The Stone Arrow

by Richard Herley

  On all sides Tagart was reacting to shapes and faces, kicking and lashing out with the mattock, sometimes warding off a blow with his forearm. The farmers, for that they were, were hampered by darkness and confusion. They were clumsy fighters. Frequently Tagart sensed that they had hit one of their own. He heard screaming and smelled the rush of blood, their protests and imprecations in his ears. He had been fighting now for twenty seconds. He marvelled that he had not been hit. Again and again he connected with faces, eyes, genitals, kneecaps, in a frenzy to disable or kill as many as he could before the blow that would be his end. The feast fires, disturbed by the throng of men, flared as the embers came to life, outlining at ground level the tangle of arms and legs and waving weapons. Tagart saw the glint of saliva and a pair of terrified eyes, which involuntarily closed just as the mattock-blade struck home again, a stone cleaver powered by the whole swing and thrust of his strength: in a vile spray the blade and a section of the handle broke off, spun into the air, were lost. He trod on and seized a digging-stick, a heavy staff wedged into a ring of stone for weight, which, wielded like a sledge-hammer, sent down man after man. He became aware of a fresh attack from the side. He raised the point of the staff and hooked it into the oncomer’s armpit. Tagart braced himself, hoisted, and the farmer sailed into the air.

  Now the camp was coming alive. Now the men were pouring from their shelters, armed with clubs and spears. Cries of pain and surprise greeted them. Behind Tagart one of the shelters caught light, engulfed by flame from a blazing brand, casting more glow in which he could see. Other shelters were being fired, beside him, by the river, on the far edge near the forest, everywhere. The camp was burning. Tagart saw children running. He saw hair and clothes on fire, small bodies rolling over and over again in the dust.

  He saw Balan. He saw Balan, falling, and over him a man with a spear. As if casually, as if by afterthought, the spear lanced down. Tagart saw his son’s last moment of life. And he saw the man who had done it: a man as tall and wild as Tagart himself, a man with no beard.

  Directly overhead the storm broke with a flaring crackle of lightning and an instantaneous explosion of thunder so loud that it left a ringing in Tagart’s ears.

  One of the tall beeches across the river had been hit and was on fire. The beardless man reappeared, behind Tagart. He had the advantage. Just in time Tagart dodged the spear-thrust: the point buried itself in the ground. In the sudden torrent of sparkling rain Tagart fell backwards into the sedges and snatched at ankles as the other man went past. The other man lost balance and fell. Tagart sprang, landing badly, and in an instant was on his back and the beardless man’s hands were round his neck, strangling, the thumbs pressing into his throat. Tagart was choking. The beardless man squeezed harder, his face wet and orange in the flames, his hair hanging forward and dripping rain.

  Tagart brought his knee up into the man’s groin; he let go at once but doubled his fists and smashed a blow into Tagart’s face. Tagart brought his knee up again and the other man rolled away. But he was lifting his legs, one across the other, and too late Tagart realized that his neck was between the ankles. With an emptiness in his stomach he saw the camp turn over; and he was coming down in the cold shock of the river, in the mud by the bank.

  He watched the other man getting up, coming for him, wiping a hand across his mouth, and for a strange moment Tagart held the icy blue eyes with his own. But from another quarter he glimpsed something coming towards him, too quick to see, and then his head was kicked a hundred miles sideways and he saw before him streamers of white starbursts, here and there red lights blinking, and his face was in the mud, the taste of it in his mouth. A roaring filled his brain. Long tunnels of pink hoops stretched away, gently descending into pink caverns where he wanted to run and hide. Above him the sky inverted, was sucked into a whirlpool that followed the tunnels down, leaving the blankness of a glaring white horizon, now tingeing red as from behind spots soaked through, staining, haemorrhaging, spreading, sponging up his life as the redness dripped and became a trickle, a flow, a pouring race that rushed along the tunnel walls, carrying him before it. He could no longer breathe. His lungs were clamped flat, going under, arms helpless, borne along and downwards at avalanche speed. He opened his eyes and saw only crimson. The crimson darkened and the roar grew louder, many voices in the storm, and in the emptiness beneath him Tagart knew he was going to die. He knew he was going to die even as he struggled in the torrent like a wet insect doomed and drowning, but he was fighting, fighting to the end, swamped by the blackness and engulfed by its pressure as the roaring became louder and louder, a roaring too loud to bear.

  * * *

  The river had carried him a little way. He knew it could not be far, because he could hear voices, and when he looked up he saw firelight on the drooping stems and leaves of the sedges of the bank. His face was close to them. His eyes tried to focus, but would not.

  He spoke to Mirin. She would not answer. He felt the rain on his body, the river lapping at his skin. He tasted the water and the slime of the bottom. Mirin was lying on a bed of flowers, the honeysuckle twined about the pale skin of her wrists and ankles, her hair spread out on a pillow of ferns.

  The rain was falling steadily, less heavily than before, hissing into the fires. Tagart’s hands found purchase and he tried to drag himself further out the water and a little way up the bank.

  The effort was too great. Tagart saw men going from place to place, turning corpses over with their feet. He watched them through the stems of the sedges, moving against the glow. He saw axes and mattocks raised, moans silenced, twitching legs become still. The man with no beard was giving orders. Behind him the shelters were burning. Voices were raised in jeers and laughter.

  It was a long time before Tagart realized that some of the women had been spared. He saw Sela stripped naked and made to kneel.

  Tagart tried to raise his head further, staring at what was happening. It pained him to keep his head up. The pain spread into his back as he watched them, along his spine and into his legs, becoming excruciating; but he forgot it as he saw Sela thrown sideways, and behind her, being brought forward, he saw Mirin. The beardless man shouted something and there was more laughter. He pushed her to the ground and then he was on top of her, thrusting at her. She lay limp as he got up and another took his place.

  Tagart watched the sedges. They were orange and black, curved and weaving with each other under the impact of the rain. He could not follow the complexity of their patterns; too many raindrops were falling.

  He was drifting now, away from the screams of a voice he thought he knew, away from the shouting and laughter, drifting deeper, towards the centre where he would not see them, where he would not hear them, where what they were doing to his wife would not be true.

  5

  Three hours after first light, two hours after crawling from the sedges and onto firm ground, Tagart arrived at a position overlooking the village.

  In keeping with a general knowledge of the terrain near the camp-site, he was familiar with its appearance: but he lacked the detailed information that only thorough reconnaissance could provide.

  He was at the edge of the forest, looking down from the top of an escarpment which abutted the village on its east side. Rain-flattened grass clothed the slope, with oak bushes and clumps of blackthorn which would provide cover for an unseen approach. This, he had already decided, was the way he would come when he needed to get into the village. At the bottom of the escarpment, where the gradient eased, were a few anthills of varying age. Those too would provide cover. Beyond them, a patch of nettles and a thicket of briers and blackberry canes grew up against the structure of the palisade.

  This was the height of two men, a fence of stout logs buttressed behind with log struts. It enclosed the whole of the village, including several hundred yards of the river. The tops of the logs were sharpened to points. Without equipment it looked impossible to climb.

  Tagart shut his eyes. His hea
d hurt badly and the taste of vomit was still in his mouth. The back of his forearm was a mass of congealed blood: he had wound strips of soft leather from elbow to wrist. A dull pain filled his neck and left shoulder. One of his ribs felt as if it might be broken.

  Somehow, they had spared him. When he had awoken he had found himself lying half in the river, half in the vegetation of the bank. They must have taken him for dead; or, more likely, missed him altogether.

  He allowed his face to rest in the wet, musty grass. His clothing was drenched and heavy; the leather glistened and bubbled where it creased as he moved. He groaned and let the ground receive the weight of his body, letting gravity take each muscle. Even though his eyes were tightly shut he could not stop seeing Zeme. They had raped her too.

  Tagart jerked his head up and opened his eyes. Had he fallen asleep just then? Had any time passed? The village looked the same. The rain was keeping them indoors, driving across the compound, splashing on the house roofs. To the south-west, over the sea, were occasional strokes of lightning. The wind was driving fast paler cloud below the darker, gusting and howling and bending the trees behind him.

  He pulled his tunic closer to his neck. His hair was soaked and drops of water were trickling from the tip of his nose, leaving a salty taste on his lips.

  For a long time he lay studying the village. The houses seemed to have been positioned at random, relying for defence on the palisade. The single thoroughfare was an extension of the path from the shrine on the cliffs. It passed through a gate, now closed, and widened into a rough oval bordered by a huddle of most of the thirty-three dwelling-houses. Thirty-three: that meant about two hundred people.

  The houses were tall, with conical roofs and narrow windows, built of timber and blocks of stone, with pavements to the front where they faced the oval. There were five larger buildings: a barn, bakery, threshing shed, and granary; the fifth was a meeting house of the type he had seen in some of the more prosperous villages further east. Twice the height of the houses, it was long and broad, with a peaked roof and a wide doorway with a porch, from which a flight of plank steps led down to the village compound. The walls were of timber, faced with wattle and daub. The thing was raised from the ground by massive oak piles about chest high. Behind it flowed the river. Between the granary and the palisade were two circular pits which Tagart took to be silos.

  Now and then, carried on the wind, he heard a snatch of music and chanting. It seemed to be coming from the Meeting House. He could see people inside.

  The thoroughfare resumed its course between the Meeting House and the threshing shed, ran down to and crossed the river by means of a wooden bridge, built a little way downstream where presumably the bed was more suited to supporting the piers. Nearer the village, next to the Meeting House, the path ran beside the riverbank, littered with upturned coracles and piles of netting. There was a landing stage, and a larger coracle tied to it, riding the stream.

  On the other side of the bridge the path left the palisade by another gate and disappeared westward into the fields. Much of the valley had been put to cultivation, almost as far as the western slope, and southwards a long way towards the sea. A strip of heath remained between the fields and the beach, and more sparsely along the mouth of the river where it widened into a small estuary with a few shingly islets. Northwards the land had been cleared for half a mile, mainly on level ground by the river, but also on the north-eastern slope, where a large barley-field had been made to catch the sun, or to escape winter floods.

  The fields ended; the forest resumed. The line of trees snaked behind the barley field, south to the village and the escarpment, and then downhill, beside the river to the sea. East of the village the forest rose steeply, over the hill and towards the cliffs.

  Tagart took his flint knife in hand and began to crawl down the escarpment.

  * * *

  At the bottom he broke from cover and with a crouching gait ran the fifteen paces to the palisade. Keeping it close by his right-hand side, he set off to circle the village.

  Whoever had built the palisade had been serious in his intention not to let anyone in. The tree-trunks had been fitted tightly together and shaved at the top to slanting points. The gaps had for the most part been plugged with wedges and slivers of wood, knocked home and plastered with clay. A few chinks remained. Through one of these Tagart had a partial view of the nearest house. He pressed his face to the rough bark. Water was cascading from the roof, splashing against the stone, soaking the already waterlogged timbers.

  He went on till he came to the eastern gateway. This was fitted with a heavy door, opening outwards on three hinges and secured by two great bars. Like the rest of the palisade, it was topped by spikes. At ground level there was a gap of a hand’s width, a little more in the middle of the path where the passage of feet had worn a way; and now after some hours of rain the path was turning to mud.

  The palisade continued, curving along the south side of the village, down the bank and into the river, the only concession to the water being wider spacing of the logs; on the other bank it curved to the right and ran beside the river, enclosing a strip of ground thirty feet wide. Now the palisade ran arrow-straight for a quarter of a mile, turned back into the river, crossed it, and, following the rise and fall in the ground, looped back to the escarpment and the east gate.

  Tagart put his feet into the mass of sedge and yellow cress, went down the bank, and let himself into the water. It was deep here, where the current behind the weir of logs had churned up and removed the bottom, and three steps from the bank he was treading water. The river felt warm and soothing on his body, much warmer than the rain. For a while he rested, holding on to one of the logs. From the green and white stains on the palisade it could be seen that the level, although very low, was on the rise.

  He dived and the noise of the rain abruptly stopped. Underwater he could see only green. He kicked against the current and felt the bulk of the palisade, slimy with weed. For a second his fingers were where the logs entered the river bed: then he was forced to surface for air. It seemed that the gaps between the logs were the same above and below the water – the wood had rotted hardly at all. He dived again and managed to explore more of the gaps. None was more than a hand’s width. After many dives he satisfied himself that there could be no access here. He pulled himself from the water and climbed the far bank.

  It was not going to be so easy. He stood shivering in the shelter of the palisade. His arm was bleeding again. He held it out and saw the trickle of blood across his palm, running down the backs of his fingers.

  He shook his head angrily and continued along the base of the palisade, still keeping it on his right. Through gaps he could see the river, and beyond it the silos, threshing shed, and granary. To the left of them, a little way ahead, was the bridge and, in line with it from this angle, the Meeting House. The music had grown more distinct. At one of the windows in the side wall he could clearly see signs of activity within.

  A man staggered out on the porch, his hands across his face, and fell headlong down the steps. Tagart craned his neck, trying to see. A moment later two middle-aged women, both naked, followed him from the doorway. They stooped and seemed to scold the fallen man. He was face down in the mud, not moving, scarcely even breathing. Presently the women, after discussion, shook him by the shoulders, trying to make him get up, without effect. The shorter woman went back inside and returned with a third. All three took hold of the man and carried him up the steps.

  Still there was no sign of movement elsewhere in the village, no children, and no dogs.

  Tagart set off again. The second gate was much like the first, with a narrow space at the bottom – too narrow to get under. He put his eye to the gap between gate and post. He could see no dogs, but something of more interest had caught his attention.

  Beside the Meeting House, in a rank, had been laid the corpses from the previous night. There were twenty-six.

  Then it struck him that th
e music inside the Meeting House might be something to do with the dead, marking their transition from this life to the next. Beyond what he had heard in stories at the winter camp, he knew little about the farmers’ beliefs; but something of the sort seemed likely, for in the event it seemed their victory last night had not been without cost. Twenty-six. Tagart had not realized it was so many.

  The Meeting House was less than a hundred yards away. He was standing at a point in the palisade almost opposite the jetty.

  He continued along the base of the palisade, past the Meeting House, the barn and bakery, moving through the rain to the northern corner of the compound, where the palisade turned east and back across the river.

  The water was shallower here, but still there was no gap wide enough to admit him. He came up for air again and again.

  When he reached his starting-point at the bottom of the escarpment, he sank to the ground and sat with his head in his hands, overcome by grief and despair. He felt giddy and ill. The pain in his chest was worse, sharp and stabbing. Blood was soaking steadily into the bandages on his arm. Every few seconds he fought back an overwhelming urge to vomit.

  There were three ways to get past such an obstacle as a twelve-foot palisade. Going through was out of the question: he had no tools, except a knife and his bare hands. Going over involved too great a risk of being seen, and anyway he had no means of climbing. That left going under, which meant a tunnel, and that would take too long; and even if he did manage it he might well emerge in full view of the farmers. The gates? Were they the weak point? Or the river – perhaps he should try again, search more thoroughly.

  The ladder-marks: he remembered the ladder-marks.

  He stood up and hurried past the east gate, heading for the river again. With his eye to the top of the palisade, he stopped three hundred yards on. Sure enough, there were the marks left by the harvesters’ ladders on the spikes at the top. He found a gap and looked through it to confirm his position, moved four paces west, glanced over his shoulder and dropped to one knee. With his knife he scored out and rolled back a trapdoor in the turf.