Rikka guessed it would take two moonwakes to get to the nearest village at the base of the mid-mountain range. With only a sad old bony mule to carry their meagre rations, they set off. Neither of them attempted to ride the mule through the rocky hills, it was as cantankerous as the old woman. That was probably why they had both accepted it. Any creature with a mean streak was considered an ally.
Descending the bleak rocky slopes, they passed by shadowy gloomy caves cutting into the hillsides. All three, weary with aches and pains, silently agreed to stop and make camp in a small damp enclave where a busy bubbling brook trickled out its contents from a hidden fissure in the solid ground. With an early start at the next moonwake, they should arrive at the deep valley that cuts down the centre of two large barren mountain sides, where lose grey slates always threaten to landslide. Centuries ago, icy rivers had flowed down these valleys and giant rocks transferred like rolling pebbles from the upper regions. Some had been moved, even further back in history when the lands had experienced violent volcanic eruptions. The huge boulders scattered on the valley floor would hide them well and shade them from the burning sun.
On the second moonwake, their final camp was settled between the strange neat rows of oddly shaped giant boulders. The immense rocks appeared as giant tables whereby an upper top-heavy flat stone strangely balanced on a long thin stone leg. The worn out leg must have suffered constantly at the grating and grinding of swirling bits of stinging gravel, eating away at the under portion.
The bubbling brook they had encountered earlier had now formed itself into a small stream gushing quickly by, creating a white frothy surface. Close by on a yellowed grassy embankment wild goats bleated at their presence and ran, scattering themselves then rejoining into a small herd as protection from the intruders. The mule brayed at the noisy bleating of the goats. Fedros grudgingly fed the animal a small bag of oats. Rikka lit a small cooking fire by the stream and began to boil water.
‘Fedros,’ she hollered, ‘take the net and catch us fish fer supper. I’m fed up with trying to make meals of salted pork.’
‘We could always have a bit of mule meat,’ Fedros retorted, preferring to kill the animal than bothering to wade through the water for a slimy fish. ‘We have no use of him any longer.’
‘I do believe yer serious ye lazy, idle oaf.’ Rikka’s patience wore thin. ‘I want fish. Go. Maybe I’ll cook your hide instead. There’s plenty of fat on ye to last me a year.’
‘All right, I’m going,’ he mumbled, not really intent on eating mule anyway but only seeking to stir up his mother’s temper. He did quite fancy a bit of fish but he did not, however, wish to do anything that she asked without first causing her some grief. ‘Fish, it will be.’
After the fish supper, they settled to sleep. They would arrive at the first village on the next moonwake.
It was blazingly hot when they arrived at the village of Sabdros to find the residents hanging brightly coloured cloth decorations on trees and in windows, with the laughter and merriment of a joyous occasion.
The large village boasted three inns. Most of the visiting pig farmers would stay with kinfolk so the inns were not full. Rikka entered the opened doorway of a crooked slate built inn whilst Fedros led the mule to an adjoining stable.
‘Hey, stable boy,’ he yelled at a skinny lad mucking out the end paddock. ‘What’s all the fuss for in this village?’
‘It’s the time of the Matanza Festival. I have a whole half of the moonwake off from my work duties to go and join in the fun,’ the boy replied, giddy with excitement.
‘What is Matanza then boy?’ Fedros asked in his ignorance.
‘The Festival of the Pigs.’ The boy looked at him puzzled. ‘You are not familiar with the ways of the local people. We are pig farmers and this is our largest market and slaughter for this suncirle. Are you not here as a trader?’
‘No.’ Fedros answered abruptly, not wanting to further the conversation. ‘Take the mule. I’ll collect him later. I think I may stay for this Mantaza thing.’
‘You’ll enjoy it.’ The boy seemed sure of himself. ‘Though if your of a weakened stomach you may not like all the blood and squealing of the pig slaughter.’
‘Surely that’s the best part boy,’ he suddenly appeared cheery and laughed callously.
As Fedros turned to go and leave the mule, the boy watched him cautiously, feeling a little relieved that the man was leaving his stable. Most people enjoyed the competitions and the pig races and all the fun things, not many took pleasure in the slaughter part. Everyone enjoyed the feast of pork at the moonsleep meal, smelling the lingering aroma of the savoury meats roasting on spits over large open fires and chewing through the crispy crackling that would be cut into small pieces so all could savour the salty flavour. That was his favourite part.
He looked at the mule, as if this dumb animal could provide him with some answers as to its unkindly owner who had not even bothered to leave him a small tip of coin.
Fedros entered the quiet darkness of the inn, breathing in the stench of damp stale straw that littered the dusty stone floor. In one corner, a trader plied a local farmer with ale, listening to him brag about his grand hog.
‘Aye, he is a fierce creature,’ the farmer merrily boasted. ‘I need two Hands with me when I enter his pen.’
‘Will you sell him for the right price before the show?’ the trader counted coins to tempt the drunken farmer.
‘I can’t do that,’ the farmer came to his senses. ‘He’s going to win me more coins than you could ever offer, just you wait and see.I might consider trading him after the show. You could fatten him up for the next festival, but he’s a fierce one mind.’
The trader waved him away realising this farmer was not to be duped.
Fedros approached his mother seated on a stone bench at the side of a small misshapen wooden table. The table wobbled as he knocked the corner with his portly belly, in an effort to sit on a mangy looking bench. He waited to hear her whining voice.
‘Clumsy oaf,’ she mumbled.
Constant travel wore at her bones. A long sleep indoors would be most welcome to her ageing body.
They ate a warm supper of pork broth followed by creamy cheeses and freshly baked bread with warm mulled wine. Eating their fill, they climbed the creaky wooden stairs to their shared room where Rikka opened the door and laid her weary body under a coarse blanket that covered a lumpy straw mattress. Fedros was not yet ready for his bed. He unpacked dirty clothing to air it out on a rickety chair back. Leaving his mother snoring in her sleep, he left the room to walk around the village and sample the local brew of ale and hospitality of the local girls.
The next moonwake he stirred with a heavy head listening to his mother rattling around.
‘Where you off to?’ he asked her grumpily.
‘What business is it of yours? I only seek to do the Master’s work not to see to my own needs.’
‘What manner of remark is that?’ he grunted horsely. ‘I was checking out the locals and this village is full of pregnant bitches, and I don’t mean the sows. Our Master would have a feast and I was the one to seek this out.’
She ignored the information. If her Master wanted to feed here then he would have told her so. For now, she would go shopping for herbs and leave the idle to rot, hopefully.
The open market stalls were in abundance with brightly coloured fruits, ripened vegetables, crushed dried and fresh herbs and perishables aplenty. She was more than pleased with the many choices.
That moonsleep they ate well again, buying meat from the roasting pigs pitted on the roaring fires of the celebrations. Rikka retired early, but Fedros stayed to witness the slaughter of the pigs. He watched with a distasteful joy as the pigs sensed the fear of the kill, clinging to the last moments of their short lives. Their loud high shrilling squeals sounded surprisingly human. The slaughter pens stank of fresh blood and fear. Fedros drank in all the terror, imagining that it was people who were being butchered
and not just the simple pigs. Eventually the slaughters ended and he left the celebrations of dancing and drinking to the farmers. He had no desire for that sort of joy. All the fun had ended with the last killing of the last pig. He craved more. A yearning for the kill quivered through his murderous fingers. With the whole moonwake before him, he set out to satiate his desires.
The following moonwake Fedros insisted that they move on, sending his mother to collect the stubborn mule.
‘I suppose your son has joined in the search?’ the stable boy asked the old woman.
Rikka was slow in body but not in mind.
‘Yes, yes. He has,’ she lied. ‘Will they return soon?’
‘The men search up in the mid-mountains, so I reckon he’ll be with them, but the women have already found her bloodied body, it’s horrible,’ his face contorted, reflecting the horror he felt.
Rikka feigned concern.
‘Aah, poor lass. How many suncircles was she?’
‘She was with child in her belly,’ he expressed agitated.
‘Aah, I see now.’ Rikka really did not need to hear more but the lad clearly had more to tell.
‘They say the biggest of hogs got lose and sought its revenge on our kind. She was beaten to a pulp and her child taken out and eaten.’
Rikka gave the lad a small coin.
‘Here lad,’ she spoke softly. ‘Go and get yersen a rest and some refreshment. I can manage on me own now. Go on, off you go lad.’
The boy panted heavily with the terror of the tale imprinted in his mind and a welling of tears in the corners of his wide eyes.
‘Do you think we have a beast on the lose?’ he asked her, as if she could assure him that the tale was not true.
‘Beasts are nearer than ye think lad. Go and rest while you can.’
He ran out of the stable and she shook her head knowingly that the beast on the lose was human.
They left the village unnoticed, heading for Beldroth with their packs bursting of salted pork and crisp crackling. The mule complained at the heavy load but the two humans spoke not a word.
The landscape quickly changed as they passed through pine-clad hills sheltering fertile valleys. Rich red soils cultivated Olive and Fig trees that stood to attention in long straight rows. They purchased olive oil and fresh Chamois meat that they had traded from a hunter who passed them by on the road. Finally, entering into rolling hills where thick velvet green grasses spread before them like soft carpets, the going was much easier on Rikka’s old bones. Small woodlands scattered around the lands, providing shade from the hot sun. It was in such woodland that they came across a small village, not far from Beldroth. They camped for the last time together, in a thicket of bushes well away from the village. Neither would be saddened at their separation on the next moonwake.
Chapter 3 The Enchanting Healer
Padray possessed four sheep, two pigs, three cows, one bull and five chickens, all of which he was very proud. The local village of Lumberly relied on his livestock farming for their dairy products and the occasional rations of meat, when they could afford such luxuries. The locals did not make too many demands on him and he just about managed to make his living from the woodcutters and the occasional traveller passing by.
Now his needs were dire, and he struggled alone, to try and keep his prize ewe alive. The lamb, trapped inside her belly, had two sticky grey back legs jutting out into the world and was making no effort to move. He feared losing both babe and mother and all he could do was look on helplessly and watch his livestock die. He had already sent his young son away who had been overjoyed to witness the first delivery of the Breeding Quarter. Sadly, this was not to be a happy event, the mother ewe no longer had the strength to make any further cries of pain. The grass, stained with dark patches of sticky blood from the ewe’s earlier attempts to give birth, cushioned her as she lay still, awaiting her fate. Her breathing laboured, the farmer’s eyes swelled with tears, watching them both slip away from him. He gently tried to pull on the tiny hoofed legs but something jammed solid. He had not lost any livestock this way in many suncircles.
‘Ye look like ye could use some ‘elp with that ewe,’ a female voice called out to him.
He turned his tired eyes to look upon an old woman approaching from the woodlands. It did not occur to him to ask who she was.
‘Are you able to help my sheep old woman?’ was all he could muster.
‘Come on man, out of me way,’ the old woman mumbled as she pulled him up from the floor by his sleeve. ‘I need hot water and a warm blanket for her young un. She needs her muscles rubbing to get ‘em working again.’
The farmer stood frozen to the spot looking puzzled at her, as if he could not understand the language that she spoke.
‘Well!’ The old woman’s shout jostled him awake. ‘Are we going to save this ewe and lamb or are we going to stand around looking gormless?’ her screeching voice drilled into the farmer’s numbed brain.
‘Yes, yes,’ he stammered feeling hopeful again. Perhaps this strange old woman could save his livestock. Perhaps she was an illusion that had come to answer his cries for help. Whatever she was, he had to trust her, she was his only hope. Running to the house for blankets, he called for his wife to fill buckets with hot water and instructed his son to carry the buckets to aid the old woman. The whole household was in a pandemonium of activity.
Dashing down the field with hot water splashing over the sides of the buckets, he could see the old woman bent over his prize ewe. The sheep was now standing and the old woman rubbed under her belly, chanting strange words.
‘About time,’ she expressed, seeing him return. ‘Put the blanket aside. I want that fer the young un’.
‘What are those words you sing old woman?’ Padray dared to ask her.
‘Words that’ll save yer livestock, ye stupid oaf,’ she retorted as if insulted. ‘I work in strange ways. I’ve brought many a young un into this wretched world, so let me get on without all ye interruptions.’
Without any further words, the farmer left her to her chanting and her rubbing and watched in awe as the back end of the fresh new lamb slowly slithered out of its mother’s bleeding womb. The ewe managed to stand up firmly, yet seemingly in a quiet sleepy daze. This old woman had kept her word and within a short while, she had a scrawny sticky wet lamb wrapped in the thick blanket. She shouted instructions for him to clean the exhausted mother ewe. Both were alive. His young son leaped up and down excitedly celebrating.
Padray began to bathe the ewe, as she had requested him to do, while his son huddled the miracle lamb. The grateful farmer watched his wife take the old woman into their home to welcome her.
Rikka had found her village.
Chapter 4 A Soldiers Death
‘Captain Yanomi!’ The captain put down his wedge of bread to turn and see why the palace cook was calling his name.
‘I want you to meet someone,’ the cook explained rather urgently.
The captain looked up at the unshaven portly man who stood, grinning down at him. ‘He is the son of an old friend of mine,’ cook rambled on to a
puzzled captain.
‘I’m always pleased to meet your friends Clara,’ Captain Yanomi replied courteously.
‘I wonder if you can offer him a job in your guard house?’
Cook never minced her words, except when she was hitting the bottles of stronger liquids. ‘His mother is a herb nurse who helps the poor,’ she quickly followed on. ‘Now I thought we could reward such service to our King, by offering to help out her son.’
‘Indeed cook. Kindly service to the poor is always welcome.’ Captain Yanomi smiled up at the new stranger who, he noted, was now looking down at him with a rather strange sneer to his lips. The captain assumed he was perhaps a little nervous. ‘Yes, we can always do with a strong set of arms. Have you soldiered before?’
‘I can use a dagger on a man if I have to.’ This was an honest reply and showed his lack of fear in a confrontatio
n.
‘Good. There’s no use entering the armed guards if you fear a fight,’ the captain said. ‘Here, take this green necktie and give it to Sergeant Blackeley at the Company Barracks.’ The captain gave him the Colours of the sergeant’s regiment. ‘Tell him I sent you and he’ll find you a bunk, a uniform and a duty. Work hard and we pay well and treat you fairly.’
‘Thank you captain,’ the cook took his hand shakily. ‘This is a kindly deed sir.’
Captain Yanomi watched a little suspiciously as cook and the portly man left the dining hall and headed towards the kitchen. His thoughts were that the stranger had little in the way of manners but then manners did not make a good soldier, so he thought no more of the large man and returned to his meal.
‘I wish you would not use me as your contact in the palace,’ the cook complained once they were alone.
‘Our Master ordered you to assist me. Will you disappoint him when he seeks your help?’ He asked of the cook threateningly, hoping it would remind her of the dire consequences should she refuse.
‘Leave me be you lout.’ She clearly did not like this man. ‘I always do as I’m asked. I haven’t any choice.’ Cook looked down at the floor as if in shame. ‘He gets into my head and I can’t get him out.’ Her face flushed as her agitation increased and tears welled in puffy bloodshot eyes.
‘If you didn’t drink so much liquor, stupid woman, you wouldn’t be so weak minded.’ He disliked this feeble woman. ‘I’ve no idea why my Master finds you helpful, you blubbering windbag.’ He left the broken woman sobbing her regrets into her apron.
Entering the open courtyard through a stone archway from the kitchens, he casually approached a pretty young maid carrying a basket full of laundry. He asked her directions to the Soldiers’ Mess. Noticing his wide eyes staring greedily at her small perky breasts, she wanted quickly rid of him. Pointing out the sergeant standing outside the barracks, she briskly escaped as he turned to look in that direction. When he turned back to get one last glance at her curvy young body, he realised the scrawny fledgling had fled. Annoyed at her ignorance he calmed himself, deciding he did not care for female company anyway.
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