Monument

by Ian Graham

  The young woman frowned. ‘What—what for?’

  ‘Go outside!’ Grasping her forearm, Ballas pulled her through the door and out on to the porch. ‘Stay there. Budge a half-inch and I swear I’ll kill your father. Then I will kill you.’

  Returning to the cottage, Ballas slammed the door shut. Grabbing Crask’s shoulder, the big man pushed him across the room to the far corner, away from the window shutters. He did not want Heresh eavesdropping; it was vital that she did not hear a single word of what was to follow.

  Standing a pace away from Crask, he said, ‘What does your daughter know about your past?’

  ‘My past?’ said Crask, uncertainly.

  ‘She knows you smuggled forbidden texts?’ asked Ballas.

  ‘Of course.’ Crask nodded, puzzled.

  ‘She knows about your time in prison—your twenty years of darkness, loneliness and despair?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crask. ‘She and I have no secrets.’

  ‘Does she look upon you as any daughter does her father?’

  ‘I do not understand …’

  ‘Does she think you’re an honest, loyal, decent-souled man?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Crask impatiently.

  ‘Even though you are not?’

  Crask frowned.

  ‘Even though you are a betrayer? Even though, to save your own skin, you told the Church who your accomplices were—those men who helped you smuggle forbidden texts?’

  Crask grew utterly motionless. The blood drained from his face. His eyes flickered nervously, a thin tremulous gleam inside each pupil; in his neck, a vein throbbed. Only these faint movements indicated he was a living man, not a waxen figure.

  ‘Yesterday,’ whispered Ballas, ‘as I lay upon the bed, bound at wrist, ankle and knee, you told me you had escaped execution because the forbidden documents you possessed were false.’

  ‘That is what happened.’

  ‘Horseshit,’ said Ballas gently. ‘Lie to me again, Crask, and I’ll cut your pissing throat.’ He raised the filleting knife, touching its edge to Crask’s skin. ‘It wouldn’t matter to the Church whether your texts were false or genuine. They do not care about such distinctions. To them, it’d matter only if you were on their side, or against them.’ He licked his lips. ‘You struck a bargain, didn’t you?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘Do not lie,’ breathed Ballas, moving the knife slightly. ‘To save yourself, you told the Church all they wanted to know. “Who do you smuggle parchments with? Where do these parchments come from? Who buys them?” All these questions, you answered readily—for you feared the Penance Oak. Better to spend twenty years in a cell, than perish upon that tree.’

  ‘You don’t know …’

  ‘But I am right, hm?’

  Exhaling, Crask closed his eyes.

  Ballas took the knife away from the old man’s throat. ‘I hear it is an awful thing, for a daughter to learn that her father is a coward. A son can understand it, for if he has ever felt afraid himself he knows how fear can overwhelm a man … how it can make him piss himself, how it can rob him of dignity, of pride. But a girl? A woman? They are foolish animals. They reckon men don’t feel fear. Or if they do, then they have some knack for fighting it down. A man may lie, cheat, steal; he may torture, he may kill—and a woman will forgive him. But if he proves himself a coward?’ Ballas shook his head. ‘She will hate him for ever. More so, if he has touted himself as brave. More so,’ he drew back his shoulders, ‘if that man, that coward, is her father. A father, unlike a husband, must be perfect. He is his daughter’s god. But to discover he is a false idol …’

  ‘She will not believe you,’ said Crask, breathing heavily. ‘Never in a thousand years. How could she? You are a stranger, a fugitive—she will dismiss every word as a lie.’

  ‘At first, perhaps,’ nodded Ballas. ‘But later? She will begin to grow curious, to ponder things—and then to doubt. Remember, Crask, one way or another you will be leaving this marsh. Perhaps your girl knows little about the way the Church works. But, soon enough, she will learn. And she’ll recognise they are ruthless. That they seldom let their enemies live—unless, of course, their enemies have changed allegiance. Have become friends. Informers.’

  Crask fell silent. Dragging a palm over his sweat-sparkled forehead, he said, ‘Do you intend to tell her the truth?’

  ‘Not if you do as I say,’ replied Ballas.

  ‘What do you want of me?’

  ‘What lies beyond the Garsbracks?’

  ‘I do not know—that is the truth: I swear it. The accounts do differ: some speak of a pagan land; others claim there is nothing but wilderness.’

  ‘And the maps? Are they to be trusted? Do any still exist?’

  ‘Again, I do not know—’

  ‘You are beginning to bore me, Crask,’ said Ballas, dangerously.

  ‘—But there is a man who might have some inkling—some frail grasp of the truth.’ Crask lowered his gaze. ‘Many of the forbidden texts were copies. A scribe named Jonas Elsefar produced them. He was a quill-master of great repute. He could reproduce, to the finest detail, even the most convoluted map or design—and with the greatest speed. He certainly copied maps of the Garsbrack Range.’ He looked up at Ballas. ‘He may be able to help you. If he is still alive—I never met him but I understand he was much older than I, and never in the soundest health.’

  ‘Where can he be found?’

  ‘Granthaven, the last I heard,’ replied the old man. it is a town, eight miles—’

  ‘I know where it is,’ interrupted Ballas. ‘Now, you and your daughter must gather your things. Bring only what you will need for the journey.’

  ‘Journey?’

  ‘You are to travel with me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You will introduce me to this quill-master,’ said Ballas. ‘You will ensure he trusts me, and does my bidding.’

  ‘Have you not been listening? I never met him. He does not know me from Martyr Cadaris!’

  ‘You were labourers in the same trade,’ said Ballas. ‘That will count for something.’

  Leaving Crask and his daughter to gather what they needed, Ballas stepped outside, settling upon the porch. He gazed at the marsh—at the bubbles bursting on the surface, each one a tiny gasp of vapour. And he listened to the voices inside the cottage. To the old man and Heresh discussing the forthcoming journey.

  ‘We ought to do as he asks,’ said Crask. ‘He may look like some forest beast, but he has spoken sensibly. The Wardens are hunting us; when we are found, what can we do to escape capture? Fight? Not you and I, my girl. You killed a Warden, that is true: but only because you surprised him. We are safer in his company. That is all there is to it.’

  ‘So, father, we are to remain with him for ever? I do not believe what threatens us will be over soon. Are we to employ him, then, as our private guardian?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Crask tiredly. ‘There are places where you and I will be safe. Your uncle, my brother—he will assist us. His home is in a far-off, seldom visited region. He will take us in. He will ensure all is well. Once we are there, we shall bid farewell to … to the fugitive.’

  ‘Maybe we will never have the opportunity,’ protested Heresh. ‘Maybe we will have no need of a safe house, for we shall already be dead.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What is to say he will not kill us, once we have served his purpose? Once we have taken him to Jonas Elsefar?’

  ‘What is to say he will?’ retorted Crask.

  ‘Oh, father—that is so weak—’

  ‘I am merely saying we have no choice. What will happen, do you think, if we refuse to help him? Besides,’ Crask sighed, I do not believe he will kill us—not unless we give him good cause. It pains me to say it, but I do not believe he is without honour.’

  ‘Him? Honour?’ Heresh sounded startled.

  ‘It seems incredible, I know,’ said Crask, ‘but when I was a smuggle
r, I learned much about honour. As I acquired it myself, I grew able to discern it in others. And he has it—to a degree …’

  Despite his fever sweats and light-stricken eyes, Ballas found himself grinning. ‘You have the truth upside down,’ he said to himself. ‘You don’t have any honour, Crask—you have confessed as much. And it is that lack you see in others—in me.’

  He spat into the water: a blood-tinted splash of phlegm.

  The cottage door opened. Lugen Crask stepped out, his daughter following him. He wore a long cape, the hood slung back. A rucksack was strapped to his back.

  ‘We are ready,’ he said, eyeing Ballas doubtfully.

  ‘Good,’ said Ballas, rising.

  Chapter 11

  A hundred miles from Scarrendestin,

  The four true Pilgrims met, and found

  They shared a common purpose, and their

  Fortunes were intertwined. They rejoiced

  At their trials overcome, and rejoiced

  At their destiny …

  They moved northwards, emerging from the swamp on to a stretch of bare moorland. Then they readjusted their steps, heading north-east over the yellow, frost-killed grasses. The sky was steel-grey—a sharp overcast that might or might not unleash drizzle or rain at any instant.

  A cold wind blew from the east. It troubled Crask, forcing him to lift his hood, and to stoop, like a slave accepting a whipping from his master. Yet this same wind pleased Ballas. It bit at his face, threatening to crack open his skin; it pierced the cape given to him by Heresh, chilling him bone-deep. But it also refreshed him. Each gust blew away a little of the sleeping draught’s ague-imitating after-effects. He felt himself growing stronger. And more alert. The light hurt his eyes less and less. His nausea ebbed, and when he shivered, it was the healthy shaking of a cold—not feverish—man.

  Yet it would not be wise to travel on foot the eighty miles to Granthaven. If Ballas could have managed it, Crask could not.

  After a few hours of silent walking, Ballas said, ‘Are there any farms close by?’

  ‘There is one, about ten miles that way,’ said Crask, pointing eastwards. ‘Why do you ask? You do not intend to seek lodgings, do you? For it is best, I think, if we leave as faint a trail as possible. We ought not be seen if—’

  ‘We’ll make our own lodgings,’ interrupted Ballas.

  ‘We shall sleep in the open?’

  ‘Aye.’ The big man nodded, glancing at the sky.

  Crask muttered something. ‘Then why such interest in the farm?’

  ‘We need horses,’ said Ballas, plainly. ‘There’s enough for us there, yes?’

  Under his hood, Crask nodded. ‘But I have no coin to purchase—’

  ‘We won’t be buying them.’

  They continued walking. Ballas scanned the horizon. The view was desolate—an unbroken curve of moorland, bare except for the odd rowan tree that struggled up out of the damp earth. Even the sky was empty: no birds passed overhead—no crows or rooks, no ravens or hawks. Except for Crask and his daughter, the moors held no other living thing. Such barrenness gave Ballas a sudden sense of comfort. Where there existed no life, there existed no enemy. True, he couldn’t count Crask and Heresh as allies: but for the time being, they were too wary to trouble him.

  He looked to Crask.

  ‘Have you brought anything to drink?’

  ‘There is a river close by,’ replied the eel-catcher.

  ‘I wasn’t talking of water,’ grunted the big man. ‘You got any whisky? Brandy?’

  ‘No,’ said Crask, shaking his head. ‘Heresh and I—we seldom drink. Out in the marshes, it is wise to remain sober. A misplaced footfall can—’

  ‘What food’ve you brought?’ interrupted Ballas.

  ‘None,’ said Crask.

  Ballas glared balefully at him. ‘I told you to gather what you’d need for the journey. Did you reckon we’d eat nothing but air?’

  ‘Our larder is empty,’ replied Crask, a touch testily. ‘I had intended to visit the market this morning—but certain events rendered it unwise. In my rucksack, I have a fishing line and a hook-pouch, though I was never much of an angler. Eels I can catch, because the marsh makes it easy. In their hunger, those dim-witted creatures follow their first impulse: to chase the scent of blood. It is—’

  ‘I will fish,’ said Ballas, weary of the eel-catcher’s prattle.

  As light seeped from the sky, the grey thickening to black, they camped at a small limestone cave, in a dip by the river. Crask built a fire from rowan branches, and lit it from a tub of dried moss kindling that he had had the foresight to pack in his rucksack. From two forked branches, and a straight one whittled sharp at the end, Heresh constructed a spit. On the river bank, Ballas unrolled a bobbin of catgut and tied a barbed hook to the end of the line. Out of the soil he dug a plump worm, which he speared upon the hook.

  He cast his line into the dark river.

  It had been many years since he had fished. Yet he felt instantly comfortable, feeling the river currents tugging at his line and awaiting the firmer tell-tale jerk of a strike.

  For a while, he gazed at the water—just a strip of darkness, glinting occasionally where the fire’s light touched it. Then he glanced over his shoulder, towards the camp. Crask was sleeping at the mouth of the cave; seated upright against a rock, he had not intended to drowse—overwhelmed by fatigue, he had merely dozed off. Near the fire, Heresh sat cross-legged. She stared at Ballas. But, in the uncertain light, Ballas couldn’t tell if she was looking at him—or simply seeing something in her mind’s eye. Her stare lasted for a long time. Eventually, she blinked.

  ‘I am a killer,’ she said, quietly. ‘This morning, I took a man’s life …’

  ‘What of it?’ grunted Ballas, returning his gaze to the river.

  Heresh did not reply for many moments. ‘I am a killer,’ she repeated. ‘In idle hours, I have imagined many things I might become. Many professions I might adopt, many ways in which I might one day live. Yet I never imagined I would be a murderer … a murderess. It troubles me. I feel … guilty.’

  ‘Guilt,’ said Ballas, ‘is a stupid habit—one you’d do well to break. The Wardens would’ve slaughtered you, and your father. You had to choose between life and death.’ The big man shrugged. ‘You’ll never again be given such an easy choice. Don’t feel guilty for wanting to live.’

  Silence. The fire crackled, and river water lapped gently against the bank. Ballas thought he felt the line twitch tight. A cautious nip from a fish? Or just the current’s touch?

  ‘Do you feel anything … about the Wardens?’ asked Heresh eventually.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But, soon enough, their mothers and fathers will grieve for them. Perhaps they even had families of their own. Wives, children—’

  ‘Then they should’ve acted with more caution.’

  ‘Caution?’

  ‘The Wardens’ families were the Wardens’ concern. If they take up a trade that makes them risk their lives … if they act recklessly, then their families’ grief is their doing—not mine. I didn’t make them become Wardens. I didn’t ask them to try and capture me, rather than kill me straight away. They behaved like fools. For that, they paid a high price. As have their families.’

  ‘My father is right,’ said Heresh, softly. ‘You are too at ease with violence. Your crime—it was a violent one, wasn’t it? The Church are hunting you for committing some brutal act …’

  ‘So what?’ snapped Ballas. ‘Don’t talk of brutal things as if they are special—as if they are dirty, or shameful, or wicked. Brutality is everywhere, woman. Every bird, animal, insect is violent. Killing is the most ordinary of deeds. To not kill—that is the extraordinary action. To not kill—that is perverse.’ He spat into the river. Then he glimpsed something from the corner of his eye. A hawk hung hovering over a patch of moorland. The bird was a silhouette against the moon. ‘Look,’ said Ballas, pointing casually. ‘Tell me what you see.’

&
nbsp; ‘A hawk,’ said Heresh, a puzzled note in her voice.

  The hawk swooped, vanishing into blackness.

  ‘Now,’ said Ballas, after a pause, ‘tell me what you’re thinking of.’

  ‘Of the bird’s prey,’ replied Heresh.

  ‘Do you pity it?’

  ‘Its guts are about to be ripped out—of course I do!’

  ‘And the hawk?’

  ‘I feel nothing for it.’

  ‘This morning, what were you but the prey—and the Wardens the predators?’

  ‘Oh, please: do not talk so … so predictably. It seems that every time an unintelligent man seeks to be wise, he points out something in Nature, and says, “That is how it is”.’

  ‘And you know better, woman?’ asked Ballas, irritated.

  ‘I know that men are not animals,’ came the reply. ‘At least, most men aren’t.’

  Ballas released a long breath. ‘If your life depends upon another’s death,’ he said eventually, ‘you must kill. Anything that comes after—any guilt or shame or feeling of dirtiness … well, that is nothing to worry about. Better to feel miserable for a short time than to be dead for all eternity.’ He glanced back at her. ‘If there is trouble coming—and there might be, for the Wardens are seeking us all—don’t let your conscience slow your hand. Fight like you did in the marshes, and perhaps you will survive.’

  The fishing line jerked in Ballas’s hand. A long-dormant reflex made Ballas twist his wrist sharply, sinking the hook into the unseen fish’s flesh. Pulling in the line hand over hand, he dragged the creature gently to the bank and lifted it from the water. In the firelight, it appeared to be a rainbow trout; Ballas discerned a faint pinkness to the silvern scales. Taking a stone, he struck the fish firmly upon its head. Its gills stopped pulsing; its body stopped contorting.

  Muttering, Ballas tossed the fish to Heresh. Then he handed her the filleting knife.

  ‘Cook it,’ he said simply.

  Heresh did as she was told.

  She skewered the trout over the campfire. When it was cooked, she divided it into three portions. Ballas ate his third instantly; one moment it was in his fingers, the next it had vanished. When Heresh decided it was kinder to let her father sleep on, Ballas devoured Crask’s share too. Then, hunkering in the cave mouth, the big man closed his eyes and fell asleep.