The Ransom Trilogy, as told by Merlinus Ambrosius

Hearken, then, thou child of a later world, for I shall speak as one who has seen the old powers wake.

There was a man—Ransom was he called—though his true name lies deeper than words, and he was taken from this age of iron and engines into the dance of the spheres. Not by craft nor counsel of his own, but by the weaving of higher wills, he journeyed first to the red world, Malacandra, where the silence of Earth was broken and he heard the speech of the heavens once more. Then to Perelandra, where he stood alone upon the young sea-world and wrestled, as once I did in darker days, with that ancient bent will that would mar all beauty. And last, he came to the battle that was hidden in plain sight: the shadow in our own land, in Britain, where the Enemy clothed himself in cold reason and steel, and men forgot the old names.

These are not mere tales, but remembrances of how Earth stirred again beneath the hand of Maleldil. And Ransom—aye, Pendragon—stood as the hinge of that great turning. If thou hast ears to hear and heart to wonder, then take up the reading, for the old world is not dead, but only sleeping.

—Merlinus Ambrosius,
last of the Druids, servant of Logres,
and once again awakened by the will of Maleldil.

The Ransom Trilogy, as the Inn Keeper saw it

Ah—well, I suppose you’ll want to hear about him, won’t you? Not that there’s much to tell, and I can’t say I was paying him much mind at the time. He turned up at the Hare & Lantern one damp evening, coat a bit too well-worn, the sort with that soft-spoken Oxbridge manner that thinks it’s being polite while asking for all sorts of trouble. Wanted a room, of course. They always do. I told him we were full, though truth be told I just wasn’t in the mood for another of those solitary scholar types—always bringing in mud and strange books and expecting fresh tea at ungodly hours.

He didn’t argue, which I found suspicious in itself. Just gave a quiet nod and thanked me like I’d done him a kindness. I remember thinking, Well, there goes another odd one back to the hedgerows.

But then… the stories came. Rumblings about strange goings-on in the countryside, about beings not quite men and a darkness rising under the name of progress. They said there’d been a man—a philologist, no less—who stood in the thick of it all, and bore a name that sounded older than this country. And when I saw the photo in the paper—him, right enough—I near choked on my biscuits. Ransom, they called him. Pendragon, to some.

Now, I’m not saying I’d have let him in if I’d known. But I might’ve looked twice, you know? All the same, I reckon he did what he had to do—guest or no guest—and that’s more than can be said for most.

—Mrs. Edna Blevins,
Hare & Lantern, Much Nadderby

The Ransom Trilogy, as told by Harry's Mum

I never knew the man myself, no, but Harry did. Said he was the only one at that place who really looked him in the eye, like a proper human being. Kind voice, too. Came by once or twice, didn’t stay long, but Harry said it was like the light came in with him.

Later I heard he’d been mixed up in something big—bigger than the government, bigger than all them professors with their clever mouths. There was evil moving through this country, quiet and sharp like frost, and that man—Ransom, they said—he stood against it. I believe he was sent. Like a saint, though he’d never say so. You can always tell the ones that don’t say so.

—Harry’s Mum, Weston's Cross

The Ransom Trilogy, as told by a Bracton Fellow

Oh, Ransom? Yes, I knew him. Not well—he kept rather to himself after his return from... wherever it was he claimed to have gone. Brilliant mind, of course, though I always thought he’d gone a bit soft on metaphysics. Left academia entirely, as I recall. Took up with some odd Christian group in the country. Gardeners and poets and whatnot.

Rumour had it he was involved in that business at Belbury. Very hush-hush, though you didn’t hear that from me. Frankly, I always thought he had the bearing of someone playing a larger game. Unfashionably sincere, if you know what I mean. The kind of man who might, absurdly, save the world.

—a Fellow of Bracton College (prefers not to be named)

The Ransom Trilogy, as told by the housekeeper's husband

I’m not the sort that goes in for talk, and I’ve no business with the kind of things they were doing up at that house. My wife helped out there for a time. Said it was different — not like working for gentry, and not like working for government neither. Said the man in charge, Ransom, treated folk proper. Didn’t speak down, didn’t stare. Just saw you, straight on.

I only met him once. Quiet sort. Looked at you like he knew more than he said, but not in a nosy way. I’ve known men like that, few and far between. Most places, a man with a record like mine gets a certain look. But he never gave it. Like he’d seen worse than what you or I had done, and still thought you worth the time.

I don’t pretend to understand what went on there. But if there’s more men like him in the world, we’ve got a chance, don’t we.

—Mr. Maggs

The Ransom Trilogy, as told by an unbeliever

I was at the rectory near Edgestow when the strange business started. Lights at odd hours. A stillness that wasn’t natural. People we’d known for years — professors, clerks, even a verger — began to speak differently, like something was moving behind their eyes. The vicar said it was all nonsense, war nerves, science this and that. But I wasn’t so sure.

I never met Ransom properly. Only saw him once, in a doorway, backlit and speaking to a woman I now know wasn’t only a woman. There was a feeling in the room — not terror, exactly, but something older. He didn’t speak loudly, and he didn’t need to. Some say he went to other planets. I don’t know about that. But I know I locked my door that night, and I prayed like I hadn’t since I was a child.

—A Curate of the Diocese of Winton