Farnor

by Roger Taylor

'Of course,’ Farnor said, almost off-handedly. Most of his anxiety having been taken from him, he wanted to be away; to be outside; to breathe cool, fresh air and feel space about him.

  Gryss released him with a flick of his hand. ‘And if you see Rannick, ask him if he could drop in and see me urgently,’ he concluded as Farnor rose to leave.

  * * * *

  By dint of his knowledge of the villagers and farmers, coupled with some shrewd talking and some straightforward alarmism based on the results of ‘another look at’ the damage to the two corpses, Gryss persuaded the hunters to go out in groups of six and armed with, amongst other things, sharpened staves, axes, sickles and the inevitable rusty swords.

  The sheep were rounded up and brought lower down the valley, except for a few that were left to act as bait for the marauder. With varying degrees of patience the hunters kept their nightly vigils, but apart from an occasional alarm prompted by a curious fox, or some night bird, nothing happened, and after a few nights spent thus, such small enthusiasm there had been for night watches disappeared completely.

  'It's left. We've frightened it away,’ was the consensus among the yawning and by now bad-tempered watchers. Gryss could scarcely disagree. In the past, offending animals had invariably been caught by the third night at the latest. And, too, Dalmas was imminent and there would be a great deal of work involved in agreeing the final value and distribution of the tithe and then collecting and preparing it.

  The night watches were thus abandoned without further debate and village and valley life reverted to normal, enlivened by a rash of new tales being told, retold and exaggerated about the many small incidents that had coloured the tedious nightly outings.

  Superficially Gryss was satisfied with this outcome, though something inside him could not accept that it was yet finished. And two more specific matters lingered uncomfortably in his thoughts. One was that Rannick had still not appeared. The other, though vaguer, Gryss found more disturbing. When the sheep had been rounded up, one of the farmers thought that some of his were missing. He made no great issue of it as the round-up was necessarily not a particularly thorough one, and Gryss gave the remark little heed. In due course, however, independently and equally casually, some four or five other farmers made the same observation and Gryss realized that the possible total number of sheep missing was disturbingly large.

  But, with Dalmas pending, and general disenchantment at the fruitless night watches dominating village affairs, Gryss held his peace. It felt like an act of cowardice however: something that he might come to regret in due course.

  Farnor, not privy to these concerns, and to some extent still glowing from Gryss's secret approval of his actions, happily let the whole affair slip into the past. And as Dalmas approached, like everyone else, he became increasingly occupied with the business of gathering the tithe.

  To Farnor there was something comforting about the particular reliability of Dalmastide, with its long-winded and almost ritualistic haggling over who had to pay what and why, and the subsequent communal effort involved in the gathering.

  Daily routines were changed, carts and wagons were borrowed, as were casks and kegs and barrels and all manner of other containers. Special breads and cakes were baked and meats prepared. The village had a smell of spring awakening and of cooking that was uniquely Dalmastide. People were not where they usually were and, bumping into friends and acquaintances they had ‘not seen for ages', invariably stopped too long to gossip and chatter—usually in the inn.

  Overall, a sense of excitement, expectation and, not infrequently, dire emergency filled the air.

  Farnor was less taken by the details of the preparation, affecting to regard it as women's work, though it was not a comment he would have said out loud in the vicinity of his mother or any of the other women. And, notwithstanding this affectation, he always found the careful arrangements of the stored produce decorated with elaborate patterns of spring flowers and leaves a happy, even moving, sight.

  On the evening of Dalmas Eve there were the usual last-minute alarms but, as ever, the preparation was eventually declared adequate and the tithe barn was ceremoniously closed and sealed at sunset.

  Gryss stepped back from the door of the barn and performed the final task of the ceremony, the striking of a sunstone which was to be mounted on the ridge of the barn. In earlier days this had involved a hair-raising climb up a long and invariably shaking ladder, but following a series of unfortunate happenings to one particular elder, an ingenious rope-and-pulley system had been devised so that the matter could be attended to with dignity from the safety of ground level.

  Farnor watched the shining sunstone as it rose to the top of the barn in its open metal bowl. It swung hypnotically from side to side until with a click it came to a halt. The barn being on raised ground, the sunstone would be visible from many parts of the valley and at night would look like a bright new star set low in the sky. It seemed like a good omen, a celebration of the end of the strangeness that had begun with his finding of the dead sheep and to some extent still lingered with him, albeit greatly lessened by Gryss's lancing.

  * * * *

  Dalmas Day passed quietly, as always, it being regarded as a rest day following the flurry and bustle of the tithe gathering. Dalmas Morrow, too, was quiet, though, as usual, it had a livelier air about it as final preparations were made for the cooking of the special meals that were a feature of the following day.

  At risk of being drawn into this activity by his mother, Farnor judiciously opted to observe another Dalmastide tradition, namely the sunset watch. This was ostensibly the oldest of the Dalmastide ceremonies though, whatever the truth of this, it had undoubtedly changed in character from its original form.

  Once believed to have been a gathering of worthies charged with the task of watching for the arrival of the King's tithe gatherers, it was now an excuse for the young sparks of the village to gather with a view to making merry. Accompanied by knowing looks, unorthodox bottles full of ‘my father's best fruit cordial’ and ‘my mother's liniment’ appeared, as did food more properly destined for the morrow. Instruments were brought and played, songs sung, dances danced and other activities pursued as the mood of the moment dictated. There was much talk and laughter and the ‘ceremony’ always extended well beyond sunset, the time by which the gatherers had to arrive if the tithe was not deemed to be unrequired by the King. Indeed, the ceremony did not normally begin to get properly under way until the light began to fade.

  It was still some time to sunset when Farnor arrived at the hillock to the south of the village where the sunset watch was traditionally held and, after greeting those already there, he flopped down on the short springy grass and lay back luxuriously to await events.

  It had been a fine warm day and it promised to be a fine warm evening. The atmosphere on the hillock was already lively and happy and Farnor felt a euphoria seeping over him: a feeling of gratitude such as he had felt for his mother the day after the hunt; a feeling of gratitude for his father and Gryss and all his friends, and the good life that was to be found in the valley. Yonas's ringing tales of wars and battle and heroism in distant magic lands, and Gryss's quiet reticence about the world over the hill, swung in easy counter-balance to one another against this contentment. Tonight, whether it be quiet and reflective or noisy and boisterous, would be good, he knew. It always was.

  Through half-opened eyes he watched his friends. Some were lying idly on the grass as he was, some were standing and talking, others were just wandering to and fro. The buzz of their conversation and the smell of the grass seemed to flow right through him. His friends appeared to be at once here, around him, and a long way away. He wanted to reach out and thank them for being.

  Abruptly, a great spasm shook him wide awake as if he had been lifted gently off the ground and then dropped violently. It was a familiar enough experience often happening as he was drifting into sleep.

  He smiled ruefully to himself. A lucky escape, he t
hought. Had he gone to sleep there was no doubt that some atrocity would have been committed on him by his friends that would have served as a topic for merriment for the rest of the year. As he levered himself on to his elbow, he noticed that the hillock was suddenly silent and that many of his companions had raised their hands as if something had touched them or as if to catch a distant sound.

  He clapped his hands loudly, making several of them jump and immediately restoring the noisy hubbub to the top of the hillock twofold.

  He laughed as he dodged various missiles, then looked around to decide which of the groups he should favour with his company.

  As he did so, however, something caught his eye. For a moment it confused him, then he sought it out again and studied it intently.

  Silence once again descended on the gathering. Others had seen it.

  To the south, winding slowly over the undulating ground, was a long line of riders.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  A clamorous knocking filled the house.

  Gryss's eyes opened first in shock and then in disbelief as he eventually identified the noise, and it was a far from genial village elder who struggled out of his chair to answer the door.

  His dog was not pleased either, and the two of them wore almost identical expressions of world-weary irritation as they lumbered sleepily down the hallway towards the cause of this unconscionable disturbance.

  'It's Dalmas Morrow, you know ...’ Gryss began crossly as he opened the door. He stopped. There was no one there.

  'Gatherers, Gryss sir, gatherers! The gatherers are coming!’ An anxious and disembodied voice startled Gryss further into wakefulness. Struggling to gather his wits he glanced from side to side, looking for the bearer of this strange message. There was no one in sight. Then a tug on his jacket drew his eyes downwards. They met those of one of the younger village children. The boy was red-faced and breathless, jumping up and down agitatedly and pointing down the valley.

  'Gatherers!’ he shouted again. This time it was the import of the message that impinged on Gryss and the residue of his peaceful doze fled completely. Almost immediately however, a suspicion entered his head.

  He crouched to bring himself creakingly level with the boy. ‘Is this some Dalmas jape, young Pieter?’ he demanded. ‘Disturbing the peace with your racket and waking up folk from their well-earned rest?'

  The boy shook his head in wide-eyed earnestness.

  'Farnor Yarrance sent me, sir,’ he said. ‘He said to tell you that the gatherers are coming and he and the others are going to get the rest of the elders. He said to come to the tithe barn.'

  'Others?’ Gryss frowned, trying to come to grips with what he was hearing.

  'From the watch,’ the boy replied, almost impatiently. ‘The sunset watch.’ He tugged at Gryss's jacket again. ‘He said to come right away.'

  The old dog emerged from behind Gryss's legs having finally decided that it was safe to bark. The boy smiled and bent forward to stroke it. Gryss eyed him narrowly. There was little doubt about his innocence in whatever was brewing here; he was merely the expendable foot soldier sent out as bait for some ambush.

  'Right away, eh?’ he echoed sternly. The boy nodded.

  Gryss looked around. It was a fine evening and a stroll would not go amiss. No harm in playing this through, whatever it is, he thought, though the mention of Farnor's name was a little disturbing. It was some time since he had been involved in any Dalmastide mischief.

  He motioned the boy to lead on and, saying ‘stay’ to the dog's reproachful gaze, he closed the door and set off after the youngster at a leisurely pace.

  As he neared the tithe barn he heard voices carrying through the quiet stillness of the evening air.

  Several voices.

  And talking loudly at that!

  Forehead furrowing, he quickened his pace, and soon he was walking up the slope towards the barn. The sunstone was shining brightly, reinvigorated by the light it had received during the day, but what drew Gryss's attention was not this fine star-bright glow, but the crowd of people gathered in front of the barn. Others were arriving, young and old.

  If this was indeed some prank by the youngsters it had all the hallmarks of one that was going to go badly wrong, disturbing so many people on Dalmas Morrow. He shook his head, his mind already running through the kind of recriminations that were liable to be heaped upon the perpetrators. Doubtless they would have asked for it, but it always gave him a twinge of regret to see youthful scapes, as much full of enthusiasm as folly, dashed against parental displeasure with its underlying tinges of envy and regret for times gone.

  As he approached, Farnor emerged from the group and strode towards him. All notions of youthful pranks disappeared from his thoughts as soon as he saw Farnor's face.

  'What's the matter?’ he asked before Farnor could speak.

  'The gatherers are coming,’ Farnor said, pointing south, his voice a mixture of excitement and concern. ‘We saw them from the sunset watch hill.'

  Gryss's stomach tightened and his breathing became cold and shallow. He did not speak for a moment for fear that his voice would shake.

  'Tell me what you saw,’ he said eventually.

  'Riders,’ Farnor replied, simply. ‘A long line of them coming along the valley. There must have been about a hundred of them. They'll be here within the hour, I imagine. Shall we open the barn?'

  Gryss shook his head though more in the mode of someone who did not wish to be troubled with questions rather than someone making a denial. Indeed that was the case, for Farnor's news seemed to have struck a sudden and cruel blow at the heart of something that was very precious about life in the valley, and Gryss would have preferred to be able to walk away for a little while to think before he faced his friends and neighbours.

  In spite of the vigour and heat of the yearly arguments about the tithe, Gryss, like everyone else, had pursued them as if they were no more than a harmless and comforting ritual which duly performed would, like one of Yonas's tales, inevitably lead to a happy ending. Now reality was riding steadily along the valley towards him, and it seemed that whatever the outcome of this day the Dalmastide he had always known could never be again.

  Many good things would be lost with it.

  Worse, frightening even, the world from over the hill was about to intrude upon them. The world of the King and his needs. The vast world of towns and cities and strange peoples with strange ways and little concern for such as lived in the valley. And, too, the world of other, more distant lands and peoples. He had touched upon such things in his youthful travels and had subsequently valued the valley the greater for his experience.

  Please don't let it be war, he thought desperately.

  'Are you all right?’ Farnor's voice interrupted his fretful reverie.

  He forced a smile to his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Your news took me by surprise, that's all. I thought young Pieter had been sent on some errand of mischief. Now I'll have to try to remember what it is I'm supposed to do when the gatherers arrive.'

  He realized that he was slouching, ‘like some old man', and, straightening up, he took Farnor's arm and set off towards the noisy group by the barn.

  Immediately he was the focus of attention. He raised his hands to silence the clamouring questions. ‘Well, my friends,’ he began, his voice as hearty and reassuring as he could make it. ‘It looks like our annual market tomorrow has been called off. It's an unfortunate surprise for us, to say the least, and I can't pretend to be pleased about it after all these years.’ He shrugged. ‘But I tell you, I'm well pleased that we've kept up the tithe gathering as was our duty. I'd hate to be standing here tonight with the barn empty.’ Much sagacious nodding greeted this remark. ‘What we've got to remind ourselves of now is that these men will be the King's men come for what's his due. No matter what we feel like, we'll have to put on welcoming faces and see that they get all the help we can give. Especially as we'll probably find that the tithe's bee
n calculated wrongly.'

  'That's not our fault,’ someone shouted. ‘We've never had a proper tithe master.’ A chorus of defensive voices rose in agreement.

  Gryss acknowledged the remark. ‘We know that,’ he said. ‘And I'm sure that whoever's in charge of these gatherers will know that too. But this has been a shock and I know most of you will not be relishing parting with some of tomorrow's bargains, so I'll emphasize again that it's important for us to be as pleasant as we can manage, no matter what. Then if there's any problem with the tithe, we'll be more likely to get the benefit of the doubt.'

  'Tain't fair!’ This surly comment received even more support than the previous one.

  Gryss slapped his hands on his chest. ‘Don't tell me about it,’ he shouted with exaggerated injury. ‘There were more than a few things I had my eye on for tomorrow, I can tell you.’ He became more serious. ‘But if you think you can't keep your mouth shut, then go home now and lock yourself in until it's over. Do you understand?'

  His firm manner and common sense stilled the noisier complaints and people began to turn to practicalities.

  'What are we supposed to do?’ a woman called.

  'Nothing,’ Gryss decided on the spur of the moment.

  'The official procedure, as I recall it, is for the barn to be unsealed in the presence of the chief gatherer, an elder and something like at least ten villagers.’ He paused and scratched his head. ‘And then for the sunstone to be lowered and used to light up the inside.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Yes, that's it ... I think. Anyway, I'm sure one of the gatherers will be only too happy to tell us.'

  'Where are all these outsiders going to stay?’ someone asked. He was a stocky, ill-shaven man with a round, heavy face and black hair that clung closely to his skull.

  Gryss threw up his hands. ‘Let's deal with one thing at a time, Jeorg,’ he said impatiently. ‘Most of them will probably be soldiers. I imagine they'll have ... tents ... or something.’ He levelled a finger at his questioner. ‘And don't go calling them outsiders. At least not in their hearing. They're the King's men and don't forget it. Apart from any problems with the tithe, the less stir we make the more likely we are to be forgotten again in the future.'