went down into the brewery where he found his father next to a large wooden beer barrel. “Alfred!” He shouted. “Just in time, my boy. I was about to do a little taste test. I’ve got a new amber ale I want you to try.” Alfred’s father took great pride in his beer. It was part of what gave The Broken Spoke its charm, all house brewed cask ale. Alfred was lost in thought. He wandered out of the cellar, leaving his father to his brewing revelries and spent the rest of the day in a kind of a stupor. He helped his parents in the garden, milked the cows, fed the chickens and served in the inn at night.
Alfred was collecting mugs and pint glasses outside when he saw him. Old Mr. Cyning was sitting outside, as he had to nowadays, smoking his pipe. “How old is he now?” Alfred thought to himself. “He seemed ancient when I was a little kid.” Old Mr. Cyning was old indeed, probably the oldest member of the village of Carlisle. If you wanted to know anything about the history of Carlisle or Britain in general he was the man to ask. He could tell you stories about Alfred, Merlin, and Gildas; or about Churchill and the War. He noticed Alfred staring at him, took a big puff on his pipe, blew out a glorious smoke ring, tamped his pipe, placed it back between his teeth and said, “Bee in your bonnet, Alfred?”
“Just a bit distracted today, Mr. Cyning.”
“Yes, I heard you fell asleep out in the woods. Right next to fairy ring, if young Sammy’s eyes didn’t deceive her.”
“Oh, um, would mind not mentioning that to my mum. I was supposed to be collecting mushrooms for her soup—”
“Your mother makes a damn fine mushroom soup.”
“Yes, well I was supposed to be collecting mushrooms, but I must’ve fallen asleep and had a terrible dream. When I woke up I forgot all about the mushrooms and ran straight back home.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Cyning. Taking a long draw on his pipe, he closed his eyes. Alfred thought he had fallen asleep when suddenly he heard Mr. Cyning murmur, “And what was your dream about?”
“Um,” said Alfred nervously. “I can’t really remember, mushrooms I think. A-a talking mushroom.” Alfred did not want to say too much. He was not sure which frightened him more, the idea that people might here him, or that Mr. Cyning would believe him. Oliver Cyning was well known for believing the unbelievable. He had a reputation that inspired both a kind of reverence at the breadth of his knowledge and an incredulity at the things he found credulous, as Alfred well knew.
“Damn,” swore Mr. Cyning.
“Sorry?” Alfred replied.
“My pipe’s gone out. Can you see if your mum or dad have any matches I can borrow?”
“Sure,” said Alfred. Not at all unhappy to have the subject changed. Or so he thought at first. When Alfred returned with the matches Mr. Cyning was gone. Alfred could not help feeling a little let down. It would have been nice, as well as terrifying, to have Mr. Cyning believe he really saw a talking mushroom. Alfred thought back to those days as a child when he listened to and believed every word Mr. Cyning said. A small part of him missed those days.
That night, as Alfred drifted off to sleep he really did have a dream, but not about talking mushrooms. He was walking in Fey Forest when he saw the torches again. This time they were much clearer. He could hear the music as well. The music made him feel brave, but sad, as if he was meant to be the last defender of a dying cause. It gave him the kind of courage not to overcome insurmountable odds, but to be defeated with dignity and hope. The music was nothing, however, to the people he saw there. They were pure beauty: men and women, feasting, laughing, singing, drinking, looking as though the belonged to a medieval tapestry rather than the woods just outside a twenty-first century village. Their clothes were magnificent, bright blues and greens and golds, reds and yellows, no color seemed missing. Yet the clothes were not ostentatious, nor opulent. They were the colors of the woods themselves in early summer when everything was blossomed.
As Alfred drew nearer he found that he could not quite make out what they were saying. It seemed clear that they spoke English and yet the dream kept him from comprehension. Suddenly the scene changed. The lights of the beautiful people turned blue. Stern, determined looks washed over their merry faces. Weapons were drawn by men and women alike: bows and arrows, swords, clubs, knives, daggers, lances, axes. Horses appeared, as if commanded, but Alfred saw no one go for them or call for them. Some mounted, others remained standing and they went forward as if for battle. What happened next was a complete mystery for just as the enemy of the beautiful people was about to appear, Alfred awoke.
“Alfred, dear,” he could just discern his mother calling, “you said you would look for mushrooms again today.”
“Be right out, Mum,” he mumbled in reply.
Alfred splashed cold water on his face, dressed and went out into another misty morning. He took his time walking to forest. Whether it was because of the dream or being woken up suddenly he could not decide, but he left his headphones behind. Alfred stopped to look at the church as the sun was just beginning to rise over its steeple.
“Have I ever told the story of how this church was nearly burnt down?” said a familiar voice behind him.
“Mr. Cyning,” said Alfred both startled and relieved, “where did you go yesterday? When I came back to bring you your matches you had gone.”
“Hmm? Oh, I found some in my pocket and had a sudden urge to take a walk in the forest.”
“You did?”
“Yes, your story had me interested. I believe you told your mother there were no mushrooms, yes?”
“Yes,” Alfred said a little dejectedly. “I didn’t want her to think me mad for running scared out of the forest.”
“Mmhmm. Is that where you’re headed now?”
“It is. She really wants those mushrooms.”
“Would you mind if I joined you? I do like a good walk in the morning.”
“Sure,” Alfred replied, hoping for an opportunity to discuss his latest dream.
“You know,” Alfred said slowly, “I don’t think you have ever told me your version of what happened to St. Nicholas’s.”
“Oh! Well then, you are in for a treat.” Alfred only half-listened while he and Mr. Cyning walked closer to the woods. He thought he must be hearing him wrong, for when he would occasionally tune back in he heard words like goblins, trolls, feys. He thought Mr. Cyning must have started in on a fairy tale.
“No, Mr. Cyning,” Alfred said exasperatedly. “I mean the real story of what happened to the church.” However, as Alfred said this he turned and noticed that Mr. Cyning was no longer next to him. He found himself lost in a fog in the forest. “Now where did Mr. Cyning get to? Where did I get to, for that matter? It wasn’t this foggy when I got up this morning.” Alfred looked around but did not recognize where he was in the forest. He kept trudging forward, occasionally shouting “Mr. Cyning!” thinking the old man had gotten lost in the fog as well.
Alfred walked for what seemed hours, knowing that the right thing to do was to stay in one place and wait for the fog to clear but being unable to do so. It was as if something was drawing him further and further into the forest. Suddenly, as if a veil had been lifted, Alfred saw before him the torchlights, just as he had yesterday morning and in his dream. This time
