by Andre Norton
It would seem that once more touch served in place of his eyes. Somehow he had mastered the lashing, and the boat plunged out from the small dock into the full fury of the river.
Afterwards, Twilla could remember very little of that wild ride. They were twice nudged by floating debris with nearly enough force to send them over—yet still they remained unsunk.
It was the last of those masses of bush which served them well—for it shoved the bobbing boat toward the opposite side of the stream. Then, out of the storm's gloom, there arose a pillar rooted in the rage of the water.
Their craft struck nose against that and was flung away. It tipped and they were thrown into the water but Twilla's outflung hands grasped reeds, held grimly, and she found the strength to drag herself up into the hold of that water-logged vegetation. She looked around quickly. There was a shadow floundering into the same reed bed and she forced herself to inch back, catch at spongy leather where it covered Ylon's shoulder, and lend what strength she had left to drag him a little closer to safety.
Together somehow they gained the crumbling clay of the bank and with clawed fingers fought their way up, to lie exhausted under the ever beating of the rain.
8
TWILLA MADE A feeble effort to try to win to her knees, only to slip back and lie, breathing hard, until her head fell forward on her crooked arm and a darkness which was not storm born overlaid her.
Pain roused her. Ustar's hand in her hair—he would have her to his will—She choked out a cry and tried to strike out in a feeble defense.
“Up! Up with you! The water climbs, it will have us again!”
Water—yes, about her was the wash of water tugging at her legs, striving to reach hold of her hips. That painful grip was not in her hair after all but centered on the nape of her neck as she was being dragged forward, the reeds whipping viciously across her face.
Somehow she got her hands out, caught at those same reeds in the hope of protecting her face. Then, finding them stiff-rooted, expended what was left of her strength to use them to haul herself on. The grip on her neck loosened.
There was a darker blot before her and then a lash of lightning revealed that she was fumbling with her hand against the wall of a bank, which arose abruptly to tower above her.
Another body beside hers, scrabbling also at the cliff. Half dazedly she remembered—Ylon. The water lapped behind them, their legs were still awash. By sheer will Twilla won to her knees, reaching up along the now unseen surface of the bank seeking a handhold strong enough to support her weight. Her outflung right hand struck a hard lump embedded in the rain-slicked earth and she caught at it as well as she could.
Somehow, as might some poor half-drowned beast washed out of its grazefield, she found strength enough to claw her way up to roll over the edge of that drop and lie on her back her face up to the beat of the rain. Then her body was given another shove, pressing her painfully against what felt like stones, as Ylon landed almost on top of her, his greater bulk carrying him on.
Twilla was content to lie where she was—too spent to care whether or not they had at least defeated the clutch of the river.
“Up!” He was crouching beside her, pawing at her arm and shoulder, his fingers slipping over the rain-slimed leather of her jerkin. “Cover—find cover—”
Cover? Here? He was truly wit-struck this time. But he would not leave her alone, going so far as to dig in his fingers so strongly that they bruised her flesh.
He pulled at her with a fierce grip, dragging her up against his own body. In the darkness she could not see his face but there was a note of anger in the voice, which exploded nearly in her ear to deafen out even the sound and fury about them.
“By the Brazen Throat of the Thrice Dead—up with you!”
Somehow she answered his pull, his appeal and was half-tugged, half-risen to her feet. But once there she shook and wavered like a sapling with roots undercut.
Once more a lightning flash showed the world for an instant. His head was turned away from her now, though his hold kept her tightly steady against his body. He was looking inland, away from the river. Though—what could he see—or sense—or hear—? She could not think of any guide which might come to him in the midst of this fury of wind and pelting rain.
“Come!” He seemed determined, dragging at her and Twilla too weak to fight him off. At least the ground under them appeared level enough as she flung out the arm which was not prisoned against him in a wide sweep before her—hoping so for a warning against any obstacle.
Sodden grass twined around their feet so that they went at wavering pace. Then that outflung hand of Twilla's cracked painfully against a barrier. Her fingers slipped along what appeared to her the top rail of a fence.
“Fence,” she braced herself enough so that Ylon was prevented from crashing into it.
“Guide—”
She was able to catch his meaning from that half-choked word. Drawing him on a step or two she shifted to loosen his hold on her and catching up his now free hand she set it on the rail. He stood for a moment as if undecided which way to take and then turned resolutely to the right, pushing by her.
Twilla felt for the same guideline and with her other hand linked fingers in his belt. Thus they fought against the push of the storm. The chill of the wind was caught and harbored by their drenched clothing. Twilla was shivering and she realized from her healer's training that they were indeed both threatened now with a death from exposure unless they could find shelter. The fence might be a false guide, but at least it was something they could travel by.
She plodded on. Her feet were numb now, and it was getting to be more and more of an effort to raise them for another step. Ylon halted suddenly so that she was brought up against him.
“Corner—” The wind had died a little enough she could hear and a moment later bring her battered wits to understand. They had found a corner of the fence.
Ylon swung at a right angle and she followed. Slowly she began to realize through the burden of misery which enclosed her that the sky was beginning to lighten, the wind was dying, and the rain did not strike them so heavily.
She could actually see the fence—at least for a short way ahead. But there was something else—a dark bulk of what could only be some kind of building—perhaps a shed, as it did not look as large as any farm shelter. She jerked at Ylon's belt, pulling herself closer to him so that her voice might carry.
“Something—shelter—”
His head went up. “Where?”
“Just ahead—on the other side of the fence.”
The thought of getting out of this fury seemed to give them both new strength. Their pace quickened. Then they reached that structure. The light had lifted even more. Twilla could not see any sign of a door, but there was a shuttered square above her head which might be a window.
“No door,” she reported to her companion, “maybe inside the fence.”
His hands tightened on the top rail, there was only that one line of wood, below it was an untidy jumble of packed earth and stones. With Twilla's guidance by hand and voice he got over and she followed awkwardly after, her shivering making her doubly clumsy.
The structure itself was of the same stone-earth construction and had begun to suffer from the watery fingers of the storm. But they rounded the side to face a wider opening, with no door to stand as barrier.
“Sheep huddle!” Ylon said.
The animal smell had reached her also and Twilla could see in the growing light there were animals even now sheltering there. Shepherd—would there also be a shepherd on guard here?
“Shepherd?” she ventured.
Ylon's head was bent a fraction as if he were listening. She, too, could hear the fretful sounds made by the flock. Apparently they were not finding their state hardly more pleasant than that of the newcomers.
It was light enough now certainly for anyone inside to be able to easily sight the two of them. The rain had slacked off. Clouds were breaking
with sullen slowness. It was dark in that shelter, yes, but all she could sight was the movements of the milling sheep. That and some stacks of what might be last season's hay against one wall.
“We would be challenged by now,” Ylon might have been speaking to himself more than her. “In—the beasts will do no harm. In fact they might give us both warmth and cover.”
Twilla chose a path for them along that wall where the hay was roughly stacked, and, once they were well into the shelter, she urged Ylon down on that as the sheep scattered away from them, pushing now together at the other side of the huddle.
It was not until she allowed herself to down into the musty smelling hay, the sharper scent of fresh dung in her nostrils, that Twilla realized she could push her body no farther. This must be the end for now.
“Have they been shorn?” Ylon forced her to stay awake with that question.
She knew little of sheep but now she noted that he was right in his guess—these had been recently shorn.
Which meant they had been turned into summer pasturage. And it might well be that, if there were no predators here, they had been left largely to themselves. The huddle would provide them with shelter against the storms and if the landsman was shorthanded this was the best he could think to do.
“Free pasturage then.” She felt the tension go out of her companion. “There will be checks from time to time but no continued guardian. We may rest in peace—”
He was pulling at the hay about him, thudding it down into a kind of nest. “Down with you,” he ordered when he had finished.
“You—?” she stammered, so tired she could hardly mouth the word.
“I—yes. Now down.”
She pulled at her wet overclothing, shedding it as best she could, noting that he was following her example. With only her chemise still about her, covering her shivering body and hiding the mirror, Twilla burrowed into the hay and was almost instantly asleep in spite of her aches and shivers.
Sun reached in to wake Twilla. Their woolly companions of the night were gone, though they had left behind them pungent memories of their stay. She steadied herself up on one elbow to view the outer world. It was as if the fury of the storm had never swept over it.
There was a light snore not too far away, and she quickly turned her head. All she could see of Ylon was the back of his head, hay stems having caught in the tangle of his black hair.
Trying not to awaken him Twilla crawled out of her musty covering. Her clothes lay in the huddle in which she left them and now she went to work smoothing them out, striving to wring out the dampness. She mourned the loss of her herb bag. There were potions in that she could have shared between them which would have stayed off any but the most severe chills.
She swallowed experimentally and had to admit that her throat was sore. To put on the wet clothes again—
"Come all you bold lads as want to be free.
Get you a ship an’ learn the paths of the sea.
There're maids in a plenty wherever you roam.
Besides those who wave sing to bring you home!"
Twilla clasped her wet jerkin to her in a fierce grip. That voice, cheery as it was, had come from close by. Were they coming to see how the flock had survived the storm?
Quickly she pulled the mass of her clothing closer and heaped hay over it. Then brushed a tuft over Ylon's head before she sank back into the dried stuff to shiver and watch.
The newcomer had only to come a little closer, round the side of the huddle perhaps and they could be sighted.
"Oh, love the waves high, swing with them low,
Where these are true waves the sea doth go.
Where the sea goes, so does my love.
All is well—"
“Drat! By the snaggle-teeth of the Seventh Shark—what a mess!” The song was forgotten and there was exasperation in that comment.
And it was uttered just beyond the wall of the huddle. Only that was no man's voice. No! Twilla lay very still, her thoughts racing. She knew that voice now—Leela! But what had brought Leela here?
Though the fishergirl had been in part a supporter during their travel over mountain, there was no reason now that she would not betray them.
Twilla tried to remember something of the man Lord Harmond had so callously joined to Leela. He had been young, she recalled, tall and broad of shoulder, so that beside him even Leela had seemed small and feminine. A landman certainly, therefore under the Lord's rule.
There came a scrambling noise now followed by a thud. Then around the edge of the huddle Leela did stride into view. She had taken to trousers, which were tucked into high farm boots, and her arms were bare to the shoulder since the smock over the upper part of her body was sleeveless. Her sun-bleached hair had been gathered back and secured with a twist of cord. Yet she did not have the appearance of a farm drudge, rather her air of independence remained as strong. Leela had manifestly come to good terms with her fate.
She stood now with her back to the huddle opening, her hands on her hips, staring out over the field beyond.
Twilla had unconsciously clasped both hands over the mirror as if that might raise some defense against discovery. Perhaps it could if she only knew more.
“No—I will not—” There was an eruption out of the hay as Ylon sat up, his face wearing a battle snarl.
Leela whirled about and stood staring open mouthed. There was no chance to remain hidden now. Twilla wriggled up beside the man and caught at him, shaking him awake out of the evil dream which had betrayed them.
“You!” Leela strode forward toward them. “What are you doing here, healer?”
She seemed honestly surprised. Then her attention went to Ylon and her eyes narrowed.
“Who is here?” he demanded in turn.
“This is Leela who came over mountain with me,” Twilla told him. She looked to the other girl. “He is blind—”
Leela's hand came up and her fingers made the complicated warn off sign for bad luck.
“A blind man—they mated you with a blind man?” she asked.
Better face this with the truth. They were already discovered. But there remained the very faint chance that Leela could be persuaded to let them go—unless she feared for her own safety when the hunters came, as they well might.
“They would have mated me with Lord Ustar, Lord Harmond's son,” she returned. “He was not minded, as he said, to take a sow-face to wife. There—” She drew a slow breath—would the full truth influence Leela to her side? She could only hope so. “Therefore he was ready to turn me over to the guard—to use as they would do that his father would not force him to mate with damaged goods. This"—she put her hand out to touch Ylon's arm—"is my Lord's other son who met with the wrath of the forest demons. Yet he came to my service and brought me out of that danger Ustar had planned.”
Leela had blinked several times as Twilla spoke. Now she gave a laugh. “Healer, always you do something to surprise one. So you have come out of the town, but where are you bound? There are only a fringe of farms and"—now she frowned—"those on them want no quarrel with my Lord. They will deliver you up at first meeting.”
“But you will not!” Ylon made that statement as if he believed it.
“My Lord,” she looked in his direction, “I fared well in the lottery. My man is one I can welcome to my bed and we shall do well together. But this forced mating is a thing of beasts rather than people. Though fortune might favor some of us, yet your lord father has condemned others to misery. Had the brides been given more chance in the matter he would have drawn in fuller nets in his fishing. I know Twilla and what she says is a black use of power against the helpless.
“However, I shall not let you draw my Johann into this. Which means that I do not welcome you here.”
“We do not ask for refuge,” Twilla said then. “Lord Ylon has saved me from evil, now I pay my debt—”
“How?” broke in Leela.
“We journey to the Wood. It was there that
this ensorcellment came upon him. I am healer enough to know that it is no distemper of the eyes from which he suffers but rather a curse laid upon him. I was apprenticed to Hulde and some of her knowledge is mine. Thus we would seek out the source of Lord Ylon's disaster and there learn what we can. Also, I do not think that Lord Harmond's men will come hunting us within the Wood.”
“The demons will!”
Twilla shrugged. “Demons are unknown, the evil of man is plain. I am willing to take my chance with demons rather than return to Lord Harmond's hold or be hunted down by his soldiers.”
“Well, the choice is yours. Always, Twilla, you have thought different thoughts from the rest of us. So you would go to the Wood. What need you to get you there?” She asked that briskly as if she were a marketwoman bargaining behind her stall.
“Clothing—” Twilla answered promptly. “We were in the river and need that. And any food you can give us.”
“We shall see.” Leela diasppeared to return with a leather pouch plumply fat. She tossed it to Twilla. “I came out to walk the walls and see what harm the storm may have done—that is for my nooning. Johann is in the far meadows at the plowing and will not be back until sunset. As for clothing—I shall see what can be done.”
With that promise she strode away. Twilla opened the bag. There were thick slices of brown bread bound together with cheese. She pushed one of those into Ylon's hands and began wolfishly on another.
“She is a friend?” Ylon made a question of that before he set teeth in the slab of bread.
“I think she spoke the truth,” Twilla said. Did she really, or did she accept Leela because she had no other choice?
They had finished the supplies the fishergirl had left and Twilla had spread some of their clothing out in the sun as best she might, hoping that it could go unnoted. The grimy brown and gray of its coloring were not too far distant in color from the earth walls of the huddle.