At the inn Dann heard again about the men who had been asking for him. He thought, When I get to the Centre I’ll be safe. In the morning, he sat in the boat as he had come, in the bows, like a passenger, Durk rowing from the middle, his back to Dann, like a boatman.
Dann watched the great cliffs of the southern shore loom up, until Durk exclaimed, ‘Look!’ and rested his oars, and Dann stood to see better.
Down the crevices and cracks and gulleys poured white, a smoking white…had ‘up there’ been flooded, had the marshes overflowed? And then they saw; it was mist that was seeping down the dark faces of the cliff. And Durk said he had never seen anything like that in all his time as a boatman and Dann slumped back on his seat, so relieved he could only say, ‘That’s all right, then.’ He had had such a vision of disaster, as if all the world of ‘up there’ had gone into water.
Closer they drew, and closer: as the mists neared the Middle Sea they vanished, vanquished by the warmer airs of this happy sea…so Dann was seeing it, as the boat crunched on the gritty shore.
That pouring weight of wet air, the mists, was speaking to him of loss, of sorrow, but that was not how he had set out from Durk’s inn, light-hearted and looking forward to—well, to what exactly? He did not love the Centre! No, it was Mara, he must see Mara, he would go to the Farm, he must. But he stood on the little beach and stared up, and the falling wet whiteness filled him with woe.
He turned, and saw Durk there, with the boat’s rope in his hand, staring at him. That look, what did it mean? Not possible to pretend it away: Durk’s honest, and always friendly, face was…what? He was looking at Dann as if wanting to see right inside him. Dann was reminded of—yes, it was Griot, whose face was so often a reproach.
‘Well,’ said Dann, ‘and so I’m off.’ He turned away from Durk, and the look which was disturbing him, saying, ‘Some time, come and see me at the Centre. All you have to do is to walk for some days along the edge.’ He thought, and the dangers, and the ugliness, and the wet slipperiness…He said, his back still turned as he began to walk to the foot of the cliffs, ‘It’s easy, Durk, you’ll see,’ and thought that for Durk it would not be easy: he knew about boats and the sea and the safe work of the islands.
He took his first step on the path up, and heard an oar splash.
He felt that all the grey dank airs of the marshes had seeped into him, in a cold weight of…he was miserable about something: he had to admit it. He turned. A few paces from the shore Durk stood in his boat, still staring at Dann, who thought, We have been together all this time, he stayed away from his island and his girl because of me, he is my friend. These were new thoughts for Dann. He shouted, ‘Durk, come to the Centre, do come.’
Durk turned his back on Dann and sat, rowing hard—and out of Dann’s life.
Dann watched him, thinking, he must turn round…but he didn’t.
Dann started up the cliff, into the mists. He was at once soaked. And his face…but for lovely and loving Marianthe he did not shed one tear, or if he did, it was not in him to know it.
He thought, struggling up the cliff: But that’s what I’ve always done. What’s the use of looking back and crying? If you have to leave a place…leave a person…then, that’s it, you leave. I’ve been doing it all my life, haven’t I?
It took all day to reach the top, and then he heard voices, but he did not know the languages. He sheltered, wet and uncomfortable, under a rock. He was thinking, Am I mad, am I really, really mad to leave ‘down there’—with its delightful airs, its balmy winds, its peaceful sunny islands? It is the nicest, friendliest place I have ever been in.
After the soft bed of Marianthe his stony sleep was fitful and he woke early, thinking to get on to the path before the refugees filled it. But there was already a stream of desperate people walking there. Dann slipped into the stream and became one of them, so they did not eye his heavy sack, and the possibility of food. Who were they, these fugitives? They were not the same as those he had seen three years before. Another war? Where? What was this language, or languages?
He walked along, brisk and healthy, and attracted looks because of his difference from these weary, starving people.
Then, by the side of the track, he saw a tumble of white bones, and he stepped out of the crowd and stood by them. The long bones had teeth marks and one had been cracked for the marrow. No heath bird had done that. What animals lived on these moors? Probably some snow dogs did. The two youngsters—these were their bones. Dann had never imagined what he and Mara might have looked like to observers, friendly and unfriendly, on their journey north. Not until he saw the two youngsters, seemingly blown towards him by the marshy winds, until he caught them, had he ever thought how Mara and he had been seen, but now here they were, scattered bones by the roadside. That’s Mara and me, thought Dann—if we had been unlucky.
And he stood there, as if on watch, until he bent and picked little sprigs of heather and put them in the eye sockets of the two clean young skulls.
Soon afterwards he saw a dark crest of woods on the rise ahead and knew it would be crowded with people at last able to sit down on solid ground that was dry. And so it was; a lot of people, very many sitting and lying under the trees. There were children, crying from hunger. Not far was Kass’s little house, out of sight of these desperate ones, and Dann went towards it, carefully, not attracting attention. When he reached it he saw the door was open and on the step a large white beast who, seeing him, lifted its head and howled. It came bounding towards him, and lay before him and rolled, and barked, licking his legs. Dann was so busy squatting to greet Ruff that he did not at once notice Kass, but she was not alone. There was a man with her, a Thores, like her, short and strong—and dangerously alert to everything. Kass called out, ‘See, he knows you, he’s been waiting for you, he’s been waiting for days now and the nights too, looking out…’ And to the man she said, ‘This is Dann, I told you.’ What she had told her husband Dann could not know; he was being given not hostile, but wary and knowledgeable looks. He was invited in, first by Kass: ‘This is Noll,’ and then by Noll. He had found them at table and was glad of it: it was a good way to the Centre and his food had to last. The snow dog was told to sit in the open door, to be seen, and to frighten off any refugees sharp enough to find their way there.
Noll had come from the cities of Tundra with enough money to keep them going, but he would have to return. The food and stores he had brought, and the money, were already depleted. This was an amiable enough man, but on guard, and sharp, and Dann was feeling relief that Noll was the kind of fellow he understood, someone who knew hardship. Already the islands were seeming to him like a kindly story or dream, and Durk’s smiling (and reproachful) face—but Dann did not want to recognise that—a part of the past, and an old tale. Yes, the fishermen had to face storms, sometimes, but there was something down there that sapped and enervated.
In spite of the damp, and the cold of the mists that rolled through the trees from the marshes, Dann thought, This is much more my line.
Kass did not hide from her husband that she was pleased to see Dann and even took his hand and held it, in front of him. Noll merely smiled, and then said, ‘Yes, you’re welcome.’ The snow dog came from his post at the door to Dann, put his head on his arm and whined.
‘This animal has looked after me well,’ said Kass. ‘I don’t know how often I’ve had desperadoes banging at the door, but Ruff’s barking sent them off again.’
And now Dann, his arms round Ruff, who would not leave him, told how he had gone down the cliffs to the Bottom Sea and the islands, but did not mention Marianthe, though Kass’s eyes were on his face to see if she could find the shadow of a woman on it.
These two were listening as if to tales from an imagined place, and kept saying that one day they would make the trip to the Bottom Sea and find out for themselves what strange folk lived down there, and discover the forests of trees they had never seen.
When night came Dann lay on a
pallet on the floor, and thought of how on that bed up there he had lain with Kass and the snow puppy, now this great shaggy beast who lay by him as close as he could press, whining his happiness that Dann was there.
Dann was thinking that Kass had been good to him, and then—and this was a new thought for him—that he had been good to Kass. He had not stopped to wonder before if he had been good to or for a person. It was not a sentiment one associated with Kira. Surely he had been good to Mara? But the question did not arise. She was Mara and he was Dann, and that was all that had to be said. And Marianthe? No, that was something else. But with Kass he had to think first of kindness, and how she had held him when he wept, and had nourished the pup.
In the morning he shared their meal, and at last said he must go. Down the hill the woods were still full of the fugitives, new ones probably. And now the snow dog was whining in anxiety, and he actually took Dann’s sleeve in his teeth and pulled him. ‘He knows you are going,’ said Kass. ‘He doesn’t want you to go.’ And her eyes told Dann she didn’t want him to go either. Her husband, in possession, merely smiled, pleasantly enough, and would not be sorry when Dann left.
Ruff followed Dann to the door.
Noll said, ‘He knows you saved his life.’
Dann stroked the snow dog, and then hugged him and said, ‘Goodbye, Ruff,’ but the animal came with him out of the door and looked back at Kass and Noll and barked, but followed Dann.
‘Oh, Ruff,’ said Kass, ‘you’re leaving me.’ The dog whined, looking at her, but kept on after Dann who was trying not to look back and tempt the animal away. Now Kass ran after Dann with bread off the table, and rations for the animal, and some fish. She said to Dann, out of earshot of her husband, ‘Come back and see me, you and Ruff, come back.’ Dann said aloud that if she kept a lookout she would see new snow dogs coming up the cliff and one could take the place of Ruff, for a guard dog. She did not say it would not be the same, but knelt by the great dog and put her arms round him, and Ruff licked her face. Then she got up and, without looking back at Dann and Ruff, went to her husband.
‘So, Ruff, you remembered me so well after all this time’ and before he reached the stream of refugees, he knelt by Ruff and held him. The dog put his head on Dann’s shoulder and Dann was crying again. He’s my friend, Dann was thinking.
The stream of refugees became agitated when they saw Dann with the snow dog. Heads turned, hands went to knives and sticks were raised. Dann called out, ‘It’s all right, he’s tame,’ in one language and then another but no one understood. More effective was how he stepped into the stream, his knife in his hand. People fell back behind him and left a space on either side of him. Dann was afraid of a stone thrown from behind his back, but was reassured by Ruff’s thick coat—no stone could make an impression on that—although there was his long tender muzzle, his bright eyes, emerging from the ruff, his small, neat ears. So Dann kept turning to make sure no one was creeping up to attack the beast. No one did. They were too full of frightened thoughts of their hunger, of how to get to safety. And they went along, Dann and his snow dog, who kept looking up at Dann to see if all was well, and so the day went by until he began looking for the place where he had stepped off the path and seen whitish masses floating in a pool.
It was further than he expected. So slowly were they travelling today, because of the wariness over Ruff and having to stop, whereas when he had run to find help for the pup he had been going as fast as he could—faster than he had known. At last he saw a pattern of pools he recognised and stepped from the stream of people on to a soggy path between the pools. And there in the water he saw two foamy white masses. Ruff was by him, looking where he looked. He glanced up to see Dann’s face, looked back at the water. Then he began to whine anxiously and it seemed he was going to jump into the water. Dann took a good hold of the snow dog and said, ‘No, Ruff, no, Ruff, no.’ The water was very cold. Films and crinkles of ice lay here and there on it and enclosed the stems of reeds. All that time had passed, but the bubbling white was still there: not the flesh and the bones, only the mats of hair. Ruff let out a howl, causing the travellers on the path to stop and look. Dann smoothed his head, thinking how he had stood here with the dead weight of the soaked young animal against him. Dann led him to the soggy path and all the way Ruff was looking back, even when the pool became screened with reeds. He remembered, or half remembered, and Dann kept his hand on the animal’s head as they rejoined the people and talked to him: ‘Ruff, Ruff, you’re safe, I’ll look after you. I’ll always look after you.’ The snow dog barked, in answer, and kept looking up at Dann for reassurance.
Now the night was coming and there was a difficulty. On this path there was nowhere to shelter, as he knew from his journey the other way. A place would have to be found down the side of the cliff. There were bushes, but quite a way down and the stronger refugees would try to reach them. He was hungry and so was Ruff, but Dann had seen people eyeing his bulging sack and he knew what they would do if they saw him giving precious food to a hated snow dog. At last he saw a great boulder, resting on another. There was a ledge. It would take ingenuity to climb up there and Dann doubted whether anyone would try it. He slid down over shale to the boulder and found a way up; Ruff followed him and lay down. There below them was the gleam of the Bottom Sea, and to the east dark blobs that were the islands. The evening sky was a pearly lake, flushed pink. The bushes back near the path were crowded with people, already fighting off others who were trying to crowd in. Now Dann could open his sack and give some bread and some fish to Ruff. The animal had been drinking from the marshes as they came. Soon there was a moon and Dann was glad of it: he saw shadows creeping towards the boulder and he shouted and saw scuttling off some lads, who had planned to join them. Ruff was moving about restlessly, and whining, but Dann held his muzzle shut and whispered, ‘Don’t bark, don’t.’ And Ruff lay down, head on his great white paws, and was silent, watching the side of the cliff. So passed the night and the first light saw the refugees crowding back to the path. Some had used their clothes to scoop up marsh fish, and soggy fishbones lay about.
That next night was spent in a hollow between rocks a good way from the travellers. Ruff lay close to Dann, who was glad of the warmth.
More days passed, and then a wide enough track ran off south through marshes that were shallower here, not so dangerous. Part of the refugee stream turned off on the track, which lay on a route through Tundra to its frontier. Well, they wouldn’t find much comfort there, and he tried to tell them so, but one after another they turned sullen and uncomprehending eyes on him. Those who still kept to the path on the cliff’s edge were, it seemed, because there were fewer of them, relieved of the necessity for keeping the peace. They began quarrelling and fighting, if they suspected one had food hidden. They surrounded Dann and the snow dog, for Dann’s sack, which was much depleted now, but still had a promising bulge. Ruff barked and made short rushes at them, and they fell back; Dann led off the track into a path that went south-west, still through bogs and marshes, but they were not so bad. The ground soon became a little higher, there were some bushes and clumps of tall reeds. There came into sight a building, not more than a shed, on the right of the track. On the door of this shed was scrawled ‘No Refugees Here. Keep off’. He knocked and shouted, ‘I’m not a refugee. I can pay.’ No sound or movement from inside. He knocked again, a shutter moved and the face of a scowling old woman appeared.
‘What do you want?’
‘Let me in. I’ll pay for food and shelter.’
‘I’m not having a snow dog here.’
‘He’s tame, he won’t hurt you.’
‘No, go away.’
‘He can keep guard,’ shouted Dann.
At last the door, which was made of thick reeds held together by leather thongs, moved open and an old man’s voice said, ‘Be quick, then.’
Two old people stood facing him, but looking at the great beast, who sat down at once and looked at them.
Dann said, ‘I’ll pay you for some food for me and the animal.’
‘Then you must leave,’ said the old woman, who showed that she was afraid of Ruff.
‘I’ll pay you for letting us sleep here, on the floor.’
At this moment there were shouts and knocks on the door, which would give way in another instant. The old woman swore and shouted abuse. The old man was peering out through cracks in the shutter.
‘Bark, Ruff,’ said Dann. Ruff understood and barked loudly. The people outside ran off.
‘He’s a guard dog,’ said Dann.
‘Very well,’ said the old woman. She said something to the old man, and Dann didn’t recognise the language.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Dann. Their faces, under the dirt, were pallid, and their hair pale too. ‘Are you Albs?’
‘What’s that to you?’ demanded the old man, afraid.
‘I have friends who are Albs,’ said Dann.
‘We are half Albs,’ said the old woman. ‘And that half is enough to make us enemies, so they think.’
‘I know the trouble Albs have,’ said Dann.
‘Do you? That’s nice for you, then.’
‘I am from Rustam,’ said Dann casually, to see what they would say.
‘Rustam, where’s that?’
‘A long, long way south, beyond Charad, beyond the river towns, beyond Chelops.’
‘We hear a lot of travellers’ tales—thieves and liars, that’s what they are,’ said the old woman.
Outside, moonlight showed that some refugees had found this higher drier track and were lying on it, sleeping.
‘There are quite a few children out there,’ Dann said—to see what they would say.
‘Children grow up to be thieves and rascals.’
Dann was given a bowl of marsh fish, muddy and grey, with a porridge of vegetables thickened with meal. Ruff got the same: well, he didn’t have much better at Kass’s house.
Story of General Dann and Mara's Daughter, Griot and the Snow Dog Page 7