From Across the Ancient Waters Read online

  © 2012 by Michael Phillips

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-585-4 (Paperback)

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-673-8 (Hardback)

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Faceout Studio, www.faceoutstudio.com

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, OH 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  A Note Regarding Locale

  The Region of Gwynedd, North Wales at the Northern Expanse of the Cambrian Mountains

  Prologue

  Part I: Stranger in North Wales, 1867

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Part II: Return Visit, 1870

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Part III: Changes, 1872

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  DEDICATION

  To Robert James Nigel Halliday,

  A man of integrity, truth, and depth of character,

  whom it is an honor to call my friend.

  —A NOTE REGARDING LOCALE—

  Whenever one is blending fact and fiction, certain disclaimers and clarifications are necessary. Everything that follows is fiction, the characters, the setting, the story. Authors are often asked about the locations in which their stories take place. Some settings are truer to the reality of place than others. I have searched high and low to find the settings of some of George MacDonald’s Scottish novels, only to arrive at the conclusion that those settings existed only in the author’s mind. In the case of his novel Malcolm, however, the details of locale in the story match precisely the reality in and around the northern Scottish village of Cullen. Readers do the same with my books, with similar results. Some are based on factual places, others are not. In the case of From Across the Ancient Waters, the location of the story is set along the north coast of Wales. But the specifics of the villages and coastline and roads have been changed and adapted for the sake of the story. If you visit North Wales, you will not find a village called Llanfryniog or the promontory of Mochras Head or Westbrooke Manor or the cave on the beach. The setting, as well as the story and characters, is entirely fictionalized.

  The Region of Gwynedd, North Wales at the Northern Expanse of the Cambrian Mountains

  PROLOGUE

  The Fate of the Rhodri Mawr 1791

  The blue-green sea of the Irish Ocean between the treacherous coastlines of eastern Ireland, northern Wales, and southern Scotland could be as placid as any of the thousand inland lochs for which the three Celtic lands were known.

  Saint Columba had been borne safely over it to Mull more than a millennium before. He had carried a new spiritual destiny to Scotland’s western isles, which would spread throughout all Britannia. But when the seas of the north Atlantic rose in unexpected fury, beware to all who challenged them, whether conquering Roman or Viking, whether Irish saint or Welsh pirate. At such times, the waters of this Celtic triangle, no respecter of persons, sought victims to add to its ancient tomb of the watery deep.

  Such a fate had come suddenly upon the vessel of dubious reputation known as the Rhodri Mawr.

  A fierce blast from the north bent the struggling ship’s aftermast dangerously toward the slate gray waters of an angry sea. The imposing craft, stalwart and fearsome when sailing out of Penzance two days before, now bobbed like a plaything as it bottomed into a trough between two giant swells of St. George’s Channel. The leading edge of the second wave rose ominously then sent its white-tipped crest smashing into the prow with such violence that it seemed the ship’s massive stem must burst into matchsticks from the blow.

  The front third of the ship disappeared as if swallowed whole. Two seconds later it reappeared out of the tumult. Somehow it was still in one piece. Water pouring over the sides, the pointed bowsprit shot toward the sky. The swell that had swallowed it now spewed the boat as a mere toy upward in a dangerous arc.

  Thus repeated the downward crash and heavenward flight of the two-masted English brigantine as it had for hours. Each disappearance between titanic billows seemed to all appearance its last. Only by a miracle had it managed to remain afloat so long. Helpless against the elements, its crew was too exhausted to think what terror must be their inevitable portion. The gods were in control now. Such men as these, however, had not spent their lives befriending whatever deities made the fate of men their business. Nor was it likely that a heavenward flight would be the final journey of their souls. It was doubtful any would live through the descending night or that the Rhodri Mawr would enter safe harbor again.

  The secret of Dolau Cothi seemed destined for a deep, black, unknown grave somewhere near the home of the giant serpent Gwbertryd, whom superstition credited with such violent storms and the shipwrecks that resulted from them.

  Water was not just threatening from below but also from above. R
ain slammed onto the deck with a ferocity that made visibility impossible. The crow’s nest had been abandoned hours before. Nothing could be seen from it. No man could survive atop it.

  The Rhodri Mawr’s crew had ventured into these waters on a mission now forgotten in the battle for survival. As the storm rose quickly, the captain thought to find some sheltered inlet in Cardigan Bay. But the anger of Gwbert-ryd swept upon them rapidly, turning every inch of this Celtic sea into a frothy boil. No shelter was to be found. Had they only known that the drift of the current had taken them northward into Tremadog Bay and that they were now floundering within three hundred yards of the rocky coastline, it might have been different. But through the falling mist, none knew how close safety lay.

  The bow slammed into another wall of water yet more violent than the rest.

  “She’s taking water!” cried one of the mates, clinging desperately to a ragged end of hemp to keep from being sucked overboard.

  With the wind roaring and the tattered remains of sails flapping, his warning was lost to the prince of the power of the air. The nearest of his fellows had been thrown onto the deck thirty feet astern.

  A sharp crack sounded.

  The tall front mast swayed dangerously … rocked the opposite direction … then another splintering crack. Suddenly the thick round timber lay across the deck in the sea. Even if she survived the storm, no ship could navigate without its rigging.

  It mattered little. The next instant a tremendous wave slanted high over the bow, battering the side with mortal force. Another shattering blow followed to starboard. A deep groan creaked below deck.

  Those aboard seemed destined to live out the poet’s words of the ancient rime:

  With sloping masts and dipping prow,

  As who pursued with yell and blow

  Still treads the shadow of his foe,

  And forward bends his head,

  The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

  And southward aye we fled.

  The Rhodri Mawr pitched dangerously to port. It took but one more split. Now the aftermast snapped from its base and tumbled overboard. The stem could no longer absorb the blows from the raging sea. Side-timbers began to splinter. Within seconds the forehull of the Rhodri Mawr was breaking up. Now indeed did the sea set about in earnest its business of making matchsticks of this once sturdy vessel.

  “Over the side!” sounded cries from all parts of the ship. “Save yourselves … she’s tearing apart … we’re going down!”

  In panic, most of the crew leaped overboard to keep from being knocked unconscious on the lurching deck. Within minutes the brigantine’s three lifeboats were in the water. Whether they would fare better than the mother ship was doubtful.

  There was one on board, however, who did not so hastily leap to his doom. He would outwit the legendary serpent of the deep with more than a brief prolonging of his own life. He had seen the signs an hour before as the winds whipped up the frothing cauldron. He knew what must be the result. He knew these waters better than his fellows. From the shape and flow of the waves, he had deduced what even the captain had not realized, that land could not be far off.

  As his mates struggled above deck, he descended into the depths, to the captain’s quarters, empty now except for its most precious cargo. With the floor pitching and yawing under his feet, he lugged a great black chest from the closet. The thing was nearly too heavy to lift. He could not hope to swim a foot bearing it. The contents would sink faster than a great iron anchor. But there might yet be a way to save the treasure within it.

  With all his might, he lifted the reliquary and struggled toward the stairs. Inch by inch he made his way up then onto the next flight. A great crash sent the box from him as he toppled onto his back. Luckily its lock held. He scrambled to his feet, retrieved his booty, and continued toward the sea-deck. Hearing both masts crack, followed by shouts everywhere, he knew the ship’s fate. If he could just get himself and the box overboard.

  He reached the air to see lifeboats being tossed from above. All about, his fellows were scrambling overboard. No one paid him heed. None saw what he lugged behind him.

  Another lurch of the deck sent the chest from him again. Picking himself up, he dragged his bounty toward a mass of corked netting. Hastily he wrapped it amid several folds, securing the strands to its precious load.

  The Rhodri Mawr swayed one final time then lurched sideward. The motion flung him off his feet, over the bulwark, and into the sea, tangled in a mass of cord and chest and hemp and cork. Bobbing up into the dim light of dusk, he gasped for air. A length of cord remained connected to the bulwark. In seconds the sinking ship would pull the chest and netting and himself down with it.

  A wave dashed him below the surface. He sent his fingers groping toward the sheath at his side. As his head surfaced again, his hand bore aloft a shiny blade. He plunged through the netting toward the ship.

  A minute more and the Rhodri Mawr capsized to its side. Half its deck was now underwater, its keel exposed, the lower hold filling rapidly.

  As the ambitious pirate felt himself pulled down in the sinking vortex, three quick slashes from his knife released him safely from the doomed ship, adrift with a lifecraft of cork and netting.

  Thirty seconds later, the mighty vessel above him tipped further and slowly sank out of sight.

  The rocky shoals of this coast were unforgiving. It took not many minutes for the squall to reduce the three lifeboats to floating debris. Futilely gasping for breath between twenty-foot waves, those of the crew who had trusted them found themselves clinging to mere scraps of wood. Most would not be heard from again. As they had given their lives to the sea, the depths now became their final resting place. If the serpent Gwbert-ryd was near, he must certainly be satisfied with this day’s work.

  The great hull slowly settled to the bottom and came to rest almost in one piece. There the waters, though frigid, were calm. After its gallant struggle, the Rhodri Mawr could finally rest in peace.

  Under the water it rumbled on,

  Still louder and more dread:

  It reached the ship, it split the bay;

  The ship went down like lead.

  Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,

  Which sky and ocean smote,

  Like one that hath been seven days drowned

  My body lay afloat:

  But swift as dreams, myself I found

  Within the Pilot’s boat.

  And now, all in my own countree,

  I stood on the firm land!

  The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,

  And scarcely he could stand.

  No one ever saw the tangled mass of ship’s netting, held afloat by great balls of cork no storm could sink, bobbing up and down as it bore two parcels—one human, the other filled with that which men would kill for—away from the wreckage toward the coast of Mochras Head, overlooked through the mists of the storm, by the green hills of Snowdonia.

  PART ONE

  Stranger in North Wales 1867

  ONE

  Strange Benefactress

  A girl of indeterminate age stole with stealthy step into a narrow lane leading perpendicular to the central dirt road of a coastal village in North Wales.

  Whether she had just pinched a sweetie from the post or a halfpenny roll from the baker, the quick furtive glance behind as she disappeared from view of the three or four humble shops of the place would surely prompt an observer to think, whatever her business, that she was up to no good.

  The tiny flaxen scamp was soon swallowed by shadows of high stone rising on both sides of her. Immediately she broke into a run.

  Noiseless as they were swift, her steps took her quickly through the buildings of the village. Moments later she was racing across a wide green pasture. Several black-and-white cattle grazing in its midst paid the flight of the girl no heed.

  In truth, the small Celtic lass was no thief at all. That her two hands and the single pocket of her threadb
are dress were empty gave all the proof necessary that nothing untoward had taken place during the three or four minutes in which she had darted into the village and out again unseen. In actual fact, her exit had been made with one less encumbrance on her person than she had entered with. Her errand on this day had been one of giving not taking. She had been discharging a debt of kindness from her young heart.

  The only evidence left behind that she had been in Llanfryniog at all was a small bouquet of wildflowers—dandelions and daisies mostly, with a few yellow buttercups sprinkled among them—plucked on her way into the village from the field next to the one through which she now ran. She would have left something of greater value on the latch to Mistress Chattan’s side door if she had had it. But the blooms were free and abundant, available to all for the having, and the only gift she could afford to bequeath. Flowers were thus the normal commodity of the unusual commerce in which she engaged.

  At this hour of late afternoon, the front door of the inn swung back and forth on its hinges every few minutes. This was the time of day when the region’s miners came to relax with their afternoon pint before trudging home to their suppers. Already the place was bustling with animated talk and laughter as ale and an occasional whiskey flowed from Mistress Chattan’s hand. The tiny bouquet on the door of the lane that opened into her private quarters remained unseen for some time.

  What manner of woman it was who thus served the men of the mine their daily ration of liquibrious good cheer was an inquiry that would have provoked heated discussion among the respectable wives and mothers of Llanfryniog. Though they were no more genteel than she, they were far from pleased that their husbands made such regular visits to her establishment. That the thirsty miners and fishermen of the region contributed so much to the health of Mistress Chattan’s cash box was as much a grief to their wives as it was a boon to the innkeeper. No one knew Mistress Chattan’s antecedents. Neither were they inclined to ask about them. But the women were suspicious. They would cross the road if they saw her ahead, like the priest and Levite of old, in order to pass by on the other side, little knowing what curses and imprecations she muttered under her breath against them.