edge of the world, the air is not just cooler, but thinner, closer to the unfamiliar stars. John Mark stands, grateful for the gift of catching his breath. His hands move to the satchel bound close to his side. He unwinds the leather folds, removing a simple weapon from its sheath. The motion sends a single red kite leaping into the air, where she circles above the snapping battle standards to the east, ascending.

Searching for loose stones to fit into a cairn, the young man kneels among the autumn crocus beside the pass and begins to dig. In his inner landscape, the high winds curling through his dark hair deepen into the warm stillness of a tree grove. The stone circle he shapes in the afternoon sun cools into the face of a distant full moon. As the fading sun touches the skies above, a remembered torchlight threatens the tender closeness of the olive branches. As night falls, he feels his face pressed close to the gnarled roots of the garden.

Close enough to see anger flash across Simon’s face, a massive shoulder eclipses my view. It must belong to the guard they call “Molis” (the Boulder) or “Malchus” (the King). The hulking back buckles as a glancing blow catches his ear. Quick words from the Teacher, “Enough! Put that away!” Molis measures his next move as the Teacher, already checked, looks up to bless, then places his free hand on the bleeding wound. The Boulder, the King, falls to his knees and offers his sword. With one motion, the Teacher tosses the surrendered weapon into the darkness of the grove then rips the sheathed sword away from Simon Peter and casts it in my direction. In the press and grab of the melee that follows, I lose my linen tunic but find my way home.

Snowdonia, circa 500 C.E.

The winter snows fade into memories that leave the mountain lake brimming with life. Two women sit a stone’s throw up the hillside. Water lapping along the shore betrays the motion of currents at work beneath the surface.

“To see him swimming like this, one would hardly believe the way he came into the world,” says the younger woman. Her eyes hold a steady gaze of green and bronze, her face framed by raven hair caught up in braids.

“I can hardly see him at all,” replies the older woman, dressed in the trimmings of a servant. “He’s more fish than boy, I would say. Just like his mother, he is. It doesn’t surprise me that he took his first breaths in a wild rain. Truly heir to the Lady of the Lake.”

“You will not catch me in the lakes again, not with these old bones and that bracing chill. I have done my part for the kingdom.”

“Don’t speak to me ‘bout old bones, dear Nonette. I sound like an oak door on rusty hinges every time I bend over. And don’t count yourself out too quickly, dear one. There are plenty more days ahead, and more to be done.”

“Your words drain me, Effie. I think of all that I have lived through to this good day and tire to think of the weariness that stretches beyond my life.”

Efrddyl reaches out her hand toward Non and, with difficulty, props herself up on her knees. “Not many saints or sinners can say they have lived through what I have lived through: nearly drowned to death by my own flesh and blood, then dragged to the stake to die in the fire, and for what cause? For the shame of carrying a child, a son who grew up to lay the crown on Arthur’s head. I know the pain that goes deeper than conceiving in shame and giving birth among ashes an’ angels. Look at me, now. I want you to hear what I’m saying to you. I also know there are miracles, not just healings and the like, but miracles with names. One of them is swimming in that lake and one of them is listening to this old crow, wondering whether or not to believe her.”

“Now, young lady, help an old woman to her feet. You there, Dewidd, my lad, come here and get some air in your lungs. Have you found anything interesting?”

“No sword so far. Just these big pots.”

“Your little fish has gone and found my secret cache of wine,” Efrddyl remarks to Non.

“They’re too heavy to move, Auntie, but I found one that is smaller and lighter.”

“Yes, well. You bring that one up the hill to your godmother. Those others are full of dragons, so don’t you go disturbing them!”

“Effie, now don’t be filling my son’s head with mindless nonsense. Not on this holy day.”

“This day is no more or less holy than any other, if you’ll forgive me. Alright now, Dewi, here’s a blanket for you to warm yourself. You will find what you’re looking for where the three kingdoms come together, down closer to the Eagle’s Rock, I imagine. Did your mother tell you that the sword belonged to a giant?”

The young man’s eyes grow as wide as pools. “A good giant or a mean one, like my dad?”

“Ermm, well. It is not for me to judge good or bad, but he did lay his sword at the feet of our Lord, the evening before the crucifixion.”

“Incredible. Did he pick it up again to fight?”

“Listen to this young theologian here. Yes, Dewi, he came here to fight with Caradog against the Roman conquerors.”

“I believe my son wants to know if these giants of yours are good enough to protect him, and me, from his father.”

“Oh, yes. Why, I made a point of asking my sons, both Dyfrid the Bishop and Idris the Wizard, to meet your father at the Giant’s Dance. They will take some of Molis’ kin along with them from the Queen’s people up in Gawr, in case he needs convincing. His soul will not rest until he moves the sacred stones to the ‘Plain below that Mount where the Waters from Heaven divide into Three Seas’ !”

“Effie, what in the world are you talking about?”

“I feel certain that your Prince will not be troubling you for years, if ever again. In the meantime, we have our own work to do. I count on you both to find the Giant’s sword and get it to Bishop Illtud for safe keeping. As for the sword in the stone, the monks below Godspell Pass keep St. Peter’s blade safe for now. I will continue work on the tapestry to conceal its sheath, where the true power lies.”

“Efrddyl, where does it end? All this scheming. Men threaten and fight, laying down their weapons and picking them up again. I wish St Mark had thrown the scabbard and the swords into the sea instead of setting in motion this never-ending game of chess.”

“Is he the one who started all this? I doubt it. Life overflows with treasure, Nonny. Let the greedy be damned by their own greed. Let it be enough for us to thwart their schemes, to tend to the wounds they leave behind and bring some joy to others by our conspiracies of grace. May each moment of your life be your own sweet sacrament. Savor this water, feast on these daffodils. We have more than enough to share.”

“Aunt Effie, look how tall I am when I stand on this! I’m a giant!”

“Dewi, you are a giant! I think you have found something even better than a magic sword. Shall we see what’s inside?”

August 1966, Journal No. 86, B.C.

Interviewed two brothers today near the Black Hills bordering Herefordshire for an acquisition. Smelled of pipe tobacco, lanolin and horse manure for the remainder of the day.

Several interesting finds on the place; possible value beyond Sotheby’s for the archeological museum. Located three amphorae that look to be quite ancient, even first century. Two large, sealed (wine?) and one smaller, unsealed, which contains gold coins, a few metal bracelets and bones (fish??). Compare with Heyope gold ribbon torcs, Middle Bronze age.

Unearthed a chest in a crestfallen oxcart with what looked at first to be a moth-eaten dense blanket. Closer inspection revealed a tight-woven tapestry: medieval or older with an intact bronze sheath sewn into the reverse. Compare scabbard with skeen recovered from Llanthony Priory housed in the Pitt Rivers Museum.

When asked about items, the brothers shared competing stories about Saints Dyfrid, Non, Illtud and even St. Mark. Said they are looking for Molis’s kin. (NB: Who is Molis?)

Lewis and Benjamin have spent their entire lives on this same farm. Might be a good contrast to tales from the end of the world; an example of the palimpsest of history’s treasures in one home. All property is named in the estate as property of an estranged sister, Rebecca. Not seen since their late father cast her out for arriving home from a summer trip to Caldey Island pregnant. Trying to locate her or the child.

Neath Abbey, circa 2007

From the hills above Hirwaun to the Port where the River Neath enters Abertawe Bay, the land and its people grow weary with rain. Those intoxicated with industry have inflicted progress on the descendants of druids and saints, shaming them with Welsh Not scars, crushing them with trauma by the tonne in Aberfan. But across from The Rock and Fountain Pub, a Malca-Amit armored truck interrupts a row of granite houses with white lintel windows to deliver singular news.

“Cathy, did you order something from Sotheby’s? There’s a delivery man knocking on the door in the pouring rain.”

“It’s hard to say what I’ve ordered at the end of a bottle of pinot grigio. Maybe roll yourself over and open the door?”

“These are all very heavy, sir. I say, it looks rather like Christmas already here!”

“Are you telling me that none of the other homes along the canal greet you with a dancing Santa and a Christmas Cow?”

“No, sir, not on the day before Easter. Sign for this letter please, as well the crates. Thank you. Good day.”

“Lady Catherine, do you know anyone from over near Three Cocks? Some lawyer’s office there. Imagine the ribbing they get! The notecard says, ‘Special thanks for all you have done. You listened to my story, reminding me of something I had lost long ago: a treasure hidden deep inside. You gave me room to catch my breath and hope enough to catch the wind again and set off in a new direction. I know you will continue to help others, but please accept some blessings for yourself." It’s signed Rebecca."

"Let me see that. There’s a small notebook here in the envelope, along with legal papers and two keys; looks like they’re for a safe deposit box. The copy of the Deed of Trust is for property in Abergavenny, a farm entrusted to the Cadw. The documents name me as Trustee of the property, at an annual salary of 20,000 pounds sterling, to be paid from the estate of a Mr. Charles Chatwin! ‘His Moleskine journal is enclosed for reference as to the value of the estate of his birth mother, Rebecca Jones.’”

“Sounds like an elaborate prank. I suppose we could look inside the packages.The banks are closed already, so we’ll have to wait until Monday to verify the legal papers. ”

“Until Tuesday, you mean. Easter Monday is a holiday as well.”

“I never understood why.”

“An extra day to recover from the shock. This gold bracelet certainly looks real.”