of Athelgar dispersed it like a mist.
‘Oh, no!’ said Lyn delightedly, still giggling.
Fran sat there, very still: the towel’s dampness clutched against her chest. She’d spoken with a ghost, the other week. A solid phantom, trapped in time; still wandering those half-forgotten roads. He’d called on her to follow him – and she had said she’d come.
Jesus, Fran: what were you thinking of?
So what if Lyn had just acquired a boyfriend? So what, if it was Fran’s turn to be eased politely out? Such things seemed almost trifling now. The world through which she walked had been upturned.
How could he have reached her from a thousand years ago, to warm her carefree heart on Heaven’s Field?
Swallowing, she stood and padded through into the kitchen. Her mouth was very dry, she needed something to drink. She poured herself some fruit juice from the fridge, still listening to Lyn with half an ear. Her jealousy, still vague, was of a different order now. An envy of her friend’s unclouded sky.
Turning round, she took a sip. The Tropical Mix was cool and sweet; but it went down quickly, leaving her still dry. Moodily, she wiped her mouth; then stiffened. The calendar had caught her eye, hung up beside the pinboard. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly crossed the room. The lino seemed to cling to her bare feet.
There were neatly written notes beside some of the dates. Dentist 9:15 … Piano recital … Mummy (49). The memos barely registered. She craned in closer, looking for some printed information. Some indication of the next full moon.
But there was nothing.
She straightened up, and felt her heartbeat throbbing. She’d put this off for long enough, but still she wasn’t sure if she was ready. There’d be no turning back, she knew that. As soon as she learned the date, she’d be committed. Back on the road to meet her ghost again.
Athelgar. A man long lost. She felt her fine hairs rising.
It had taken her until yesterday to start some cautious digging. She’d waited for Lyn to take a break from her books, then idly broached the subject: hoping it sounded casual enough.
‘Do you know of any battles fought on Salisbury Plain?’ she’d asked.
Lyn finished stretching. ‘What, in Roman times, or … ?’
‘Whenever.’
Lyn had thought it over. ‘Edington’s the only really famous one, I think. That was in 878. There are legends about others. There’s even something in Malory about King Arthur’s final battle being fought there.’
‘But Edington was King Alfred?’
‘Mm. They’re not exactly sure where it took place, but Edington’s the likeliest contender. The Chronicle calls it Ethandun – the Waste Down.’
Fran blinked as she absorbed the blow, but kept her pale face straight. Lyn hadn’t noticed. The topic dropped, and Fran had let it lie. But now it had started nagging her again. Still nursing her cold glass, she went back into the living room. Lyn caught her eye, and waved, as if to say I won’t be long. Fran grinned and gestured back at her. No hurry …
Out of sight of the doorway, her bright face faded; she went quickly to Lyn’s desk. The top was strewn with papers, books lined up against the wall. There was a photo of her parents in a polished silver frame; a snapshot of her brother, too, propped up against the lamp. And a compact desktop calendar.
Still nothing on the phases of the moon.
Not sure if she should feel relieved, she drifted back, and over to the bookcase; too restive to sit down again and wait. Lyn had mentioned a reference in ‘the Chronicle’; and there was the The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, just waiting to be read. She set her glass aside, and pulled it out: a dog-eared paperback. Flicking slowly through, she found the entry dated 878. Edington was over in a sentence.
Our work was red and filthy: that’s what Athelgar had said. A voice from the past, addressed to her alone. The memory of someone who had fought there. Fran shook her head, quite giddy with the thought. Nobody on earth had heard what she had.
So what had it been like? Not bloodless like this dry account, she guessed that much. The fight would have been savage – full of swords and spears and axes. Medieval warfare; mud and guts.
It is no road for one like you to walk.
She gave a faint grimace, and tracked her gaze along the books. There was another, hardback version, with a musty-looking spine. Curious to compare the two, she took that down as well – and found that this one wasn’t a translation.
Typeset though it was, the text was meaningless to her. Weird, distorted letters mixed with modem ones throughout. The words were like a thorny hedge: impassable, entangling. But she picked her way through them to 878, and found what she was looking for again.
Eandune
Studying the word, she sensed the distant past draw nearer. The man she’d met would write the name like that. This was his dead language, still alive inside his head. Still roughening the form of modern English that he’d learned.
She was just about to close the book when her grazing eye was snagged by something else.
ræfen
She felt her heart leap up. Her mouth was powder-dry again, but the drink she’d set aside was quite forgotten. She focused on the sentence (elusive as a snake amid the brambles), and mouthed the alien words as she read through them.
Dar wæs se gudfana genumen de hi ræfen heton
Heart thudding, she turned back to the translation. It touched upon another, unnamed battle: still months before that victory of Alfred’s in the spring. The English were outnumbered, with their backs against the wall – yet suddenly the war was turned around. A force of the invaders had been set upon and killed.
And there was captured the banner which men call Raven
‘I never knew you were so interested,’ Lyn said brightly from the doorway.
Fran almost jumped; then glanced at her, and shrugged. ‘Something about the Plain, I think. It brings the past much closer … She hesitated. ‘Do you know what this bit means … about the banner called Raven?’
‘It was an emblem that the Vikings had; it led them into battle.’ Coming across, she leaned in close and nodded. ‘Yeah … It was one of the things that damaged their morale, the English capturing it. Hang on, there might be something in Brewer’s about it.’
She selected a fat paperback, and started leafing through it. The Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, according to the cover. Fran stood beside her, waiting; feeling hollow.
‘You can browse through this for hours,’ Lyn said; ‘dig up all sorts of gems. Raven, here we are … yes, look.’ She passed it across. Fran looked, and read.
The fatal raven, consecrated to Odin the Danish war-god, was the emblem
