Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  Nilsson seemed to be disconcerted by this powerful innocence. To help him, Gryss pointed. ‘Certainly if you go to that crag over there, you'll see the valley's solid with trees further along.'

  Nilsson still looked bemused by Gryss's unashamed ignorance. ‘We'll have to look for ourselves, then,’ he said after a moment, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

  Gryss watched him. Farnor had told him of the similar conversation he had had with Dessane the previous day. Why should tithe gatherers be so interested in the land to the north? Once again the most disturbing of the thoughts that had been stirred up in the wake of the new arrivals swirled into his mind. He could do no other than blurt it out.

  'Is there ... trouble ... to the north?’ he asked softly, as if his voice might ring out from the castle and inform the whole valley. ‘Something we need to know about? A foreign enemy gathering for an invasion?'

  The question further discomposed Nilsson. This old man was a peculiar mixture of country oaf and sharp-minded politician. He was almost impossible to read and thus unpredictable and dangerous. Who knew what information he might be picking up from the most seemingly casual conversation? Nilsson reminded himself that whatever else Gryss might be, he was the head man of this village and doubtless not without skill in manipulating people. It would be unwise to take him for granted. He resolved to keep him at arm's length for the remainder of his stay.

  Starting now.

  'No,’ he said, with great sincerity, ‘there's nothing to concern you. I told you before, many things have changed lately and we've simply been given the task of reporting on the state of the borders as well as ... gathering ... the tithe as we move around the country.’ He laid a hand on Gryss's shoulder and gently turned him back towards his cart.

  Gryss followed the lead and contrived to look relieved at the news. He was not wholly convinced by Nilsson's manner, but he sensed that further inquiry might well yield only a rebuff. ‘I understand,’ he lied. ‘But if you're going up there I think you should know that the place has an evil reputation.'

  Nilsson stopped walking and raised his eyebrows. ‘Explain,’ he demanded.

  Gryss coughed awkwardly. The remark had slipped out for want of something to say, as much as anything. Now he felt embarrassed at having to amplify it.

  'They say ... the tale goes, that is ... that there are caves along the valley where ...’ He wished he had not started this. Nilsson's expression urged him on. ‘Where there are ... creatures ... from times long gone ... sleeping. Just waiting to be wakened.’ He gabbled the last part despite his best endeavours. ‘It's only legend, of course,’ he added hastily in an attempt to forestall Nilsson's scorn. ‘But legends often have roots in the truth somewhere in their history and, as I said before, for whatever reason any of us here might give, no one from the valley has ever been further north than this castle—within my memory, certainly. There may well be something unpleasant up there, even if it's not ...’ He coughed again. ‘Legendary monsters.'

  Somewhat to his surprise, however, Nilsson's manner became serious and attentive rather than scornful. ‘That's interesting,’ he said when Gryss had finished. ‘As you say, such old tales often contain a vestige of truth. We're not here to take risks. I'll see that due precautions are taken when I send the men out.'

  They parted without speaking again, save for their cursory farewells.

  As Gryss drove through the gates and out into the sunlight, Nilsson stared after him. Monsters, he thought. But he could not bring the derision to the idea that he would have liked. The tale that Storran and Yeorson had returned with still lingered unpleasantly in his mind. And they were not foolish old men who were too afraid to move beyond their hearths. When they spoke it was foolish not to listen. He would have to do as he had told Gryss: make sure that whoever went out next to explore the way through the valley was prepared for trouble.

  * * * *

  Gryss, too, was uneasy as he drove away from the castle. Try as he might, he could find little to like about Nilsson or his men and he hoped fervently that he was keeping his dislike well hidden, if only for the sake of the negotiations that would probably ensue during the collection of the tithe.

  As the cart bounced over a particularly uneven part of the road and rocked him violently from side to side, he swore roundly at the folly of the King and his advisers sitting idle in some distant palace and devising fatuous schemes that involved honest folk trooping all over the countryside carrying his precious tithe. Had he no idea what such a thing was going to involve?

  But that was not his predominant concern. That still lay with the persistent interest of these strangers in the land to the north. And, he reflected, he was quite surprised by Nilsson's response to his account of the caves and the creatures therein. An outright laugh would have been understandable, if not excusable, but there had not been even a flicker of amusement in either his face or his manner. Gryss reached a similar conclusion about Nilsson as Nilsson had about him but minutes before. The Captain was a strange mixture of genial host and brutal leader. And too difficult to read. It would behove him, as senior elder of the village, to keep his distance and to watch his words carefully tomorrow when the barn was opened and the tithe assessed.

  Yet the concern about the north returned to him. Were there enemies there that the Captain knew of but for various reasons could not speak about? The prospects were coldly awful. Was the castle to be manned again? He found himself cringing more at the idea of the valley being invaded by the likes of Nilsson's men than at the possibility of some enemy army descending upon them.

  He had no time to ponder this paradox, however, as a figure suddenly emerged from the trees on his right.

  It was Rannick.

  Gryss started but took in Rannick's appearance in a single glance. He was thinner, his angular features now almost gaunt. He's not eaten in days, Gryss diagnosed instantly. And yet there was some more subtle change: he looked at once wilder and more composed...

  Gryss frowned.

  'A poor greeting,’ Rannick said.

  'You startled me,’ Gryss responded.

  Rannick nodded and walked forward. The horse whinnied and tried to move sideways causing the cart to creak in protest. Gryss shouted at it, but to no avail. He yanked on the reins but the horse ignored him.

  Slowly Rannick turned to the horse and stared at it. ‘Whoa,’ he said, very softly. The horse stopped moving immediately, but it turned its head to one side slightly, and Gryss saw its eye, white with fear.

  'You always had a way with animals, Rannick,’ Gryss said, by way of thanks. Rannick smiled, though in a manner which indicated that it was because of some inner pleasantry of his own rather than any compliment that Gryss had paid him.

  'Where have you been, Rannick?’ Gryss asked. ‘I was concerned about you. And you look half starved.'

  'I thank you for your concern, Gryss,’ Rannick said, without a hint of irony. ‘But it was unnecessary. I'm used to fending for myself and I've been away on ...’ He smiled his strange inner smile again. This time Gryss felt chilled by it. ‘On a voyage of exploration.'

  'Where?’ Gryss asked. ‘What's to be explored around here?'

  'Many things,’ Rannick replied enigmatically, then, ‘Who are the men in the castle?'

  The bluntness of the question took Gryss unawares. ‘Tithe gatherers,’ he answered.

  Rannick looked straight at him. The change in him rang through Gryss. His eyes, normally narrowed and full of bitterness or scorn, were wide and penetrating. Gryss met them with difficulty.

  Where had Rannick been? What had happened to him? Was he feverish, delirious through exposure and lack of food?

  No, whatever other impression he gave, Rannick had a vigour about him that Gryss had never seen before.

  'Rather spoiled our Dalmas celebrations,’ Gryss went on in an attempt to come back to normality. But Rannick had turned away and lifted his head, like an animal scenting the wind. ‘Gatherers,’ he said softly to
himself. Then he shook his head as if in denial.

  'Do you want a lift down to the village?’ Gryss asked, finding himself increasingly unnerved by Rannick's presence. Rannick cocked his head on one side as if he had heard the question from a great distance.

  'No,’ he said eventually, still scenting the air. ‘Tell me about these ... gatherers.'

  'What's to tell?’ Gryss shrugged.

  'Everything,’ Rannick said, turning his attention back to Gryss and staring at him intently. The horse shifted, restlessly, making the cart shake. The noise sounded faint and distant in Gryss's ears and he realized that he was surrounded by a peculiar silence. It was as if the very air about him was pressing in on him. He could see the trees swaying in the light breeze and he knew that the many other sounds of the valley were all about him, but they, too, were now distant. And he could hear no birds singing. Rannick moved his hand slightly and the horse became still again.

  'Tell me.’ Rannick's voice demanded total attention through the silence.

  Gryss found himself talking about the unexpected arrival of the gatherers, of meeting their leader and tending their sick and giving them food. ‘Foreigners they are, too.’ And of the broken locks in the castle and the unsettling menace they seemed to carry with them. And, too, their curiosity about what lay to the north. ‘"It's the Great Forest,” I told them. “Nothing there but trees. And there's caves up the valley before you get there. Bad place.” But I think they'll be sending someone before long. In fact, they seem more interested in that than in the tithe. I hope there's no trouble brewing.'

  He was aware of Rannick watching, listening; his eyes, his new vigour filling his whole attention.

  And then he was free. The birds were singing again, the ubiquitous sounds of the valley folded about him.

  And Rannick was gone. Gryss looked around, but there was no sign of him.

  He could not remember seeing him go. Had he been dreaming? Or momentarily ill? He was certainly breathless. Then, without command, the horse began to move again and jerked Gryss sharply back to the practical.

  It was trotting.

  Gryss tugged on the reins to slow the animal, but it did not respond until he applied some considerable force. It occurred to him that the horse was anxious to be away. And indeed, he decided, so was he. The strange meeting with Rannick had served only to add more confusion and turmoil to the many thoughts and speculations that were already tumbling through his mind.

  Where the devil had he come from so suddenly? And where had he disappeared to? And, for that matter, where had he been these past days, and what had happened to so change him? He had no answers, though he could not set aside the feeling that such answers would be important.

  As they moved further away from the place where Rannick had appeared, so the horse began to pull less and, after a while, Gryss gave it its head and devoted himself to searching for some order out of his whirling thoughts.

  By the time he had reached Garren's farm he had given up. One thing at a time, he had decided. The tithe was his business, and getting the gatherers out of here. Then getting the village back on a straight furrow after the upheaval. The tithe day had been a bizarre experience, with the traditional celebratory meals being eaten in atmospheres ranging from forced jocularity to downright ill-humour. It was as if the guests at a wedding had suddenly discovered it was a funeral.

  And whatever the interest of these foreigners in the north and the Great Forest, their actions were beyond both his control and his persuasion and he would have to await events.

  As for Rannick, maybe the man had finally gone melancholy mad and would end his years a demented recluse dwelling in a cave up the side of the valley somewhere. It had happened before and, frankly, at the moment he couldn't care less.

  * * * *

  Rannick, however, was far from melancholy mad. He was exhilarated. Old Gryss had been like so much malleable clay in his hands. And these soldiers ... these so-called gatherers. They were his kind of people, he knew; the air was full of their presence. They must be brought to his service.

  Silently he moved on past the castle and up into the woods beyond, treading the golden road that had been opened for him and which he had only to follow to achieve the greatness that was his true destiny.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  The next day was bright and sunny again, but a strong wind was buffeting noisily through the valley. Trees and bushes, grasses and flowers, all followed its urging and leaned with it as if striving to hear the insistent command that was drawing the armies of clouds so purposefully overhead and sending their shadows scuttling over fields, fences and rooftops in frantic pursuit. People, on the other hand, followed their own urgings and when the whim took them set their faces resolutely against the wind and leaned against it in direct and wilful opposition, not hesitating to curse it when it unbalanced them in mid-step or threw dust in their faces.

  Gryss was standing dutifully by the tithe barn door with Garren and the full village Council when Nilsson and his party eventually arrived. The rest of the area in front of the barn and the sides of the road leading to it were filled with almost the entire population of the village.

  Nilsson was over an hour late and Gryss had repeatedly had to reassure his companions that this was probably just a bargaining ploy, as their mood had shown signs of souring during the delay. Fortunately, and to Gryss's considerable relief, little discontent was outwardly apparent as Nilsson arrived, and the Councillors, although somewhat dishevelled by the wind, still made quite a dignified group: well scrubbed, and decked in their best holiday clothes, this having been Gryss's instruction to them in the absence of any more specific knowledge about what was required on such an occasion.

  Nilsson dismounted and led forward a sharp-featured individual with a florid face and restless eyes. He smiled broadly at Gryss, but offered no apology for the delay. ‘May I introduce you to Saddre?’ he said. ‘He's the ...'

  He searched for a word. ‘The clerk of the tithe.'

  'Tithe master?’ Gryss suggested.

  Nilsson shrugged. ‘You must forgive me if I have difficulty with your language from time to time,’ he said. He turned to Saddre. ‘I don't think you're a ... tithe master ... are you?’ he asked. Saddre's eyes fixed on him momentarily then he smiled regretfully and shook his head.

  Nilsson turned back to Gryss. ‘He's just army, like the rest of us,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘Co-opted to this duty and trained in what's needed for routine work.’ Then, concerned that he might have laid a trap for himself, he added significantly, ‘He has full authority here, though. In tithe matters his word is law, and whatever he decides I have to enforce. Serious disputes have to be sorted out later by ... palace officers. If necessary.'

  Gryss nodded. ‘I'm sure we'll have no difficulties,’ he said, amiably. ‘Shall I open the barn?'

  Nilsson motioned him to proceed.

  Somewhat self-consciously, Gryss lowered the sun-stone and carefully capped it, then he handed it to Garren who passed it to someone else. It disappeared quickly into the crowd. That was a damned good stone and nothing to do with the tithe, and it wasn't going to be allowed near any bargaining!

  Gryss beckoned Saddre forward. ‘You can see how we've sealed the barn,’ he said, pointing to a decorated and waxed rope that was elaborately wound round two plain wooden handles. ‘And this ...’ He rooted awkwardly inside his jacket and eventually produced a small sheaf of papers, ‘... is an account of everything we've collected, and the basis on which we've calculated it.'

  The papers flapped noisily in the wind as Saddre took them and carefully thumbed through them. He maintained a sage expression throughout and, after a moment, he pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Seems reasonable,’ he said. ‘But show me what you've done as we examine the tithe in detail.’ His voice had a rasp to it that seemed to fit his sharp features.

  'As you wish,’ Gryss said. He gestured to Garren, who stepped forward and deftly untied the de
corated rope. Then, producing a large key, he unlocked the barn door.

  Such dignified formality as there was in these proceedings ended with this act, as several hands were needed to control the large doors in the wind as soon as Gryss began to open them. After a brief but noisy struggle they were fastened back against the wall and, urged on by the wind, Gryss, flanked by Nilsson and Saddre, scurried into the barn. The villagers moved forward to fill the doorway but, following Gryss's prior instruction, they remained outside.

  Decorative ribbons and floral displays fluttered and danced as if in welcome as the wind ignored protocol and surged inquisitively around the inside of the barn, performing its own audit of the contents. The high-timbered roof creaked ominously.

  Standing next to his father in the doorway, Farnor looked at the carefully piled barrels and sacks of produce, the elaborate displays of fruits and vegetables, the rows of kegs and bottles. For the first time the enormity of what was about to happen struck him. All that, going to outsiders. And foreigners at that! His outward expression of this outrage, however, was mild.

  'What a shame,’ he said quietly.

  'It is indeed,’ Garren agreed. ‘Just try to think of it as a hail storm flattening the corn, or a wind like this costing us most of our fruit. One of those things, and quite beyond our control.'

  'I'll try,’ Farnor said. ‘But it's not really the same.'

  'True,’ his father replied. ‘But it's the best I can offer to stop it hurting so much.’ There was an unexpected humour in his voice that caught Farnor's attention. ‘It's not without its funny side,’ he seemed to be saying. ‘Gathering this, ostensibly for the King but really for ourselves, and finding that the King really wants it after all.'

  The unexpected lightness shifted Farnor's perception of the event. There'd be other years. It wasn't that bad.