by Roger Taylor
The analogy brought to him the thought of the creature. And in the wake of this came the village lore about the caves beyond the castle where lay ancient evil creatures from another time, waiting only to be awakened to ravage the world again.
He could not believe such tales, but he could no longer dismiss them as airily as once he would have done.
And Farnor's contact with it had been prior to the arrival of Nilsson and his men...
It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps what was happening was the result of some grim coincidence. After all, Nilsson had not ridden into the valley like a man carrying in his train a powerful mover of the elements. He had ridden in at the head of a motley assortment of dispirited, even broken men. Nor had they been any different when he had visited the castle to examine their sick.
Only after they had started to explore the north of the valley had these changes come about.
Could it be the creature using Nilsson in some way? But Farnor's answer had been unequivocal: ‘It was a man who set that trap, not an animal.’ And there had been a human quality in the malice that he had felt attacking him yesterday.
There were certain trees that needed an apparently parasitic fungus in their roots in order to be able to survive. Each fed and sustained the other and both prospered, where each alone would wither and die. So perhaps it was now. Perhaps creature and man had encountered one another during Nilsson's foray to the north, and from thence they had grown in strength together.
Gryss nodded to himself. His reasoning had some merit to it, though quite what action he could take as a result of it he did not know.
None, other than watch and wait, he decided yet again. Be aware.
He straightened himself up, taking a deep breath as he did so. For a moment he was twenty years old again. Strong, wilful and determined. It was a good feeling.
He smiled. It was good. But not as good as being here now. He would not be that callow youth again for all the life and vigour it put back into his limbs. He had enough life and vigour to get himself around without too much discomfort, and his deeper senses and knowledge were superior beyond measure.
'Take care of us all in your dealings with the Captain and his men,’ Katrin had said to him. He would keep her incisive insights into the true needs of the moment at the forefront of his mind, and he would fulfil her demands of him to the fullest extent of his ability.
He felt a faint stirring within him. It was excitement. He crushed it ruthlessly. This was not something to be enjoyed. This was something in which stern discipline and an awareness that others looked to him for their safety must order his deeds.
Nevertheless, as he started back off towards the village there was a spring in his step that had not been there for many a year.
* * *
Chapter 27
The only certainty in life is uncertainty, Gryss had decided for himself many years ago, but occasionally one had to conjure out of the confusion a place, a foundation as it were, on which one might stand apparently securely, for a while, just to look around, and make at least some attempt to assess the degrees of probability and improbability of possible events.
In forming his conclusions about what was happening, though knowing that they might well prove incorrect, Gryss had done this. Thus, despite the physical ordeal he had suffered at the castle and the subsequent journey back to the village followed by a night of broken and uneven sleep and a day of heart-searching, he woke the next morning feeling refreshed and with his mind alert and clear, even though his worries about the future were, if anything, greater than before.
He performed his routine stretchings and scratchings as he rose from his bed, and then, yawning noisily, he drew back the curtains.
'Oops,’ he said softly to himself as the morning light flooded in. It was a grey, rainy day that greeted him, but he needed no timepiece to tell him that it was much later than he normally rose. Mentally the previous day's earnest reflections may have left him more at ease with himself, but physically he had been sorely tried and obviously his body had insisted on having the rest that it felt it needed regardless of such trivialities as his regular morning activities.
It was of no great consequence. Today he would further order his thoughts and then decide to what extent he should share them with his confidants.
He opened the window and leaned on the sill. A soft freshness greeted him, laden with the moist scents of grasses and flowers. It should be a day for perhaps sitting in the porch and watching the rain, and listening to it, and thinking. Thinking about something ... anything ... nothing.
But the prospect of such wholly innocuous self-indulgence did not lure him as once, but a few weeks ago, it would have. Now, despite his determination to watch and wait and to act only as circumstances dictated, there was a dark edge to all his thinking, a constant nagging wish that all this would be over and forgotten, that all would be as it was. It filled him with a sense of urgency, which told him that he should be doing something even though his mind had told him, beyond dispute, that he could not. And worst of all it left him with a leaden uneasiness in the pit of his stomach.
He breathed in the cool air.
The shades eased a little. Not to savour such moments was some kind of a desecration. But...
He shook his head vigorously and closed the window. He would have to learn to live with this new uncertainty. Katrin's words could no more be torn from his thoughts than a barbed arrow from a wound.
'... take care of us all in your dealings with that Captain ...'
She had meant, he knew, ‘Do not be reckless as you have been today, you speak for us all.’ But he had heard the plea within the command. ‘Take care of us all, we depend on you.'
And he would strive to do that, no matter what it cost him in restless nights, burdened with worry and fear. He had done so all his life and he could do no other now.
He turned away from facing what might be the ultimate cost. Matters could not come to that. Somewhere, reasoned words would prevail. They always did. Deals could be struck, bargains made, mutual interests agreed and satisfied...
Surely...?
He growled irritably and tried yet again to dispel this variable and shifting mist that was the future. Right now, both he and his uneasy stomach would have to be satisfied with food.
After a wilfully leisurely breakfast he set off for Yakob's with the intention of establishing further the story that the castle was locked and that he had been thrown from his horse when it was startled. He found, however, that Yakob was well acquainted with the tale. Garren, too busy to attend to the matter himself had sent Pieter with a simple outline of events to the inn and to Yakob and Harlen. As a result, Yakob was also in possession of several intriguing details which Gryss had not only not told to Garren, but which had not actually happened.
'It trampled on you, I hear,’ was one such.
It took Gryss some time to extract from the message that had reached Yakob the version that he required him to hear. Yakob looked almost disappointed; Gryss's tale was quite prosaic in comparison to that which Garren's too youthful messenger had brought.
'Just a tumble, then?’ he summarized finally, through pursed lips. ‘I thought that young Pieter was a bit excited.'
Leaving Yakob, Gryss headed towards Harlen's house. Doubtless he would hear the same tale when he arrived there, although, he mused, Harlen's being somewhat farther on it could be even more extravagant by then. He had a fleeting impression of a fabulous bird whose drab plumage grew ever more ornate and colourful as it moved further and further from its humble nest.
'Whimsy, whimsy,’ he muttered to himself. A sure sign of aging faculties.
But it transpired that Harlen had brought down the bird in full flight.
'He's gone downland to collect some willow rods,’ Marna told him as she took his wet cape. ‘He'll probably be gone for some time.’ Her face was amused. ‘He was going to come up and measure you for a coffin at first,’ she went on. ‘It t
ook him quite a time to get Garren's proper message out of young Pieter.’ She pointed Gryss towards a chair.
'Trampled underfoot and fallen off a cliff, I suppose,’ he said, sitting down. The chair creaked, but it was more like a welcome than a protest, and Gryss half closed his eyes in a small ecstasy as Harlen's chair pressed comfort upon him.
'More or less,’ Marna agreed, laughing. ‘I should imagine that by the time Pieter's finished, there'll be quite a crowd of mourners at your cottage. He's so sweet. And so serious.'
She laughed again. Gryss felt as though the room had suddenly filled with light.
'Perhaps he's going to be a Teller,’ he said, chuckling himself.
'What possessed Garren to send him with the tale?’ Marna asked.
'He's got a lot to do, with Farnor hurt,’ Gryss replied. ‘And I doubt he realized Pieter had such a vivid imagination.'
Marna ran her hands through her hair and shifted it here and there until it looked exactly the same as it had before. ‘So, no daring assault on the castle today?’ she said mockingly. Though, as Gryss caught her eye, he sensed a sharpness at the heart of the inquiry.
Gryss shook his head and leaned forward and Marna's mockery faded as if it had never been.
'What's the matter?’ she asked, uncertainly.
Gryss looked at her. Should he tell her what had happened, or should he not? Would telling her be for her benefit or his own; lightening his own concerns by sharing them? What could she do other than feel the pain and distress of being able to do nothing?
But the choice was not wholly his. As she herself had said, she was like a mole in a trap; she had walked in and could go only forward. And with what she already knew she was likely to give little more credence to the tale that Gryss had had put about than if it were just another of young Pieter's childish ramblings. And she had the strength and the resilience—the word came again—to support the truth where a falsehood from someone she had placed her trust in might well crush her.
He took her hands and, as simply and concisely as he could, he told her what had happened at the castle, together with his own thoughts about what ... who ... might be causing it.
She withdrew her left hand to nurse her right upper arm as he told of the gate closing to trap Farnor, but otherwise she remained motionless and silent.
Though patently shocked and bewildered by the tale, she asked no questions about why and how when he had finished, but struck to the heart of the matter.
'What are we going to do?’ she asked.
He offered her his only conclusion.
'Watch and wait. And hope that Jeorg reaches the capital safely.'
'And Farnor?’ she said, with unexpected indignation.
'Oh, his arm'll be sore for some time, but he'll be able to use it well enough in a few days,’ Gryss said, reassuringly.
Her face clouded. ‘Not his arm,’ she protested fiercely, omitting to add, ‘You silly man,’ though it rang clearly through her intonation. ‘All these ... things ... that are happening to him. He probably thinks he's going insane.'
That's why it was right to tell you, Gryss thought almost exultantly. You're his generation. You understand him. That alone would sustain Farnor in his trial. The vision of their youthful strength and courage guided by his knowledge and experience rose before him.
And with it a black thought bubbled up from deep inside him: it's always the old that guide the young to war.
It struck him with an impact like that of a clenched fist. He felt himself gaping.
'What's the matter?’ Marna asked. ‘You look as if you've seen a tithe gatherer.'
Her inadvertent use of the old village saw, with its now dark irony, made Gryss smile involuntarily. It released him from the chilling spell of the awful thought.
'Nothing,’ he answered. ‘Just a bit of reaction, probably, thinking about it all again.'
Marna seemed unhappy with the explanation, but Gryss ploughed on. ‘Farnor's well enough,’ he said. ‘As far as I know, he's told me everything, and he tells me how he feels about things. I think while he's doing that he'll be all right. And you knowing as well, Marna, and being his friend will help him also, even though none of us knows what's really happening. Go and see him today if you can. Just a social call, as it were. Following on Pieter's florid tales.'
Marna nodded. Her mouth twisted into a slightly bitter smile. ‘And I suppose all Pieter's nonsense will keep people's minds off Jeorg being missing,’ she said. Gryss started. He had not expected such a calculated observation.
Then Marna half rose from her chair. ‘Someone's coming,’ she said. ‘Running.'
Scarcely had she spoken than the front door of the cottage was flung open.
'Marna!’ a voice called urgently. It was Harlen. His footsteps paused briefly in the hallway, then he burst into the room. His face was anxious and flushed and in his hand he held Marna's cape which he proffered to her.
'What's the matter?’ Marna asked in alarm, as she stepped forward to greet him. Harlen looked at her then at Gryss, surprise and relief mingling with his concern.
'Marna, go to Yakob's now and wait,’ he said breathlessly, thrusting the cape into her arms and ushering her to the door. ‘Gryss, come with me.'
He had pushed them both from the cottage before either had a chance to speak.
'Father!’ Marna protested ferociously, wrenching her arm free from his grasp.
Sensing that a spontaneous and irrelevant family quarrel was about to intrude on what was obviously urgent news, Gryss entered the fray, laying gently restraining hands on the arms of the two potential antagonists.
'Put your cape on, Marna,’ he said, as quietly and calmly as he could. Then, to her father, ‘What's happened, Harlen?'
Harlen looked anxiously at his daughter who glowered at him in reply, still young enough to be indignant at his cavalier handling of her, not least because it had been in front of Gryss.
'Let her hear,’ Gryss intervened again. ‘She's no child any more. And nothing happens here but what we all hear about it within the day. Spit your news out, for pity's sake.'
Harlen pointed down the valley. ‘They're coming back,’ he said. His voice dwindled to a whisper. ‘They've got Jeorg with them.'
'What?’ Marna demanded, craning forward.
'Marna, I'd really prefer it if you went into the village,’ Harlen said, his tone placating.
But Marna's manner indicated that she had rooted herself to the spot.
'They've got Jeorg?’ Gryss said, ignoring Harlen's concern for his daughter, and hoping fervently that he himself had misheard the whispered message.
Harlen reluctantly gave up on Marna. ‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice pained. ‘And it looks as if he's been hurt.'
Marna's hand went to her mouth to stifle a cry. Gryss's stomach tightened in fear and a cascade of future events poured into his mind, dominant amongst which was the face of Jeorg's wife.
'How badly?’ he managed to ask.
Harlen cast another glance at his daughter. ‘I couldn't tell,’ he said. ‘He was draped over a saddle.'
Gryss's eyes widened in horror. Jeorg brought home like a sack of potatoes! Like a dead sheep! The future events faded before the grim present.
'Where are they?’ he asked.
'Only a few minutes away,’ Harlen replied, pointing again. ‘They're not hurrying.'
Without a word, Gryss set off towards the road. Harlen and Marna ran after him. The trio walked on in silence through the thin rain. When they reached the road, Gryss turned downland.
As Harlen had indicated, they did not have long to wait. Very soon the swaying forms of advancing riders appeared ahead. Faced head on, in the misty light, the column could not be discerned as such, but rather appeared to be a single, giant figure of grotesque and unstable proportions. It remained so until it was quite close and the individual riders could be seen.
As they neared, Harlen stopped and took Marna's arm but Gryss continued marching towar
ds the advancing column purposefully, his shoulders hunched and his head craning forward. He heard an order being given and passing down the line, though he could not make it out.
Harlen spoke to Marna and then set off after him, leaving her standing alone.
At the head of the column rode Nilsson, with Saddre and Dessane beside him. They made no effort to stop when Gryss reached them, though Nilsson looked straight at him.
'You have one of our friends, I believe,’ Gryss said to him, falling into step by the side of his horse. ‘He's been hurt.'
Nilsson gave a flick of his head towards the horse immediately behind him. Gryss stared at it. What he had at first taken to be a pack horse was, in fact, bearing Jeorg, draped across its saddle.
Anxiety lit Gryss's face. ‘Stop a moment,’ he shouted, stopping. ‘Let me have a look at him.'
But Nilsson took no heed, and the column plodded on. Gryss had to catch the horse's bridle to prevent himself from falling.
'Let go of the horse,’ came a rough voice from behind. It was accompanied by a none-too-gentle push with a boot that made Gryss stagger again.
He did not look to see who the culprit was, but scurried back to Nilsson's side. ‘What's happened?’ he asked. Again Nilsson did not reply. Gryss went cold. ‘He's not dead, is he?'
'He's not dead. Go to the village.’ Nilsson's voice was stark and commanding.
Gryss tried again, more insistently. ‘Please stop. If he's hurt he shouldn't be carried like that.'
Still there was no reply. Nothing was to be heard except the sound of clinking harness and the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the occasionally metalled roadway.
The healer in Gryss overrode his judgement and he became angry. ‘Damn it, will you stop and let me tend him!’ he shouted, seizing Nilsson's reins.
Nilsson turned to him sharply, his eyes ablaze. He raised his foot to kick Gryss, but before the blow could be delivered Harlen appeared by Gryss's side and dragged him away hastily.