by K. J. Parker
Apparently they could. After what seemed like a very long time – long enough for his left leg to go to sleep, at any rate – Poldarn came to the conclusion that if he was going to be stuck here indefinitely, he might as well find something useful to do, in accordance with the underlying philosophy of the place. He looked around, and saw a big splitting axe lodged in a big stump, with a stack of wood split into kindling, where someone had presumably downed tools in order to go to the wedding. There was still plenty of wood to be split, a whole pile of it, so he hauled himself painfully to his feet, levered the axe out of the chopping block, set a log on top and took a swing at it.
He’d taken aim at a shake-line in the log but he missed, and the axe bit deep into the log at a slant, sending a jarring shock up his arms into his shoulders. Poldarn winced, stood on the log and waggled the axe from side to side to get it free. His next shot was in line and on target, and the log did indeed split in two; no doubt about that, because the two halves flew apart and sailed through the air at just under head height, fast enough to do a serious injury to anybody unlucky enough to be in the way. That suggested to him that maybe he was using a bit too much force; better, probably, just to lift the axe and let it fall in its own weight (which had no doubt been carefully calculated by a competent smith for this very reason). He retrieved the two halves of the log, put one up and studied it, taking care to fix all his attention on the place where he wanted the axe to bite. Then he swung it up, letting the momentum of the swing bring it through its course, and allowed it to fall, guiding it with his hands like a skilled helmsman.
He missed the log with the axe head but not with the shaft; with the result that the head snapped off and shot off at a ridiculous pace, thumping against the back door of the house with a noise that must’ve been audible at Colscegsford. As he stood there feeling incredibly stupid, the door opened and Eyvind came out.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he asked.
‘Sorry,’ Poldarn mumbled. ‘I was just trying to make myself useful, that’s all.’
‘There’s a time and a place, you know,’ Eyvind said, shaking his head. ‘Anyway, the hell with that. There’s a problem.’
Poldarn nodded. ‘I had a feeling there might be. What’s up?’
Eyvind pulled a face. ‘We haven’t got a guarantor, is the problem.’
‘Oh.’ Poldarn looked grave. ‘What’s a guarantor?’
‘What? Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know. The guarantor is the man who guarantees the wedding vows.’
The way Eyvind said it made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, until you stopped and thought about it. ‘Ah,’ Poldarn said. ‘What does that mean? In practice,’ he added quickly. ‘What’s he got to do in the ceremony, I mean.’
‘Not a lot,’ Eyvind admitted, ‘but you can’t have a wedding without one, because then it wouldn’t be a wedding. All he’s got to do is stand around looking solemn, and when you and the girl say your vows, he holds out a sword or a spear, and you rest your hand on it.’
‘Oh,’ Poldarn said. ‘What’s that in aid of?’
Eyvind fidgeted impatiently. ‘The general idea is that if either side breaks one of the wedding vows, the guarantor’s there to make sure they’re punished for it. That’s what the sword’s for, it’s symbolic. Like the seconds in a duel.’
‘Really? At a wedding?’ Poldarn shrugged. ‘Still, what do I know about it? Anyway, why haven’t we got one? Surely there’s established procedures for figuring out who it’s got to be.’
Eyvind laughed. ‘Oh, it’s easy. Younger brothers of the bride and groom, one on each side; failing which, male relatives in order. Unfortunately, there aren’t any. You’ve got no living relatives, apart from your grandmother. On her side, Colsceg can’t do it, because he’s her father, and he’s too old. Barn can’t do it, because he’ll be head of house when Colsceg’s gone. Normally it’d be Egil, but he’s conducting the ceremony. We’re stuck.’
Poldarn thought about it for a moment. ‘It’s got to be family,’ he said.
‘Well, it should be. But in this case, obviously not.’
‘Yes,’ Poldarn said impatiently, ‘but this can’t be the first time something like this has happened. There’s got to be a back-up procedure, surely.’
Eyvind nodded slowly. ‘Well, yes, there is. Where there’s no family, it should be two outsiders – neighbours, of course, but they shouldn’t be under the jurisdiction of either side. Well, obviously,’ he added, and Poldarn didn’t ask for an explanation. ‘Actually,’ he went on, ‘Colsceg suggested me for your side, and I suppose there’s no reason why I shouldn’t, it’s just a ceremonial thing after all. But that still leaves us short for their side.’
Poldarn sighed. ‘This is silly,’ he said. ‘Come on, there must be someone. Haven’t they got cousins or nephews or something?’
‘Oh sure. But not here, they all live a long way away, that’s the problem. It’d be days before they could get here, and one thing you really can’t do is stop a wedding once it’s started. That’s really bad.’
Poldarn nodded. ‘And nobody considered all this before now?’ he asked. ‘All those people scurrying about with baskets of leaves and stuff, and no one thought about who was going to say the words or do this guarantor business?’
‘No.’ Eyvind grinned. ‘If you knew us, you wouldn’t be at all surprised. It’s not usual, you see, it never happens like this, so nobody thought about it. Halder would’ve thought about it, of course, that’d have been his job, but he’s not here. So you’d have thought about it, but you don’t know.’
‘Nobody told me.’
‘It didn’t occur to anybody you wouldn’t know. Except me, I guess; but I’m not even supposed to be here. I can’t suddenly stand up and start telling people what to do – I’m a guest in this household.’
He seemed to be getting upset, so Poldarn headed him off. ‘That makes sense, I suppose. It’s a bloody nuisance, though. What are we going to do?’
‘No idea,’ Eyvind confessed. ‘Same for everybody. You’re head of house, this sort of thing is up to you. It’s what you’re for.’
‘Ah,’ Poldarn said, ‘well, that answers an important question that’s been bothering me for a while. So I’ve got to choose someone, have I?’
Eyvind nodded.
‘And if I make a choice, everybody’s got to go along with it? No arguments or people stamping off in a huff?’
‘Certainly not.’ Eyvind looked mildly shocked at the thought. ‘Of course, you’ve got to choose the right person.’
‘Of course.’ Poldarn leant the broken axe handle tidily against the woodpile. ‘All right, we need an outsider. That narrows it down to two; and you’re already in, and I’m the bridegroom . . .’
‘You aren’t an outsider.’
Poldarn pursed his lips, then went on: ‘So that just leaves Boarci, doesn’t it? Slice of good luck him showing up when he did, really.’
Eyvind made an exasperated noise. ‘You can’t choose him,’ he said, ‘he’s an offcomer.’
‘Isn’t that the point?’
‘Yes, but—’ Eyvind stopped, then nodded slowly. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘that’s fine, I’ll go and ask him if he’ll do it. You wait there.’
‘Well, but—’ Poldarn said; but by then, Eyvind was back in the house and the door was closing behind him. Poldarn waited for a few minutes, then he picked up the axe handle, sat on his log and started whittling back the broken tongue with his knife.
He’d done one side and was scraping down the other when the door opened again. This time, though, it wasn’t Eyvind; it was Barn, his future brother-in-law, looking uncharacteristically anxious.
‘There you are,’ he said. ‘We’ve been looking for you all over. Are you coming in, or not?’
Poldarn put down the axe handle and stowed his knife carefully away. ‘Might as well,’ he said. ‘Have you sorted everything out yet?’
Barn frowned. ‘Of course we
have,’ he replied. ‘Everything’s ready. Come on, will you, they’ll be wondering what the hell’s going on.’
They’ll be wondering, Poldarn thought. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Lead the way, then.’
Though it had been only a few days since he’d lived there, he’d forgotten quite how dark the inside of the house could be. The only light came through the small side windows (which on this occasion were firmly shuttered), the smoke-hole in the roof, and a battery of assorted pottery lamps lined up on a single table at the far end of the hall. Fortunately, people got out of his way before he blundered into them, and at least there wasn’t any furniture left in the house for him to trip over. He followed Barn up to the top table. He felt horribly nervous, more so than if he’d been expecting to have to fight for his life (but that wasn’t a fair comparison; he knew he was good at that sort of thing, but this was all new to him). He could feel a sneeze gathering momentum just above the bridge of his nose, and keeping it down was harder than carrying newly felled lumber.
Once Poldarn was inside the circle of pale yellow light, he was able to make out a few faces. There was Colsceg, right in the middle of the table, looking worried and depressed. There was Egil, white as a sheet and very tense, his left hand crushing his right fist. Next to Egil was Eyvind, doing a fine imitation of a dead body, and next to him was Elja, who gave him a very quick, conspiratorial smile before tightening her mouth into a thin line. It was that smile that made him think that, just possibly, this whole mess might somehow come out all right in the end. For some reason they’d draped her in bits of trailing greenery – for some reason, for some reason; he’d have given the farm and the clothes he stood up in for an insight into the coherent stream of logic that he was sure lay at the back of all this, but for the life of him he couldn’t see why a young girl couldn’t get married without having to be festooned with salad. That said, it suited her, in a bizarre sort of way. The dark, shining green of the leaves, reflecting the dull glare of the lamps, emphasised the thickness and body of her abundant, slightly coarse brown hair (and maybe that was the only reason; and a very good reason it would be, if only he could be sure). They’d put her in a plain light brown sack of a dress – somehow he knew without any doubt at all that she hadn’t chosen it herself – but in spite of everything it looked just right, bringing out the creamy white of her skin and the very dark red of her lips. Pure luck that she should be so perfectly suited to the traditional outfit, which ought to have looked ridiculous; but at that moment, he was almost prepared to forgive and accept all the outlandish and inexplicable things about these people (his people; must remember that), simply because Elja proved that, once in a while, they worked pretty well.
I’m staring, Poldarn thought, that’s got to be the wrong thing to do. Try to look properly solemn, or, failing that, stuffed. No sudden movements, and for pity’s sake, let’s see if we can get through this without killing anybody.
Egil stood up. He had some slight difficulty with the bench, it was too close to the table, and he had to slide and wriggle past it to get to his feet. Once he was there (he had to grab the table with his left hand to steady himself) he took a deep breath and looked Poldarn straight in the eyes.
‘Ciartan,’ he said – it took Poldarn just a fraction of a second to remember that Ciartan was him – ‘do you accept this woman as your wife?’
Which woman? Oh, that woman, the one you’re standing in front of so I can’t actually see her. But there weren’t any other females sitting at the table, apart from Rannwey, and he assumed that the chances of marrying her by accident were acceptably slim. ‘Yes,’ he replied, and hoped that would do.
Egil turned his head. ‘Elja, do you accept this man as your husband?’ There was a muted squeak from the shadows that might have been a yes, or a rodent narrowly avoiding a cat. Egil seemed inclined to accept it as consent, or else he was too busy rehearsing his own lines in his head to listen; he grunted, and went on: ‘Who is prepared to guarantee this marriage?’, as if he were a general ordering brave men to their deaths. Eyvind stood up with the speed of a sword-monk’s best draw; then nothing happened. Several heartbeats passed, and Poldarn finally sneezed.
‘Here,’ someone said in the darkness outside the yellow circle, and Boarci threaded his way through the crowd, somehow managing not to knock anybody over or cause any injuries with the axe in his right hand. Poldarn winced; if I’d only known, he thought, I’d have made more of an effort with the polishing. It made sense, of course; they’d never have allowed Boarci on the top table. For some reason, Poldarn had a picture of him being given his portion of the wedding breakfast in a bowl on the floor, with the other domestic animals.
‘It’s all right,’ Boarci muttered in Poldarn’s ear as he took his post directly behind him. ‘Cheer up, nobody’s going to eat you.’ Eyvind scowled at him for that; nobody else appeared to have noticed.
‘Guarantors,’ Egil said crisply, whereupon Eyvind stooped and came up holding a backsabre, which he’d left on the floor where nobody could trip over it; he put it on the table as if he was waiting on a grand banquet and the sword was a tray of cinnamon cakes. Boarci leaned over, shoving Poldarn’s head slightly to one side with his arm, and dumped his axe next to it; the two weapons clattered together noisily. ‘All right,’ Egil said. His sister stood up, reached across and laid the flat of her hand on the blade of the sword, nodding very slightly at Poldarn. He interpreted that as meaning that he was supposed to do the same thing, and rested his fingertips on the axe head. It was cold and very smooth, like steel skin. Poldarn felt ashamed at the sight of the file marks around the eye.
‘Bear witness,’ Egil said, in a rather wobbly, high-pitched voice, ‘these weapons, and if these vows are broken, avenge them.’ He finished the speech with a stifled cough – he was standing over one of the lamps, and the smoke was tickling his throat. Poldarn managed not to laugh, though it was one of the funniest things he could remember having seen. ‘Bear witness,’ he repeated, coughing himself, and he picked up the sword and the axe and waggled them half-heartedly in the air.
At that point, he must have swallowed a mouthful of lamp smoke the wrong way, because instead of just coughing he choked, and the spasm must have messed up his coordination; in any event, he lost his grip on the axe, made a desperate attempt to recapture it, and dropped it right on top of the lamp, which shattered and flooded the table with oil, which immediately caught fire. At first, nobody seemed to realise what was happening. Then the burning oil set light to their cuffs and sleeves; they jumped up, swearing and flapping their arms like so many crippled birds, prancing round in circles, bumping into each other – under other circumstances it would have made a very pretty burlesque dance, appropriate for a country wedding, except for the presence of the uninvited guest and master of ceremonies, the spirit of fire. Poldarn immediately looked to see if Elja was all right; but she didn’t have any sleeves, and she’d got her hand out of the way in time. Then he looked down at his own hands, and saw that although the cloth at his wrists was dark and shiny with oil, for some reason the fire hadn’t taken to him. Egil was staggering backwards, pawing at his face; Eyvind was on fire from his wrists to his chin, contriving to set light to his whole body as he tried to slap out the flames. Apparently Colsceg had more imagination than the rest of them; he’d doused his sleeve with a jug of beer, but the oil refused to stop burning. Another lamp, a little further down, burst in the heat and showered the table with burning oil and sharp potsherds, like a miniature volcano.
Oh for pity’s sake, Poldarn thought, because this was all so unnecessary; it was just a little fire to start with, and there was no earthly reason why it should be spreading so dramatically. He knew he ought to be doing something – head of the household, hero of the mudslides, a little domestic fire ought to be child’s play to him – but for the moment all he could do was stand and stare. Nobody in the mob behind him seemed to be moving, so perhaps they all thought it was part of the ceremony.
‘
Hold still,’ someone was shouting; it was Boarci, wrapping his coat round his left arm. ‘For God’s sake hold still, before you set the house on fire.’ But nobody seemed prepared to listen to him, or else they simply couldn’t understand a direct order; so he pushed past Poldarn, scrambled over the table, kneeling in the burning oil as he did so, and shoved Eyvind over onto the ground. Somebody was yelling at him, but he was too busy to notice; he was clubbing out the flames that Eyvind was wearing like a suit of clothes, as he did so choosing to disregard the fire that was clinging to his own legs and body. Egil had pulled off his coat by now, and was whacking at his father’s arms and chest with it, while Colsceg stood perfectly still and stared at him as if he’d just gone mad. Another lamp exploded—
‘Well,’ said a voice by Poldarn’s side, ‘here we are again. Trouble really does seem to follow you around, doesn’t it?’
He recognised the face, which hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago; and the voice was even more familiar, though God alone knew where from. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.
‘Oh, don’t mind me, I’m not really here.’ The man laughed. ‘I was here, many years ago, and of course I’ll be here again. Right now, I’m somewhere else, but don’t worry about it. You think I’d let a piddling little thing like geography keep me from my best friend’s wedding?’
‘Who are you?’ Poldarn repeated.
‘Good question,’ the man replied. He was wearing the robes of a sword-monk in full academic dress, with a broad crimson sash to hold his sword in, and a white fur trim to his hood. ‘You know, I call myself so many names, it’s a pain sometimes remembering who I’m meant to be. When in doubt, I just say Monach, which is the word for monk in some language or other that nobody knows any more. In case you’re wondering,’ he went on, ‘this is actually some time later.’
Poldarn wanted to move, at least to get close enough to smash this idiot’s face in, but found he couldn’t. ‘What’ve you done to me?’ he shouted.
‘Me? Nothing. How could I, when I’m not even here? Now pay attention, I’m trying to explain. You think you’re still at the wedding, in the middle of the fire. Not so. Right now you’re lying on a heap of straw in a deep sleep, with your devoted subjects and newly minted in-laws taking bets on whether you’ll ever wake up out of it. Didn’t I mention, you’re one very sick man?’
