Farnor

by Roger Taylor

  Gryss just managed to catch him as he slumped forward.

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  There was whirling darkness and chaos, shot through with the cold silver of moonlight and the blood-red of nightmare battlefield sunsets. Tormenting winds blew great storm clouds through it, bringing to him familiar faces that he could not recognize. As they came, so he reached out to them and so they faded.

  Somewhere someone laughed at him. The sound wove into that of the storm, rising and falling, taunting him.

  He was helpless; the merest autumn leaf, the frailest snowflake. He would be blown where the wind chose.

  And in the tumult a dark presence moved. A presence that was both here and ... beyond...

  And he must go beyond to still its awful power. It was important that he did it now, before it was too late.

  He reached out.

  A babble of inquisitive voices surrounded him, shattering the dark chaos into a myriad flickering lights. They were full of concern and disbelief. They questioned and argued...

  And there was fear...

  An old fear...

  He spoke to reassure them, but he could not understand his own words.

  Surprise shimmered through the disbelief, but still it lingered. And the curiosity and the concern grew stronger.

  But the deep and ancient fear grew also.

  He strained to speak again.

  The laughter returned, though gentler this time. And the lights began to dance and float to its rhythm.

  And there was coolness.

  The voices faded, though he could feel them calling to him. They did not want him to leave. There were so many questions to be asked.

  'Don't go ... We ...'

  Farnor jerked towards wakefulness, his eyes opening grudgingly. But the coolness on his forehead did not allow him to rise. And there was gentle laughter again.

  'Are you feeling better now?’ came a familiar voice. He struggled, but even as he did so his mind began to understand what his eyes were focusing on.

  The remains of his sleep washed away from him as if he were emerging into the daylight from the breathless depths of some great lake.

  He was in his bedroom staring up at the old familiar beams that striped its ceiling.

  And the coolness on his forehead was his mother's hand.

  'Are you feeling better now?’ she asked again. ‘Muttering away to yourself.'

  Farnor tried to sit up, but the pain in his right arm prevented him. His mother put her arms around him and, with an effort, pulled him upright and pushed a pillow behind him.

  'The size of you,’ she said, with a mixture of pride and reproach. ‘You're too big for this kind of treatment these days.'

  The pain in his arm and the buffeting practicality of his mother's sickbed manner brought Farnor fully to his senses. And with his senses came the memory of the events at the castle which, in their turn, brought faint wisps of a need for caution.

  'What happened?’ he asked. ‘How did I get here?'

  'How, indeed!’ his mother replied. ‘Quite the saga, I can tell you.’ She did not seem disposed to relate it, however. Instead she walked over to the door and shouted down the stairs, ‘He's awake!'

  Farnor glanced round the room. There was something unusual about it. Then he realized it was the light. It had been late afternoon when he and Gryss had gone to the castle. The light coming through the window now was the morning light, and none too early morning at that.

  The heavy tread of feet coming up the stairs turned his attention back towards the door. There was some muffled speech then his father entered followed by Gryss.

  Garren looked at him with exaggerated sternness. It was an expression Farnor knew well enough. There was humour and relief behind it; he'd been caught red-handed at something; something however that wasn't particularly serious. It was a good sign. He gave a guilty smile and shrug in reply. Better play the child until he found out what had happened, and who knew what.

  'You're a fine one, aren't you?’ Garren said, walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge of it.

  But as Garren was speaking, Farnor caught Gryss's eye. Standing behind both Garren and Katrin, Gryss, his hand casually massaging his chin, briefly touched his lips with his forefinger.

  Keep quiet.

  Farnor nodded as if in reply to his father.

  'They're both fine ones,’ Katrin said, folding her arms and discarding her caring manner for a matriarchal one. She cast a glance at Gryss that made him wilt as it struck. ‘Wandering off to see if they could get inside the castle. Like children sneaking into an orchard. I don't know what ...'

  Garren lifted a hand gently to silence his wife.

  'You've made your point, Katrin,’ he said, mouthing softly for Farnor's benefit. ‘Two hundred times.'

  'It needs making,’ she said, directing the errant elder towards her son with a sharp nod. ‘See if he's all right,’ she demanded. ‘He was scowling as if he had the cares of the world on his shoulders, just before.’ Then, in high-pitched surprise, she added, ‘And he's been talking to someone for the last ten minutes.'

  Gryss stepped forward and displaced Garren from the bed rather as if he was seeking cover from a sudden and violent storm. He put on his healer's manner and subjected Farnor to various proddings, pokings and twistings before announcing, ‘Fine. I told you he was just stunned. All he needed was a good night's sleep. Let him rest that arm for a day or two and, apart from being every shade from yellow to black that you can imagine, it'll be fine.'

  Katrin gave a noncommittal grunt. ‘I'll leave you ... children ... together,’ she said. ‘I'll be downstairs, getting on with the work.'

  'I'll not be long,’ Garren said, winking at his son.

  When she had gone, however, his manner became more serious. ‘I've told you what I think about your little adventure, Gryss,’ he said. ‘But I'll say it again, in front of Farnor, seeing as he's party to all this, at your request.'

  'I know,’ Gryss said. ‘And I'll apologize again, willingly. And in front of Farnor. He probably saved my life when he tried to catch me ...'

  Gryss had told the tale about the horse bolting then, Farnor deduced.

  'It was an error of judgement on my part,’ Gryss went on. ‘I wasn't thinking properly. I was concerned about letting Jeorg go off on his own.'

  But, once started, as a rock must reach the foot of a hill, so Garren's conclusion had to be spoken. ‘We agreed we were going to work together,’ he said, with that special kind of insistence that made those who really knew him nod whether they agreed or not. ‘We must stick to that. Who knows what'll happen if we each wander off doing what we fancy without telling each other?’ It reminded Gryss that, as Farnor had hinted the previous day, there were times when Garren was not a man to stand in front of.

  Then, the reproach out, Garren seemed to become his old patient self. He laid a hand on Gryss's shoulder. Gryss covered it with his own.

  'Katrin been giving you a bad time as well?’ he said.

  Garren raised his eyebrows and blew out a long breath. ‘Yes, but I'm not surprised,’ he replied. ‘You frightened both of us out of five years’ growth when you staggered in telling us he'd had an accident.’ Garren made a sweeping gesture with his hand. ‘Still, no real harm done.'

  'Can I get up?’ Farnor asked, feeling the need to be a more active participant in this conversation.

  Gryss nodded. ‘Yes. Just take it easy with that arm for a day or so. Keep it as relaxed as you can, and let me know if it gives you any trouble.'

  Despite this permission, however, Farnor showed no particular inclination to leave his bed.

  His father prompted him. ‘Any time you like,’ he said, looking significantly at his son's clothes draped across a nearby chair. ‘It's only a couple of hours short of noon.'

  This declaration galvanized him more than it did his son, however, reminding him that, with Farnor incapacitated, he had a great many jobs that he should be atten
ding to elsewhere. With a somewhat self-conscious leave-taking, larded with both relief and reproach, he left to get on with them.

  As soon as he heard his father's footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs, Farnor pushed back the blankets and swung himself out of bed. He put his hand to his head.

  'What's the matter?’ Gryss asked.

  'Nothing. Just a little muzzy with lying in so long,’ Farnor replied, adding almost immediately, ‘Well, everything's the matter, I suppose. What happened to me?'

  'You fainted, that's all,’ Gryss said. ‘Shock from the injury to your arm.'

  'Or?’ Farnor said, picking up the doubt in his voice.

  Gryss threw a mask of certainty across his face which had behind it too many long years of experience, as village healer and negotiator, to be penetrated by Farnor.

  'Or nothing,’ he said, his voice carrying the same certainty. ‘It was a nasty and painful injury and you were fretting about everything else that had happened. Both your head and your body needed to get away from it, needed a rest. So they took one when you showed no signs of taking it for them.'

  Farnor looked at him suspiciously, but Gryss's mask deflected the gaze as easily as a stout shield would deflect a weakly thrown spear.

  Not wholly convinced, but seeing that no further information was to be had from Gryss, Farnor began to get dressed.

  'What are we going to do?’ he asked, in a low voice, as Gryss helped him thread his right arm into his shirtsleeve.

  'Nothing,’ Gryss said. ‘What can we do? I'm not going to the castle again.’ He became conspiratorial. ‘I've told your father that the gate was locked as we agreed, so at least he and Yakob won't go wandering up there.'

  It was important to have the lies consistent, Farnor learned.

  'So all we can do is wait,’ Gryss went on. ‘See what happens when Nilsson gets back, and hope that Jeorg will reach the capital safely.'

  Farnor exhaled unhappily.

  Gryss became fatherly. ‘You take it easy. Get yourself properly well. That was a brave thing you did, but your arm's going to be very sore for a day or two so you'll be in no position to be doing anything strenuous, let alone adventurous.'

  Farnor shook his head. ‘I've had enough adventures,’ he said. ‘I think I'm beginning to value a quiet life now.'

  Gryss looked at him, his eyes full of compassion but his mouth twitching into a smile. ‘That's old man's talk,’ he said, his smile rumbling into a chuckle. ‘There's plenty of time before you come to that kind of conclusion with any conviction. You just do as I say. Take it easy for a little while. You'll be ready for action again in no time.'

  It was an injudicious remark, Gryss realized as soon as he spoke it.

  'You think something's going to happen?’ Farnor asked, his face alarmed.

  Gryss shrugged awkwardly. ‘No. I don't think so,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But ...'

  His doubt hung in the silent sunlit air of the homely bedroom. He made no attempt to resolve it, and Farnor, sensing they would be futile, pressed no more questions.

  'It's only a month since Dalmas Day,’ he said, quietly, after a moment. ‘Who could've foreseen all this?'

  'Who indeed?’ Gryss agreed. And who'd have foreseen you changing so much in so short a time, Farnor, he thought. ‘It's the way of things,’ he said, affecting a worldly ease that he did not feel. ‘It's not much fun, but everything'll settle into some kind of order eventually. What we've got to do is keep our wits about us, that's all.’ His mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘And keep our faith in the basic rightness of things.'

  Somewhat to his surprise however, Farnor did not seem disposed to discuss the matter. He was struggling to fasten a loose kerchief about his neck with one and a half hands. Gryss stepped forward to help him, but he shook his head. ‘I'll have to get used to it,’ he said. A sheepish grin appeared, putting to flight the grimness that seemed to have taken possession of his features. ‘My mother's only waiting for half a chance to start looking after me and I'm not too sure I can cope with that.'

  Gryss nodded understandingly. Farnor's mood, like a fever, had passed some inner crisis; perhaps one that he himself did not even realize had been reached.

  Gryss left the farm shortly afterwards, pausing only to brave Katrin in her kitchen.

  'I know you two are up to something,’ she declared, waving a long wooden spoon at him like a regal sceptre and jerking her head in the direction of the stairs. ‘Though I don't suppose you'll tell me, who has to pick up the pieces when you've finished. But I know this, and you know I know it: that inn horse can't lift both front feet off the ground at once, let alone rear and toss someone out of the saddle. And it's seen many a fox before.’ Gryss endeavoured to maintain a look of innocent reproach to cover his inner quaking as she closed with him, spoon levelled ominously. ‘And that bruise on his arm never came from any rock I ever saw.'

  The spoon pinned Gryss to the wall. ‘Don't you go getting my son involved in matters he can't handle, Har Grysstson, or you'll have me to answer to. He's only a boy, for all his size.'

  'He's near enough a man, Katrin,’ Gryss risked ingratiatingly, but with a judicious hint of sternness.

  The spoon released him with disdain; he was too unworthy a foe. Retreating to her table Katrin made a disparaging noise. ‘Near enough a man!’ she echoed scornfully. ‘You're all only eight years old. I don't know why we bother about you so.'

  When she turned, however, any mockery in her manner was gone, and the look she gave Gryss was grim and worldly wise. Simple and direct, her words cut to the heart of her need. ‘You take care of my son, Gryss,’ she said. ‘And my husband. And, for that matter, take care of us all in your dealings with that Captain and his men. Whatever else they are, they're all fighting men. Used to brutality, to stabbing and killing and ...’ She paused, struggling to form the words to the measure of her feelings. ‘And everything else that goes with such a trade,’ she said significantly. ‘There's none in the whole valley could stand against any of them and hope to live should need arise.'

  'I understand, Katrin,’ Gryss said soberly. ‘Truly.'

  But do you, healer? he thought as he walked across the yard. He gave an acknowledging wave to Farnor, watching him from an upstairs window, then bent to stroke one of the farm dogs that was routinely checking him for interesting smells.

  Not like she does, he concluded. Katrin's perception of the reality of events disturbed him. It was no different from his own, but he found himself echoing Farnor's strange phrase: it came from a different place. Beyond a certain point, there was an unknowing between man and woman which could not be bridged by words.

  As he opened the gate to the lane he gave the dog a final affectionate pat. Having seen him to the boundaries of its demesne, it wandered away from him, turning its attention to the lure of the richer aromas that were calling to it from all about the yard.

  Gryss felt the weariness of his years closing in on him again, despite the warmth of the sunshine and the vigorous optimism of the farm life about him. As he closed the gate, he caught another glimpse of Farnor. He remembered his awkward grin as he had struggled with his kerchief and the shades about him retreated a little.

  Resilience, he thought. The dominant hallmark of youth. But the very thought brought back others that he had been holding at bay.

  Just stunned, he had confidently declared many times to assuage the alarm of Garren and Katrin as they had raced out to retrieve their unconscious son. But he did not really know. He had peered into Farnor's vacant eyes, searched his pulses, done everything that he knew, but the only insight he had gained was one into his own inadequacy, his own ignorance.

  'The body is like a great, well-founded ship. Countless unseen forces work to right it when it is disturbed.'

  'The true study of healing lies not in why our bodies become sick, but in why they remain so well against the innumerable ills that constantly assail them.'

  Words that he had heard in his youthful wanderings
in his search for knowledge and ... whatever it is that youth searches for. Words that had seemed wise then, and which time and experience had made seem wiser still. They had returned to sustain him as he had gently lain Farnor on the grass, carefully positioning him so that he would not roll over and choke should he vomit or swallow his tongue. Indeed, they were all that sustained him in his desperation, for he had no idea what had happened to the young man. Blows to the head, he knew, could produce unforeseeable, alarming effects, but Farnor had received no such injury.

  As he had looked down at the motionless figure, Farnor had seemed simply to be asleep. But Gryss had known that he was beyond any normal waking. All he could do was sustain the powerful will to heal that permeated the hearts of Garren and Katrin, and which, perhaps alone, could reach into those unknown regions to where Farnor's spirit might have wandered. By his manner and with his every fibre, Gryss had striven to impart to them his faith in the ancient ability of the young man's body to dispatch its enemies, to right itself, to call back his spirit to its true home.

  And it had happened so, though whether or not he had helped in this, Gryss could not guess. It was irrelevant anyway. He could not have done otherwise.

  He stopped and looked around the sunlit fields. So full of life and vigour. He shivered. Fear, he diagnosed starkly. How could it be otherwise now? His body was shaking itself loose, telling him to be ready to run.

  Or to fight.

  He closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun, as if its life-giving warmth would soak into him as it did into the sunstones, bestowing on him an inner light that would dispel the awful chill that had settled over his heart.

  And to some extent it did as, for a little while, he revelled in its warm caress and followed the dancing and flickering of the lighted shapes behind his eyelids.

  When he opened his eyes again, the shapes, though changed in colour, remained, jumping and dancing to their own spasmodic rhythm, and it was some time before he could see clearly. When he could, he found his gaze turning towards the castle. He looked at it pensively. It was no different from what it had been since he was a child. But now it seemed to him to be like a great predatory animal crouching in the lee of the mountains and waiting to spring forward and devour the village.