Gom heaved the crate aside, and moved free. Here was a pretty situation, he told himself. But never mind. It worked to his advantage. At least he’d get clear of Zamul. Once out of the inn yard, he’d simply climb from the cart and go to Carrick.
He listened, hearing outside street noises mingle with the rumble of wheels over rough paving. Market sounds, merchants calling out their wares. The sounds rose, then began to fade. Gom’s wagon tilted as it pulled uphill now, away from the lake side.
Swaying and rocking on his heels with the bumping of the wagon, Gom moved to raise the flap. It wouldn't give. He tugged at it. Still it wouldn’t budge. He set down the staff and using both hands now, pulled with all his might. The flap was sealed tight, from floor to roof.
Unbelieving, Gom worked his way around the wagon, crawling over and around the barrels and sacks and boxes. The canvas, tough as leather, was nailed down so tightly that not even a mouse could get in or out.
Gom sat down with a bump and covered his face in dismay. A refugee, a short-term stowaway in the solahinn’s caravan: that’s all he’d meant to be. But now, without intending it, he was their prisoner!
Chapter Sixteen
CREAKING and grinding, the wagon wheels rolled on. The air beneath the canvas grew hot and close. Sweat started from Gom’s skin, ran down his chest and back. His shirt clung in damp patches, and his hair stuck to his brow.
He sat against a barrel for a while, bouncing and swaying at every lurch. Where was he going—and with whom? The minutes passed. How long had he been in that closed and stuffy space? It seemed like hours. They surely, he thought, must have long left Pen’langoth behind by now. And also Zamul, he reminded himself, trying to cheer himself a little.
He foraged for Stig’s water bottle, glad now at his forethought, and was just taking a tepid sip when a sudden really big lurch sent water spattering onto the wagon floor. Gom wiped his mouth, and restoppered the bottle. Another, and a crate slid toward him. He dodged clear and crouched by the canvas.
They were going sharply down.
The wagon rolled, tilted, righted itself and Gom heard the swish of water under the wagon chassis. Were they crossing a ford? Gom braced himself on all fours as it stopped abruptly, went sprawling as it jerked on again amid shouts and whipcracks.
Gom stayed down, listening to water rushing under him.
Another lurch, and the wagon climbed again. A wave of heat swept through him, making him feel dizzy. He crawled back among the assorted cargo and sat down, wiping his face on his sleeve. It was past elevenses, and the fullness from the sticky bun was long gone. On a sudden thought, he jumped up and tried a barrel lid. It was clamped tight. He put his ear to it. Liquid of some kind swished inside it. Ale? If so, it was of no use to him, for he couldn’t get at it. He tried the others. The same. The crates were also sealed down, with nails. The sacks looked more promising, being fastened only with knotted twine. He opened one and found dried peas inside.
Hungry as he was, however, he took only a handful. One had to be careful not to eat too many dried peas at once for they swelled in one’s middle and made one quite ill. He chewed them slowly, carefully, wondering where he was. The caravan had obviously just forded a river. Long River? If so, then they were headed east. Worse and worse!
He took the map from his pocket, spread it out in the filtered sunlight. Yes, they could have reached only Long River this soon. They were going east, then, just as he’d thought. Beyond the river’s eastern banks a line of hills marked Long Valley’s nether boundary. Beyond those hills stretched a vast tract of open land unmarked by any trail or city, or town, or even village.
He looked at the name of that tract, the letters strung out so widely from end to end that Gom could put his finger in between each of them. Two words again, short. The beginning of the second one looked like a bird in flight. He folded the map, wishing once more that he could read. They couldn’t be going far without road or trail to travel on. Not in these wagons. Gom took comfort from that.
Some comfort! They’d already gone far enough for him. And when those men opened up the wagon, they were sure to find him. He thought of their cruel faces. What would they think when they saw him in there hiding amongst their precious cargo? They’d been short enough with Zamul, and he only walking around outside the wagons. What would they do to him when they found him stowed away right inside one?
Dried peas also made one very thirsty, and a little sick, he reminded himself, beginning to feel the after-effect of his makeshift meal. He took another sip of water, let it trickle slowly down his throat.
He had to think of some excuse. But what? Zamul had told the men that he was looking for his runaway nephew. Gom stuck out his chin and patted his chest. “At your service, dear sirs,” he mimicked Zamul’s fawning tone. “One nephew, going for his life!”
Where was the conjuror now? Gom wondered. He tried to put himself in Zamul’s place, in that crowded yard, looking for a boy who’d suddenly vanished like one of his own magic trifles. Had the man assumed that he’d managed to slip from the yard and back to Carrick? In that case he’d be hanging about Carrick’s stall, or lurking in the inn, waiting for Gom to reappear.
On the other hand, he might have guessed that Gom had taken refuge in one of the wagons. In this case, Gom realized with a jolt, the man was even now perhaps circling above in high, wide sweeps, tracking the caravan to its journey’s end.
His mouth suddenly gone dry again, Gom took another drink, thinking how he was in trouble whichever way. And with no escape that he could see.
Gom stoppered the water bottle, put it away, and as he did so, his hand nudged his seed box.
He drew it out, opened the lid. His box of tiny treasures. Much had happened since he’d put the seeds in it. Then he’d never even heard the name, Ulm, and Katak had been but a bad waking dream.
And here he was, so busy scrambling from minute to minute to stay alive, to hold onto his mother’s rune, to keep Katak from getting free again. He thought of his vision in the bear cave, when the sparrow had come to life to give him the riddle. Riddle! So much was happening now he scarce had a moment even to think of it. He was certainly no closer to solving it.
From Air and Earth comes seed...
He jiggled the box gently. “Tell me,” he whispered to the tiny germs of life, “what is the secret?”
The wagon bumped violently, bouncing Gom’s hand. A few of the seeds fell onto the wagon floor and lodged into cracks, out of sight forever. Sighing, Gom put the rest away and leaned back.
Oh, what a clumsy failure he was.
He took up the staff absently, twirled it between his palms. The sparrow’s head, moving to and fro with the motion of his hands, seemed to deny his words, which made him smile suddenly in spite of everything. “You don’t think I’m a failure, then?” he whispered, and almost laughed aloud as the bird still shook her head. “Maybe you’re right,” he conceded, his smile lingering.
Come to think, he’d managed to cope with some bad surprises. Katak, and Zamul. So far. But now?
His smile fading, he laid aside the staff.
He couldn’t think anymore. The air was pressing in upon him, and his head had begun to throb. He closed his eyes. Oh, for one, just one breath of cool, fresh air...
Loud sounds brought him to his senses, many hooves thudding toward the caravan. Gom opened his eyes, finding it almost dark now under the canopy.
He scrambled to his feet, and felt around the edges of the canvas trying to prise it open just enough to see what was happening, but it still held as tightly as ever. If only he had not forgotten his knife! If only he could have bought one at the fair! He pressed his ear against the canvas.
Presently, there came a distant shout, which was answered from the caravan. The wagons rumbled and creaked to a halt.
Zamul? He shook his head. That one was too much a coward to take on a single solahinn, let alone a whole caravan. And... he heard now the sound of galloping hooves, not of one
horse, but several.
The galloping horses drew closer, and suddenly they were all about the wagons, in and out, calling loudly. Was it raiders? If so, then he was in double jeopardy! Gom foraged around, retrieved the staff from among the sacks and crates, and faced the canopy entrance, looking as brave as he could.
There came a shout of sudden laughter, and voices exchanging loud greetings. More laughter, then a whip cracked, the caravan moved on, faster now, surrounded by the riders.
Gom relaxed. Not a robbery, but a meeting of fellows.
A mounted party come to escort their fresh provisions, bought at the Pen’langoth market. Did that mean that they’d almost arrived?
Gom glanced up at the darkened canopy. They were well beyond the hills, and traveling still, and therefore miles from Pen’langoth, much farther than he thought they’d go.
If they had reached the end of the journey, what then? Would the men eat straightaway, or would they first unload the wagons? Gom’s lips tightened grimly. If they unloaded first, then he was truly sunk.
An hour later, the caravan slowed again, and this time, amid more shouts and whip cracks, the wagon creaked to a final halt.
He heard the sounds of the horses being freed from their halters, and their tired heavy feet backing off, then the moment he’d been dreading, the sound of the canvas being untied.
He got up stiffly, pins and needles starting in his legs, and limped over to the far end of the wagon. There, he crouched behind the barrels and bales and waited, his eyes on the canvas flap.
The flap moved, and a cool fresh breeze riffled over him, smelling of earth and sweet, damp grass. Gom tensed, waiting for someone to climb up into the wagon. But at a sudden shout, the men went away.
Gom waited for a minute or two, but they didn’t come back. Crickets chirped, a horse stamped, and somewhere in the distance, a small wild thing chittered.
Cautiously, he crawled to the edge of the wagon and peered out.
Under a full moon the hooped carts looked like ghostly giant mushrooms on the flat, grassy ground. Nearby, the carthorses, tethered to stakes, stood grazing. Beyond them, a pack of riding horses wandered freely. Gom jumped from the wagon and crept out under the shelter of its shadow. No sign of any bird, but... He stood quite still for a minute, on the edge of darkness, eyeing the horses warily, minded how Zamul had almost gotten the better of him by taking Shadow’s shape. The horses gave him barely a glance.
Gom breathed out, and looked more widely about him. At his right reared a high stockade. At his left clustered tents of plain brown canvas, and over all wafted the delicious smell of cooking. Cooking! Come to think, Gom was very hungry.
Gom crept toward the smell.
Beyond the tents was a huge bonfire around which were gathered at least a hundred men, all with the same kind of hats and leggings and boots, and fierce, forbidding faces.
It was easy to see why they’d left the wagons so suddenly. They were eating noisily from tin plates, mounds of food, constantly replenished from a huge pot suspended over the fire. Gom licked his lips. They were drinking, too, from tall tin cups, which they filled to overflowing from a barrel in their midst.
Suddenly one of them stood up, raised his cup and cried out,
“Dahai Solahinn! Hah dahnai gho dey nah! Hai-tah! Hai-tah!”
The rest raised their cups, too, and yelled the same thing: a frightening sound, and not reassuring. Gom blocked his ears to lessen it. Pride was in those voices, and ruthlessness. What did the words mean?
One of the men struck up a chord on a dark wooden instrument with a long straight neck and many shining strings. Then he began to play a fast tune amid clapping and slapping and clanking of cups. Faster and faster went the man’s fingers, and the men began to sway in time with the music.
Two of the men set aside their plates and, linking elbows, began to dance with great vigor, leaping, twirling, and kicking like fierce horses.
In spite of his fear, Gom’s heart uplifted at seeing such wonderful movement, such strength and savage grace.
The men sat again to loud applause, and took up their cups. At that, the leader stood, raised his cup on high, and repeated his call. A loud chord from the strings, and the men began chanting:
Dey solahinn; hai-tah! hai-tah!
Dahbai bey Vargue; hai-tah! hai-tah!
Tey bai hinnay; hai-tah! hai-tah! hai-tah!
Roh dai lahn-ney; hai-tah! hai-tah!
Hah dahnai gho dey nah!
Ma-lah bahn na-mah chai nah!
Lahn dai gho,
Sola rho.
Hinn-eh, hinn-eh, hata-lahdin hey,
Vah gadohr! hai-tah! hai-tah!
Vah ramohr! hai-tah! hai-tah!
Hai-tah! hai-tah! hai-tah! hai-tah!
On the last shout the men stood and clashed their cups together.
Gom stood entranced. The music was crude, the words were incomprehensible, but the total effect was compelling.
The sound of strings struck again, a fresh tune, even more frenzied and loud, and the men began to talk and laugh over the noise. Gom stirred himself. What was he doing there? He must go, while he could.
He moved quietly around the tents, away from the light and the warmth and the wonderful smell of food, hunger gnawing at his belly. He passed the giant wagons, and walked on toward the high stockade. If he were right, he was somewhere east of Lake Langoth—whether south or north of the lake city, he had no way of knowing. But if he moved back westward, he’d have to pass through the eastern hillrange he’d seen on the map, then come to Long River. From there he could surely ask his way back to Pen’langoth and Lakeside.
He looked up, found the twin stars, and took his bearings. Westward lay around the other side of the stockade.
He struck out by the high fence, the sounds from the fireside growing fainter. The stockade was big as a fairsized field. He was pondering its purpose when something kicked the other side of the fence, making him jump.
He stopped still, scarcely breathing.
The kick came again, and this time, a horse’s quiet whuffle.
“Who’s there?” the question came.
Gom looked up the stockade fence. Too high to see over, too sheer to climb, and those spikes atop didn’t look very hospitable. He moved on a way, found a hole big enough to see through. Inside stood a knot of horses, tall, proud colts with a wild look. Why, Gom would bet no one had ever ridden those backs. So what were they doing in there?
By the fence stood the colt who must have kicked it.
Taking a quick breath, Gom called. “Gom Gobblechuck of Windy Mountain greets you, and bids you good evening.”
The colt whinnied in surprise, moved to where Gom’s face was outlined in his peephole, summoning some of his fellows over as he came.
“I thought I heard somebody out there.” It put its nose to the hole. “You greet us in our own tongue!”
Gom tossed his head and blew through his lips. “Only just,” he said. “I learned a word or two from our farm horses back home.”
“Farm horses? What do you mean?” asked another colt, a bright red roan.
“They’re like those packhorses over there,” Gom pointed to the bulky figures grazing in their wide open space, forgetting that the horses could see neither through, nor over, the fence. “Like those, they work for men, pulling loads, and plows, and hay wagons, and the like.”
“Ah! This is another of those hated humans who sell us into slavery,” the first colt snorted angrily. “If we could only get at him!”
The colts, advancing, began to kick against the stockade fence.
Stung, Gom whinnied in protest.
“I don’t sell, or buy, horses,” he cried. “I’m a woodcutter by trade. Why, my father and I even pulled our own cart for ourselves. As for me, I don't hold with anybody owning anybody, not at all.”
The colts stopped, surprised.
“Oh, really?” asked a black and brown and white piebald. “So what are you doing here, if no
t looking for a horse?”
Gom peered about him. He should be going on his way. Every moment he spent in that solahinn camp was dangerous. And for all he knew Zamul might still be by in some guise or other, waiting for him to emerge onto the wide plain. But he just couldn’t walk out on his new acquaintances. Putting his face back to the hole, he told them how he’d been running from someone, how he’d hidden in the solahinn wagon. How he’d just climbed out, and was about to make off home again.
“Fortunate,” the roan called out bitterly. “That you go while we stay.”
A huge colt moved up through the cluster. Gom gazed at it in awe. It was totally black save for a gleaming silver ringmark on the brow, and stood a full hand above the others, even the roan.
“Why do you talk to such a one?” the black colt demanded of the others. “Humans are beneath contempt.” “He sounds friendly,” the roan said. “And he speaks our tongue.”
“Ah! Will that set us free? Leave him. You demean yourselves by stooping to speak with the like.”
Stoop, indeed! “I’m as good as you,” Gom snorted indignantly. “And I’ve done you no harm. Who are these solahinn, that they shut you up in there?”
“They are horse traders. They chase us wild ones from one end of the High Vargue to the other,” the piebald explained. “They take and break us, then sell us to the highest bidder.”
“That’s terrible,” Gom cried. “Why do you stand for it?”
“We have no choice,” the roan said. “When our time comes, we’re caught by cunning maneuvers and sent from these our beloved plains forever.”
“Bah!” The black colt neighed loudly, pawing the ground. “Only if you allow it. They’ll never send me from these plains!”
“Ah, you talk like that tonight,” a gray colt answered. “But tomorrow, when they crack their whips, you’ll sing a different tune. Think yourself lucky. Your future’s assured. At least you know where you’re going.”
The Riddle and the Rune Page 18