‘Enough of your silly stories, Blindweed,’ snorted Bhreac by the rowan tree. ‘Can’t you see you’re frightening Eloin?’
Eloin’s little calf had started to feed again.
‘They’re more than just stories,’ grumbled Blindweed.
‘Nonsense. Besides we’ve more important things to worry about than a fawn mark.’
Eloin, who had been deep in thought, pricked up her ears.
‘What do you mean, Bhreac?’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’ Bhreac was silent. She looked nervously at Blindweed.
‘What’s happened?’ said Eloin, struggling to get up.
‘My dear,’ answered Blindweed quietly, ‘there has been fighting in the herd. The Draila are up to something.’
‘Brechin?’ cried Eloin. She was up now and pawing the ground as Rannoch tried to nudge between her legs.
‘I don’t know. I last saw him going to the meeting place’.
‘Then I didn’t dream it. The cries from the hillside?’
‘No, you didn’t dream it,’ said Blindweed. ’The Outriders have been attacked.’
Rannoch seemed to sense his mother’s fear for he nestled in beside her, looking up nervously at the two old deer.
‘I must try to find Brechin,’ said Eloin, glancing about her desperately. Nearby she saw Bracken, her dead new-born fawn lying motionless at her feet, as she grazed listlessly by the trees.
‘No, my dear, it is better that you stay here with the little one,’ said Bhreac. ‘Blindweed says the herd is swarming with Draila. Blindweed? What are you doing now, you old fool?’
The storyteller had wandered off to the edge of the stream and was pushing his muzzle into the side of the bank, as though trying to pick up a scent.
‘This is no time to graze Blindweed,’ snapped Bhreac.
‘Have you gone mad?’
But when Blindweed lifted his head it was stained with mud from the wet ground. He trotted back towards them.
‘Blindweed. Stop fooling,’ said Bhreac.
‘Silence, hind,’ snapped Blindweed suddenly. ’Eloin, I am old and have strange ways and there is much trouble in the herd. I do not understand politics. But I know this: that fawn mark of little Rannoch’s will bring him nothing but trouble. Will you trust me, Eloin?’
Eloin didn’t understand but as she gazed back into the old storyteller’s grave eyes she realized he was deadly serious. She nodded.
‘Come here, Rannoch,’ said Blindweed. He nudged the fawn and Rannoch swung round, startled. The old deer reached down and, with one swing, rubbed his nose across the little fawn’s forehead. The smear of mud stained Rannoch’s fur, almost completely masking the white leaf.
‘That’s better,’ said Blindweed. ’We can’t have you wandering around with a fawn mark like that and making the other deer jealous, can we now?’
Rannoch blinked up at Blindweed, then, suddenly frightened of the huge mouth and great tongue, he turned back to his mother. Eloin let him come and stood gazing out across the home valley. She hardly knew why, but she felt better for what Blindweed had done.
‘Oh, Brechin,’ she whispered. ‘I wish you would hurry’.
As Sgorr ran, his Draila behind him, he let the wind score his face and his lungs swelled with pleasure. The night’s success had surpassed even his wildest expectations. The Outriders, who he had tried to outmanoeuvre for so long, were crushed. Brechin was dead and now a new time was beginning in the Low Lands. Drail would not be challenged for three summers at least and thus Sgorr’s own position was secure.
Drail. He’s an old fool, thought Sgorr to himself. But he won’t last. He’s lame and tired. But I must bide my time. Then they’ll see. Then let them talk, when a hornless stag is the Lord of Herds.
Bitterness welled up in Sgorr’s stomach. He remembered the days of terrible humiliation when his antlers had first failed. Then the contempt with which he had been treated by stags so much stupider than himself. That was before he had been driven out and forced to wander the forests alone. Ah, but it had been fate that he had stumbled on this bunch of brailah. If it hadn’t been for the gullible, lame Drail, Sgorr thought, where would he be now?
His thoughts turned to Brechin and he bared his teeth with satisfaction. Brechin had fought hardest to prevent him entering the herd; now Brechin was dead and he was on his way to fetch Eloin. The beautiful Eloin. Drail would have her. For now at least.
As Sgorr pictured Eloin he felt a strange confusion enter him. It was the closest he had ever come to loving anything in his life. He thought of her sleek fur and her proud muzzle. Of her huge eyes and her bold temper. But as he thought and he tried to picture the two of them together, the vision failed. ‘How could she ever want to stand with me?’ he said to himself bitterly. With one eye. With no brave antlers to fight his place. But he must have her somehow. Then he hit on it. Eloin’s calf. Soon, Eloin, soon. Then he would have revenge for his own ugliness.
Sgorr was shaken from his thoughts by a stag running towards them from across the valley. It was the Draila that Sgorr had sent off from the meeting place.
‘Well?’ he said as the stag came up to him and bowed.
‘Have you found her?’
‘No, Captain Sgorr. But a hind over there says she thinks she’s beyond the stream.’
‘Good. Then let us see.’
Sgorr wheeled round and ran straight for the pasture towards Eloin and Rannoch.
Blindweed was moving restlessly up and down the edge of the stream, trying to scan the valley for signs of movement or for any approaching Draila as Bhreac tried to reassure Eloin.
‘Brechin will be all right, my dear,’ the kindly old doe was saying, ‘you’ll see. He hasn’t ever been beaten.’
‘No,’ agreed Eloin nervously. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ From the corner of her eye Eloin saw Bracken flinch and the two deer heard the trees on the mountainside rustle.
‘A stag,’ whispered Eloin. ’Coming down the hill.’ Blindweed had heard it too and was with them again.
‘Brechin?’ said Bhreac.
The branches parted and, as the deer emerged, Eloin shook her head.
‘No,’ she sighed sadly as she spied Bandach running towards her. He raced straight over to the group. He was panting heavily and drenched in blood and sweat.
‘Forgive me stealing up on you,’ said the young stag as he reached them.’ Captain Brechin sent me.’
‘Brechin? He’s all right?’ Bandach lowered his head.
‘No, Eloin, I’m sorry,’ he answered. ‘The Outriders are gone.’
Eloin began to shake. Her haunches flinched and she walked backwards as Rannoch tried to stay under her soft belly.
‘What have they done?’ cried Blindweed. ’Stags do not kill each other.’
‘Drail has gone mad,’ said Bandach. ’He has forbidden Anlach.’
‘But he can’t.’
‘The Draila are everywhere. And Eloin, I have come to warn you. They are coming to take you to Drail.’
‘Drail?’ cried Eloin. ’Never.’
‘It is worse than that,’ whispered Bandach, looking down at Rannoch. ’Sgorr. He is coming to kill your calf. I must get you all away.’
Suddenly the terrible sadness that was filling Eloin’s heart was swept away. Now all she could think of was saving her fawn. She would gladly die if she had to, but she must protect her little one.
‘We will go west over the valley to the next glen,’ said Bandach. ’From there into the high mountains. Perhaps even into the High Land itself.’
Bhreac looked fearfully at the hind. To the Low Land deer the High Land was a distant, sinister place, surrounded by legend and fable and cloaked in mystery.
‘But the little one,’ said Bhreac, ‘he’ll never survive the journey.’
‘We must try. It’s his only hope.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Eloin, ‘we must try.’
‘It’s too late,’ cried Blindweed.
Blindweed was looking across the
stream. In the distance, no more than thirty trees away, Sgorr and five Draila were hurrying towards them.
‘We’re lost,’ said Bhreac.
‘Hush,’ snapped Blindweed. ’I’ve an idea. If only we had more time.’
‘If time is all you need,’ cried Bandach, ‘you shall have it. But hurry with your plan, for Herne’s sake.’
Bandach leapt forward on his front haunches and, tossing back his antlers, he splashed through the stream. Up the facing bank he ran and then, bucking and kicking, he shot forward diagonally across Sgorr’s path. He was out in the middle of the valley when the Draila spied him and, as he had gambled, the whole group swung away to follow him. Bandach had guessed that Sgorr would not risk depleting his own bodyguard, nor deprive himself of such a prize.
On Bandach sped, with the wind in his ears and anger pumping his heart. He was fast and young and for a while he held them off. But at last the day’s terrible exertions and the fight on the hillside began to catch up with him. He slowed and the Draila drew nearer. Then they caught him. He kicked out behind him but an antler caught him in the leg and he tripped. Bandach would never get up again.
Sgorr led the Draila slowly back across the stream. He wanted to savour this moment. As they reached the far verge, he saw Eloin ahead of him, along with the fool of a storyteller Blindweed and an old doe he didn’t recognize. From Eloin’s shape he knew instantly that she had already calved.
‘Eloin,’ he said in a silken voice as he ran up. ‘I hope you are well.’
‘Don’t bring your foul, lying tongue here, Sgorr,’ spat Eloin, backing away.
‘My dear, such manners hardly befit a captain’s hind.’
‘You’ll pay dearly for what you have done, Sgorr.’
‘What I have done? Ah, but of course. You’ve been consorting with traitors and spies. Then you know everything?’
‘I know that you have poisoned the herd. I know that you have killed Brechin and the others. I know that you have broken the Lore.’
‘That is a pity. I had hoped to bring you the news myself.’
‘If I had an antler, Sgorr, I would poke out that patch of pondweed you call an eye.’
‘Yes. It’s understandable you’re upset,’ said Sgorr softly.
‘Perhaps you should be thinking of more pleasant things. Well then, I’ve a surprise. Drail wants to see you.’
‘Drail,’ snorted Eloin. ’I’d rather die than stand with that lame horn.’
Sgorr was mightily pleased, for in his twisted mind he had thought it impossible that Eloin should not be drawn to the Lord of Herds.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it may only be for a time. There are others who would protect you, and I am young.’
Eloin stared back at Sgorr in disbelief.
‘You, Sgorr?’ she said. ‘You? I’d rather Drail than you in ten thousand years. You’ll have to find some other doe to bathe your eye and lick you between the ears.’
The insult was aimed well and Sgorr winced.
‘Very well, Eloin. Drail shall have you. But now,’ he continued, his voice dropping, ‘perhaps you’ll introduce me to your new fawn. I bet he’s a bold one, if his mother’s anything to go by.’
Bhreac cast a terrified glance at Blindweed.
‘What do you want with a fawn, Sgorr?’ said Eloin. The three deer were trying to move together to shield the fawn behind them.
‘Can’t a stag show an innocent interest in a new life?’
‘No doubt Drail also has an interest in Brechin’s buck.’
‘So, Eloin, it’s a buck. How gratifying. Ah, my dear, but you’re wrong. Drail has no interest whatsoever in Brechin’s fawn. Now stand aside.’
Sgorr bared his teeth and the Draila around him advanced.
‘Very well,’ said Eloin coldly, ‘you shall meet Brechin’s fawn. There. . .’
As Eloin stepped aside Sgorr stopped in his tracks. He was bitterly disappointed.
‘Stillborn,’ snorted Sgorr with disgust. On the grass by Eloin’s feet was a dead calf, lying limp on the ground. ’A great pity. But we must not let it spoil Drail’s triumph. He is waiting for you.’
‘I’ve told you, Sgorr,’ whispered Eloin between her teeth,
‘I would rather die than run with Drail.’
‘Come now. There’s no need for histrionics. The Draila will escort you in honour to the Home Oak.’
Sgorr cast a glance at the Draila who immediately moved closer. Bhreac suddenly stepped between them.
‘Don’t you lay an antler on her,’ cried the old hind.’What do you want with her anyway? It’s not the season.’
‘Much has changed in the herd,’ said Sgorr, smiling. ‘But as for hurting her, they wouldn’t dream of it. Shall we go?’
‘Never,’ cried Eloin. ’And if you refuse to fight me, Sgorr, remember, there are plenty of poisonous plants in the forest. But before I die, Sgorr, I will tell Drail that I have done it because of you. That you wanted me and I couldn’t bear to live.’
Sgorr hesitated. Then he smiled cruelly.
‘Very well, Eloin. We may not be able to force you. But perhaps there are others who you care about.’
‘What are you doing? Get off, you brutes,’ shouted Bhreac, as two Draila started prodding the old deer with their antlers. Blindweed tried to come to her aid but two others were on him, forcing him back.
‘So you see, Eloin,’ continued Sgorr coldly, ‘you have a choice.’
‘Don’t listen, Eloin,’ cried Bhreac, bucking at one of the Draila. ’I’m old. I don’t care what they do to me.’ Eloin still hesitated and Sgorr spoke again.
‘Most touching. But there are others still who can suffer if you refuse. You there,’ said Sgorr turning to the Draila, ‘fetch me that hind over there, and her calf.’
Sgorr had spotted the hind called Bracken and the new-born fawn with the snowy back, standing silently at the edge of the forest.
‘All right, Sgorr,’ said Eloin. ’All right. Leave them alone. They’ve done you no harm.’
Sgorr looked closely at the beautiful hind.
‘And no poison?’
‘And no poison.’
‘Very well, then.’
‘But, Sgorr,’ said Eloin, ‘you must promise me not to harm Bhreac or Blindweed. They’re old. They can do nothing to you.’
Sgorr peered back into Eloin’s huge, proud eyes. Again he felt that strange confusion.
‘Such tenderness,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day I too may hope to receive a little of it myself?’
Eloin’s eyes flickered.
‘Perhaps,’ she nodded bitterly.
‘Very well, then. Release them. It is time we were at the Home Oak’.
With that the Draila surrounded Eloin and, with Sgorr at her side, they led her away. As Eloin ran she felt as though her heart was being torn out. To leave little Rannoch with another doe was almost more than she could bear. But then she thought of Brechin and the sadness overwhelmed her.
‘There’s one thing I swear,’ she whispered between her teeth, ‘by Herne and by the ancient Lore. I shall never have a calf again.’
As the group were crossing the valley they passed Bandach’s body lying still on the bloodied ground. Bandach, who had won them time to take Rannoch over to Bracken. Time to explain a little of what was happening. Time for Blindweed to drag Bracken’s dead fawn to Eloin’s side.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Eloin.
On the meadow two old deer were standing stock-still and a new-born fawn was nuzzling up to a bewildered hind. Bracken shook her head sadly as she watched Eloin being taken away. She had only just learnt the terrible pain of loss that a hind can feel for her young. She looked down at her own dead calf in the grass and quickly looked away.
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said softly, but with that she felt a strong, new life tugging at her belly and, though she knew that this little fawn at her milk wasn’t her own, she felt the powerful forces of maternal love rising inside her.
> ‘Eloin will be all right, Bracken,’ whispered Bhreac. The old deer turned to Blindweed.
‘Come, you old fool,’ she said. ‘Let’s get Bracken and Rannoch away from here. Blindweed. Blindweed?’ But Blindweed wasn’t listening.
He was looking at Bracken and the tiny fawn with a smear of mud across his forehead.
‘What? What’s that you say?’ said Bhreac.
‘Changeling child shall be his fate,’ muttered Blindweed.
‘It’s the Prophecy. The Prophecy.’
3 The Edge of the Trees
Give it an understanding, but no tongue. William Shakespeare, ‘Hamlet’
So autumn came. The bees broke their honeycombs with sweetness and the apple began to drip on the stem, fattening with burrowing grubs that bruised its skin to ochre. Petals fell and, on the stirring earth, turned sickly with their scent, until every Lera that understood the seasons caught a warning breath on the breeze.
In a meadow on the edge of the home valley two fawns, little more than four months old, were running through the grass. They had both lost their white spots and their coats were no longer woolly. They tossed their heads gleefully as they ran, full of excitement at being allowed to wander so far from their mothers’ sides. But as they came to the bottom of the meadow a third fawn called to them. He too had lost the snow leaves on his back.
‘Hey. Wait for me,’ he shouted and was preparing to launch himself after them when a grown-up voice called him back.
‘Rannoch. Rannoch. Where are you going?’ called the hind sternly. It was Bracken.
The calf’s ears dropped and he hesitated. Then, dejectedly, he turned and walked slowly back to his mother who was grazing by some ferns.
‘Tain and Thistle are going to the tree stump, Mamma,’ said Rannoch, wagging his tail enthusiastically, ‘and I want to show them. . .’
The little deer raised his head expectantly.
‘Not today, Rannoch,’ said Bracken. The hind looked about her nervously.
‘The tree stump’s a long way off for such little legs and evening isn’t so far away. You know I don’t like you wandering off.’