by Jacky Gray
No-one acted more surprised than Thanet, who re-appeared in front of the stone before the fallen boy had even picked himself up. Luckily, the charging pig gave the lad a reason not to look back as he followed his friends toward the safety of the village.
After a few minutes of inactivity, Darrack broke the silence, declaring the trial a success. Geraint whooped with delight as he exchanged a victory handclasp with his remarkable student.
As they returned to the camp, Fredulf blabbered with the minutiae of a guilty conscience, embroidering his description of the pig with elaborate detail which made the story more and more implausible until even Oeric tired of it. ‘For Hengist’s sake, will you shut up about the pig? Accidents happen.’
‘I just …’
‘Forget it. Thanet was lucky the boys were half drunk and not of warrior stock.’ Oeric dismissed the achievement. ‘When I did my stealth trial, I had to stalk the most famous warrior boy in the area.’
‘You mean Archer, Son of Sedge.’ Fredulf couldn’t keep the awe out of his voice.
It was nothing compared to the outright hero-worship as Thanet joined in. ‘You mean you’ve actually met Archer? He can hit a target with his eyes closed. And he can fly.’
‘I don’t know about flying, but he can do remarkable things.’ Darrack added his opinion.
‘Yeah, he fought the whole of Hereward’s tribe single handed and bested every one of them.’ Thanet wanted to believe the folk-lore.
‘No. If you think of the song, he wasn’t alone.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Geraint; it’s nothing but a song. You don’t really think it’s true, do you? Grow up.’ Oeric’s words cut deeply.
Darrack stepped in to try and dissolve the tension. ‘Thanet’s tale is exaggerated, but the song is mostly true. He is, without doubt, the most skilled warrior ever to come out of Aveburgh, probably in the whole land. But he’s no threat because he no longer lives here.’
Geraint pulled back from the group for the rest of the journey home, stung by his cousin’s unkindness, feeling he would never fit in with their coarse ways. Talk of Archer brought an image into his mind, but not the tall man he’d glimpsed from a distance when his father took him to Stonehenge for a Yule celebration. He saw the warrior as a youth, practising with the bow he’d carved himself from a yew stave, and understood Thanet’s hero-worship.
During Geraint’s fifth year, he went to the Bowman’s shop in Oxford with Uncle Tol. Closing his eyes, he smelt again the pungent combination of highly oiled wood and harsh resins from the bows as he wandered round the shop while his uncle talked to the owner. Fascinating though they were, the beauty of the finished bows displayed on the walls could not hold his attention more than a few minutes, but the sound of singing lured him through to the courtyard behind the shop.
It felt like stepping into a wonderland for a small boy with a thirst for adventure. Four walls surrounded the courtyard, each of which had two or three doors into different workshops. He saw several people through the windows, mostly sitting down, working; all too busy to notice him. A pure, sweet girl’s voice came from the open doorway to the left of where he stood, along with the full, rich tones of a harp. But what really attracted him were the fast, rowdy rhythms and hoarse male voice coming from a room to the right.
He watched the young man making the music striding around inside as the song told its raucous tale. A quick glance back to the shop suggested Tol was deeply engrossed and would not look for him for a while. Running across the courtyard, Geraint collided with a solid tree-trunk of muscle.
‘What the …? Are you all right, boy?’
Squinting up at the older boy, Geraint’s first impression was of a head made of gold, as the sun’s rays bounced off his blond hair forming a halo around him. With the quiver slung over his shoulder and the bow in his hand, he was the image of the statue of Mercury Tol admired in the library at Oxford. Grasping the outstretched hand, Geraint allowed himself to be pulled up and dusted down, but words would not force their way past his constricted throat.
‘Bit of a shock, eh? Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Too busy checking the target’s set up right. Name’s Archer, by the way.’ When no response came, he continued. ‘It’s a big day for me. I’m going to test the bow I made myself, to see how it shoots.’
‘Y-you made that bow?’ Curiosity got the better of Geraint as he looked in awe at the huge longbow, gleaming in the sun.
‘No, this is my practice bow, the one I use to check the target is set right and the arrows are flying true before trying out a new bow. If the fletches are worn or twisted, the arrow may fall short or spin away from the target, so you need to make sure they are all good before using them in a test.’
‘Otherwise it’s not a fair test for the bow.’
‘Exactly right. Do you want to watch?’
Geraint nodded enthusiastically and stood where the older boy indicated, watching with awe as he loosed the arrows in quick succession, making a circle shape on the target. He could not help but clap his hands at the end; it was a breathtaking display of skill.
‘Thank you. Do you want to come and check them with me? See if you can spot any which didn’t quite hit the mark.’
Geraint didn’t need asking twice and could not believe it when he got up close. Each arrow had landed exactly on the line between the white and black rings. Not a single arrow strayed into the white or the black. He was still marvelling at the accuracy when the boy came back with a different bow, an expression of modest pride on his face.
‘Wow, is that the bow you made? It’s … it’s magnificent.’ He breathed the word Tol used when something was better than the best.
The older boy’s face went pink with pleasure, and he launched into a detailed explanation of the complicated process required to carve the stave and bend it into shape. He rubbed a cloth over the bow’s fine limbs as he spoke. ‘To warm it up properly, you draw it half way twenty times, then to its full extent twenty times before the final shoot.’
Nodding, Geraint asked, ‘Does it have to be twenty times?’
As they walked toward the mark, his uncle called him away.
Archer called after him. ‘No, it’s merely tradition.’
Tol said they must get back as they might be in the way during the important demonstration. Geraint glanced back with longing and was thrilled when the bowman invited both of them to watch Archer test his bow. He enjoyed the spectacle with the same relish as a planned entertainment.
3 Ciria
When they reached the camp, Darrack was generous with his praise, but Geraint’s father seemed unmoved by Geraint’s part in the training, merely congratulating Thanet on a successful trial. During the feasting that night, several people congratulated Geraint for his part, clapping him on the back.
Rattrick was forced to say something. ‘Well done, son. It’s good to see you finally taking on the Renegate ways. I worried for a while you’d become soft and useless, but apparently you’ve proved to be a worthy teacher.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Darrack tells me the boy disappeared almost completely. That’s quite advanced. Of course, it’s probably because he’s an exceptional student.’ He gestured at his son’s full plate. ‘Eat your venison; it’ll put some muscles on you.’
Raising the fork to his mouth, Geraint took a small bite, thankful his father’s attention was called away by Thanet’s parents. As usual, he never got genuine approval; it was always heavily mixed with criticism to stop him from becoming too prideful. As he chewed, the intense, earthy flavours released into his mouth, making him grimace in disgust; he was not keen on strongly flavoured meat and this tasted foul. He knew it was supposed to be a treat, a reward for the efforts of the boys completing their first trial, as well as their trainers and arbiters. Somehow, it felt like the exact opposite to him. He could just about stomach lighter meats like chicken and fish, but he knew it was necessary to eat the dark flesh for the nourishment it provided.
> A nudge against his knee reminded that his dog, Ciria, would be perfectly happy to dispose of any unwanted scraps. They had a well-practised routine, transferring the offending food from plate to dog without anyone being aware. His reward was to have his fingers licked clean, but Ciria was a smart dog, well trained in the art of being invisible. She did not make any kind of fuss, even managing not to wag her tail too hard as she enjoyed the delicacy. It must have been a long lonely day for her, without her master. Geraint pictured the scene that morning, as he pleaded with Darrack to allow Ciria to be with him during the trial.
‘She wouldn’t be a hindrance – she’s trained to be still and quiet.’
‘No. She must stay at the camp.’
‘Please, Darrack. She’s never spent a day away from me before.’
‘In that case, it won’t hurt her to be apart for a few hours. You’re making her too dependent.’
‘But she’s scared of other people. When we found her, she’d been badly beaten and left for dead. She doesn’t trust anyone else.’
‘You know the rules.’ Darrack frowned. ‘Has your father not taught you about respecting your elders?’
Despite his mild tone, the censure was clear. Geraint suppressed his reply that his father never missed the opportunity to let him know his opinion was worth naught compared to that of any adult.
Darrack’s face softened. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to Thanet if he was detected because Ciria spotted a rabbit or something. We’ll leave her in the wagon.’
Geraint couldn’t help his fear-driven reaction. ‘No, that’s worse. She’ll go mad if she’s locked in and wreck everything trying to get out. Then my father will have her shot.’
‘Alright, we’ll tie her up with Savannah; she will make sure no harm comes to her.’
The camp healer was one of the scariest people Geraint had ever met, but she did have a way with animals and he knew Ciria would be safe. Besides, he sensed the elder getting annoyed with his continual objections. It would not be a good idea to put him in a bad mood at the start of the trial in case it made him judge Thanet too harshly. With a sigh, he nodded and explained it to his faithful friend, leading her to her fate with plenty of reassurance. He was pleasantly surprised; the dog took one look at Savannah and wagged her tail, going to the woman without a backward glance.
With Ciria’s help, Geraint cleared his plate. As he was served with a hero-sized portion of spiced honey-apple pie, he picked up on the tension between his father and Savannah. She seemed to be urging him to do something that his hunched back and forceful gestures suggested he didn’t want to. Geraint decided it was none of his business, but they both looked over at him, their expressions making it clear he was the subject of their whispered conversation. Bending his head, he concentrated on detaching a small piece of the pie, but when it reached his mouth, the sweetness was overpowered by the strong meaty flavour, resulting in an unpleasant taste.
Several jugs of ale softened the Renegate leader’s mood, and at the end of the meal, his father bade him follow. He strode toward their wagon, making Geraint stand with his eyes closed. Ciria picked up on her master’s concern. With a reassuring lick, she pushed her face into his hand, urging him to tickle behind her ears. He didn’t disappoint, finding, as always, their connection calmed his apprehension as he opened his eyes to see a rare look of pride.
‘What do you think, son? Would you have a use for this?’
As his father stepped aside, Geraint’s eyes widened in disbelief. Hidden behind was a gift any boy would be thrilled to receive. He stared at the vehicle, marvelling at the perfection of the two wheels, overawed at the thought of owning such a prize.
‘You don’t like it? I’m sure Thanet would appreciate a gift like this after …’
‘No. I mean, yes, I love it. It’s amazing. Thank you so much.’
Geraint dared to get close enough to the most powerful man in the tribe to risk actual bodily contact. The hug was brief; he broke free when he sensed discomfort. Rattrick was not one for any show of emotion, no matter what the circumstances.
Then reason got the better of him as he stepped back with a sad expression. ‘But I can’t take it. It would have cost more than a moon’s food, maybe even two moons. You must sell it back and …’
‘That’s quite enough of that sort of talk. If I can’t give my son a gift without him questioning where it came from, I won’t be bothering in future.’ Kicking the machine to the ground, Rattrick strode back to the camp fire in anger.
Geraint knew from bitter experience that nothing he said now would make it better. The best thing would be to show his father how much he appreciated the gift by using it every day.
‘Pay no never mind to your father, lad. He’s all piss and wind.’ If the words weren’t shocking enough on their own, the raspy voice which delivered them sent a shiver down his spine. He turned to see Savannah grinning her crooked smile. With a crackling laugh, she pointed at the wheel spinning on the ground where it had fallen. ‘I came to see how you liked your gift. Looks like you don’t know how to use it. Shame after Rattrick spent so much time fixing it.’
‘He fixed it? Where did he get it from? How could he afford something so costly?’
‘You only get one question, young Geraint, so choose wisely.’
After a short pause, he repeated the second one and she explained how the two-wheeler had been abandoned in the forest and left to rot. ‘It didn’t cost him anything except the time to make it good as new. And you threw his hard work back in his face by refusing to take it.’
‘But I didn’t mean …’
‘No, you children never mean to hurt the people who care. You’re all the same; don’t think. Thoughtless, that’s what you are.’
Geraint saw no point trying to explain he was only concerned his father hadn’t wasted precious money on something so unnecessary. Picking up the machine, he ran his hands over the carved wooden spokes, noticing where the broken ones had been replaced despite Rattrick’s attempts to match the colour and pattern.
‘Get on it lad, what are you waiting for?’
He did as she instructed, lifting his feet onto the pedals and tilting over dangerously until she caught hold of the saddle. ‘You need to move the front wheel to keep your balance. Use the bar, but small moves. If you turn it too much, it will fall.’
‘How do you know so much about it?’ Geraint didn’t mean to be rude, but no one in the tribe owned one of the machines; he had vague memories of boys riding them when he lived in Oxford.
‘There isn’t much I don’t know about. If you start to wobble and can’t correct it by moving the bar, put your feet on the ground.’
‘I’ll never learn to balance if I do that. It’s hopeless.’
‘Hopeless? You would give up because you cannot master it after two minutes? Shame on you, Geraint. I thought better of you.’
‘No, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s simply…’
‘I know. Your father should be showing you how to do this, but he never rode a two-wheeler, let alone owned one. He has too much pride to let you see his ignorance. Try again, and sit up straighter in the saddle, you’re leaning too far forward to grip on the bar.’
With her instruction, he managed to find his balance and, as soon as he started moving forward, it was a lot easier to keep it. He spent every spare moment practising, keeping to the paths around the camp. After a day, he could stay on for several paces without wobbling or needing to put his feet on the ground. Before the week ended, he’d built up some skills. His father never mentioned it again and the first time he saw his son riding through the camp, he shouted over to him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Riding your gift. It’s amazing.’ He rode round the camp fire, proud of his control, oblivious to his father’s warnings.
Rattrick raised an arm and Geraint ducked underneath it, pleased with his new skill. His father’s leg shot out as he thundered, ‘STOP.’
Geraint fell off, his legs
tangling with the pedals so he landed in a heap at Rattrick’s feet.
‘For Hengist’s sake boy, do you not have the sense you were born with? Charging through the camp on that thing.’ His father dragged him up, cuffing his head.
‘But I wasn’t going fast. I didn’t think …’
‘No, there’s the problem.’ Another cuff. ‘You don’t think. Do you see any of us riding horses round the camp? No, because there are fires. People working, and children playing.’ He shook him and Geraint stumbled backwards, tripping over the back wheel in his efforts to get away from his father’s blows. Rattrick continued to rage. ‘I should have known you’d spoil it. I wish I’d never …’
‘Had me? Not as much as I wish I’d never been born. I hate this life. I hate you.’ Scrabbling up, he ran into the woods, crashing through the undergrowth, his eyes blinded by tears. Ignoring his burning lungs, he carried on until the lump in his throat closed so much the air could not get through. His oxygen-starved brain sent warning signals it would shut down his body’s functions one-by-one. Stopping against a tree, he gulped in air, feeling as though he wanted to burst. With a strangled scream, he kicked the unyielding trunk so hard the pain from his toes cut through the rage and calmed him down. Apologising to the tree, he sank down to the ground, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth, the anger still boiling inside. An unexpected noise brought all his senses to the fore, and he stiffened, sitting rigidly as he tried to work out what kind of animal advanced on him. A brown ball of energy shot through the bushes, and then his face was assaulted by a great pink tongue lapping at the salty tracks where his tears had dried. The pent up emotions bubbled over and he hugged Ciria while the great sobs used up his hurt.