by Roger Taylor
'This creature's big and vicious,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I think it would attack two people alone. I think you should send them out in groups of at least four.'
His suggestion was made with considerably less subtlety than he had hoped, but immediately he felt easier in himself.
Gryss and Garren exchanged a glance. ‘Why do you say that?’ Gryss asked quietly. ‘No dog's going to attack a man when it can have a sheep. You know that. If we send out men in larger groups there'll be fewer groups and the chances of catching it will be that much the less.'
Farnor cringed inwardly. He could not deny Gryss's answer without explaining in some way his knowledge of the creature. And yet he could not sit silent when men might be sent out to face it, oblivious of its malevolence.
'It's just that it's so big,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘Didn't you notice the size of the wounds on that second sheep?’ He held up his hands, his fingers curling clawlike. Reluctantly he edged away from his intention to warn. ‘Perhaps it won't actually attack, but if it were cornered or caught with its prey I don t think it would run away.'
Neither Gryss nor Garren spoke.
A memory came to Farnor's rescue. ‘You yourself said we shouldn't go out alone when we came to tell you about the sheep the other day,’ he said to Gryss.
Gryss nodded. Even as he had spoken it he had thought it a strange remark, and now it returned to confront him. Like Farnor, he had had a troubled night, with dark, ill-formed thoughts keeping sleep at bay and refusing resolutely to come clearly into focus. Dominant amongst them was the sensation he had felt when he had touched the creature's fur. The merest whiff of something admittedly, but he was wise enough to take heed of such happenings, however transient, and it had been bad, without a doubt.
And then Farnor, down-to-earth, strong, young Farnor, a steadfast son following a long, steadfast line of sons if ever there had been one. But he had fallen into some kind of trance at that same touch.
Discreetly, Gryss looked at the young man. He was patently troubled in some way, and, it seemed, turning from a boy into a man almost as he watched.
What was moving here?
He wanted to question Farnor, persuade him to speak out and bring his concerns into the open, but he had to be patient. Farnor was teetering on some unknowable edge and an injudicious inquiry might send him the wrong way, plunging him into deeper silence.
Besides, he knew that the urge to bring Farnor's secrets into the light was merely a reflection of his desire to have his own confusion clarified. Whatever was amiss would have to wait events. For now he could simply use his authority to advocate the caution that Farnor's intervention had stirred in him.
'I think I agree with you, actually, Farnor,’ he said, levering himself out of his chair with some effort and moving to the table to sit next to Garren. ‘And I commend you for noticing the size of the wounds to the sheep. It is a big dog, as I said to your father yesterday. A very big one.’ He took the cork from a bottle of ink and stood it carefully on end. ‘And there's no saying what it might do if it comes across anyone in what it now probably thinks is its territory. Four men per group it is. And well armed at that.'
Farnor breathed a discreet sigh of relief. Garren looked mildly irritated. ‘That'll cause problems,’ he grumbled.
Gryss pushed a clean sheet of paper in front of his scribe. ‘That's what we're here for,’ he said.
For most of the rest of the morning they worked through those problems, deciding who should go with whom, and where and when. Farnor contributed little, but sat in some awe as he listened to Gryss's detailed knowledge of the everyday affairs of the villagers and farmers being used to arrange a system of watch nights that they would be likely to accept. He was impressed, too, by his father. He had never seen him doing anything like this before, but at the same time he realized that his methodical and orderly approach actually pervaded the whole of his daily, weekly, even seasonal routines at the farm. At intervals the two men came to an agreement, and Garren diligently wrote down the details, his tongue protruding between his lips slightly as his weathered hands pursued this untypical task.
'I think that's all we can do,’ Gryss said finally. ‘We'll discuss it at the tithe meeting tomorrow night. Everyone will be there. A time of great healing.'
The two men chuckled conspiratorially. Knowing that arrangements for night watches were being prepared, more than a few of the interested villagers could be expected to find tasks out in the fields for the next day or so. But absence from a tithe meeting was potentially disastrous, as those attending would determine the tithing to be paid by those absent. Many a bed-bound invalid had been miraculously cured by the announcement of a tithe meeting.
'I'll put these away,’ Garren said, gathering up the writing materials and the unused papers.
Gryss nodded his thanks, then, as Garren left the room, he took a risk. He leaned towards Farnor and spoke softly and urgently.
'In your own time, Farnor, talk to me about this creature and what happened yesterday. I'm troubled by something I felt. Something bad.'
To his alarm, he saw panic filling the young man's eyes. He raised his hand reassuringly but Farnor was speaking even as he did so.
'Am I related to Rannick?’ he asked hoarsely.
Garren's footsteps sounded along the hallway.
'This is a small community, Farnor,’ Gryss said hastily. ‘We're all related in some way.’ The panic grew. ‘But no. You're no more related to Rannick's line than I am.’ He waved a hand for silence as Garren returned.
'We'll leave you to rest,’ Garren said. ‘I must admit it's been a day or two since I walked so far and my own legs are letting me know it. Is there anything I can fetch for you before we go?'
Gryss declined the offer and rose to see his guests out. The air was pleasantly fresh as they stepped outside. The drizzling rain had stopped and a warm sun was yellowing the thinning grey sky.
Farnor rested his hand on the iron ring as he passed it, causing the bell to tinkle slightly. A faint bark wandered down the hallway.
Gryss laid his hand on Farnor's shoulder. ‘I'm glad you came, Farnor,’ he said. ‘You helped me get some things clear in my mind about this business.’ Farnor smiled awkwardly by way of acknowledgement. Not only for the words, but for the pressure on his shoulder that said again, ‘in your own time, speak to me about this creature.'
* * *
Chapter 7
When they had gone Gryss returned to his wicker chair. He had been right to risk speaking to Farnor. The boy—he corrected himself—the young man, was indeed troubled in some way. But the question he had asked, ‘Am I related to Rannick?’ was puzzling.
Why in the name of sanity should Farnor suddenly imagine he was related to Rannick? And be so terrified at the prospect? Distaste Gryss could understand, but fear?
What had happened the other day when Farnor had met Rannick? And what had Rannick been doing so far up the valley?
He frowned. Alone now, he felt a much greater sense of urgency about these recent happenings than he had hitherto. He really must seek out an opportunity to be alone with Farnor with a view to tackling these questions head on. Then he swore at himself for a dull-witted old fool and, slapping his hands hard on the arms of his chair, he heaved himself up and almost ran to the front door. The chair creaked unhappily at this treatment, and the dog, caught in this sudden maelstrom of activity, scuttled indignantly out of his way and, grumbling darkly, went to lie down in a corner.
Farnor and Garren had not walked very far, and both turned at the sound of Gryss's penetrating whistle. The old man beckoned them back.
'I'm sorry, Garren,’ he said as they reached him. ‘There is a little job that Farnor can do for me if it's not too much trouble. Can you spare him for a while?'
'Of course,’ Garren said. ‘Any time. Just ask. You know that.'
As he closed the door, Gryss motioned Farnor to the back room.
'Sit down,’ he said, indicating the chair
that Farnor had been sitting in previously. Then he dropped back into his own chair opposite and, without preamble, said simply, ‘Now. Tell me everything.'
Farnor looked at him for a moment, then, clearing his throat, said, ‘Did you really sense something about the ... sheep-worrier ... yesterday?'
Although he had already admitted this to Farnor only minutes before, Gryss found that the prospect of giving a more detailed explanation was more daunting than he had anticipated. He made his face stern, fearing that he was going to look as awkward as the young man in front of him.
'Yes,’ he managed to say, authoritatively. ‘Just a flash of something when I held that piece of fur. But my guess is that you felt much more. That's why you passed out. Please tell me what happened to you. I think it's important.'
Farnor grimaced and turned away from the old man's gaze.
Impatience crept into Gryss's voice. ‘Farnor, you're not remotely interested in organizing the night watches, are you?’ he said. ‘Least of all if it means walking here through the pouring rain.’ He paused to let the words take effect. ‘You came to warn us about something. And you called that animal out there a creature. Not a dog, a creature. And why have you suddenly got the idea that you're related to...?'
Farnor lifted a hand before he could finish the question. ‘Rannick touches things ... animals ... insects,’ he blurted out. ‘Controls them.'
Then, scarcely pausing for breath, he spilled out the details of his meeting with Rannick and the strange behaviour of the flies.
'And, yesterday, I touched the ... thing ... that's out there.’ He waved his hands vaguely. ‘When I held that fur I seemed to go into ... some other place. And I touched it. And it's more than just savage, it's bad ... evil. It'll kill people without a doubt. It might even prefer people to sheep.'
He stopped and looked intently at his interrogator.
Gryss had received Farnor's outburst like a man trying to catch several things falling simultaneously from a shelf; only with an effort did he prevent his mouth from dropping open. He wanted to dismiss this young man's nonsense out of hand, but he could not deny what he himself had felt, however fleeting it had been. And there was the strange trance that Farnor had fallen into.
He met Farnor's gaze. The lad was imaginative. He knew that, having watched him many times sitting spellbound as Yonas the Teller had spun his sonorous tales of wonder. Yet, too, he was solid and practical, with his feet well on the ground. His father had seen to that. Farnor would be a fitting heir to the Yarrance land when the time came.
Despite their clamour, he set the how and the why of it all firmly to one side.
'I believe you,’ he said quietly. ‘Though what it all means and how it's all come about, I can't say.’ He went on, anticipating Farnor's next question, ‘And we have to accept that we can't tell this tale to the others as you've told it to me.’ He smiled weakly. ‘They'll think we've both gone down with brain fever.’ He made his face become thoughtful lest Farnor misconstrue his levity, and when he spoke again his manner was bluntly practical. ‘What we must concern ourselves with is the danger that this creature offers. Nothing else. Perhaps what you and I felt was ...’ He shrugged. ‘Something like the tension we feel when a thunderstorm is about to break, or that quality in the air that tells us winter is coming ... who can say?'
'But why now?’ Farnor's question burst through. ‘I've never had anything like that happen before, have you?'
'No, not really,’ Gryss admitted. ‘But we've never known a sheep-worrier like this before, and we mustn't fret about it. Not yet, anyway. We must stick to practical matters. We must protect ourselves when we go hunting and, above all, we must protect our herds—our winter food and our future. If we catch this thing, or kill it or drive it away, then perhaps we can give some thought to what's happened and why, but for the moment it's not important.'
Although Farnor would have preferred answers from the elder, he found that the acceptance of his tale had lifted a burden from him that he had scarcely realized he had been carrying. And the practicality of Gryss's response heartened him.
Gryss reached out and took from the table the sheet of paper on which Garren had written the arrangements for the night watches. He nodded slowly as he studied it. ‘I think we can do it without causing too much stir,’ he said. ‘I'll attend to it when you've gone.'
Yet something lingered between the two men. Lingered like foul air over a stagnant pond.
'Rannick,’ Gryss said, like a cold, dispelling breeze.
Farnor looked at him but did not speak.
'It's just occurred to me that you heard me talking about the taint of Rannick's family yesterday, didn't you?’ Gryss said.
Farnor nodded.
Gryss paused for a moment. Farnor's concern had become clearer. He voiced it.
'Looking back, you think that when Rannick snapped his fingers he moved that cloud of flies away, controlled them in some way, don't you? Then, within days, you found yourself mysteriously drawn out beyond the place you were in and touching a strange animal presence. It occurs to you, therefore, that you might be like Rannick. And Rannick is tainted, you heard me say.
Farnor nodded again, his face pained.
Gryss held a brief debate with himself. Better the truth, he decided. Or at least such truth as he knew, and an honest admission of his uncertainties.
He held out his hands. ‘When people come to me with their ailments and their aches, I use what knowledge I've gathered over the years to try to help them. Some of it I was taught by another healer when I was younger, some I've learned from books, most I've probably learned by experience. But sometimes ...’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Only sometimes, sadly, and far from often, these hands seem to heal things on their own. They sense things. They go straight to a hurt and put it right almost as if I wasn't there.’ He gave a disclaiming shrug. ‘I get the credit for it, but I don't begin to know how it happens. It's just some attribute that I seem to have been born with.’ He looked at Farnor squarely. ‘For all I know, now you've made me think about it, such a trait could be some remnant of the strangeness that runs in Rannick's family. The strangeness that yesterday I referred to as a taint. So also might be the brief awareness of ... the creature ... that I sensed yesterday.'
Farnor shook his head. ‘I don't understand what you mean,’ he said. ‘Are you saying that you're related to Rannick in some way, and because of what happened yesterday you think I might be too?’ Fear came back into his eyes, mixed with anger. ‘I don't want to be related to Rannick,’ he said. ‘I don't want anything to do with him. I can't stand him.'
'It's not something you've got any choice about,’ Gryss replied starkly. ‘This is a small community and very few here have either the inclination or the opportunity to marry outsiders. It's always been that way and if you go back a few generations and think what it means, you'll soon realize that by now everyone's related to everyone else. We're all cousins at some degree and at one remove or other. The blood of Rannick's family is in all of us, just as all of ours is in his.'
Farnor knew enough about the breeding of animals to understand this, though it did nothing to make him feel any easier.
'But it's diluted, Farnor,’ Gryss went on reassuringly. ‘Spread thin. And mixed with the blood of many other good solid folk before it came to you from your mother and father.'
'I've heard of traits coming out in sheep after five generations and more,’ Farnor said in rebuttal.
'And what traits do you have in common with Rannick, Farnor?’ Gryss said. ‘His surly, self-destructive disposition? His sour idleness? You've certainly none of his looks.’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘Just consider what's happened. You think you've seen him exert some mysterious control over animals, or flies anyway.’ He allowed a hint of scorn to colour this last remark. ‘Then you think that you've ... touched ... one particular animal. How can you draw any profound conclusions from such vagueness? It might all be no more than coincidence.’ He jabbed an empha
tic finger at the young man. ‘And in any case, Farnor, while you're half your mother and half your father, you're wholly yourself. Whatever traits you were born with, bad or good, and whoever they might have derived from, they're yours now and how you use them is up to you! Whether they become masters or servants is your choice.'
Farnor grimaced. ‘I suppose so,’ he conceded reluctantly, though the thought of being related to Rannick, however distantly, made him feel as though he were wearing a shirt full of hay chaff. He fidgeted uncomfortably in the wicker chair.
'Don't suppose so, know so,’ Gryss insisted. ‘It truly doesn't bother me if part of my healing skill is something inherited from Rannick's line.’ His face darkened as the memory of tragic failures he had known rose to overshadow his many successes. ‘I only wish I had more of it,’ he added softly. ‘And you yourself. How has this ability shown itself?’ He leaned forward, his voice compelling. ‘It warned you about something, Farnor. And you warned us. Perhaps because of it some of our friends and neighbours will be alive next week instead of being dead. It was your choice, Farnor, and you made it correctly. How can that be bad? Be grateful to whatever fate gave you such an opportunity to help others.'
Farnor's remaining resistance crumbled in the face of this assault. ‘Yes, you're right,’ he said, his face lighting up. ‘Thank you.'
Gryss warmed to this simple, unconditional gratitude. It was like seeing a fever patient pass through a crisis. He was both relieved and more than a little pleased with himself that in helping Farnor he had also been able to shine some light into the darkness of his own recent concerns. He looked at Farnor. Young people could be monumentally tedious at times, he mused. But at others they were quite splendid. And they certainly kept you on your toes.
He raised a cautionary finger. ‘But,’ he said, ‘this is still our secret until we know more. I can quietly arrange for our hunters to be better protected, but you must tell me if anything like this contact happens again. However slight, however odd.'
