Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  Abner’s family, and Simeon with them, had taken the Builder’s Bridge across the Meander and traveled north and west, keeping well clear of the wood. To Amos, the journey had felt interminable.

  “Why must we bring this cursed cart?” he had complained. “Dried venison and a water skin would’ve served us just as well.

  “Not fer the celebration!” His mother had argued, clearly offended at the suggestion. “It’s tradition! There’s been feastin’ before the start o’ the hunt fer centuries.”

  “But if we’d just left the kettle, Da and I could’ve carried the rest in packs.”

  “I’ll not send my men inta the wood without a decent meal in their bellies.”

  Amos had grumbled until they neared their destination, and the sights and sounds of the assembling crowd swept all other thoughts from his mind.

  Around the Hall of Echoes, the air crackled with a current of nervous excitement. Torches and lanterns moved in every direction. Boys in gray tunics dueled with wooden daggers. Girls in gray shifts skipped about, carrying rag dolls. Women stirred the contents of their iron kettles, chatting or complaining to one another in a cacophony of voices. Men clustered in groups, discussing the upcoming hunt, their harvests and trades. They boasted about great feats of bravery and rehashed favorite tales.

  “I’ve never seen so many people,” Simeon said. He wore leather trousers and carried a new bow, but the trousers hung a bit loose, and, somehow, the bow still seemed an awkward encumbrance. He was taller now, though his fair hair and eyes still drew the attention of many in the crowd.

  Amos drew more attention. Men, women, and children gaped or whispered to one another as he passed. They had heard that the famed Wielder of Fire, the true son of Hammond, the boy who killed the Shadow Wolf, had come, and those who recognized his face had wasted no time pointing him out to those who did not. He strode about the campsite, tall and proud in his leather trousers, talking to the boys who got up the nerve to ask their questions, and laughing when they begged him to breathe fire on the spot.

  “And here are the two heroes, I see. The great Wielder of Fire and the young Dreamer.”

  Amos cringed at the sound of the voice. It was Lark, the chandler. “She should’ve been called Crow,” Simeon said, under his breath.

  Amos laughed at the joke until Ferlin and a handful of his cronies appeared.

  “Goin’ ta make yerselves names in the Great Hunt, eh?” Lark continued. She looked pointedly at Amos, taking in his tall, lean frame, his tousled red-brown hair, and the hard set of his jaw. “Ya think ya can best all the wolves in the wood, I suppose? Well, you’ve got some things ta learn, boy.” Lark’s husband had been killed on the hunt some years back, and everyone knew it. But it drew no pity from the villagers. She had been a hard, bitter woman long before her husband’s death.

  “And you,” she spat, turning to Simeon. “You’ll be hidin’ in ’is shadow, won’t ya?” She dismissed Simeon with a sneer and turned. “Come on Ferlin. I wouldn’t stay too close ta these two. The Shadow’s marked ’em already.” She stalked off, leaving the two groups to face one another.

  Amos’s hand clenched into a fist, relaxed, and clenched again. His eyes bored into Ferlin’s. He had not the smallest fear of this boy, whose habit of stealing had obviously taken a turn from dowels to casks. He’d grown fat on Payne’s beer, most likely. Amos could see the question in his eyes and the uneasy set of his feet. A challenge was never made, no word spoken, but Ferlin turned first, and led his gang away. After a moment, Amos turned as well, and he and Simeon made their way back to their campsite.

  The Shadow’s marked ’em already. Amos would have liked to dismiss the statement, but Lark’s words were too reminiscent of Hadrian’s. He remembered Hadrian hovering, shadowlike, above him. He felt cold.

  “You boys hungry?” Wynn asked. She passed them both bowls of stew without waiting for an answer. Then, to their great wonder, she handed each a mug of cherry ale. This was a rare treat, for cherries were scarce, and the ale was costly. The boys smiled to one another and set aside the stew, lifting their mugs high and drinking deeply. Amos forgot about Lark and Hadrian.

  “Slow down, you two!” Abner’s voice surprised them, and Simeon choked on his ale. He coughed and spluttered while Amos laughed and slapped him on the back. “Anyone would think we had barrels o’ the stuff at home,” Abner teased, tousling Amos’s hair, giving Simeon a gentle slap on the back, and seating himself between Phebe and Wynn. He took a steaming bowl from Wynn’s hand and dug into his meal with a vengeance.

  “When’re ya comin’ home, Da?” Phebe asked.

  “Don’t know, m’ nightingale.” Abner ran a hand over Phebe’s hair. In honor of the celebration, Wynn had woven it with night-blooming jasmine. The white flowers stood out in bright contrast to the black hair.

  “But I have the boys ta help me this year. We’ll bring in a good haul. You’ll see.”

  “Who’s Sim goin’ with?” Phebe didn’t mean to bring up a sore point, but at her words, Simeon dropped his eyes and fiddled nervously with his belt. He knew, as they all did, that though the hunters would travel in large groups through the wood, every man must also have one partner to look out for him. It was a tradition, and it was a necessity. Two boys of twelve could not be partners, for neither had sufficient experience to help the other in case of difficulty. Amos would be partnered with Abner, and Simeon had no one.

  The words had hardly left Phebe’s mouth when Orin stepped into the circle of light cast by their fire. He looked strange to them, for his leather apron had been traded for a belt, his hammer and tongs for a bow and quiver.

  “Abner,” he said. “Wynn.” He nodded to each, then turned to Simeon. “Who will you be huntin’ with, Simeon?” he asked.

  At this Simeon seemed to shrink even farther into the ground. He glanced to Abner for help.

  “We weren’t sure, Orin. I’d wondered if maybe both boys could partner with me.”

  “The men’ll give ya a hard time about it,” Orin replied. “What if the boy hunted with me?”

  Simeon’s stomach lurched, with hope or dread, he could not tell. Again, he looked to Abner.

  “What do ya think, Sim?”

  At last, he found his voice. “Aye, sir. Thank you.”

  “You can call me Orin.” He nodded to Simeon. “I’ll meet ya here after the ceremony.” Orin disappeared into the crowd without another word.

  Abner and Wynn knew, though the boys did not, that Orin’s story was a sad one. His wife, carrying their firstborn in her belly, had drowned in the River Meander many years ago. Since then, he’d kept to himself, so it wasn’t surprising that he had no partner for the hunt. Still, taking a young, frightened boy to watch his back was no small gesture of kindness. Orin was taking a great risk entering the wood with Simeon to look after.

  “Well, that’s settled,” Abner said. He rose just as a loud, melancholy horn sounded, filling the air with a solemn call. It was time. Around the camp, the frenzied motion of lights changed. Torches and lanterns moved toward the Hall of Echoes, as if pulled by invisible ropes.

  “You three go on ahead,” Wynn urged. “Phebe and I can finish up.”

  “Please, Ma. Can’t I go with ’em? If I wait, I won’t be able ta see anything.”

  Wynn sighed. “Alright. Go with yer da. But don’t let go his hand, Phebe. I mean it. Don’t let ’im out o’ yer sight.”

  “Don’t worry, Ma,” Phebe said as her father lifted her to his shoulders. The boys downed their last few drops of ale and followed Abner into the crowd that flowed toward the bright circle of red-gold light. The muddle of anxious voices was silenced by the sound of a single drum pounding out a slow rhythm. It was joined by another drum, then another and another. Each took up the same rhythm, until the Hall of Echoes pulsed with the beat. People’s hearts pounded in answer. Gradually, the drums quieted, dropping
out one by one until a single drum carried on its rhythm alone. When it too was silent, the crowd held its breath.

  A man stepped onto the platform. The bonfire behind him and the torchlight before him gave him a godlike appearance. His features were so bright, so clear. His edanna belt, carved with many signs of the Clan of the White Tree, sparkled in the light of the flames. This was Hale, Father of the Clan of the White Tree. It was his clan that took precedence at the celebration of the Great Hunt, for his was the clan founded by Grosvenor, the Mighty Hunter. Every man longed to display Grosvenor’s courage in the coming days. Every man longed to achieve Grosvenor’s fame and glory.

  From somewhere within the hall, a panpipe began to play, and over its queer, haunting music, Hale began the tale of Grosvenor.

  “Hearken, my children, come gather ye ‘round

  Ta hear o’ the hunter of greatest renown.

  No traveler bolder, no warrior more fell

  Than Grosvenor. List, and fall under the spell.”

  Amos didn’t have to be told. He had long since fallen under the spell of this tale. In his mind, he spoke the words in time with Hale.

  “Far from the village o’ Thayer he wandered

  No more than a whelp. From father and mother

  He journeyed ta mountains of snow in the north,

  And down from the perilous peaks ’e rode forth

  “Ta scour southern moor and search hidden glen,

  Ta comb darkened forest and meadow ’til when,

  As a man of great stature and strength he returned

  Ta village and fam’ly ta find they were burned

  “By the wrath o’ the dragon, by Sirius slain

  And Grosvenor wept. He remembered the name

  O’ the monster and swore that ’e never would rest

  ’Til Sirius’ flame was extinguished at last.”

  By this time, everyone had fallen under the spell. The gentle undulations of the panpipe worked like Darby’s hands at her loom, endlessly weaving. The song of the pipe changed; it rose and fell, but never ceased. And Hale’s words mingled with the sound.

  “Then mountin’ ’is stallion with arrow and sword

  He rode fer revenge through the tenebrous wood

  Where waited in darkness ’is rivals of old.

  The ambush set Grosvenor’s blood runnin’ cold.

  “The Shadow awaited, like darkness crept in.”

  Amos’s mind stopped its dance to the music and the words. Something had tripped him up, confused his rhythm. It was that phrase. The words were so like Hadrian’s, so like Lark’s.

  “He heard the grim howls o’ the wolves on the wind.

  The eyes o’ the cats glowered down from above,

  And behind came the thunder of black Daegan hooves.

  “Captured ’e was by the night and the dark

  When before ’im a tree rose with shimmerin’ bark.

  A voice drifted down like a rustlin’ wind,

  ‘Take shelter, good trav’ler, for I am a friend.’

  “Among the white branches and silvery leaves

  Grosvenor took shelter from shadowy fiends.

  Ragin’ and stampin’, they circled their prey,

  Repelled by the unearthly light o’ the tree.

  “As if by some magic as ancient as night

  The tree gave the hunter a bow of bright white.

  ‘Yer arrow will never fall short of its foe.

  With blessings from Linden and Olwen ya go.’

  “So swiftly he fitted an arrow ta string

  And inta the ranks of ’is foes it went singin’.

  The wolves and the cats fled back inta the night,

  And ’is arrows fell thick on the Daegan in flight.”

  Wolves and cats held no fear for Amos. He had conquered both, and from his neck hung a trophy of just one of his victories. And what of the Daegan? They hunted horses and elk, not men. Was that all that waited for him in the darkness?

  “‘Twas not ’til the nights had grown colder by far

  That Grosvenor came ta find Sirius’ lair.

  In Pallid Peaks layered with blankets of snow

  Where only the bravest or foolhardy go,

  “It waited in darkness, silent in sleep,

  Broodin’ on sorrows, like treasures ta keep.

  Then Sirius woke with a hideous scream,

  For a silver-white bow had been hauntin’ ’is dreams.

  “Wings that were torn from the fabric of night

  Lifted the dragon ta terrible heights.

  From there, like a blot on the canvas of snow,

  He spotted the hunter and plunged in the glow

  “Of ’is ragin’ blue flame, burnin’ colder than death.

  The storm of ’is flight robbed our hero of breath,

  But Grosvenor drew back ’is magical bow

  And pierced the black heart o’ the dragon o’ Shadow.

  “It fell ta the ground with a thunderin’ roar,

  Blackened the snow on the white mountain’s floor.

  One talon of sable ’e took fer ’is own,

  A trophy o’ vengeance fer fam’ly and home.

  “An eye from the beast ’e cut, still burnin’ blue.

  From its back, a wide swath of black armor he hewed.

  He took the worm’s head as the boast of ’is battle

  And mounted it high on the walls of ’is castle.”

  The story of the slaying of Sirius still thrilled Amos. The thought of bringing down a dragon and hacking it to bits before riding home victorious was sweeter to him than the rich flavor of the cherry ale. Still, no dragons roamed the forests. They haunted the northern mountains, and perhaps the land beyond the Black Mountains. No man had ever faced a dragon in the Whispering Wood. What a fool I am, he thought to himself. There was nothing to fear in the wood, nothing to fear on the hunt. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, shaking off the doubts and questions that had plagued him.

  “Soon Hunter was husband, and Hunter was father,

  But ever and always ’is feet longed ta wander,

  Ta scour southern moor and ta search hidden glen,

  Ta comb the white mountains fer Sirius’ kin,

  “Ta hunt the Black Mountains, ta roam far and wide.

  He’s journeying still in the tales of ’is tribe.

  The greatest of hunters, the fiercest of men,

  Hail, Grosvenor, Father and Light o’ the Clan!”

  The last line of the tale rang out across the plains, for it was as familiar to the people of Shiloh as their own names. Men raised their bows, their daggers, their mugs of ale and shouted the words at the tops of their voices. Women and children shouted and called. Every clan joined in.

  As the echo of their cries rang out over the surrounding land, Hale said a few words of warning and blessing over the men. Then the pipe began again. This time it was joined by drums and reed flutes, and the people broke out into a dance. From their tight cluster around the Hall of Echoes they spread, kicking their feet, raising their arms, lifting children off the ground, swinging one another in sweeping arcs. And for a few moments, the grief of the coming departure was laid aside. Abner twirled Phebe until Wynn joined them. Then Amos and Simeon took turns with her, swinging her around and around until the jasmine was flung from her hair, and she laughed with breathless delight. They danced in the bright glow of a thousand lights, arm in arm, full of joy. They could not have known that they danced on the dagger-edge of darkness.

  All too soon, the music stopped, and the horn sounded again. This was their warning. The men would say their final farewells and depart.

  Abner turned to his wife. He put a hand on each side of her face and kissed her.

  “I’ll be back before y
a know it, m’ love.”

  She looked into his eyes long and hard, trying to hold them in her gaze, trying to hold him in her grasp. “May the light shine upon you,” was all she could manage.

  “And you.” Abner kissed her again quickly, squeezed her hands, and let go.

  He turned to Phebe, “I’ll miss yer singin’, little bird.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Abner returned her embrace, then kissed her on the top of the head and hoisted his pack onto his shoulder. Orin appeared, silent and solemn, and Simeon made his way awkwardly over to his side. As the third horn blast pierced the air, Abner smiled a sad smile, picked up his lantern, and joined the fiery procession that wound its way toward the wood. Simeon and Orin joined him.

  Amos would have gone, too, but Wynn stopped him. Out of habit, she ran a hand over his hair to smooth it.

  In a quavering voice she said, “Take care, my boy, and look after yer da.” Amos thought it strange that she had not told Abner to look after him.

  “I will, Ma.” Amos kissed his mother, pulled a lock of Phebe’s hair playfully, and ran to catch the others.

  Thirteen

  That was how the hunt began. As the women and children cleared their campsites and set off homeward in many directions, leaving the Hall of Echoes gray and cold once more, the men and boys made their way into the Whispering Wood. The company would travel along one of the Hunter’s Paths that cut almost due east, through the heart of the wood, across a wide branch of the River Meander, to the grasslands at the base of the Black Mountains. For the boys, it was a grand adventure. For the men, it was a necessary evil, though they still found some pleasure in telling tales around their campfires at night.

  “I’m goin’ ta bring down the biggest o’ the bulls,” Amos boasted to Simeon as they sat by their fire after a long day of walking. They had seen nothing but trees on that first day. Even the combined light of hundreds of torches and lanterns could not pierce more than a few paces into the dark of the wood. Now, weary and tense, the company had spread out along the path to rest. Some had even ventured within the first line of trees to make their camps.