Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01]

by The Fire Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  Something screamed. It was a terrible sound, and it lingered and finally faded. Eleanor looked around, but she could not find the source. She shivered all over.

  "Come on, Wrolf. Let’s go. I’ll never get there if I stop to play amateur archaeologist. I just hope that thing didn’t have any little brothers.”

  She picked up the pages where she had set them down to get out the mead and put them into the bag on her shoulder. They walked down the Kennet Avenue, a slightly winding trail set with stones on either side. The shape of the stones alternated, a straightsided one next to a vaguely diamond-shaped one, and Eleanor marveled at the work it had taken to shape them. All the stones were taller than she was, and she knew they weighed tons and tons.

  The avenue dipped down to a warm, marshy dale with a small stream gurgling through the thin snow, then rose again to a small hill. There was a modest ring on this hill, and Eleanor stopped and looked back the way she had come. In the dusky grayness of the day, Avebury seemed pale green between the stones.

  The small rise gave her a chanee to orient herself. Silbury was now almost west of her, and she realized that unlike most of the rest of the landscape, it was not covered with snow. She walked around part of the hilltop and then began to pick her way down the west face of it, slipping and sliding while Wrolf sort of.tobogganed on his rump. He shook himself all over, spattering her with snow.

  At the bottom of the hill was a stand of trees. In the trees there was a huddle of huts. A stream of smoke came from one. Eleanor stood and looked at the hovels for a moment. She found her need for companionship was less than her desire to avoid any people of the Darkness.

  A man came out of one hut, shouldering an ax and whistling merrily. He came toward her and stopped.

  They eyed each other carefully while Wrolf wagged his tail.

  "Good day to thee,” he said. He regarded her with outright suspicion and moved no closer.

  "Good day, sir. I was just passing and saw your smoke.”

  "Where have you traveled from?”

  "Why, St, Bridget’s Priory.” She waved vaguely east. "St. Bridget’s, eh? Are you a pilgrim, then?”

  "Yes, you could say that.”

  He still watched her closely, searching his mind. "I was to St. Bridget’s once. Master Overton sent me to take his sheep to the fair, and I stopped there. Did you see the Lady?”

  "Yes.”

  "A marvel, is she not, in her black cloak all set with suns upon it?”

  "Yes,” she said, laughing a little at his clumsy trap, "but the cloak is blue and covered with stars. She wears a white gown and carries a flaming sword. The moon crowns her brow and her feet are unshod.”

  He gave her a slow grin and doffed his cap. "These are hard times, lady, and I am a right cautious man. You look cold. Come in and warm your legs by our fire awhile. There is only me and my good wife and our baby. If you have seen the Lady, you are untouched by.. .’tis best not to speak of it.”

  "Thank you. I would be glad of a fire.”

  They went to the hut, Wrolf loping behind. The man gave the wolf a curious look or two but apparently decided not to ask questions.

  It was dark inside, lit only by a fire in the dirt floor, warm and smelly. But Eleanor identified the smells as wood and sweat and baby, plus the good, rich smell of something cooking on the fire. A woman bent over a pot suspended over the flames, stirring, and balancing a fat toddler on one hip.

  "Sarah, we have a guest.”

  The woman stood up and peered at them. Her eyes widened at the sight of Wrolf’s large shaggy head. "Oh! Sam! What’s this?” She clutched the child.

  Sam scratched his head. "Don’t be a fool. This here lady is a pilgrim from St. Bridget’s.”

  "But.. .that animal.” She pointed a shaking finger at the wolf. Wrolf whined and lolled his tongue out. But his "smile” only seemed to panic the woman further.

  After two days in the company of the wolf, Eleanor had forgotten how frightened she had been in the forest. He had become her trusted companion, and while she would not have beat him with a stick to measure her dominion over him, neither did she fear his fangs any longer.

  "Wrolf! Sit outside the door!” He gave a great sigh and a look of rebuke and settled down in the doorway, his paws and head inside, the rest out. "You see, he is quite tame,” Eleanor said calmly.

  "Yes, my lady, if you say so.” The woman shuffled the baby higher on her hip and dipped a stiff curtsey. "It just startled me, is all. Will you sit?” She gestured toward a rough bench on one wall. "Wipe your feet, Sam.”

  "Thank you,” said Eleanor. She ignored the bench and sat on the ground next to the fire, extending her hands toward the flames. The silence was broken only by the hissing of the fire and the child’s cooing. Finally she said, "I am Eleanor Hope, and I am happy for a chance to warm my hands and feet. That is a very good baby.”

  Sarah relaxed a little at these amenities, especially the mention of her child. "He hardly cries at all. It is so terrible. We cannot even get him baptized, since the Black Beast destroyed the church. I keep tellin’ Sam we oughta move, but he says it is not better anywhere. We just call him Baby, but when we get a priest, we’ll call him Christian, for he was born on Christmas, and it was my father’s name besides.”

  "He’s a big boy then, if he’s only two months old.” Eleanor was glad of the woman’s need to chatter. She found the sound of a human voice comforting.

  Sarah giggled at her ignorance. "Nay, ’twas the Christmas before. But he’s big enough to be a mischief. And eat! Don’tjust stand there like a lump, Sam. I never saw a man so hard to stir! But he caught a hare yesterday, so there’s stew. Would you care for a bit? Can’t you see she’s dizzy with hunger? Get a bowl.”

  Sam seemed quite unmoved by his wife’s sharp tongue. He chuckled and chose a bowl from a pile of stuff on one wall. "Now, Saree...”

  "Don’t you 'now Saree’ me,” she said, snatching the bowl from his hand and setting the baby down at her feet. Then she spooned some stuff from the pot and handed it to Eleanor. "Get a spoon. Do you expect her to eat with her fingers?” He picked up a spoon, and

  Sarah grabbed it from him to rub it on an apron not much cleaner than the floor. "Here you are, my lady. You’ll haf to pardon him. He was raised in a cow byre.” "A right good cow byre it were, too,” Sam answered with no ill humor as Eleanor began to eat. "Saree never lets me forgit her ol’ gaffer wus bailiff to Master Overton. But he came to a bad end for all that.” He gave a deep chuckle.

  The baby crawled around the fire into Eleanor’s lap. He looked hopefully at the bowl in her hand, so she gave him a spoonful, though she was almost too hungry to pause. The stew consisted of stringy lumps of meat and a great many onions. Some salt and pepper would have improved it greatly, but Eleanor was content with the flavor of such herbs as Sarah had put into it.

  The child finally decided that no more food was forthcoming, so it crawled out of Eleanor’s lap, got to its feet, and headed for the door on unsteady feet. Wrolf, meanwhile, had inched his way forward until only his tail was outside the door. Sarah gave a shriek and stood transfixed as the toddler stumbled into Wrolf. Wrolf gave the child’s face a slurpy licking, and the little boy sat down between the great paws with a merry gurgle. Wrolf showed all his teeth and looked so smug that all three adults laughed, Sarah a little hysterically.

  "He will not bite, will he?” the mother asked.

  "No,” Eleanor answered, her mouth full of meat. The bowl was nearly empty now. She opened her leather bag and took out the bread, broke off a piece, and mopped out the last of the juices. It wasn’t elegant or even good manners, and she didn’t care. Eleanor was warm for the first time in what seemed like days, warm inside. "That is truly the best thing I have ever eaten, Sarah. Thank you very much.”

  Sarah rubbed her work-worn hands together and smiled shyly. "I wus a good cook once. But there’s little to cook now, since—”

  "Yes, it must be very hard for you. I see you have a s
pindle there. Do you have sheep?” Even on the contentment of a full stomach, she didn’t want to speak of the Darkness.

  "A few what Sam found two year ago. A ram so old he can hardly stand, a young ewe an’ an old one, and three lambs now. If this snow keeps on, starve they will. We put by as much fodder as we could, but it’s most gone. Still, we are better off than many. If the grass comes, we’ll slaughter the old ram, for one of the lambs is a ram. My mouth fair waters when I think o’ mutton. I dream sometimes I’m back at Overton before the troubles. There’s a great table with cheese and bread and wine and meat and fruits. There wus big barrels of flour in the kitchen, for the lord was very fond of bread and cakes. It don’t bear talking about.” She ended with a forlorn expression on her face.

  "What do you do with the wool after you spin it?” Eleanor asked.

  "Nothin’. Sam’s going to make me a loom someday. I just spin to keep my hands busy.”

  "Don’t you knit?”

  Sarah looked at her curiously. "How do you mean?” Eleanor hesitated to try to explain the intricacies of knitting without tools. "It’s two pointed sticks and you...loop the yarn back and forth and make cloth.” Rarely without a piece of knitting or crocheting near her, Eleanor was surprised that Sarah didn’t know what she considered a primitive form of textile making. Still, the state of their clothing was terrible, yet they had wool to use, so why not repay their hospitality with a little time and instruction. "I’ll show you, if Sam will whittle some sticks for me.”

  But Sam was already rummaging in a stack of smoothed wood in the corner. After a time he chose one straight rod, smaller than his finger, but long and polished. "I made this for the loom, but it is too short.” He pulled out his knife and cut the rod into four pieces about a foot long. In a few minutes, he had whittled points onto each.

  Sarah produced a ball of thick, greasy wool and gave it to her. Eleanor, who had been knitting since she was seven, had to think to try to remember the basics that had long since become entirely automatic. She demonstrated casting on and found that Sarah was quick. In an hour she had communicated the basics, including increasing and decreasing and how to make an opening in the middle of the piece. The result was an odd-looking sampler indeed, a serpentine thing with holes in it.

  Sarah obviously saw the possibilities, and Eleanor had little doubt that she would invent most of the well-known stitch variations in short order.

  While Sarah bent over her work, muttering, Eleanor told Sam that carving knobs on the ends of the knitting pins would keep the work from slipping off. Wrolf and the baby were asleep together, the child’s head pillowed on the animal’s side, and Sarah’s fears forgotten. The scene was so safe and so domestic, Eleanor longed to stay.

  She guessed it was sometime after noon, and her inner sense told her to get moving. She thought she had about five hours of decent light, if the constant twilight could be termed decent. Eleanor was certain she would be offered a place to sleep if she wanted one, but she knew she must go on.

  Sam rubbed the points of a set of needles with some abrasive stone and smoothed them. He inquired in his slow way about sizes, and Eleanor tried to explain the relationship of thread thickness and needle size.

  Finally, she said, "I must leave now. I have a long way to go.”

  "It will be dark in a few hours,” Sam said. "We’d be pleased if you’d stay the night.”

  "Thank you, but I... feel I have to go on farther today.”

  "As you wish. Saree, stop yattering. The lady has to go-”

  "Oh, must you? Just to hear a new voice is a blessing, and this knitting! Do you know, now I see it, I think I seen it before. Mistress Overton had some hosen of fine linen. I washed them once and they looked like this, but so soft and fine I wus sure fairies had made them. I was a silly girl then.”

  "An’ yur a silly woman now. Fairies, indeed!” Sam snorted good-naturedly.

  "Yes, you can make stockings, but it’s a different method. It takes four needles, very thin, with points at both ends, three in a triangle and one to knit with. Cast on the same number of stitches on each needle, then point the first to meet the last. If you do it right, you’ll get a tube.” Eleanor tried to explain circular knitting simply.

  "We don’t need stockings as Sam’s got leather leg-gin’s, but I think I follow the notion. Where did you say you learnt this?”

  "My mother taught me, and she learned from hers. Now I must go.” She reached for her cloak. "Sam, can I have a short stick to take with me?” She had suddenly remembered her need for a calendar and had thought of a way to keep one.

  "A moment, milady.” Sam got up and went into the shadowed comer where he kept his wood and tools. He brought back a staff, over five feet long, straight and carved with the four phases of the moon on its head, and a piece of dowel about eight inches long.

  He lifted the staff. "I took this from the wreck of Avebum Hall last summer when I wus grazin’ my sheep. The best grazin’ is in these stone circles, for they seem to be proof against... it. I’d build our house atop this hill, but Saree won’t have none of it. Still, it don’t bother much with the likes of us.

  "The Hall went... under a year since. You must have passed it, if you came from St. Bridget’s. No matter. Oh, the old lord is still there, an’ his woman an’ his girl—not his wife, mind. He’s never wed, but fathered bastards on half the countryside. But he’s mad an’ his light is gone. The ol’ woman, she says naught, an’ the girl is wild but clean. Her name is Rowena, an’ a good name, too.

  "I think this staff was made for her, for it is quick-beam wood, which no evil can touch. I asked her if it was hers, but she jus’ ran away. But I think it would be good for you to take on your journey. An’ here’s that bit you asked for.” He held both out to her.

  Eleanor reached out and took the staff slowly. A rosy glow ran up its length, and the moon figures seemed to pulse with silvery light. "Thank you, Samuel. I have no doubt it will be a good companion. Thank you both for everything. And, if I ever pass this way again, I’ll come and knit and tell you of my adventures.”

  Sarah set aside her work and rose and kissed her warmly. Then she pressed a set of knitting pins and a lumpy ball of yarn into Eleanor’s hands. Eleanor thanked them again, feeling they had given her more than she had returned, and said more farewells.

  She put her cloak around her after stuffing the wool and the pins and dowel in the leather bag, and went and picked up the sleeping child. She kissed his forehead and whispered a blessing under her breath.

  Then Eleanor and Wrolf walked out into the clearing. The complaints of sheep were audible from one of the huts. She turned west through the trees, carrying the staff in her right hand. Eleanor turned back and looked at the huts. Sam and Sarah were standing in the doorway, the child still asleep in Sam’s arms, and she waved to them. They waved back. She trudged on, feeling both strengthened and depressed.

  VI

  When she came out of the woods, the dark mound of Silbury Hill was directly before her but some distance away. There was a kind of mist rising around the hill, so she could not judge how far away it was.

  Eleanor decided to swing around the hill to the south, subject to Wrolf’s approval, and stepped forward with renewed energy. The snow was very thin here, and the ground was muddy. She walked along, keeping the hill to her right. She was surprised then when she came out of a small thicket of trees and found it before her and much closer. She turned south again and found herself walking along a sort of ditch.

  "You ever read Tolkien, Wrolf? No, of course not. Now, if you were a Narnian animal, you could talk. Poor Daddy. How he hated Lewis and Tolkien and Pax-son and Duane. Not to mention Lloyd Alexander, who mainly wasn’t mentioned. Daddy despised anyone who made new stories out of what he thought of as his own private preserve of myth and folklore.

  "I’ll bet you don’t even know the legend of Silbury Hill. I have to admit I paid more attention to the folklore than I did to archaeology or geography last fall. You p
robably don’t realize that a lot of very educated people have spent a great deal of time trying to figure out why a very small population spent their time dragging stones all over Britain, and other places, setting up circles. There’s a big one south of us called Stonehenge, which was for observing the sun and the moon. But they have terrible disputes about stone circles, with snotty academics snidely suggesting nasty habits and frog ancestry for anyone holding a different theory than they do. If you are outside watching, I guess it’s funny. I was a little too close.

  "Now, Silbury is another matter. It’s an earthwork, the biggest one in Europe. And the legend is that it is the burial place of one King Sil and a golden horse. You may well ask why I was muttering about Tolkien. Well, he wrote about some barrow mounds, which is another kind of earthwork, which had some really nasty inhabitants. You sure are a good listener. Yes, it’s still in front of us, just like those barrows. Do you know, my mind doesn’t like this at all, but my stomach says forge ahead. Tom Bombadil, where are you now when I need you?”

  A few minutes later, she said, "No, we seem to keep hitting the hill, no matter where we turn. I should have stayed with Sam and Sarah. The idea of camping on Silbury, or under it, makes me very nervous, and the notion of crossing it at night appeals to me even less. It’s big, but it’s not that big, and we should have come around it now. Either it’s moving or all roads lead to Rome.” She knew she was talking to steady her nerves, that inner sense of right and wrong that had guided her so far. Right now it was humming inside her, a wasp’s nest of anticipation, hinting not of danger, but of something simultaneously pleasant and unpleasant.

  They crossed a marshy meadow and came to a stand of willow trees, bare of leaf but graceful in their nudity. Eleanor paused and looked at them, but they were only trees. She hoped. She cursed her imagination, her excellent memory, and a certain respected Oxford don, and entered the trees.

  "Well, Salix babilonica is only inimical to Jews,” she told the wolf with forced gaiety, "which is one thing I’m not. But I do wish Mother had bought a house in Yorkshire. Or Africa. Or Mars! To continue my lecture, there is some academic speculation that King Sil is a corruption of'sal’ or willow. Various people have dug holes in the mound and found nothing. I should be so lucky. I hate to tell you this, Wrolf, but I am not a very brave person. Yes, I slew the Black Beast, but that was Her, not me. Well, here we are at the base. Left, right, or over?”