Scilly Seasons

by Chris Tookey

  “The other funny thing,” mused the little girl, cheerfully unaware of her imminent peril, “was that I followed him to the front gate and hid. He thought there was no one watching, and he hung around outside and did something creepy with his knife.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  The little girl started marching up the hill towards the village.

  “Come with me,” she ordered. “And bring the tray. Think of yourself as a knight, and me as your lady fair.”

  “What? No! I can’t. Anyway, I’ve got my sheep to look after.”

  She trotted back down towards him and smiled her terrible smile.

  “Please?” she said, threateningly.

  “Oh, all right,” said Wyrd hastily, hoping that this might at least stop Herdis smiling again. “Rulf, guard the sheep!”

  The little girl led him the few hundred yards to the gate of the village, then took the tray off him.

  “You do walk funny,” she said.

  “I know,” said Wyrd. “One of my legs is longer than the other.”

  “It makes you look stupid,” she said. “I’m glad I’m not a cripple.”

  “I’m glad you’re not too,” said the boy, honestly.

  “Well, notice anything?” she asked.

  Wyrd looked around. Everything seemed normal. The roughly circular palisade surrounded the huts, as usual. To the left lay the orchard of fruit-trees that his uncle Rottbad had been harvesting for the last few weeks, when not being treated for wasp stings.

  To the right lay the land on which his father and most of the other villagers struggled to grow crops.

  Behind the village lay the ancient woodland on which the two families depended for nuts, berries, firewood and some degree of privacy when answering calls of nature.

  “I don’t know!” he said impatiently. “Come on, Herdis! What am I meant to be looking for?”

  “Look closely.”

  “There’s nothing to see.”

  “That’s because you’re too tall. Imagine you’re my height. Petite.”

  “Oh, you mean dwarf-like!”

  Wyrd crouched. He caught sight of a flash of white against the palisade and moved some long grass aside for a better look.

  “You see?” Herdis exclaimed triumphantly.

  A chunk had been carved out of the wooden post nearest the gate. It was in the shape of the silver horn that had hung by his parents’ fire for as long as he could remember.

  “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “What do you think it means? It’s a sign. A signal.”

  “But who to? And why?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said the girl, tossing her head and gazing back down the hill. “I am only six. Oh! That’s weird.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Wyrd, following her gaze. “I’m here.”

  “I know you are,” said Herdis. “I mean weird weird. Strange.”

  “What’s strange?”

  “Over there,” the little girl pointed back to where they had come from. “Something just dropped out of that tree. And scuttled off down the hill before Rulf could catch him.”

  “It was probably a squirrel.”

  “It was too big to be a squirrel. Anyway, it was green and brown. Like an enormous lizard, but running on its hind legs.”

  “Sounds like a lizard-man,” said Wyrd. “Pity. I’ve never seen one.”

  “Do you think it was hiding in the tree, spying on us?” asked the little girl.

  The boy shrugged.

  “Nah. It was probably just worried that Hogfrid was going to come by and eat it.”

  2

  Village Matters

  In which our hero fails to make the most of his last night at home

  As dusk fell inside the tiny Dumnonian village, Rulf drove the sheep into their pen for the night, and Wyrd fastened the latch.

  He walked to the barn nearby, opened the door to hang up his crook and heard a muffled scream and a frantic scuffling. After a moment, his Uncle Rottbad appeared, a trifle flushed and pulling up his britches.

  “What are you doing, you little freak?” Rottbad demanded. “Why is there never any privacy around here?”

  “Just putting my crook away,” said Wyrd, flushing with shame as it fell to the ground and he had to stop to pick it up. “Oh hello, Mildreth.”

  He had just caught sight of Mildreth the milkmaid, the prettiest girl in the village, poking her head out from behind a bale of hay.

  “Oh hallo,” she murmured. “Your uncle was just…”

  “Helping out,” said Rottbad, wiping sweat from his forehead, “with her milking.”

  “That’s nice,” said the boy, looking round for a cow but failing to locate one.

  “No need to tell anyone, eh?” said Rottbad, with a conspiratorial wink. “Specially not your Auntie Clothilda. Mildreth wants to perfect her, er, milking technique in secret.”

  “Oh, great,” said Wyrd, surprised to find his uncle taking any interest in someone other than himself. Rottbad had certainly never shown any concern for him.

  Outside, Wyrd whistled to Rulf, who was amusing himself by scattering geese which, like the chickens, were free to roam within the palisade and liked nothing better than to trip up unwary villagers and deposit them in piles of dung. The boy and his dog walked the few paces to the family hut.

  “It’s still warm,” said Wyrd, swinging open the door.

  “Too hot for me, my dear,” said his mother, Sieglinda, wearily. “Leave the door open, will you?”

  Dark patches of sweat were under her arms. She was cooking a goose over the fire in the centre of the room. She was a slim, careworn woman, too tall, fair and long-limbed to be a Celt, and with the healthy complexion of someone who spent most of her life outdoors.

  Wyrd left the door ajar and sat down by the fire. It jumped, spat and crackled. Smoke rose and made for the half-open door, like a monster’s breath. Wyrd looked up and saw more smoke disappearing through the roof thatch. The flames jumped as the door opened again. Wyrd looked round, knowing who it would be.

  “Looks like a storm’s coming up,” said his father, entering. He was a deeply tanned, muscular man with a grey-streaked beard and hair that had once been blond. Like all the villagers, he wore simple clothing made from the hides of the animals they had fed, loved and callously slaughtered. “Thor will be wielding his hammer tonight.”

  Not for the first time, the boy wondered if his father truly believed in the old Scandinavian gods, among whom the noisiest was Thor, God of Thunder.

  “Sheep safely stowed?” asked Gunnar, gruffly.

  The boy nodded.

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Good boy,” said his father, though whether to Rulf or the boy was unclear.

  The man patted Rulf, who rolled over to have his stomach scratched.

  “By the testicles of Tyr, I’m tired,” grunted Gunnar, scratching Rulf.

  “Gunnar!” said Sieglinda, reprovingly.

  “Well I am!” protested her husband.

  The boy strolled over to join his mother. The goose smelt good as it revolved on the spit Sieglinda was turning, but that was not why he was there. He looked up at the space to the side of the chimney, where there were the family treasures: one, a rough sketch his mother had made of Snotra, the Norse Goddess of Prudence; two, a verse she had once composed in praise of Kvasir, God of Inspiration; three, a lute she sometimes played on after dinner; and four, an empty iron hook.

  “Where’s my horn?” he inquired.

  His mother and father looked at each other.

  “Why do you ask?” inquired Sieglinda, wiping her brow.

  “It’s normally here, with our other treasures, and now it’s gone,” said the boy.

  “We moved it,�
�� said his father.

  “You haven’t sold it?”

  His father laughed, shook his head and resumed scratching the dog’s head.

  “By the loins of Loki! Sell the wyrd horn?” he muttered, as though he’d never heard of something so preposterous.

  “What did you just call it?” asked his son. “The wyrd horn?”

  “Gunnar!” said his mother.

  His father raised one hand, as if to say sorry.

  “You said it was a wyrd horn,” persisted the boy. “You did! What does that mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that it belongs to you,” said Sieglinda. “Not us.”

  “Who gave it to me?”

  “You’ll know in good time,” said his mother.

  “Why can’t I know now?”

  “By the beard of Buri! Because you’re ten years old, and there are some things it’s better you don’t know!” growled his father.

  The boy looked at him, shocked. It wasn’t so much the sentiment. It was just that it was the longest sentence he’d ever heard his father utter.

  “The important thing for you to know is,” said his mother, “that neither Gunnar nor I would ever sell anything that belonged to you – not without your permission.”

  “What in Frigg’s name gave you the idea that we would?” asked his father.

  “Oh,” shrugged the boy. “It was just something Herdis said.”

  “That child!” sighed his mother.

  “Talks too much,” said his father, “and to strangers.”

  He patted the dog and then stood up, as though the conversation was at an end and he had better things to do than talk.

  “So,” persisted the boy, “you didn’t sell it to the bugbear.”

  “What bugbear?” growled his father.

  “The one who came a few days ago. Herdis saw him.”

  Again, his father and mother exchanged looks.

  “Mum! Dad! Would you mind telling me what’s going on?” asked the boy. “What is all this about the horn?”

  “The horn…” his mother began, and then hesitated, “is not for selling.”

  “So what is it for?”

  “You’ll know in good time,” said his father, after a lengthy pause.

  “When?” asked the boy.

  “When you’re old enough, by the grace of Baldr.”

  “I’m already old enough to look after the sheep.”

  “And a fine job you and Rulf make of it,” said his father, patting Rulf. “Don’t you, Rulf? How’s dinner?”

  Gunnar seemed relieved to change the subject.

  “We still have half an hour before our goose is cooked,” said his mother brightly, before turning to her son. “Would you like to do some reading or writing?”

  “That’s another thing,” said the boy, grumpily. “Why are you so keen on me learning? I mean, it’s not as if I’ll ever be able to use it for anything. You never allow me to go anywhere.”

  His father looked at him sharply.

  “Why would you need to go anywhere?” he asked his son. “Haven’t you everything you need here?”

  “Anyway, it’s for your own good,” his mother told him. “You’ll understand why, in time.”

  “In time for what? You never tell me anything!”

  His father and mother exchanged a look. The boy’s mother raised her eyebrows, as though to ask whether they should tell the boy more. But his father shook his head.

  Wyrd let out an exasperated sigh. Meanwhile, Hogfrid poked his nose in through the hut door.

  “Oh, you’re in here,” he said to Wyrd. “Got a moment, Crip?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” said Sieglinda.

  “What should I call him?” asked Hogfrid.

  “Why not Wyrd?” said Sieglinda.

  “That’s a weird name,” said Hogfrid. “I can’t see that Crip is any worse.”

  “Wyrd is the web of destiny,” said Sieglinda.

  “Wyrd doesn’t have a destiny,” said Hogfrid, “unless it’s looking after sheep for the rest of his life.”

  Wyrd noticed that Sieglinda and Gunnar exchanged glances – as if they wanted to say something but couldn’t.

  “What is it, Hogfrid?” asked Wyrd.

  “Nothing, really. I just wondered if you’d fancy helping me with my archery?”

  “Well,” said his father, “no point being indoors on a warm night like this. Why don’t you go outside?”

  “Is that all right?” Wyrd asked his mother.

  “You should be inside, learning,” his mother told him.

  “Let the boy outside!” exclaimed his father. “How else is he going to learn to protect himself?”

  Wyrd wondered what he had to protect himself against, but just looked pleadingly at his mother.

  “All right, then. But not outside the palisade, either of you,” said his wife. “And back in half an hour, mind!”

  As the boy left the hut, he felt annoyed at his own powerlessness. How much older would he have to be before his parents told him anything?

  He didn’t like archery practice much. Most of it involved him picking up arrows that had missed their target, and bringing them back. But he wondered if he might find out more of what was really going on from Hogfrid.

  After all, Hogfrid was older than him – at thirteen, practically a man.

  ***

  “Good shot, Hogfrid!” said Wyrd.

  Hogfrid tried to look modest but failed miserably. He glowed with self-satisfaction, pointing to the straw dummy that had been tied to the inside of the village palisade. Three arrows were through the dummy’s heart, and another through its shoulder.

  “Only three out of four,” he said. “It wasn’t perfect.”

  “Better than I could do,” said Wyrd.

  “Well, I am older than you,” said Hogfrid. “And your weapon’s the slingshot.”

  “A slingshot’s not a proper grown-up weapon.”

  “I dunno,” said Hogfrid, rubbing his nose, which he had broken twice, once in the annual pig-pursuit, the other time from an argument with his father about bath-time. Hogfrid said he wanted a bath every spring; Rottbad said it was pointless to have one until after the harvest. Eventually, they had settled on him having a bath every Halloween.

  Hogfrid was strong for his age and fond of killing animals, but was mostly good-humoured, even towards his little sister when she was at her most annoying. “It could still come in useful in a battle.”

  “Come off it, Hogfrid! We’re hardly likely to have a battle,” said the boy. “We’re marooned here, in the back of beyond.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Hogfrid regretfully.

  “In deepest Dumnonia!” exclaimed the younger boy. “Not even the Romans got this far.”

  “They probably knew there was nothing round here worth conquering,” grinned Hogfrid. “Only a few mouldy old sheep.”

  “Don’t you go calling our sheep mouldy.”

  “Why not? For goodness’ sake, you’ve tasted them. I’d rather eat maggots.”

  “You’re happy enough to wear their wool.”

  “Yeah? Well, may I remind you that that’s one of our geese you’re eating tonight?” laughed Hogfrid, “while we’re making do with lark and slug pie?”

  “Fair dues,” said the boy, “but can I ask you something?”

  “Fire away. Ask me anything you like. Just don’t be surprised if I don’t know the answer. I’m a pig-man, not a wizard. Not that I’ve ever met a wizard. So who’s to say they’re all they’re cracked up to be!”

  Hogfrid was a lad of few words, but once he got going there was no stopping him.

  “There are no wizards around these parts,” he continued, regretfully, “except maybe your mum.
She knows lots of things, don’t you think? My mum says she’s a magician with food.”

  “Shut up, Hogfrid! I’m not interested in magic or wizards,” said Wyrd.

  “You shut up,” said Hogfrid. “Pass me another arrow!”

  The older boy lined up to shoot again at the target.

  “Why do you always aim for the heart?” asked the younger boy.

  “I don’t always,” said Hogfrid. “But my dad says it’s one of the quickest ways to kill a man. Bet you don’t know where to shoot him so he doesn’t cry out and warn someone, do you?”

  “I dunno,” said Wyrd. “Through the tongue?”

  “No. You watch!”

  The arrow sped towards the dummy and pierced the dummy just below its head.

  “Straight through the neck,” said Hogfrid with satisfaction, “severing the vocal cords. Whatever they are.”

  “Yurgh!” said the younger boy, feeling his own neck. “I think I’ll stick to looking after sheep.”

  “That’s the trouble with you, Freak,” said Hogfrid. “You ain’t got no ambition. Not like me. I aim to make something of myself.”

  “Maybe my ambition is to be the best shepherd in the whole of Albion.”

  “Yeah, but how will you know if you are, if you ain’t got no one to compare yourself with?” replied Hogfrid.

  Wyrd considered for a moment. Hogfrid was probably right.

  “So, what’s your ambition?” asked Wyrd.

  “I’m going to be a hero,” said Hogfrid. “Soldiering. Fighting all these Saxons and suchlike. Illegal immigrants.”

  “But we’re illegal immigrants! At least our parents were!”

  “Yeah, but we was here first,” said Hogfrid. “And we didn’t come here to make trouble, a-killing and a-plundering.”

  “Is that what the Saxons do?”

  “So they say. They’re getting closer all the time. And I’m going to be ready for them. Want a go?” asked Hogfrid, offering his bow.

  “Can I try out my slingshot?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Wyrd picked up a pebble, put it in his sling, took aim and fired.

  The pebble hit the dummy low on the leg.

  “I don’t think that would slow him down much, specially if he was a bugbear,” laughed Hogfrid. “I suppose it might just damage a dwarf!”