Becoming P.T. Lyfantod - 51
A serial fantasy novel
What follows is Part 51 of Becoming P.T. Lyfantod
If you missed Part 1, start there:
By my eighth stone—including a vaguely recognizable gargoyle affixed to the wall—I began to worry that I would get my wish. Iain was over at the far end of the room, scrutinizing a placard. Tom and Merry were whispering in the gallery above, and Stuart was off by himself, frowning at a scrap of folded paper. We were alone except for a father and his young daughter, and the elderly docent, busying himself straightening pamphlets on the rack under the stairs.
Iain turned and found me looking. He shook his head. Tom and Merry sounded like they were arguing. When Stuart looked up from his paper and saw me watching, there was a look of indecision on his face. He glanced at Iain, then back down at the paper in his hands. He took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and strode across the room.
Stuart, what are you doing? I looked at Iain, who frowned and shrugged.
Stuart stopped behind the docent and cleared his throat. “Em—excuse me.”
The old man started, and shuffled round to face him. “Yes? How can I help you?”
Stuart held up his scrap of paper, and my heart tremored as I realized what it was. “Our teacher sent us on a…” his eyes flicked towards me, “…a historical scavenger hunt.” We figured out that we’re looking for a stone like the ones here, but we’ve gotten stuck. I was wondering if these clues meant anything to you?”
As the docent reached for Stuart’s paper, was of half a mind to sprint over and snatch it away, but hesitation cost me the chance.
“A riddle, is it? Well, let’s have a look.” A wrinkled hand fished in a breast pocket for a pair of reading glasses. Thus accoutered, the elderly gentleman turned his gaze downward, blinking his eyes into focus, and mouthing words as he read. The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement, and he snorted softly through his nose. “Oh yes, very good. Very clever.” When he was finished, he looked up at Stuart and smiled. “Your teacher. Fond of local history, is she?”
Across the room, Iain’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair, and there was a gasp from above. I looked up to find Merry at the railing.
“Err—he,” Stuart corrected.
“I haven’t quite figured out the whole thing,” the docent admitted, angling the paper so they could both see. He tapped a line with his forefinger. “The first clue is ‘Earl’s Land.’ Tir Iarll, as of course you already know—”
Stuart shook his head. “No! What is it?”
“Why—that’s here! Margam! Along with Cynffig, Betws, and Llangynwyd. It was the name of a cwmwd, in medieval times. And cellar house, that’s Ty’ n y Selar. Funny seeing it written out in English. It’s an old farm, not far from here. So named because it was originally owned by the cellarer of Margam Abbey, right out there.” He nodded toward the church, visible through the window.
“Oh,” Stuart breathed. “I had no idea…”
“But—how did you get this far,” his voice was thick with consternation, “if you hadn’t figured it out?”
“We just knew we were looking for a stone. This was the only stones museum I knew of.”
“Surely one of you—” He scanned our faces, scattered around the room, receiving one head shake after another. He snorted. “Well, it seems the heavens are smiling on you then, because you’ve stumbled into the right place.”
“You mean—it’s here?” blurted Merry.
“No. See here. Illtud the Knight. You know who he is?”
Stuart nodded. “A famous saint from Glamorgan. The stone’s got something to do with him, right?”
“Not directly. Mind you, I wouldn’t have understood this clue if I hadn’t already figured out which stone you were looking for, but it does make a kind of sense. It says, ‘With wisdom of Illtud the Knight.’ Hmm? Tell me, who is the beneficiary of a man’s wisdom?”
Stuart’s brows furrowed and the old man, clearly enjoying himself, looked to the rest of us.
“His student!”
He smiled upwards. Not at any of us, but at the little girl who’d come in with her father, now standing a few feet from Merry and Tom. “Young lady’s got the right of it.” Seeing his audience had grown, he raised his voice to carry. “Now, seeing as he was the founder of a school, Saint Illtud had a great many students, some of them quite famous—”
“Like Saint David,” Stuart supplied.
“Wait, really?” whispered Tom to Merry.
“Yes, indeed,” the docent agreed. “But in this case, the student referred to is one Samson of Dol.”
“Was he a saint as well?” I asked.
“Yes. And grandson of a local king as well, though the name escapes me presently.”
“Saintly arm and kingly hand…” Stuart murmured.
“This bit about Caer Lleon and Afallon. I can’t say as that means anything to me. Something to do with Samson’s genealogy, I imagine. But as for your thirsty stone—I know exactly where it is.”
“But why thirsty?” asked Iain, coming to stand beside Stuart.
“Well, the why of it’s a mystery to me, but it’s what they say round here. Every year on Christmas morning, before the cock crows, the stone walks to the sea for a drink. It’s also supposed to be fond of a quiet pint down at the pub now and again,” he winked. “Just don’t get in the way if you see it coming. Terrible luck, that. Aside from the obvious danger of getting run over.”
“It says the stone was ‘sent aflight…’” Merry said.
“Story has it Samson threw the stone to its current location. From the Pound, a spot which used to be right out there on Margam Road, where the roundabout crosses the motorway.”
“And… where is the stone now?” I asked.
“Why—not more than two or three miles down the road, just past Eglwys Nunydd. Sits in the middle of a field, a stone’s throw from the M4 and an old railway crossing. Maybe ten minutes by car.”
Tom and Merry were just arriving at the bottom of the stairs to join the rest of us. “Thank you so much,” said Merry breathlessly. “Um…”
“David,” he smiled. “And you’re very welcome.”
