At last Phale gave the signal and Tagart was conducted into the open.
The ritual of making a new chief was an occasion of urgency and awe. There was rarely time to prepare elaborate costumes such as were seen at other ceremonies during the year. The chief of each tribe wore his mask and robes; the others wore the best they had. There was no feasting, nor was there music save the measured words of the elders.
This was a time when the spirits were very near. As if to acknowledge their presence, the trappings of the ritual were both simple and powerful. The holy, magic, forbidden wood of the spindle-tree – from whose branches the Sun had fashioned needles to sew the threads of his Creation – was gathered and used to heat the morsels of dried man orchid that conferred divinity on the new chief. With them, because this was the Waterfall tribe, a few scraps of salted salmon, the sacred food of the water spirit, were also made ready and heated on a flat stone.
The whole camp had assembled. It was about noon when Phale began to speak. In a freezing wind, under heavy cloud, the river flowed past; the snow on its banks was packed hard. Here and there across the compound were small movements: the motion of smoke, a hanging strip of leather.
Watched by the people of nine tribes, and eight chiefs in bird, beast and insect masks, Phale held the pieces of orchid to Tagart’s mouth.
“This becomes your flesh.”
Another elder recited a prayer and brought Phale the platter of warm salmon.
“This becomes your spirit.”
Tagart ate. It was very salty; a fine bone stuck in his cheek.
The fish mask was placed on his head.
“Your tribe calls you.”
One by one, everybody in the Waterfall tribe walked past and spoke the name “Shode”.
Last but one came Tagart’s woman. Through the apertures in the mask, he saw on Segle’s face mixed apprehension and hope; and she had passed.
Now Phale stood before him again. As he spoke the name he gave the Mace into Tagart’s hand. It had been repaired with twine and leather: a new Mace would be carved soon. As Tagart’s fingers closed on the knots and twists of the binding and felt the firmness of the wood beneath, he sensed for the first time the reality of what had happened.
“You are the holder of the Mace. You are our chief. You are Shode.”
After the ceremony Tagart called all the chiefs together. With Tagart’s new authority, Chenk, who had led the scouts to Valdoe, together with the other chiefs who were in favour of a convocation to discuss the Flint Lord, managed to persuade Bison, Wolf and Marten, the doubters, to join their view. Bubeck alone resisted for a while; finally he agreed that envoys should be sent to the other winter camps.
“But not for a convocation,” Tagart said. “It is too late for that. We must call for help.”
“Shode is right,” Chenk said. “I have seen the soldiers. Talk will waste time. We must ask for warriors to join us.”
Eventually even Bubeck consented. Token tributes of flint spearheads and presents for the chiefs’ women were got ready. Tagart chose three pairs of envoys, each pair led by a man who had himself seen the preparations at Valdoe. Men were picked from the Herons and Beavers, and from the Dragonflies went Fodich, who was now almost completely fit. They were accompanied by men from the Wolf, Marten, and Bison tribes – tribes which did not belong to the water spirit but to the spirits of the other camps: in the north, east, and west.
“Tell them what you have seen,” Tagart said. “Tell them we must fight together or be driven out.”
The envoys left in the afternoon, in the middle of Klay’s trial.
The trial was over by nightfall. Testimony was heard from Tagart and Bubeck, Yulin was interrogated, and the clothes and weapons he had unlawfully used were held up and displayed to the camp.
In turn, Klay accused Tagart and Bubeck of cheating: he said they had colluded to find Edrin. But Bubeck said that Tagart had offered no help in finding Edrin; he had merely used Bubeck and his ideas, and so had exercised nothing more than the “stealth” that was permitted under the rules. Edrin confirmed that Tagart had made no attempt to help Bubeck.
Phale pronounced sentence. Klay’s woman and children were to be expelled and made tribeless: when at last they died, of cold or hunger, or were eaten by wolves, their spirits would be unable to join the ancestors. It was a terrible punishment. Yulin sagged and collapsed. The penalty for Klay himself was that which was always paid by those who had betrayed the trust of the tribe.
Final authority rested with Tagart. He was sitting in the middle of the line of elders, studying Klay, Yulin, and the fire. At his side was Bubeck. They spoke together. Tagart glanced at Segle, and looked again into the fire.
He looked up. “Sentence on Klay and Yulin will be deferred. At the next moon, the elders will reconsider.”
Klay, who was still bound at the wrists, stared impassively at the ground.
Tagart arose. There was one more matter to be resolved.
He left his place by the fire, took Segle’s arm, and pulled her towards their shelter.
2
Six miles north-west of the Trundle, on the highest point of a five-peaked hill, the secondary fort of Harting dominated the sweep of the downs and the fertile plain to the north. Between Harting and its companion fort to the west, Butser, lay some of the richest farmland in the Valdoe domain. At the base of Harting Hill was the village of Fernbed, which, in a sheltered valley, cultivated acre after acre of barley, wheat, oats and millet.
Gehan’s sledge passed a snow-whitened clump of gorse and Harting fort came into view, a palisade on the distant hilltop. Behind it, in contrast with the snowy landscape, the sky was solid grey. Colder than the snow, an east wind blew behind the sledge and piled drifts against the gorse bushes and the roadside banks. It beat against the leather hood of the sledge and left stray draughts of exhilarating air in its wake.
Ika turned to him. She was excited to be making such an adventurous journey in the snow. The business to be dealt with, Gehan had told her, would be unpleasant; the journey, and the overnight rest at Harting, would be uncomfortable. But in the sleigh it was warm enough under the thick furs, and Gehan took pleasure in the proximity of her body on the padded seat. The wind had brought a high colour to Ika’s cheeks. Her eyes shone. In this severe winter light, her blonde hair just showing beneath a fur hat, she seemed more beautiful than ever. She moved even closer. “What is the name of this village again?”
“Fernbed.”
“A lovely name.”
Reminded of the destination, Gehan went back to his thoughts of the difficulties in hand.
In some ways he saw himself as the husbandman of a complicated and volatile herd. His beasts were the farming villages; his muzzles and harnesses were the soldiers and traders who enabled him to maintain the balance that produced the greatest profit.
There were over a hundred villages, stretching seventy miles along the coast and up to twenty miles inland. Some were prosperous, with palisaded compounds, wood and stone houses, granaries; most were squalid collections of huts whose inhabitants lived in constant fear of starvation. Over the centuries these people had come to the island country to escape oppression in the homelands: it was important to ensure that things did not get so bad that any were tempted to return. It was important, too, to allow them a measure of hope, for this was a most effective stimulant to hard work.
The farmers depended for their implements on flint. At one time it had been possible to gather good quality flints from anywhere along the surface of the downs. No longer. Today, they had to be mined. Most of the mine-workings were in the region of Valdoe Hill and on the hill itself; all were the exclusive property of Brennis Gehan Fifth. The flints, cut and ground by his craftsmen, were taken by trading teams to the villages, and there exchanged for food and goods.
The price exacted by the traders was carefully regulated. In years of bad crops the price went down. To prevent retailing between villages, the price at any one time
was fixed throughout the domain; but the larger and more successful villages, those which were able to acquire a surplus, were subject to a harvest impost determined by inspectors from the forts. Attempts to bribe or deceive the harvest inspectors were rigorously punished. Failure to pay the imposts likewise brought soldiers. Such punishment was rare – the harvest impost normally took no more than two thirds of the surplus. Despite complaints, the village head-men felt this was not only reasonable, but, considering the power of the Flint Lord, almost generous.
In times of great hardship, Valdoe sometimes waived all taxes and distributed free tools, even free seed-corn, to distressed villages. Conversely it sometimes made an additional levy for special purposes.
A levy in respect of the campaign against the savages had already been made. From each village an amount equivalent to half the harvest impost had been assessed by the inspectors, and from every fifth family the eldest son had been pressed into non-military service. The preceding summer had given a poor harvest because of drought: fewer villages than usual had managed a surplus, but some, like Fernbed, had done well and had been assessed for the impost. The levy should have left Fernbed with enough food to last the winter, and with seed to sow crops the following spring, but with no more.
However, an informer from a neighbouring village had been to Harting to tell the unit leader of a secret storehouse in the forest outside Fernbed. Here also the eldest son of the head man was in hiding, avoiding his duty to Lord Brennis.
A unit of twenty-five men was stationed at Harting. Fifteen had accompanied their unit leader to investigate the charges. They had found the storehouse, cunningly camouflaged in the woods. It had been in use for years, and it held several tons of first quality grain.
Duplicity of this kind so close to the fort had incensed the unit leader. Some of the blame would attach to himself, for it was his duty to make regular searches of the countryside for just such caches. And, in view of the orders from Valdoe, evasion of service by the head man’s son could only be seen as a direct challenge to his authority. He had wanted to execute the youth and his father at once, but permission for executions had to be obtained through his superior, the commander of Harting, Bow Hill, and Butser, who in turn had to petition the Flint Lord himself.
On receiving the request, Gehan had taken advice from the General of the Coast before issuing his instructions in the matter of the head man and his son.
Yesterday the signalmaster at the Trundle had read a message from Harting, relayed by the intervening fort at Bow Hill. In dark and light smoke the message had taken shape. The … punishment … at … Fernbed … ordained … by … Lord … Brennis … has … begun … We … await … his … illustrious … presence.
Gehan’s sledge, drawn by ten slaves in harness, flanked by guards, passed through the open gate of the palisade and into Fernbed. It was early afternoon: the journey from Valdoe had taken four hours.
A crowd of over two hundred people parted to let him through. The sledge stopped by the head man’s house and Gehan alighted. The commander, a heavy, grey-bearded man named Awach, came forward and saluted. It appeared that, like the crowd, Awach and the soldiers of his units had been waiting in the snow for some time. Their armour of horn and leather, overlaid with winter dress of fur capes and leggings, had been meticulously cleaned.
Gehan looked about him. The village had changed little since his last visit. The palisade enclosed a compound of twenty or thirty dwelling-houses built round a small open space. Two low barns stood behind the village pond, where a few ducks, their feathers ruffled, huddled on the bank beside the ice; another building, a bakery, occupied a rise near the north gate. There was no meeting house in this village. Instead the head man’s house was unusually grand, with a long extension on one side into a chamber for public meetings.
The village showed unmistakable signs of prosperity. Most of the dwelling-houses were made of stone and timber, with pitched roofs clad in boards or turf and window apertures shuttered for the winter with planks. Some of the houses had integral pig-sties; many had two, three, or even four rooms. The head man’s house seemed to have at least five rooms besides the public chamber.
A paved precinct by its entrance had been brushed free of snow. Part of the precinct was sheltered by a wooden portico supported by two great posts; as he passed between them, Gehan paused to notice the carvings, of twining barley-heads, that climbed the posts from floor to roof. A boss in the lintel depicted the Earth Mother, serenely guarding the doorway.
The entrance gave directly into the public chamber. This was twelve paces long and half as wide, floored with boards of pale beech which had been finished with beeswax. The walls were rendered with clay, smoothed and then whitened with lime. A simple and elegant system of beams held up the roof. At the far end of the room, below an open window, was a stone altar. The window looked out on the whiteness of Harting Hill. Gehan could hear the cawing of crows. That, and the screaming from the compound, were the loudest sounds in the village.
In front of the altar, geometrically arranged on the polished wooden floor, a repast of many small delicacies had been surrounded by an oval formation of leather cushions. Gehan motioned that Ika should be seated. He sat down next to her.
During the meal, Awach nervously gave an account of the events leading to his request for execution of the head man and his son. Awach also confirmed that all instructions from Valdoe had been followed. A priest or the head man from each and every village in the domain had been summoned to Fernbed to witness the punishment. Today was the fourth day of the Goele festival, when it was considered unclean to travel: a fact sure to impress still more deeply on the villagers the significance of the occasion.
“And what is the name of this old woman, the head man’s wife?”
“Lythou, my lady.”
“She is the son’s mother?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Ika accompanied them when they went to watch. Smoke was rising from the open ground faced by the houses. A scaffold had been erected there. Below it, a clay cauldron of water was being heated. Lythou, the head man’s wife, was naked, suspended on a noose under her armpits; the rope ran over the top of the scaffold. Since yesterday she had been repeatedly immersed in warm water and raised into the wind.
She made no sound: she was nearly dead. The screams were those of her husband and son, who had been locked in two pillories close to the fire. They had not been physically harmed.
Gehan felt Ika moving nearer. Her hand discovered his.
By her touch she had joined him in the invisible radiance that set him apart from all others. From villagers and soldiers alike Gehan sensed a surge of hostility and outrage, but it was inextricably mixed with cowardice and he knew he was safely in control. He had judged them accurately.
With a glance from Gehan the commander began his prepared remonstration with the villagers, while his men brought bundles of brushwood which had been stored nearby. Lythou was raised clear of the cauldron; the soldiers started to build up the fire, heaping bundles against the pillories. Three of them fanned the flames with boards until, unable to bear the heat, they had to move back.
The head man and his son were silenced. Their charred corpses, still kneeling at the blazing pillories, began to burn alone, without aid from the brushwood, sending fierce flames above the general fire. Awach, without pause, continued to harangue the people of Fernbed and to warn the others of their fate should they seek to deceive the inspectors. He said that the Flint Lord, benefactor of all the villages, had ordered the special levy for a secret purpose that was vital to everybody. The conscription of eldest sons was a part of this purpose also. Those who tried to evade it were traitors to the common good. In view of events here at Fernbed, a second, voluntary, levy would be accepted by Valdoe until the new moon after next. The source of any goods so received would not be investigated; but, after the period of amnesty, deceit would be shown no mercy.
The water in the cauldron was boiling
as the speech came to an end. Gehan gave a nod and the rope was released. Ika tightened her grip on his hand; Lythou fell into the water. A moment later the cauldron cracked. It broke into clumsy earthenware pieces and drenched the fire in a rush of steam and smoke. Ika’s hand relaxed. With eyes wide she watched the aftermath of the punishment, her hand lingering in Gehan’s own.
That night Gehan was again unable to sleep. The hours since Fernbed had passed with a curious, heightened awareness: the journey up to the fort, the inspection, the meal, the entertainment.
Awach had provided dancers, girls from his villages, accompanied by three musicians. One had played a flute; another had kept time on a little drum. The third had used his voice in a song without words, droning, repetitive, weaving and looping through the rhythms of the dance.
Gehan was lying in the chamber usually occupied by the commander. He stared into the darkness, his thoughts coloured by the musician’s song. The room had been refurbished for his visit, and he could smell some indefinable herbal redolence in the luxurious coverings on the bed. It was a scent from his childhood, an old-fashioned perfume that evoked a pang of memory just beyond reach.
The door opened from the next room. Before it closed again he saw Ika’s silhouette. She moved across the floor to the bed and sat down beside him.
“Can you sleep?” she whispered.
“No.”
“I keep thinking of that fire.”
He tried to make out her face, but the room was too dark. Hesitantly, timidly, she shifted her position on the edge of the bed. It was as if she were gauging an unknown resistance, waiting for a sounding before daring to proceed.
The silence was total. Ika’s fragrance was beginning to reach him, from her skin and hair, from the folds of her robe, from her breathing. It mingled with and overwhelmed the herbal scent and entwined the musicians’ song.
“It was a nightmare down there,” she said.
The Flint Lord Page 9