Iolo Llanllyweyn sat back in the carriage of the slow train to Withering Halt and stroked his beard in a manner intended to convey deep thought and wisdom.
'I say,' uttered Garth, 'do you need this?' He proffered a comb to the Druid. 'Looks like you've got some nasty tangles in there.'
'No, boy - I was pondering, see?' Iolo tried to hide his annoyance and embarrassment behind a gruff voice. As a matter of fact, he did have some nasty knots in the beard, but he was damned if he was going to ruin his intended effect totally by taking the comb. He made a mental note to try and borrow it later, after he had imparted some pearls of wisdom.
'Sorry.' Garth returned to looking out of the window at the rolling countryside he knew and loved so well: so different from the crags and peaks of North Wales, where he had journeyed to find his latest guru. From an early age, Garth had felt a spiritual void in his life. His father had put it down to incorrect diet; Aunt Agatha had subscribed to the theory that it was too little exercise; Arthur had offered to take him to a place he knew in London; and one of the strange visitors who passed through the Hall had suggested a spell as a mercenary - as the Neanderthal-type had said, 'put iron in soul - never do me any harm.' The fact that the visitor in question had a metal arm, three toes missing, and only one eye working had put Garth off this particular idea. All of them were, in fact, dismissed by the young man, who felt that he needed to find out something about the meaning of life.
So, he had begun to travel - first around Britain, then later Europe - in search of spiritual sustenance. One day he hoped to make it to India or China, but for now he had to settle for Cardiff and Berlin. It was in the latter town that he had come across the philosopher who told him that a hand wasn't a hand, that when attempting to find the meaning of something we first have to define the meaning of meaning, and that there might well be hippos under the table. Just because we couldn't see them didn't mean that they weren't there. Garth had retreated in confusion from the home of Ludwig Wittgenstein. His fellow visitor, Bertrand Russell, had the right idea: he told the German philosopher not to be an idiot and thumped him on the nose, saying 'how's that for Empirical, then?'
The train pulled into the station with each man still wrapped in his own thoughts. They alighted in silence, Iolo being careful to gather his robes about him so that they didn't catch in the door, and he didn't trip over them. He loved people like Garth: four years before, in 1928, Iolo had been George Jones, Welsh miner. Then came the great slump and the beginning of the depression. He was laid off and had a family to keep. Work was scarce.
George passed his time in the local library, where the librarian was keen on the national history of Wales, which she saw as continual oppression by the English. She may have been right - was it mere coincidence that the owners of George's mine were English?
As a result of her interest, there were always displays and exhibitions about Druids and Eisteddfods, those strange ceremonies where the Druids spout poetry, elect each other as the best in their field until such time as everyone present is best at something. And drink a lot - which may or may not have something to do with such fellow feeling. George's imagination was fired by all this: for a start, he was never averse to the odd drink, and the thought of being able to get drunk without the wife nagging him was something that interested him immensely - 'sorry love, I've got to drink seventeen pints of old and mild tonight - I'm a Druid, see?' Then there was the possibility of making some money out of all this. George was a bright boy and listened carefully to Elspeth the librarian. Not a very Welsh name, but then she wasn't: strange how the most ardent nationalists can tend to be those who aren't actually nationals. She travelled regularly to London and mixed with the fringes of the Bloomsbury set: writers and artists like DH Lawrence, Katherine Mansfield, Virginia Woolf, and HG Wells.
As George seemed interested in all she had to say, she would allow him to stay in the library during the lunch hour. Everyone else, perusing the job ads in the paper or simply trying to keep warm without paying for their own coal, found themselves flung onto the streets while she ate her lunch in peace. She would talk to him of artists and their search for spiritual enlightenment through the old ways of India and the new philosophies, whilst also espousing the Welsh cause. George was like a prize pupil: he soaked up everything she had to say and learnt the responses she needed to take her further into her flights of intellectualism.
Of course, George's wife Gwyneth was having none of this: 'People will talk, my boy. Look, I'm so ashamed of you, carrying on with the librarian - and her as plain as a pikestaff, too.'
Despite the worst suspicions of his wife and the neighbours - and the nudging and winking of his friends down the pub of an evening - there was nothing physical in his relationship with Elspeth. Frankly, he found her totally unattractive, believing her to resemble a prop forward he had played rugby against in his younger years. But still he listened, and an idea began to form in his mind.
It took him a year to formulate the plan, and eight months to fully put it into effect. He studied all he could about Druids and their ways and began to take long trips to old sites of worship, trudging the whole way there and back on foot over a period of days. He also began to grow a beard.
'What do you want that for? You look like one of them bloody Druids.'
When his wife said this, he smiled enigmatically.
Then one day, he was gone from South Wales forever, leaving the wife and kids behind - away to the hills of North Wales and a cave. He lived on berries and wild grasses and grew his hair and beard to absurd lengths. Most importantly of all, he kept in touch with Elspeth, which couldn't have been easy. After all, there was no telephone for miles, and no postal address for a cave just outside of Wrexham. Therefore, communication was far from easy: the British postman is averse to even steep hills, let alone climbing a mountainside. And once he gets there, where does he post the letter? No box outside the cave, or slot in the cave door through which to stuff communication. Fortunately for George, the local publican was a believer in the old ways, and he allowed the mail to be delivered via him. He also slipped George the odd plate of steak and kidney pudding and pint of old and mild, which is a damn sight better than berries, grass and spring water.
George took the name Iolo after the Druid who had done most to revive the old ways in the late nineteenth century. Iolo had died in poverty: George had no such intent.
Through Elspeth he managed to be introduced to several fringe figures on the London art and literature scene. They entertained Iolo at their houses, and fed and watered him in return for grains of ancient wisdom. Iolo gave them any old rubbish he could pick up from a book, phrased in his own special way. He may not have believed it, but it was all in the way he told it... and he told it well.
He should have believed.
One of the first things he did was to visit an old Druidic site just over the borders into Worcestershire. Near a village called Mentorn Edge there lays a small circle of stones, aligned with the sun for the solstices. What had happened in the circle in the far distant past wasn't known, although there was much speculation. Iolo didn't care about any of that: he only wanted one thing. One night, while the villagers who guarded their stones jealously slept, he chipped a few pebbles from one of the standing stones and managed to break a hardy chunk from the slab that lay in the centre.
Now, as he alighted from the train at Withering Halt, carefully gathering his robes, he stumbled on the platform, and the small canvas bag over his shoulder fell to the ground with a dull clunk.
'You alright, squire?' asked the porter solicitously as helped Iolo to regain his footing.
'Of course, my man,' replied the mock Druid with as much hauteur as he could muster. Druids do not ruffle their dignity with ease in front of the common man. He imperiously started to stride after Garth, who was busy with the Druid's baggage - consisting of the usual robes, mystic tomes, and bottles of old and mild – and so had failed to notice the Druid's stumble.
'Of course, me man,' mimicked the porter under his breath in a snooty tone. He stuck his tongue out at the Druid and slammed the carriage door. In doing so, he unwittingly trapped the hem of Iolo's flowing robe - a hem the Welshman had dropped when he stumbled.
There was only eighteen inches of give in the material at full stretch, and almost immediately there was a rending sound as Iolo's robe split asunder, leaving the Druid's bare posterior on view to the world.
'Serves you right for wearing yer bloomin' nightshirt, dunnit?', chuckled the disgruntled porter.
For his part, the Druid carried it off with elan by simply pretending not to notice as he followed Garth from the station. However, his dignity became harder and harder to maintain as each passenger he passed barely suppressed their laughter.
This was no way to be a guru. And there was one other thing he noticed: the bag on his shoulder seemed to be as hot as his cheeks.
If he had bothered to look in the bag, he would have found the stones softly glowing...