The Stone Arrow

by Richard Herley

  “Seventy-seven villagers have been killed,” Sturmer said. “Another twenty lie maimed or dying in their beds. You have seen them. You have heard them. Now you must help. Were it not for Burh and villages like us Lord Brennis would have no trade. Will he stand by and watch us all murdered? Will he do nothing to stop it?”

  “Why should he?” Bico said, with genuine curiosity.

  “Because from us he grows wealthy!” cried Groden.

  Bico shrugged. “Keep soldiers like he does to protect yourselves from the heathens and the demons. Feed your own barracks. Work hard. Build a fort. Look after yourselves. He has no duty towards you.”

  “That’s enough,” Fallott said, and Bico fell silent.

  Fallott turned back to Sturmer. “We would help if we could, with all our heart, but we cannot. Our orders are strict. If we broke them the Flint Lord would be very angry.”

  “Then can you plead for us? Get him to send soldiers?”

  “It is not usual.”

  “My wife is still with Tsoaul,” said Groden, near to despair.

  “And mine lies outside with her face bitten through,” Stinn said, and all those who had been bereaved began to plead with Fallott for his intercession.

  Fallott held up his hand. “You say you have seen Tsoaul himself.”

  “He came from the trees. It was Tsoaul.”

  “Then you will need many soldiers, half an army.”

  “Will you ask, Fallott?”

  Fallott hesitated before saying, “I will.”

  “It is enough,” Sturmer said. “We know you, Fallott.”

  Soon afterwards the fly agaric ceremony had commenced. Now the Meeting House was empty of villagers, and Bewry was lying awake. He could hear Pode snoring and Bico mumbling in his sleep. The light from the watchers’ torches made flickering patterns on the ceiling; Fallott’s body was a huddle, his sheepskin pulled up to his ear.

  Bewry did not know how much time had elapsed when Fallott sat up and rose to his feet.

  “Two hours to first light,” he announced, kicking Pode and Bico awake.

  Bewry stood up himself to avoid being kicked.

  “Better not piss on their Dead Ground,” Fallott told him. “Do it by the steps.” He turned to the two men, who were grumbling. “Bico, go and get the head man up. Pode, you make sure we get a good breakfast. We’ve a big walk today. Bewry, see to the goats.”

  Fallott, rubbing his hands, went to the nearest window and inspected the sky. Stars remained unblinking behind wisps of thin moving cloud. “Rain this morning before Whitehawk,” he predicted, as Pode and Bico went out of the doorway and down the steps, with Bewry coming respectfully behind.

  * * *

  Tagart struggled through the silo, groping for the covering of sticks. His fingers found them and he drew himself up and into the fresh windy night, pausing with his head and shoulders above ground while he checked the village.

  Torches were burning by the Meeting House, and in their light he saw the mourners sitting beside what he knew were bodies. The rest of the village was in darkness.

  As before he heaved himself out of the silo, ran to the granary, the threshing shed, and down to the river, where he leapt from the bank and into the water. He swam underwater for three strokes, took breath, and crossed to the far bank to make his way upstream and past the bridge.

  In his pouch, securely wrapped in a square of tallowed skin, were pieces of death cap he had prepared the previous day. He had found the fungus growing in several places between the river and the yew, and in the beechwoods near the gorge, in ones and twos and small groups. With meticulous care not to put his fingers to his mouth or eyes or any part of his skin that was not whole, he collected every cap he could find, numbering three hundred and six. In the valley north of the yew he gathered twigs and bents and shavings and in a three-sided oven of flat stones built a hot, smokeless fire which he buried in pebbles. On the bed of pebbles he gently heated the caps, taking off each one as it shrivelled and dried. They were small, smaller than fly agaric caps would be, but they looked sun-dried and he hoped they would pass for the caps described to him by Hernou.

  By nightfall he had finished. At dusk he had fed and watered Hernou – whom he had allowed to sit on the ground during the afternoon – and hung her up again in the tree for the night. He had slept then, for his normal term: the next day he would need to be fresh.

  Two hours before dawn he had come down the escarpment to the village, and now he was inside the compound, wading through the shallows by the riverbank.

  The Meeting House showed as an angled bulk against the compound with its scattered houses contained by the spike-topped palisade. He waded further upstream. He knew he would have to get inside the Meeting House silently, find the Agaric Casket, exchange the caps, and get out again without alerting the mourners. That was counting on the fact that the Meeting House would be empty: otherwise he would just have to wait his chance, or even give up the idea altogether.

  Making small ripples, he swam to the village-side bank. He stealthily climbed into the sedges. The rear wall of the Meeting House was directly opposite, thirty feet away. Tagart shook the water from his limbs, squeezed his hair and beard, and one by one took off his garments and wrung them dry before replacing them. He came further up the bank. The sedges rustled as he left them and darted to the Meeting House wall.

  For a long time he leaned against the wattle, listening. He could hear nothing from inside. The building appeared to be empty. He edged to the corner, away from the Dead Ground, and put his head round. Nothing. The barn and bakery were in full view, as were nine or ten houses, but it was dark and moonless and if he were observed he would be no more than a faintness against the river behind. The main danger came from the mourners’ torches. The glow among the network of piles and crossbars beneath the Meeting House floor would show the movement of his legs. If he was going to be seen from the bakery side, that would be the cause.

  The risk had to be taken. Pressed against the wall, he worked his way along to the first sizeable gap in the wattle, wide enough to see inside. He looked. The interior was much as he remembered it: the wooden floor, the altar, the windows and walls, the doorway at the far end through which he could glimpse more of the village.

  The room was empty.

  He made his way to the first window. The ledge was eight feet above the ground. He jumped and grasped the timber of the frame, hanging for a moment as he listened for a reaction. None came. Gradually he pulled himself level with the ledge and climbed over. He landed soundlessly on the smooth boards of the floor and crossed to the altar. In the uncertain light of the mourners’ torches he found the casket Hernou had spoken of, a cubic beechwood box the width of his forearm, furnished with a lid that opened with a soft gasp as he swung it on its hinges.

  The casket had been superbly made. It was airtight, the back, lid, front and sides carved into panels of stars, clouds, comets, mythical beasts, the deities of Earth, Forest, Sea and Sky, the sun and wind, and the fly agaric toadstool itself, growing under birch trees by the gates of the road taken by the dead to paradise. Ten trays inside fitted one upon the other, each scrupulously polished and fashioned.

  The top three trays were empty. Tagart removed the other seven and tipped the fly agaric caps into a heap on the floor, replacing them with the caps from his pouch. He did not have quite enough: he made up the deficiency in the bottom trays with fly agaric caps, and put the rest of the trays back into place. He shut the lid and positioned the box as he had found it, and scooped up the fly agaric from the floor to pack into his pouch. A few crumbs he scattered by blowing this way and that on the floor.

  There was a noise at the doorway.

  Someone was coming up the steps.

  Tagart stared past the altar and into the darkness at the end of the room. He could not attack, for the mourners outside were too close and he would be heard. He could not jump out of the window and run: it would take far too long to burrow into the sil
o, or if he ran to the path, too long to get the gates open. He could not fight them all. And he could not hide here in the Meeting House, for whoever was coming up the steps would already have seen him.

  It was all over.

  He stood up and turned and saw that it was worse than he had thought. There were two of them, at the top of the steps, men outlined in the doorway, coming inside.

  It was all over. They would kill him.

  The two men came further into the room. Tagart stood quite still, oddly peaceful now that he knew it was coming to an end at last. He had tried to discharge the honour of the tribe; he had given his best, and could give no more.

  “Good day to you,” one of the men said.

  Tagart croaked.

  He started walking towards them.

  The man on the left caught him by the arm and Tagart tensed.

  “Have you seen Fallott, friend?”

  “No,” Tagart brought himself to say.

  The two men seemed to lose interest in him. He edged past them to the door. From the corner of his eye he saw one kneel and begin tidying a pile of bedding by the wall.

  Tagart hesitated in the doorway, in full and heady view of the whole village, and casually he was descending the flight of plank steps, the mourners’ torches behind him and to the right. He reached the ground without challenge and, still forcing himself to go slowly, turned left and sauntered towards the bakery and darkness. Shortly he turned left again, strolled by the side of the Meeting House, and retraced his steps to the river.

  The water was his friend. It was warm and buoyant and smelled of the forest. Its broad surface curled and gurgled and carried him past the bridge, past the lights of the mourners, and to the bank beside the threshing shed.

  Moments later he was in the silo and pushing open the trapdoor of turf.

  Beside his quiver and bows, a small bundle lay next to the trapdoor: his bowstrings and fire-making kit. He took them all up and ran beside the palisade back to the river, which he swam with his arm high in the air holding the bundle clear, gripping the bows and quiver with it, making deep strokes with his free hand and frog-kicking at each threat that he might go under. It was not easy, and he came to the western bank a long way down from the village. A moorhen squawked as he crashed a passage through the vegetation on the bank.

  Tagart gained solid ground and stood facing the fresh west wind. Ahead: the low shape of the hills. Behind: the river and the forest, the trees heavy with summer coming almost to the water. On his left: the widening mouth of the estuary. To his right: acre upon acre of inflammable corn and barley.

  Turning his face to the north-west, he set off across the fields.

  * * *

  Sturmer preceded the trading team across the bridge and opened the gate for them. Daylight was just showing above the forest; the air felt chilly and smelled damp from the river.

  Most of the farmers had come to see the trading team leave.

  “Have you all you want of our wares?” Fallott said routinely, as he let the goats pass him by.

  “We have.” Sturmer stepped forward. “You’ll not forget us, Fallott?”

  The larger man slapped him on the back. “My word is on it, Sturmer. Lord Brennis will be your saviour if I am worth anything at Valdoe.” He glanced at Pode and Bewry, chivvying the goats through the gate and onto the road. The animals’ panniers were loaded with grain, skins, cuts of meat: mutton, goat, pork, and stringy beef from the small cattle that served the village as milk beasts. “We must be gone,” Fallott said.

  Sturmer stood back.

  “Come on there, Bico!” Fallott called out. To Sturmer he said, “In a few days, then.”

  “In a few days.”

  The gate swung shut and the flint-sellers heard the oak beams being dropped into place. Fallott quickened his step and caught up with the end of the team, where Pode was prodding the trailing goat with an elder switch.

  “Lord Brennis their saviour,” Pode said, with a grin.

  “Did you want to be held there by force?”

  “True enough, Fallott. There was nothing else to tell them.”

  “They’re desperate.”

  “What if the Forest God comes down and kills them all?”

  “We’ll strike Burh from our list of walks,” Fallott said drily, and Pode chuckled as his leader moved to the front of the team. “Bewry, go behind.”

  Resentfully Bewry dropped back. The path was still bad, very muddy, and today the team had to cover the whole distance to Valdoe by nightfall. The goats’ hoofs churned the track, making small, deep holes which immediately filled with water. Already Bewry was struggling to keep up, his night’s rest counting for little.

  On either side was the expanse of the farmers’ arable. The path led through the fields for half a mile from the village, and at their edge wound through a spinney of maple and oak. Beyond the spinney spread a gentle incline of turf kept neat by grazing. Lines of small chalk boulders marked out a large rectangle, in the middle of which was the village burial mound, six feet high, fifty feet long, twenty wide. The farmers kept its earth free of weeds; at its base were posies of red campion and corn chamomile, laid for the newly dead. Here the trading team had seen fresh soil the previous day.

  For protection and other purposes on the road, the flint-sellers went armed. Fallott kept an axe in his belt, and in his pouch ready to hand was a sling-shot and a supply of pebbles which he could propel with speed and accuracy. Also in his pouch he kept a bolas, three fist-sized stones sewn into leather coverings connected by a long thin strap. This, when thrown at a fleeing deer, would wrap itself round the animal’s legs, entangling it and bringing it down.

  The team came out of the spinney.

  Bico saw him first. He was walking along the top of the mound, dressed in skins, without shoes, a tall and powerful man moving with noticeable fluidity and grace, unarmed, his quiver of arrows and two unstrung bows leaning against the base of the mound.

  He looked round suddenly, as if he had been disturbed in deep thought.

  Fallott had seen him too and was already unfurling his bolas. He moved clear of Bico and began to swing the leather-covered spheres, feeding out the strap as he did so.

  “You there! Wait!”

  The man leapt from the mound and scooped up his quiver and bows and started running.

  The trebled thong of the bolas hummed loudly as Fallott worked power and momentum into the swing: the balls blurred into a perfect circle, precisely horizontal.

  Fallott was waiting.

  At first the fugitive had put the mound between himself and the team, but as he climbed the slope he came out of cover and his legs were revealed. He was fifty paces away when Fallott let fly.

  Unerringly the bolas snapped out of orbit and raced after the running man, whirred over the mound, and before he had taken another five steps the balls were spinning past each other and the strap was winding itself again and again round his knees. With a shout of dismay he flung his arms wide. The quiver and bows were thrown into the air; he fell heavily, sliding on his face to a halt in the dew-wet grass.

  Even before he could sit up, Fallott was standing over him with his axe.

  Bico joined his leader.

  “A bonus for us,” Fallott said. “How much do you think he’ll fetch?”

  “A walk saved or two days with the whores for each of us,” said Bico, with enthusiasm. He cautiously circled the prostrate figure. “He looks well fed. Too well fed to be a farmer. Do you think he’s one of them?”

  Fallott shook his head. “I know them all by sight. This is a stranger, a nomad I think. A wild man.” He prodded Tagart with a foot. “You. Where are you from?”

  “Highdole,” Tagart answered. “I have journeyed to see my friends at Burh.”

  “Alone?” Bico said. Fallott smiled.

  “And is this how you pay respect to their dead? Walking along the barrow?”

  Tagart said nothing.

  “Let’s go back to the v
illage, then, and see if they know your face.”

  The man held Fallott’s eye. “They will tell you I am their friend. Untie my legs and we can go.”

  Bico was frowning with recognition. He squatted and took hold of his hair, wrenching his head back to see his face. “I know him,” he said to Fallott. “Pode and I saw him. We saw him this morning in the Meeting House.”

  “Of course,” the man said, evenly. “I slept at Burh last night. I am the guest of Sturmer. I am here for a week to help with the harvest.”

  “What is your name?” Fallott said.

  He did not hesitate. “Meker.”

  “You say you come from Birdbrow.”

  “Highdole.”

  “What is the name of your head man?”

  “Foss.”

  Fallott laughed. “A good try, my friend. You forget we are a walking team. I know them all.” His expression changed and he jerked his head at the goats. To Bico he said: “We’re wasting time. Cut a yoke from that spinney. We must be on our way.”

  PART THREE

  1

  Tagart’s wrists were tied to a stout oak branch laid across his shoulders and his ankles were fettered with rope. He could walk, but no more, and if he did try to escape he would not be able to get far. For extra insurance Bico put a halter round his neck.

  Their progress was slow. Fallott found the delay irksome. Tagart often stumbled and fell, only to be kicked and dragged to his feet. Before long there was no part of him that was not spattered with mud. His shoulders were burning centres of pain; all sensation had gone from his hands and forearms, and where Fallott’s kicks had struck his kidneys he felt a dull, hard ache. From time to time the boy wiped his face and gave him sips of water. The boy did not speak, but seemed sorry for the captive. Tagart’s mind began to work.

  “Come on, Bewry!” Bico shouted.

  The team followed the road up the western side of the valley, away from Burh and along the slope of the chalk hills which, half a mile to their left, became white cliffs above a shingled bay. Spectacular cloud formations were building up in the west: purple, black, dark grey, green. Sudden showers came and went, the rain making clean streams across Tagart’s skin.