by Carol Browne
“Fell an’ twisted it on some rocks. By the ancients, but what I’m doin’ out here, the gods themselves don’t know! An’ this ole pony be no use nor ornament. Stubborn, that’s what she is.”
“Where are you bound?” Elgiva asked.
“Like I told you, I’m lost. Travellin’ for days, an’ here I be, lost, with a twisted ankle an’ this ole bag o’ bones. Was e’er a man so tried? I was off to sell this vermin at market, but the eyes, I suppose, they’ve led me agley, an’ I can’t see the right road for lookin’.”
“Where are you from?” Elgiva persisted.
“Many days to the north. I’ve got this little homestead, see. Some acres of land. Do a bit o’ farmin’. I was on my way to the neighbourin’ village. Should have been there two days since. Must have took a wrong turn back at the crossroads, but I’m a born fool, I reckon. If I don’t sell some stock, I’ll starve. Times are bad, see. The wife, she joined her ancestors. A cold snap took her, just like that, and my only son, he died last harvest. Got the bloody flux, he did. I had two lads helpin’ out, an’ they ran off one day. Well, I ask you, how’s a man to live? So here I be, lost and alone, wi’ a twisted ankle an’ a stubborn nag what’s no use but for hound meat. I think the gods are punishing me for my idle and misspent youth. My old gaffer always said I’d come to grief one day.”
Godwin smiled, but Elgiva looked thoughtful and her eyes were fixed on the pony.
“Let me see your ankle,” said Elgiva.
“Well, I don’t know—”
“I’ll not put a spell on you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she snapped.
Godwin glared at her, surprised at her asperity, but the man gave her a peculiar grin and held out his injured leg. Godwin tried to lighten the mood.
“We don’t have much food, but you’re welcome to share it,” he said.
“The moment I set eyes on you, I knew you was kind-hearted,” said the Saxon. “There’s few as would stop for a codger like me, except to rob me, of course. But don’t you worry. I’ve plenty of food, an’ I’d be honoured if you’ll partake. I’ve bread an’ meat aplenty in that pack on the pony’s back, an’ you’ll dine well this night—an’ you, Grimalkin,” he shouted, half-turning towards the animal, “you can get off up that hill an’ fill your belly wi’ grass! I call her Grimalkin, for she’s as spiteful an’ wayward as an ole she-cat.” He shook his fist at the pony. “Get on, willful beast, or you’ll feel the end o’ my boot.”
“There’s nothing wrong . . . that I can see,” said Elgiva, in a somewhat sardonic tone.
“Eh?” The old man narrowed his eyes at her.
“Your ankle. There’s nothing broken. Perhaps you should give it a rest.”
The Saxon slowly nodded his thanks. For a long moment, she studied him before getting to her feet with a sigh, and giving Godwin a look that he couldn’t decipher, she walked towards the pony.
“There’s some nice grass up on that slope,” she said.
The pony allowed Elgiva to lead her away.
The Saxon indicated Elgiva with a sideways nod of his head. “That creature has a way wi’ animals, but she don’t care for men.”
“Well,” said Godwin with a shrug, “she’s an elf.”
“Suspicious, eh?”
“What? Yes, perhaps, and probably with good reason. She’ll come round sooner or later.”
“Hope so. Can’t stand bad feelin’. Puts me on edge, it does. At least you seem a friendly sort. What do they call you, son?”
“A great many things, no doubt, but mainly they call me Godwin. My friend is Elgiva.”
“An’ I go by the name of Oswald. Oswald Elricson.”
“Elricson,” mused Godwin, suddenly missing the young lad. “I knew an Elric once. I used to work for his father.”
They chatted until Elgiva returned, the pony at her side. She had a troubled look on her face. Oswald smiled in welcome, but she quickly looked away.
“Well, Oswald,” asked Godwin, “what are your plans?”
The Saxon shook his head. “Can’t say for sure. To one that’s lost, any path will suit. I could travel with you a ways, if you don’t mind, o’ course. Might find my way back home.”
“We travel alone,” said Elgiva.
Godwin winced at the tone of her voice. “It’s better we do,” he said, making amends for his friend’s curt manner. “We follow a dangerous road.”
“Well, by the gods!” Oswald declared. “I’ve been on many a dangerous road, an’ most had more holes than these rags I’m wearin’.”
“How odd that someone so widely travelled should get lost going to market,” remarked Elgiva.
“Look here. I never said I was widely travelled,” Oswald protested, looking offended. “I’ve been about a bit, you know, but not all over the place. An’ goin’ to market, well, that’s different. It’s on a road I don’t much use. Never fell on hard times till now, an’ had no reason to go to market to sell off my only chattels.” He shook his head and sighed. “You was right, lad, when you said elves was suspicious.”
“But . . . ” Godwin’s attempt at an explanation was silenced by the hurt and angry look in Elgiva’s eyes. “Well, er, we’d best be on our way. I suppose you can travel with us a short while, until your ankle’s better.” He glanced at Elgiva, but she turned her back on him. “Can I help you onto your pony, Oswald?”
“Nay, lad, I can shift for myself, as long as she stands still. Perhaps you’d hold her head, son?”
Godwin took hold of the leather bridle, while Oswald struggled to perch himself upon the animal’s back.
“Are we ready, then?” asked Godwin.
Elgiva glared at him and began to walk ahead. Grimalkin trotted after her, as though she had heard a spoken command. Feeling somewhat dejected, Godwin brought up the rear, the image of Elgiva’s reproving gaze refusing to fade from his mind.
For a while, they travelled in silence, but Godwin found that he couldn’t bear the burden of his guilt, and Elgiva’s manner worried him. He quickened his pace and caught up with her.
“I’m sorry about that,” he whispered so Oswald wouldn’t hear. “Elgiva, it’s not what you think.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Well, then, what’s wrong?”
She looked at him, but he was aware that he only had half of her attention. “That pony. She won’t talk to me.”
“What?”
Elgiva seemed too preoccupied to pay him further heed, but he had no idea what was wrong with her. Was she annoyed because the pony had snubbed her? He dropped back, shrugging his shoulders, content to let her sulk alone.
They had covered almost two leagues when Elgiva stopped. Ignoring Oswald, she said to Godwin, “We’ll stay here for the night.”
“But lass,” protested Oswald, “there’s several hours of daylight left.”
“I think your pony is tired.”
“And I’m hungry,” Godwin declared, adding under his breath, “not that anyone cares.” He surveyed their surroundings. They were standing in a shallow dell, sheltered by a few small trees. “A good enough place to set up camp.” He held out his hand to help Oswald dismount.
The old man shrugged and clambered down. “By the gods, I’m stiff! Like sittin’ on top of a sack full o’ stones!”
Godwin turned to speak to his friend but stopped when he saw her expression. She was watching Oswald and seemed to be quite perplexed. Her gaze slid to Godwin and became immediately blank. She strode off towards the lip of the dell and sat down with her back towards them.
The pony moved and lumbered after her.
Godwin set to work collecting wood for a fire. He glanced at his friend, but the rigour of her back defied communication. Since their ordeal in the Forest of Shades, he had come to feel they were equals, had almost forgotten she was an elf, but now her aloofness called to mind her perplexing, elvish nature. She was a being from a magical world, who talked to animals and hated wilthkin. Perhaps s
he was only with him on sufferance.
He chided himself. Elgiva had a great deal to worry about, and he was being feeble. A proper meal and a good night’s sleep would soon put things to rights.
***
By the time dusk had fallen, a chill breeze tugged at the trees around the dell. Godwin and the old man sat before a roaring fire, grateful for its warmth, while Elgiva continued to sit apart, like a sentinel watching the gathering night.
Hating their separation, Godwin was beginning to resent the Saxon’s presence. The sight of Elgiva sitting alone in the cold was more than he could bear, and he decided to try to persuade her to join them. Leaving Oswald to finish his meal, he strolled across the dell and sat beside his friend.
“Elgiva?”
“What now?”
He frowned. “Come to the fire and eat.”
“Leave me alone,” she said. “I don’t want his food.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “Why do you sit here? Have I offended you?”
She looked at him and her features softened. “No,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I don’t like him. I don’t know why. I just don’t trust him, Godwin.” She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “He has an unpleasant aura.”
“Well, a bath wouldn’t go amiss,” he jested.
She cut him dead with a glare. “It’s not funny!”
He sighed with exasperation. “I’m sorry. Look, I don’t want him here anymore than you do, but we’re stuck with him for the night. Tomorrow, we’ll send him on his way.”
After an awkward pause, she said, “Perhaps elves are suspicious.”
“I had to explain—”
“I can explain my own actions.”
“Can you?” he asked. “I’m not so sure of that. Be reasonable, Elgiva. You were far too rude.”
“And you were far too friendly.”
“By Frigg, I had to be! Poor harmless old man. One of us had to show him some pity. Besides, Elgiva, he’s one of my kind.”
“He’s a Saxon!” she snapped.
“He’s a human being!”
She looked at him, and for a moment, her eyes reflected something torn between hurt and envy. Then she smirked. “Is he?”
“Yes, and I felt sorry for him. I suppose it’s good to talk to a normal person again.” Godwin regretted this statement as soon as he had uttered it.
“I see.”
He gave her a hesitant smile. “I do believe you’re jealous.”
She scowled. “How you mistake me, wilthkin! But I warn you; be on your guard. Something is wrong here. I feel it. What will it take to teach you caution?” She turned her back on him.
“By Frigg, you’re impossible!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Beside the cheery campfire, Godwin lay wrapped in his cloak, his body aching for sleep, but Oswald was a lively character who seemed to need no rest. As soon as darkness had fallen and they had settled down for the night, the old Saxon began a monologue. The history of his thrilling life was a tale long in the telling, and Godwin felt a wave of relief when finally it crawled to a close. But Oswald hadn’t finished.
“You know, what puzzles me, young man, is what you two are doin’ out here. You’re in the middle of nowhere. You could be attacked by wolves, an’ there’s robbers on the road. You’re miles away from the nearest village.” He paused and threw more wood on the fire, then looked at Godwin askance. “You runnin’ away from somethin’?”
Godwin floundered at the change of subject.
“You’re not lost, surely? Such capable folk as you? Folk like me get lost all the time.” His manner was affable, matter-of-fact, yet Godwin felt ill at ease. “By the way, if you want some real strong ale, there’s some in Grimalkin’s pack. Or if you’re a man as likes somethin’ a bit different, well, I’ve got these mushrooms, you know.” He grinned in the firelight.
Godwin raised his eyebrows, then shook his head.
“As you please. They’re not easy to come by, so I don’t mind keepin’ ’em all to myself. There’s few pleasures left at my age. Not like you young folk, eh? What was I sayin’? Ah, yes. Seems to me you’re ill-prepared for travellin’. Hardly any food an’ no pack animals.”
Godwin swallowed hard and his mind laboured. “Er, we had some trouble in that quarter.”
“Robbed on the road, were you? There’s worse can happen, I reckon. Lone travellers are good sport, you know. Aye, you never can tell who you’ll meet far from home, on a lone track in the dark. So, where are you headin’ for now, then?”
“We’re looking for a village,” said Godwin.
“A village? What, Saxon? What village is that?”
“Where . . . where they breed the best pack-ponies in the land. My father wants six for his farmstead.” Godwin was rather impressed with this invention, but the look of doubt in Oswald’s rheumy eyes gave him second thoughts.
“An’ there’s another thing. I don’t know why you’re with an elf, but if I was you, I’d drop her. You can’t go into no village wi’ an elf. Folk would run a mile. There’d be a bloody riot, son. Ain’t you afeard of elves?”
“I was,” said Godwin, “but now I know better.”
Oswald gasped, like a man whose knowledge weighed heavily upon him. “Wish I could say the same, I’m sure. I’ve heard some tales, but, well, best not to say.”
“What sort of tales?” asked Godwin, his interest reviving.
“Nay. Happen it’s all tittle-tattle.”
Godwin sat up. “No, go on, but—” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “—more quietly, if you can.”
Oswald drew closer and glanced right and left, as though afraid the shadows had ears. “Have you ever heard of, or seen, a man what’s elf-shot? I mean, really?”
“I’ve heard many claim it,” said Godwin, “but they were fooling themselves, I think. Some people always need someone to blame for their problems, rather than blame themselves.”
“Son, believe me, I’ve seen it, an’ I don’t want to see it again.” Oswald shivered. “Young Eadric it was. A good-lookin’ lad from t’other valley. Well, one fair mornin’, Eadric went out to the wood behind the farm, collectin’ berries an’ such. We all knew there was elves there, but Eadric, he didn’t give a crone’s cuss. That night, he came staggerin’ home, wild-eyed he was, an’ his face as pale as a linen clout. Said the elves bewitched him for trespassin’ on their land. He took to his bed that very night an’ never got up again. We all knew he had been cursed with the blister. Burnin’ up wi’ fever, he was. Terrible to see.
“As soon as I got wind of it all, I rushed straight over to help, but I saw him breathe his last, his body a bloated mass, covered in great purple blisters. It fair turned my stomach, an’ I’m not the squeamish type. To think he was once a fine young lad—not unlike yourself.”
Was it a trick of the firelight, or did the old man have a sly grin on his face?
“I’m tryin’ to warn you of perils your young mind is ignorant of,” added Oswald.
“I’m much obliged,” said Godwin. “It’s a strange tale, indeed, by Grim.” He lay down and made himself comfortable, hoping that Oswald had finished for the night.
“An’ there’s somethin’ else, though it isn’t easy to talk of, but I see you’d best know about it—just to be on the safe side.”
Oswald frowned and hesitated, as though debating whether or not it was wise for him to continue.
Godwin sat up and stared at him, his curiosity roused.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Well, you see, son, these elves, they have a way about them. They’re enchanters, see, an’ can poison your mind. They take on disguises to fool us. Seems to mean something to you, lad?”
“No, no. Please go on.”
“Well, they’re damned clever, see, an’, well, sensual. To them, seducin’ a mortal man is the height of entertainment. They have strong passions, you understand, an’ a likin’ for trickin’ innocent lads into their beds—”
> “Now just a minute . . . ”
Godwin tried to protest, to find the words, but logic had forsaken him. He eyed the old man. He had no reason to lie, and like all old men, he loved a good tale. There was often truth in tales, and he was well aware elves were jealous, gloating beings who hated to be crossed. He travelled with one, didn’t he? Elgiva had magic, too, and cursing a man with blisters might not be beyond her reach. He remembered also, with a sudden pang, her Saxon disguise and the way she had enchanted him when he first saw her true appearance.
“Mind you,” said Oswald, “you can take care of yourself, I’m sure. Took you for a warrior at first. Can’t understand what a farmer’s lad would be doin’ wi’ a sword like that. A goodly, bold weapon indeed. I’ve been admirin’ it, so I have. Would you mind if I had a look?”
Oswald’s eyes grew large and round, and Godwin saw a gleam in them that smacked of greed. He clasped the sword and shook his head. “No.” He drew a deep breath and forced a smile. “No, it’s dangerous. Very sharp.”
Oswald shrugged. “We’d best get a bit o’ sleep. Nice talkin’ to you, but an ole man needs his rest, you know. You young folk don’t think o’ that. Good night, then. Sleep well.” He yawned, pulled the thin blanket over his chest, and settled down to sleep. Then he chuckled. “Happen I’ll sleep wi’ one eye open, lest your friend gets a funny mood on her in the middle o’ the night.”
Muttering oaths under his breath, Godwin lay down once more. Fatigue had made him gullible, and he had lapped up Oswald’s chatter like the credulous dolt he was. Although he refused to believe it all, some doubts still lurked in his mind, doubts that sprang from his fear of things he didn’t understand: elves and magic and the unknown horrors that crouched at the marge of reality.
***
Finally, Godwin fell asleep.
At his side, the old man sat up. Sure that his movement had gone undetected, he shrugged off his blanket and got to his feet. He strolled across the moonlit sward to the lip of the dell, where Elgiva sat, her chin cupped in her hands. She heard him approach and raised her head.
“Your ankle has made a remarkable recovery,” she observed without turning round.
