I closed my eyes again, remembering fragments of dreams: a boy in a stiff collar, a woman with my grandmother’s face. And a girl who’d smiled as a necklace was placed over her shoulders. The flickering girl in the forest.
‘There’s a necklace,’ I said suddenly.
N’tombe nodded. I was about to ask more, but Nurse, bustling with concern, interrupted us. ‘That’s enough. Look at her! She needs rest.’ She picked up the empty milk glass.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m fine. Tell me of your world.’
Nurse subsided, muttering.
I did not believe this strange woman who spoke of other worlds. It seemed foolish, farcical. A story fit for fairy tales, like the man who entered the world of the fae through the hole in the hill.
‘Describe a world in a sentence?’ N’tombe seemed amused, not offended. She stared out the window, blinking slowly. ‘My world is crowded. We have different transport: metal carts that do not require animals to pull them but instead have engines that burn fuel to move across the land. They cough out smoke,’ she pulled a face, ‘and are smelly and noisy. But they are faster than carts.’
‘Faster than horseback?’
She nodded. ‘When the roads are good. If they don’t break down.’
I remembered the chariot wheel falling from the cart and smiled.
‘There is much sorrow, everywhere.’
‘In my world?’
She nodded. ‘And mine too. Much sorrow. Children die for lack of food, or through disease or because adults do not care. In your world, though, in yours, ah …’
‘What do you mean?’
She waved her hand. ‘It is hard to explain in words,’ she said. ‘It is more a feeling. I walked long, long, to reach this place. First through my world, then through yours. And in your lands, everywhere I go, there is a great sickness: the smoke from houses burning, skulls piled in great heaps, cities ruined. There is a, how do I put this? A lack of joy.’
My mother had said something like that. And the boy Will, who had lost his family from the plague. Soldiers, beheading children.
‘So in your world, everyone is happy?’
She shook her head. ‘Of course not. But, we are not like this place. Not like this.’
I looked around my classroom. Not a beautiful room, that was true, but still. The Castle and the Kingdom and the people in it were happy.
‘I do not mean this small island,’ she said. ‘I mean, everywhere else.’
‘You know what happened in my dream?’ I asked.
‘That was no dream,’ she said bleakly. ‘Once, that was a village. Now there are only ruins. Smoking remains of houses. Scattered piles of skulls. Remember the river in your dream? The city on its banks?’
I nodded.
‘They destroyed it too,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘I wandered among the walls. The place was empty, its houses and shops ransacked.’
I shook my head, not wanting to hear more.
‘Every manuscript, every drawing, even the carvings from the gates had been removed. As though they were more precious than gold.’
‘What?’
She sighed. ‘That was the point of the dream. I wanted you to understand. I’m sorry you were upset.’ She smiled, a wry twist to her lips. ‘It was not a good beginning, maybe. Look.’
From her belt she pulled a small seed-like object. It was rough against my fingers and caught my skin when I picked it off her palm. Holding it close to my face, I could just make out the delicate carvings. ‘Roses,’ I said.
‘It’s an entry token,’ she said. ‘To your Kingdom.’
‘I think,’ I said, swallowing my nausea, ‘you need to teach me many things. What is this army that is trying to find us? Who was this general? What do they want with us?’
Come to think of it, why was she here at all? ‘You say you were called?’
She nodded.
‘By Rosa? My father’s sister?’ The woman beside Daddy, the one with the necklace. Why was everyone so scared of her?
Nurse started, reached out a hand, as if trying to stop me speaking.
N’tombe smiled. ‘So many questions.’
13
Dancing, Fighting
Will stood beside the kneading trough, punching the soft warm dough, savouring the yeasty smell. Almost in surprise, he recognized his emotion: happiness. His hands continued working while he contemplated this strange fact. Surely, he could not really be happy, living here in this strange land?
Like a tongue running over a sore tooth, he thought of Aunt Agnes, and her unfriendly bony body that stayed staunchly upright at all times. She probably slept that way, with her jaw set tight, her mouth in a straight line, like a puppeteer’s manikin. Except a manikin was funny, and Aunt Agnes seemed to see humour as a sin, something to be punished.
Will shook his head. He was here now; he didn’t have to worry about her rages and sour tongue. Mayhap the world would be kinder to him. He’d had a lucky break last month, beginning guard training at the same time as the baking. Although the hours were hard. Would the princess be up yet? Unlikely. Royalty did nothing all day yet feasted well for the effort. Forget about her soft voice, boy, and her sweet smile. Doubtless she’s forgotten about you.
‘Think it’s kneaded now.’ Will looked up with a start. The senior apprentice, a lad a few years older than Will, held out his hand. ‘Should be moulded into loaves now. You watch, I’ll show you.’
Will, who’d seen his father do the moulding near to every day of his life, nodded. The lad worked the dough clumsily, not quite stretching it enough. The loaves would rise, but they would be misshapen. Will hoped he wouldn’t be blamed for it but realized in resignation that he probably would.
‘There.’ The apprentice straightened, looking with satisfaction at his malformed creations. ‘Off with you now, lad. You’re wanted in the field.’
Will was the only kitchen ’prentice to lead this double life of training in baking and soldiery. Strangely, he enjoyed both, although he could have done without the early rising, for every evening it seemed no sooner had he closed his eyes than he was being shaken awake again. Fortunately, Cook had taken a liking to him and allowed him to eat as much as he needed; lucky indeed, as Will was always hungry.
The practice field, set between Castle walls and moat, was warm in the early morning sunlight. Mist curled from the nearby water, wreathing around the boys who stood at the field’s edge, blinking and rubbing sleep from their eyes. Will, though, had been up and working for some hours now. Unlike the others, he was wide awake.
He enjoyed the drills on the field and, somewhat to his surprise, found he was good at them. Certainly, Sergeant Ryngell appeared to think so. He often singled Will out for sparring practice after the other boys had gone in. This was a mixed blessing, as the sergeant didn’t hold back; he seemed to think that bruises built skill and speed.
Today was different. Instead of the normal tilting at the manikin or fighting with wooden swords, the sergeant had decided to work on unarmed combat skills. A tall, heavily built man with a big nose and a loud voice, he stood in the centre of the field. ‘You have no weapons on you. Are you weaponless then?’
The boys looked puzzled.
‘What about your teeth, eh? Your fists? Your feet? They are weapons, are they not? I’ve seen you fighting. You think I’m not looking but I’m always watching. What else can you use?’
Josh shouted, ‘Elbows.’
‘Elbows. Good. You can get in a good blow with an elbow; sharp point into the belly or the temple, see. Very effective. What else?’
In sharp succession the boys suggested: thumbs (eye gouging), dust (temporarily blinding) and knees (into scrotum or head).
Will remembered wrestling with his father’s apprentices, trying to keep on his feet while they tried to push him over. ‘Fingers and feet, sir. And bodyweight. Lean into them, tip them backwards.’
‘Good. The point is that just because you have no weapons, you are not weaponl
ess. Now. We practise.’
Will, pitted against Barry, struggled mightily, but his lighter frame told against him. At seventeen, Barry was near full-grown, the largest boy in the group. Pushed face down into the dust, Will pondered his options. If he could only use his body more efficiently, keep himself at a distance from Barry’s arms, he might stand a chance.
Will concentrated hard. Barry lumbered in. Will ducked, hooked his foot around the larger boy’s ankle and tripped him. When the boy wobbled, Will stepped in, leant into Barry’s weight and threw him to the ground.
‘Good, lad. Very good,’ said Sergeant Ryngell.
Will stood panting as Barry lay, inhaling dust. When he looked up, he saw a dark figure on the wall watching him. When it stirred, he saw her face. It was the woman who’d thrown thunder at the gate. The Enchantress.
Intrigued by the raw energy of fighting without weapons, the boys practised with enthusiasm, provoking each other into wrestling matches, exploring holds, trying new kicking styles. Marven, a lanky lad of fourteen who was aggressive with swords and staves, spent hours kicking and punching the jousting dummy. Will, sitting in the shade of the Castle wall munching an apple, watched as Marven moved against the dummy, ducking his head, turning his body so only his shoulder approached the stuffed hay sack.
‘Can I try?’
Marven, panting, nodded.
Will tried to imitate the other lad’s posture. ‘Is that right?’
‘I think so. I want to keep from being buffeted, see, but want to give the thing a swift punch. Seems to be best if you turn away, slightly, so your shoulder is towards it.’
‘Like this?’
‘Aye. Put your fist up, see, against your jaw. The dummy whirls back into you if you hit it right. This stops it clouting you.’
Will tried again.
‘Try punching it.’
Will made a fist and poked at it. Marven snorted. ‘You won’t do much damage like that.’
Will pretended the dummy was a cousin.
‘That’s better.’
The two boys practised for the rest of the afternoon, taking it in turns, the watcher advising the fighter.
‘Try again tomorrow?’
Will nodded. ‘Aye.’
They progressed gradually from dummy to each other.
Sometimes the sergeant watched. ‘Get in closer. That’s right. Around the waist; that’s right. Grab hard. One foot behind his ankle. And twist!’
They practised the movements slowly. This taught them control; over extension of a movement when done with speed could be corrected, but when performed slowly, there was the danger of losing one’s balance, giving the opponent a real advantage.
The other boys tried to copy Marven and Will’s moves, but none could move with their control.
‘Looks like you’re dancing,’ said Sergeant Ryngell. ‘Only the music is missing.’
Gradually, the seasons changed and Will turned fifteen, the day unnoticed by all save himself. The autumn mornings were chill and, rising early, he was grateful for the heat of the bread oven.
‘Not bad,’ said the senior apprentice. Will had to restrain himself from punching the smug face. His loaves were perfect.
As usual of an evening, the boys lazed in the training barracks, trading yarns and playing dice. Will lay stretched on a wooden settle, idly watching the fire snarl and spit. The talking made a dull, homely roar, and Will’s eyelids closed. A hand shook his shoulder and, jerking in shock, Will rolled off the bench.
‘Sleeping, lad? Someone wants to see you,’ said Sergeant Ryngell.
The other boys stopped their joking and, in the sudden silence, Will clambered onto his knees, then up onto his feet. ‘Who is it?’
The older man jerked his head towards the door. Framed in the entranceway was a figure, dark against a dark background. Will caught his breath. He’d seen that shape before.
‘She wants to talk with you, lad.’
‘What does she want?’
‘How should I know? Maybe she wants to turn you into a frog. Off you go, not good to keep a lady waiting.’
Next to the mess hall was a small teaching room, used mainly for disciplinary purposes, although it was rumoured that classes were held in here when the weather was particularly bad. Will doubted this. It seemed that the wetter the weather, the more reasons the sergeant found to get them outdoors.
The figure motioned to the doorway of the small room and Will slipped in, creeping slowly around the door, seeking an early escape path should the talk become nasty. He stared at the cracked slates on the floor, lest eye contact should be seen as a challenge. Would he be happy as a frog? It wouldn’t be too bad a life, as long as one had a liking for flies.
The Enchantress put back her hood and despite his firm intentions otherwise, Will could not help staring at her. Her skin was dark, the shade of the shadows of the Castle walls at eventide, but her eyes were grey-blue, the colour of the sky. Her head was braided in tiny rows; striped brown scalp alternating with thick black ridges. Small beads were set at the end of the braids and rattled when she turned her head. Their colours shone brightly in the dimly lit room: red, yellow, green and white. She seemed so exotic. Was this place equally strange to her? Then he realized he was staring and lowered his eyes again.
‘I keep being surprised,’ said the woman. Her voice was rich and deep, consonants uttered precisely, as though she was building what she was saying in her head before she spoke. Except for his own, it was the first strange accent he’d heard here in the Kingdom. She must come from far away.
Will realized she’d stopped speaking.
‘Surprised?’ he asked quickly.
‘Everything here is so …’ her voice trailed away, ‘different.’
‘Different?’
She smiled. ‘Everything here is different from my home. The weather, the smells, the people. Do you know what seems most strange?’
Will shook his head.
‘The food.’
‘Food?’ Will felt like an echo.
‘At home we eat goat, maize, maybe roots. We make stews. They are very spicy. My auntie cooks the most beautiful stews. Sometimes monkey, from the jungle. Not often, it is hard to get. Auntie Zissi makes monkey stew for a special occasion.’
Will swallowed. ‘We don’t, ah, we don’t have many monkeys here.’
The woman smiled again. ‘No. No monkeys.’
Will cleared his throat, shuffling his feet, hoping that she wouldn’t start to talk about other strange animals she could eat. She might get hungry and turn him into one. Maybe she wouldn’t turn him into a frog. Maybe it would be a wolf, or a lion or something. That would be more dignified than a frog.
The woman laughed. ‘Why would I turn you into anything?’
Will felt embarrassed. Of course. She could read minds. He fervently tried to keep his mind empty of all thought; Sergeant Ryngell didn’t seem to think that was difficult. Of course, now that he was trying to think of nothing he couldn’t stop. The more he tried to empty his brain, the more things rushed in to fill it. The weather, the evening meal, how tired his feet were, another fighting move to try on Marv.
‘That’s what I’m interested in,’ said the Enchantress.
‘What?’
‘Your fighting. That’s why I wished to see you. Shall we sit?’
There were wooden benches stacked around the edge of the room. Will sat on the edge of one, on one side of the door, the Enchantress on the other. The firelight from the next room fell on one side of their faces. He could see her eyes, glittering in the firelight, but half of her face was obscure, unknown.
‘My name is N’tombe,’ said the woman.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Girl with one foot in the grave. My mother was dying while I was still inside her, but Aunt Zissi saved me.’
‘Why are you interested in me?’
Will asked in a rush of courage.
‘You are a good fighter. You have a style that is
, how should this be said? It is unique.’
Was that a compliment?
N’tombe smiled, white teeth gleaming. ‘Of course.’
He stared.
‘It is a compliment. Also, I think you are interesting because I know you like to bake bread. It is strange, to see a fighter trying to make something that is beautiful to eat.’ She paused, looking away towards the brightly lit room beyond them. ‘I have seen much fighting, poverty. Hunger. Disease.’
Will nodded slowly. It was unusual to hear this expressed here, in the Kingdom, when the idea of an empty belly was a missed breakfast.
‘Far from here, the land is empty. The only sound is the wind and the calling of the crows as they feed upon the dead. Smoke rises from burning towns, stone walls lie ruined. Piles of skulls tower beside the road. Wild dogs feed upon the dead. Great armies ride where they will; no-one stands against them.’ She sat quiet for a moment, then clapped her hands on her thighs. ‘That is why I wish to talk with you. They are coming closer; death is spreading.’
Bracing her shoulders, she sat upright, her shadow large on the wall behind her. ‘Rosa sees this. We must prepare. This is why I need your fighting.’
‘Me?’
‘I have watched you. You may have noticed?’ Will nodded. It was hard to ignore the silent figure gazing down from the battlements, watching him and Marven spar in the early morning light.
‘You move as though you can see what your opponent will do next. You duck, weave, draw him in, and then you disable him. It is very interesting. I have seen much fighting, of course, guns, spears, knives, even fists. But not your style. It is systemized, like a dance, but powerful.’
‘Thank you.’ Despite his fear, Will was excited. Someone saw what he was trying to do! His fighting was like a dance. A dance of battle. ‘I try to read the language of my opponent’s body, see what he will do next.’
‘Could you do it with weapons?’
Will shrugged. ‘I suppose. Something not too large. Not a sword, too heavy, too long, it would throw you off balance. A spear creates too much space. It might work with a knife, or two knives …’ The weight of the blade, the movements required to present hilt, blade, to catch the blade of the opponent, to stab. He danced the movements in his head, adapting his stance. His hands closed, fists squeezing as he grasped invisible knives. ‘We learn fighting with daggers,’ he said. ‘But that’s like sword fighting with a shorter blade. The same moves: tierce, parry, thrust, guard. That’s not what you mean?’
A Necklace of Souls Page 11
