promontory
reaching out into the sea. Ravaged by wind and ocean, the island was flat and
featureless, with here and there – the only touch of colour – a ragged clump of
purple heather. Tall wild grass grew everywhere, cowering from the westerly
gales that blew the year round. The sandy beaches, ribbed by wind and tide,
were stalked by long-legged birds in search of food. As Merlin tramped across
the fields, seagulls floated above him, greeting him with doleful cries. It was
a desolate place this, he thought, but with its own sombre beauty.
The old man showed no surprise
when Merlin entered, greeting him courteously.
‘I am glad to see you,’ said Merlin.
On either side of the open
fire were the only seats in the room, two Windsor chairs, one empty, the other
occupied by the old man. At his feet a black Labrador slumbered. Merlin sat in
the vacant chair. ‘I imagine you have few visitors,’ he said, to get the
conversation going.
‘None. None but you.’
The Labrador uttered something
between a sigh and a groan. Without moving his head, he opened his eyes and
contemplated Merlin, then, apparently satisfied with what he saw, closed them
again.
Merlin tried once more. ‘This island. Is it
marked on the maps?’
‘It is on some,’ replied the
old man laconically. ‘It’s not easy to find.’
A shrug. ‘Who would want to?’
Merlin gave a little smile.
‘Who indeed?’ He was certain the old man knew why he was here.
‘You live alone?’
‘There are no other people
here, if that’s what you mean. But I am not alone. I have Robbie.’ He indicated
the Labrador.
‘Are you never lonely?’
‘Loneliness is a state of mind.’
‘Even so, isn’t it strange
never to hear the voice of another human being? It’s so quiet here.’
The old man smiled. ‘You
wouldn’t say that if you were here in an autumn gale, or in the winter, when
the rollers crash at the foot of the cliffs. As for voices, there are many on
the island – the wind, the sea, the birds and animals, and of course Robbie
here. And then there are other voices . . . ’ The old man drifted away on the
tide of his memories.
‘Other voices?’ repeated Merlin curiously.
‘Voices from the past. But I
don’t deny it, there are times when I long to hear a human voice – once or
twice a year, perhaps – and then I’m off to the mainland.’
‘This is your island?’
‘It has been in my family for
centuries. Once it was the subject of much gossip and speculation but that was
long ago. Now no one remembers us; they have forgotten we exist. No one tells
the old stories any more.’
‘What kind of stories?’
The old man lifted the kettle
from the hob and poured Merlin a mug of a dark coloured brew that might have
been tea, though by its smell it was clearly something else. He sipped it
cautiously. It tasted of the sea.
‘A thousand years ago, or so they say, this
island was ruled by a great king, the greatest that ever lived. Here he built a
castle surrounded by a wide moat, with walls a hundred feet high and fifty feet
thick, and turrets and towers so tall that their tops touched the clouds. At
full moon the king can still be seen riding a white horse at the head of his
knights – a hundred and fifty of them. The noise of their hooves on the
drawbridge is like thunder, and the sound of their voices unearthly, like
spirits from another world.’
Merlin leaned forward,
intrigued. ‘Have you ever seen them?’
‘I have seen the shadow of the
cliffs on the water at full moon, and the white foam horses galloping across
the ocean. On stormy days I have seen the waves reach up their turrets to the
sky. On calm days, when the sea gulls float and dive, I have listened to them
talking of other places and other times. “I could tell a tale!” they cry. “Such
a tale! Such a tale!”’ The old man chuckled. ‘Have I seen the spirits? Indeed I
have.’
Merlin was confused. ‘Yet you
seem to be saying that all these stories have a
reaching out into the sea. Ravaged by wind and ocean, the island was flat and
featureless, with here and there – the only touch of colour – a ragged clump of
purple heather. Tall wild grass grew everywhere, cowering from the westerly
gales that blew the year round. The sandy beaches, ribbed by wind and tide,
were stalked by long-legged birds in search of food. As Merlin tramped across
the fields, seagulls floated above him, greeting him with doleful cries. It was
a desolate place this, he thought, but with its own sombre beauty.
The old man showed no surprise
when Merlin entered, greeting him courteously.
‘I am glad to see you,’ said Merlin.
On either side of the open
fire were the only seats in the room, two Windsor chairs, one empty, the other
occupied by the old man. At his feet a black Labrador slumbered. Merlin sat in
the vacant chair. ‘I imagine you have few visitors,’ he said, to get the
conversation going.
‘None. None but you.’
The Labrador uttered something
between a sigh and a groan. Without moving his head, he opened his eyes and
contemplated Merlin, then, apparently satisfied with what he saw, closed them
again.
Merlin tried once more. ‘This island. Is it
marked on the maps?’
‘It is on some,’ replied the
old man laconically. ‘It’s not easy to find.’
A shrug. ‘Who would want to?’
Merlin gave a little smile.
‘Who indeed?’ He was certain the old man knew why he was here.
‘You live alone?’
‘There are no other people
here, if that’s what you mean. But I am not alone. I have Robbie.’ He indicated
the Labrador.
‘Are you never lonely?’
‘Loneliness is a state of mind.’
‘Even so, isn’t it strange
never to hear the voice of another human being? It’s so quiet here.’
The old man smiled. ‘You
wouldn’t say that if you were here in an autumn gale, or in the winter, when
the rollers crash at the foot of the cliffs. As for voices, there are many on
the island – the wind, the sea, the birds and animals, and of course Robbie
here. And then there are other voices . . . ’ The old man drifted away on the
tide of his memories.
‘Other voices?’ repeated Merlin curiously.
‘Voices from the past. But I
don’t deny it, there are times when I long to hear a human voice – once or
twice a year, perhaps – and then I’m off to the mainland.’
‘This is your island?’
‘It has been in my family for
centuries. Once it was the subject of much gossip and speculation but that was
long ago. Now no one remembers us; they have forgotten we exist. No one tells
the old stories any more.’
‘What kind of stories?’
The old man lifted the kettle
from the hob and poured Merlin a mug of a dark coloured brew that might have
been tea, though by its smell it was clearly something else. He sipped it
cautiously. It tasted of the sea.
‘A thousand years ago, or so they say, this
island was ruled by a great king, the greatest that ever lived. Here he built a
castle surrounded by a wide moat, with walls a hundred feet high and fifty feet
thick, and turrets and towers so tall that their tops touched the clouds. At
full moon the king can still be seen riding a white horse at the head of his
knights – a hundred and fifty of them. The noise of their hooves on the
drawbridge is like thunder, and the sound of their voices unearthly, like
spirits from another world.’
Merlin leaned forward,
intrigued. ‘Have you ever seen them?’
‘I have seen the shadow of the
cliffs on the water at full moon, and the white foam horses galloping across
the ocean. On stormy days I have seen the waves reach up their turrets to the
sky. On calm days, when the sea gulls float and dive, I have listened to them
talking of other places and other times. “I could tell a tale!” they cry. “Such
a tale! Such a tale!”’ The old man chuckled. ‘Have I seen the spirits? Indeed I
have.’
Merlin was confused. ‘Yet you
seem to be saying that all these stories have a
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