The Riddle and the Rune

by Grace Chetwin

  “Sounds such fun,” Mudge said dreamily, her elbows squarely on the table propping up her chin. “All that music and dancing and singing. We don’t have nothing quite like that, not even at the spring fair. Give us one of them songs, Gom.”

  Gom shifted awkwardly. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t? Why, there’s nothing you can't, lad, I’d swear,” Hort said, glancing proudly to the carving on the mantelshelf.

  “Leave him be, Hort,” Mudge said, her eyes on Gom’s face. “He don’t want to sing, that’s his affair. I’ll sing one for him.”

  Hort raised his eyebrows. “You? You don’t sing, girl. What song can you know?”

  “Wouldn’t you be surprised,” she retorted, and began to sing.

  If I had a boy,

  Here upon this farm,

  I would tend him And defend hrm,

  Keeping him away from ev’ry harm.

  If I had a boy,

  One and only one,

  I would know him,

  I would show him

  How to be a gentle, loving son.

  If I had a boy,

  For a little span,

  I would love him,

  Watch above him,

  Grow him up to be a fine, strong man.

  “Well,” Hort said, looking at Mudge in surprise. “I’d never have thought it. That were as good as what that there balladeer were singing at the fair.”

  “Better,” Gom said. He got up and, putting his arms about Mudge, he buried his face in her shoulder.

  Mudge squeezed him tight, enfolding him in her warmth, and rocking back and forth. “ ’Twere nothing, really,” she said, releasing him at last. “It’s surprising what a body can do from the heart.”

  “Sure you wouldn’t like to match it, lad?” Hort asked, with a twinkle.

  Gom only shook his head.

  “Never mind.” Mudge touched Gom’s arm. “He’ll maybe change his mind someday.”

  “How d’you mean, someday, Mudge? The lad’s moving on soon.”

  Gom looked from one to the other, clearing his throat. “As a matter of fact, I’ve changed my mind.”

  Mudge beamed. “You mean you want to stay along of us after all?”

  Gom nodded. He did, and he’d been meaning to say so for some time.

  Mudge blushed with pleasure. “You’re a dear, good lad,” she said. “And sensible, too. You’re far better off

  with us than out there looking for her as don’t even want you.”

  “Mudge.” Hort looked shocked.

  “It’s true, or she surely wouldn’t have left Gom all this time.”

  “Mudge!”

  Gom looked down at his plate. “It’s all right, Hort. Mudge is only being honest.” But she's wrong, he found himself thinking, much to his surprise. For she doesn’t know about Harga. He rubbed his chest absently, feeling for the rune. It wasn’t there. He looked up, startled. Of course it wasn’t. He jumped up, and ran into the lean-to. The floor was tidy and bare. He got down onto his hands and knees, scrabbling about in the sacks of grain. It wasn’t there, either.

  He looked to the darkening skylight, his heart racing. Zamul!

  Mudge and Hort watched from the doorway. “Try your pillow,” Mudge said quietly.

  Gom scuttled across to his cot on his knees, threw down the covers and ripped the pillow aside. There, on the sheet beneath, was the rune, stark black against the whiteness of the linen, its thong coiled loose around it. Shaking with relief, Gom picked it up and slipped it back around his neck, and under his tunic.

  Something was wrong.

  He looked down. The rune lay cold on his chest, not warming to the heat of his flesh. He took it out, held it in the palm of his hand. Nothing. Not even the slightest vibration.

  “What is it?” Mudge sounded anxious.

  Gom peered at it closely. It really was the rune, but it was dead. Like an ordinary stone.

  “Eh, well,” Hort said. “Supper’s getting cold.” He went back into the kitchen.

  But Gom lingered, replacing his bedding, taking a moment to recover. When he straightened up, Mudge still stood in the doorway, watching. “ ’Tis hers, isn’t it?” She barred his way.

  He nodded.

  Mudge sighed. “I thought so. Well, come on,” she said, with none of her usual whys and wherefores, and moved aside to let him pass. And not one word did she say for the rest of the evening, about the rune or anything else.

  Gom lay awake long into the night, holding the rune, listening to voices churning within him.

  Dear boy, your mother awaits...

  Coward...

  Oh, Mother, he whispered into the dark. Mother, I’m so sorry.

  What had he been thinking of, to turn aside at the first sign of trouble? What sort of son was he? He held the rune to his ear. It might have been a pebble from the farmyard. For the first time in his life, he and the rune were no longer attuned. Oh, how could he ever have thrown it away! What if it never “spoke” again? What a fool he was, and no match for his task!

  As Stig himself had said:... for all your smartness you're still but a simple mountain boy and ignorant of the great wide world out there...

  Stig had told Gom to stay at home. But Mandrik had told Gom that Harga wanted her rune back. What would Stig have said to that? Why hadn’t he confided in his father? Now Stig was dead, and life went on, and Gom must answer these voices alone.

  For hours he stared up at the stars shining through the skylight, and never remembered falling asleep at last.

  The next morning when he awoke, he felt different: scoured, empty, light, as though a terrible force had passed from him. The rune still felt dead, but just then he had more pressing business on his mind. He walked out into the kitchen trying to think what to say.

  Mudge forestalled him.

  “Sit you down, lad.” She pushed a plateful of pancakes in front of him. “Stoke yourself up for the day ahead.”

  “But—” Gom said.

  “Eat first,” Mudge said firmly. “Talk after.”

  He ate in silence while Hort announced their next chores: putting new shingles on the dairy roof, and cleaning out the ditches in the far pasture. Gom listened, growing more and more uncomfortable. He’d come out all set to tell his news: that his grief, his madness had finally left him, that he was going to seek his mother after all.

  But Mudge had told him to eat. So he ate the pancakes, all of them, and a second plateful, too. At last, however, he pushed away his empty plate and stood up.

  So did Mudge. “Here,” she said briskly. “You’ll be needing this.” To Gom’s surprise, she produced a large leather satchel with stout back straps and set it before him on the table.

  Into it she put a loaf of bread, and cheese, and honey cake, apples, a pack of waybread wrapped in butter muslin, a bag of sunflower seed, and Stig’s green bottle filled from the well. And Gom’s old clothes, rolled up tight.

  To all this she added a small wool blanket, also tightly rolled, which she tied to the satchel. “Your traveler’s pack,” she said.

  Gom stared at her in surprise. “But—”

  “No speeches, lad. You’ll be off now.”

  “I—yes.” Gom hung his head.

  Hort laughed awkwardly. “I told her, I says, he’s only just said that he’s staying. But she would put up this pack. My missus, she’s allus right.”

  Mudge stood by the hearth, her back to them, looking up at the mantelshelf.

  “Eh, lad,” Hort clapped him on the back. “We be that right sorry to see thee go, but it’s no bit of good trying to keep a body against his inclination.” He nodded to the goose. “At least we have summat to remember you by.”

  Mudge ran from the room.

  Gom went into his lean-to, where the neglected staff lay amid the grain and the candles. He dusted it off, softened up the thong between his finger and thumb, and polished up the sparrow’s feathers on his sleeve.

  “We’re on our way at last,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry I’ve taken so long.” He took up Carrick’s map from beside his cot, and folded it into his jacket pocket for quick reference. He looked around the little room, up through the skylight to small white clouds scudding by.

  Maybe, he thought, going to the door, maybe I’ll come back one day, when I’ve found Harga. What a good time we’ll all have of it, and Mudge will see how wonderful my mother really is.

  He walked with Hort and Mudge to their northern boundary, by-passing the village. The pack felt heavy, but comfortable, and it was good to have the staff in hand again.

  As they went along, Gom kept a wary eye out for large birds and conjurors, but the hills—and the sky—seemed clear. At last they came to the parting of the ways: a little trail north of the village that would in due course turn east.

  “Take care of yourself, do.” Mudge, her eyes getting red-rimmed suddenly, hugged him tight. But even then, she tried to rally. “Them eggs, Gom,” she said. “What shall I do about them?”

  “It’s like this: for every five you take, leave one.” Gom’s voice caught. “That’s all.”

  “It is? Well, I never!” She wiped her eyes on her shawl. Hort shook Gom’s hand. “I’ll not say good-bye, lad. In fact, I’ll be keeping an eye out for you.” He looked slyly back to Mudge and lowered his voice. “There’ll be a fine new set of ewes to lamb come next spring. Bear that in mind.”

  “I will,” Gom said. “Thank you, Hort. For—for everything.”

  He turned abruptly and walked away. Every time he turned around, they were still there, waving, getting smaller all the while. At the crest of the next hill, Gom halted for one last wave, then stepped over and down the other side.

  Part

  2

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  THE SUN rose higher and hotter. Gom strode along, uphill, and down. As he went, he found himself thinking wistfully of the two friends he’d left behind. By now, Hort would be up on the barn roof, fixing shingles, and Mudge would be baking bread in time for Hort’s elevenses.

  With a deep sigh, he stopped beside the trail, sat with his back against an elm tree, and ate a crust of the new-baked bread. Then, out of curiosity, he opened the pack of waybread. There were four cakes in the pack. Gom took one, tried to break a piece off, but it was too hard. He banged it on a boulder, but still it wouldn’t break. So he nibbled at a corner, the way a mouse gnaws hard cheese rind. At first, the waybread seemed tasteless. But then Gom became aware of a pleasant aftertaste, of malt and bran. And of a comfortable feeling of fullness in his middle.

  Carrick was right, he thought, contented. A little did go a long way. Good old Mudge. Lonely he might be, but he wouldn’t go hungry, at least. Rewrapping the waybread pack, he stowed it back in his satchel and stood. He was just brushing crumbs from his clothes when he sensed movement above him.

  He looked up.

  A squirrel perched on an overhead branch, watching him.

  “Good day,” Gom called, fully expecting the animal to run away as all the other wild creatures had done. To his surprise, the squirrel answered.

  “Good day yourself. That’s tasty-looking bread you have down there.”

  Gom smiled, delighted. “You know, you’re the first wild creature to speak with me since I left home,” he said. “Folk must be friendlier around here.”

  “It’s not surprising,” the squirrel answered him. “Considering the number of strangers that pass through these parts. Generous strangers,” the creature added, eyes on the satchel.

  “Oh, here.” Gom knelt down and took out a piece of Mudge’s fresh bread, and offered it.

  The squirrel ran down the tree, took the bread with practiced ease, and began to nibble greedily. Gom noticed now the squirrel’s sleek coat and plump belly. Too sleek and too plump for a wild creature’s, he reasoned, a little disappointed. The animal must be almost tame, and well used to human company.

  The squirrel looked up. “This is good. My name’s Acorn. What’s yours?”

  “Gom,” Gom answered. “Gom Gobblechuck, of Windy Mountain.”

  “ ‘Mountain? ’ That sounds rather grand.” Acorn waved his arm about. “I live here, in Elm Coombe, as they call it. Look around: what do you see?”

  Gazing about, Gom saw hills smoothly shaved and patterned with neat fields: green patches dotted with gray sheep, and rich brown squares of newly tilled soil fresh-sown with grain. But being the son of a woodcutter, his eyes went to the tall stands of elm trees here and there from which came the raucous cries of rooks about their clustered nests in the elms’ high branches.

  Gom frowned. The tree clumps looked like nothing he’d ever seen up on Windy Mountain. Their edges were too neat, not having the ragged spread of a regular wood. And the trees were not only of a height, they were all elms.

  “Well? What do you see?” Acorn chittered impatiently.

  “Those trees,” Gom pointed. “They’re all of one height, and of one kind, and they’re planted in neat circles. They didn’t seed naturally.”

  “Exactly!” Acorn jumped up and down. “They’re not woods, but coppices, planted on purpose by the farmers to shade their stupid sheep and provide timber. And what did they pick to plant? Elms!” The squirrel sounded disgusted. “No oaks anywhere. Do you know how hard it is to find a decent acorn? Oh, one doesn’t starve. There’re beech groves on the farms, and hickory hedges, and hazel bushes, and sycamores. But oaks? I tell you, one of these days I’m off to find a place where a body can eat what he likes.”

  While the squirrel nibbled and grumbled, Gom took Carrick’s map from his jacket pocket and looked at it. On the parchment the way seemed clear: a simple dotted line rolling over open space. In reality, as Gom had already found, the trail wound in and out and around those hills, meandered beside streams to fords of stepping stones, and once or twice dipped into dark and narrow gullies overhung with trees. He set aside the map and leaned back. A few more minutes and he’d have to move on. He was nowhere near the sign on the map that marked the end of his first day’s journey.

  Beside that sign, a small dot denoted Bragget-on-the-Edge, the next village. Much like Green Vale, only with a better inn, so the tinker had said—for all the good that information was to Gom, he having no money. No matter. He’d likely find a friendly meadow or even a haystack to unroll his blanket in—if he reached there by nightfall.

  He stretched out on the grass. He shouldn’t, but his legs had grown unused to all the walking. It would take them a day or two to toughen up again. He closed his eyes and felt the warm sun on his lids, thinking how wise it was to take a rest now and then.

  When Gom awoke, it was midafternoon.

  He jumped up, shouldered his pack and began to hurry along the open trail.

  “Hey!” Acorn bounded after him.

  Gom stopped, waited for the squirrel to catch up.

  “Well?”

  Acorn reared up on his hind legs, his tail waving behind.

  “I’ve decided,” he said. “You’re my omen, my sign. Today’s the day. May I tag along?”

  The prospect of Acorn’s company cheered Gom. “By all means.” He patted his shoulder. “Hop up.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Acorn answered promptly. Leaping onto his perch, he turned around and about to make himself comfortable.

  “Ow!” Gom cried, as Acorn dug in. “Paws, not claws, if you please.”

  Gom trudged on with his new companion over the gentle, rolling slopes, some quite wild, most just like Elm Coombe: very pleasant country to walk through on a clear, sunny day. Acorn kept up an incessant chatter, about his old noisy quarters under the rookery, and the quiet roomy hollow oak that he hoped to find farther on.

  Birds circled overhead.

  Gom looked up, apprehensive, but saw only more rooks flapping over a nearby coppice—yet another shady stand of high elms. He watched the loud birds with unease, not so happy suddenly with the bare countryside. There was little shelter anywhere but for the scattered c
oppices and distant farmhouses. Even the clear blue sky took on a menacing aspect now, for sharp eyes up there would spot him from miles away. He began to wish for cloud or mist or drizzle, anything to cut down visibility.

  Gom also now felt uncomfortable about Acorn innocently riding his shoulder. He should never have brought this new friend along. What if they met trouble?

  As the shadows lengthened, he began to have the feeling of being watched. Even Acorn fell quiet.

  “We must find somewhere soon,” the squirrel remarked. “This is a treacherous time of day for small animals.”

  “We’ll find a place, don’t worry,” Gom said, trying to sound confident in the fast fading light. It was all right for tinkers, he thought. They knew their roads, and distances. Wherever Bragget-on-the-Edge might be, it was too far to reach that night.

  “Look!” Acorn cried, sitting up in great excitement. “At last!”

  Over the next rise loomed another coppice, neat and round like the others, but with one great difference: it was a stand of sturdy oaks.

  Acorn chattering in his ear, Gom passed warily under broad branches, alert for sign of bird or Zamul, until he reached the center of the coppice.

  There he stopped, and stood, listening. The place seemed empty enough.

  Acorn leapt eagerly into the nearest tree: an old gnarled grandfather, festooned with leafy creeper and boasting a small, dark hole way up high out of ground reach.

  With a wave of his tail, the squirrel disappeared into it. Gom sighed and turned away. At least one of them had good shelter for the night. He thought regretfully of his own little cot back in Mudge’s pantry, could almost smell the pickle and beeswax.

  Outside the coppice, the late sun shone red-gold on the gentle hill slopes. Inside all was dark. Gom was safe enough in that place from any old skull-bird or human conjuror, he was sure.

  Out in the field, a lapwing late to bed sang evensong.

  Gom leaned the staff against the grandfather oak, unslung his pack, spread Mudge’s blanket on a patch of straggly grass—all that covered the ground under the gloom of the trees—and sat down to eat his supper.