“Can’t I be with you, princess, even if I hardly understand this Saxon tongue?”
“These are women’s matters, husband. Let me talk with her alone, and she’s saying she’ll examine my old body carefully.”
“I’m sorry, princess, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Let me take your bundle from you and I’ll be waiting here as long as you wish.”
After the two women had gone inside, Axl felt a great weariness, especially in his shoulders and legs. Removing his own burden, he leaned against the turf wall behind him and gazed over at the crowd. There was now a growing restlessness: people would stride from the darkness around him to join the crowd while others hurried away from the fire, only to return a moment later. The blaze illuminated some faces sharply, while leaving others in shadow, but after a time, Axl came to the conclusion these people were all waiting, in a state of some anxiety, for someone or something to emerge from the timber hall to the left of the fire. This building, probably some meeting place for the Saxons, must have had a fire of its own burning inside, for its windows flickered between blackness and light.
He was on the verge of nodding off, his back to the wall, the muffled voices of Beatrice and the medicine woman somewhere behind him, when the crowd surged and shifted, letting out a soft collective growl. Several men had emerged from the timber hall and were walking towards the fire. The crowd parted and quietened for them, as though in expectation of an announcement, but none came, and soon people were pressing around the newcomers, their voices building again. Axl noticed that attention was focused almost entirely on the man who had come out last from the hall. He was probably no more than thirty but had about him a natural authority. Although he was dressed simply, as a farmer might be, he did not look like anyone else in the village. It was not just the way he had swept his cloak over one shoulder, revealing his belt and the handle of his sword. Nor was it simply that his hair was longer than any of the villagers’—it hung almost down to his shoulders and he had tied some of it with a thong to prevent it swaying over his eyes. In fact the actual thought that crossed Axl’s mind was that this man had tied his hair to stop it falling across his vision during combat. This thought had come to Axl quite naturally, and only on reflection did it startle him, for it had carried with it an element of recognition. Moreover, when the stranger, striding into the midst of the crowd, allowed his hand to fall and rest on the sword handle, Axl had felt, almost tangibly, the peculiar mix of comfort, excitement and fear such a movement could bring. Telling himself he would return to these curious sensations at some later point, he shut them out of his mind and concentrated on the scene unfolding before him.
It was the bearing of the man, the way he moved and held himself, that so set him apart from those around him. “No matter that he tries to pass himself off as an ordinary Saxon,” Axl thought, “this man is a warrior. And perhaps one capable of wreaking great devastation when he wishes it.”
Two of the other men who had emerged from the hall were hovering nervously behind him, and whenever the warrior drifted further into the crowd, both men tried their best to stay near him, like children anxious not to be left behind by a parent. The two men, who were both young, also wore swords, and in addition, each was clutching a spear, but it was evident they were quite unaccustomed to such weapons. They were, moreover, stiff with fear and seemed unable to respond to the words of encouragement their fellow villagers were giving them. Their gazes darted about in panic even as hands patted their backs or squeezed their shoulders.
“The long-haired fellow is a stranger arrived only an hour or two before us,” Beatrice’s voice said close to his ear. “A Saxon, but one from a distant country. The fenlands in the east, so he says, where he’s lately been fighting sea raiders.”
Axl had been aware for some time that the voices of the women had grown more distinct, and turning, saw that Beatrice and her hostess had come out of the house and were standing at the door just behind him. The medicine woman now spoke softly, for some time, in Saxon, after which Beatrice said into his ear:
“It seems earlier today one of the village men came back out of breath and his shoulder wounded, and when prevailed upon to calm himself told of how he and his brother, together with his nephew, a boy of twelve, were fishing at their usual spot by the river and were set upon by two ogres. Except according to this wounded man these were no ordinary ogres. Monstrous and able to move faster and with greater cunning than any ogre he’d ever seen. The fiends—for it’s by that name these villagers are talking of them—the fiends killed his brother outright and carried off the boy, who was alive and struggling. The wounded man himself got away only after a long chase along the river path, the foul grunts coming closer behind him all the while, but he outran them in the end. That would be him there now, Axl, with the splint on his arm, talking to the stranger. Wounded though he was, he was anxious enough for his nephew to lead a party of this village’s strongest men back to the spot, and they saw smoke from a campfire near the bank, and as they were creeping up to it, their weapons at the ready, the bushes opened and it seems these same two fiends had set a trap. The medicine woman says three men were killed even before the others thought to run for their lives, and though they returned unhurt, most of them are now shivering and muttering to themselves in their beds, too shaken to come out and wish well these brave men willing to go out now, even with the darkness coming and the mist setting in, to do what couldn’t be done by twelve strong men in broad daylight.”
“Do they know the boy is still alive?”
“They know nothing, but they’ll go out to the river even so. After the first party returned in terror, for all the urging of the elders, there was not a single man brave enough to join a further expedition. Then as fortune would have it, here’s this stranger come into the village seeking a night’s shelter after his horse has hurt a foot. And though he knows nothing of this boy or his family before today, he’s declared himself willing to come to the village’s aid. Those others going out with him are two more of the boy’s uncles, and by the look of them, I’d say they’re more likely to hinder that warrior than be of help. Look, Axl, they’re sick with fear.”
“I see that right enough, princess. But they’re brave men all the same, to go out when they’re so afraid. We chose a bad night to ask this village’s hospitality. There’s weeping somewhere even now, and there may be a great deal more before the night’s passed.”
The medicine woman seemed to understand something of what Axl had said, for she spoke again, in her own language, then Beatrice said: “She says to go straight to the old longhouse now and not show ourselves again till morning. If we choose to wander the village, she says there’s no telling how we may be greeted on a night like this.”
“My own thoughts exactly, princess. Then let’s be taking the good lady’s advice, if you can still remember the way.”
But just at that moment the crowd made a sudden noise, then the noise became cheering, and the crowd shifted again, as if struggling to change shape. Then it began to move, the warrior and his two companions near its centre. A low chanting started up, and soon the spectators in the shadows—the medicine woman included—joined in. The procession came towards them, and though the brightness of the fire had been left behind, several torches were moving within it, so that Axl could catch glimpses of faces, some frightened, some excited. Whenever a torch illuminated the warrior, his expression was calm, gazing to left and right to acknowledge words of encouragement, his hand once more on the handle of his sword. They went past Axl and Beatrice, continued between a row of huts and out of view, though the muted chanting remained audible for some time.
Perhaps daunted by the atmosphere, neither Axl nor Beatrice moved for a while. Then Beatrice began to question the medicine woman on the best way to reach the longhouse, and it seemed to Axl the two women were soon discussing directions to some other destination altogether, for they pointed and gestured into the distance towards the hills above the village.
“Walk slowly, princess,” Axl said softly. “If either of us takes a bad tumble on this ground, I’m not certain there’ll be a soul coming out to help us.”
“Axl, I think we’ve lost our way again. Let’s go back to the last corner and this time I’ll be sure to find it.”
In time the path straightened and they found themselves walking beside the perimeter fence they had seen from the hill. Its sharpened poles loomed above them a shade darker than the night sky, and as they went on, Axl could hear murmured voices somewhere above them. Then he saw they were no longer alone: high up along the ramparts, at regular intervals, were shapes he realised were people gazing out over the fence into the dark wilderness beyond. He had barely time to share this observation with Beatrice before they heard footsteps gathering behind them. They quickened their pace, but now a torch was moving nearby and shadows swung rapidly before them. At first Axl thought they had stumbled upon a group of villagers coming in the other direction, but then saw that he and Beatrice were entirely surrounded. Saxon men of varying ages and builds, some with spears, others wielding hoes, scythes and other tools, were jostling around them. Several voices addressed them at once, and ever more people seemed to be arriving. Axl felt the heat of the torches thrust at their faces, and holding Beatrice close to him, tried to locate with his gaze the leader of this group, but could find no such figure. Every face, moreover, was filled with panic, and he realised any careless move could bring disaster. He pulled Beatrice out of the reach of a particularly wild-eyed young man who had raised a trembling knife in the air, and searched his memory for some Saxon phrases. When nothing came to him, he made do with a few soothing noises, such as he might have made to an unruly horse.
“Stop that, Axl,” Beatrice whispered. “They won’t thank you for singing lullabies to them.” She addressed one, then another of the men in Saxon, but the mood did not improve. Shouted arguments were breaking out, and a dog, tugging on a rope, broke through the ranks to snarl at them.
Then the tense figures around them seemed all at once to sag. Their voices quietened till there was only the one, shouting angrily, somewhere still a little way off. The voice came closer and the crowd parted to let through a squat, misshapen man who shuffled into the pool of light leaning on a thick staff.
He was quite elderly, and though his back was relatively straight, his neck and head protruded from his shoulders at a grotesque angle. Nonetheless all present appeared to yield to his authority—the dog too ceased barking and vanished into the shadows. Even with his limited Saxon, Axl could tell the misshapen man’s fury had only partly to do with the villagers’ treatment of strangers: they were being reprimanded for abandoning their sentry posts, and the faces caught in the torchlight became crestfallen, though filled with confusion. Then as the elder’s voice rose to a new level of anger, the men seemed slowly to remember something, and one by one slipped back into the night. But even when the last of them had gone, and there were sounds of feet clambering up ladders, the misshapen man went on hurling insults after them.
Finally he turned to Axl and Beatrice, and switching to their language, said with no trace of an accent: “How can it be they forget even this, and so soon after watching the warrior leave with two of their own cousins to do what none of them had the courage for? Is it shame makes their memories so weak or simply fear?”
“They’re fearful right enough, Ivor,” Beatrice said. “Just now a spider falling beside them could set them tearing at one another. A sorry crew you sent out to greet us.”
“My apologies, Mistress Beatrice. And to you too, sir. It’s not the welcome you would usually get here, but as you see, you’ve arrived on a night filled with dread.”
“We’ve lost our way to the old longhouse, Ivor,” Beatrice said. “If you’d point us to it we’d be much beholden to you. Especially after that greeting, my husband and I are eager to be indoors and resting.”
“I’d like to promise you a kind welcome at the longhouse, friends, but on this night there’s no telling what my neighbours may see fit to do. I’d be easier if you and your good husband agreed to spend the night under my own roof, where I know you’ll remain undisturbed.”
“We accept your kindness gladly, sir,” Axl broke in. “My wife and I are much in need of rest.”
“Then follow me, friends. Stay close behind me and keep your voices low till we arrive.”
They followed Ivor through the dark until they reached a house which, though in structure much like the others, was larger and stood apart by itself. When they entered under the low arch, the air was thick with woodsmoke, which, even as it made Axl’s chest tighten, felt warm and welcoming. The fire was smouldering in the centre of the room, surrounded by woven rugs, animal skins and furniture crafted from oak and ash. As Axl went about extricating blankets from their bundles, Beatrice sank gratefully into a rocking chair. Ivor, though, remained standing by the doorway, a preoccupied look on his face.
“The treatment you received just now,” he said, “I shudder with shame to think of it.”
“Please let’s think no more of it, sir,” Axl said. “You’ve shown us more kindness than we could deserve. And we arrived this evening in time to see the brave men set off on their dangerous mission. So we understand all too well the dread that hangs in the air, and it’s no wonder some should behave foolishly.”
“If you strangers remember our troubles well enough, how is it those fools are forgetting them already? They were told in terms a child would understand to hold their positions on the fence at all costs, the safety of the whole community depending on it, to say nothing of the need to aid our heroes should they appear at the gates pursued by monsters. So what do they do? Two strangers go by, and remembering nothing of their orders or even the reasons for them, they set on you like crazed wolves. I’d be doubting my own senses if such strange forgetfulness didn’t occur so often in this place.”
“It’s the same in our own country, sir,” Axl said. “My wife and I have witnessed many incidents of such forgetfulness among our own neighbours.”
“Interesting to hear that, sir. And I was fearing this a kind of plague spreading through our country only. And is it because I’m old, or that I’m a Briton living here among Saxons, that I’m often left alone holding some memory when all around me have let it slip?”
“We’ve found it just the same, sir. Though we suffer enough from the mist—for that’s how my wife and I have come to call it—we seem to do so less than the younger ones. Can you see an explanation for it, sir?”
“I’ve heard many things spoken about it, friend, and mostly Saxon superstition. But last winter a stranger came this way who had something to say on this matter to which I find myself giving more credence the more I think on it. Now what’s this?” Ivor, who had remained by the door, his staff in his hand, turned with surprising agility for one so twisted. “Excuse your host, friends. This may be our brave men already returned. It’s best for now you remain in here and not show yourselves.”
Once he had left, Axl and Beatrice remained silent for some time, their eyes closed, grateful, in their respective chairs, for the chance to rest. Then Beatrice said quietly:
“What do you suppose Ivor was going to say then, Axl?”
“About what, princess?”
“He was talking of the mist and the reason for it.”
“Just a rumour he heard once. By all means let’s ask him to speak more on it. An admirable man. Has he always lived among Saxons?”
“Ever since he married a Saxon woman a long time ago, so I’m told. What became of her I never heard. Axl, wouldn’t
it be a fine thing to know the cause of the mist?”
“A fine thing indeed, but what good it will do, I don’t know.”
“How can you say so, Axl? How can you say such a heartless thing?”
“What is it, princess? What’s the matter?” Axl sat up in his chair and looked over to his wife. “I only meant knowing its cause wouldn’t make it go away, here or in our own country.”
“If there’s even a chance of understanding the mist, it could make such a difference to us. How can you speak so lightly of it, Axl?”
“I’m sorry, princess, I didn’t mean to do so. My mind was on other things.”
“How can you be thinking of other things, and we only today heard what we did from that boatman?”
“Other things, princess, such as if those brave men have come back and with the child unharmed. Or if this village with its frightened guards and flimsy gate is to be invaded this night by monstrous fiends wishing revenge for the rude attention paid them. There’s plenty for a mind to dwell on, never mind the mist or the superstitious talk of strange boatmen.”
“No need for harsh words, Axl. I never wished a quarrel.”
“Forgive me, princess. It must be this mood here is affecting me.”
But Beatrice had become tearful. “No need to talk so harshly,” she muttered almost to herself.
Rising, Axl made his way to her rocking chair and crouching slightly, held her closely to his chest. “I’m sorry, princess,” he said. “We’ll be sure to talk to Ivor about the mist before we leave this place.” Then after a moment, during which they continued to hold each other, he said: “To be frank, princess, there was a particular thing on my mind just now.”
“What was that, Axl?”
“I was wondering what the medicine woman said to you about your pain.”
“She said it was nothing but what’s to be expected with the years.”
“Just what I always said, princess. Didn’t I tell you there was no need for worry?”
The Buried Giant Page 6