‘The Island. For medicine.’
‘And how do you hope to get there?’
‘I have a hang-glider. A kite. It’ll bear me. And her.’
‘Never heard of such a thing in my life! How would you get steel slim enough?’
‘We use aluminium. It’s lighter.’
The little man shot a look at him. ‘You don’t sound like a Murray. And no Murray ever made a tool, let alone a flying machine.’ He paused. ‘You come from Other Parts, I reckon.’He started to take off his armour, piece by piece. He grinned at Mike who was sitting, devising his answer. ‘Just trying my armour on when you knocked.’
‘What would you say if I told you I came from Before?’
Woodcat paused, and then quickly drew the tips of his right index and middle fingers across his closed eyes from left to right. Then he looked at Mike severely. ‘I’d say you was drunk, or you’d been meddling with things a decent soul don’t meddle with. Let’s just say you come from Other Parts.’
He finished taking his armour off, as Isolde came from the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
‘She’ll sleep now till morning, and then we’ll feed her.’
‘They’re off to the Island,’ her husband told her.
‘Well, that’s one chance better than none,’ his wife replied and started ladling stew out of the pot into earthenware bowls. She served them and then went to have her own while sitting by Katrin.
When she was gone, Woodcat turned to Mike again. ‘When you came in first . . . you knew what that wall was, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. Skyscraper.’ Mike was hoeing into his stew. He had never tasted anything so delicious in his life.
‘You seen one before. In Other Parts.’
Mike nodded. ‘Mmmm. We have them.’
‘Most wouldn’t know it, you see.’ He paused for a moment and looked at the wall with pride. ‘We been mining that old building, us Wood-cats for … four generations. My great grandad found it. Didn’t suppose to be here, you see, wasn’t on the old maps. Well, I say there was things that didn’t get on those old maps. And this was one of ‘em.’ He chuckled. ‘And didn’t it cause a to-do when he found it! And they others!’ His gesture took in the general area. ‘Caused a to-do, it did.’
‘You’re a metalworker.’ Mike had been worried about something from the time they had set out, but he had seen no answer to the problem until now.
‘There’s some say I’m old Wayland himself come to life again,’ Woodcat chuckled. ‘But you know what? Young . . . what’s your name?’
‘Mike.’
‘Young Mike From Other Parts? You know what? I’d sooner be a Murray.’ He gestured at the armour. ‘I’d sooner be a warrior.’ He grinned again. ‘But born a Little Person, live a Little Person. You can be Little without being small, eh Mike?’
The grin was infectious. Mike grinned back at him. ‘I’ll buy that.’
‘I wouldn’t use that turn of phrase round the Clans, Mike. They don’t like buying and selling.’
Mike chuckled. He liked Woodcat.
‘What was it you wanted done in metal?’
‘My kite’s designed to carry one. I want to make a few alterations. So it’ll carry two.’
‘Let’s get to it then.’ Woodcat stood and stretched.
‘I can’t. . . give you anything for the work.’
Woodcat moved over to him and spoke quietly. ‘You say to my wife that you need a guide. And that’ll be payment enough.’
Mike looked at him in question.
‘My wife, Isolde, she’s a very fine woman. But set in her ideas. She doesn’t think a Little
Man should be a warrior. But I’ve always thought. . . if I had the chance to go on a bit of a hopeless quest, like . . . that I’d grab it. And this quest you’re on . . . looks hopeless enough. Even for my tastes.’
Then he chuckled, and slapped Mike on the arm. ‘Where’s this kite of yours?’
CHAPTER 15
THE SLAVE OF THE HANGED GOD
After Mike had unrolled his hang-glider and explained to Woodcat the modifications which needed to be made, he sat down in a comer of Woodcat’s forge to watch.
Whatever Woodcat’s ambitions might be in the warrior line, he was a master of his craft as a metalworker. Mike watched with admiration, as Woodcat carried out the work.
And, at some stage, Mike slept.
When he woke, he was lying on a wooden bed in a strange room. He looked around. The room seemed to be part of the ancient skyscraper. He stood, shook the sleep from his eyes, and went to the room’s only door and opened it. He found himself in a corridor. Again, it looked like part of the ancient building. He was not sure which way to head, when he heard a roar of laughter.
The laughter was Woodcat’s, and Mike moved in the direction of the sound. A wooden door at the end of the corridor looked like the one he had seen in the kitchen the night before, and he opened it and passed through into the next room.
This was the bedroom with the big four-poster bed. But Katrin was not in it.
If the time he had spent in the future had taught Mike anything, it was that danger was everywhere. He ran forward to the door to the kitchen and flung it open.
There was Katrin sitting up to breakfast with Woodcat and Isolde. He chuckled, feeling foolish, but also feeling as if he had been deprived of an opportunity. He had been eager for action in order to prove to Katrin that he was as capable of rescuing her as she was of rescuing him.
She was smiling at him. There was an impish quality to the smile as if she could read his thoughts and emotions, could see the conflict in them of irritation and relief.
Isolde had started ladling porridge into a bowl at the moment he burst through into the room. ‘Sit down and tell this girl to rest another day!’
‘The Sickness is growing in me. I must reach the Island.’
Woodcat put his own bowl out for refilling. ‘Argue with a Murray, woman? You might as well argue with a stone!’
Mike took his bowl of porridge to the table and sat on the low bench. ‘We must get on,’ he said to Isolde. ‘It’s urgent. There are others back at the Clan as well.’
Katrin looked at him with what he took to be surprised approval, and he glowed inside with pleasure. Maybe he would impress her yet.
Woodcat cleared his throat. ‘You know the back road, of course?’
Mike remembered his promise of the night before. ‘We could . . . use a guide.’
Katrin looked at him in surprise. He kicked her under the table. She scowled and kicked him back.
Woodcat took advantage of the pause. ‘Well . . . anything to oblige a Murray . . .’
‘We could get Falla’s boy!’ Isolde said.
‘No, woman. I’ll guide them. If they need a guide let it not be said that a Woodcat refused a Murray!’
Isolde looked from Woodcat to Mike and then back again. She knew that she was somehow the victim of a male conspiracy. ‘Well, no adventures then!’ She looked at Katrin, one woman to another, ‘The moment there looks like being an adventure, you send him home! Adventures aren’t for Little People. They’re for folk like you Murrays,’ and here she looked at Mike, ‘And folk from Other Parts wherever they may be.’
Katrin flicked a look at Mike, and he concentrated on his porridge. She was wondering what had been said while she had been unconscious. Mike felt that kind of talk was best left to the road.
Isolde farewelled them from the round front door. Woodcat had produced four stocky little ponies from somewhere, three to ride and one to act as a packhorse. The packhorse had the modified glider on it, together with a bag of food that Isolde had pressed on them, and another bag besides, one which made strange clanking sounds as the horse moved off. Isolde looked at this bag with a special suspicion, but asked no questions.
After they had ridden perhaps a mile through the fine morning, Woodcat dismounted and untied the mysterious bag from the pack-saddle.
When he opened the bag the
y saw that it contained his armour. He insisted on putting it on. When he mounted his pony again it was as a miniature knight, setting off on the high road to adventure.
As they rode along, Woodcat told them stories of battles and desperate chances, and loves between knights and ladies which had lasted beyond the grave, and they both enjoyed his stories, though Katrin had felt obliged to tell him he was talking romantic nonsense.
In return, they told Woodcat of their adventures since leaving Clan Murray House, and he was most impressed and kept saying that he wished he had been there with them, and suggesting ruses and strategems they might have employed to get out of trouble in the most heroic and dangerous ways possible.
All in all, they enjoyed themselves.
But from time to time, Katrin swayed in the saddle, and there was an urgency underlying the ride. By Woodcat’s calculations, they would reach the cliffs overlooking the Island on the following morning. They and the ponies could take some rest tonight, but Katrin’s failing health meant that they needed to press onward.
For this reason, they ate their lunch in the saddle. They were riding slowly up a hill as they ate, following a road which Woodcat said was safe in this season, the surrounding people being too busy with harvesting their grain to spare any time for their more usual occupation of highway robbery.
They reached the crest of the hill, and saw, on the road ahead of them, a lone figure. He was dressed in a brown robe tied at the waist with a rope. He went barefoot, and a patch on the back of his head was shaven. All that he carried was a staff and a leather satchel.
Mike found him a curious sight. He had seen people like him, or pictures of people like him, but he could not immediately think where. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.
‘A slave of the Hanged God,’ Katrin replied, her voice betraying a certain contempt. ‘The ones dressed like that wander the roads telling people of him.’
‘Hanged God?’ He had heard them talk of this Hanged God before and not made the connexion. ‘Hanged on a cross?’ He crossed his arms to indicate a standing cross.
‘Yes.’
‘And his slaves bear no weapons?’
‘The Hanged God is not a warrior like our gods,’ Katrin said. ‘I suppose because there’s only one of him and he has no need to fight his brother gods.’ Her disapproval was very clear.
Mike knew where he had seen the clothing before. It was in pictures of St Francis of Assisi, the gentle Christian saint who preached to the birds and wild things. So it was here. It was still here. The faith that his churchgoing grandfather had held to had survived the Bomb.
As they rode down toward the brown-robed figure, two roughly draped shapes burst from the woods at the side of the road and faced him.
‘Wanderers!’ Mike said, recognizing the shambling way of running and the flowing rags of clothing.
They had all reined in.
Mike looked at the others. ‘Hadn’t we better help him?’
Katrin shrugged. ‘If you think so.’
He looked at her, shocked, and then caught the fleeting smile, and realized that she was joking, drawing attention to the change in attitude she saw in him.
‘You’ll keep!’ he said and kicked his pony in the ribs. The others came with him, and they lolloped on their ponies down the hill toward the Franciscan brother and the Wanderers.
But they had not gone far when they saw that something strange was happening at the foot of the hill. The brother had sat down and was motioning the Wanderers to do the same. And they did. The brother was getting things out of his satchel: bread, and a little cheese, and some apples.
By the time his would-be rescuers reached him, the Francisan was blessing the food and dividing it between himself and the two Wanderers.
The brother looked up at them, smiling, and Mike saw with some surprise that he was black. The Franciscan was an Aboriginal. ‘Want to eat?’ he said.
Mike looked at the small quantity of food laid out. ‘You don’t have enough even for three.’
The brother looked at the food, and then nodded his agreement. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s hardly enough for two.’ And with that, he divided his own share between the two Wanderers, stood, slung his satchel on his shoulder, and prepared to walk on.
Mike looked at the food in the bag on his saddle bow. He had eaten only half his lunch, and no longer felt hungry. Then he looked at the Wanderers, wolfing down the small meal given them by the brother. He felt the brother’s kindly, amused eyes on him, watching what he would do. Almost angrily, he threw the rest of his lunch to the Wanderers, and rode on.
Woodcat blinked, but was not going to be left behind in the matter of generosity, and he too gave the mutants what remained of his lunch.
Katrin sat on her horse, scowling. ‘You’re fools!’ she said. ‘You don’t give food to an enemy!’ She looked at the brother. He was smiling at her. ‘But these are not fit to call enemy!’ she said, and having thus given herself an excuse for doing what she thought was stupid, she tossed her own food to the Wanderers and rode on.
The brown-robed brother walked alongside them. He introduced himself as Brother John, and listened with interest to their own introductions.
‘A Murray, a Woodcat, and a Mike. Where do you come from, Mike? You’re not a Murray.’
‘I come from Other Parts,’ Mike said.
‘Other Parts, eh? Have they heard the good news in Other Parts?’
The man was so cheerful that Mike could not stop himself from smiling. ‘What good news, Brother?’
‘That God’s son died in your place.’
‘And why would he do that?’
‘So rebels like you could be forgiven. And become his sons and daughters instead of outlaws.’
‘Well, I suppose I have heard something like that,’ Mike allowed. He felt profoundly embarrassed at the line the conversation had taken.
The brother was amused at his embarrassment, and asked, ‘Heard about it? But have you thought about it?’
Mike looked at him with utmost suspicion.
They camped together that night, Woodcat, Katrin, Mike and Brother John. Toward the end of the day Katrin had been swaying in the saddle almost constantly. Brother John had walked alongside her and helped her stay on the pony.
They lit a fire, and sat around it, and ate, and Brother John told them of his Hanged God, and the sacrifice he had made to ransom a rebellious human race, and then brought from his satchel a small flute and played while Woodcat and Katrin sang. Katrin had regained her strength for a time, and she sang sweetly. The last song she sang, she sang alone, and it touched Mike to the centre of his being.
‘They were kings, they were gods, they were masters of time;
They rode on the air, they walked in the cloud;
They called across oceans, their weapons were flame.
Bereft and bereaved is the earth that they left us:
The earth is their shroud.
They were kings, they were gods, they were masters of power;
They rode on the seas, they walked in the deep,
They spoke to the stars, their weapon was fire.
Bereft and bereaved is the earth that they left us:
The earth where they sleep.
They were kings, they were gods, they were masters of air;
They rode on the flames, they leapt to the skies;
Then they struck from the stars with their weapons of fire!
Bereft and bereaved is the earth that they left us:
The earth fills their eyes.’
Mike listened to the song with his face turned from the fire. He did not want Katrin to see his tears. In his mind, he saw the towers and rockets and monuments that his own generation had built. His people had reached for the stars and brought them home. They had dredged deep into the atom and brought power from it. They had stolen fire from the gods, and been destroyed. He wept for them, and for himself.
But there was another part of him that felt like laughi
ng in triumph. Here he sat, in the barbaric future, with a quest to fulfil and a courageous young warrior woman singing beside him. He had Kinship here, and a Covenant to live by, and most of all he had the challenge of a wild new world.
Mike had never felt more desolate and alone.
Mike had never felt more full of life and ready to face it.
CHAPTER 16
THINGS WORSE THAN DYING
They were up at first light, and ate as they saddled the ponies. An edge of the sun was over the horizon as they moved out.
To make better time, they kept to the road, despite Katrin’s protests. Woodcat kept reassuring her that the roads were safe in this season, and she kept looking around, checking to see if they had company.
They were near enough to the coast now to smell the salt in the air, and Mike kept having the feeling that he had been this way before. It was some time before he realized that indeed he had been here before, but in another time when suburbs of red brick and tile had covered these hills. He was faintly surprised at how hilly the region was. He had only travelled this way in motor cars and they had ironed out the differences between hill and valley.
The road took approximately the same route as the highway had done in the past, and Mike knew, almost to the metre, when they would have their first view of the sea.
Then there it was. Where the curves of two hills intersected, there was a patch of blue sea, its top flat, drawn off with the line of the horizon. They paused, and looked, and then moved on.
Soon they were at a crossroads, and Brother John was to leave them. He was moving south, on a road which would finally take him across the Great River and into Vickharn and the country where all people were slaves and had a king.
When he told them of his destination, Woodcat and Katrin both drew their fingers across their closed eyes. For them, Vickham was a place of evil.
‘They have a king.’ Katrin said in warning.
‘And so do I Brother John smiled. ‘And he tells me I must go and tell them of him.’
‘The people there are slaves,’ Katrin said.
‘I’m a slave,’ Brother John replied, ‘and have to go where my king sends me.’ He gestured at one of the three shrines standing at the crossroads.
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