Night again, and once more you are high over the landscape. The moon hangs over a jumble of wall and tower and courtyard that you finally recognise as Milecastle, seen from a vantage some two hundred feet above the highest point.
Although it is night, the people of the town are running around within the walls with a purpose you have never before seen. Extra barricades are being built, and you can see old Menzies scurrying around the town walls, directing the watch.
The patrols are out, doubled in force, on the walls. All eyes are facing north but they are unable to see what you can, the gathering of shadows in the gully that you descended the night before, the deeper blackness where the Boy King and his companions stand. The darkness seems to seethe around the gully, and there is the sense of a storm brewing, dark clouds that are about to break over the walls of Milecastle.
You see the Boy King move to the front of the horde, and watch as he makes passing motions with his hands in the air in front of him.
The air hums, the power palpable even at this distance. You watch, unable to turn your head away, as a guard, as if in a trance, reaches forward onto the wall and tears the chain of bulbs into shreds, strewing the herb far and wide. All along the line you see that others are doing the same. The men of the watch, men you have grown with and trained with, are betraying their duty and they can do nothing about it. The wall is breached before a single Other has fallen.
The Boy King slumps in the arms of the tall companion wearing the armour, and your heart lifts. He is tired, the effort he has expended in controlling the watchers has weakened him. He can be beaten.
But then you see the size of the army he has brought with him, and can only watch as it moves forward in a single dark mass.
You have tears in your eyes, but you don’t know it, your heart transfixed by the sight of the black shadows pouring over the wall and down the hill, down towards Milecastle.
You see the men of the watch on the wall shake themselves back to their senses as the pale one’s spell lifts from them, just before they are engulfed by the black tide.
Muzzle flashes light the sky and a shudder runs through the darkness, but it doesn’t slow as it breaks against the wall and seems to defy gravity. It flows up and over to fall on the people below. A red mist suddenly hangs in the air, a mist that you know is the blood of your people.
“No!” Martin screamed, and, rising up, too fast for Campbell to stop him, he rushed headlong for the fire, as if attempting to dive into the picture.
And in the scene ahead of you, the greater darkness shifts, and the ten companions stop and look skywards. The armoured one releases the Boy King who stands upright and raises his head. You find yourself staring deep into the blood red eyes of the pale one. No words are spoken, but you feel the pull of the charm, feel yourself being dragged down, deeper down into those dark cold depths where he could tell you anything and you would believe him.
There is a ringing in your ears, and in the distance you hear a voice you know, a deep Scots voice that demands attention, that you know you should heed. But the eyes are too strong, and you feel yourself falling, falling.
A sudden pain in his left arm brought Martin out of the scene with an abruptness that left his head reeling. He looked down to see that Campbell had grabbed him by his wounded arm and was digging his fingers into the bandage, bringing a fresh flow of blood.
He twisted away from the Scotsman and turned back to the smoke, but there were no visions there, and already the green had turned back to grey and the rolling cloud was dissipating, wispy feathers scattering through the church and out through the doors.
Campbell dragged him off, away from the rapidly disappearing smoke, and Lennan dampened the fire down by spreading the ashes over a wider area.
Martin struggled harder against the Scotsman, but the man held him tight until the younger man finally relaxed.
“They have taken Milecastle,” he whispered. “The Others are in my home, while I am out here chasing shadows. A fine officer of the watch I turned out to be.” He turned away from Campbell lest the Scotsman see the tears in his eyes.
“You forget something,” the Scotsman said. “It was full dark in the vision. Full dark and moon-lit. Whenever it was happening, it is not now”
The woodsman looked up from the remains of the fire, holding the spit carrying the haunch of the small deer.
“The grasses show what the soul desires, what the wind fears. Eat now,” Lennan said. “Fill the belly and empty the soul.”
And despite his worry over the visions he had just seen, Martin realised that he was indeed ravenously hungry, as if he had already done a full day’s work in the field.
He felt saliva build in his mouth as Lennan sliced long strips of meat from the joint. The woodsman handed him a piece, and he devoured it greedily.
Between mouthfuls he spoke to Campbell.
“We must go back. God alone knows what has happened. You saw it?” he asked, suddenly worried that the visions were his and his alone, that he had suffered a malaise of the brain.
“Oh aye, I saw it,” Campbell said. “But two nights ago I saw myself being killed by two young fellows at the gates of Milecastle, and that did not come to pass—unless I am a phantasm and simply do not know it yet.”
Lennan held up a hand and counted off on his fingers. “What was, what is, what will be. I told you this. The last has not happened, may not happen. Will not happen if the gods are with you and your soul is empty. Eat now. Fill the belly and empty the soul.”
“But he saw me. He knew I was there,” Martin said.
Campbell was staring into the smouldering ashes, as if to will one last vision.
“Aye, he knew. Or he will know, when the time comes—I do not pretend to understand the ways of magic. But I do know that I pulled you away at the right moment. The Boy King almost had you, laddie, and whether it is now or at some other time, that it not a thing to take lightly—he will know you now if you meet again.”
“Aye,” said Martin. “And I will know him. But I cannot believe this to be Christian. We are not meant to see what is yet to come.”
“You haven’t been reading your scripture,” Campbell said. “Were not the prophets held in great reverence? And did Saul not consult the Witch of Endor?”
“Yes. And our Lord foretold what would come to him. But they are prophets and kings. We are men and only men.” Martin replied.
“The gods give where they will, and of what they will. My soul is emptied.” Lennan said, then turning to Campbell, continued, as if discounting the conversation as an irrelevance: “Your friend is right. You must return to the stone halls. First the gods showed us the site of the old holy place. That was two nights ago. I have word that the dark brethren are headed for your wall. It is right that you go back. Although what was seen may not be seen again, it would be wise to be prepared.”
Campbell looked worried at this.
“If they were in Jedburgh two nights ago, they could be over the wall by now.”
“They are not,” was all Lennan said. “And you must leave soon—the day is long started and it is a long walk for souls as full as yours. Come. I will lead you.”
Lennan left the church, and Campbell made to follow.
“Wait,” Martin said, “What about the rest of the food?”
“We will be travelling fast and light,” Campbell said. “And it may be that there will be no fires lit on the way. Lennan is a woodsman—let us leave it to him to provide for us. And unless you have a mind for raw venison, I suggest we leave it here. Someone, or, more likely, something, will have the good of it. Now come. Lennan moves swiftly, and he may forget that he is leading us.”
On leaving the church Martin had to squint in the sudden brightness of the day, and was surprised at how high the sun was in the sky. The visions of the past hour were still fresh in his memory, as if carved there permanently. The sight of his home being overrun by the Others filled him with a deep rage, and he knew that h
e had to get back there fast, and make the necessary preparations—he wanted to be there, ready and waiting, when they came, if only to take revenge for the child he had seen die. But when he looked at the sky, and at the position of the sun, his heart sank.
“We will never make it by nightfall,” he said.
Campbell too looked skywards.
“It is doubtful, I grant you that, but Lennan knows the ways of the forest, and may find us a more direct route than that by which we came. Come, it is time to move fast and talk little.”
Lennan was already at the edge of the forest and was beckoning them onwards. Martin barely had time to register the tumbled ruins scattered around the church, the last vestiges left by men, and only men, who had tried to withstand the Others.
“We must go,” Campbell said, and there was a new urgency in his command. “We cannot stand by and let your country become like mine.”
“With men like you, we will prevail.” Martin said, and clasped the older man’s arm as they moved away from the ruined town. He said a silent prayer, vowing that Milecastle would not suffer the same fate, before he was engulfed in shades of green and russet as the forest closed around them.
He could not see any trail, but Lennan was bounding ahead, as sure-footed as if he was walking in an open field. Martin followed as best as he was able, and could hear Campbell lumbering through the foliage behind them. He was glad to be in the middle of the trio—there was less chance of him being separated from the others that way.
He felt like he was worse than useless out here, away from all that was normal to him— Lennan, a woodsman, would not be at home anywhere else, and Campbell was capable and self- assured. It was like being a young boy again when he had to learn the ways of the wall—there was the same feeling of helplessness and being out of his depth. All he could do was stay alert and hope he could be of help if any crisis overtook them.
The trees crowded around them. They were bigger here, down from the high ground—bigger, thicker and older, surrounded by an undergrowth of bracken and fern, with the occasional sapling trying to push its way up to the thin light coming through the dense canopy.
Leaves fell softly around them, a steady rain of papery brown that foretold the winter that was on its way. Martin fell into the rhythm of Lennan’s stride, swerving this way and that through the trees, only struggling through undergrowth where necessary, but all the time taking the path of least resistance through the trees. He could hear a quiet piping noise ahead of him, and realised that Lennan was singing.
It was a glad tune, an air he almost recognised, and he hummed along as Lennan’s voice spoke to him of open skies and starry nights, of running with the wind like a deer, of cutting through the sky like a great eagle. The forest seemed to sparkle with life, each leaf gleaming emerald, silver pouring through the veins, but he could not stop to look, for round the next tree, and the next, were more wonders.
There on his right was the tree that was over one thousand years old, the tree that grumbled and groaned as it tried to suck up moisture through roots that had gone tough with age. And there was the sapling that would usurp it one day, all brightness and energy and vigour. Down there among the undergrowth he could hear the small rustlings as fungi pushed their fruiting bodies towards the sky, and small animals scurried for shelter at their approach. A grey owl watched him impassively as he passed beneath it, eyes blinking in unison as if giving permission to use its territory.
Through wood, up hill, along riverside the song continued, and now Martin sang along for, although he did not know the words, he now knew the meaning.
His feet hit the ground in all the right places, not once finding a loose rock or a pothole or a root, and his heart pumped, slow and steady although the ground seemed to race by. And once, on a hilltop, with only blue sky above, he held the song alone while Lennan watched and smiled.
As he sang, he felt the wind in his face, a clean breeze that washed away the memories of the church and the scenes in the smoke. Instead, he found himself thinking, for the first time for many years, of his mother.
His last memory of her was from a day like this. He had been seven years old. She was watching as Sean tried to teach Martin how to tie a hook to a fishing line. The younger boy had managed it with ease, but Martin found himself all fingers and thumbs, and was getting rapidly red-faced in frustration until Sean laughed, and Martin lashed out, hitting his friend across the cheek, raising a welt.
The boys had squared up to each other. They had never before fought, and Martin wished he could take the blow back, but there was a look in Sean’s eyes he would come to recognise in later years, and he knew the fight would be hard.
And that was when his mother had screamed. The last sight Martin had of her was when as the midwifes gathered around her and carried her off, leaving only the red stain of her blood on the grass.
Martin’s song faltered and faded, and he fell to his knees, sobbing now.
“Your souls did not fight, only the wind between you,” Lennan said. The little woodsman was still and grave, and when Martin looked up through his tears he was reminded of a churchman delivering a sermon. “Her soul does not feel that wind, only the souls and their friendship. It is through your friendship that her soul is cleansed. Empty your soul and she will be content.”
The woodsman held out a hand. Martin took it and he was pulled up as if he was as light as a feather. As he stood he realised he felt cleansed, as if a weight that had been with him for a long time had suddenly been lifted.
Lennan smiled.
“She has emptied your soul.”
He turned away and began to sing again as he led them down from the hill.
Still they walked, through patches of wood so dense that it seemed night had fallen early, over open moorland where the grouse fluttered from beneath their feet, until they reached a hollow, a natural amphitheatre near the top of a tall hill.
The trees had been deliberately cleared here, for there were ancient stumps covered in moss still sticking up from the boggy ground. The sun shone from a clear sky, and the air felt cold and thin and pure. High overhead a buzzard screeched its hunting call, but then all was silent, not even a hint of a breeze disturbing the calm. The sweet, almost sickly smell of heather blossom hung heavy in the air.
Lennan stopped, and Martin almost collided with him before, with an effort, he managed to still his body and stand quiet. Campbell joined them, and Martin noticed that all three of them were smiling broadly.
“Our souls are empty,” Lennan said. “And we have travelled well. Six leagues we have come, and look, the sun is at its highest. Let us give thanks to the gods.”
Martin looked to Campbell.
“Six leagues? But surely we have been walking less than an hour? I feel no tiredness.”
“It is the magic you do not believe in again,” Campbell said, smiling. “Look at the sun—we have been walking for hours.”
Martin looked around him for the first time since the song stopped. It was true that the sun was high in the sky, but his body did not believe it—he wasn’t tired, there was no sense of any muscle strain. He did however feel hungry again.
He looked around once more, wondering where Lennan had led them to, and saw the woodsman heading towards the centre of the amphitheatre, to the small ring of tall stones that stood there.
Martin followed Campbell as they went to join him.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“It is one of the old places,” Campbell replied. “Circles like this can be found all over the country if you know where to look, but the use of them has been lost in time. But watch—I believe our new friend will show us what it is for.”
The stones towered over the men, the tallest of the group of five being nearly ten feet above their heads. It was rough-cut, as if hewn directly from a cliff, and its surface was covered in carvings that mimicked the tattoos on the woodsman’s arms. Martin reached out and stroked the nearest carving, marveling at th
e intricacy of the work and the coldness of the stone even now, at the height of the day. When the sun shone on it the stone glistened, the minerals caught in it sparkling like stars caught in the surface. The woodsman also ran a hand over the stone, gently caressing it as if afraid it might break.
“Here the gods will take our thanks and our bellies will be filled again. This is one of our places, where my people worshipped in the days when our bellies were always full and our souls were always empty and when our gods walked with us always. Here the stars told us when the gods would come, and here we wait for the gods to come again,” Lennan said. “And here, the gods can still bestow their gift of food to us.”
He stood in the centre of the small circle and raised his hands high above his head. The air seemed to sparkle again, and, from the moor at the rim of the amphitheatre, three grouse took to the air, as if startled by a sudden movement. Martin watched as they swooped around above them. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a quick movement and saw Lennan clench, then unclench, his fists, just once. The birds fell out of the sky as if shot, dropping dead at the woodsman’s feet.
“Our thanks to you,” Lennan said, addressing each of the stones in turn. “Our souls are empty.”
He lifted the birds and, without another word, began to clean them, preparing them for cooking.
Martin stood and stared, not quite believing what he had just seen.
“Close your mouth, laddie,” Campbell said to him. “The woodsman didn’t cause the flies to fall, and you don’t want to be catching them.”
“Did he...?”
“Yes. He did. Come on,” Campbell said. “We’d best get a fire going—it looks like food has been provided.”
It looked like more than food was provided. By the side of the stones was a stack of dry wood, and a ring of boulders where fires had been set in the past.
“This magic of the woodsman is not natural,” Martin said as they stacked the wood on the fire.
“On the contrary, I think that’s exactly what it is,” said Campbell. “They know the ways of the wild, and the wild provides for them. Their magic would not work if linked to a hearth and home, town and castle.”
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