Chapter Nine
We dodged Blaith’s men for three days, laying false trails and doubling back to fool them, but still they followed us. There were six of them, all expert trackers. Blaith had sent only his best men. Their leader, Erutruin, whose name means eagle nose, was not named for his appearance. His reputation for tracking game was legendry. It was said he could follow a phantom over water.
Vart was jumpy and tense, but by sunset on the third day he had cheered up again. I had trapped a fine goose which he expertly gutted, plucked and split wide open so that it could be stretched out flat on skewers and laid over the fire to cook. My mouth was watering but I knew it would be a while before we could start slicing the outer cooked bits off the carcass.
Vart's reaction to my catch was really weird. He went to a lot of trouble to season it with herbs and little brown mushrooms which he mashed into a paste with a pounding stone. I was puzzled that he took so much trouble with it. He had dashed off back down the track we had just travelled to get the mushrooms. I assumed he must have spotted them earlier, and he also brought back sprigs of a dark green plant which had spiky, off-white flowers, and spent ages pummelling them both into a paste.
We had harsh words about it, because I was concerned that Erutruin’s legendry eagle-nose would get the smell of the roast fowl and track us down before we had a chance to eat it. I was right too, for that was precisely what happened. Just as we were ready to make the first cut into the juicy roast, we heard a blackbird’s alarm call. Someone was coming, creeping soundlessly towards us through the thick forest.
Vart grabbed our things and signalled that we must run. I tried to get the goose off the fire rack, but he stopped me and dragged me away into the trees. We ran for about half an hour, until he seemed satisfied that we were no longer being followed. I was furious about losing the goose. All the trouble we had gone to, and he just left it to Blaith’s goons. He didn’t even try to save it.
I was starving but all he did was laugh at me. He lit a fire, and tossed me a couple of strips of dried eel from his bag. I slumped sulkily against a tree trunk and chewed on the leathery flesh to release its earthy flavour. I thought of the goose and imagined how that would have tasted, all hot, smoky and succulent.
In the morning Vart led off into the forest, seeming strangely unperturbed about Erutruin and his trackers. We moved west towards the coast, picking our way through tidal bog for two days. His relaxed cheerfulness had quickly faded into to morose withdrawal. It was to be a couple of weeks before I would discover the cause.
It happened when we came upon a scattering of mushrooms of the same type as the ones Vart had collected to eat with our lost roast goose. I started picking some, thinking we could have them with whatever wildfowl we trapped that day. Vart stopped me and told me they were poisonous. Later as we rested in a dry thicket, he pointed to a drift of the herb he had used on the goose, and performed a vivid mime to explain what happens to your bowels if you eat them. Only then did I realised why his concern about Erutruin tracking us had evaporated so completely, and why he had become so miserable after our escape from them.
I was shocked and physically sick to think of those men eating that poisonous concoction. Some might even die if they ate enough of it. Even a mouthful or two would make them horribly sick with diarrhoea and vomiting. They would certainly have become too sick to follow us.
After that we travelled on in silence. My mind was in turmoil. I tried to rationalise the situation, but could not get away from the thought that wherever I went I took death with me. The tally was mounting. Vart had done what he did in self-defence. For him it was simply a battle for survival. In some warped way, perhaps that was acceptable for him in this harsh era – I don't know. Unlike modern mankind there's no law to protect him. Even I had been forced to fight and fatally wounded a man. I wanted it all to stop. There was too much death around me. It was sickening. Yet I had to face facts. We were on the run from people who would have killed us in a second. What else could we have done? Should we give up and let them kill us, or should we fight? If fighting really is the only way, then in this lawless age that will sometimes mean killing. Without laws and society’s willingness to live by them, survival of the fittest takes over. That is how it is in this waking world.
The more I thought about these things the more I realised that it was up to me to stop the cycle of killings – make a start at it at least. After all, it was all about me in one way or another.
As the sun sank behind the horizon we ate a meal of fresh eel, cooked over the fire, with crayfish steamed with samphire and wrapped in dandelion and wild garlic leaves. On the move Vart browses endlessly on leaves, nuts, and berries, but when he settles down with a fire and the day’s game he cooks and eats with the care and passion of a chef. He keeps rock salt and herbs in his bag and hides little harvests of seasonal plants all over his territory for later use.
That night, I faced him across our fire as the ghostly glow of endless midsummer daylight shone like phosphorescence behind the black silhouettes of trees and gentle hills. Beneath the tangle of red hair, which seemed to erupt from his head like skeins of copper, his owl painted face glowed orange in the firelight. I thought of my ill founded opinions of stone-age man before I had come to this time: cruel, brutish, grunting, gorging on their kills, ignoring their children, and taking women by force when it pleased them. How could I have been so wrong? Vart was nothing like that. He was bright, witty, and caring. He loved people and life, and faced its trials and dangers with openness and courage. The certain sickness and probable deaths of Erutruin’s men had deeply affected him. He found no brutish triumph in it. It had hurt him and showed in his demeanour ever since. Despite the hardship and violence in his life, Vart was more like that small part of us that we reclaim briefly when we look out over a beautiful wilderness, or see wild animals at play. And I could not forget that whatever he'd done, he'd been forced into because of me.
I made my decision. Regardless of the risk, I would go back to Blaith’s city on the river bend. The problem was, I wanted to go alone, and not expose Vart to further danger. I had to get away from him, or persuade him to release me.
With the fire's heat and pleasant smoke wafting across my face, I gazed into the flames and imagined Tori finding my binoculars. Clenching my fists I willed her to find them. They are incontrovertible proof that time travel exists, and she will immediately realise their significance. She'll know I’m alive and stranded in this time. If she can convince the professor to show them to other scientists, that alone should start urgent research. And knowing Tori, she would not sit idly around. She would be on to the media, grabbing publicity so that the Government can’t ignore her. They will have to provide funding for research. Thank God she took those photographs. They will add weight to her story.
If time travel exists, could I go back and warn my dad not to drive along the road he took? Could I get my dad back?
I snapped myself out of my thoughts, wiped my eyes on the back of my hand, and started fishing around in my back-pack. I was looking for my jeans-belt. It’s a tan leather belt with a heavy brass buckle. I know Vart likes it, but old Blaith has coveted it too, so I’d taken to hiding it whenever I thought it might get pinched. My dad bought it for me just before … It wasn't a birthday present or anything. He just bought it. He did stuff like that sometimes. He was a quiet man my dad. He never did things that were noisy or playful. He was funny though, but with words and stuff. Then suddenly he just ups and buys you a present and you don’t know why. I loved that belt. Now I hoped to trade it for Vart's cooperation.
I placed it on the ground in front of him. His eyes were sparkling like he was miles away, lost in thought, gazing into the embers. He snapped out of it suddenly, and tugging at the thin beaded plaits curled untidily about his ears he focussed on the belt. He didn’t touch it – he just looked at it and waited.
‘Jack give belt Vart. This word, belt.’ I tapped the belt with a finger. His lips m
oved as he repeated the word soundlessly. We’re always teaching each other words, Vart mainly though.
He shuffled on his bottom and smiled slightly, like he was trying not to. ‘Vart glad belt.’ He picked it up and sniffed it. He sniffs everything. If you gave him a handful of dog poo he’d give it a good sniff first.
‘Fy glad.’ Me glad.
‘Vart give Jack kadn.’ He started searching in his bag.
I knew that kadn meant fox, but what the devil was he going to give me? He produced a fox’s brush. I stared at it not knowing how to react. He held it to his hair like an orange dreadlock, and I got it. How cool is that? I had been wishing my hair would grow so I could have some tress rings like Vart’s. A fox's tail would be a great start.
‘Wow! Thanks Vart. This’s wicked.’ He stared at me bemused, and I realised I was gabbling. ‘Jack glad kadn. Thanks, ayoon dar - wicked.’ Thanks, very good.
Delighted Vart rolled back and forth on his buttocks watching me trying to fasten the fox tail in my hair. He looped the belt around his waist and tightened it, trying several holes for no better reason than simply playing with the buckle.
‘Jack angen Blaith. Sayrath,’ I said. Jack want Blaith. Talk to him.
Vart shuffled to my side, swatted my hands away from the fox tail and started fixing it to my hair. ‘Jack tupdra.’ You’re stupid Jack.
‘Blaith has the dog man. I need to speak to him – err - Jack sayrath char-dun.’ Jack speak to dog-man.
Vart leaned back to check out the fox tail, eyeing his handy work proudly. He adjusted it slightly before declaring it finished. ‘Dar.’ Good.
Looking grave, he pointed a warning finger at me. ‘Not go. Blaith kill.’
‘No Blaith friend Jack.’
He laughed at me sarcastically. ‘Arweth friend Jack? Bayeth friend Jack? Gwibah friend Jack? Jack tupdra.’ Is the bear your friend? Is the boar your friend? Is the adder your friend? You are stupid if you think so.
‘Jack angen sayrath Char-dun. Blaith has him.’ I said. I have to speak to the dog-man and Blaith has him.
Vart flapped his hands dismissively and rolled onto his bed space, spitting stone-age expletives at me. Making himself comfortable for the night, he closed his eyes and I knew that I’d get no more out of him.
In the morning, I packed my back-pack, and set off back to Blaith’s city on the river bend. Vart watched me go, no doubt cursing me for a fool under his breath. Suddenly, he leapt up from his bed and shouted angrily. He stomped about jabbering and pointing. I understood little of it, but it was obvious he was furious with me. Nevertheless, I could see he was preparing to come along, and I had to stop him.
I told him to stay and wait for me. I said he must not come. I said I needed him here in eight days when I returned, and I shoved him down onto his bed-place to underline my meaning.