The Riddle and the Rune

by Grace Chetwin

  He looked up. The bird, gliding in on silent wings, was almost on him!

  With a quick drawn breath, he dodged sideways, twisted, and with a cry, rolled off the brink. He fell through the air a short way, bounced, knocking his breath from his ribs. Then he rolled again, slid, and was once more off through empty space.

  He thudded onto his back, and lay dazed, staring up into the sun.

  There came a scream, and the sun was gone.

  The great gray bird was hovering over him, stretching out a neck as long and thick as Gom’s arm. As the naked head came close, Gom saw quite clearly that its head was a bone-white skull, half-bird, half-human!

  Gom squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the slash of beak or talon, but felt instead a tug on the thong around his neck.

  Of course! Like the death’s-head of his vision, it wasn't after him, but Harga’s rune!

  With a mighty effort, Gom brought up the staff and lashed out. The bird shot up with an angry cry, beat its wings as though to amass its strength, then plunged back down in fury.

  Gom tried to stand, but he was finished. Helpless, he watched the bird’s descent, closing his eyes at the last minute. There came a rush of wings, then, oh glory, another, more familiar sound:

  “Hey! What’s all this, then?”

  The bird’s enraged cries whirled up and away.

  Gom opened his eyes.

  Standing over him was the figure of a man dressed in bulky layers of warm, thick cloth, so much so that only his face showed. His eyebrows were gray, but his eyes were brown and sharp above his leathered cheeks.

  “Hello, young fellermelad.” The accents were broad and flat; the voice, hearty and still quite loud. “Whatever’s going on around here?”

  Gom began to shiver violently, and his teeth to click together.

  The man bent down. “Feller? Young feller?”

  The man’s voice sounded near, then far away. The face leaned closer, and closer, then melted into the dazzle of the sun.

  Chapter Three

  THE SNAP of settling logs woke him.

  Gom opened his eyes. He was lying on a pallet by a hearth. But not his hearth, he remembered with a rush. Where was he, then? Whose hearth was it? He rolled over and tried to sit up. Oh, how his shoulder hurt!

  “Hey, hey, hey. Careful does it.” A large, ample woman in a black dress and brown apron appeared beside him. Her sleeves were pushed up above her dimpled elbows and her plump, red hands were all over flour. She slipped an arm around his good shoulder and helped him to sit up, deftly placing pillows with her spare hand to support his back. Gom sucked in his breath against the pain, trying not to let it show.

  “There now. How do you feel?” Stray strands of wispy hair curled down from her thick, gray topknot to hang about her round, red cheeks.

  Gom stared up at her, scarce taking in her words. “Who are you? Where am I?” His voice came out shaky, making him sound afraid, but he wasn’t, not at all.

  The woman squatted beside him. “I’m Mudge. And you’re in my house. My man, Hort, brought you in three days ago. Half dead, you were, from starvation, and”— she waved her plump hand at his shoulder—“that.”

  Gom peeked under his shirt, saw that his shoulder was heavily bound with clean white strips of linen. He remembered falling, falling away and down, and the great gray bird reaching over him.

  “The blood!” Mudge was saying. “I thought it’d never stop. Covered in it, you were, not to mention all your other scrapes and scratches. And bruises: you’re black and blue all over!” She threw up her hands, tutting with kindly concern. “On top of it all, you took a fever fit to seethe you, and the ague into the bargain. We had to fetch the herb wife, Mistress Gumby, to physic you. Even then, Hort said you’d not make it, but I said, said I, that one’s tougher than he looks. Like a young cub new-slipped from its earth, of a mind to try the world. And here you are. You’ll be hungry, I daresay,” she added, grinning, as Gom’s belly gurgled like an old cistern.

  She got up, grunting, and ladled out a cup of amber gruel from an earthen pot standing on the hearth. “Here: careful not to burn your mouth.”

  She set it on the coverlet and put his hand to it. “Can you hold it steady on your own? I’ve apples to bake and crust to make, for my man’ll soon be in for his tea.” She moved to a table in the middle of the room.

  The gruel was too hot to drink. Gom shifted his hands on the bowl in frustration. It looked and smelled so delicious, and he was starving. He blew on it a couple of times, then tried a sip. Still too hot. He gave up and looked about him curiously.

  The room was raftered in rough oak beams and from the rafters hung strings of onions and herbs and lines of sweet drying clothes. Thick, rippled glass panes beside the door let in small squares of dull gray light that reflected off whitewashed walls, off waxed oak boards, vying with the glow of flames from the hearth.

  Gom let out a deep, slow breath. The place felt good and homely and comfortable, like his sister Hilsa’s cottage.

  One wall was lined with stout shelves and on the shelves stood rows and rows of tall glass jars labeled cherries, applesauce, cranberries, pickled onions, and buckwheat honey.

  Buckwheat honey. He remembered Hilsa, her floury hands holding out a baking tray: Here, Gom, love. Hotcakes, your favorite. Pick one and don't spare the honey. Hilsa’s own honey, from the hives she’d had built at his urging.

  Gom turned his attention back to his gruel. The bowl still felt a mite hot, but he couldn’t wait any longer. He took a sip, found it just as tasty as it smelled. He was just about to drink the rest of it down when there came a scraping and scratting of boots on the step outside, a click of the iron latch.

  A moment later Hort stepped in, took off his coat, and hung it on a peg behind the door.

  “Well, well, well. Look who’s back in the land of the living. How do you feel, young fellermelad?” He pulled off his boots, padded over in his socks to sit by the fire.

  “Fine, thank you,” Gom said. Well, better, anyway. The gruel had burned a track right down his gullet to his middle. He looked down at himself, noticed now that the shirt he had on was not his own but brown and many sizes too big. The man’s, obviously. His own faded blue tunic lay washed and folded with the rest of his clothes on the floor beside him, and—joy of joys—his boots were by them, cleaned and polished, and mended good as new with stout patches of leather.

  His staff? There it was, propped against the wall beside him.

  And the rune? Gom’s hand went inside the shirt, closed about it.

  He glanced up, caught the woman’s eye. She nodded, though she didn’t speak, but only got on with her baking.

  Hort leaned forward, studying Gom’s face. "How’s that shoulder?” Without waiting for answer, he went on, “Halfway up the Bluff, I found you. Or down, depending on which way a body was going, like.” He cocked an eye at Gom. “Me, I was looking for a ewe. Cranky things they are, close to lambing time. Get themselves into the most surprising places. But lucky for you, or you’d be—”

  Gom closed his eyes, saw the great gray bird swooping, neck outstretched, the death’s-head looming closer, closer...

  “Hort!” Mudge warned.

  Hort covered his mouth, grinning sheepishly. “Oops. Trust me to put my foot in it. Sorry, lad.”

  Gom nodded, tried to smile.

  “I must say,” Hort went on, “that bird gave me a terrible big shock, too. But nothing like what you must have had, seeing it go for you like that. The moment I clapped eyes on it, I says to myself, I says, that’s where yon ewe went. And that little feller’ll follow if I don’t do something fast. One yell from me and that there bird took off, and I’ve not seen it since. I can’t help but wonder where it came from.”

  “Same place it went back to, we hope,” Mudge cut in. “Hort, the lad’s as white as a sheet. Leave him be to take his gruel in peace.”

  Grunting, Hort sat up and folded his arms.

  Gom drained his bowl and le
aned back against his plumped up pillows, his fear gradually subsiding. Outside, Wind rattled the windowpanes in impatience, then tore off to whoop and whirl across the far hillside.

  He sighed contentedly, feeling the heat of the broth spreading from his middle, and outward through his whole body. It was good to lie there by that friendly hearth, safe from evil birds, with nothing better to do for the present than to listen to Wind’s mad capers.

  He did wonder drowsily where that bird might be. He stirred slightly. It was linked with the death’s-head, he was sure. And like the death’s-head, it was after the rune.

  He looked over at Hort’s solid figure now sprawled by the hearth, slid down beneath the covers, and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  “Looking for your mother? Where is she?”

  Gom, fully dressed, stood at the window watching the sun set over a burgeoning countryside. Wind was right: spring did come earlier down here. He turned away, went to take his place at the supper table with Hort and Mudge, before plates of vegetable pie. “I don’t know. She left home when I was born.” Already he was beginning to regret telling them that much.

  “Oh, you poor boy,” Mudge cried. “How could any mother go off like that? If I had you for a son, I certainly wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  Gom was stung. “She had to go. She’s a w—” He bit the word back just in time. “Wizard” he’d been about to say. “Wanderer,” he said, quick to hide his falter.

  “A wanderer?” Mudge’s homely face crinkled in distaste.

  Gom stared back at her, disconcerted. The word sounded so cold in Mudge’s mouth. It made his mother sound feckless, and uncaring. And it made him feel bad, as though he’d done Harga a great disservice. But how to tell those folk the truth? How his mother had stayed thirteen long years with Stig, raising nine beautiful children, caring for them all, cooking them the most delicious meals out of practically nothing. How his mother had taught her growing family mountain ways, and had kept them well with her herbal lore. How she’d taught them to look out for themselves and one another, ready for the time when she knew that she must leave them—and that for good reason, Stig had told Gom, even though he’d never known exactly what it was.

  “Wanderer?” Mudge repeated. “What kind of no-good occupation is that to make a woman leave her boy with neither mother nor father now to tend him?”

  Gom looked to her in surprise. He hadn’t said anything about Stig.

  Mudge reached over the table and laid her hand on his. “You shouted terrible in your sleep you did, didn’t he, Hort?”

  Hort sighed in agreement, and gathered up a forkful of pie. “Aye. Cried and sobbed, an’ all. For your dad, and your sister, Hilsa, and Stok. He’s your brother, right?”

  Gom nodded. Of his nine brothers and sisters, Hilsa and Stok were the eldest, and his favorites. In fact, the only ones who’d ever had time for him. Of course, Gom thought, excusing the rest, they’d known their mother the longest, had learned her lessons the best, loving him and looking out for him just the way Harga had taught them.

  “Fair wrung my heart out to listen to you, it did,” Mudge said. “There shouldn’t be that much sadness in such a young ’un. Where are you off to, anyways, leaving a brother and sister that you love so much?”

  Gom looked from one to the other, touched by their sympathy, yet also irritated that they’d found out all that about him and he unaware. He wondered anxiously if he’d mentioned the riddle, and sincerely hoped not. Mandrik had warned him to beware of strangers and to keep his secrets close. Like the fox, he’d do well to maintain his distance, he told himself, then felt ashamed. Hadn’t they saved his life twice over? And there he was, thinking mean, suspicious thoughts.

  “To find my mother,” he repeated, patiently.

  “But how will you know her?” Mudge asked him. “ ’Specially when you’ve never seen her.”

  “And where?” Hort chimed in. “Where would you look for her, lad? ’Tis a fair big place out there.”

  Gom considered his answer. “They say I look just like her,” he said at last. It sounded feeble, he knew. But how could he begin to explain to them that the rune— and the riddle—would bring him to his mother in the end.

  “As for where to look,” he went on, “I thought of trying Far Away.”

  Hort glanced up, grinning, his fork halfway to his mouth. “I’ll say.”

  “I mean the land of Far Away,” Gom told him. “It’s somewhere in this direction, so a man once said. It has a castle, and soldiers, and a queen, and lots of people. I thought I’d try there.”

  Hort and Mudge exchanged glances.

  “Well, now.” Hort put down his fork. “There may be such a place, and such a queen, but I’ve never heard of them. Come.” He went to the door, and opening it, stepped outside, letting in a gust of crisp, spring air.

  Gom went to follow him, but halted on the stoop, looking upward anxiously.

  “It’s all right,” Hort said, catching on. He drew Gom over the step and into the front yard. “That pesky bird’s gone. Anyways, nothing’ll touch you whilst you’re by me, I swear it.”

  Hesitantly, Gom moved with Hort out into the center of the yard, along a single line of square paving stones that stretched unevenly from the doorstep to the small front gate. Gom’s knees felt weak, and the air cold after the cozy warmth of the kitchen. He crossed his arms, hugging himself.

  “Hey, hey,” Mudge called from the door. “Look at the lad a-shivering. Don’t you make him ill again, just as he’s getting his strength up.”

  Hort waved a hand at her. “Do be quiet, Mudge, and let me answer the lad. See here.” Hort took Gom’s arm and pointed all around them. “Keep on long enough in any direction, any direction, and you’ll be far away. It’s no one partiklar place. Somebody’s been fooling you.” He looked at Gom closely.

  Gom kicked at an edge of paving stone with the toe of his boot. He’d thought as much. Hadn’t he said at the time that the thieving peddler Skeller had spun the Clack townsfolk a yarn to trick them out of their home-made treasures? Royal Purveyor, indeed!

  “Of course,” Hort went on, “I might be wrong, not being a traveling man. But I do know who can tell you better. In three days time there’s to be our annual spring fair. Village’ll be crammed with all kinds of folks passing through: tinkers, peddlers, basketmakers, balladeers, jugglers, and the like. They’re the ones to ask.”

  A spring fair.

  By the neat white fence, delicate light green leaves stippled the stark tree branches, and the hill that rolled away to the low horizon showed fine new grass spikes richer than any he’d seen in Clack. Away to Gom’s left, behind a low, red barn, an orchard of white and pink and crimson blossom glowed in the evening light.

  A spring fair. It sounded like Clack’s annual sale. Once a year, toward the end of summer, the Clack merchants set out stalls along the main street to clear out all their old scuffed up stock. This spring fair sounded grander, and much more exciting.

  Gom turned to Hort. “Which way does the village lie?”

  “Green Vale?” Hort pointed forward, over the hill. “About two mile that way, lad. ’Tis not far.”

  A spring fair, with tinkers, and peddlers, and basketmakers, and the like. Gom swallowed, thinking of Skeller. Skeller, who’d nearly sent Stig and Gom to their deaths. “These peddlers, and such: are they—safe?”

  Hort wrinkled up his brows. “Safe? ” His face cleared. “Ah, I see what you mean. You’ve obviously had a bad experience, as they say.” He pondered for a minute or two. “Put it this way,” he said at last. “You keep your hand on your pouch and your back to the wall and you’ll fare fine. Not that they’re all bad, as you’ll see for yourself.”

  “That he won’t,” Mudge yelled from the door. “Not if you don’t bring him in from the cold. Come on, or he’ll be back in bed and we’ll be fetching Mistress Gumby again and then there’ll be no spring fair for any of us, for we’ll not go and leave him alone.”

  Hor
t laughed. "Stop your fussing, Mudge. Lad’s tougher than you think, I already told you that.”

  Gom looked to Hort in surprise. If he remembered right, it had been quite the other way around.

  Hort leaned down toward Gom’s ear. "We’d better do as she says, Gom, or we’ll not hear the last of it.” Smiling, he started back to the house.

  But Gom lingered, still looking about him curiously. To his right, and directly opposite the barn, chicken coops clustered, already silent for the night. Behind them was a milking shed, and a low stone dairy.

  Over all wheeled the deepening sky, blue-green edged with violet. Ahead, toward the horizon, two large stars were already out, twin bright points drawing his eye. These he knew well from back up on the mountain, remembered exactly which peaks they marked. Strange, to see them over this gentle setting.

  His head tilted back, Gom turned full circle, gazing all about him. When he left here, he asked himself, which way would he go? He couldn’t rely on Wind forever.

  Just then, from above his head, came a weird moaning, as of some forlorn creature crying out in mortal pain.

  Catching his breath, Gom glanced sharply to the barn roof, minded of the great gray bird. He relaxed. Above the roof, stark against the luminous heavens, reared the most curious device: a horizontal wheel wrought in heavy black iron, with teeth running around its outer edge. Quartering it were four strange signs that could be letters. One of them, bigger than the other three, was made of brass, and it looked like this:

  Gom studied the signs intently, wishing that he could read. Set above the wheel, and piercing the spindle on which it was mounted was a rusty arrow that Wind slapped fitfully to and fro.