The Last Bard, Page 2

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  The next morning I awoke early and started preparing for the climb, which in my case mainly involved pouring tea and breakfast down my neck. My kit was already squared away and ready to go. As I sat in the crisp early morning air, I remembered the story the old man had told me.

  In the thirteenth century, King Edward had sent his soldiers into Wales, subjugating the country, bringing it under the royal heel to be crushed. He described the burnings, the rape, the full ugliness of medieval warfare laid bare. But he especially described one thing. The murder of the Bards, the keepers of knowledge, killed so they couldn’t raise the people against the invaders. As much wise men or Shaman as poets, with phenomenal memories, they could start or stop a war with a poem or story, set fire to men’s hearts and minds…

  I looked up at the mountain towering above me, the top wreathed in cloud, looking like candyfloss from where I sat. I knew it would be cold up there. I finished my tea, and lit the first cigarette of the day, sucking the smoke greedily. I realised I didn’t have a hangover, which made me smile. Must have been the mountain air; I’d drunk enough to sink a battleship. And I remembered more of the story, told through a haze of pipe and cigarette smoke in the pub.

  The last surviving Bard had been pursued across country by the English soldiers, right to the heart of Snowdonia, and he had climbed to escape their horses. He told me of the man’s desperation and fear, and how he had followed his instinct to run for high ground. His scramble up the mountainside, loose stone making his path, the breath ragged in his throat, fingers and knees raw and bloody from the ascent…

  I looked at the mountain and wondered what it would be like, measuring life in hours and minutes rather than years. What it would be like to run free on the slopes.

  The Bard had been closely pressed by the soldiers, wounded by an arrow or crossbow bolt and losing blood. How he had reached as high as he could, and turned at bay. The soldiers had tightened around him, scenting the kill as he held his useless right arm to his side. And finally, how he had screamed his defiance into their faces, a keening cry of death and defiance, and turned and ran into nothing…

  I thought about that for a while, still looking above at the slopes and crags. To make that choice, and find the courage to follow it through was something I found hard to relate to, but at the same time there was a part of me that screamed along with him, something that thrilled at the thought of chaos and battle.

  How he had fallen, silent now, to earth. Or rather, not to earth, for before he struck the rocks below he had changed form using the old magic, the power of his words, became a hawk, and swooped away to safety…never to be seen again.

  Or so the old man claimed.

  The last Bard had died on this mountain, I decided. The population had never really risen, not in the way the English feared, although the resistance went on for a while. But then, the culture never really died out, either. Somehow it had stayed alive, in the hills and valleys, never to be killed off. And I stood there for a while and wondered about the old man’s story.

  We set off up the Pyg Track at about nine am. It was early September, and we wanted to make the most of the light. The cloud cap had shrunk somewhat, but was clinging stubbornly to the peak above us. I fell into a steady rhythm, walking at a pace I knew I could maintain all day if I had to, no matter what the terrain. As I walked I thought about the night before, how the story had taken me in the pub, and about the story the old man had told me in return. He told it well, but without theatre, almost relating a history rather than an imaginary tale. But in his eyes I could see it was also very personal, that when he described the desolation left by the invaders it was almost like he had seen it himself. When the tale was done, he knocked out his pipe in the ashtray. ‘Do you know the word Cyfarwydd?’ I told him that, sadly, I didn’t speak Welsh. ‘It means "The One Who Knows". It’s what professional storytellers were called, many years ago.’ With that he rose and shook my hand again. ‘Go safely, Bach, maybe I’ll see you on the mountain tomorrow.’ I didn’t see him leave, as my friends were trying to drag me towards more beer.

  As we got to the first Col, my friends were starting to feel the effects of the beer they’d drunk the night before. For some reason I still felt fine, in fact if anything, better than I had when we started out. My head was clear, and when I’d looked in the mirror that morning my eyes had been brighter than in many a month. The mountain air tasted sweet and clean, and I felt a kind of spiritual peace that was completely new to me. I made a decision based on the old man’s advice of the night before, and started to move away from my friends, after explaining that I was pushing on while they rested. They agreed, dropping their bags, and I pressed ahead. Within a hundred yards I had started to jog. It felt incredible; I could hardly feel the weight of my pack, albeit light, only containing essentials, and again I fell into a kind of rhythm with the mountain. It was as if we were breathing in time, somehow symbiotic. The magic of the place began to flow into me, and soon my companions were falling far behind me. The exhilaration was better than any drug I’d ever tried. I didn’t even stop when I hit the mist, although I’d never been up Snowdon before. I did slow down, however, as I was still some way from the summit, and couldn’t see more than ten yards. The path had levelled out, and I’d run some way, when I saw the first people in what seemed like forever. I slowed to speak to them. It was a party of about ten, all in new climbing gear, and all about retirement age. They were heading back towards me, and explained that the path ahead disintegrated into rough scree, and that they didn’t fancy trying to cross it, but that ‘a fit young man’ like myself would be fine. I smiled politely at the compliment, and thanked them, wished them well and ran on, feeling like I could fly over the obstacles ahead. I very nearly did, in a way.

  I was running, nothing but the song of the mountain in my mind, having probably the most profound spiritual experience of my life, just me, the mist and nothing else. No sound but the crunch of my boots and my breathing, when I heard a voice that brought me sliding to a halt. It was female and very loud in my head. Just one word; my name. My feet nearly went out from under me; I stopped so hard, for the voice was urgent and full of warning. As I stopped, I kicked a stone. My eyes were drawn to it, or rather, where I thought it should be. There was nothing there. I paused for a second, and shut my eyes, then opened them again. Very carefully, I knelt down. There was literally nothing there. I was standing six inches from the edge of what appeared to be a mineshaft, although it could have been natural, so irregular was its shape. I swallowed hard, all of a sudden aware of my heartbeat racing. I picked up another stone, and dropped it in. It rattled off the sides for a few seconds, then nothing. I never heard it hit the bottom. Standing again, I measured the hole with my eyes. It was about six feet in width; right across what I had thought was the path. Lengthways, it was probably about four feet further than I could’ve jumped, had I seen it and been ready. I stood for two minutes, listening to the silence. Then, for no reason I could fathom, I said ‘Thank you’ in a normal tone, surprised to note that there was no shake in my voice. Then, as naturally as breathing, I turned and ran back the way I had come.

  It took me two hours to run to the top of Snowdon, including my little side trip. When I got there, jogging up the last slope, my feet kicking loose stone away behind me, I was seized by the urge to keep going, to run on forever. But I reined it in, and instead looked in dismay at the top of the mountain, at the bar that stood there serving coffee and beer to tourists who’d taken the railway up the mountain. It made me angry, I suppose, but sad more than anything else, for they would never feel what I had, and I pitied them. I stayed away from the cairn that marked the summit, stayed away from all of them, and instead stood to one side, just feeling the blood run in my veins, the sweat cooling my skin under my clothes. The mist was still in, heavy and thick here, and I could see nothing of the world below, almost to the point where it no longer existed. But I stood, because there was someth
ing I needed to wait for. Then, so quick that I doubt anyone else saw, the mist opened, and I saw the valley below down a cloud tunnel, green grass, grey slate and blue water frozen forever in my mind, burned into my memory sharper than any photograph, and in the centre of the tunnel, speeding towards me, a black speck that grew larger until it was a hawk that flashed over my head and disappeared behind me.

  I didn’t turn, even when I heard his footsteps. ‘So now you understand, bach.’ Again, it was a statement, not a question. I nodded, catching a hint of pipe tobacco on the breeze. He came and stood next to me, and I looked down at the profile of his face as he nodded with me. ‘I think you do. You have the magic, for that’s what stories truly are. Use them well, and never forget where you come from.’ He turned away. ‘And now, I must go. Your friends are a way behind you, but they won’t be long. Be well, friend.’ I stayed where I was and listened to his footsteps recede.

  Presently a hawk skimmed past my shoulder, and I caught one last glimpse of the valley as the clouds parted in his wake.

  The End (for now…)

  Authors Note