Solem

by Clive S. Johnson

  “This is where you live,” he said, and Craith’s eyes lit up. “Now,” and the dwelgefa drew a man rowing a boat beside another blob, further along what Craith took to be the river, “this is Grosswilleal, given you’re going to be going the long way round.”

  “Oh, no. It were only t’loaded cart that wouldn’t make it through t’flooding; there’s no problem wi’ Duncan wading.”

  “Ah, excellent. In that case you’ll be there in no time,” and he placed his fingertip on the map where two lines met, another squiggle beside it. “Here’s Halden Weald. You must know it; you told me you went through there yesterday.”

  “Oh, aye.”

  “So, what do you reckon you’d associate with there, then?”

  “A flea!” came out of Craith’s mouth before he’d time to think.

  “A flea? Why a… Ah, of course.”

  “Oh…er, Sharman pointed the place out.”

  “Hmm, just know him by repute, eh?” but Craith could think of no safe answer. “Very well,” and this time Woodwright drew a passable representation of a flea, enough to make Craith scratch at his neck.

  “Now,” Woodwright said, “here’s how you get to Gryff.” He slid the map back under Craith’s nose and circled “CROOK’S FOLD” and its cart.

  “From here, you go down through Derry Dip and up Sheffy Hill to…to the Fleabag’s.”

  Craith pressed his lips together and stared at the map, surprised when a slight slip of a titter escaped Dwelgefa Woodwright.

  “You then turn right and head towards the winter-set until you come to a junction marked by two tall stone pillars.”

  “Stone pillars?”

  “They say there was once a huge arch there, but if so then all that’s left now are its supports, although they’re still pretty impressive.” Woodwright now drew an arch across the turning depicted on the map.

  “What’s this big round thing here,” Craith said, jabbing at what Woodwright then told him was a lake.

  “You’ll only be able to see it once you’re some way up this switchback climb,” Woodwright said and pointed it out.

  “Ah, right, so that’s an eye looking at the lake?” Craith felt pleased with his deduction, and even the dwelgefa smiled.

  “If you can see it then you haven’t gone wrong. After that, you just follow the road until you get to Gryff,” at which Woodwright told him how to go about delivering the letter.

  “Speaking of which,” and he opened the table’s drawer and slid out an oblong fold of a stiff, waxy-looking fabric, a couple of hand’s widths long. He placed it on the desk, revealing two raised red lumps that appeared to hold down each end of the fabric’s free edge. What looked like a stylised image of the sun had been impressed into each, two letters beneath, both a mystery to Craith.

  When it turned out he’d no means of safely carrying it, Woodwright searched out a leather satchel, slipped the letter in and passed it to Craith.

  “If you fall into any water, like the track’s flooding, it should keep the letter dry long enough for you to get out, provided you’re quick. Oh, and dry it off as quickly as you can.”

  Craith nodded and slipped its strap over his head, so it ran across his chest, the satchel hanging at his hip.

  Half an hour later, and Craith was back in the stable with Duncan, strapping two already packed panniers across his back. Digga was there, sorting out his own donkey, vigorously brushing its coat.

  “I know it ain’t likely,” Craith said, “but if there’s another demon while I’m away, do you think you could manage the boat-cart?”

  Digga sneered, “So you’re happy for me to use it now, are you?”

  “Yeah, well, I reckon you’ll have learnt enough from me by now. Polyana there should be strong enough to ‘andle it. Ain’t likely, but just in case. Well?” to which Digga spluttered a wry laugh.

  “If it comes to it…I reckon. But you’d owe me.”

  As he led Duncan out of the yard and past the gable end of the cottage, Craith looked across their small orchard towards the spring-set. The pale blue that rent the morning’s grey clouds brought a smile to his face. “Might be lucky and have it stay dry today,” he said to Duncan before turning them onto the riverside track through the village.

  The ford across the stream that cascaded down the gorge from Dwelgefa Woodwright’s place now lay hidden beneath the river’s overspill. Craith hopped up onto Duncan’s back and lifted his feet clear of the sluggish, murky brown water that soon came up to the donkey’s stifles.

  “So where you off to at this hour, Craith,” came a young woman’s voice from the front door of the first cottage beyond the flooding.

  Craith swung off Duncan and led him to its garden wall, leaning against it as he called back, “That, Abigail, is for me to know and you to guess.”

  “Well, make sure you’re back in time to show me where those affodilles are, like you promised.”

  “Affodilles? Shit,” Craith said under his breath, cursing his memory. “Er, well, I might have to—” Abigail’s face set hard, her arms stiffening at her sides. “’Fraid summat’s come up,” he finally but vainly offered.

  “And you were just going to walk straight past without telling me? Well, in that case, Craith Waindrifa, I think I’ll take up Gregory’s offer,” and she turned and flounced back in through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind her.

  For a moment he stared at the cottage, but then remembered Janeen’s face framed by the opening they’d parted in the canvas roll, and he shrugged as he turned and led Duncan out of the village.

  The track down to Derry Dip kept near to the river but mostly high enough to avoid any flooding. Numerous clearings on the other side held small market gardens, running as narrow strips up to the last of the fertile ground before the steep rise to the base of the high ridge behind. Craith knew all these well, hailing and returning the calls of his many cartage customers already busy tending their plots.

  When the track neared a brow at the end of a particularly high stretch of riverbank, Craith again hopped onto Duncan’s back. It gave him enough height to see to the bottom of the slope beyond, at which his heart sank.

  The half dozen or so timber cottages of Derry Dip now slanted into a new flotsam-encrusted inlet. Mainly fisher folk, it seemed most of its residents now sat around on a small net-drying field on the other side. Craith nudged Duncan forward and waved and called out to them.

  “Take the back path,” Tarquin Braynetter shouted across from the field, and pointed back down the track behind Craith.

  After turning Duncan and retracing their steps, Craith spotted the newly flattened grass that gave away the narrow opening into the undergrowth he’d missed on his first passing. He slipped off Duncan and lengthened the lead-rope behind him as he dipped his head beneath low hanging branches. Once beneath the trees, though, the path readily led them steadily up above and around Derry Dip, until the morning’s strengthening light beckoned them out through an opening into the drying field, where Tarquin stood waiting.

  “Is everyone all right?” Craith asked him, screwing his eyes up as they adjusted to the brightness.

  “Oh, aye. Everyone’s safe. It were rising last night, afore we’d all kipped down, you see. So, we’ve ‘ad plenty o’time to get everything o’value up to t’smoking sheds, and to kick out some o’daub at floor level.”

  “Why?”

  “So t’pressure o’water don’t knock t’walls out of its own accord, and so it quickly drains when t’river goes down.”

  “Sounds like you’re used to it.”

  “Lived long enough to ‘ave seen it a few times now. Worst part’s how long it takes to dry out.” He nodded over his shoulder at what Craith now clearly saw was an encampment. “You want a brew?”

  “If that’s not too much… Ah, better not. On an errand for t’dwelgefa. Thanks anyway,” and Craith soon bade Tarquin his best wishes and led Duncan out of the field and back onto the now steeply rising track, where it sli
pped into the forest and left the river behind.

  By the time the track levelled and eventually descended towards a large gap in the trees ahead, sunlight bathed the framed view of the distant forest’s canopy, vanishing into a promising haze.

  “Looks like t’sun’s come out for us, Duncan,” he said as he pushed himself up onto the donkey’s back and nudged him on with his heels. “Need to be making tracks if I’m to stop off at Fleabag’s.”

  The air warmed appreciably when they came out from the trees, turning away from the already removed river and hurrying along a high clifftop, high enough to see over the canopy below to the glint of the Lagoons. Duncan kept warily away from the cliff’s edge, following the worn track along its top for a while until the cliff gave out and the track steeply descended.

  At the bottom, they came to a junction, the uneven stones of a lane running past. Craith jumped down and led Duncan to the stream he and Sharman had watered him at only two days before. Ahead of them rose Sheffy Hill once more, but this time it proved no more than an exertion.

  When, presently, he’d tied Duncan up at the tethering post in the lane outside Fleabag Fulmer’s, Craith noticed that the front garden’s vegetable plots lay as deserted as at his first visit. This time he found his own way around the gable end and out onto the terrace at the back.

  Again, there seemed to be no sign of anyone about, but a crash and then a scream tore past him out of the partially open backdoor. Craith flew in, only to come to an abrupt halt, staring at the astonishing sight of a half-naked Janeen, away from whom Fulmer had just stepped, a startled look on his face.

  19 Curiosity

  Janeen had heard the front door strike against something solid, and she’d jumped with fright. Instinctively, she’d gripped the towel she’d been holding against her chest yet closer still.

  Rapid footsteps now splashed past her, a draught chilling her wet shoulders. A dull thud and a clatter of furniture filled the room as Fulmer cried out in shock and seeming pain. Janeen was already on her feet, her own chair striking the floor behind her.

  Somehow, she seemed to see the shadowy profile of Craith bending over Fulmer, his sharply angled elbow behind him, a tightly clamped fist before. She screamed out, “No, Craith. No! Leave him alone.”

  The room fell silent, the only sound their panting breaths. Craith still had Fulmer half lifted by his neck in his un-fisted hand. The dwelgefa’s eyes shone wide in shock as he stared up at the lad’s grim expression.

  “It’s not what you think, Craith,” Janeen pleaded. “Please, listen to me…for Solem’s sake listen.”

  “I saw well enough what were going on,” he growled down at Fulmer.

  “You’re wrong, Craith,” her voice now quavered. “Leave him be. He was only helping me have a wash.

  “A wash?” Craith said, incredulity lacing his voice.

  “I…I felt so miserable this morning after my hopes were dashed again—”

  “She thought,” Fulmer said in a strained voice, “getting herself cleaned up would make her feel better. She’d only just calmed down when you came hurtling in.”

  “After I heard her scream out against you!” Craith spat at him.

  “I screamed out,” Janeen sobbed, “at my own uselessness. When my stupid blindness made me knock over one of Fulmer’s beakers.”

  “Eh?” Craith uttered, clearly now far less than certain, and for the first time, Janeen felt him stare at her.

  “What have you got on your head?” he said, and Janeen reached her free hand up to her pain-guard, patting at its now reassuring presence.

  “That’s just it, Craith, I still can’t see,” and her thin voice cracked as tears burned at the corners of her hidden eyes.

  “I’m not surprised with that round your—”

  “No, this keeps the daylight pain from my eyes, but I still can’t see without it.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Janeen. I didn’t realise you were still… Just a minute! But you called me out by name, to stop me from hitting t’dwelgefa again.”

  “Well?” Fulmer said, clearly no longer on the floor.

  “Well…I’d made no sound up to then, nowt you could have said were me. I’d not even drawn breath. I could’ve been Sharman or…or a drayman delivering beer, anyone. How…how did you know it were me, Janeen?”

  Mutely, she thought back: the crash she’d taken to be the door, the draught of someone clearly flying past her, the spill of the bowl and the thump of what she now knew had been Craith’s fist striking Fulmer’s jaw, but then… What? What exactly had she “seen”?

  “Janeen?” Fulmer whispered, “your towel’s slipping,” and the image she’d been so near to tempting out now dissolved away as she again snatched at her towel, drawing it up to her chin.

  “You need to get dressed,” Craith suggested, “before you end up giving us both an eyeful or two.”

  Heat rose to her cheeks. “The clothes I came in are in a barrel somewhere, soaking,” she said.

  “And I’ve nothing clean to lend her,” the dwelgefa added. “Not that would fit her, I mean.”

  “That’s all right,” Craith said. “I’ve spare clean clothes in m’panniers that’d do. I’ll just nip out and get ‘em. Oh,” and his voice turned away from Janeen, “sorry about thumping you, Dwelgefa, but I really did think you’d been—”

  “No real harm done, Craith, my lad. Good job I was already falling over this chair, though, away from your punch. Maybe a few days bruising, and then— hang on; you said ‘panniers’. You intending staying?”

  “Oh, no, Dwelgefa. No, I’m on my way somewhere. It’s why I dropped in, to ‘ave a chat wi’ you.”

  Fulmer’s voice lost much of its colour. “Where are you going, Craith?”

  “Er, well…to Gryff, Dwelgefa.”

  Fulmer drew in a deep breath through his nose. “For that toady bastard Woodwright I don’t doubt.”

  “I’m takin’ a letter of his there.”

  “A letter? Show me.”

  The sound of a buckle being unfastened and something sliding from somewhere preceded Fulmer saying, “Damn. As I half expected: sealed.” After a brief rustle he gasped, “I can’t believe it, he’s addressed it to the Biscop himself. Bugger. Right,” and he demanded a detailed account of their meeting, of what Craith and Sharman had told Woodwright and what the dwelgefa had let slip in return.

  At the end of Craith’s recounting—both long and laboured—Fulmer drew in a deep breath, enough to fuel an even deeper sigh.

  “Oh dear. That’s well and truly torn it. A demon at large in The Green is one thing, but here, in The Espousal; shit. Why didn’t I anticipate this? Trust a self-serving, self-important, pompous pain in the arse like Woodwright to come up with it. Always knew he’d be trouble, right from the day in my last year when he started at the Dwelgefa Swaandhal. Soon had his nose stuck right up all the tutors’ backsides. The sort who—”

  This time Janeen was sure it was Fulmer who stared at her, although it seemed she shared the honour with Craith.

  “Mind you,” Fulmer then said, “if it wasn’t for knowing Janeen was right here with us, I’d find Woodwright’s argument quite persuasive myself, now I think about it.”

  “So you reckon Gryff are going to believe him?”

  “If that is indeed what he’s put in his letter.”

  “But that’ll make Sharman out to be a liar and the one at blame for losing a demon. That ain’t fair.”

  “No, Craith, it’s not, but then, from what I gather, there’s no love lost between Dwelgefa Woodwright and the Sharman, which might shed some light on the dwelgefa’s reasoning.”

  “Blimey. Imagine: blamed for losing a demon!” and he whistled long and low. “Dwelgefa? What…what is a…a demon…really?”

  “Ah,” Fulmer quietly said, and Janeen listened more intently now. “I’m afraid I don’t rightly know. Such knowledge was never part of the Dwelgefa Swaandhal’s teachings. We weren’t considered worthy of knowing that kind
of thing. How to handle them during their brief stays with us, yes, but little more than that. But, Craith, why do you ask, eh? Is this something you’ve ever wondered about before?”

  Craith said nothing for a short while, but then quietly admitted, “No, never, not that I remember. No more than I’ve wondered why the Sun rose in the morning and set in the evening, nor why it always travels the same way across the sky.”

  “But you wonder about these things now?”

  Another silence, but then Craith must have noticed the hour. “I’ll have to get off. Don’t want to lose t’daylight.”

  “You’re right. Time’s marching on and you’ve a way to go. But, Craith, remember this warning when you do get to Gryff: whatever you do, don’t let your…your…curiosity, yes, your curiosity, my boy, come to light. Do not wonder about anything you may find in Gryff, nor ask anything at all about anything. Do you understand?”

  Janeen assumed Craith had nodded.

  “I know you’re unlikely to get into Gryff itself, no further than its geetholden, but if by any chance you do, then take even greater heed of my warning. Will you remember that? For your own safety.”

  “I will, Dwelgefa. I’ll remember.”

  “I hope so.”

  Janeen felt Craith draw near.

  “I’m sorry I got the wrong end of the stick earlier,” he said to her, but she would have none of his apology.

  “I know why you did what you did,” she quietly told him, leaning closer to his voice. “It…it means a lot to me, truly,” and she felt for his face and kissed him on his cheek. “Look after yourself,” and before she knew it, he’d left with Fulmer. The dwelgefa exhorting him to call on his way back soon dwindled to silence as they moved out of earshot down the back of the building.

  Feeling for her chair on the floor, Janeen righted it and sat down, hunched over into the security of her towel. “How did I know it was him?” she asked herself. “How on Earth?”