by Jacky Gray
Cursing his immobility, Geraint, was halfway out of the bed when she returned, her face pale and tinged with green. ‘Are you all right? I worried you were going to be sick or something.’
‘I was. Never mind me; you shouldn’t be out of bed. Do you want to end up crippled for life?’
He muttered something about being worth it just to get out of the room and breathe some fresh air. Helping him to get comfortable again, she reached for her notebook.
‘Don’t you want to talk about it?’
‘Not now, I need to make notes before I forget. Maybe later.’
But after ten minutes or so, she put down the book and shot out of the door with a brief, ‘Back in a blink.’
Several blinks of the eye later, she returned with a secret smile she refused to explain no matter how hard he tried to persuade her. Eventually he gave up, returning to the exploits of Gawain and the Green Knight. She completed her home tasks quickly, only requiring his help on a complicated number problem about sheep, fields and grain.
Geraint thought no more about it until she turned up the next day with a smile which danced on her face like sunshine.
‘What are you looking so smug about? I’m sure there’s a saying about cats and cream.’
‘Wait and see. I just got the moon project back. Thanks to your help, I got full marks and Father was so pleased, he wants to invite you round for lunch on Sunday.’
‘From the look on your face, that should be a good thing. So why am I worried?’
‘I can’t imagine. Tol says he can drive you there and back in his cart, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Can I tell him you’ll come?’
Hesitating, Geraint felt an uneasiness akin to terror. He thought through the possible reasons he could give her which might justify his refusal. If she noticed his reluctance, she did not show it.
As he decided to cite his lack of mobility as an excuse, fate took a hand in the shape of Tol and an extraordinary looking contraption.
‘At last. I’m so excited; this is going to make things so much better for you.’
‘What is it? Am I supposed to sit in that?’
‘It’s a wheeled chair. I saw one at the great healing house when we went to visit Father’s aunt. She had an ailment which made her legs swell so she couldn’t walk, and they pushed her round in one of these. I described it to Tol and he made one for you.’
‘Thank you. I think. How am I supposed to get in and out of it?’
‘Not on your own, lad.’ Tol grinned. ‘But Siany is confident she can help. She’ll push you into the garden so you can get some of the fresh air you’ve been hankering after. Don’t you like it?’
‘Of course. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I’m just worried it will be trouble for someone to do all that just for …’
‘That’s quite enough of that thinking, young man. We’re more than happy to help you, otherwise we wouldn’t offer. Do you want to give it a try?’
‘Sure.’
Hence a new routine began: After lunch, when the sun had warmed the garden enough to sit outside, Tol wheeled him out and Siany joined him when she got there. Their lessons took on a new depth as she became fascinated by his knowledge of plants and trees. But her favourite topic by far was the history of the Hengist people. Most of the adults she knew frowned on it as stuff and nonsense, and there were few books in the librarie about their heritage.
‘How amazing to have been descended from a god. Do you think they knew it?’
‘I imagine there were quite a few people back then who claimed to be able to trace their ancestors back to gods. The leaders employed people to make up songs and they were full of lines like Hengist, Son of Wictgils, Son of Witta, Son of Woden.’
‘It’s so exciting. Imagine being the great-grandson of someone who had a day named after him.’
‘He must have been fairly important. And it’s lasted so long. We still call the third day of the week after him.’
‘I know. Wodensday. I wonder if they did it when he was alive?’
‘Probably after he died, in tribute to him.’
She fell silent for a moment, clearly lost in the dream world she liked to create around these valiant characters. ‘If you’d been born back then, who would you rather have been, Hengist or Horsa?’
‘No contest. Horsa died before his thirtieth birthday. Hengist became king of Kent; a great ruler who led his people to settle in Wessex.’
‘Yes, but Horsa died a hero’s death. And you said his burial stone is still there today.’
‘It is. My father has been there and seen it. Actually I’m not sure I would like to be either of them. Horsa just seems to have lived in his brother’s shadow and Hengist doesn’t sound like a man of honour.’
‘You mean because he used his daughter to trick Vortigern into submission?’
‘That’s only one of the stories.’
‘But surely all those Saxons wouldn’t have followed him if he was a bad man.’
‘Who knows what life was like, back then? From what we can tell, it was all about power struggles. Men who had the strongest will commanded the biggest armies and subjugated the rest of the people.’ He liked to use the long words Siany had taught him whenever he could.
‘Or women. Boudicca lived in those days. You know, the queen of the Iceni who fought the Romans.’
Before Geraint could voice his surprise at the idea of a female leader, Janna appeared with two glasses of fresh fruit juice, suggesting they should come in soon because Tol had smelt rain.
‘I did too, but it’s about half an hour away. I’d like to stop out as long as I can. I think it’s going to settle in until the weekend.’
‘You can smell the rain?’ Siany seemed fascinated, quizzing him about it as Janna went back inside. ‘But it doesn’t smell of anything, it’s just water.’
‘I don’t exactly smell it when it’s so far away, but I can sense a change in the air: It feels fresher, more excited.’
‘That’s daft. Air can’t be excited. It’s just nothingness.’
The phrase “Don’t they teach you anything at that lehren” echoed through his mind in his father’s voice, but he refused to give it breath, urging her instead to think about what made the leaves move in the trees.
‘The wind of course, but that’s different.’
‘How?’
‘Because it moves, it pushes the clouds along in the sky and makes the washing flap on the line.’
‘So in your world they are two different things, the wind has energy and form and the air is still and lifeless.’
‘No. The wind is the same as the air, it just … oh, I don’t know; you’re confusing me.’
‘No, you’re confusing yourself. I just asked questions.’
‘Can you explain it to me please?’
He described how the changes in temperature of the earth caused different energy levels in the particles which made up the air. Janna appeared with a basket to collect in the washing, and Siany dutifully leapt up to help her fold the large sheets. Geraint returned to his studies, wondering if there were books which could explain things like how the wind worked.
His prediction about the rain came true; shortly after they’d taken in the dried clothes, the first drop of rain fell onto his book, and Siany wheeled his chair inside. They made a start on the next step: teaching him how to write. By the time for her to go, he could write his own name and hers. She clapped her hands, obviously pleased with his efforts. It rained hard for the next two days and reduced to showers on Saturnday, but Siany did not come round as her parents had taken her to see some relatives. He’d not been pleased when she mentioned it on Thorsday, but she’d thoughtfully brought round a writing book and a librarie book explaining the weather in great scientific detail.
Although his reading ability wasn’t good enough to cope with the technical language, there were many detailed diagrams which he studied, working out what was going on. Each time Tol or Janna came near, he would ask t
hem to pronounce the long words too technical for the dictionary, and explain what they meant. It didn’t take long for him to reach the point where they simply read the words out loud and he explained the meaning of the words to them. Before he knew it, Tol wheeled him through to the dining room where Janna served up supper – his day without Siany had almost ended.
13 Different Worlds
Sunday brought a return to summer, the temperature and light quality at breakfast heralding a warm day.
‘That will make it a much more pleasant drive in the cart. It’s not nice when you’re head to toe in oiled hides; they can get a bit smelly.’
‘You don’t both have to come, I’m sorry to put you …’
‘I’ll stop you before you say it because you’re doing me a big favour. I’ve been nagging Tol to take me to the river gardens for a meadow feast for years, but he can never quite find the energy or enthusiasm. It’s only a few minutes down the road from Siany’s house, so we won’t be tiring old Rocket out. I’m sure he’ll appreciate a nice gentle trot and a couple of hours in a shady meadow.’
‘What if it rains?’
‘Then we’ll find a shelter. If we take the smelly old hides you can guarantee we won’t need them.’
‘Of course, we can always spread them on the grass and have a snooze if it stays warm.’
‘There you are, that’s us old folks sorted. Would you like me to put a fresh binding on your leg? That one looks a bit grubby.’
Three quarters of an hour trying not to slide around in a gently swaying cart tested Geraint’s patience to its limit. No matter how he tried to sit in the back of the cart, he could not get comfortable. He was not used to this method of transport; when they went anywhere, he usually walked or rode in the front of the wagon. The pace and rhythm were different and, although the carriage was lightly sprung, every rut in the road sent a jolt of pain through his leg. But the hard wooden bench, worn smooth with the transport of many bottoms, provided the biggest challenge.
If he could grip the floor with both feet, he could have balanced and gone with the flow, but when he tried to compensate by using more force with his good foot, he ended up sliding around more unevenly and causing pressure on his bad leg. He tried bracing with his hands but gave up after ten minutes when they started going numb. As they paused by an imposing house with magnificent roman columns surrounding the front door, he took the opportunity to relax and shake out his free limbs. It came as a shock when Tol handed the reins to Janna and climbed down. This could not be where his waif-like friend lived; it seemed so … grand.
He shuddered as a bad feeling swept down his spine. This was wrong; no, he was wrong. People who owned and lived in a place like this would do nothing but look down their noses at an ignorant, unkempt gypsy boy like him. If his leg hadn’t been broken, he would have leapt over the side and made a run for it. Waiting while Tol unloaded the chair and set it up, nausea rose from his stomach. No part of him wanted to take hold of Tol’s hand to be helped down into the chair, but somehow he managed it without being sick.
‘Are you all right Geraint? You look very pale. Was the journey too much for you?’
‘I’m fine. I never realised she would live somewhere quite so grand.’
‘Her father comes from a very wealthy family, and her grandfather lived here until he died.’
As he stared at the ornate front door, it opened and Siany came out to meet them. ‘Hello grandfather, grandmother. Geraint, I am so pleased to welcome you to my house. My parents are waiting to meet you.’
He could not reply; the change in her appearance stole his breath. Gone was the lively, adventurous sprite dressed in a tabard and breeches, replaced by an elegant, assured heiress with perfect hair and even more perfect manners. He made an effort to speak.
‘Hello, Siany. You look … lovely.’
‘Thank you.’ She gestured to Janna, waiting on the cart. ‘Are you not coming inside for a moment? Mother will be pleased to see you.’
‘I’m sure she’s busy with the food. We’ll stop by on the way back and have a cup of tea.’
Geraint did not have time to question Janna’s uncharacteristic coolness as Tol pushed his wheeled chair across the doorway and he entered into another world. Barely aware of Tol saying goodbye to his granddaughter, he stood, entranced by the opulence of the entrance hall. It was dominated by a huge, ornately carved wooden box with a glass window, and he stared as a large brass pendulum slowly made its way from one edge of the box to the other. Above the window was a large white circle, edged with black letters. He tried to read what they said, but he couldn’t make out words, merely I’s V’s and X’s. Gazing at the two strips of iron with arrows on the end, he wondered why they were different sizes, with one considerably longer than the other. He was trying to work out what they were pointing at when the longer one moved. Jumping at the unexpected movement, his chair rolled back, narrowly missing Siany as she came up behind him.
‘Sorry, it startled me. I didn’t touch it, honestly.’
‘Of course not. It’s a clock, it moved on its own.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘Telling the time.’
‘Does it talk as well?’
‘No, silly. You have to read it. It’s saying ten minutes past twelve.’
‘But it’s just after midday, so it’s wrong. You said it can’t talk so how can it say anything? And I’m not silly.’ The unfamiliar surroundings caused nervous energy to hurtle round his body, amplifying his annoyance at her slight, turning it into anger. This made the final sentence come out louder than he intended, just as her father appeared at one of the doors, talking to someone inside.
‘… if this bohemian has arrived yet. Oh there you are, Siany. And you must be Geraint. I didn’t hear the door bell.’
‘I saw them from upstairs and came down to meet them. Father, may I present my very dear friend, Geraint.’ She gave a flourish. ‘Geraint, this is my father, Darryn.’
Staring at the hand thrust out in front of him, the name her father had called him echoed round Geraint’s head. He’d never heard it before, but it did not sound very complementary. Frowning at the outstretched hand he wondered if the man expected him to place something in it. Was he supposed to pay for his meal or something? After an awkward silence which seemed to last for hours, Siany finally realised the reason for the frozen tableau.
‘Oh Father, not everyone shakes hands like that.’ Turning to Geraint, she demonstrated how to respond and he followed her example, clasping her father’s hand in a manner which seemed strange compared to his people’s customary handclasp.
‘Pleased to meet you, Geraint. Do come through and meet Oleta.’
Geraint’s flesh tingled with a strange energy from the man’s firm grip, but the opportunity to reply was lost as Siany pushed his chair through to a room twice the size of Janna’s comfortable kitchen. Dominated by a large table laden with food, he saw no sink or pot bubbling over the fire. None of the cupboards bulged with the paraphernalia required to prepare nutritious meals. Instead of the hard wooden benches which tucked neatly underneath, this table was surrounded by six perfectly matched wooden chairs. Their unusually-shaped backs were inlaid with three different coloured woods in complex patterns.
As his brain processed the detail of the scene, his eyes were drawn to a slightly larger, but not much older, version of Siany.
‘Oleta, may I present Siany’s very dear friend, Geraint.’ He bowed to her. ‘Geraint, I’d like you to meet my wife, Oleta.’
Removing the protective mittens from her hands, she put them on the table and moved to meet him. Instead of a handshake, she bent to kiss his forehead. His senses were overwhelmed with her warm, zesty scent and the soft touch of her lips, and he felt blood rising to heat his cheeks. Her voice affected him most, exactly how he imagined cinnamon honey sponge would sound if it could talk.
‘How lovely to meet you at last. Siany has told us so much about you.’
‘I
… um … I’m pleased to meet you.’
‘I hope you’re hungry. I made enough for my parents, just in case the weather changed and they couldn’t have their meadow feast. You do eat meat, don’t you?’
‘What sort of meat?’ His eyes darted to the table, worried there might be something strange like horse or dog meat.
‘Just the usual, a chicken and a ham. I only ask because more young people today seem to be turning to the strange diets where they only eat vegetables or cannot have eggs and cheese.’
‘I’m sure that’s just in the big cities my dear, it won’t have reached the … er … smaller villages yet.’
Geraint was too entranced by the sheer quantity of food on the table to be offended by the slip. It seemed like enough to keep the whole camp going for almost a week and the pungent aromas were making his mouth water.
‘Would you like to use the bathroom before we eat?’
‘I don’t need a bath. Do I smell?’
‘Of course not. I just meant to wash your hands after your journey.’
Looking at them, he saw a smudge of dirt from where he’d held on to the side of the cart and would have rubbed it on his breeches when he caught sight of the desperate expression on Siany’s face. ‘Of course, thank you.’
‘I’ll take you there.’ She turned the chair and pushed him into a room bigger than Janna’s bathroom; about the same size as his whole wagon. It had no bath, but a privy, a washbasin and a shower stall like in Tol’s book about modern house design.
Siany helped him reach the soap, and turned the taps as he could not manage to turn them from a sitting position. He flicked the water off his hands, aiming playfully in her direction, but instead of laughing and teasing him back as she would normally, she flinched away, smoothing the water off her dress.
‘What’s wrong? You don’t normally mind.’
‘I’m not normally wearing my best dress.’
‘It’s only a bit of water, it won’t stain.’
‘It will; this is the finest silk and water leaves a mark.’
‘That’s silly. Why wear clothes which get dirty from a drop of water?’
