No, say Aban.
What?
I cant let you.
Malk act like he dont hear this, he nod an pick sand out his cut. He lean on the guidin stick then look squintin at Nathin an Becca who got the blind folk an the kiddies kneelin on the ground. Easy for you, say Malk to Aban. You aint got no group to lead. Who else gonna feed us? You? Malks eyes set on me an a grin show in his dirty face. Then he swing the guidin stick like a club on his shoulder an make for the captives. Only Aban run an block his way.
Now Aban …
Dont.
Malk sniff, calm enuf, only a nerves twitchin in his neck. All I can do is watch an from where blind folk kneelin Nathin Becca do likeways. Malk lower the guidin stick. He turn it over in his hands like hes lookin at the grain of its wood, then press its head in Abans chest. Aban push it away. Slow an easy Malk do it again. Aban grab the head of the stick an Malk put his weight behind it. Only Aban step aside an his own strength land Malk in the dust. Aban put out a hand for him. But Malk dont take it, he make a fist of sand an toss it in Abans face.
Aban cry out an Malk dive hard into his belly. Aban stagger back an fall an now the boys are rollin on the ground. Its like each is tryin to hug the fight out of the other. No speaks come from em, no sound almost, only they breaths an the stony scrabble of they bodies. Nathin walk over, his sharpstick ready but Becca grab him by the ankle. He try to kick free of her till she catch him with the look on her face an he stop tryin. Becca meet eyes with me cross the sand. Her face too all cut an dirty. Her sorrow just like mine. We watch Malk writhe under Aban, reachin for the guidin stick where it fall. But Abans that bit stronger or more clever, he catch Malks arm an pin it back till Malk scream in pain.
Get off him, shout Becca.
Abans in control now. I watch him tight his hold on Malk. Grapple up to grip him with his legs. Each twist an squirm makin it worse, till Malk go limp. Aban his slaver for a sec. Rider of a broken beast. An like Im lookin straight into Abans thinks I see him hate this. He look at the back of Malks head. At the head of his bro. It look small to him, the hair like feathers, oily with sweat. An Aban loose his grip on Malk. Loose it an start to get off him.
Only Malk dont stay down. His leg jerk up an catch Aban in the balls. Aban stagger an Malks on him, his fist risin an fallin, risin an fallin, like a man doin heavy work. Each blow a dull thud. Im screamin for this to stop, I got my spear up, Nathin lift his own to fling at me an in Malks fist theres a big flint. He hold it high over Abans face. Ready to bring it down. The flints got a dull coat but I can see a sharp ridge on it. Malk lift the flint higher. Aban dont move, he just lie bloody an pantin. The boys look into each others cut an swellin eyes.
The flint come down. But not with Malks strength behind it. His fingers open an the stone drop safe on the sand.
Malk get wincin to his feet. I drop my spear an run for Aban where hes lyin.
Stay there, say Malk to Nathin case they give the blind folk a chance to get free. The hang of Malks face I seen before, after our groupin. Like hes all done. Its good you alive, say Malk to me. Come with us Efia.
Where?
You know where.
But Aban –
Malk shrug an suck at his pain. I reckon he follow where you go.
Yeah but we dont want him, say Nathin. Callin out from where he stand with Becca. He look over to where Abans in the dust. After what he done to us. You know its Aban set the trapper loose. Undone his bonds an his boys.
No, I say.
He show the guidin stick no respect. Let our foes run away from us. Aban aint trusty.
That were me, I say. I set the heave bloke free. He were no enemy to us an you know it Malk. We had no call to tie em up.
Nathin shout at me for it, Bitch!
I let em go.
Well, say Malk after deep breaths. Leastways you tell us.
An I aint comin with you now.
Becca moan at this. Efia we need you. Rona an me.
I cant.
What, say Malk. You reckon you do elseways?
Dunno. Maybe help em, an I nod at the blind captives. What they got you can take Malk? Howd it help to rob em?
Food.
But they cant see. You can still look for life but they?
Malk gaze from me to the folk. Nathin snag his eye an say, Malk no! They fair game. We gotta do it.
Where you take em then?
Wherever they goin. With kiddies how they gonna stay safe? Maybe with us they get there.
Us?
Me an Aban.
I see pain once more tho not of flesh in Malks face. He look slow like he must but dont want to over his shoulder at Aban, whos sittin up now holdin his head. I want to cry at the mess of his face. But I keep it in me.
Efia, say Malk, goin lones a curse. Worse an bein ouster cos most ousters got folk but loners? They creep with no friend nor bro. In a group you share even whats smallest thats how you survive. The group share everythin it live like one. You an him go lonesum you be corses before the years out.
Still thats what we doin. So if you wanna rob the blind you gotta rob us too. Here, I say an shrug the pack off my shoulder, swing it long my arm an hold it out to Malk. Take it.
Malk shake his head. Becca behind him say, Whats goin on? Whats she doin?
Take it if you want it. I cant stop you.
Keep yer pack, say Malk an the blood drain from whats showin of his face. Keep it an him an they if thats what you want. If deaths what you after. Then he hold up the guidin stick an walk towards the trees. Nathin Becca starin after.
Hey! What bout –?
Come on, say Becca to Nathin an shes runnin to catch up with Malk. Aban dont see her go. Nor Nathin up spear, kickin dust at a blind woman, then off into the scrub.
I walk to where Abans sittin an put a hand on his shoulder to steady me. Best clean you up, I say.
Malk –
Hes gone.
The group –
Its OK. Just you an me now.
I cant see.
Theres muck in yer eyes. Skin swoll up is all.
Tippin water from my jercan, I dab his face with my hem. Whiles I wash away the blood an Aban moan, his fingers on my wrists, I hear footfalls behind us. The scuffin of blind folks feet. The surer steps of seein kids. Without turnin I can feel the tug of they questions. The weight of they need. The bell sleepin on the small boys chest. Askin the world for mercy. The guidin rope slack between em as they gather. Turnin to us cos there aint no one else. Waitin for two who can lead em into nightfall.
The sun was fierce. It blazed, a great warrior, on the heath and raised a sweat on the brows of three children gone, against instruction, to spy on the great doing beyond their world.
His cousin was happy to hold his hand and he hers, for none of his friends was present to call him a baby. Their palms were hot and tacky with blackberry juice. His brother swung a switch through the blossoming heather.
They walked far from the prying eyes of home.
‘Here it is,’ his brother said, and turned to reveal a ghoulish expression.
His cousin laughed. It was a great dare, and he would not be frightened though he was the smallest, and he did not mind their teasing, for it meant they kept him close and let him come along.
A gash had been made in the world. He was afraid to look at it and at the men labouring in it like maggots in a wound. The wound ran deeper into the world than he had ever travelled. He could hear no birdsong above the clangour of stone.
There were soldiers leaning on their shields, gazing dully into the heath. They stared at the nearest, a stocky man with hairy forearms and a plump neck.
It was hard to fathom this being – its physical weight in the world.
He contemplated the point of the javelin and followed the shaft till he saw the hand that gripped it and the thumb which was barely a stump. He dragged on his brother’s wrist to share with him what he saw but his brother snatched back his arm and the movement, or else the pres
sure of their attention, made the soldier turn his head.
Children and soldier exchanged stares. Under his helmet, the soldier’s soul was unreachable.
The soldier nudged his neighbour, and now two soldiers were watching him and his brother and cousin, who had only come to see this work that everyone whispered about and feared and marvelled at.
The second soldier spoke. It was a strange language and his words dropped like a piece of gristle thrown to a dog. None of the children knew what to do or say in reply.
The soldier tossed a second word-bone at them and his neighbour sniggered. His cousin was tugging at them to retreat but his brother would not. His brother took a step towards the soldiers and they growled at him.
His brother took another step. The fat soldier made a monstrous face and roared –
– and they were running now, away from the road and the laughing soldiers. Part of him knew this was pretend fear, but it was difficult to tell for sure and he ran the fastest, his fright chasing him until he was far from everyone, the soldiers and his brother and cousin.
A heaviness came into his legs and slowed him till he was alone with his heart and his racing breath and the knowledge that he was lost.
He knew, from his father, to ignore the voice that would lead him further into difficulty. He looked at his surroundings, trying to make sense of the place, not daring to call out lest he summon bad spirits.
He walked into the shade of a very tall beech. He touched the wounds in its bark and heard woodlarks behind him and stonechats. A green woodpecker flashed from a tussock of grass where it had been licking for ants. He went to the tussock, for ants intrigued him with their busy comings and goings.
It was there, in a scrape of exposed turf, that he found the stone. The other flints were mute but this one spoke. He picked it up and stared at it, turning the carvings in his hand and mind. It was by no means beautiful, but how snugly it fitted the width of his palm, its shape almost human though lacking arms or legs. He sat in the whispering grass and stroked the lines, like rings in wood but on the outside. He forgot about his fear. A companionable sweat pooled in the small of his back. He gave himself up to daydream, until he looked up from the stone and recognised the place.
He had been here before, laying traps with his grandfather. The beech tree shimmered in the heat. Butterflies flopped among its branches. He held the stone, or the stone held him. It was a gift that would guide him home: a mystery for him to hold and keep safe.
There was a great sigh, like the rushing of waters, above his head. He looked into the shaken curtain of leaves.
The beech was ancient, its trunk scarred and wrinkled like the hide of a beast. Andagin turned to watch it contend with the wind, and his spirit soared into the green boughs and the stone rolled over in his palm. He was a bird, high in that shifting canopy. He thought: the trees have no soul but the wind, and the wind has no body but the trees. And what being would he have – he, son of Brennos and Vala, youngest of the hill-fort clan – without this love that called him home?
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to thank Creative Scotland for financial assistance in the writing of this novel.
By the Same Author
NOVELS
The Ship of Fools
Arts and Wonders
Ghost Portrait
Serious Things
SHORT STORIES
Thumbnails
The Ghost Who Bled
APHORISM
The Lost Art of Losing
AS EDITOR
Beacons – stories for our not so distant future
TRANSLATIONS
The Little Prince (Antoine de Saint-Exupéry)
Belle and Sébastien (Cécile Aubry)
About the Author
Gregory Norminton is the author of five novels, two collections of short stories and a book of aphorism. He teaches creative writing at Manchester Metropolitan University and lives in Sheffield.
About the Publisher
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The Devil's Highway Page 18