by K. J. Parker
‘No,’ Poldarn replied. In front of his eyes, Boarci and Egil were still flapping away with their coats; everything was moving, but nothing was changing. ‘What happened?’
Monach laughed. ‘Oh, it hasn’t happened yet – in the time-frame you’re looking at, I mean. In this time-frame, we’re about twenty seconds away from the fire spreading to the thatch, which is where the trouble starts. In about five seconds, though, you’ll fall over backwards and hit your head, so I’d better get a move on. You trip over your feet, bang your head and go to sleep – is this starting to sound familiar, by the way? – then the building catches light, everybody panics and squashes out through the door; it’s only later, when the fire’s taken hold and the roof’s starting to fall in, that someone says, Hey, where’s Ciartan? and they realise you must still be inside. You know,’ Monach went on, reaching past a burning man and taking a honeycake off a plate, ‘your life is woven from two dominant threads, tragedy and lack of originality. Not only do really shitty things happen to you, they happen over and over again.’ He bit into the cake and chewed before continuing. ‘There’s a very good reason for that, by the way, like there’s a very good reason for everything that goes on around here, and you’re the only person in the whole wide world who isn’t allowed to know what it is. That must really get up your nose sometimes, I guess.’
‘I’m asleep,’ Poldarn said. ‘And dreaming all this.’
‘Correct,’ Monach said. ‘Actually, it goes deeper than that; in fact, from a professional point of view, as far as I’m concerned, this is a real beauty, a genuine collector’s item. You see, you aren’t just dreaming this now, as you’re lying on your pile of straw surrounded by your nearest and dearest. This is going to be one of your favourite recurring nightmares, you’ll come back here time and again, sometimes weeks in a row; so I’m not just talking to you now, I’m talking to you all through your life, present, future and past. You know, I could work this up into a really good paper for the Founders’ Day lecture, if you hadn’t burned down Deymeson.’ He grinned, and reached for another cake. ‘Very good, these,’ he said. ‘Next time we meet up like this you must give me the recipe. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You bloody well ought to, you were top of the class in divinity theory in Third Year. I always had trouble getting my head around logical paradox, but it never bothered you any.’
‘Please,’ Poldarn said, ‘I want to wake up now, I don’t like this dream.’
‘Not surprising. You aren’t meant to like it. That’s why they call them nightmares.’ Monach sighed. ‘What really amazes me is how few of them you have, considering the stuff you’ve got up to over the years. Compared to most of what you’ve done and been through, this is a picnic. Still, I guess it’s all a matter of interpretation; and this is one of the main turning points in your life – well, we’re just coming up to it, or else we’ve just passed it, depending on which direction we happen to be going in at the time.’ He smiled. ‘No, I’m not making it easy for you, I know. You’d hate that, you’d reckon it was patronising. Now, this girl you’ve just married—’ He pointed; Elja was staring up at the roof and pointing. ‘Lovely kid, she really likes you, I’d say you’re on to a good thing there, even if she is young enough to be your daughter. God only knows what she sees in you, but that’s her business, I suppose. Anyway, I trust you’ll treat her a bit better next time you’re here. She’ll forgive you, I expect. That’s the amazing thing about these people, this extraordinary knack they’ve got for forgiving and forgetting, or at least turning a blind eye.’ Monach yawned – Poldarn could see bits of chewed cake on his tongue – then turned into a crow and, flapping the burning sleeves of his gown, lifted aloft, and flew slowly up into the smoke and flames of the roof.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Wake up,’ said a voice in his ear, ‘for crying out loud.’
So he woke up. He was lying in the yard, next to the woodpile, and someone had just thrown a bucket of water in his face. No pile of straw, he noted, and no circle of anxious faces (so either Monach had got it wrong, or all that stuff was for next time; he repeated the thought in his mind, but this time none of it made any sense); just Boarci standing over him with an empty bucket.
‘Bloody hell,’ Poldarn croaked. ‘What happened to you?’
‘What? Oh, you mean my beard.’ Boarci pulled a sad face. ‘Got set on fire, didn’t it? And when I looked at it just now, I figured, bloody fool I’d look with only half a beard. So I shaved the rest off. It’ll grow back,’ he sighed. ‘Eventually.’
‘How about the rest of you? You were all on fire,’ Poldarn remembered.
‘Just my clothes,’ Boarci replied, ‘though they’re all ruined, of course, which is a pain. You know, I’m not having much luck here. When I arrived, I didn’t have much but at least I had the clothes I stood up in. Not any more. This lot belongs to your middle-house stockman. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘it could’ve been worse. Nobody died, is the main thing, and they reckon they can patch up the house, given time. Not the most cheerful wedding I’ve ever been to, but livelier than some.’
Poldarn stood up. His legs were weak, but they seemed to be working. ‘Where’s Elja?’ he said. ‘Is she all right?’
Boarci nodded. ‘A bit crispy round the edges, if you know what I mean, but yes, she’s fine. Over there in the trap-house, cutting bandages and stuff. Only one who got anything like a nasty burn was your brother-in-law Egil, and it’s only the backs of his hands, should heal up in time. I’ve seen worse.’
‘That’s a comfort,’ Poldarn muttered. ‘What happened to me?’
Boarci laughed. ‘Bloody comical, that was. That lamp shattered, you jumped back, fell over your feet and nutted yourself on the deck. Out like a snuffed candle. Anyway, you were sleeping like a little lamb, so I got you out and here we are.’
Now that he mentioned it, Poldarn’s head was hurting. ‘What about the house?’ he said.
‘Oh, once they’d pulled themselves together it was business as usual. That’s how come I’ve only just woken you up, there wasn’t a bucket of water to spare till now. It’s a bloody mess in there, but really it’s just a few rafters and plates need replacing, the rest they can patch up. You know what they’re like when they get started on a job.’
‘That’s good,’ Poldarn said. ‘So everything’s under control, is it?’
Boarci laughed. ‘As much as it ever is,’ he replied. ‘You ought to go and lie down – you look as sick as a pig. There’s nothing for you to do, if that’s what you’re on about.’
‘Good,’ Poldarn said. ‘I think I’ll go and find Elja.’
‘Yeah, why not? Of course, she’ll probably tell you to get lost, she’s got work to do. But it shows the right spirit, I suppose.’
Poldarn nodded. The movement hurt. ‘So,’ he said, ‘did Elja and me get married or not?’
‘I think so,’ Boarci said with a grin. ‘Anyhow, close enough for government work. And it saved having to listen to all the speeches, so really it’s a blessing. Though I was looking forward to yours.’
‘Mine? I was supposed to make a speech?’
‘Oh yes,’ Boarci said solemnly. ‘High spot of the event. There, see how lucky you are? If you fell in a shitheap you’d find a truffle.’
‘Well,’ Poldarn said nervously, ‘there it is. Our house.’
Elja nodded. ‘I’ve seen it before. It’s very nice. Have they got the furniture in yet?’
‘I think so,’ Poldarn replied, guessing. ‘I expect they have, it’s the sort of detail they’re good at. Anyhow, I’m sure there’ll be something to sit down on and somewhere to sleep.’
‘Mphm.’ Elja nodded her head, neatly forestalling the implied topic. ‘I don’t suppose anybody’s brought any food.’
‘You’re hungry?’
‘Yes,’ she replied firmly, ‘very. I didn’t have any breakfast, and we didn’t get anything to eat after the wedding, what with the fire and everything. It’s very important for you to kn
ow that I get extremely bad-tempered when I’m hungry.’
‘Oh.’ Poldarn froze, unable to think of anything intelligent to suggest. ‘I suppose we’d better go back to the house – the old house, I mean – and see if we can dig up some bread and cheese.’
‘Bread and cheese,’ Elja repeated. ‘Yes, all right. You go back, I’d better go inside and see what sort of a state the place is in.’
‘Fine,’ Poldarn snapped. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
He didn’t run, because his head was still hurting and every step he took sent a shooting pain through his temples, but he walked briskly. It was just starting to get dark, and he missed his footing, stumbled and twisted his ankle. Bloody wonderful wedding day, he muttered to himself.
They were surprised to see him, back at the middle house. ‘What are you doing here?’ Rannwey asked, in a way that suggested that she wasn’t at all happy at this latest display of eccentricity. ‘Where’s Elja?’
‘Back at the house.’
‘What, you left her there on her own, on your wedding night?’
‘She wanted something to eat.’
Rannwey frowned at him. ‘But there’s plenty of food up there, I took it up myself this morning. Rye bread and cold smoked lamb and honeycakes and goat’s cheese and some hard-boiled eggs in butter, and a quart of the new beer.’
‘Oh,’ Poldarn said. ‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then.’
So he trudged back, limping rather self-consciously on his pinked ankle, even though there was nobody to see him. When he reached the house, he could see a blade of yellow light showing under the door. He knocked before pushing it open.
‘There you are,’ Elja said with her mouth full, as she opened the door to him. ‘You needn’t have bothered, there’s plenty of food.’
‘I know,’ Poldarn replied. ‘They told me. Smoked lamb and eggs in butter.’
She nodded. ‘Well, smoked lamb, anyway,’ she said, ‘I’ve eaten the eggs. Very good they were, too. And all the furniture’s in, all nice and tidy, though I think I’ll get you to move the linen chest out of the bedroom, you could bang your shin on it coming through the door. I’ve lit a fire, so it’s nice and warm.’
Poldarn was already nice and warm, or at least warm, from toiling backwards and forwards up the river bank. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Thanks. I’ll come in, then, shall I?’
‘You do what you like.’
The house seemed very big with nobody in it but the two of them. It smelled rather disgusting – he hadn’t been there when they laid the floor – two parts of potters’ clay to one part of cowshit, the same mix as they used for lining furnaces; kept the heat in and the wet out – and the air was still full of sawdust and the clammy damp of newly cut green timber, drawn out by the large fire blazing in the hearth. Poldarn looked at it with disapproval; he’d seen enough fire for one day, and the sweat inside his shirt made him squirm. Mostly, he realised, he felt very tired, probably because of the headache and the day’s melodrama.
‘You sit down,’ Elja said. ‘I’ll get you some food.’
Well, he thought, as he lowered his aching back into the big carved oak chair that Halder had always sat in, this is a bit more like it. Food on the table, his own fireside, his wife, domesticity. A man could get to feel his age in surroundings like this. That thought made him frown involuntarily, because ever since he’d woken up in the bloody mud beside the Bohec he hadn’t felt any particular age; seventeen going on ninety, with an option on eternal youth and imminent certain death. According to Halder, he’d been born forty-two years ago, when the timbers that made up this fine house of his were little twiggy saplings, but he’d accepted that information as he’d accepted everything else Halder had told him about himself: a fact whose truth he had no reason to doubt, but clearly relating to somebody else. Now at least he had something to measure himself against; the timbers of the house, the house itself. By those criteria he was exactly the right age for the purpose in hand, and everything was working out the way it had been intended to.
‘Elja,’ he called out – she was at the other end of the hall – ‘how old are you?’
‘What?’
‘I asked, how old are you?’
She didn’t actually count on her fingers, but she paused before answering. ‘Twenty-four,’ she said. ‘Why?’
‘Just wondering, that’s all. I didn’t know.’
‘Well, now you do. How about you?’
He didn’t understand the question. ‘Sorry, what do you mean?’
‘How old are you, since it’s so important.’
‘Forty-two, according to my grandfather.’
‘Well, he should know. You don’t look it.’
He smiled inside. ‘In a good way or a bad way?’
‘Both,’ she replied, slicing bread. ‘From the chin down, you could pass for thirty.’
The inner smile faded. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘And from the chin up?’
‘No idea,’ she replied. ‘Actually, you remind me of those stories where a young man visits the secret kingdom of the fairies; and next day he leaves, and he finds that it’s a hundred years later and everybody he used to know’s been dead for ages.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean it in a nasty way,’ she replied, hacking at the smoked lamb. ‘Actually, it’s rather—’ She paused, wiping the knife. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Which is no bad thing, because when I’m all fat and wrinkly and old, you’ll probably still look exactly the same.’
Poldarn nodded. ‘Well, that’ll be something to look forward to. Can I give you a hand with that?’
‘No, you stay there, I don’t want you under my feet. I saved you the last honeycake.’
She brought the plate and a mug of beer over to him, then went back to the other end of the hall and started clearing away. ‘Start as you mean to go on,’ she said, by way of explanation. ‘If things aren’t put away as soon as you’ve finished with them, next thing you know there’s a big tangle of clutter, and it’s much harder to get everything straight again.’
‘That’s very sensible,’ Poldarn sighed. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he added, ‘but I’m tired out.’
‘Really? You go on to bed, then. I’ll be through as soon as I’ve finished in here.’
That sounded like a good idea; so he got up – his back was aching and his ankle hurt like hell – and tottered down the hall and through the partition door, which had learned to stick a little since he and Raffen had hung it, only a few days ago. He carried on into the bedroom.
There was a bed in it, presumably; it was hard to tell, because where the bed should have been there was a bed-shape, but completely buried under sheaves of green leaves, flowers and lengths of glossy creeper. All symbolic, he guessed, but a bloody nuisance; was he allowed to shovel the mess onto the floor, or was he supposed to lie on top of it, with the twigs and stems digging into the small of his back? Knowing his luck, there’d be beetles and earwigs as well; not really conducive to the occasion. He wanted to ask what he should do, but he didn’t feel that he could, somehow. He compromised by shuffling enough of the foliage across onto the other side of the bed to allow him enough space to lie down on. There was a pillow; beautifully crisp linen, and stuffed with clover if the scent was anything to go by. It felt wonderful, soft enough to soothe his aching head with its support, and for the first time that day he felt his muscles unclench. I’ll close my eyes, he thought, just for a second or two.
When he opened them again, there was sunlight in his eyes. He was lying uncomfortably on his right arm, which was numb from the elbow, on a mat of crushed fern and creeper; the rest of the bed was defoliated, and had been slept in. Bloody hell, he thought.
A head appeared round the door. ‘If I were you, I’d get up now,’ Elja said. ‘Sun’s up, they’ll all be here any minute, and there’s a lot of work to get through.’
Poldarn groaned. His head was still hurting, and when he tried to move his right
arm, the pins and needles started with a vengeance. ‘Yes, all right,’ he said sadly. ‘Is there any of that bread left?’
‘No, sorry. It was getting stale, anyhow. With any luck there’ll be time to do some baking later on; we’ll have a whole household to feed this time tomorrow, remember.’
He swung his feet off the bed and rested them on the floor; he still had his boots on, and he felt uncomfortable all over, but there wasn’t time to wash if the whole Haldersness outfit was due to show up at any moment.
‘I was thinking,’ Elja’s voice drifted in through the open door, ‘how about Ciartanstead?’
‘What about it?’
‘As a name for our farm, silly. Got to have a name, after all – we can’t keep on calling it Haldersness.’
‘Ah, right.’ He stood up; his ankle now felt very bad indeed. ‘Who’s supposed to choose the name, then?’
‘Well, you are, of course. After all, it’s your farm. I like the sound of Ciartanstead, let’s call it that.’
‘All right,’ Poldarn mumbled apathetically. ‘Like you said, we’ve got to call it something.’ Try as he might, he couldn’t help feeling that this wasn’t what they ought to be discussing, but he decided against pointing this out; if she didn’t want to talk about it, then talking about it would most likely be counter-productive. Of course, if they could read each others’ minds, there wouldn’t be a problem—
‘It’s settled, then,’ Elja announced cheerfully. ‘Ciartanstead. I could get to like it.’
There was a knock at the door; two very hard thumps, suggesting to Poldarn that the art of knocking on doors wasn’t widely practised here. (You wouldn’t need to, when you could announce your imminent arrival just by thinking about it.) ‘That’ll be Dad and the rest of them,’ Elja said, as if she hadn’t already known.
