“Forgive me, sir. I was just now reminded of something. But to return to my point. I knew nothing of this boy before last night, but I’ve been impressed by the steady way he has faced each new terror set before him. My comrades last night, brave though they were when setting out, were overcome with fear as we approached the fiends’ camp. The boy, however, even though left at the fiends’ mercy for many hours, held himself with a calm I could only wonder at. It would pain me greatly to think his fate’s now all but sealed. So I’ve been thinking of a way out, and if you and your good wife were to consent to lend a hand, all may yet be well.”
“We’re keen to do what we can, sir. Let me hear what you propose.”
“When the elders asked me to take the boy to a distant village, they meant no doubt a Saxon village. But it’s precisely in a Saxon village the boy will never be safe, for it is Saxons who share this superstition about the bite he carries. If he were to be left with Britons, however, who see such nonsense for what it is, there can be no danger, even if the story were to pursue him. He’s strong, and as I’ve said, has remarkable courage, even if he speaks little. He’ll be a useful pair of hands for any community from the day he arrives. Now, sir, you said earlier you’re on your way east to your son’s village. I take it this will be just such a Christian village as we seek. If you and your wife were to plead for him, with perhaps the support of your son, that would surely secure a good outcome. Of course, it may be the same good people would accept the boy from me, but then I’ll be a stranger to them, and one to arouse fear and suspicion. What’s more, the errand which has brought me to this country will prevent my travelling so far east.”
“You’re suggesting then,” Axl said, “that my wife and I be the ones to take the boy from here.”
“That is indeed my suggestion, sir. However, my errand will permit me to travel at least part of the same road. You said you would take the path through the mountains. I’d happily accompany you and the boy, at least to the other side. My company will be a tedious imposition, but then the mountains are known to contain dangers, and my sword may yet prove of service to you. And your bags too could be carried by the horse, for even if her foot’s tender, she’ll not complain of it. What do you say, sir?”
“I think it an excellent plan. My wife and I were distressed to hear of the boy’s plight, and we’ll be happy if we can aid some resolution. And what you say is wise, sir. It’s among Britons, surely, he’s safest now. I’ve no doubt he’ll be received with kindness at my son’s village, for my son himself is a respected figure there, practically an elder in all but his years. He’ll speak for the boy, I know, and ensure his welcome.”
“I’m much relieved. I’ll let Master Ivor know our plan and seek a way to remove the boy quietly from the barn. Are you and your wife ready to leave shortly?”
“My wife is even now packing provisions for the journey.”
“Then please wait by the south gate. I’ll come by presently with the mare and the boy Edwin. I’m grateful to you, sir, for the sharing of this trouble. And glad we’re to be companions for a day or two.”
Chapter Four
Never in his life had he seen his village from such a height and distance, and it amazed him. It was like an object he could pick up in his hand, and he flexed his fingers experimentally over the view in the afternoon haze. The old woman, who had watched his ascent with anxiety, was still at the foot of the tree, calling up to him to climb no further. But Edwin ignored her, for he knew trees better than anyone. When the warrior had ordered him to keep watch, he had selected the elm with care, knowing that for all its sickly appearance, it would possess its own subtle strength and welcome him. It commanded, moreover, the best view of the bridge, and of the mountain road leading up to it, and he could see clearly the three soldiers talking to the rider. The latter had now dismounted, and holding his restless horse by the bridle, was arguing fiercely with the soldiers.
He knew his trees—and this elm was just like Steffa. “Let him be carried off and left to rot in the forest.” That was what the older boys always said about Steffa. “Isn’t that what happens to old cripples unable to work?” But Edwin had seen Steffa for what he was: an ancient warrior, still secretly strong, and with an understanding that went beyond even that of the elders. Steffa, alone in the village, had once known battlefields—it was the battlefields that had taken his legs—and that was why, in turn, Steffa had been able to recognise Edwin for what he was. There were other boys stronger, who might amuse themselves pinning Edwin to the ground and beating him. But it was Edwin, not any of them, who possessed a warrior’s soul.
“I’ve watched you, boy,” old Steffa had once said to him. “Under a storm of fists, your eyes still calm, as if memorising each blow. Eyes I’ve seen only on the finest warriors moving coldly through the rage of battle. Some day soon you’ll become one to fear.”
And now it was starting. It was coming true, just as Steffa had predicted.
As a strong breeze swayed the tree, Edwin moved his grip to a different branch and tried again to recall the events of the morning. His aunt’s face had become distorted out of all recognition. She had been shrieking a curse at him, but Elder Ivor had not let her finish, pushing her away from the doorway of the barn, blocking Edwin’s view of her as he did so. His aunt had always been good to him, but if she now wanted to curse him, Edwin did not care. Not long ago she had tried to get Edwin to address her as “mother,” but he had never done so. For he knew his real mother was travelling. His real mother would not shriek at him like that, and have to be dragged away by Elder Ivor. And this morning, in the barn, he had heard his real mother’s voice.
Elder Ivor had pushed him inside, into the darkness, and the door had closed, taking away his aunt’s twisted face—and all those other faces. At first the wagon had appeared only as a looming black shape in the middle of the barn. Then gradually he had distinguished its outline, and when he had reached towards it, the wood had felt moist and rotten. Outside, the voices were shouting again, and then the cracking noises had come. They had started sporadically, then several had come at once, accompanied by a splintering sound, after which the barn had seemed slightly less dark.
He knew the noises were stones striking the rickety walls, but he ignored them to concentrate on the wagon before him. How long ago had it last been used? Why did it stand so crookedly? If it was now of no use, why was it kept like this in the barn?
It was then he had heard her voice: difficult to distinguish at first, on account of the din outside and the sound of the stones, but it had grown steadily more clear. “It’s nothing, Edwin,” she was saying. “Nothing at all. You can bear it easily.”
“But the elders may not be able to hold them back for ever,” he had said into the dark, though under his breath, even as his hand had stroked the side of the wagon.
“It’s nothing, Edwin. Nothing at all.”
“The stones may break these thin walls.”
“Don’t worry, Edwin. Didn’t you know? Those stones are under your control. Look, what’s that before you?”
“An old and broken wagon.”
“Well, there you are. Go round and round the wagon, Edwin. Go round and round the wagon, because you’re the mule tethered to the big wheel. Round and round, Edwin. The big wheel can only turn if you turn it, and only if you turn it can the stones keep coming. Round and round the wagon, Edwin. Go round and round and round the wagon.”
“Why must I turn the wheel, mother?” Even as he had spoken, his feet had started circling the wagon.
“Because you’re the mule, Edwin. Round and round. Those sharp cracking noises you hear. They can’t continue unless you turn the wheel. Turn it, Edwin, round and round. Round and round the wagon.”
So he had followed her commands, keeping his hands on the upper edges of the wagon’s boards, passing one hand over the other to maintain his momentum. How many times had he gone round like that? A hundred? Two hundred? He would keep seeing, in one corner
, a mysterious mound of earth; in another corner, where a narrow line of sun fell across the floor of the barn, a dead crow on its side, feathers still intact. In the half-dark, these two sights—the mound of earth and the dead crow—had come around again and again. Once he had asked out loud, “Did my aunt really curse me?” but no reply had come, and he had wondered if his mother had gone away. But then her voice had returned, saying, “Do your duty, Edwin. You’re the mule. Don’t stop just yet. You control everything. If you stop, so will those noises. So why fear them?”
Sometimes he went three or even four times around the wagon without hearing a single sharp crack. But then as though to compensate, several cracks would come at once, and the shouting outside would rise to a new pitch.
“Where are you, mother?” he had asked once. “Are you still travelling?”
No reply had come, but then several turns later, she had said, “I’d have given you brothers and sisters, Edwin, many of them. But you’re on your own. So find the strength for me. You’re twelve years old, almost grown now. You must be by yourself four, five strong sons. Find the strength and come rescue me.”
As another breeze rocked the elm, Edwin wondered if the barn he had been in was the same one in which the people had hidden the day the wolves had come to the village. Old Steffa had told him the story often enough.
“You were very young then, boy, perhaps too young to remember. Wolves, in broad daylight, three of them, walking calmly right into the village.” Then Steffa’s voice would fill with contempt. “And the village hid in fear. Some men were away in the fields, it’s true. But there were plenty still here. They hid themselves in the threshing barn. Not just the women and the children but the men too. The wolves had strange eyes, they said. Best not to challenge them. So the wolves took all they wished. They slaughtered the hens. Feasted on the goats. And all the while, the village hid. Some in their houses. Most in the threshing barn. Cripple that I am, they left me where I was, sitting in the barrow, these broken legs poking out, beside the ditch outside Mistress Mindred’s. The wolves trotted towards me. Come and eat me, I said, I’ll not hide in a barn for a wolf. But they cared not for me and I watched them go right past, their fur as good as brushing these useless feet. They took all they wished, and only after they’d long departed did those brave men creep out of their hiding places. Three wolves in daylight, and not a man here to stand up to them.”
He had thought about Steffa’s story as he had circled the wagon. “Are you still travelling, mother?” he had asked once more, and again had received no reply. His legs were growing weary, and he had grown heartily sick of seeing the mound of earth and the dead crow, when at last she had said:
“Enough, Edwin. You’ve worked hard. Call your warrior now if you wish. Bring an end to it.”
Edwin had heard this with relief, but had carried on circling the wagon. To summon Wistan, he knew, would require immense effort. As he had the night before, he would have to will his coming from the very depths of his heart.
But somehow he had found the strength, and once he was confident the warrior was on his way, Edwin had slowed his pace—for even mules were driven more slowly towards the end of a day—and noted with satisfaction the cracking noises were growing more sparse. But only when silence had continued for a long time did he finally stop, and leaning against the side of the wagon, begin to recover his breath. Then the barn door had opened and the warrior had been standing there against the dazzling sunshine.
Wistan had come in leaving the door wide open behind him as though to show his contempt for whatever hostile forces had lately been gathered outside. This had brought a large rectangle of sun into the barn, and when Edwin had glanced about himself, the wagon, so dominant in the dark, had looked pathetically dilapidated. Had Wistan called him “young comrade” straight away? Edwin was unsure, but he did remember the warrior leading him into that patch of light, lifting his shirt and scrutinising the wound. Wistan had then straightened, glanced carefully over his shoulder, and said in a low voice:
“So, my young friend, have you kept your promise of last night? About this wound of yours?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve done just as you said.”
“You’ve told no one, not even your good aunt?”
“I’ve told no one, sir. Even though they believe it an ogre’s bite and hate me for it.”
“Let them go on believing it, young comrade. Ten times worse if they learn the truth of how you received it.”
“But what of my two uncles who came with you, sir? Don’t they know the truth?”
“Your uncles, brave as they were, became too sick to enter the camp. So it’s just the two of us who must keep the secret, and once the wound’s healed there’s no need for anyone to wonder about it. Keep it as clean as you can, and never scratch it, by night or day. Do you understand?”
“I understand, sir.”
Earlier, when they had been climbing the valleyside, and he had stopped to wait for the two elderly Britons, Edwin had tried to remember the circumstances around the wound. On that occasion, standing amidst the stubbled heather, tugging the reins of Wistan’s mare, nothing had formed clearly in his mind. But now, in the branches of the elm, gazing at the tiny figures down on the bridge, Edwin found coming back to him the dank air and blackness; the high smell of the bearskin covering the little wooden cage; the feel of the tiny beetles falling onto his head and shoulders when the cage was jolted. He recalled adjusting his posture and gripping the shaky grid before him to avoid being tossed about as the cage dragged along the ground. Then everything had become still again, and he had waited for the bearskin to be removed, for the cold air to rush in around him, and to glimpse the night by the glow of the nearby fire. For this was what had happened twice already that night, and the repetition had removed the edge from his fear. He remembered more: the stink of the ogres, and the vicious little creature hurling itself at the rickety poles of the cage, obliging Edwin to push as far back as he could.
The creature had moved so quickly it had been hard to get a clear view of it. He had had the impression of something the size and shape of a cockerel, though with no beak or feathers. It attacked with teeth and claws, all the time letting out a shrill squawking. Edwin trusted the wooden poles against the teeth and the claws, but now and then, the little creature’s tail would whip by accident against the cage and then everything seemed much more vulnerable. Thankfully the creature—still in its infancy, Edwin supposed—seemed oblivious of the power in its tail.
Although at the time these attacks seemed to go on forever, Edwin now supposed they had not lasted so long before the creature had been pulled back by its leash. Then the bearskin would thump over him, all would be blackness again, and he would have to grip the poles as the cage was dragged to another spot.
How often had he had to endure this sequence? Had it been just two or three times? Or as often as ten, or even twelve? Perhaps after the first time he had fallen asleep, even in those conditions, and dreamt the rest of the attacks.
Then on that final occasion, the bearskin had not come off for a long time. He had waited, listening to the creature’s squawks, sometimes far away, sometimes much closer, and the grumbling sounds the ogres made when talking to each other, and he had known that something different was about to happen. And it had been during those moments of dreadful anticipation that he had asked for a rescuer. He had made the request from the depths of his being, so it had been something almost like a prayer, and as soon as it had taken shape in his mind, he had felt certain it would be granted.
At that very moment the cage had begun to tremble, and Edwin had realised the entire front section, with its protective grid, was being drawn aside. Even as this realisation made him shrink back, the bearskin was pulled off and the ferocious creature flew at him. In his sitting position, his instinct was to raise his feet and kick out, but the creature was agile, and Edwin found himself beating it off with fists and arms. Once he thought the creature had got the better of
him, and had for an instant closed his eyes, but then opened them again to see his opponent clawing the air as the leash dragged it back. It was one of the few times he had been permitted a good glimpse of the creature, and he saw that his earlier impression had not been inaccurate: it looked like a plucked chicken, though with the head of a serpent. It came for him again, and Edwin was once more beating it off the best he could. Then quite suddenly, the cage front was restored before him, and the bearskin plunged him back in blackness. And it had only been in the moments afterwards, contorted inside the little cage, that he had felt the tingling on his left side just beneath the ribs, and had felt the wet stickiness there.
Edwin adjusted again his foothold within the elm, and bringing down his right hand, touched gently his wound. There was no longer any depth to the pain. During the climb up the valleyside, the coarseness of his shirt had at times made him grimace, but when he was still, as he was now, he could hardly feel a thing. Even that morning in the barn, when the warrior had examined it in the doorway, it had seemed little more than a cluster of tiny punctures. The wound was superficial—not as bad as many he had had before. And yet, because people believed it to be an ogre’s bite, it had caused all this trouble. Had he faced the creature with even more determination, perhaps he could have avoided receiving any wound at all.
But he knew there was no shame in how he had faced his ordeal. He had never cried out in terror, or pleaded to the ogres for mercy. After the little creature’s first lunges—which had taken him by surprise—Edwin had met it with head held up. In fact he had had the presence of mind to realise the creature was an infant, and that one could in all probability create fear in it, just as one might in an unruly dog. And so he had kept his eyes open and tried to stare it down. His real mother, he knew, would be particularly proud of him for this. Indeed, now that he thought about it, the venom had gone out of the creature’s attacks soon after its opening forays, and it had been Edwin who had gained more and more control of the combat. He recalled again the creature clawing the air, and it seemed to him now likely it had not been displaying an eagerness to continue the fight, but simply panic at the choking leash. It was quite possible, in fact, the ogres had judged Edwin the victor of the encounter, and that was why proceedings had been brought to an end.