by Katy Moran
Cai had told him stories about the British kings and queens of the west, with their black hair oiled into shining snakes, the swirling blue clan-tattoos on their faces and the gold torcs around their necks: twisted ropes of shining metal. That was how a royal person should look. But these Anglish were different. Hild was chief of a whole village, yet she came to open the gate herself, and her robe was dusty.
“I hope you look to your safety, then,” said Cai. He tightened his grip on Essa’s shoulder and spoke in British. “You had better be more gracious to my foster sister than you have been to me. Take Melyor to the stable and stay there with her until you recall your manners.”
Foster sister? So King Redwald’s niece, the girl that had been sent out here to marry the Wixnan chief, was Cai’s foster sister?
The words were out before Essa could swallow them. “I hate you.”
He turned around to give Cai the look that said, I didn’t mean it, but he was already walking across the yard with Hild.
He stayed behind in the stable for as long as he could, cleaning the fine bronze stirrups that his father had won by beating a braggart in a horse race. Why did Cai never tell him anything about his past life? Essa knew his father had lived with a foster family by the sea, the only child of Iceni nobles who’d thrown in their lot with King Redwald once they’d seen how the power of the Anglish settlers was rising. They had both died when Cai was young, leaving him to the care of Redwald’s court.
That was why Cai looked different from other pure-blood Britons – he had no swirling blue clan-tattoos on his face to tell the story of his people. Yet he told Essa they had the blood of kings and queens in their veins: of how the Iceni had once been the most powerful tribe in Britain.
But that was all generations ago, the Iceni ruled the east coast no more, and Cai had never mentioned this Hild, his foster sister, before. That was not really surprising, since he hardly talked about his childhood, only of long-dead queens and forgotten heroes.
Essa polished ferociously at the stirrups with a scrap of thin, floppy leather until they glowed like firebrands and he was so hungry that he felt sick, and so cold in his damp clothes that his teeth started to chatter. Then he hung the bridle on a nail in the wall, laid the saddle across the stall door and went into the hall where his father was singing by the fire, the lyre propped in his lap. A woman gave Essa a bowl of chicken stewed with white grapes, and a wedge of bread. He took his food and went to sit at his father’s feet. Sometimes he sang with Cai, but on this night he just sat and listened until he fell asleep.
And in the long years afterwards, Essa often wished he had at least said good night, and that the last words he’d spoken to Cai had not been I hate you.
Alone with the Wixna
ESSA stood in the stable. It was all gone: bridle, stirrups, even the carefully coiled leading rein and the heavy brown rug that went underneath the saddle on Melyor’s back. Perhaps somebody had moved it all in the night. He knew nobody had. It was taboo. Nobody would touch Melyor without asking. It was the leather bag resting safe inside his tunic that told the truth. No matter how drunk, Cai was never careless. He was gone.
Essa closed his eyes. When he opened them Melyor would be tugging hay from the old fishing net nailed to the wall. She would turn her great roan head and nibble gently at his fingers when he held out his hand. He stood for a moment in darkness, breathing quickly.
They’ll be somewhere. He opened his eyes. Think on it. The trough is dry now. He’s taken her to the pond for a drink. They’ll be back any moment. He stared at the trough. There was something inside it: a long dark shape. Cai’s sword lay in the bottom, carefully placed right in the middle. The Silver Serpent, asleep in the dark. He could see the silver dragon-snakes glittering against the black scabbard, the thick leather peace-bands binding the scabbard to the hilt, so that the blade could not be drawn in drunkenness or anger. The Silver Serpent had been given to Cai by a great king, in exchange for a service, or so the tale went. Some folk believed it, others not.
Cai never rode hard in the morning. If Essa ran fast he might catch them. But when he reached the gate it was bolted shut.
“What are you doing, thief?”
Essa turned. Two boys stood watching. Both were bigger than him; one had milk-white hair, the other was darker, his face spattered with brown freckles.
“Where’d you steal that from, then?”
Essa looked down at the sword in his hands. “It’s mine, I mean, it’s my father’s.” He struggled to form the Anglish words – they fell from his mouth like gobbets of thick spittle.
“Listen, Red, he can’t hardly speak!” said the white-haired boy. They both laughed.
Red reached out, snatched the sword and held it high up above Essa’s head. Did these marsh-villagers really think he was of a mind to play games? He punched Red as hard as he could in the stomach. Red coughed and choked, and his fist cracked into Essa’s face. Dull pain burst across his right cheekbone, and he went down, grazing his elbows on the dusty ground.
“Easy!” said the white-haired boy. “He’s just a little brat.”
Essa felt a flash of annoyance – they were a year older than him at the most.
“He comes in here, thieving stuff off us, starting fights—”
“You started it!” Essa scrambled to his feet. “She’s my sword! Give her back.”
“Oh, save it for someone who cares.” Red grabbed Essa’s arm and dragged him towards the hall. The white-haired boy followed, telling Red to leave him be: he was just a traveller’s brat, not worth it.
Maybe Cai was inside. He would be angry with Essa for breaking the taboo and fighting in a village where they were guests, but at least he would be there. Essa pulled away from Red’s grasp, waiting for Cai to come towards him saying, “What’s this, little cub? Tell me you have not been waging war on the Wixna boys.”
He saw nothing but a jumble of unfamiliar faces.
Women were rolling up blankets and sheepskins from the floor and taking them outside to air in the yard. A group of men carrying weeding baskets pushed by on their way out to the fields: strange, exotic creatures they were, with long bright hair and freckled skin. A woman sat on one of the benches, combing out the silvery pale braids of a twisting, wriggling girl who stood wedged between her legs.
“You’ll get lice if you don’t watch out, Lark.”
“I don’t care, I like lice.” The girl grinned at Essa, her eyes slanted with mischief, as if they were sharing a secret. For a moment, he felt as if she was on his side, somehow. But then her mother rapped her on the top of the head with the comb and she looked away, saying, “Ma, I’m just going to cut it all off one day. I mean it!”
Staring desperately around the hall for his father, Essa’s eyes were drawn to an old man sitting by the fire, wrapped in a cloak. Essa had never seen anyone so ancient. Time had drained the brightness from the man: his long hair and beard were the colour of snow in the western mountains, and the skin sagged from his cheekbones as though he were melting. He was sharpening a knife against a whetstone resting in his lap. It was a strange way to hone a knife, and Essa stared, drawn in, until he saw the old man had only one arm. But then he looked up, his gaze lingering on Essa’s face in a way that made him feel as though his thoughts, his secrets and his dreams had been laid bare. It felt as if his outer self had been stripped away like skin torn from flesh by a whip, and that the man knew everything about him.
Essa looked away, sucking in a deep, wounded breath, wondering if he had just been put under a curse, and the old man had sent the elvish kind to plague his every step. Where was Cai? Essa did not want to stay in this place any more, but Cai was nowhere to be seen.
Essa turned to Red, hissing, “Give me back my sword.”
Red smirked. “How does it work? Does your father leave you to root out the good stuff so he can come back in a few days and filch the lot? Well, you came to the wrong village this time! Hild! Hild!”
“It’
s not true, she’s my sword and my father hasn’t left me here, he hasn’t!” Even as he spoke, Essa knew Cai had gone.
He was alone.
“Red, what’s this fuss?” Hild came towards them, holding a copper basin filled with oats and etched with round whorls. She had clear, wide grey eyes and Essa wanted to tell her everything. She turned to Red’s white-haired friend. “Cole? What have you been doing?”
“We caught him trying to run away with this.” Red butted in, holding up the sword by the shoulder strap. “He’s thieved it.”
“Oh, use your head!” said the girl who was having her hair combed. “When’ve you ever seen a sword as fine as that, Red? He might’ve thieved it, but not from here.”
Red flushed, saying, “Stow your gab, Lark – what do you know?”
Hild set her bowl carefully on the long table that ran down one whole side of the hall, striking a soft, low note of copper against old wood. Essa tried to concentrate on the carved antler comb as it swept through Lark’s hair. Her mother was staring at him too, combing the same hank of silvery pale hair again and again. His eyes would not stop burning. Ragged black wings of panic beat inside his chest.
“We found him trying to get out the gate,” said the white-haired boy – Cole. “As if he could shift it!”
“Neither could you!” said the girl.
“Shut your mouth, Lark!”
“You shut yours.”
Hild ignored them both. “Have you seen your father this morning, Essa?”
He shook his head, unable to speak in his own tongue or any other. Everyone was watching him.
“Go on, take it.” Essa reached inside his tunic for the packet of saffron heads and the knot of amber. He threw them to the floor at Hild’s feet, and then the sword herself. She fell hilt first and the discordant crash of metal against wood echoed throughout the hall. The linen packet burst and dark orange saffron stalks bounced on the floorboards. “That’s your payment, and when you’ve spent it then you can do what you like with me. That’s what he meant.”
Hild took a step closer. She was smiling but her eyes looked sad. “I’m sorry, Essa. I hardly know how to tell you this. Cai must have thought it would be easier for you, not to say goodbye.”
“What do you mean?” Essa spat out the words. He could feel tears snaking down his face like drops of molten iron. “He wouldn’t just leave me here.”
“I’m sorry, Essa, but he’s gone.” She reached out and put her hand on his arm.
“Get off me!” He snatched himself away from her and ran out of the hall back to the gate. He clawed at the heavy iron bolt with both hands but it would not shift. He called out, hoping Cai was still within hearing distance. Cai had ears like a dog: he could hear a mouse sneezing. But Essa knew Cai would not hear him this time. He was gone. Blinded by tears, Essa heaved at the bolt, but he might as well have tried pulling the great ash tree in the courtyard up by the roots.
He felt someone put their hands on his shoulders, gently pulling him away from the gate, and heard Hild behind him, saying, “No, Essa. This won’t do, will it?” He tried to wrench out of her grasp, but she steered him towards the big ash tree, and made him sit with her at its roots. He was glad to sit, really, because his legs had lost all their strength and his fingers were shaking like the little leaves at the top of the tree, stirred by the wind. A fat raindrop landed on the hard-packed earth at his feet; another hit his arm. Cai would be getting wet, out there in the marsh.
She took off her shawl and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Listen to me, Essa. I don’t know how much Cai’s told you about his life, but there was a time when every king in Britain would have paid their own weight in gold for his advice – well, for the secrets he’d sell them, at any rate. But the king of East Anglia, old Redwald’s nephew, he’s dead, he’s been murdered, and Cai was loyal to that family before anyone else. He heard it across the border, when you were in Mercia.”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with me,” Essa said.
Hild shrugged. “The Mercians know we’re weak now the king’s dead, and they want to come across the border and try to grab as much of our land as they can. Your father has gone riding to the coast, to the king’s hall, to raise the alarm. That’s why you’re going to stay here, with me.”
“But when’s he coming back?” said Essa, hope leaping in his chest. “Will he come back when he’s told them?”
“I don’t know,” said Hild. “I don’t think so. Look, Essa. It’s just how it works: until the Wolf Folk choose another king, we’re wide open to attack from Mercia. And picking a king isn’t easy. I don’t think Cai will be able to come back for a long while. Now, do you come inside and we’ll get you something to eat. You must be hungry.”
Essa stared across the courtyard at the hall. He could hear voices, people talking inside, and someone laughed. If he went in there, it would be final. He’d belong to them, and Cai would never return.
“I’m staying out here.” He expected her to be angry. Cai had no patience with this sort of thing – he just expected his word to be followed. But Hild did not look angry. She got up, flicking her heavy plait over her shoulder, briskly brushing the dust off her skirt.
“Well enough,” she said. “But if you won’t come into the hall, I’ve a job for you. Come.”
For a moment, Essa considered staying where he was, sitting under the tree whose name he bore: Aesc, an ash tree, buffeted by the wind, rooted to one spot for ever. But Hild was already making her way across the courtyard towards the stables. He scrambled to his feet and followed her, running to catch up. The hall crouched on the other side of the yard, waiting to swallow him up into a new life. There was someone watching him from one of the side doors – the white-haired girl, Lark. She lifted her fingers in a little wave and disappeared suddenly, as if someone had just whisked her away from the door.
Feeling even more alone, he followed Hild into the stables, past the empty stall where he had taken Melyor the night before. Hild was in the next stall along, crouching on the floor.
“Come you in and look,” she said.
He went in, and she smiled up at him. “See, Meadow-sweet has had her pups.” It was the hunting hound who had come with Hild to the gate the night before. Hild stroked Meadowsweet’s brindled grey ears as she lay on her side, eyes half closed, suckling three writhing dog-cubs: one brindled grey like its mother, the other two black as charcoal. He crouched down beside Hild and held out his hand for Meadowsweet to sniff. She showed her teeth and he drew back, but Hild said, “No, Meadowsweet, it’s all right, it’s Essa,” and scratched the dog between her ears. This time, Meadowsweet licked his fingers, her tongue hot and damp against his skin.
“Now, do you stay here and watch them for me,” said Hild. “I know they’ll be safe then. One of them has already died, poor thing, and she’s afraid.”
Essa nodded, feeling tears prickle at his eyes again. Meadowsweet pushed her bony head against his hand as he stroked her, as if she knew his sadness and understood.
Three years later. The rising of the Wixna bees
ESSA climbed up into the pear tree where the bees lived and sat cradled in its branches, breathing in wood smoke and the hot, dry smells of lavender and thyme rising from the herb garden. Someone was cooking in the hall, too – eel stew again, by the stink of it. Essa was not fond of eel, but there was little choice at this time of year, weeks before harvest. He could hear the others talking and laughing in the shade of the trees, and then Lark scrambled up beside him. They leaned comfortably together watching swallows looping in the sky above the hall.
It was Litha-time, and the smoke from the solstice-fire the Wixna had lit at the far end of the orchard drifted lazily on the air. It was the third time the flames of midsummer had licked up at the sky since Cai had left, and the silvery music of Essa’s own language played only in his dreams. He thought and spoke like the Wixna now. He was becoming more Anglish with every season that passed, growing tall, his red
hair curling around his shoulders. Only their eyes were clear and grey, green or blue, like shards of coloured glass, and Essa knew that his were dark like his father’s.
Don’t think about him.
“I hate midsummer,” Lark said. “Everyone’s so hungry and they snap the head off you for nothing. I got wrong of Hild this morning just for breaking that old cracked cup. As if it matters!”
“It’ll be the horse-hunt soon,” Essa said. “I’ll race you.”
“Maybe there’ll be a horse-hunt for you,” Lark said. “I bet my knife with the black handle they won’t let me go.”
The old stallion had died last winter, so the men were going to race the wild horses of the flatlands. The Wixna knew the marsh, they understood where was safe to ride, and where bottomless pools awaited like doors to the underworld. Together, the men would bring back a strong young male, and perhaps a new mare to break in. It would take days and days, and they would sit around fires at night, drinking and boasting and singing to scare away the marsh-wights that waited for the unwary to miss their footing.
“It’ll be a good ride,” Essa said. “It’s not fair you’ll miss it.”
“I might go anyhow,” Lark replied. “I could follow you all. I don’t want to stay here with the girls. All they talk about is their hair and when they’ll get the curse.” Peering down through the branches of the tree, they watched disdainfully as Red’s little sister Helith played a clapping game with Freo, who was Lark’s cousin.
Lulled by the soft murmuring of the bees, Essa dozed, leaning into Lark’s warm body. He was tired from pulling up weeds in the barley field all day, and there was a warm smell of lavender about her that made him feel even sleepier.
Then, just as his eyes were closing, Essa felt a strange tugging in the pit of his belly, and a powerful sense of anger and fear swept through him.
What’s this? Had he been dreaming? His eyes snapped open. The bees were no longer murmuring, but buzzing ferociously.