by Helen Gosney
Rose laughed as she saw the look of surprise on Cris’s face.
“Rowan’s had a lot of practice at plaiting over the years, what with horses’ manes and tails and his own hair,” she said with a grin, “He does a much better job than I can. Much quicker, too.”
“Plaiting’s plaiting,” Rowan said with a shrug, “’Tis always easier to do it on someone else. And at least you fidget a lot less than some horses I’ve known.” He smiled at his sister as he tied a green ribbon at the end of the braid. He turned back to horse and cat.
“Got you, Sir Mouser... I’m a bit surprised Mica would even let you sit on him,” he muttered as he lifted the cat onto the stall partition.
“But he, er, wouldn’t…?” Cris asked, still a bit wary around the stallions.
“No, of course he wouldn’t! He’s well-mannered and gentle, and he’s good around other animals; well, they both are, really, but Mica’s never let anyone but me on his back. Do you mind, you ratbag horse!” said Rowan affectionately as the stallion turned its head and blew in his ear as if in agreement. “ Actually, I owe my life to Mica, he was at Messton too...” Rowan’s voice trailed away as he gently ran his hands over the long pale scars on the horse’s neck and chest. He remembered all too clearly the whistling of the sword stroke that would have cut him in half had Mica not somehow leapt sideways at just the right moment; and he remembered the stallion fighting off all comers when he’d been knocked from his saddle a little later, keeping them at bay with hooves and teeth as he’d somehow scrambled back aboard. He still wasn’t entirely sure how they’d both managed to survive.
“Was your other horse there too?” Cris asked quietly. Rowan looked at him blankly for a moment, and then shook his head.
“Soot...? No... no, he’s battle-trained too of course, but he was lucky enough to pull up lame just the day before we left Den Siddon...”
They were ready to leave in a surprisingly short time, and the rest of Gnash was barely stirring when Bimm and Shana waved them off on their way. Bimm was still limping and leaning heavily on his stick, but he was determined that this would be the day that he returned to some of his duties. Even Shana had grudgingly agreed that he might be able to do something.
The travellers took the western road, which ran beside the river for quite some distance before turning inland to skirt the mighty Blonmouth Tor, near the Endless Sea. Then it ran north for a way, before turning to the coast again to end at the fishing village of Fleecing Litt. From here they would take a lesser road northwards across a range of low rounded hills, and thence to Sunset Wash.
As they left the city they met farmers with carts and barrows piled high with produce for the market - ripe tomatoes and squash and potatoes; carrots and apples and cabarls; fine pods of giant moba beans glinting purple in the sun, and plump ears of corn, their silken tassels glistening gold.
They moved off the road a little way to let a shepherd lead his flock past, his three black and white dogs busily making sure that none of the plump woolly creatures strayed.
“Rose, do you remember Bleat?” asked Rowan with a grin.
She laughed, then seeing Cris’s puzzled look, explained. “Never was a town better named, Cris! It’s in the middle of prime sheep country, some of the best fleeces and fabrics come from around there... and just a couple of days before we got there all the sheep turned blue overnight. I thought they looked quite pretty really, they were all shades from pale, pale blue to deep cobalt...” she giggled helplessly.
“Of course the shepherds weren’t amused,” Rowan said, trying not to laugh too, “All they could see was thousands of blue... of blue sheep, and ‘twas time to shear the silly things too.”
“I’ve often wondered if the colour faded away, “ Rose managed, “but if it didn’t, it would have made lovely fabric... if you happen to like blue.”
They all laughed at the thought of the hapless shepherds and their bales and bales of blue wool as they went on their way.
Further on they came upon a rather rambunctious herd of pink and black spotted pigs, all squealing loudly to each other and all intent on escaping the harassed looking farmer and his large family who were in charge of them.
“I think those pigs are winning, you know,” Rose chuckled, “Look, there’s three of them over there, heading into the trees.”
“I think they’d do better to swap a couple of those youngsters for a decent dog,” Cris said rather unkindly as two of the farmer’s scruffy children set off to catch the truants. There was much crashing and high-pitched squealing from boys and pigs before a small indignant porker galloped out of the undergrowth hotly pursued by both lads. The farmer’s wife cuffed her sons around the ears and sent them back to find the other escapees, who by now were well into the trees and busily eating acorns.
“That’s what I like about travelling,” said Rowan reflectively, “’Tis never dull.”
The horses strode out willingly, pleased to be out in the open countryside again, and Cris was pleased to find that he and Bess had no trouble keeping up with the others. Rowan’s lessons had really helped him. Every now and again someone would make a comment about blue sheep or orange cows and they’d all start laughing again. It really was a fine day to be travelling.
They didn’t seem to hurry, but nor did they dawdle and Cris was surprised when they found themselves nearing Blonmouth Tor. The great massif reared above them, its sides steep and dangerous, and the road turned to meander northwards along its base.
“I think we might have a rest here,” said Rose, indicating a pleasant grassy stretch near the river’s edge, “I could do with a bite to eat and a bit of a stretch.”
It was an inviting place, near a small waterfall. Raucous, brightly coloured lorikeets fed greedily in the blossoms of scattered groups of eucalypts and some tiny hidden creatures scuttled about in the fallen bark and leaf litter at the bases of the trees.
Rowan took the horses to the river for a drink, refusing Cris’s help and saying not unkindly, “No, I’ll be fine, thanks Cris. Your backside will need more assistance than I do... You just have a walk around and a good stretch now... Rose has some good liniment there, if you need it.” He strolled off, whistling softly to himself, hands in his pockets as the horses ambled along beside him
“We’ve found it works best for us if we do things this way,” said Rose to Cris as she rummaged in a bag and produced some of the bread and cheese and cider which Bimm had given them, “Rowan has a real gift with animals, and he can do anything with them; and well… believe me, I’m a much better cook than he is, when it comes down to it! But don’t worry, there’ll be plenty for you to do too.”
She hesitated then said, “Cris, I hope Rowan didn’t offend you just now, he can be a bit...er... blunt sometimes... but I really do have some very good liniment here. You might find that it’s better to use it before you need it, if you understand what I mean...”
He grinned at her as she blushed.
“Thank you, Rose, I think you may be right,” he replied gravely, and taking the proffered jar he headed into the trees with as much dignity as he could muster.
**********
“Is it far to Fleecing Litt from here?” asked Rowan as he helped himself to another piece of bread and cheese.
“No, we’ll be able to see it as we round the end of the tor,” said Cris, “At least we should be able to... there’ve been stories of fog there lately...”
Indeed there was fog in Fleecing Litt. As they came around the tor and the road dipped towards the coast, there was little sign of the pretty fishing village sitting on the edge of the Endless Sea. All they could see was a sharply demarcated expanse of cloudy white, with here and there the top of a tall tree showing. A little further along were a few chimneys and the steep roof of a building poking through the murk.
One moment they were in bright sunshine and in the next stride the horses were surrounded by thick mist. Bess put her ears back and snorted and would have baulked had not Mic
a and Soot continued calmly on their way, with piebald Max trailing after.
“Gods, ‘tis bloody thick, I can hardly see past Mica’s ears. I think perhaps we’d better lead the horses,” said Rowan, his soft voice echoing oddly in the fog, “How long did you say it’s been like this, Cris?”
“I’m not sure exactly... there’s been stories going around for... a month or more, I suppose...” Cris replied, looking around him in amazement.
“A month or more of this...” Rose shivered, “Do you mean it hasn’t lifted in all that time?”
“I think that’s what they said...”
They could see nothing through the fog and all sounds were muffled, but after only a bit of swearing from them all when they stumbled over unseen stones and into holes in the road, they finally came to the village. There was little to see, but even without the fog, Cris said there was little to see anyway.
They could just make out a few people in the street. Here and there a child kicked unhappily at a stone, or sat patting a dog, but otherwise the village seemed deserted.
“Over there...” said Rose, giving Soot’s reins to Rowan and going over to a tiny cottage they could barely see through the all-enshrouding whiteness.
A very old woman was sitting in a rocking chair on the verandah, knitting an intricately patterned fisherman’s sweater. She smiled gummily up at Rose as she came closer, and they sat together talking for quite a while before Rose rejoined the men. She found Cris carefully stretching himself in the way that Rowan had shown him and Rowan checking the packhorse’s load to see that it wasn’t rubbing him.
“What a dear old soul... Molly, her name is...she was so pleased to see someone new that I thought I’d never get away... she says the fog has been like this for nearly six weeks... it never gets thinner and it never goes away.”
“But where is everyone?”
“Well, she said that the men are all out fishing...”
“How can they fish in this?” Rowan wondered.
“Molly says the fog ends sharply just before the end of the breakwater... once you’re past there, there’s no problem, so they all anchor their boats out there and use small skiffs to get to and from them... and they put their catch on a sort of flat barge thing and haul that to the breakwater and... well, I don’t know really... but they seem to manage fairly well, from what I could gather.”
“And the women are all out on the other side of the village, drying their washing... apparently the breeze is best there for drying, and they all meet there and make a day of it,” she smiled at the thought.
“But the breeze doesn’t clear the fog away...” said Cris slowly, trying to understand.
“Apparently not. Molly said even on days that are really windy out at sea, the fog stays over Fleecing Litt just the same...” Rose found herself shivering again.
They quickly decided to continue on their way, for there was little to attract them in Fleecing Litt, cold and dank and fogbound as it was.
They came to the end of the fog abruptly and there before them were long lines of washing flapping in the bright sunshine. A group of women and children picnicking nearby greeted them cheerily and directed them to their road.
They picked up their pace again and headed for the line of low hills that Cris said was all that stood between them and Sunset Wash.
**********
They came to the crest of the final hill, its rounded top crowned with a few gnarled trees and a tumble of lichen-covered rocks. They stopped to rest themselves and their horses for a while and to take in the stunning vista before them.
The land sloped gently down to where a lovely bay spread itself, fringed by shining white sand and rough grass and low, wind-sculpted bushes. They could hear the faint cries of idly circling seabirds. Through the circle of low hills surrounding the bay came a wide paved road that ended at a huge causeway of light-coloured stone.
This looked surprisingly light and airy from where they stood, and it marched proudly across the last bit of grass, across the wide swathe of sand, and into the sea. Almost as far as they could see, span followed span high above the blue-green waters of the bay, most seeming to be still intact; but here and there were gaps where the sea had won its battle with the ancient stone supports. Right at the very end, almost at the limits of vision, there appeared to be a tower rearing high into the air.
“Is that it?” said Rose, awed by the lovely sight.
“Yes, that’s it,” replied Cris, impressed in spite of himself, for he’d seen this before, “That’s Sunset Wash... and the Sunset Causeway... the Causeway of the Gods...”
“What’s that at the end of it?” asked Rowan after a moment or two, “Can we get right out to it?”
“No, you can’t get out there unless you’ve got a boat. Even then, it’s difficult, the currents are very tricky in this bay,” Cris replied, “I’ve been out there once though, years ago. It was the most amazing thing... it’s not a tower exactly... well, it is, I suppose, but... it’s like a huge twisted spire and it rears straight up out of the sea...we should go out on the causeway as far as we can and you can see it for yourselves.”
They tightened their saddle girths, remounted, and rode down the hill, still marvelling at the sight before them. They came to the landward end of the causeway, where it joined with the road. Here it was still quite high above them, the roadway running along an embankment for a distance until the land rose up to meet it. They left their horses at the base of the embankment and then scrambled up it, impatient to see this marvel for themselves.
The roadway was wide, easily wide enough for several horsemen to ride abreast. It was in surprisingly good condition, the paving stones still seated firmly, and it sloped slightly from the centre so that rain could drain into the culverts on each side. On one side it stretched away from them, disappearing into a notch between two hills; on the other, it ran onto the causeway, its surface unchanged.
The balustrades of the causeway rose almost to shoulder height, a delicate tracery of stone capped by a finely carved railing. They walked along, admiring the weathered carvings of birds and shells and strange sea creatures, finally reaching a point where they could go no further. The span in front of them had collapsed, and when they looked down they could see the sea patiently lapping at the base of the supporting pier. They were almost halfway to the end of the causeway, and from here they could clearly see the enormous structure that spiralled up out of the water, tapering smoothly to end in a slightly weathered point. It seemed to be made of the same white stone as the causeway and it glittered with a dazzling layer of salt.
“But what is it?” wondered Rowan.
“No-one knows... nobody really even knows if it’s solid or hollow. There are no doors, no windows, no steps... nothing... and when you’re near it in a boat, it’s completely smooth... you couldn’t climb it even if you wanted to,” Cris replied, “Some people have tried to dive down to its base, but it’s very deep there and the waters are treacherous, even on a calm day, and as far as they could go, there was nothing, it just sort of twisted off into the depths... there’s no base or anything that anyone could see...”
They stood gazing at the spire for a long time, so tantalisingly close, awed by its beauty and wondering at its purpose. Finally Rowan turned away.
“As beautiful as all this is, our way lies over there...” he said, indicating the roadway and the notched hills, “There’s the Road of the Gods and it will lead us to Plausant Bron...”
I hope, he thought to himself, his determination to find the place and have his say about the Gods’ mishandling of things still burning bright.
**********
19. “I don’t think our Guardsmen in Gnash could do anything like that.”
They sat around their campfire after supper, watching the last of the fiery crimson and gold fade from sea and sky.
“How beautiful it is...” said Rose, “I see now why it’s called ‘Sunset Wash’.”
The horses were loose beh
ind them, munching the rough grass and apparently finding that it was more palatable than it looked. Cris had been surprised that they’d not been hobbled, but Rowan assured him that they wouldn’t stray far - if they did, he promised he’d go after them himself. For a few minutes Cris had thought that he might have to do just that, as Mica had led the other horses down to the sea as soon as they were freed and all four had galloped in the shallows, splashing and playing like colts.
“Don’t worry, Cris,” Rowan had said, laughing at the sight of his anxious face, “Mica will bring them all back when they’re finished... they just want to have fun for a bit, that’s all.”
Now as darkness fell, Rowan turned to Cris.
“You know my story, more or less, but we don’t really know yours. Will you tell us something more of yourself?”
“There’s not much to tell, really,” Cris replied, “I’ve always lived in Gnash... my father was a rat catcher before me, and his father before him. They always said that there’d never be a shortage of rats or mice to be caught in the city, and while the pay isn’t wonderful, it’s adequate and you can always depend on it...and you know, they were right...” he finished thoughtfully.
“And that’s it?” Rose teased him.
“Well, yes, more or less... I’ve never really travelled very far. I don’t know why not, but... but even so, I’ve wondered about... about fish and frogs falling from the sky, and farmers who plant wheat and get oats... and last year all the water in Gnash - wells, river and all - turned to a sort of jelly for two weeks. And then… then one day all the dogs died… every dog in Gnash. Big ones, little ones, even my little Ratter…” he swallowed quickly and hurried on, “And there’s other things I’ve heard about too: Fleecing Litt and... there’s a little town a bit upriver, Far Blenching it’s called. Every birth there for the last fifteen years has been triplets; one year it’s always boys, and the next year all girls. Anyway, nobody else seemed to think there was anything odd happening... or even think about it at all, except Bimm and Shana. And when you came and we started talking, and we went to the god houses... I suppose I just want to find out what is really going on...” he came to a halt, rather surprised at himself.