by Roger Taylor
It was somewhat of an exaggeration but not entirely unfair. With all their needs being well met from their farming, hunting skills were generally not required by the valley people.
Denials rose among the continuing protests.
Gryss met them full on. ‘Half of you don't know which hand to let go of,’ he expanded heatedly.
Hackles rose even further and rebellion seemed imminent. Gryss's eyes narrowed and his shoulders rose as if he were about to push a large weight. Then he seemed to concede and, swinging his pack off his shoulder, he began rooting around in it.
'Very well,’ he said. ‘I'm not going to argue with you, but ...’ He pulled a long-bladed and lethal-looking knife from his pack and squinted knowledgeably along its edge. Then he breathed on it and slowly and deliberately whetted it on his sleeve. ‘If I'm going to be gouging arrows out of people ...’ He made a laboured, scooping gesture with the knife as he laid emphasis on the word ‘gouging'. ‘Then I'll be needing this. And ...’ He turned to Garren. ‘Lend me one of your boring irons and some good dry kindling would you, Garren? Or, better still, a few sunstones if you can spare them so that we can get some real heat. It's always best to seal those big wounds in the field. Better a little discomfort than bleeding to death on the way home.'
Interest in archery waned abruptly, as did the protests, and soon the bows and quivers were leaning against the wall of Garren's farmhouse.
Gryss allowed himself no victory celebration, but turned immediately to the next skirmish. ‘And you needn't think you're coming, Marna,’ he said, pointing a curved arm over the heads of the group. ‘I can see you there, trying to be inconspicuous.'
The small crowd parted to reveal a black-haired figure with what could have been a handsome face had it not been for its defiant glowering and a mouth wavering between a grim line and a pout. There was expectant amusement among the crowd and even the dogs fell silent.
Gryss threw up his hands in despair. ‘Look at you in those clothes!’ he said. ‘You look like a boy, for heaven's sake. You should be home cleaning your father's house, mending, cooking ...'
The girl interrupted him with an angry gesture. ‘The house is clean, nothing needs mending and my father's downland cutting reeds,’ she said, her voice as defiant as her appearance.
'He wants to cut a thick one and lay it across your backside,’ Gryss muttered, though very softly. ‘Yes. And I've got to look him in the face when he gets back,’ he went on, louder. ‘I don't want to be telling him his daughter's been savaged by some wild animal.'
'What's going to savage anyone with all you around?’ Marna retorted, her tone witheringly dismissive. ‘It's only some stupid dog we'll be chasing.'
Gryss cringed inwardly. Having had no mother that she could recall, and a gentle, slightly lost father who was as compliant as the canes he wove into baskets and stools, Marna was wild, outspoken and prodigiously self-willed. That she was also large-hearted and generous in her nature served only to make her more difficult to deal with when she chose to stand her ground.
'You're not coming,’ Gryss declaimed, with as much an air of finality as he could muster, though, as ever with Marna, he could feel the argument slipping from him. ‘It's too dangerous.'
'It's only a dog, for pity's sake, Gryss,’ Marna reiterated. Her look darkened further. ‘You don't want me along because I'll probably find it while you're all swilling ale. The only chance of me getting hurt is through one of you falling on top of me.'
All eyes turned back to Gryss. He clutched at a straw. ‘It might be a bear,’ he said.
The eyes returned to Marna. Her hands came to her hips and she shook her head in mock weariness at having to deal with such blatant foolishness.
'Bear, my behind!’ she snorted.
Laughter erupted around her, coupled with shouts of encouragement. Marna's cheeks coloured. One swain reached out as if to tug at her trousers, but retreated rapidly to avoid a ferocious blow. The dogs began barking again.
Gryss smiled, but did not join in the laughter. He shook his head. ‘You can come, Marna,’ he said, unable to take advantage of his inadvertent victory over her. ‘But stay by me and Garren.'
The party thus set out in a mood of some merriment, wending its way through the morning sunshine and leaving a dark trail through the dew-sodden grass.
It was a while before they reached the place where Farnor had found the dead sheep and, as a result of stopping once or twice to enable the slower members to ‘catch their wind', some of the party were already unsteady.
The remains of the sheep, however, sobered them. The corpse was a little smaller than it had been when Farnor had first found it, but it was alive with crawling activity and the extent of the damage caused by the predator was vividly displayed. The increasingly warm sun did nothing to improve the scene.
The dogs, restrained some distance away, whined. Looking again at the destruction wrought on the animal, Farnor was glad that his father had decided not to bring their own dogs on the hunt, and Gryss unthinkingly laid a protective arm on Marna's shoulder. She made no protest.
'It was big,’ someone said eventually, voicing everyone's concern. Then hesitantly, ‘It couldn't be a bear, I suppose?'
Another voice sniggered, ‘Bear my behind,’ nervously, but the buzzing air sustained no humour.
'No,’ Gryss said at last. ‘We'd have seen more sign by now if it was a bear. No ... It'll be some big dog wandered in from ... somewhere.’ He waved vaguely towards the mountains. ‘But this is worse than the others we've lost. It could be two dogs. We must find it ... or them ... and we mustn't take any chances.’ He became more businesslike. ‘We'll work in groups of four. Whatever you do, don't split up. And if you happen to stumble on anything, don't be a hero. Whistle us all in first.'
No one seemed inclined to dispute this advice and, after some further discussion, the party split into its various groups.
Gryss remained by the dead sheep with Garren, Farnor and Marna.
'Did Rannick have anything to say?’ Garren asked.
'I haven't seen him since you told me about this,’ Gryss replied, offhandedly. ‘I've no idea where he is. Probably gone wandering off again. You know the way he is.'
Garren nodded. ‘God knows why he was out here in the first place,’ he said, his face puzzled. ‘But you'd imagine even he had enough sense of responsibility to help us find whatever did this. He's got quite a nose for tracking.'
Gryss frowned. ‘Rannick's Rannick,’ he said, as if reluctant to pursue the matter. ‘He'd be out here for no good, you can rest assured on that. The man's not just irresponsible, he's bad.'
Garren looked sharply at the elder and then, briefly, at Farnor and Marna. Farnor knew that it was his and Marna's presence that prevented his father from reproaching Gryss for this complete and uncharacteristic condemnation. For a moment he considered taxing the old man himself, but the thought faded even as it formed. Marna might be able to handle Gryss up to a point but, for all her outspoken ways, she was a girl—or a woman, as she would protest—and thus allowed far more latitude than he would be. Besides, Gryss's words were flaring up like a beacon for him, casting the shadow that Rannick threw across his mind into even darker relief. He realized that he agreed with Gryss's verdict. Agreed with it totally.
Gryss cut across Farnor's thoughts. ‘Rannick?’ he asked, flicking his hand towards some damage in the nearby shrubbery.
Farnor nodded. Gryss looked around. By now, almost all of the villagers had disappeared from view in the rolling terrain, though an occasional shout could be heard.
'We'll go this way,’ he said.
Farnor's stomach tightened. Gryss was pointing to the north. He glanced at his father, but Garren showed no surprise at this decision. In fact, he was agreeing. Farnor made an effort to keep the surprise and excitement from his face in case Marna saw it.
Gryss instructed as they walked down from the top of the rise. The remarks were ostensibly addressed to Farnor, but they we
re for everyone's benefit. ‘The ground's mostly too hard for tracks, but there'll be the odd muddy patch which might be helpful, so watch where you're walking. And keep your eyes open for any broken branches or bits of snagged fur.'
Farnor tightened his grip on his staff and his mind began to wander. He would be like one of the figures etched on the iron ring that hung from Gryss's door: grim-faced and unyielding as he waited for the enemy's final assault. Once again he would vanquish the monstrous sheep-slayer—several sheep-slayers—in a great battle. Or perhaps he might die heroically saving Marna from its cruel jaws...
He coloured at this unexpected thought and brought himself sharply back to the present. Surreptitiously he glanced at his companions in case he might have given some outward sign of this strange notion: especially to Marna. But there were no knowing looks being directed at him and he congratulated himself on a fortunate escape. Concentrate, hero, he thought.
The temperature rose as they dropped further down the hillside and moved out of the mild breeze that was drifting over the top. Their pace slowed.
Looking about him diligently, Farnor could see nothing untoward: occasional sheep tracks looking deceptively like man-made pathways, rocky outcrops, gorse, ferns, white and purple spring flowers, birds and insects flitting hither and thither. In fact this new terrain they were exploring was little different from the rest of the valley.
At the bottom of the slope a small stream dribbled by and the ground became softer.
'Look around carefully,’ Gryss said. ‘See if you can find any unusual tracks.'
They spread out and moved through the squelching turf.
Farnor could see nothing other than the footprints of sheep in the muddier areas, except for the occasional skittering trail of some small animal and the busy, narrow scratches left by worm-hunting birds.
'Here.'
It was Garren.
The other three converged on him. He was pointing his staff at a row of footprints.
'You didn't come down here, did you, Farnor?’ Gryss asked.
Farnor shook his head. ‘No, never,’ he said.
'It's Rannick then,’ Gryss said, none too pleasantly. ‘Damn his eyes.'
This time the presence of Farnor and Marna did not restrain Garren. Farnor respected his father's sense of justice.
'I know you don't like the man, Gryss,’ he said. ‘But you seem more than usually set against him today.'
Gryss grunted by way of an answer, then he waved the party forward again. Farnor looked ahead and then instinctively back for some landmark to guide him should he become lost and have to return alone.
They followed Rannick's footprints as far as they could and then continued in the direction they had been leading when they finally disappeared.
After a while Garren spoke. His voice was soft but Farnor could hear the concern in it. ‘This way will take us ...’ He did not finish his sentence, but looked significantly at Gryss.
Gryss nodded, but again did not reply, and the party went on for some time in silence.
'It's not just today,’ he said abruptly. ‘It's been growing for some time. Years, perhaps. He's getting worse.'
'Who?’ Garren asked, puzzled.
'Rannick, of course,’ Gryss replied, almost irritably. ‘And what you call my dislike for him.'
Garren shook his head as he recollected his own question. ‘What do you mean?'
Gryss hunched up his shoulders and his bright eyes became almost menacing. ‘He's getting worse,’ he repeated. ‘More unpleasant, more argumentative, more unhelpful.'
'I've never had much problem with him,’ Garren said, still feeling the need to plead for the absent Rannick. ‘Though I'll grant he's got an unfortunate manner.'
Gryss blew out a noisy breath. ‘You'd see good in a raiding fox, Garren Yarrance,’ he said, though not unkindly, laying a hand on Garren's shoulder. ‘But I've watched Rannick from a lad in the hope that he'd improve as he grew up, and all I've seen is him going from bad to worse. And it seems he's going faster and faster.'
Garren made to speak, but Gryss stopped him.
'No, Garren,’ he said. ‘Don't say anything. I've always given him the benefit of the doubt—you know that, in spite of the fact that I didn't like him. But I know his family farther back than you, or, for that matter, than almost anybody in the valley these days, and there's an evil trait in it which is writ large in Rannick.'
Farnor and Marna glanced at one another as the word ‘evil’ floated into the sunny air. Farnor shivered suddenly.
Garren was more forthright. The word disturbed him also. ‘Evil!’ he exclaimed. ‘No, I can't accept that. Good grief, his grandfather was a respected elder! A good man.'
'Maybe,’ Gryss conceded. ‘But he wasn't typical of the family by any means, and even he was a strange one until he married and seemed to quieten down.’ He stood still for a moment. ‘I think that's perhaps what I've been expecting Rannick to do. Find a nice girl, settle down, become more ... easy with his life.'
He set off again.
'But Rannick's grandfather was a healer,’ Garren said, falling in beside him. ‘And they say he had the power to understand the needs of animals almost as if he could talk to them.'
Gryss's face darkened. ‘Yes, he could. And you've heard it said that if provoked he could knock a man down without seeming to touch him.'
Garren shrugged. ‘Alehouse tales,’ he said uncertainly.
Gryss shook his head. ‘I've seen him do it,’ he said. ‘Only once, when he was a young man and I was a lad. But I saw it. And I can see it now, as clear as if I was still there.’ He paused. ‘I don't know how it came about, but there was some angry shouting, then there was a wave of his hand and this fellow went crashing across the room as if a cart had hit him. I remember the air tingling suddenly, as if a bad storm was due. And I remember the men around him going quiet and then start drifting away. And his face. I can't forget that. Savage and cruel. Only ever saw it like that the once, but I've seen the same expression on Rannick's many a time.’ He glanced down at his hands. ‘He had some skill ... some power ... that was beyond most people's understanding. And his grandfather before him was said to be a wild man.’ He shook his head. ‘My father used to say the family line was tainted as far back as anyone could recall. I've thought as you do in the past: gossip, old wives’ tales, but all these old memories have been coming back lately.’ His voice faded away.
Farnor's mouth went dry. Gryss's tale, his patent concerns and doubts and, indeed, the whole conversation between the two men, freely uttered within his hearing, seemed to have surrounded him with a fearful stillness into which the warm sun and the valley scents and sounds could not penetrate. It was as if, after passing over the boundary that had marked the limit of his wanderings all his life, he was now being taken across other, more subtle, boundaries by his father and the village elder. Boundaries to worlds that were at once here and yet far away. An urge rose within him to reach out and thank them both, to reassure them, to ... comfort them?
Gryss raised his hand hesitantly as if something had lightly brushed against him. He smiled. ‘What...?'
The presence of the valley returned to Farnor so suddenly that he missed his step and staggered forward. He steadied himself with his staff.
'Careful,’ his father said sternly. ‘I've no desire to be carrying you back home with a broken ankle.'
Before Farnor could reply however, a faint whistling reached them.
'Someone's found something,’ Gryss said, cocking his head on one side to see which direction the whistling was coming from. But the sound was rebounding from too many rock faces.
Gryss frowned and swore softly.
'Let's go on towards the castle,’ Garren suggested, pointing up a nearby slope. ‘We'll be able to see and hear better from up there, and it's not too far.'
Gryss nodded. Farnor's excitement returned, though it was laced with trepidation.
The castle! The King's castle! This was prov
ing to be a remarkable day.
Standing almost at the head of the valley, the castle was large and impressive by the villagers’ standards, but although it commanded a view of much of the valley it did not dominate. No man-made structure could dominate the peaks that towered over it.
To the children of the valley however, it was a haunted, frightening and forbidden place: both the door to, and the protection from, the world that lay to the north. The world that was even more alien than the one over the hill. The world that lurked on the fringes of their darker dreams.
At play around the village, safe in their secret huddled conclaves, they would touch the darkness and run, whispering, ‘The caves ...’ and, ‘The forest ...’ And shivering breaths would be drawn.
To the adults of the valley on the other hand, the castle seemed to mean little, although they were not above saying ‘The King's men will come for you’ to quieten their more awkward offspring. At most it was perhaps a reminder of the existence of the world over the hill, with its needs and, by implication, its powers. And, to that extent, people would tend to glance up at it more frequently towards Dalmas. Normally, however, it was just another unseen and ignored part of the landscape.
Yet even in the sober adults childhood shadows lingered, and most were content both to laugh at and to perpetuate them as ‘harmless tales', while being happy that the castle was comfortably far away from the normal avenues of their lives. Few ever found it necessary to discuss the regions beyond, though the unkinder parents would occasionally extend the menace of their threats by declaring, ‘The Forest People will come for you!'
The four hunters moved off in the direction indicated by Garren.
'Go ahead, if you want,’ he said to Farnor and Marna. ‘You'll see the castle when you reach that ridge, but wait for us there. We don't want to go trailing all the way unless we have to.'
Farnor wanted to ask his father how it was that he was so familiar with the terrain, but Garren was motioning him to follow Marna who had already set off.
'Do you think we'll catch it?’ he said, as he caught up with her.
