by Roger Taylor
And Gryss had not been much help. In answer to his questions he had pouted, shrugged and said, ‘There’s not much to tell, really. They’re confusing, noisy and very crowded in places.’ Then he had seemed to relent. ‘But they’re nice sometimes, as well. All manner of interesting things to see. And people? So many strange people, from the wretched to the magnificent.’ As for the capital itself, all that Gryss would say was, ‘That is worth seeing, without a doubt. But you’ll be glad to leave it behind and get back here.’
Ah well, Jeorg mused, philosophically, I’ll find out for myself in time, I suppose.
As he went on, he was relieved to see that the way was developing as Gryss had said it would. The old man had affected weakness of memory, ‘After all this time,’ but, in fact, the route he had taken as a young man was as clear to him now as it had been when he first walked it, so intense had his excitement been, and he had described it to Jeorg with great accuracy.
Jeorg passed by the shore of a long lake, mottled white here and there with flocks of birds and bright blue under the summer sky. It was bigger than any of the lakes further up the valley, and was hauntingly beauti-ful. Here and there he passed derelict buildings with trees and shrubs growing through roofs and windows, and, for the first time in his life, as he looked at these forlorn remains, he wondered what peoples had gone before in this place.
He allowed his horse to maintain its own steady pace, to ensure that he would not close with Nilsson and his men who were travelling on their larger steeds. But he was still following the route they had taken, there being ample sign of the passage of a large number of horsemen, and he kept himself alert for any indication that he might be drawing too near.
As the afternoon wore on, he remembered Gryss’s advice and turned round, for the first time, to look from where he had come. He caught his breath as the vista revealed itself. It was far more than what Gryss had called, simply, a splendid sight. Mountains filled the horizon; massive and majestic. Etched sharp and clear against the blue sky by the low bright sun, they radiated an ancient stillness which held not only Jeorg’s gaze for an interval that he could not have begun to measure, but his whole being.
When he came to himself again, another interpreta-tion of Gryss’s advice returned to him: ‘Look back every now and then especially when you’re changing direc-tion.’ Gryss had chuckled to himself. ‘Believe me, things don’t look the same on the way back.’
He understood that now, for the mountains under which the village lay were but a few among many. The thought made him fretful again for a moment. Majestic they might well be, but they were also oblivious to such as he, and he could look to no help from them, or anyone, if he lost his way.
As the light faded, he found that he was still follow-ing in the footsteps of Nilsson and his men, and he took the precaution of camping in a small copse where the shrubbery would hide him from any casual inspection. And he decided to forego a fire. The evening was warm and he needed no hot meal.
But that he had to behave thus, distressed him, and the restless night he spent was not wholly due to the hardness of the ground and the snufflings and rustlings of the night creatures.
When he woke the following day it took him a little time to remember where he was and what he was doing. He swore when he found that the wife he had just put his arm around was a log in whose lee he had been sleeping.
He swore more than a few times after that, until he had shaken off some of the stiffness that his night’s rest had invested him with.
Briefly he pondered lighting a fire and cooking him-self a warm breakfast, but he decided against it. It would take time and effort and might perhaps signal his presence to the troop ahead. Besides, though the copse was damp and chilly, the sky overhead was blue and cloudless and promised another warm day. A little walking would soon warm him and dry his dew-soaked bedding and pack.
Indeed, he felt much more his old self by the time he had saddled his horse and soon he was striding out, leading the horse and eating an apple noisily.
His thoughts wandered over a variety of topics as he walked along: up and down, like the terrain he was travelling over. Where he was going, and why. His wife: he struggled to set aside the concern which she tried to hide from him, but which had been all too plain for him to see, in her eyes and the slight set of her mouth. Gryss: had the old man been able to get into the castle, and if so, what had he found? How long was his journey going to take? Would his food last? What kind of people would he meet in the villages… and towns!… on the way? Would anything untoward happen in the village in his absence?
But, underscoring all, was concern about who lay ahead of him. He was still in the valley, and still following in the hoofprints of Nilsson’s men. He wouldn’t be truly happy until he saw them turn one way when he turned another, but the country was fairly open and unless he was monumentally careless he should be able to see them before they saw him.
Eventually he came in sight of a conspicuous gap between two hills which Gryss had identified as the point where he should turn west and leave the valley proper. It was at this point that he had hoped he would part company with the troop, but to his dismay, as he turned towards the dip, he found that he was still following the trail of the now familiar tracks.
He mouthed an oath silently.
Still, the lowest part of the gap was considerably higher than the surrounding countryside. Perhaps when he reached it he would be overlooking the land on the far side and be able to get some indication of how far ahead the riders were.
He mounted his horse and clicked it forward.
It took him longer than he had thought to reach the gap, the scale of the new terrain being deceptive, but as he made his way up the steady slope he began to feel exposed. It occurred to him that if he could see over the countryside from the top, then he in his turn might be seen against the skyline by anyone happening to look back.
He dismounted, feeling quite smug at this insight and, following his own reasoning, directed himself to one side of the gap so that he would be even less conspicuous when he reached the top of it.
When, finally, he did reach it, he realized that his precautions had not really been necessary. The ground between the two hills was wide and gently rounded, and the country on the far side came into view only gradually as he walked across it.
Even so, he kept well to one side and proceeded cautiously.
When he was comfortably past the crown of the gap, he paused and looked out over the land that he was about to venture into. It did not have the massive splendour of the mountains, but he found himself held by the sight nonetheless. Hedged all his life by moun-tains, the vista of rolling countryside fading into the distant morning haze made him feel strangely heady; both excited and uncertain.
Over the hill, he thought to himself, rubbing the palms of his hands together. He could feel the lure that had drawn Gryss onward so many years ago and also, albeit slightly, the comforting pull of the valley at his back.
He turned for a final look at the valley before he set off into this new land, but nothing was to be seen except the sky and the crown of the gap. He smiled to himself and then turned back again to the next part of his journey.
His nervousness returned. Apart from the continu-ing need to watch for Nilsson and his men, he would have to be careful in this wide, rambling land where, free of the mountains on either side, he would be able to wander in almost any direction. Landmarks would be smaller and less obvious and there would be fewer opportunities to stand high above it and determine his route.
But he had Gryss’s descriptions memorized, and he was not exactly stupid, was he?
And, in that connection, his first task now, before descending further, was to check if Nilsson and his men were somewhere in this panorama. He spent some time peering intently over the landscape, but though he could see no line of riders, there were too many folds and dips and extensive areas of woodland for him to move on carelessly. He wrinkled his nose in disappointment.
He would have to continue as he had been doing, keeping his eye on the tracks that they had left and as far ahead as the terrain would allow.
He set off down the slope, leading his horse.
By noon he was down from the hills and riding over soft grasses and through light woodlands. All around him spring was hectically preparing for summer, birds singing and nesting, flowers blooming, the occasional small animal pausing briefly to examine this alien passer-by.
But for the fact that he was still following Nilsson’s men, Jeorg would have immersed himself in this great awakening. He was old enough to appreciate the joy of the moment while knowing that this same countryside would hold little joy given a good downpour and a strong wind.
At last he reached the point that he had been hoping to find for most of the journey. The tracks turned suddenly north.
He stood for a little while on the spot, gazing in the direction they had taken. What was up there? Another valley? And what were Nilsson and his men doing, anyway? For a moment he considered going a little way after them to see if he could find an answer to these questions, but the urge soon left him. He had spent much of the journey so far looking to be free of these people and now he was. Now all he had to concern himself about was remembering the way to the capital.
He turned his horse to the west.
As he did so a swirling flock of small birds flew low overhead, the sound of their wings loud and urgent.
Then an unexpected and strong breeze began to blow. His horse shied uneasily.
* * * *
Nursing his throbbing arm, Farnor struggled to his feet and ran across to where Gryss lay.
‘Gryss, Gryss! Are you all right?’ he called out as he dropped to his knees beside the old man.
Gryss’s eyes were closed and he made no response. For a terrifying moment, Farnor thought that he was not breathing and, without thinking, he took hold of his arm and shook it as if to waken him. Gryss’s eyes opened and he drew in a sharp, gasping breath.
‘Are you all right?’ Farnor asked again, still shaking him.
Gryss yanked his arm free. ‘I will be when you stop pulling my arm off,’ he said testily. But his face was both pale and covered with perspiration, and belied the vigour of this rebuke. ‘Help me up,’ he demanded, trying to lever himself on to one elbow. He was breathing heavily.
‘In a moment,’ Farnor said, putting his left arm around Gryss’s shoulders. ‘Just rest a little. You look awful.’
Gryss’s lip curled. It was almost a sneer, and an expression that Farnor had never seen before on the old man’s face.
‘Thank you, Farnor,’ Gryss said, his tone matching his look. ‘You obviously have a natural healer’s flare for building confidence in a patient. Now get me up, and let’s get away from here before anything else happens.’
But for all his protestations, he lay back on the ground again and made no effort to help himself for some time. When, finally, he did so, it proved no easy task to get him to his feet. He was having difficulty in breathing and Farnor had no feeling in his right arm other than pain, which seemed now to be affecting every part of his body; and both of them were shaking with the shock of the terrifying encounter.
‘Where’s the horse?’ Gryss asked as they began to move hesitantly away from the castle.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Farnor replied. ‘It ran off when the gate slammed shut.’ He shook his head. ‘I was half inclined to join it. What happened in there?’
Gryss halted and patted his chest with a clenched fist. Farnor kept his left arm about the old man until, at last, he began to straighten up, and to breathe a little more easily.
‘I don’t know, Farnor,’ he said, without looking at him. ‘But I do know that I’m too old for this kind of activity.’ He patted his chest again, and coughed painfully.
Gently he shook Farnor’s arm from his shoulders and looked around vaguely. ‘The horse has probably gone back to the inn.’
‘That’ll cause a stir,’ Farnor said. ‘There’ll be all sorts of questions. What are we going to say happened?’
Gryss frowned. ‘We’ll have to lie, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I can say I was coming to see your father and some-thing… a fox, maybe… startled the horse, and it bolted and threw me.’
Farnor looked at him unhappily. ‘I can’t lie to my parents any more,’ he said. ‘Keeping this business about the creature from them is bad enough. It makes me feel… uncomfortable… and my mother knows some-thing’s the matter apart from any worries about whether Nilsson’s men are gatherers or not.’ He grimaced violently and held his right arm tightly. It was growing increasingly painful and he thought he could feel bones moving about under his hand. With an effort he tried to continue talking. ‘And staggering in with you half dead…’
But the pain was too much and had Gryss not al-ready taken hold of him he would have stumbled.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ the old man said, the tone of his voice echoing the desperate apology in his words. Quickly he led Farnor to the edge of the road and, sitting him down on a grassy bank, began to take off his jacket.
Now it was the young man who was pale and per-spiring.
‘I was so busy with my own concerns,’ Gryss said as he gingerly worked Farnor’s jacket off his arm, ‘I forgot what you did in there.’ Self-reproach filled his face as he rolled up Farnor’s shirt sleeve to examine the injured arm, but he set his emotions aside and became purpose-ful. ‘Move your fingers,’ he said, gently.
After a few minutes of probing and manipulation, during which Farnor simply did as he was told, wincing freely as need arose, Gryss rolled down the sleeve again and draped Farnor’s jacket about his shoulders.
‘There’s nothing broken, fortunately,’ he said. ‘But it’s badly bruised and some of your muscles have been damaged. It’ll be very sore for a while. You’ll need to rest it. Then it’ll be just plain sore for a long time.’ His face lightened and he managed a smile. ‘And the colours will be something to behold.’ He took Farnor’s right hand and folded it across his body. ‘Just hold it there for now, as relaxed as you can. I’ll make a sling out of something when we get to your father’s.’
Farnor confined himself to nodding, some reflex from childhood always making him behave thus in the presence of Gryss the healer.
He found that his legs were rather uncertain as Gryss helped him to his feet, but the pain was easier if only for the assurance that no bones had been broken.
They set off down the road at an elderly man’s pace.
‘You saved my life in there,’ Gryss said when they had walked some way. ‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you seems woefully inadequate. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life.’
Farnor in his turn did not know what to say by way of reply. ‘What happened?’ he asked again.
‘I can’t remember properly,’ Gryss said. ‘I looked inside and saw no one about, then I went in and… something… hit me. Threw me into the gate.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I think I managed to turn round. I recall banging on the gate and shouting, but everything seemed to be sucked up into the noise and thrown back to mock me. It was as if half a dozen winter blizzards were clamouring at my back. And the force…’ he went on, as if he still could not believe what he had felt. ‘So powerful…’ He turned to Farnor. ‘Then it eased. It felt almost as if it had been driven back by something. Like a fierce animal retreating before something even fiercer. And then you came tumbling in through the wicket and dragged me out.’
He looked at Farnor intently. ‘What did you hear, on the outside?’
‘The same,’ Farnor replied. ‘A tremendous noise. But there was something else as well. I called out to you before you went in. I had this feeling that something in the courtyard was both… here and… somewhere else at the same time. I can’t explain. And it was as if something awful was coming from that somewhere else. Bringing all the harm.’ He shook his head, and nursed his arm once again.
Gryss blew out his chee
ks. He felt useless, and it was not a feeling he cared for. Things were happening that were far beyond anything he had ever experienced. Not even in any of Yonas’s tales had he heard of anything so strange. He glanced covertly at Farnor. Something in the courtyard from somewhere else? What was the lad talking about? He would have liked to have laughed understandingly and dismissed him as being over-imaginative, or shocked, or deranged even, but the sound and the furious power of the wind that had seized him and pinned him helpless against the castle gate were still with him and all too real. He had no doubts about the threat that he had experienced.
And there was something else too, something he did not want to think about.
Then, as if by their very intensity his wishes could make themselves come to pass, he found his mind filling with an almost desperate longing for everything to be as it was before Nilsson and his troop had arrived. That was a world which he understood completely. Nothing could happen there which he could not turn his mind to and solve eventually. But now…
He began to feel utterly wretched, and it was only with a great effort that he kept any sign of this inner turmoil from his face. Sternly he reminded himself that, whatever was happening, the young man next to him had been injured in saving his life and that, despite his youth and through no fault of his own, he found himself near to the centre of this mystery. However impotent he, the village elder, felt, Farnor felt no less and needed all the support that could be given.
But what support could he offer? There wasn’t even anyone he could turn to for advice.
You’ve sat helpless by enough death beds in your time, just be here for him, came a grim reply from within as he felt the waves of despair about to break over him again. It mightn’t be much but it’s all you’ve got.
‘What are we going to tell my father?’
Farnor’s reversion to his original concerns brought Gryss sharply out of his inner debate.