He lay back on his straw palliasse and stared up at the thatch ceiling, focusing his mind on recent events. Last night something had happened. He knew it was important, and yet it was not something on which his mind wished to focus. It was as if some part of him was trying to rub out the picture while another part was repainting it.
"It's power," he muttered aloud. "It's to do with power." Then he remembered.
• • •
He had been dozing after a late supper in the warm and smoky room. All day he had been gathering the dry, golden hay Old Mary used as winter-feed for the cow. His arms ached, but he felt content with his day's work.
"What did you say about power?" John asked, suddenly alert.
"I said you will have power some day," Old Mary answered.
"What sort of power?"
"You are special, like me. You will come to know all things when the hour is right."
She had said it before. Always the same response: "When you are older," and "When the hour is right." Most of the time he did not understand what the old woman was talking about, but she was kind to him, and her Wessex home had been his refuge for many weeks. He looked closely at her as she slowly crushed herbs in a smooth wooden bowl. She was very old, yet still a large woman, with big hands, a prominent nose and deep, black eyes. Her hair was silvery white and was worn in a plait that hung on one side of her head and reached down to her waist.
She was so old that the boy wondered how many more years she might live, for without her he would be homeless again. Perhaps, if she lived another few years, he would be able to look after himself. She might even leave the cottage to him. Immediately, he was ashamed of his thoughts and hoped she would live forever. As he looked at her, she turned to him and smiled.
"I shall not live forever," she said. "Not in this form. But you will carry on the power, as will your children."
The boy felt his face burning with embarrassment. Could she read his mind? Did she really have power? It did not make sense.
"If I am to have this power, why am I no different to other boys?"
"You are different, but just as small plants look much the same, so you seem like other young men. When you are older the difference will be clear, even to you."
Her smile deepened. He was just as she had known he would be: strong and healthy, with a keen eye for detail and a questioning mind. Although he was only about fifteen years old, he was already taller than other boys of his age and could stand up for himself. He had wavy, black hair and dark eyes and his high cheekbones and well-proportioned mouth gave him an aristocratic appearance that marked him out from the other boys in the area. It did not appear to worry him that his new friends in the village said that the woman he lived with was a witch.
He found himself gazing into her bright, twinkling eyes and had a brief vision of himself: he was standing in a field of flowers holding a long sword in both hands. The sword gleamed in the hot sun with a strange light, and there was something large and black on the ground. As his attention was drawn to this thing, the picture blurred as when wind blows the surface of a pool.
"What did you see?" she asked.
"Nothing." He shrugged. "I saw nothing. I was just thinking of something." The experience had unnerved him. "You once said this power was all around." He now spoke aggressively to cover his confusion. "You said a person only had to look and he could possess it. Why can't others possess it too?"
"Only some are chosen." She moved towards the open door and contemplated the early evening sky. The west was ablaze in fiery light. The sun's last rays coloured the high clouds in reds, yellows and blues, which merged with the deeper mauve of night. It was warm and the air was still, and the isolation of the thatched cottage was increased by a total absence of sound.
The Power in the Dark - Prologue + Chapters 1 & 2
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