Leila had offered the children the opportunity to take turns riding on the sled if they needed to rest from the saddle, so all of them alternated throughout the day. It was relaxing to ride, cuddled down in furs and blankets and watching the scenery go by.
Towards dusk, the lead sleighs pulled over near a copse of trees. Children ran to gather firewood, while the adults all toiled to set up temporary shelters for the night – small tents of reindeer skin. Everyone was tired after the long day of travelling, so there was no storytelling, music or singing before bed, only a simple meal of chewy dried meat.
The next day was similar to the last. The children noticed that they were travelling deeper into the north, deeper into the snows, deeper into the wild. In the late afternoon, a shout went up. Lily, Saxon, Ethan and Roana trotted up to see what was happening. The forward scouts had spied the smoke of the camp at the tribal gathering.
Everyone sat up straighter, and the horses started to jog in anticipation.
This camp was much bigger than the one they had just left, with about eighty white domes set up already. The gathering was for all nine mountain tribes to celebrate the slow coming of spring, the receding of the snows and the growing strength of the sun. The camp looked quite orderly from a distance, with the sparkling white domes set up neatly in tribal groups, a huge communal circle cleared in the centre and the animals tethered close to their owners’ domes.
Closer to the camp, the sense of order disappeared, as children ducked and played, horses whinnied and pawed, reindeer startled and pranced, adults shouted and laughed, and dogs snuffled and barked. More domes were erected and organised, bonfires built, spits set up, games fields marked out. Cousins and old friends screamed, thumped and hugged. Children were pinched and squeezed, young men ogled and swaggered, maidens flirted and flounced, papas glowered and frowned, mamas nudged and chattered.
As Wilf’s tribe jogged into the camp, dozens of people came to help unpack, set up, greet and gossip. Roana, Ethan, Lily and Saxon felt self-conscious and out of place in their southern garb, on their tall, rangy hunters. Aisha crept through the throng, tail between her legs, ears down and eyebrows twitching.
Leila and Wilf nudged the children forward and guided them through the camp. They could feel curious stares on their backs. They could hear a ripple of whispers following them as the news of their venture trickled through the crowd.
That night there was a huge celebration to welcome all the tribes, with feasting, music, dancing and much laughter. Huge bonfires were lit. Whole deer and pigs were roasted over the coals. Flutes, drums and pipes rang through the night. Children played hide and seek in the shadows, squealing and giggling, way past their bedtimes. Maidens and youths danced and flirted. The older folk drank ale and cherry wine, conversing and eating by the fires.
Roana, Saxon, Ethan and Lily joined in everything – playing, feasting, dancing and talking. They had overcome their initial shyness and were made to feel welcome by everyone they met. It was midnight when they finally crawled off to bed.
The next morning, Wilf woke them up with a platter of toast and honey and big bowls of milky coffee. Outside, the wind buffeted the sides of the tent.
‘I have good news and bad news,’ Wilf announced. ‘The bad news is that the weather seer says we should delay our journey up the mountain until the wind drops in a couple of days. The good news is that you can join in the tribal games.’
All the tribes joined together during the day to play games and sport.
The children had toboggan races down the foothills, accompanied by wild cheering and hat waving. There were ski races, sled races and ice skating races, ski jumps and huge snowball fights.
Lily, Ethan, Saxon and Roana were encouraged to join in the ice skating, tobogganing and skiing. They fell over lots, and laughed along with everyone else when they landed hard on their bottoms again. The only activity where they were not hampered by their lack of experience was the snowball fights. They packed big cannon balls of cold, wet snow and flung them with deadly accuracy, causing shrieks of laughter and dismay from their victims.
‘Got you,’ screamed Saxon, leaping with delight, as one of his snowballs smashed square on someone’s nose. A return missile hit Saxon on the ear, disintegrating inside his collar.
Lunch was another social affair. Men barbequed sausages, ribs and steaks, which were handed around to everyone on round, flat bread. The four children wandered around the camp, licking their fingers, and chewing on sausage sandwiches. Aisha joined the other dogs by the fire to clean up the bones and scraps.
The biggest event of the day was a game called stickball, played in the afternoon on a big field that had been levelled and cleared of snow. It used a small leather ball, stuffed with straw, which was dyed bright scarlet so it showed up against the snow and mud. The tribes gathered on the sidelines, sitting on stools and blankets.
‘Each team is made up of the five best riders and horses from a tribe,’ Wilf explained. ‘The riders have to get the ball to their own base and shoot it through the goal posts. Each rider carries a long-handled net to scoop the ball up and throw to the other players on the team. There are four riders on the field and one who guards the goal posts to stop the other team from scoring. It is our favourite sport because it requires speed, agility and bravery from the horses, and superb riding skills, accuracy and courage from the riders. Wait until you see a game!’
The game was very exciting. Each team was identified by the colour of the wool plaited into the ponies’ manes and tails, and the colour of the jerkins worn by the rider. The shaggy, sturdy ponies galloped from one end of the field to the other, sending clods of muddy snow flying up with their hooves. Horses wheeled on their hind legs, turning on the spot. Riders battled for the ball, holding their reins in one hand, wielding their nets like weapons. One would knock the ball out of the opponents’ net, then scoop it up with their own, spinning around, racing for the far end of the field. Team members would block opponents from reaching the ball using their horses’ bodies. Ponies frequently crashed into each other and once nearly barrelled into the crowd.
It was terrifying, exhilarating and nerve-racking. The children found themselves screaming encouragement when a pony galloped away with the ball, and groaning in disappointment when the ball was lost.
‘It is amazing no-one has been badly hurt,’ whispered Roana, covering her eyes as two ponies crashed together, vying for the ball.
‘Those ponies are fantastic,’ added Ethan, wishing his father were here to appreciate the perfect accord between the horses and their riders.
‘There is occasionally a nasty fall, but no-one has ever been killed,’ Wilf explained matter-of-factly. ‘Most of the riders are too experienced for such accidents. I’m riding for our tribe tomorrow – I just can’t wait. I’ve been practising for weeks.’
‘It looks like so much fun,’ said Ethan wistfully. ‘I’d love to have a go.’
‘Would you?’ asked Wilf, chewing his lip thoughtfully.
After the first match was finished the children went to watch Wilf limber up on his pony. The pony was dappled grey, strong and sturdy, with green wool plaited into his mane and tail. Ethan watched carefully as Wilf scooped up the ball with a flick of his wrist then hurled it at his makeshift goal.
‘Do you want to try?’ asked Wilf, noting Ethan’s assessing gaze. Wilf jumped down from his pony, and showed the children how to wield the net, how to flick the ball to free it from the net and how to knock it free from an opponents’ net. Wilf gathered up a net for each of them so they could try. They had a mock match, running on their own two legs instead of riding, passing the ball to each other and aiming for the goal.
It was a fun way to spend the afternoon. Wilf coached them continuously, pointing out errors, tactics and hints, until they could pass, intercept and score with some proficiency.
That night they were all sitting by the fire, listening to an old woman telling hair-raising stories of snow trolls stealing
babies from their mothers’ arms for their midsummer feasts. Wilf wriggled in between them, smiling conspiratorially.
‘I’ve organised it,’ he bragged.
‘Organised what?’ asked Saxon.
‘For you to play stickball tomorrow,’ Wilf announced. ‘In the youth tournament. With you four and me, we have enough for an extra team.’
‘Play in the tournament!’ exclaimed Ethan, grinning in delight. ‘Fantastic!’
‘Play stickball!’ retorted Lily in dismay. ‘What if one of us gets hurt? We have to climb up to the tower in a couple of days. We can’t do that if one of us has a broken leg! Or what if one of the horses was injured?’
‘Oh, come on, Lily,’ urged Ethan. ‘Don’t be a wet blanket! It will be exciting. We won’t get hurt. We’re all excellent riders, and the horses are fit. We don’t have to play like maniacs, just to have fun.’
‘It does look like fun,’ Saxon encouraged, ‘and it would be nice to try something we can actually do. I’m sick of these mountain folk laughing at me every time I slip on my backside. They think we’re a bunch of hopeless southerners!’
Everyone was silent for a moment as they thought over the idea.
‘We have not even tried playing on a real horse,’ Roana objected.
‘I thought about that,’ Wilf whispered. ‘We’ll get up early tomorrow and sneak off back down the valley a couple of kilometres, where we can practise without anyone seeing us. Come on, let’s just try it!’
‘All right then,’ Lily decided. ‘But at the first sign of it getting too dangerous, we pull out – agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ chorused the others.
They rejoined the festivities. Saxon began to entertain some of the other children, telling some of his favourite jokes and riddles. Soon all the adults were listening in too, trying to guess the answers.
‘There are two farmers sitting under a tree. One farmer is the son of the first farmer, but the first farmer is not the father of the second. How can this be?’ Saxon asked.
Foreheads were wrinkled, chins were rubbed and possible answers whispered back and forth.
‘It’s impossible,’ declared one older tribesman.
‘It’s a trick,’ another stated.
‘No,’ Saxon retorted. ‘The first farmer is his mother!’
He offered another riddle. ‘It is impossible to hold it for an hour, yet weighs nothing at all. What could it be?’
‘It couldn’t be feathers … perhaps water in your hand?’
‘No, water weighs something, and some would be left. What could it be?’
‘Come on, tell us, southerner. Is it snow?’
‘No, it’s your breath!’ roared Saxon, expelling a loud breath as he did it. ‘You know, you can’t hold your breath for an hour or you’d die, and it weighs nothing at all.’
The tribesfolk all collapsed in laughter, bemused by Saxon’s ridiculous jokes.
In Tira, Lord Lazlac burst into the gardener’s cottage, where Marnie and Queen Ashana were unpicking yet another seam of crimson velvet that they had just decided was not quite perfect. Two soldiers marched behind him, dragging another tall, dark-haired man, who was bleeding profusely from a cut over his eyebrow.
‘Willem,’ screamed Marnie, rushing to her injured husband. ‘Are you all right? What happened?’ Willem lifted his head and smiled reassuringly at Marnie to show he was still alive. His face was puffy and bruised, with one eye nearly swollen shut. Queen Ashana gasped in shock.
‘My dear,’ soothed Lord Lazlac. ‘Your poor friend here suffered an unfortunate accident while working on my temple. I just wanted to bring him to you to remind you that we will be married in two weeks, and I want that dress finished, perfect seams or no perfect seams. It seems to me that you all needed a little encouragement with your sewing. If there are any more delays, your friend here might just suffer another more serious accident.’
Marnie froze, her face a mask of shock and horror. Queen Ashana smiled thinly.
‘Of course the gown will be completed in time,’ she assured him. ‘We merely desired to ensure the gown was as stunning as your gorgeous design. Did we not, Marnie?’
Marnie nodded slowly, her eyes communicating wordlessly and frantically with her husband.
‘Good,’ Lord Lazlac purred. ‘The priests should arrive in a few days, the invitations have been delivered and preparations have begun for the feast. I don’t want any more delays.’
Queen Ashana forced a smile, picking up her needle and thread to show her compliance.
‘Take the prisoner back to the work site,’ instructed Lord Lazlac.
‘Please, may I tend to my husband’s wounds first?’ begged Marnie.
‘Certainly not,’ responded Lord Lazlac. ‘We have wasted enough time on him already. Get back to your work.’
Willem tried to stand on his own feet, to show Marnie he was not too badly hurt. The guards shoved him and dragged him roughly away, with Governor Lazlac following.
Queen Ashana and Marnie started sewing frantically.
‘Where are the children?’ wondered Marnie. ‘When will they be back?’
Early the next morning, the horses were groomed, saddled and bridled before most of the camp was awake. Mischief whinnied in distress as she was left behind with the mountain ponies in the yard. The children skirted the lake back to the south, crunching on crumbly biscuits and dried fruit. Wilf found a flat area, where the snow was light on the ground.
He opened a rolled blanket where he had hidden the long nets, ball and bandages. The bandages were wound around the horses’ fetlocks to protect them from gashes and strains.
When all was ready they started to play, two to a side with one as the goal keeper. It was fun. The sun bathed the valley in a golden glow, shimmering and glittering on the white snow banks. The sky soared overhead, deep blue and clear. Up on the mountain tops they could see wind whipping crystals of snow into the air, forming misty dancing clouds, but down in the valley it was sheltered and warm.
The horses skittered and twirled, enjoying learning the new skills, turning on a gold crescent, galloping, stopping, turning, barging and blocking. The air was cold and clear, full of invigorating oxygen and fresh clean smells. Birds soared overhead, twittering and chirping. All the children rode as though they were part of their horses, communicating moves as fast as thought waves.
While they had never played stickball before, they had many other skills that helped them learn quickly – riding, balance, quick reflexes, athleticism, accuracy and courage. By the end of the morning session, they were quite competent.
Wilf nodded his head. ‘I think we are ready to play.’ They walked the horses gently back to camp, rubbed them down and gave them a good feed. Then the children sat and watched another couple of games of stickball. They appreciated watching the skill of the riders even more, now that they had learned how to play.
After a couple of hours Wilf nudged the others.
‘It’s time to get ready,’ he whispered. ‘We need to bandage the horses’ fetlocks, and plait their manes and tails. And I have borrowed some vests for us to wear.’
There was a mutter of interest and surprise as Saxon, Ethan, Roana, Lily and Wilf rode their horses onto the field, wearing their sky-blue jerkins. All of them felt their stomachs contract with nerves. The horses felt the excitement, prancing and cavorting, arching their necks proudly and flagging their plaited tails.
The opposing team rode their ponies onto the field, their manes and tails plaited with crimson wool. A shout of encouragement went up from the crowd and a slow chant rumbled up: ‘Snow Wolves, Snow Wolves, Snow Wolves.’ The opposing team saluted the welcome by galloping around the field, their nets raised above their heads on the long stick handles.
Lily fumbled her net and dropped it into the mud. A snigger of laughter rippled around the field, and Lily’s face flamed as she slid off Nutmeg to retrieve her net. The referee waited until Lily had remounted before striking his bell to start the ga
me.
The scarlet ball was tossed into the centre of the field. One of their opponents galloped down the field, circling around the ball before scooping it up, just to show off, and galloped back towards the northern goal post. Wilf, Ethan and Lily galloped after him, sending clods of snow flying in the air. Wilf barged the other pony, deftly knocking the ball out of the net, then scooping it up in his own. He leant so far out of his saddle when reaching for the ball that Roana felt sure he would fall to the ground.
In a second he was up, triumphantly bearing the scarlet ball. His pony spun on his haunches, then nimbly galloped the other way, dodging the opposition ponies. Saxon and Ethan were on his tail, blocking the attacking horses with warlike whoops. Before Wilf could aim for the southern goals, he was attacked with a vicious swipe from a stick, the ball stolen away.
‘Watch out, southerners,’ jeered one of the opposition. ‘Did Wilf forget your leading reins?’
‘Come on, southerners, you are supposed to catch the ball, not bounce it! What sort of overgrown cows are you riding anyway?’
‘Ignore them,’ cautioned Wilf. ‘Taunting is one of their tactics to make you angry and careless.’
At first Roana was nervous, skirting the action. Then the adrenalin kicked in and she was riding in the thick of the game, blocking, barging, rearing, crashing, passing, scooping and pitching with the others. The opposition were arrogant, cocky and contemptuous, but they soon gave up taunting the southerners, as they realised they really could ride well. For long minutes no-one scored, the ball racing up and down the field furiously, then the Snow Wolves pitched the ball over Saxon’s head, to fly through the goal posts. The Snow Wolves cheered and jeered, galloping around the field with their fists raised triumphantly.
Wilf was a skilled blocker, and he saved several potential goals by a pony’s whisker, causing the Snow Wolves to curse in frustration. However, when the half-time bell rang, the Snow Wolves were still leading by one goal to nil. At half time, the teams changed direction, so they were aiming for the opposite goal posts.
The Snowy Tower Page 11