by Roger Taylor
Farnor felt his legs—his whole being—become leaden as he forced himself forward. It seemed as though the gate were at the end of a long tunnel and that it retreated from him as fast as he ran towards it.
'No!’ he heard himself shouting distantly, partly in fear, partly in denial.
Faint though it was, the cry shattered the strange, disorientating illusion and he found himself standing before the wicket. He hammered on it frantically. The sound of his blows swelled and rose to mingle with the pounding din coming from within. Farnor felt as though he was trapped in the middle of a grotesque quarrel between two demented drummers. And still the sound of the roaring wind overtopped all with the shrill shrieking weaving in and out of the tumult.
Farnor struck three double-handed blows on the gate shouting, ‘Gryss, Gryss!'
Then, a spark of reason shone through his frenzy. He mustn't panic, he must think. He ran his hands over the smooth, planed surface of the wicket. He tried to remember what kind of a lock it had. Surely it couldn't have locked itself? But he could not remember clearly; too many thoughts were cascading through his mind. What was happening to Gryss? What would his father say about his neglect in allowing the old man to enter the castle alone? What would Nilsson do if he returned to find Gryss locked in there? What was that fearful noise...?
He stepped back from the gate with a view to charging it.
As he did so, however, it seemed to him that the wicket was different from the gate which surrounded it. Just as the courtyard had seemed to be in another place when he had briefly glimpsed it before, so too, now, did the wicket.
It was itself, here and now, but it was also something else. Or something had been added to it. Some strange influence pouring through from elsewhere.
And it was no benign influence. It was a terrible harm. A terrible rending of reality. A terrible wound.
Farnor's whole body shivered with fear at this unwanted awareness. And, as if the shivering were a birth tremor, he felt something inside him awaken and cry out against this horror; something that he knew nothing of except that it could somehow staunch the wound, stem the flow that was bringing this harm.
No! this inner resolve cried.
No!
Farnor felt as though he had been suddenly jerked wide awake from a twilight doze.
He ran forward and hurled his shoulder against the door.
The wicket door burst open as he struck it and he tumbled headlong out of the sunlight and into the shade of the archway.
He rolled over and clambered frantically to his feet as if expecting to be assailed.
Still he could feel the mysterious resolve inside him setting itself against the harm that was now flowing all around.
He paid it no heed however, for, turning towards the gate, he saw Gryss staggering backwards as if he had been suddenly released from some great pressure. He seized the old man's arm.
At the same time he realized that the noise ... the harm ... had weakened...
No, not weakened...
It had ... moved away, as if no longer able to reach through...
Farnor turned again and looked across the courtyard. There was nothing untoward to be seen, but the sense that he had had of the yard being both there and yet, at the same time, somewhere else, was still with him though now this duality had a quality of hesitancy about it; a quality of uncertainty—like something unexpectedly abandoned by a hitherto faithful ally.
Yet it was still there. And it was recovering from whatever had happened to it—gathering momentum. Whirls of dust were beginning to rise and scurry across the finely jointed stone slabs of the yard.
A breath of wind blew in Farnor's face. He drew back involuntarily. It had a repellent quality to it, full of inquiry like the touch of a probing hand. Then, as if a signal had been received, the noise began to gather again. Abruptly, the dancing dust devils were scattered into a fine, stinging cloud by a powerful gust. It swirled low and shifted around the courtyard then hurled itself directly at Farnor.
He staggered under the impact. A hastily raised hand protected his eyes, but grit blew into his partly open mouth.
As he turned his face from the impact, he saw that the wicket door was starting to close.
The noise grew louder, triumphant.
Farnor tightened his grip on Gryss and unceremoniously dragged him towards the closing wicket.
He was too slow, however. Gryss staggered, and as Farnor yanked him upright with one hand the wind gusted behind the wicket and slammed it shut, trapping Farnor's upper arm as he lunged forward.
He cried out in pain at the impact, and then in fear as the wind began to pound into him, pressing him cruelly against the gate and pressing the wicket tighter and tighter against his arm.
Tears filled his eyes, so intense was the pain.
He tried to pull himself free, but then something struck him and he heard, ‘Push, Farnor!’ through the pain. ‘Push! Or you'll lose your hand, and it'll have us.
Vaguely he became aware of Gryss's old hands gripping the edge of the wicket and trying to pull it open.
'Push, Farnor!'
His vision cleared momentarily and he thrust his free hand into the gap and hooked it around the edge of the gate. Then, roaring in an attempt to take himself beyond the pain, he pushed.
The noise mounting around him seemed to exult in his cry, picking it up and returning it to him tenfold. But the awful grip on his arm eased slightly, and suddenly his shoulder was in the gap.
And then his whole body.
For an instant it seemed that the wicket would crush him utterly as the pressure behind it was redoubled. But Farnor had both arms firmly against the edge of the gate, his good one pushing with a strength he had never thought he possessed and his injured one pushing, perhaps less powerfully, but with the pain transmuted now into a fury more ancient and terrible than that which was feeding the roaring wind.
The gap widened.
'Get out! Get out! Get out!’ he shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation.
From somewhere Gryss appeared to scramble underneath Farnor's straining arms and tumble out through the gap.
No sooner was he through, than Farnor snatched his hands free and jumped. The wicket slammed behind him, giving him a final vicious buffet which sent him flailing wildly out into the sunlight. His legs made a valiant effort to keep him upright, but almost immediately they tangled and he was rolling over and over on the hard-packed ground.
In his ears rang the final, deafening boom of the closing wicket.
As he came to a halt, Farnor became aware of the sound of the roaring wind fading away interminably into a distant nothingness. He became aware, too, that the strange resolve inside him was gone, leaving only a fleeting after-image. He felt oddly empty.
With the dwindling of the terrible noise, sounds of normality began to return.
But they were no solace, for the pain in his arm returned with them and it was fearful. And too, the devil's brew of fear and anger that had given him the strength he needed was not yet fully spent. Clutching his injured arm and wincing at the pain, he twisted himself round and screamed every obscenity he had ever heard at the now silent gate. Eyes wide, mouth gaping, he screamed his defiance and rage, spewing forth not only the horrors of the moment but all the doubts and fears and resentment of the past weeks.
Then he slumped to the ground, hugging his arm miserably.
Only for a moment, though, for no sooner did he begin to become aware of the blue sky overhead than he remembered Gryss. Incongruously he felt himself colouring as he recalled the language he had just been using in front of the village elder. The embarrassment did not last long, however, as an agonizing spasm in his arm made him cry out.
Where the devil was Gryss? Couldn't he see he was injured? Stupid old man!
Propping himself on his good arm he pushed himself up into a kneeling position and looked around. For a moment, his vision still streaky with the tears of pain, he thought that Gryss had aba
ndoned him. Then a nearby blur that he had thought was a rock came into focus. It was the old man, lying on the ground.
He was lying very still.
* * *
Chapter 25
Jeorg rode steadily along the winding stone road that led down the valley. Already almost completely overgrown it would soon peter out into little more than a cart track before disappearing completely. Beyond that, all would be strange though Jeorg knew from what Gryss had described to him that, after a while, the mountains would gradually become less steep and turn eventually into rolling, grassy hills.
'Look back at the mountains,’ Gryss had said, in passing. ‘We live in the middle of a sight of rare splendour.'
But splendid sights were far from Jeorg's mind. He was nervous and at times regretting his impulsive volunteering for this journey.
Still, he reassured himself when his chest began to tighten with alarm, it had to be done. And it might be the only chance they would have to find out who these new arrivals truly were. And too, he had prepared for the journey diligently under Gryss's reluctantly given tuition.
The thought helped.
But not much.
He kept his eyes fast on the far distance for any sign that he might be catching up with Nilsson and his troop. Ironically, he felt that he would feel safer when he was in the completely strange country beyond the valley. At least there he would not be hedged in by the mountains on either side. And it was quite possible that Nilsson would go in a completely different direction to the one that he would be taking.
Thinking about which, he must keep his wits about him lest he miss any of the many landmarks that Gryss had told him about, and which he had so carefully memorized. At least the weather was fine today; he would have been even more nervous had he been attempting this journey on a misty winter's day.
The road ended, and the scenery about him became unfamiliar. He began to feel tense again.
Come on, you're no child, he told himself. You've survived being benighted high in the hills, and being trapped by sudden snows. There's nothing out here that can harm you; even Nilsson and his crowd, providing you can talk fast enough.
His unease passed and he turned his mind to the details of the journey ahead. It was a long way to the capital, and he would have to pass through several villages and towns.
Towns! He had always had difficulty in imagining what such places would be like. Were they wondrous, magical places such as Yonas might describe, or were they just big villages?
The notion taxed him. There was an aura of futility about the idea of so many people living so close together, relying on others to grow and catch their food while they pursued the kinds of tasks that were only necessary because they chose to live so close together. He shook his head as, once again, he failed to break this circle of reasoning.
And Gryss had not been much help. In answer to his questions he had pouted, shrugged and said, ‘There's not much to tell, really. They're confusing, noisy and very crowded in places.’ Then he had seemed to relent. ‘But they're nice sometimes, as well. All manner of interesting things to see. And people? So many strange people, from the wretched to the magnificent.’ As for the capital itself, all that Gryss would say was, ‘That is worth seeing, without a doubt. But you'll be glad to leave it behind and get back here.'
Ah well, Jeorg mused, philosophically, I'll find out for myself in time, I suppose.
As he went on, he was relieved to see that the way was developing as Gryss had said it would. The old man had affected weakness of memory, ‘After all this time,’ but, in fact, the route he had taken as a young man was as clear to him now as it had been when he first walked it, so intense had his excitement been, and he had described it to Jeorg with great accuracy.
Jeorg passed by the shore of a long lake, mottled white here and there with flocks of birds and bright blue under the summer sky. It was bigger than any of the lakes further up the valley, and was hauntingly beautiful. Here and there he passed derelict buildings with trees and shrubs growing through roofs and windows, and, for the first time in his life, as he looked at these forlorn remains, he wondered what peoples had gone before in this place.
He allowed his horse to maintain its own steady pace, to ensure that he would not close with Nilsson and his men who were travelling on their larger steeds. But he was still following the route they had taken, there being ample sign of the passage of a large number of horsemen, and he kept himself alert for any indication that he might be drawing too near.
As the afternoon wore on, he remembered Gryss's advice and turned round, for the first time, to look from where he had come. He caught his breath as the vista revealed itself. It was far more than what Gryss had called, simply, a splendid sight. Mountains filled the horizon; massive and majestic. Etched sharp and clear against the blue sky by the low bright sun, they radiated an ancient stillness which held not only Jeorg's gaze for an interval that he could not have begun to measure, but his whole being.
When he came to himself again, another interpretation of Gryss's advice returned to him: ‘Look back every now and then especially when you're changing direction.’ Gryss had chuckled to himself. ‘Believe me, things don't look the same on the way back.'
He understood that now, for the mountains under which the village lay were but a few among many. The thought made him fretful again for a moment. Majestic they might well be, but they were also oblivious to such as he, and he could look to no help from them, or anyone, if he lost his way.
As the light faded, he found that he was still following in the footsteps of Nilsson and his men, and he took the precaution of camping in a small copse where the shrubbery would hide him from any casual inspection. And he decided to forego a fire. The evening was warm and he needed no hot meal.
But that he had to behave thus, distressed him, and the restless night he spent was not wholly due to the hardness of the ground and the snufflings and rustlings of the night creatures.
When he woke the following day it took him a little time to remember where he was and what he was doing. He swore when he found that the wife he had just put his arm around was a log in whose lee he had been sleeping.
He swore more than a few times after that, until he had shaken off some of the stiffness that his night's rest had invested him with.
Briefly he pondered lighting a fire and cooking himself a warm breakfast, but he decided against it. It would take time and effort and might perhaps signal his presence to the troop ahead. Besides, though the copse was damp and chilly, the sky overhead was blue and cloudless and promised another warm day. A little walking would soon warm him and dry his dew-soaked bedding and pack.
Indeed, he felt much more his old self by the time he had saddled his horse and soon he was striding out, leading the horse and eating an apple noisily.
His thoughts wandered over a variety of topics as he walked along: up and down, like the terrain he was travelling over. Where he was going, and why. His wife: he struggled to set aside the concern which she tried to hide from him, but which had been all too plain for him to see, in her eyes and the slight set of her mouth. Gryss: had the old man been able to get into the castle, and if so, what had he found? How long was his journey going to take? Would his food last? What kind of people would he meet in the villages ... and towns! ... on the way? Would anything untoward happen in the village in his absence?
But, underscoring all, was concern about who lay ahead of him. He was still in the valley, and still following in the hoofprints of Nilsson's men. He wouldn't be truly happy until he saw them turn one way when he turned another, but the country was fairly open and unless he was monumentally careless he should be able to see them before they saw him.
Eventually he came in sight of a conspicuous gap between two hills which Gryss had identified as the point where he should turn west and leave the valley proper. It was at this point that he had hoped he would part company with the troop, but to his dismay, as he turned towards the dip, he found th
at he was still following the trail of the now familiar tracks.
He mouthed an oath silently.
Still, the lowest part of the gap was considerably higher than the surrounding countryside. Perhaps when he reached it he would be overlooking the land on the far side and be able to get some indication of how far ahead the riders were.
He mounted his horse and clicked it forward.
It took him longer than he had thought to reach the gap, the scale of the new terrain being deceptive, but as he made his way up the steady slope he began to feel exposed. It occurred to him that if he could see over the countryside from the top, then he in his turn might be seen against the skyline by anyone happening to look back.
He dismounted, feeling quite smug at this insight and, following his own reasoning, directed himself to one side of the gap so that he would be even less conspicuous when he reached the top of it.
When, finally, he did reach it, he realized that his precautions had not really been necessary. The ground between the two hills was wide and gently rounded, and the country on the far side came into view only gradually as he walked across it.
Even so, he kept well to one side and proceeded cautiously.
When he was comfortably past the crown of the gap, he paused and looked out over the land that he was about to venture into. It did not have the massive splendour of the mountains, but he found himself held by the sight nonetheless. Hedged all his life by mountains, the vista of rolling countryside fading into the distant morning haze made him feel strangely heady; both excited and uncertain.
Over the hill, he thought to himself, rubbing the palms of his hands together. He could feel the lure that had drawn Gryss onward so many years ago and also, albeit slightly, the comforting pull of the valley at his back.
He turned for a final look at the valley before he set off into this new land, but nothing was to be seen except the sky and the crown of the gap. He smiled to himself and then turned back again to the next part of his journey.