by K. J. Parker
There didn’t seem to be much Poldarn could say to that, apart from ‘Yes’. Instead, he reached for the bread. There was one slice left, opposite his hand.
The young boys were back, this time with dishes of roast meat and round, flat bowls full of boiled leeks, baked apples, onions. A small mountain of food appeared on Poldarn’s plate, filling up all the space not already taken up with bread. His cup had somehow filled itself with beer. Just as well – he was starving.
Halder had speared a small whole onion with the point of his knife, and was nibbling his way round it, like a squirrel. It occurred to Poldarn to wonder whether he’d done the same thing yesterday and the day before; there had to be some pattern to the actual eating of the food, or the whole business wouldn’t make sense. He made a mental note to observe, over the next week or so. There were important questions to be asked: did everybody start with, say, the leeks, then the onions, then the apples, then the meat and finally the bread? How many mouthfuls of food did they take in between sips of beer? Did each individual have a degree of discretion as to which side of the plate he started from, or was there an orthodoxy about that, too? The night before last he’d caught someone on the table below staring at him in wonder as he ate a slice of beef; was this because he’d eaten it before he’d finished his onions, or because he’d gone six mouthfuls without a drink? If all else failed, of course, he could even grit his teeth and ask somebody; but it hadn’t reached that point yet, as far as he could tell.
Six tables of hungry people eating together can’t help but produce a certain volume of noise, but nobody was talking. This was another aspect of the ritual that Poldarn found somewhat oppressive, since it seemed fairly natural to him that mealtimes were a good opportunity for relaxed conversation, in the course of which he could ask useful questions without everybody suddenly going dead quiet and staring at him. But the man on his left, Raffen, and the woman on his right (whose name escaped him for the moment) were bent over their plates like clockmakers engraving a face, giving their full attention to the job in hand; if he tried to start a conversation, the shock might make them swallow something the wrong way and choke. At the very least, they’d probably lose their places and have to start the whole meal over again.
Never mind, Poldarn reflected; it was very good roast beef, and he hadn’t had to kill anyone to get it. The beer was good too, although it disconcerted him slightly when he drained his cup only to find a serious-faced child standing over him, waiting to fill it up again.
After the main meal had been eaten (another point to check: did everybody finish eating at the same time?) the girls came round with slices of cheese, plums and fat red grapes, and a second refill of beer found its way into Poldarn’s cup while his attention was distracted. Apparently cheese- and grape-eating wasn’t such a serious business as putting away leeks and roast beef, because Poldarn could distinctly hear voices all around him – just one or two words, but speech nonetheless. He looked up from his plate to find Halder looking straight at him.
‘Tomorrow,’ Halder said, ‘we’ll go and take a look at your wood.’
That actually meant something to Poldarn: the memory burst out, like steam off the mountainside. He remembered quite clearly that on the day he’d been born, in accordance with the proper procedure, Halder and the middle-barn crew had planted out a stand of white ash down where the river curved round the side of the hill that marked the end of the combe. The idea was that when the time came for Poldarn to build his own house, those trees would be exactly ready. Although he hadn’t been that far away from the farm buildings since he’d been back, he could picture the plantation perfectly clearly in his mind. He could see Halder, thirty years younger, strolling along beside him, pointing out which sapling would one day be his roof-tree, which were to be the joists, the door timbers, the great and lesser sills, the girts and the braces. At the time Poldarn remembered feeling a great surge of comfort and safety that came from knowing that everything was laid out ready for him, through every step of his life – there’d be no doubt or uncertainty, all he had to do was go forward, and everything he’d ever need would be waiting for him, ready in its appointed place, where he could reach out for it without even having to stretch.
‘Good,’ he replied. ‘I’d like that.’
‘You remember the time we went there when you were a kid.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I was thinking about it just now,’ Poldarn replied. ‘I don’t suppose it looks anything like that now, though.’
‘Pretty much the same,’ Halder said, ‘except the trees are bigger. Oh, and we lost one of the middle girts in a storm about fifteen years ago, but I know where there’s a beech that’ll drop in there just sweet.’
Poldarn nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Now I’m trying to remember where the house is going to go. I’m sure we went there that day.’
Halder actually smiled. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Twenty paces south-east from the roof-tree, there’s a rap of level ground with a good clay footing. First time I came here, it was touch and go whether I built my house there or here, but I chose here, because the other site – yours – is a bit more sheltered and closer to the water; and there’s a fine little pool under some rocks for your washing-hole. Actual fact, I had Raffen and Sitrych clear the weeds out, winter before last.’
Sitrych, Poldarn thought, which one is Sitrych? Then he remembered; of course, the short, square man two down on Grandfather’s left. At that moment, Sitrych was conscientiously chewing on a crisp, hard pear, his eyes fixed on a space about two feet over Poldarn’s head.
‘I can’t picture it,’ Poldarn admitted, ‘but once we’re there I expect it’ll come back to me.’
His cup was empty, and there was that boy with the jug again. He put his hand over the cup. The boy stared at him, stood awkwardly for a moment, and then moved on down the line.
‘You weren’t at the forge today.’ Not a question, or a reproach, or an accusation; just a statement of fact.
‘No,’ Poldarn said. ‘I was helping Eyvind get in that gravel.’
Halder frowned, just slightly. ‘I think you should make sure you put your time in there,’ he said. ‘There’s still a lot you’ve got to learn.’
Poldarn looked up. ‘Seems a bit pointless, really,’ he replied. ‘After all, we’ve already got a smith, best on the island by all accounts. I can’t see where there’s any need for me to get under his feet when he’s busy.’
Halder’s glare was like a slap round the face. ‘I think midmorning’d be a good time to go down to the wood,’ he said. ‘That way you can put in a good morning at the forge and be back when Asburn’s ready to start again in the afternoon.’
Well, Poldarn thought, I tried; I failed, but nobody knifed me. So, no harm done, at any rate. ‘That seems sensible,’ he said. ‘Very good cheese, this.’
‘That’s the last of the eight-weeks,’ Halder said. ‘The six-weeks’ll be ready tomorrow.’
Well, yes, Poldarn said to himself, it would be, wouldn’t it? ‘Hope it’s as good as this,’ he said. Halder looked at him as if he’d said something that didn’t make sense.
That night, when the tables had been put away and the fire was burning low, Poldarn made a conscious effort and called up the memory of that childhood walk among the trees. Mainly it was because he couldn’t sleep – with the exception of Halder and Rannwey, who had the private room at the far end of the house, everybody slept on the floor of the hall, wrapped in blankets like a nest of silk-moths, and he found this hard to get used to – and recalling his childhood made a change from counting sheep. Partly it was conscientious reconnaissance in advance of tomorrow’s expedition, in case there was something there he needed to be prepared for. To a certain extent, though, it was little more than self-referential tourism, a leisurely visit to the garden spot of his past, with a packed lunch and a parasol. In this respect, he was as limited as a citizen of Boc Bohec, whose choice of pleasant walks was limited to two rather
crowded public parks; Poldarn had very few genuine memories to wander through, and several of them weren’t places where he’d choose to spend time if he could help it.
Probably overtired, he told himself, which is why I can’t get to sleep. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked round at the neat rows of sleepers, dim shapes in the flickering red glow of the fire, like a mass cremation. It stood to reason that these people (his people, must get used to thinking of them as that) should all roost together, all fall asleep together (because when the mind falls asleep, the parts of the body have no choice but to sleep too). Poldarn knew for a certainty that he was the only person awake in the whole house. In a way, it was a good feeling; for the first time in days, he could really be on his own, instead of being alone in the middle of a crowd.
But leaning on his elbow gave him cramp, so he lay down again and closed his eyes, summoning the memory like a nobleman calling for his jester. For some reason, though, the walk in the plantation wasn’t available – someone else was dreaming it, or it was sulking and didn’t want to come out. Instead, he remembered another walk with his grandfather, a month or so before or after the trip to the wood—
‘Are we there yet?’ he heard himself say.
He knew where he was; it was the reverse of the view from the porch, because they were standing on the lower slopes of the mountain, looking down at their valley. Behind them, the constant hiss and gurgle of the hot springs were almost loud enough to drown out Grandfather’s voice. A dozen or so yards to his right, a solitary crow was tearing at the ribcage of a long-dead lamb.
It was his birthday.
‘Not quite.’
‘How much further?’
‘Not far.’
‘When will we get there?’
‘Later.’
Grandfather was looking at the view; he seemed to like it a lot. Presumably he enjoyed looking at the farm from different angles, which was fair enough. Ciartan liked the view too, but now he’d seen it and he was getting cold and fidgety, and it wasn’t as if anything about it was going to change. ‘Can we go on now, please?’
Grandfather sighed. ‘Yes, all right.’ He dipped his head sideways, to say this way.
They were above the last scruffy patches of grass and heather now, in the belt of black rock and clinker that separated the marginal grazing of the lower slopes from the snowcap. It was foul stuff to walk on, particularly with short legs; every time you put your foot down it went over sideways on the chunks of black stuff, and you could feel the sharp edges right through the soles of your boots. Nothing at all lived up here, not even crows.
Ciartan was bored.
Grandfather sensed that; he was good at guessing people’s moods. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s see how much you know. Let’s see: do you know the name of this mountain?’
That was a silly question. ‘The mountain,’ Ciartan replied. But Grandfather shook his head.
‘All mountains are called The Mountain by somebody or other,’ he said. ‘No, this one’s got a proper name, just as the farm’s called Haldersness and the valley’s called Raffenriverdale. Do you know what the mountain’s proper name is?’
Ciartan shook his head.
‘Thought not,’ Grandfather replied.
‘Tell me,’ Ciartan said. ‘Please,’ he added, remembering his manners.
Grandfather stopped, either for effect or because the gradient was a bit too much for his bad knee. ‘This mountain,’ he announced, ‘is called Polden’s Forge.’
‘Oh,’ Ciartan said. ‘Why’s it called that?’
Grandfather shook his head. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you want to hear it.’
‘Yes, I do,’ Ciartan replied eagerly. ‘Please.’
‘Well.’ Grandfather dug the point of his short spear into a soft crack between two lumps of rock and leaned hard on the butt end. ‘Many years ago, our people didn’t live here. In fact, nobody even knew this country was here. We all lived far away across the sea, in what they used to call the Empire.’
‘I know all about that,’ Ciartan interrupted. ‘That’s where the men go raiding every year, to bring back the metal and stuff.’
Grandfather nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Now, the Empire’s a very big place – bigger than our island, which is East Island, and almost as big as East Island and West Island put together. That’s how big it is.’
Ciartan closed his eyes for a moment, visualising the enormous extent of the Empire. That was an impossible task, so instead he thought of the biggest thing he could think of, which at that moment happened to be the long barn. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘go on.’
‘Go on, what?’
‘Please.’
‘In the south of the Empire,’ Grandfather said, wiping condensation out of his moustache with his left hand, ‘is a country called Morevish, which is where our people used to live. That was over two hundred years ago, by the way; for what it’s worth, Morevish isn’t even part of the Empire now, it broke away a long time ago.’
Ciartan frowned. ‘Broke away?’
‘Rebelled. The people decided they didn’t want to belong to the Empire any more, so they chased out the Empire’s soldiers and became a free nation.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Ciartan replied, dismissing the image that had formed in his mind of a huge crack appearing in the ground, and the whole country slowly breaking away and drifting off into the sea.
‘At the time our people still lived there, though,’ Grandfather went on, ‘Morevish was still a province of the Empire, and the Imperial governors – that’s the men who ran the country – were very harsh and cruel to our people. Every year they sent soldiers to steal a third of our corn, lambs and calves, and anybody who wouldn’t give them what they wanted was dragged away and had his hands cut off, or even his head.’
Ciartan shuddered at the horror of such an idea. ‘That’s awful,’ he said. ‘So why didn’t our people chase out the soldiers then, instead of later?’
Grandfather shrugged. ‘Back then, the Empire was still strong,’ he said. ‘Later on, they got weak, because they were always quarrelling among themselves, and when that happened the people of Morevish were able to get rid of them. But we’re getting ahead of the story.’
‘Sorry,’ Ciartan said. ‘Please go on.’
A single solitary buzzard was wheeling in the air below them. It felt strange to be higher up than a bird.
‘At the time I’m talking about,’ Grandfather said carefully, ‘two hundred years ago or more, our people still believed in gods. We don’t do that any more, of course, just as you stopped believing in trolls and goblins when you were six. It’s part of growing up.’
Ciartan nodded; though, to tell the truth, he still hadn’t made up his mind about trolls. On the one hand, it didn’t make sense to have people who turned to stone if they went out in the sun. On the other hand, he was almost sure he’d seen one once in the distance, on a bright moonlit night, when he and Grandfather had been out with the long-net.
‘They used to believe in lots of gods,’ Grandfather was saying, ‘but their favourite god, the one they believed in the most, was a god called Polden. Now, the way with gods is that each of them’s supposed to be in charge of something – like Grandma’s in charge of the jam cupboard and the linen chest, or I’m in charge of the smithy. Polden was in charge of lots of things all at the same time, which was why our people believed in him so much. Polden was in charge of everything that had to do with fire; from keeping the house warm and cooking the dinner to making nails and horseshoes in the forge, right across to the fire that burns down houses when people fight each other. That made him different from the other gods; because, you see, all the other gods were either good or bad, depending on whether they were in charge of a good thing, like farming or making something, or a bad thing, like fighting. But Polden was both good and bad, all at the same time – because, you see, fire can be useful or it can be dangerous, and even when it’s usefu
l it’s still dangerous, because if you’re not careful when you’re cooking the dinner you can set light to the chimney and set the thatch on fire, and the house’ll burn down.’
Ciartan nodded sagely; he could understand that. In fact, this Polden sounded rather like himself, because he always tried to be good but somehow he kept managing to do bad things, or so the grown-ups told him.
‘Anyway,’ Grandfather went on, as the buzzard dwindled out of sight in the distance, ‘lots of people from other parts of the Empire got to hear about Polden and started believing in him too; and this annoyed the men who ruled the Empire, because they believed in a whole different lot of gods; and that just made them treat our people even more cruelly than they’d done before. In the end,’ Grandfather said, his eyes still fixed on the distant prospect of the farm, ‘our people tried to fight the Empire’s soldiers, but they lost; and the Emperor—’
‘Who’s the Emperor?’
‘The man who ran the Empire. He told his soldiers to round up all our people who’d tried to fight the soldiers, and their families too, and put them on two hundred ships and launch them out into the sea.’
Ciartan gasped. It seemed a very harsh and unjust thing to do.
‘It’d have been bad enough,’ Grandfather went on, ‘if they’d known these islands were here. But they didn’t. For all they knew, there wasn’t anything across the western sea but miles and miles of empty water, and our people would either have died of thirst or drowned. But they didn’t. Just when they were at the very end of their food and drinking-water, they woke up one morning and saw the very top of a mountain – not this one, it was one of the Broken River mountains on West Island – and they knew they were saved.’
Ciartan had closed his eyes, as if to spare himself the horror of the exiles’ plight. He opened them, and sighed with relief. ‘What a terrible thing,’ he said.
Grandfather smiled. ‘Not so terrible, as it turned out,’ he said. ‘Because this country is far, far better than Morevish, which is very hot and dry, and very little grows there; and besides, back then it was part of the Empire, while out here our people could be free.’
