He would not.
And no point brooding over it, he thought again as he picked his way over the ledge to the narrow mouth of the cave he’d sought.
Once it had been his secret place—one where he could sit on this same ledge and dream his dreams with no one knowing where he was. He’d snuck tinder and tallow into it, honeycakes and mead. He’d dreamed, and he’d whittled, made wishes, had his sulks, watched the seabirds wing.
The mouth was smaller than he remembered, but wasn’t everything? The boy had slipped easily inside, and the man had to work at it a bit.
It smelled the same—dank and delicious—and inside, the roar of the sea echoed so the air seemed to tremble with the sound. For a moment he crouched, shut his eyes, and smiled as in that moment he was transported back to simple, innocent boyhood, where the future lay ahead, all full of color and courage and chivalry.
Rather than the stub of a candle, he took out a flashlight, let the beam play.
Not so much smaller than memory, he noted as he crab-walked back until he could stand—just barely stand. And there, the little jut where he’d kept a candle. Bending, he rubbed his fingers over the hardened pool of wax. And there, the tattered remains of the old blanket he’d stolen from the stables. It had smelled of the horses, and that had been fine with him.
The cave curved into a little chamber, what he’d designated as his treasure room, as the wall nearer the mouth angled to hide it.
There still lay the bounty of his childhood, like artifacts. The broken cup he’d pretended into a grail—perhaps one of Arthur’s. Pebbles and shells hoarded in a chipped bowl, some copper coins, an old arrowhead—ancient even then—bits of rope, the knife he’d used for whittling—and had used to carve his name in the rock.
Again he used his fingers, tracing the name the boy had so painstakingly carved.
Doyle Mac Cleirich
Beneath it he’d done his best to carve a dragon, as he’d designated the dragon as his symbol.
“Ah, well,” he murmured, and turned away.
The beam of his light struck the shallow depression in the facing wall, and the tiny bundle of oilcloth.
“After all this time?”
He stepped over, drew it out, unrolled it. Inside lay the pipe he’d carefully made from a small branch of a chestnut tree. He’d imagined it magic, made for him—and only him—to call up the dragon. The one he, naturally, saved from certain death. The one who became his friend and companion.
Oh, to be a boy again, he thought, with such faith and so many dreams.
He brought it to his lips, placed his fingers over the holes, tested it. To his pleasure and surprise it carried a tune true enough. Mournful perhaps in the echoing cave, but true.
He allowed himself the sentiment, rolled it back in the cloth, and slipped it into his pocket.
The rest could stay, he thought. One day another adventurous boy might find the treasures and wonder.
He climbed back up, leaving the cave, the memories, the sea.
When he swung over the wall, Sawyer hailed him.
“Hey! Did you climb down?”
“Having a look around.”
Shoving up his cap, Sawyer leaned over, looked down. “Tricky. I’ve been having a look around myself—on more even ground. What do you think about setting up the targets over there?”
Doyle followed the direction. “In front of those gardens?”
“Yeah, well, you can’t get away from the gardens, not really, unless we set up in the woods. We could do that, but this is more private. We’ve got a lot of land, but from what I gather, people can just sort of wander around, and some do. Back here, the noise from the water will mask gunshots.”
“The private suits me, though I suspect Bran’s well enough known around the area, and no one would make trouble.”
Though he knew the ground well, Doyle considered it.
“More room to spread out on the other side of the house, and we can use that for other training. But this would do well enough for weapons training.”