Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 22
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 22 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
She passed back the torch as I handed her the Book. “What am I looking at?”
I’d opened it to the entry on Cyril Lightfoot and held the light up so she could read. She pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose, but her eyes began to scan the page. She was silent for over a minute. Eventually she closed the Book and handed it back. “You know my parents are Christian, right?”
I blinked. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“They’re members of Yr Eglwys yng Nghymru. We’ve been going to St. James’ Church every Sunday for as long as I can remember.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Two summers ago, we took a trip to visit Canterbury Cathedral. Have you seen it?”
I shook my head.
“It’s one of the most famous churches in the UK. It’s beautiful. Big and old and full of history. Every detail’s been considered. The walls, the windows, the ceilings so high you can hardly believe. The air smells of candles and incense, and people’s voices echo in this way they don’t anywhere else. Being there was the first time I understood what awe was supposed to mean. You feel small, but not in a bad way. I imagine it’s how people used to feel looking up at the stars, before city lights made it impossible to see them. What they’d tell you, I think, is they built that church to honor God. They call it His house. And when you’re there, you’re supposed to feel closer to Him. And…when I was there, almost overwhelmed by that feeling, d’you know what I realized?”
“What?”
“It was all built by people.”
I frowned, not understanding.
“My parents brought me there to strengthen my faith. But that was where I lost it. That was where I realized it wasn’t God at all. People built that church. And at home, back at St. James’, whenever I felt those religious feelings, it wasn’t God. It was the other churchgoers.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
She nodded out at the water. “Whatever you’re looking for out here, you’re not going to find it. There’s no such thing as magic weapons, song-spells, or Fomorians. It’s fun to pretend, but that’s all it is, P.T. Even if you do find this stone…it’s something made by people. And the sooner you accept that, the better.”
I gazed out at the water too. “Maybe you’re right. I guess…I want to believe there’s more to the world than we can see.”
Merry nodded. “Me too.” She sounded mournful when she said it. The two of us stood in silence for a time. I was glad to be talking to Merry again, even though I was troubled by what she said. But…
“What if you’re wrong?” I asked.
She looked at me.
“About magic. About all that stuff.”
She shook her head. “There’s no evidence and never has been.”
“Just because you haven’t seen the evidence, that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“Well, until I do…”
“I guess we know what we need to do then. Don’t we?”
“What?”
I held up the Book. “We need to find the first standing stone of Cyril Lightfoot!”
Merry smiled. “You need to think of a better strategy, because I’d say your chances are pretty low at the moment. If the stone were around here, I’m pretty sure someone would have found it by now.”
I sighed, my enthusiasm waning. “Yeah. This is kind of a waste of time.”
Merry tilted her head. “D’you…do you hear something?”
That was when I noticed the croaking. “That’s frogs, isn’t it?”
“Frogs?”
“Or toads. I mean—”
“When have you ever heard frogs do that?”
“I guess they’re a little loud…”
“A little loud? P.T., I’ve never—”
Tom screamed.
We knew it was Tom because seconds later he came scrambling out of the bushes trailed by hopping frogs and toads of every size, croaking and chirping at his heels.
“What did you do?” Merry cried.
“What the hell is this?” Tom wailed, sprinting past us towards one of the densest areas of brush. Branches snapped and crackled as he barreled on, squealing, and the frogs came hopping after. Seconds later, there came an audible thud, followed by an abrupt silence.
“Tom?” called Merry nervously.
There was no reply.
We heard movement in the bushes, but it wasn’t Tom who reemerged. It was all the frogs and toads, all eerily quiet. Merry made an inarticulate sound and shuffled backwards, though they came nowhere near her. One of the largest, roughly the size of a rugby ball, jumped onto my foot and let out a loud frooooaaaak, before splashing into the water after his brethren. By the time I remembered to shriek, they were gone.
I looked up at the sound of rustling leaves expecting to see Tom and was surprised to find Iain and Stuart instead, thoroughly disheveled.
“What happened?” gasped Iain. “We heard screams.”
I’d opened my mouth to answer when Tom called out from somewhere in the brush.
“Tom?” Merry yelled. “Are you all right?”
“I—I think I’ve found something!”
Merry and I stared at one another then ran into the bushes after him.
