“Gryff of course. This time they’re worried fresh fish are going to be in short supply. Something about the rivers being high.”
Craith told him it was true, the rivers were high, and fish might very well become hard to get hold of for a while. “Derry Dip were completely flooded when I came through. I doubt they’ll be fishing there until well after it’s dropped. They should still ‘ave dried and smoked, though—their sheds are further up t’dean, you see.”
This was clearly news to the carter. “Haven’t been down to either river in ages. Glad you told me, though. Makes more sense now.” He narrowed his eyes at Craith. “You said you worked along the river, didn’t you?”
Craith nodded. “I live in Crook’s Fold.”
“You going back there tomorrow?”
“Don’t know. Depends on when I get a reply to that letter I brought.”
“Ah yes, now I remember. Well, I doubt you’ll be going back for a few days yet, seeing you only arrived yesterday.” Craith’s heart sank. “Takes them an eternity to make up their minds about anything. Anyway,” and the carter leant back and hooked his thumbs behind his braces, “if by a miracle you do travel back tomorrow, you’re always welcome to go with us, seeing we’re going that way; ride on our wagon and save your legs; chance to see how the big boys do their carting, eh?”
Craith thanked him for the offer but was sure he’d be stuck here for a few days longer.
***
The following morning, this time up bright and breezy, Craith was one of the first at the animal pens. He’d fed Duncan, checked his water and was leaning against the fence, watching the dawn sky’s smudge of red slowly bleach to pale blue, when Preost called his name.
Quietly, Craith told Duncan, “Bet that reply’s still not been done,” before dipping under the fence rail and going over to where Preost stood before the building’s entrance. This time the man looked more refreshed and even had a trace of a smile about his lips—then Craith noticed he held something in his hand, something that looked not unlike a letter.
“Good morning, Craith,” Preost beamed, “and also, good news.” He held up what was now clearly a letter. “Your reply to Dwelgefa Woodwright,” and he held it out.
“By ‘eck, this is a surprise.”
“Surprise?” and Preost’s eyes narrowed a touch as Craith took the letter.
“Got the impression it’d take days.”
“Nonsense. Don’t believe everything you hear. I gather there wasn’t much to it in the end; a simple conclusion and hence a simple reply. The biscop left it with me to sort out. Apparently, there’s no urgency, so you can get off whenever you wish.”
“I’ll go get Duncan ready right now then. Sooner I’m back home to m’jobs the better,” but then he remembered the carter’s offer. He was about to go in search of him when Craith saw the man himself going in through the building’s entrance. “Think I’ll just go get some breakfast first, though.”
“Well, have a good journey back,” and Preost began walking away but then stopped and half turned to Craith. “And don’t bring any more letters, if you don’t mind. I don’t think I could take missing another night of beauty sleep,” and he grinned, briefly, before striding off.
Craith looked down at the letter, at the squiggles scrawled across its front. “I wonder if this means Sharman’s safe now. I hope so. Wouldn’t ‘ave been fair to have got ‘im into trouble—nor t’rest of us, come to that.”
He had to rush, for the carter had already eaten and his wagon and men were ready to leave. Craith had stuffed a couple of pork pies in his pockets before saying goodbye to Elissa and running across to fetch Duncan, the letter now safely in his satchel. When they got to the wagon, Craith drew in a long breath.
With double-axles and drawn by a team of six donkeys, the thing looked enormous. The carter jumped down and took Duncan from Craith, tethering him alongside the rearward pair of his own. He then invited Craith to sit with him on the driver’s bench. As Craith climbed up, he glanced into the back of the wagon and recognised the four men who’d been with the carter that first night in the refectory, but there were also three others he’d not seen before.
Craith nodded to them all and then sat beside the carter. “You’ve a big team.”
“Eh? Oh,” and the carter glanced back into the wagon. “No, we’re only a five man team. The others are going ahead for another carter, so they can have his load ready for when he gets there later.”
“Still, five’s a big team.”
“It’s a big wagon, and they do all the humping,” at which he released the brake and clicked his tongue at the donkeys who soon drew them, creaking and rumbling, out of the geetholden’s clearing and back into the dark press of the forest.
25 Where Goes an Answer
Slowly, Janeen had built up a picture in her mind of the vegetable plot, her fingers distinguishing the succulent pale cabbage sprouts from the drier but more verdant thinner leaves of the surrounding weeds, the ones she’d spent the morning carefully prying lose. Fulmer had at first frequently returned to check on how she was doing, but had eventually left her alone to the task. She’d heard the surprise in his voice, and the relief. She may have been slow but the satisfaction it gave her outweighed everything else—now, at least, she could say she was being useful.
The task also brought with it a lessening of her isolation. Her feet, her knees and her hands felt the flattened earth of the long troughs between the mounded rows of friable earth, somehow knowing where to tread to keep them from flattening her precious cabbages. It grounded her, gave her a place and a space she could call her own, whilst the slow shift of the Sun on her back oriented her and spoke of a clear blue sky and its occasional passing cloud.
The still air added its own setting, carried with it the smells of the soil and fresh new growth, the sounds of leaves gently fluttering in the distant canopy’s loftier breeze, the rustle of wildlife through nearby bushes and beds. It all gave her a peace of mind she thought she’d been forever condemned to forgo.
The peace of a familiar, mundane task, however unfamiliar its execution, brought with it an easy return of her wandering mind. She wondered at the clarity of her imagination, at the strong images it threw before her blind and shielded eyes: the pale, almost white sprouts of the cabbages, alien against the dark soil; the waddle of hard-cased beetles; the wriggle and undulating meander of centipedes; the scintillating silhouette of an approaching man.
Janeen had instinctively looked up and stared towards the path and the familiar sound of Fulmer’s footsteps. Behind his shape, though, strode another, one she somehow knew returned her stare. Then, for a moment, she saw herself: knelt over the cabbage patch, her pain-guard hiding her joyous eyes.
“Janeen?” Fulmer called. “Guess who’s here.”
“Craith, you’re back,” she blurted out, getting to her feet, once more seeing the carter’s sturdier figure flicker before her imagination, his face coalescing to the handsome but slow-witted features she’d always assumed. His eyes, though, shone through it all, blue and glinting, affirming a deception.
“Hello, Janeen,” he said, his familiar presence drifting to her nose. “I’m really sorry to hear you still can’t see.” He awkwardly eased lose strands of her hair away from her unseeing eyes, his palm briefly resting on the guard before brushing her cheek.
“Er, no. No I still can’t, at least not when I tried this morning, before dawn broke.”
She thought he looked down at the cabbage patch. “Well, considering you can’t, you’re doing a damned fine job weeding.”
Tears threatened Janeen, but tears of pride—and of relief. Before they could seep from beneath her pain-guard and onto her flushed cheeks, Fulmer chivvied, “Come on. I’m sure you must be thirsty, lad, and we need to hear how it went in Gryff.”
Shortly, at the sound of Fulmer filling beakers with beer and as Craith helped Janeen to a seat at the kitchen table, she told him, “We thought you’d be gone for days
.”
“Aye, well, so did I, but thank Solem I wasn’t; they don’t ‘ave beer in Gryff,” and the chair beside her creaked at his weight.
“In which case, get this down you,” Fulmer said, then soon guided Janeen’s hands to her own. The beer was just what she’d needed after her warm morning’s weeding, but then the midday hour struck her as odd.
“How’d you get back so soon, Craith?”
He explained his good fortune at having been offered a lift on a carter’s wagon, and how they’d dropped him and Duncan off at the nearby junction. “They ‘ave to take Dagning Way to Derry Dip; their wagon’s too heavy for Sheffy Hill. Duncan and me will go that way, though, when I leave, so I can spare you an hour.”
“Have you got Woodwright’s reply with you?” Fulmer asked.
“I ‘ave, and…here…it is.”
Janeen heard it pass from Craith to Fulmer, the dwelgefa’s handling of it coming shortly before his excited voice: “Ha, we’re in luck. They haven’t sealed it.”
“Not sealed it?” Janeen said. “Is that usual, Fulmer?”
“Er, well, I don’t rightly know, never having had need to send or receive one myself. Gryff issues all dwelgefas with sealing wax, but I can’t say I ever remember being told when to use it.”
“Oh,” and Janeen, as only she could do, couldn’t help but wonder.
“So,” Fulmer said, “let’s see what answer they’ve sent Woodwright, shall we?”
The room fell silent for what seemed an age, until Craith had to ask, “Well? What do they say?”
Janeen’s imagination again conjured a surprisingly realistic image before her mind’s eye: of Fulmer’s lowered face and unspeaking mouth cracking wide with a grin. His cheeks lifted and his eyes sparkled as he raised them to Craith.
“Ha,” Fulmer almost exploded. “Couldn’t be better.”
“Well?” they both demanded.
“They’ve accepted our story…well, Craith’s recounting of it.”
Janeen couldn’t help but feel relief, that she would now have no guilt to bear for what might otherwise have happened to Sharman.
Backslapping, by the sound of it, accompanied Fulmer’s hearty congratulations of the lad, an edge of surprise then creeping into Fulmer’s voice. “They’ve concluded that the demon must have woken prematurely on The Green side; aging serum; must have wandered off, befuddled, into the forest; in all likelihood fallen prey to a bear or boar; nothing to worry about; no further action required.
“Well done, Craith. Unexpected, but well done indeed, lad. You obviously kept your head and your wits about you,” and Fulmer sat down, across the table from Janeen and Craith. “Come on then, tell us how you achieved this wonder.”
And Craith did just that, in much detail, until the tale had to be rushed into Craith’s fast diminishing time left before he’d to leave. Before he eventually did, though, Fulmer said, “You mentioned hearing that your answers were to be submitted to something you couldn’t quite remember the name of.”
“Aye. A name I’d never heard before…odd sounding.”
“It wasn’t the Fintweg by any chance?”
“Summat like that. Mean owt to you?”
“Yes, Craith, it does, it does indeed.”
“Well, I’m goin’ to ‘ave to geroff. I’ve a feeling I’ll be slowed down by t’flooding, knowing my luck,” and his chair scraped back.
Janeen felt him stare down at her, felt his reticence, then the warmth of his breath touched her cheek as his lips then did. “Well, take care o’ yessen, Janeen. I’ll get back as soon as I can, though I’ve a shed-load of work to catch up on,” but she caught his hand in hers, holding it briefly.
“I’ll…I’ll look forward to it, Craith, with all my… With all the patience I have.”
His hand, a hesitant moment later, slipped from her loosened grip and she heard Fulmer see him out, leaving the door open behind them.
“Blue eyes,” she said to herself, her fingertips touching her cheek. “I never thought he’d have had blue eyes.”
That very thought, that very image indeed, revisited her later that evening, once she’d got herself warm and comfortable in bed. She again touched her cheek, where the ghost of his kiss rested below the pain-guard Fulmer had fashioned so well. Its leather had moulded itself comfortably to her skin and so she now rarely removed it. Its reassurance had come to promise her the ease of a deeper and more untroubled sleep at last.
Such sleep evaded her now, though, shunned by a flutter in her heart, one that insisted, as she turned onto her side, that once more she could see Craith’s scintillating silhouette before her mind’s eye.
She smiled to herself as a warmth crept through her, but then wondered why he was crouched down, a hand almost touching the ground, the other near his shoulder. He then moved, crabbed across her imagined vision, head kept low, as though…as though below a window’s sill.
She froze for a moment, uncertain, until another figure beyond impinged on her mind and startled her fully awake. At the end of the front path, she guessed, someone stood watching the building, watching the stealthy man slowly raise his head and stare in through the window of the room next to hers.
Clearheaded now, she realised it wasn’t Craith, nothing at all like him: bigger of frame, far stouter.
Fear gripped her heart, but a fear that stirred her, that primed her limbs and quickened her mind. As the crouching figure once more moved on, nearer her own window, a cold fear shocked Janeen’s mind into action, drove her swiftly and silently from the warmth of her bed.
26 Discoveries
Janeen had had the presence of mind to pull her blanket up over her pillow, to make the bed look unslept in, before grabbing her clothes and stick and hurrying as best she could from the room. She took a couple of steps along the passageway, stopped and fumbled with her bundle of clothes.
“Where’s my damned pants,” she whispered to herself, but then her clumsy hands spilled the garments to the floor. She bent and felt amongst them until finding a waistband. As she straightened to get into her pants, somehow, in her mind’s eye, she “saw” the figure again, but now before her, its shimmering form cautiously rising from a crouch. When its head came above where she knew her own windowsill to be, its arm carried on higher.
Then it dawned on her: a lamp, it was looking in by the light of a lamp, and fear gripped her again. She shot her hand out towards the figure and it came reassuringly against the passageway wall. Breathing more easily now, she hurried into her clothes.
“No time to warn Fulmer,” she quietly told herself, “and they can’t find him hosting a demon. I must get away.”
When she got to the backdoor, she again somehow saw another figure some way down the dimly hazy slope at the rear of the building, haltingly climbing towards her. She prayed it was too preoccupied to notice when she quietly padded outside, away from the gable end and along the black spread of the terrace now coldly beneath her bare feet.
At the far end, she was surprised when she came beside a tall, apparently flickering green wall, her hand confirming it to be a hedge. It ran along, then down from the terrace beside a narrow black curve, on whose other side she was taken aback by seeming to see half a dozen glowing boar-like shapes. They lay on their sides, one standing apart and snuffling in the black ground at its hooves.
Fulmer’s pigs, she reasoned, and so the dark curve must be the steps she’d often heard him clomp down on his way to their sty. Before shuffling her feet forward to find out, she spun back to face the building. The snooping figure had moved from her bedroom window, now alongside the gable wall, heading towards the far end of the terrace.
She nearly fell in her haste to get out of sight, her foot at first coming down heavily on nothing more than thin air. She managed, though, to reach the bottom of the steps without incident, then felt her way onto an equally black path that ran along the lower side of the sty. Ahead, she seemed to see a large expanse of black set within a faint tangle of gre
en, beyond which rose a dully glowing mass of what appeared to be tree trunks. Confused at first, she then realised it must be the edge of the clearing.
Holding her stick out before her, it soon struck something solid at the nearest edge of the black patch. A wooden door met her hand, its latch by chance snagging her fingers. She quietly cracked open the door and slipped inside. Pulling it to, she stared up as the snooping figure appeared to approach the backdoor. The other had clearly finished its climb and now sat just below the edge of the terrace, watching the building.
“Thank Solem I got out in time,” Janeen whispered to herself, feeling a little safer now and so breathing more easily. She involuntarily glanced behind her into the blackness of what she reckoned must have been Fulmer’s shed. Only now did a number of faintly shimmering barrel shapes impinge on her mind, stacked along one side, another on its own, not far from her feet. She shuffled to it and found a wooden beer barrel, on which she gratefully sat whilst she calmed her nerves.
How am I “seeing” all these things? she wondered, but movement by the backdoor distracted her. The snooping figure seemed to have stepped inside, now stooping, as though inspecting something in the light of a lamp she assumed to be in its high held hand.
“Damn,” she whispered. “If it goes into my room, it’s bound to discover the telltale warmth lingering in my bed. If only Fulmer would wake up and disturb them.”
On the far side of the pigsty, in a rear room at the nearest end of the building, she thought she imagined his sleeping form, but when she turned back, the intruder had moved on. Now seemingly in the passageway, it was heading towards Janeen’s own room.
She quietly slipped out of the shed and bent beneath the hedge, her hand finding a stone. Aiming at Fulmer, she threw it high, hoping to clear the pigsty.
A clatter came from what sounded like the wall of the building and then from the terrace, but the glowing shape she took to be Fulmer didn’t move. Now at her bedroom door, the intruder had stopped, clearly listening. More worryingly, the figure watching the backdoor had craned its neck and was staring across towards Fulmer’s room.
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