This story is by Chris Pye and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
The year is 1306. Legend has it that Robert ‘the Bruce’, erstwhile King of Scotland, was holed up in a derelict crofter’s bothy off the Scottish coast, defeated and dejected.
The story goes that the Bruce was on the verge of giving up his quest to retake Scotland from Edward I (‘Longshanks’) when he watched a spider fail six times to climb its silk thread. There and then, the Bruce vowed that should the spider make it to the top on its seventh attempt, he’d somehow gather his strength and return to the fight.
The spider made it to the top.
And so did the Bruce.
That’s the story he told everyone.
This is what really happened.
The hut’s thin, wooden door creaked open. Chilly fingers of wind curled into the gloomy interior.
Within the door frame stood a tall man, silhouetted against a wet, brooding sky and made larger by his damp, shaggy cloak. His hair was ragged and his confident, weathered face was streaked with blue paint. Below the man’s kilt, strong legs earthed themselves in heavy, deerskin boots.
A lonely candle fluttering on the grimy table revealed a young, bearded man huddled in the shadows on a low pallet. The old, coarse blanket he gripped to his throat failed to cover the studded, leather corselet of nobility; nor the man’s hand, resting on the well-notched sword by his side.
Unkempt, sallow and wary, the man on the pallet fixed the intruder with a sharp eye.
‘Shut the door!’ he snarled. ‘You’ll have the candle out.’
The big man closed the flimsy door against the wind and stepped into the room.
‘Aye so, Bruce,’ he said, looking down at the pallet. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? Robert. The Bruce?’
‘That I am,’ growled the bearded man from the shadows. ‘What of it?’
‘Och, don’t disturb yourself,’ said the man. ‘I’m the Big Seer, the soothsayer hereabouts. Cathbad. I heard you’d gone to ground in this wretched hole. I’ve come to take a look.’
‘Well, you’ve looked. Now go,’ said the Bruce hotly. ‘Leave me alone!’
Cathbad ignored the Bruce, shook himself and walked quietly over to the table, sitting down squarely on the only chair. Slowly, he studied the squalor; the worn-out straw littering the floor, the weak fire smoking in the stone hearth; and the dirty, disheveled man on the pallet, his back against the wooden wall, grim eyes rheumy from the chill air.
‘I can see you’re a bit disheartened, Robert,’ Cathbad said, offhandedly.
‘Disheartened!’ snapped the Bruce, clearing his throat. ‘You’ve no idea.’
‘Well, I have some idea,’ said the Seer, a slight taunt in his voice. ‘Longshanks beat you solidly at Methvan, right? So many left dead. And your castle, your queen, your brother – all lost. You, chased all over Scotland. Washed up in this miserable hut. So far, so sorry for yourself, eh?’
The Bruce’s eyes glowed angrily from his thin, beard-shrouded face.
‘Get out, before I kick you out.’
The two men locked eyes in the dim candlelight as wind breathed through the wooden walls, lightly disturbing the embers of the fire.
Cathbad smiled patiently. ‘Still have the spark, eh, Robert? That’s good. Very good. But you’ll never be kicking anyone out yet, with you like this. You need food for a start.’
The Seer drew a bannock loaf from inside his rough cloak and tossed it onto the pallet. Cheese and a leather flask followed. The Bruce grabbed the bread, grinding his teeth into the crust and chewed menacingly, his eyes never leaving Cathbad.
‘What do you want?’
‘Och. Kings. Never a thank you,’ said Cathbad calmly. ‘But I’ve more to offer you than bread, man. I told you. I’m the Seer. I’m here to tell your future, Robert. You who’d be King of Scotland.’
At this the Bruce brightened noticeably, a scruffy, starving dog offered a morsel.
‘Tell me!’ urged the Bruce from his pallet. ‘I need to know. Do I just die here? Should I take my sword to the Holy Land? Or is my path, somehow, to find my way back to the fight? Do your divination, Seer. Tell me!’
Cathbad remained silent for a long while, waiting behind an enigmatic smile.
The Bruce gave in. ‘How do you do it?’ he asked irritably.
‘My divination is very unusual,’ Cathbad replied, a little coyly. ‘I read the future through spiders.’
At this, a corner of the Bruce’s lip twitched.
‘Spiders?’ he said.
‘Aye, spiders. And the bigger the better. I’m sure there’ll be plenty for me to read in this filthy hovel.’
The Bruce looked away uncomfortably, twisting the corner of his blanket. He coughed coarsely into his hand.
‘What was that?’ asked Cathbad.
‘Spiders. Can’t stand them.’
‘Och. That doesn’t matter. I just need a few to read. Seven in fact. Seven fat ones.’
The Bruce and Cathbad locked eyes once more.
‘What?’ said Cathbad.
‘I’ve been killing them,’ said the Bruce in a small voice. ‘Ever since I got here.’
‘What?’ said Cathbad again, startled. ‘No. They’re harmless! Everyone around here likes spiders.’
‘Not me. Can’t stand them. Never have. I’m pretty sure I’ve killed them all.’
‘All?’
‘Well there was one down my neck last night that might have got away.’
‘I can’t believe it. No spiders!’ squawked Cathbad. ‘I need spiders if I’m to reveal your fate.’
‘What about fleas?’ said the Bruce, innocently. ‘Quite a few of those.’
‘Och. They’re not the same. Fleas tell lies!’
Cathbad regarded the Bruce as if he was an idiot. Regaining his composure, he sneered.
‘You want to be King of Scotland but can’t stand spiders?’
The Bruce hung his head. ‘Give me a man with a sword any day.’
Silence returned to the hut. Smoke curled in the hearth, soft rain muttered on the roof; and Robert the Bruce sat crestfallen against the wall.
Cathbad scratched his chin and began murmuring softly to himself, ‘No spiders, by Lugh. Still, it’s him. The Bruce. Only hope we have …’
‘Sorry,’ said the Bruce glumly, having tried and failed to listen in. ‘So that’s it, then? No spiders; no future.’
The Seer ignored him and continued muttering quietly to himself, ‘… somehow to lift his heart. Empower his spirit.’
He stopped suddenly. Raising his voice he exclaimed, ‘We need the dragon!’
With that, Cathbad stood and studied the room again. From inside his shaggy cloak he took a small pouch, tipping its contents onto the table. Red and purple mushrooms fell into a dried, curled-up jumble.
The Bruce peered over the wooden edge. ‘And those are, what?’
Cathbad continued to ignore the Bruce, intent on gathering the mushrooms into a little pile.
‘The lot,’ he sighed to himself. ‘Aye, the lot.’
From one corner of the room the Seer picked up a rock and began grinding the dried mushrooms on the table surface. Quite soon he had a pile of gritty powder which he scooped back into his bag.
‘Get off the floor, Robert!’ said Cathbad sternly, ‘Sit on the chair.’
The Bruce slowly rolled from his blanket and got belligerently to his feet; he wasn’t used to being ignored, or commanded. Nevertheless, he was inexplicably drawn to the chair, sitting down heavily.
‘Now what?’ he said, grumpily.
Cathbad went over to the hearth and blew, conjuring a modest flame and more smoke from the embers.
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ said the Bruce, extending his hands to the meagre heat. ‘Look, I said. I regret the spiders.’
Cathbad turned to the Bruce. ‘This will be better. Don’t move.’
The Bruce waited, expecting more. To his surprise, the Seer said, ‘I’m going to leave you now, Robert. But first, I’m going to do this!’
Cathbad bent down and scooped an armful of straw from the floor. To the Bruce’s consternation, he stuffed it into the narrow flue above the fire. Opening the little pouch, he quickly tipped the mushroom powder onto the flame.
Immediately, red and purple smoke coiled from the hearth and into the room.
The Bruce started to rise from his chair, alarmed.
‘But you mustn’t leave here, Robert the Bruce. Not yet. Sit down! And breathe.
Breathe in the dragon spirit of Scotland!’
Again, compelled by the brightness in Cathbad’s eyes, the Bruce sat.
And inhaled.
His eyes snapped open as the strange, fragrant smoke filled his nose and sought out his lungs. Marvelous stirrings gripped his loins and heart. Spider’s silk threaded his mind with visions of power. Strength began flowing through the muscles of his sword arm.
‘Breathe deeply, Robert the Bruce,’ commanded Cathbad. ‘Go back. Become King of Scotland!’
Cathbad opened the hut door to leave but, before stepping out, he turned and fixed the Bruce with a spell-binding glare.
Raising a stern finger, he said, ‘Just be king, Robert. Right? Don’t ever mention the mushrooms. Talk about spiders. Seven.’
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