Nocturne

by Louise Cooper

  They were almost level with the road now. Grimya, more surefooted than the ponies, had bounded down ahead of them; seeing her approach, the stranger’s horse shied and tried to sidle off the road, and again the rider jerked fiercely but reflexively at its head, though he gave no sign that he too was aware of the interlopers.

  Forth’s pony scrambled the last few feet to the valley floor and broke into a canter, intercepting the solitary rider and turning square into his path. Forth held up a hand, palm outward in the universal sign of peaceable greeting.

  “Good day to you, sir!”

  The horse came on. Indigo, catching up with Forth, wheeled her own pony across the road and stared through the rain at the rider. He was a middle-aged man, well-dressed, but in clothes better suited to a warm hearth than to traveling the country in a downpour. His face was deathly pale, as were the hands that gripped the reins; his eyes, glazed and unseeing, stared through and beyond her. She had seen such a look before, that dreadful air of purpose that hinted at an obsession strong enough to have brought this man—and at least three others before him—from home and family, out into the cold, sodden day on some unimaginable errand.

  “I was right.” Forth, too, was gazing at the rider, steadying his pony which began to grow nervous as the strange horse drew closer. “That makes four, Indigo. Four, in as many days. I don’t like it.”

  “Best leave him be,” she counseled. “There’s nothing we can do to make him acknowledge us.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t let this one go by as we did the others.”

  “Forth, don’t be—” But before she could say it, he had wheeled his pony about and was heading towards the oncoming rider.

  “Sir!” Forth drew alongside and reached out to lay a hand on the stranger’s arm. “Sir, stop! I would—”

  Indigo had a sharp twinge of premonition, and shouted a warning. “Forth!”

  The rider turned. The white, rigid face stared down at Forth for a single instant—though it seemed that the man’s mind still didn’t register what his eyes took in—then, so fast that Forth had no time to evade it, a short-thonged whip cracked through the air and caught him on the shoulder. Forth yelled with pain and outrage; his pony squealed and made a violent, stiff-legged jump to one side, and he tumbled out of the saddle to sprawl full length in the road as the stranger and his horse swept past.

  Forth seemed dazed, but only for a moment. He raised himself to his knees, spitting gravel—then, uttering a basic and furious oath, he scrambled to his feet, reaching for the wicked, curved knife he wore at his belt.

  “Forth!” Indigo dismounted and ran towards him. “No!” She grabbed his arm, twisting it up as he made to start after the departing horseman.

  “Let go of me!” He struggled to free himself, but, though she was slighter than he was, Indigo was the more skilled fighter; she twisted his arm a little further, applied pressure, and the knife spun from his hands.

  Forth stumbled away from her, holding her wrist and grimacing. “Why did you do that?” He was breathing hard, his temper barely under control.

  “Because you won’t solve anything by attacking him!”

  “He attacked we!”

  “He didn’t know what he was doing! You saw him, Forth—you saw the look on his face. He wasn’t even aware of your existence!”

  Slowly the indignant fire died from Forth’s eyes. His shoulders relaxed, and at last he turned his head away, muttering an imprecation under his breath.

  “All right, all right. I’ll let him go.” He transferred his attention from his wrist to rub at his stinging shoulder, and glared venomously after the stranger, who was now no more than an indistinct shape through the rain. “But if it wasn’t for this weather, and the others waiting for us, I’d follow him and see just where it is he’s going.”

  Privately Indigo was tempted to agree, but she thought better of saying so. Forth was impulsive, and she had a strong instinct that to track the stranger, armed as they were only with knives, might not be a wise move, though she couldn’t rationalize the feeling.

  Partly to distract Forth and partly to give another focus to her own disquiet, she said, “He looked ill. Did you notice?”

  “Unh. Just like the others—white as a dead fish. As if something had sucked all the life out of him.” Forth laughed, but edgily. “This land’s rife with legends of ghosties and were-beasts and suchlike. Perhaps our friend’s been got at by a ghoul. Or a vampire.” He saw Indigo’s expression, and forced a smile. “I’m joking, Indigo. At least, I think I am.”

  She nodded grimly. “I hope you are, Forth.” She gathered up her pony’s reins and prepared to remount. “We’d best be on our way, or we’ll keep the others waiting.”

  They set off, urging their mounts into a steady trot. When the solitary horseman loomed into view once more ahead of them, Indigo guided her pony off the road to pass him at a prudent distance, and was relieved when Forth followed suit without argument. As the rider fell behind, Forth drew level with her once more and gestured towards the land that stretched away to their left. Here grape-vines grew in neat, terraced rows, scrambling up the side of a relatively gentle south-facing slope. The autumn harvest was imminent, but the rain had battered the vines to a sorry, dripping tangle. A few days of hot weather before the picking began would put that to rights, but it was another and more insidious kind of damage that had commanded Forth’s attention and which he pointed out to Indigo.

  “About halfway up, towards the far end of that terrace.” He raised his voice to be heard above the hiss of rain and the noise of the ponies’ hooves. “See it?”

  She narrowed her eyes, and saw. A whole group of vines appeared to have withered, losing their rich color and turning to a sickly grey-white that reminded her disconcertingly of the pallor in the strange horseman’s skin.

  “I see,” she called back. “Then it is spreading, as the rumors say.”

  “But in isolated patches like that? It isn’t natural. Little wonder the farmers hereabouts are getting worried!” Forth checked his pony as it stumbled in a rut. “I’ve heard it’s affecting the apple orchards, too; and in the valleys the hop harvest gave only a shadow of its usual yield. And always the same thing. No obvious signs: no rotting, no mildew. Just fading and withering—”

  “As if something had sucked all the life out of them.” Indigo finished the sentence for him.

  “Yes,” Forth said darkly. “Exactly like our friend on the road, and the others we saw.”

  They both fell silent, but Indigo knew that their thoughts ran on an unpleasant parallel course. A blight, formless and apparently sourceless, afflicting the harvest at this crucial time of year. And strange, solitary wanderers who seemed to be caught in some form of trance, oblivious to the world around them, walking and riding on their lonely ways with that unnerving air of purpose. On the surface there could be no link between the two peculiar events; but Forth wasn’t the only one to have noted the disturbing similarity between the white and withering crops and the dessicated look of the zombie-like travelers.

  The crossroads came in sight ahead of them. Cour and Rance were already waiting with the other ponies, and when he and Indigo joined them Forth described the encounter, omitting, Indigo noticed with dry amusement, any reference to his own thwarted show of outrage. Cour listened soberly, then said:

  “We should reach Bruhome within two or three days. If anyone knows what this is all about, the townsfolk there will. And there’ll also be plenty of outlanders coming in for the harvest festival. Someone must be able to tell us what’s afoot.”

  The others agreed, and nothing more was said of the incident. But as they set off on the last mile back to the camp, Indigo looked back over her shoulder uneasily. The road behind them was empty—the solitary rider hadn’t yet caught up—and she quelled a shiver that had nothing to do with the rain’s chill. Cour was right: in Bruhome, which was the hub of trade and festivity for farmers, sheepherders, and vintners alike
, they would learn the answers to their questions, if there were answers to be found.

  And she knew, with an unerring instinct, that her own quest and the conundrum of the blighted crops and the blighted travelers were mysteriously but inextricably linked.

  •CHAPTER•II•

  The three caravans that were the pivot of the Brabazon family’s itinerant life trundled over the bridge marking the town boundary of Bruhome an hour before sunset two days later. Others crossing the bridge made way, pausing to stare at the spectacle: the vans, each drawn by a pair of stoical, soft-eyed oxen—less excitable and therefore more reliable, the family’s father declared, than horses—were high-roofed wooden structures carried on four great wheels apiece, highly decorated and painted in a motley of brilliant colors. Pennants streamed cheerfully from short poles set on either side of the drivers’ boxes, and in huge, curlicued yellow script on the side of the leading van was emblazoned the legend: BRABAZON FAIRPLAYERS.

  Steadfast Brabazon, father of Forthright, Courage, Temperance, and their ten brothers and sisters, sat high on the driving box of the first van, flourishing a whip adorned with multicolored ribbons and grinning widely at the world about him. He was a short man, but as broad and solid as an oak tree, with a crown of fiery red curls that were only just beginning to grey and recede at the temples. For all his fifty years, like his father and grandfather before him, he had been a traveling showman. His nuptial bed had been this caravan, his children had all been born on the roads between one town and the next, and in the six years since his turbulent but adored wife had died giving birth to their youngest daughter, he had managed both his chaotic family and his business with an irresistible combination of fearsome sternness and all-embracing good humor. In the early spring of this year, while traveling south-westwards from the Inland Sea to entertain the visitors at an ox-racing festival, Steadfast and his tribe had come upon a stranger with a pet wolf, living on her wits and her crossbow and making a poor show of it. Indigo and Grimya had suffered a hard winter in a country where outlanders—especially if they were unable to speak the local tongue fluently—received short shrift; for four months Indigo had found neither paid work nor anyone willing to offer her transport into the kinder western lands, and with game in short supply due to the season and no hope but to tramp the roads on foot, both she and her companion had grown thin and weak almost to the point of emaciation. The Brabazons had taken them in, fed them, nurtured them; and almost before they knew it Indigo and Grimya had become honorary members of the family—and an integral part of the showman’s entourage.

  Stead’s delight at learning that Indigo was a musician and singer was eclipsed only by his excitement when he discovered that her tame wolf—in itself enough of a rarity to draw the crowds, he said—appeared to understand every word addressed to her and acted accordingly. When Indigo first played her lap-harp for him at their campfire one night, he had sat in the flamelight with tears streaming down his face and declared that such music could make a statue weep. Mother Earth had smiled upon him this day, he said, and filled his cup to overflowing. Such friends and talents to have discovered—a lovely girl whose songs could melt the hardest heart, and a performing animal to bring wonder and laughter after the tears! He was a man blessed, a king thrice-crowned, to have had such a boon placed in his lap and he nothing but a poor, unworthy fairplayer who strove humbly to bring a little entertainment to the good folk of his homeland. Indigo, trying not to laugh, had grasped the core of the rhetoric and gravely replied that she and Grimya would both consider themselves honored to be offered a place in the Brabazon entourage. So, much to their own surprise, they had begun a new life as traveling players.

  And thus far it had been a good life. They journeyed from place to place, town to town, and at every stop they presented one of the shows known in the region as “fairplays”; a lively mixture of music and song and theatrics. Every member of the family, from Stead himself down to six-year-old Piety, had some particular talent or skill, and the Brabazons were in demand wherever they went; even in those districts where itinerants were looked upon with deepest suspicion. They knew nothing of Indigo’s quest, nor of the lodestone which had set her on a path that coincided, at least for the time being, with their own travels. And for her part Indigo had grown deeply and fiercely fond of her new friends, and hoped that the time for parting, which must inevitably come, might lie in the distant future.

  She now sat beside Stead on the driver’s box, gazing at the unfamiliar sights unfolding before her as they rolled on into the town. Bruhome lay between two small rivers that divided the spectacular sheep and goat farming fell country from the lusher and lower arable lands; here, the farmers, brewers, and vintners who drew their livelihoods from the soil came to sell the fruits of their labors, to elect leaders and pay taxes and argue politics, and to enjoy their leisure. People in this region needed only the barest excuse for a festival; and now, with the hop-harvest in, the livestock fattened on good fell grass and ready for market, and the grape and apple picking season getting under way, it was time for the annual Autumn Revels to begin. The Brabazon Fairplayers had become frequent and popular visitors to Bruhome over the years, and Stead had regaled Indigo with descriptions of the festivities, which went on for seven days and were the locals’ way of giving thanks to the Harvest Mother for Her bounty. The first casks of wine from the previous year’s grape vintage would be broached; there would be processions, speeches, singing and dancing, games and sports; and anyone who could entertain a lively audience would be assured of a welcome.

  Indigo liked Bruhome on sight. Most of its buildings were made of wood, some thatched, others tiled, and though its layout was untidy, somehow the cheerful jumble of houses and taverns and public halls, interspersed by a maze of narrow, winding streets, struck a note of order rather than of chaos. Brightly painted shutters flanked almost every window, while carved figures and murals adorned the steep, gabled roofs; with the festival about to begin, the lanes were decorated with bunting and garlands of meadow flowers that added an extra touch to the vivid atmosphere.

  The rain had finally given way to kinder weather, and the last, mellow sunlight of a glorious day slanted across the scene. Now and then, as they made their way through the town, Stead was hailed by people who clearly knew the family of old. But though he waved and smiled to each one, Indigo thought she detected a lessening of his usual exuberance; and twice, when he thought she wasn’t looking, a faint, disquieted frown crossed his face. No one else seemed to be aware of anything amiss; Forth, inside the caravan with Grimya, was leaning out of a side window, enthusiastically greeting all and sundry, and from one of the following vans Indigo could hear the rhythm of a tambourine and the voices of Charity, Modesty, and Harmony, the three eldest Brabazon girls, practicing a popular song.

  She glanced towards Stead again. Something was wrong, she was sure; but she couldn’t guess its cause. She could see nothing untoward in the town: far from it. But Stead was uneasy, and that wasn’t like him.

  She touched his arm. “Stead? Is something amiss?”

  He looked at her, and the frown appeared once more. “You’ve noticed it?”

  “Noticed what?”

  His gaze roved over the scene before them, then he sighed, a hissing sound through teeth clamped tightly together. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just been a long day and we all need some sleep.” He reached over and patted her knee in a fond, avuncular manner. “We’ll talk about it later and see what’s what. Come on, now; smile for the people. They’re tomorrow’s audience, and our bread and meat.”

  Partly to placate townsfolk nervous at such a great influx of newcomers, and partly so that any potential troublemakers could be more easily watched, a piece of ground on the town’s western flank had been set aside to accommodate the motley assortment of itinerant entertainers arriving to take part in the revels. Here, where one of the rivers spread out into a flat, lazy meander, there was space for two dozen or more wagon
s and good grazing for the animals that pulled them, and a cheer went up from the Brabazon caravans as they rolled through the open gate and on to the lush turf beyond.

  Dusk was falling; stars had begun to wink in the east, and one or two campfires were already blazing in the pasture. Forth and Cour set about unharnessing the oxen and tethering them and the riding ponies, while Stead strolled off across the meadow to see if there were any old friends or enemies among the groups already encamped. Travelers, as he’d often explained to Indigo, were as mixed a bunch as a sackful of stage props, and a festival such as this was bound to attract a lot of curdled milk as well as the cream of the profession. Mingling with the genuine players, he said, would be any number of thieves, pickpockets, and vagabonds, and they as much as the good townfolk of Bruhome would do well to watch their purses and their backs. While he was gone, Indigo and two of the younger children took wood from the great basket carried at the back of one of the vans and built their own small blaze. Everyone was too tired to explore Bruhome’s taverns tonight; instead they would eat around the fire, then bed down under the stars or in the caravans, and be fresh for the morning.

  Charity, the eldest of Stead’s thirteen children, was in charge of the cooking. She had recently celebrated her twentieth birth-anniversary, and had cast herself in the role of substitute mother to her younger siblings; a responsibility which she took very seriously. She was a tall, willowy girl with waist-length auburn hair—every Brabazon, father and child alike, had hair that was one shade or another of red—which she wore in braids wound around her head; and the dreamy nature she had inherited from her dead mother was tempered by a firm thread of practicality. Stead might be the foundation stone of the Brabazons, but Charity was his invaluable lieutenant, and Indigo often wondered what would happen when, as seemed inevitable, Charity’s quiet charm and beauty captivated some young man and she chose to leave her brothers and sisters for a husband and hearth of her own. It was hard to imagine Modesty, the flamboyant and inaptly named next eldest sister, stepping into her shoes, and the other girls were as yet too young for such a responsibility.