The Seeing Stone Read Online Free PDF Page A

him.
    â€œNo,” said Sian. “A story about our mother.”
    â€œOr,” suggested Nain, “a story about the Sleeping King.”
    â€œThe worstest thing our mother did when she was a girl,” insisted Sian.
    â€œThe Sleeping King, Nain,” I said. “You’ve never told us that story before.”
    There was a knocking at the door: then the latch lifted.
    â€œMerlin!” my father called out. “Nain’s beginning a story.”
    â€œHow did I know?” said Merlin.
    I don’t know how he did. But he often does.
    â€œI’ll sit with my friend here,” said Merlin. And he promptly sat down beside me.
    My father was in his chair, and Luke was in his cradle, asleep; the pair of hounds were under the table; and Tanwen and Sian were sitting on the little wall-bench with Serle wedged between them. So only my mother was not there, and if she had been, Nain’s story would probably have been spoilt because she and my mother always argue.
    For the last three nights, Luke has woken up and started to wail, and my mother is tired out with trying to feed and comfort him. At supper she kept yawning and, as soon as it was over, she greeted us all and withdrew to the chamber.
    â€œWhere was I?” asked Nain.
    â€œAt the beginning!” my father replied. “Sit on the floor, Sian. There’s not enough room on that bench for you as well as Serle and Tanwen.”
    So Sian slipped down on to the rushes, and at once Spitfire miaowed, and came over and sat on her lap.
    â€œBefore I was born,” said Nain, “a boy living here on the March went scrambling.”
    â€œWhere?” I asked.
    â€œSome say Weston or Panpunton Hill. I say Caer Caradoc. This boy found a cave he had never seen before, and inside the cave there was a dark passageway. It led right into the hill.”
    â€œBut how could he see if it was dark?” demanded Sian.
    My father cleared his throat. “Who is telling this story?” he asked.
    â€œHe lit a brand, didn’t he,” said Nain, “and walked right in under the hill. Halfway down the passage, the boy saw a bell, a huge one hanging and blocking the passage. He had to get down on his hands and knees, and he squirmed under it.
    â€œThen he went on down the passage, it was damp and chill, and it grew wider and wider.” Nain spread her black arms and flapped them like a crow. “The passage became draughty and the boy came to a flight of stone steps leading down into a grotto.”
    â€œWhat’s a grotto?” asked Sian.
    â€œA stone hall,” said Nain. “And you know what? First he saw thegrotto was full of shining candles, and then below him he saw men in armor. One hundred warriors, sleeping. They were lying in a great ring, all surrounding one man. And this man was dressed in scarlet and gold, and holding a naked sword.”
    â€œThe king!” cried Sian.
    â€œHe was asleep,” said Nain.
    â€œWho was he?” asked Sian.
    â€œThe boy didn’t know,” Nain replied. “And even now no one knows. Some people call him the Sleeping King, some say the King Without a Name.
    â€œThe boy laid down his brand and crept down the steps. He picked his way between the sleeping warriors. He stared right down at the Sleeping King…his wrinkled eyelids, his generous mouth, almost smiling…his great sword with serpentine patterning on the blade.
    â€œThen the boy saw a heap of gold coins lying beside the king. He bent down. Just one, see. Then quickly he passed through the ring of sleeping warriors, back up the stone steps. But the boy’s flaming brand had gone out, and he couldn’t see his way down the dark passage. First he scraped his knuckles on the walls, and then he bumped into the bell. Its tongue wagged. It boomed and shivered.
    â€œAt once all the warriors in the grotto woke up. They leaped to their feet. They ran up the stone steps and along the