Our Ancestors’ Gifts

The second in the series of short story character studies for Her Borrowed Grave.

A hand-painted image of St Devan, George Maskell's monster-hunting ancestor.

Our Ancestors' Gifts

“Do you think that this ring makes me a target?” George asked. “I mean, those biker-cultist-whatever people, are hunting them.”

Casper lay on the blanket that George had spread over the oxblood leather sofa (a three-piece suite bought for a song at auction). He looked up and woofed.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” George scratched the ears of his chocolate Labrador. “You’ll protect me.”

With one hand occupied fussing Casper’s ears, his other thumb stroked the band of his signet ring. The worn scale pattern was familiar under his touch. As a kid, he’d pretended they were dragon scales. He used to day-dream of being St George killing the beast.

It hadn’t even been meant for him, not according to Papa. But, to the surprise of the whole family, when he was eight years old, Arthur Clarence George St Devan^* Maskell assumed the Wardship of Saint Devan’s^** Spear. The ring and spear were inherited together.

*Pronounced Sen-Deen because the lesser Gentry distinguishes themselves from the plebs by inventing odd ways to say their names.

**Pronounced Saint Devan, because no one ever accused English of consistency

George had planned to follow in his saintly ancestor’s footsteps as a monster hunter.

***

St Devan gathered his trusted spear,

His gallant steed and sturdy shield.

He bound his oath on cross and steel

Ne’er more to return till battle’s done

And he’d freed the land from monstrous spite

***

Whispers carried on the night winds, calling Arthur from his dream of slaying dragons. Fingers of light from the full moon poked around the edges of his Hogwarts Curtains. Shadows slid over the walls, as a slight breeze from the open window wafted the curtains.

The call came again. This time he was awake. He jerked upright and stared around his dark room, with wide, white eyes. He tucked his duvet up to his shoulders, ready to burrow under the covers. Teddy curled up against his side, always ready to fight his monsters.

“Arthur, come to me.” That wasn’t a voice he had heard before. It welcomed, but commanded. Arthur knew about commands. They had to be obeyed.

He flung back the covers and slid his feet into his slippers, the way nanny insisted. The shadows danced again. Arthur grasped the edge of his duvet, prepared to dive into its safety.

“Arthur! Come at once!” The voice had a sharp edge to it.

With a shaking hand, he collected Teddy and skittered to the door. In the hall, night lights set at skirting board level, let him see his way. He pulled the door shut and crept towards the stairs. He’d get a thrashing if anyone caught him out here.

Unusual silence filled the house. Not even his parents’ raised voices. It must be late enough that Papa and Mama had gone to their separate beds.

“I’m here, Arthur.” The voice sliced through the shadows. “Waiting.”

The tone held the impression of impatient tapping feet. Arthur crept to the top of the stairs.

On the wall, the Spear of St Devan glinted, as light from the full moon arrowed through the glass lantern lights set in the roof above the stairs. The spear sliced the moonbeam into fragments, which danced over the brass stair rods holding the carpet in place.

Arthur skipped down the stairs. Almost in a dream, he placed Teddy on the fourth step and reached for the spear’s shaft. The horse from the Maskell Coat of Arms galloped around the brass socket of the spear. The smooth wood caressed his fingers. The spear fell away from its mountings, as if expecting him. Arthur staggered back, clutching the spear to his chest. It towered over his head.

***

From sun-pressed bronze the spear head formed

The shaft made with oak from the oldest woods

And on the socket the maker carved

A galloping horse with tousled mane.

***

Carrying the six-foot spear over his four-and-a-bit-foot shoulder, Arthur continued down the stairs. Almost as if the spear had told him, he knew where to go next. He unlocked the bolt on the back door, near the kitchen, and used one of the benches to reached the hook where the key was kept.

No longer afraid, he entered the night. He’d never been out this late before. The moon slanted towards the horizon. Wisps of clouds scudded across the stars, in a hurry to reach morning.

On the south walk, Arthur gripped the spear and attacked the topiary, as if it was a coiled snake. But this wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He trotted down the steps into the garden.

Still holding the spear en guard, he grinned as he slashed at his mother’s standard roses, and the beech hedge that shielded noble eyes from the prosaic vegetable garden. He halted when his footsteps took him towards the path through the Home Wood. Planting the spear, he stared at the trees cocooning the track.

He wasn’t supposed to go in there alone.

He shrugged. It would mean another boxed ear. In September, he was going to school, two more weeks, and then Papa would only get to punish him in the holidays. He was sure they only wrote lines as punishment at school.

Lifting the spear to his shoulder again, he entered the wood.

***

For days he rode, and nights camped cold on hard ground.

Gaunt he grew and his charger tired, but still he rode as honour bound.

Ahead, he heard a mighty roar, a crash as stone came tumbling down

And there he saw a man-shaped beast

Which towered high over a sycamore grove.

***

The Giant’s stone stood on its own in a clearing. It marked the pride of the St-Devan-Maskells. How many other old families could claim that any of their ancestors had slain a monster? Even though it was supposed to be the giant lying in its death throws, the rock still stood twice the height of a grown man. Last summer, when he had been smaller, Arthur had paced out the length. It took 47 of his strides to reach from the feet to the head of the giant. Tired now and trailing the spear, Arthur walked towards the head of the giant.

That was where he was supposed to be.

“Arthur!” Papa stood waiting with his brother, Uncle George. “What’s Arthur doing here? It should be Oliver.”

Arthur shrank away. Of course it should be his big brother, Oliver. At eleven, he was starting at the boarding school too, but he would enter the big school, not the prep part where Arthur was enrolled.

Uncle George crouched to bring his head level with Arthur’s. “Why are you here?”

“Someone called me,” Arthur whispered, staring over his uncle’s shoulder, at where Papa was a volcano on the verge of eruption. “It woke me. I knew I had to bring the spear to the giant.”

“It seems the spear has chosen differently.” Uncle George straightened.

“But Arthur’s not old enough,” Papa spluttered. “It never calls it’s guardian before age eleven.”

“Probably, because you’re sending Arthur away to school at eight, the spear had to stake its claim early.”

Papa stared at Arthur. The boy clutched at the spear and kept his eyes on the ground. Silence crept over the woods. The sound of the owls stilled. Not even the trees rustled as the wind calmed.

Papa spun on his heel. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Uncle George held out a hand. “Come on, Arthur, we’ve got to do a little ritual. You have to be brave.”

“Like St Devan?” Arthur rested his free hand in his uncle’s.

“Just like him.”

***

He spurred his horse and forward rode,

Prayers formed within his heart.

A valiant cry and stalwart spear thrust to its heart.

The creature toppled to the earth, its hands clawed dirt,

Its mouth spew foam. Through the thrashing Devan held the spear

The creature stilled and turned to stone.

St Devan stayed where evil fell. His blood stayed faithful to his oath,

To ward the world ‘gainst its return.

And once more carry the spear to fight.

Semper Excubias.

***

Family legend waxed lyrical on St Devan’s fight with a giant. And how the Spear of St Devan and faithful prayers turned the monster into a vast boulder. His family vowed to watch against the return of the monster forever.

When Sir Henry had taken the ring from his adult finger and placed it on the child’s hand, the ring had fit perfectly. At no point did the band require adjusting. Not even as the boy grew into a man.

I’d forgotten that, George thought.

Then the family sent him to school. He learned that the Giant’s Rock was a glacial erratic, and that monsters belonged in fairy tales. Disillusioned, he grew up determined to write only the truth, an odd ambition for a journalist.

He gave the ring one last twist around his finger. His hand itched to clasp the smooth wood of the spear again. He should have brought St Devan’s Spear with him. After all, he was the guardian. Should he write to Papa and beg for forgiveness? That he’d failed to be the man Sir Henry wanted, an officer.

Next week. There was no hurry.

George uncurled from the sofa. Casper jumped down and raced him to the kitchen, His claws clattered on the vinyl flooring as he skidded to a halt at the cupboard where his food was stored.

“Dinner time, is it?” George rolled his eyes. Labradors were always starving.

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