To my pleasure I found a fair on the Rokeby village green. It was one of those travelling carnivals with a puppet theatre, stalls selling pies and candied fruits, and pavilions with pictures painted on the sides, describing the wonders within. There were flute players, a man playing the bagpipes, people dancing, wrestlers, and noisy games of blindman’s buff. Adding to the noise were the usual solitary travellers who went to every fair: traders calling out their wares, salt and iron peddlers, ballad singers, and healers with herbs promising cures for everything from carbuncles to witches’ curses. I was tempted to spend some of my precious pennies, but went on to the village and sought out the man who made bows, and the fletcher. Then, with my new bow across my back and a fine quiver bristling with arrows—and even some change jingling in my purse—I went back to the fair.
I bought an apple tart to eat. The woman who sold it to me admired my bow. “You ought to test your skill,” she said, pointing to a small crowd across the ground, where a bright target board had been set up. “There’s Richard the archer over there, giving a silver florin to anyone who can shoot better than himself. Go and challenge him. A strong lad like you must be right cunning with a bow.”
I could see Richard well. He was skilled, graceful to watch, his aim perfect.
“I think not,” I replied. “’Twould be a shame to win his silver from him so early in the afternoon.”
I wandered off, eating my apple tart, past brightly painted pavilions advertising a fire-eater, a strong man, the world’s fattest lady, a bear and a wildcat, and other such marvels. But it was the swordsman’s pavilion that caught my eye, with its painting of a well-muscled man wielding a mighty sword. A performance was about to begin, so I paid a coin to the lad at the entrance, and went in.
It was crowded inside, but I squeezed through the throng to the front, where a stage was set up. People talked while we waited, and I heard a man say: “The swordsman is the grandson of a knight, so ’tis said. His sword slew dragons, once. I’ll warrant it’ll be used again, that blade, afore this summer’s out.”
“Aye—used to slice out your foolish tongue,” muttered the woman next to him, and people laughed.
“’Tis nothing to jest about,” said a crone, wrinkled and bent like a willow branch. “I’ve seen the past, and I’ve seen the future, and they both are full of fire a-falling from the skies.”
“Mind your tongue, Mother Gloomhart,” said someone else. “’Tis foolish, what you say. And ’tis dangerous, spreading direful thoughts.”
“There’s more than thoughts spreading through this place,” said another woman. “My Tomas saw a devil running down the lane yesterday. Had a pointed tail and horns and red skin, it did, and left an evil smell behind it.”
“Mayhap it farted,” said a lad, and some laughed, though his mother boxed his ears.
Then a man climbed onto the platform, bearing a great sword in his right hand, and we all were silent. He announced: “Tybalt is my name. I do be the grandson of the knight Sir Allun, last of the dragon slayers. This sword has won great victories, and has spilled the blood of many winged beasts. Watch and wonder, for the bravery and skill of noble knights runs in my veins!”
He held the sword blade upright, very still so that we all, as one man, held our breath to see what he would do; then very slowly he swung it downwards and around, in a great and deadly circle before him. Faster it moved, and faster, whistling through the air until I could not see the blade at all, but many blades, circling him with silver light. It moved above his head, then to his left, then his right. Graceful, he moved with it, and it was like a dance, beautiful and marvellous to behold.
The sword flew high in the air, then came down, spinning; we fell back, trampling one another, afraid. But he caught it, and laughed. We all laughed and cheered, applauding him mightily. He bowed, then looked down upon us all, his eyes alight like fire. He had a powerful face, fierce and handsome and darkly bearded. “I need a man,” he said. “Someone brave and steadfast, not afraid to face death itself.”
No one moved, excepting that men looked down at their feet, or got busy of a sudden whispering to their wives. Tybalt invited several up onto the stage, but each one declined. Then the swordsman’s eyes found me.
“Now there’s a big brave lad!” he said.
I blushed deep and looked behind me, hoping he spoke of someone else. The woman next to me chuckled and shoved me forward. I had no choice; amid laughter and friendly jests I was hoisted ungracefully onto the stage. During the jostle my quiver tipped and all my arrows clattered across the floor. Embarrassed, I scrambled to pick them up, and heard guffaws from the onlookers. Tybalt put down his sword and crouched to help. Solemn-faced, he put the arrows back in the quiver, then helped me take off my bow and placed it with the quiver out of the way. Then he picked up his sword again and we both stood facing the crowd. He was head and shoulders taller than I, and slender-built, for all his strength.
“What’s your name, lad?” he asked, putting an arm across my shoulders.
“Jude,” said I. My voice shook, like the rest of me, though I struggled to look coolheaded.
“Is your lady mother watching us, Jude?”
“Nay. I’m of Doran, here only for today. I came alone.”
“Then this is a lucky day for you”—he smiled—“and for me. For once I can test a lad’s nerve without his mother scolding me.”
The people laughed again, doubtless relieved to be safe while a stranger faced death for their amusement. I swallowed hard. I don’t think I had ever been so afraid, except once when I came close to kissing Prue.
“First,” said Tybalt, “we’ve a few doubts to dispel, which these good folk might entertain. Take the sword, Jude.” He held it out to me, the blade still upright, steady in his hands.
I took the weapon, and almost dropped it. By God’s bones, ’twas heavy! I staggered at the weight of it, and the people laughed again, thinking I acted the fool.
“Hold the blade straight up,” Tybalt said quietly. “Keep the weight balanced, ’twill be easier.” Then he said aloud, so all could hear: “There has been a suggestion, Jude, that this sword is merely a harmless wooden toy painted to look as steel. Is it wood, think you?”
“’Tis a mite heavy for wood,” I said, struggling to hold the sword upright. My arms ached, and I was afeared I’d drop the thing and cut off someone’s feet, or worse. Seeing my struggle, Tybalt took the weapon back. He spun it in a slow arc, and I scuttled back, making the people hoot and laugh again.
Tybalt looked across the crowd, then said to one of the elderly women, “Give me an apple from your basket, good mother.” An apple was thrown up onto the stage. He caught it deftly, then gave it to me. “Throw it high, straight up,” he said, “then stand back, quick.”
I did as he commanded, and as the apple came down he swung his blade. The fruit fell to the floor, sliced clean into two, and I picked up the pieces and held them out for the people to see. There were whistles and cheers.
“I see you’re an archer, Jude,” Tybalt said, when they had settled down. “A hunter. You know, then, how to move slow and quiet, how to stand motionless, and hardly breathe?”
“I’ve not hunted much,” I confessed.
“But you can stand still, Jude?”
“Aye.”
He took me to the centre of the stage and stood me so I faced the people. They looked wrought up, eager. I suppose it is how they watch at a hanging, all gaping and gawking. Tybalt pressed my arms closer to my sides, tucking my elbows against my belt. I stared across the heads of the onlookers and tried to calm my thudding heart. Tybalt stood beside me, his sword raised. “Remember how you stand when about to shoot a stag,” he said, very soft. “You do not move, nor breathe. Stand like that for me. Now.”
I froze like a hare when it first hears the hunter. I was aware of the soft whirring of the blade, slow at first, then fast. It whistled about me, a silver wind across my skin, now beside me, now in front, now above. I fel
t a movement on my hair, light as thistledown, then something black brushed my face. It was a lock of my own hair, tumbling to the floor. I heard a woman scream, and others gasped. The people, the pavilion walls, were misty as a dream. Nought was real, save that steel-cold wind. It swept my scalp again, and another tangle fell. I remember thinking, in that uncanny calm betwixt terror and trust, of my mother, and how she would give a hundred barley cakes to witness this. She used to sit on me to cut my hair, and of late had given up the battle altogether. And here I was, being shorn half bald, without a word of protest! She could hire Tybalt, and have the four plagues trimmed as well, right quick, and my father. More hair fell. And then the steel slowed, and stopped.
I looked at Tybalt. Sweat poured off him, and his shirt was wet.
“Brave lad,” he said, with that dark smile of his, and I fair bristled with pride. “I’ve had noble soldiers flinch from my blade. Give a cheer for Jude of Doran, good village folk. You have a brave man among you this day.” There was applause again, stamping and cheering and whistling. Dizzy with success, I was helped down off the stage. As I left, someone called that I had forgot my bow and arrows, and a man chuckled as he handed them to me.
Outside, I slung my quiver and bow across my back, passed my hand across my oddly shaven scalp, and walked with my head high. Someone in the crowd bumped into me and cursed me heartily, and I remember feeling greatly affronted by his disrespect. Could he not tell—could none in that crowd tell—that I, Jude of Doran, had that very hour faced death, and not been moved? I wanted to shout my valour to the skies. I tell you, Brother Benedict, if ever my soul flew and touched the face of God, it was then. I’ll warrant all your prayers and petitions never got you nearer paradise than Tybalt’s sword got me, that day.
Talking of paradise, it must be almost time for prayers. Take your rest, Brother, for we wrote much yesterday, and ’twould be a calamity to wear you out this early in my narrative, afore I’ve got to the enthralling part.
three
Greetings, Brother Benedict! Writing already, I see, and my day’s narrative not even begun! Ah—I can guess why. Yester-eve the Abbot asked me about the stuff called paper, that the Chinese write upon, and I wondered how he heard of it. Now I remember that I mentioned paper to you yesterday afore you picked up your pen, while you unrolled the new parchment. I’ll warrant you told the Abbot of it, and that now he thinks there might be other pearls of wisdom in these pleasantries of mine. I suppose he instructed you henceforth to write down every word. ’Tis a waste of good ink, Brother; I swear I’ll not drop any pearls until you hold your pen, ready and inked. What? Still writing anyway? It comes of swearing obedience to your Abbot, I suppose. Well then, without further ado, on with the tale.
My father had told me to listen for news at Rokeby. Though I had forgot his instruction, I did hear news as I was about to leave. I overheard two women speaking, and got the words “burned to the ground” and pricked up my ears.
“Aye,” one of the women was saying, her voice hushed, “everything was destroyed, they said. The whole of Wicklan, the fields and all. ’Tis the beginning of the Day of Judgement, for sure.”
Wicklan? They spoke of Thornhill, surely, that was razed yesterday? I moved nearer, and listened as they continued.
“Only the priest escaped,” went on the first woman. “He hid in the crypt beneath the church, and came out three days later to find that all was ash and blackened stone. He ran all the way to the next town, arrived babbling like an idiot, his hair gone white overnight. He said he saw what did it. Saw it coming, flying down from the sky with fire pouring—”
“Hush!” whispered her friend, glancing at the children gathered about their skirts. She added, in a brighter tone: “Let’s go and see the bear, Mary. Mayhap they will bait it with a pack of hounds. That will cheer us up and entertain the little ones.”
They wandered off, leaving me disturbed, my new-won joy gone down a notch or two. As I passed the last pavilion, the picture on it caught my eye. It was an evil image: a being half human, half animal, with outlandish scarlet robes, devilish slanting eyes, and tiny hooves. Craving distraction from the news I had heard, and not a little curious, I joined the line that was beginning to form outside. A brawny man was taking money as people filed in, and a lad stood beside him shouting: “See Lizzie Little-feet, curiosity from the great Empire of China! Discover heathen rituals! See foreign costumes of priceless silk! Hear the mysterious language of Babble!”
Slowly we shuffled forward, one by one entering the dimness. I was one of the first in, so I got a good place again, right near the stage. Afore long the pavilion was near full, and there was a great deal of jostling and pushing behind me. Children were grizzling to be picked up so they could see, though there was nothing yet to be seen, save an empty stage and a large bolted wooden box painted with hideous faces. The box was guarded by a man, who was shortly joined by Tybalt himself. The swordsman recognised me, and gave me a grin and a wink.
Behind me, a boy asked if the freak was dangerous, and whether it had two heads. “I don’t know, son,” the lad’s father replied. “But she’s a wicked heathen, so she’ll have horns, more like, and hoofed feet.”
Other people laughed, though there was little mirth in it. Then the pavilion entrance was closed, putting us all in darkness. Instantly there was silence. Of a sudden I was afraid, thinking on another freak I had seen in another fair, long ago when I was small. That freak had been hideously misshapen, his face disfigured beyond any semblance to a human being, and I had been in terror of him, though he was heavily chained. Could this monster be worse?
A torch was set aflame, lighting the box and the faces of the men bending over it. People pressed forward, and I was crushed so hard against the stage, I had to put my hands on the edge of it to brace myself. The faces on the painted box were so close I could have spat on them.
The box was unbolted, the lid thrown back. Ghostlike in the semidarkness, a figure rose from within. It raised its arms, there was a shimmer of red silk, and the torch was passed quick beneath its face. The face was small, human, yet different. Only for a moment I saw it—saw the alien brown features, goblin-like and freakish, with dusky wild hair and coal-black almond-shaped eyes—then the torch was whipped away. Truth to tell, I was disappointed. Hardly a freak, this, compared with the other I had seen!
The person was lifted out and placed upright on the stage. Small it was, half lost within folds of scarlet silk, teetering like a child barely able to stand. Then it lifted its shining hem, and the torchlight passed close by its feet. They were small, far too small for human feet, and I thought they must be devil’s hooves. Then the freak began to walk. Up and down the platform it walked, not quickly, but with tiny limping steps, as if its feet were chained closely together. Its head was bent, its hands folded at its waist. I watched, appalled and entranced. Was it human, or was it some alien half-thing, unnatural and demonic? Just then the freak stopped hobbling and turned to face us all. In the leaping flame-light from the torch I saw its face again, and realised, with a start, that it was a maid.
“Speak, O Heathen One,” commanded Tybalt, holding the torch flame by her head.
For a moment she hesitated, swaying as if her tiny feet were hardly able to support her, though she was slight enough to be blown away by the wind. Then she opened her mouth and chanted a bizarre little song, her voice high and lilting, making words as strange as spells. When she had finished, she very politely bowed low. People cheered and clapped, though I did not. I don’t know what I felt—fear, or fascination, or pity. She was like a changeling, a strange brown elf-child, enchanting and fragile. Some of the people standing close called her a hobgoblin and spat at her.
Tybalt commanded the freak to do something else, and she sat on a stool and took off her tiny shoes. Being close, I noticed that her fingernails were long and curved, like claws. Her feet were bandaged. At another order from her keeper, and with the torch held close to her, she removed the bindings.
Her feet were grotesque, misshapen clumps with the toes and heels curved down and inwards, almost touching underneath. And they were flat, shapeless, as if the bones had all been broke.
“They’ve been bound up like that since she were a little child,” announced Tybalt. “That’s what they do in the barbarian land she’s from. It’s to keep the women in their place, you see. To stop them a-wandering, and gossiping, and getting up to mischief. A very sensible custom we would do well to take on, here.”
Some of the men chuckled, shouting agreement, and their wives scolded them.
“That fine garment she wears,” Tybalt went on, “it’s silk, made from worms.”
People roared with laughter and disbelief.
“True!” he cried, smiling a little. “You’ve heard of the East, of the Silk Road, of old Cathay, and the Orient, land of silk and fabulous furs. Well, that’s where she’s from: China. She’s an Easterling. Our kings and queens wear purple finery brought along that famous Silk Road from her far land. And more than silk is brought: fine treasures, idols of silver and gold, and all manner of jewels. A long way she’s come, this barbarian maid, to entertain and educate you gentlefolks. Heathen she is, prays to golden idols and devils and all things wicked and forbidden. Her people are uncivilised, backward. They live in ignorance and heinous sin. You’ll never see the likes of her anywhere else in our land, so look well.”
Several people made the sign of the cross, doubtless fearing that the very presence of the heathen maid might breathe evil over them. An echo of my grandfather’s ravings came to me: something about the Black Death coming from the East, filling the sky with fire and blowing to England on evil winds. Had she seen the fire, this tiny freak? Is that why her eyes were narrowed and slanted—to shut out the light and the heat from the fiery skies?
“How did you come by her?” called out a woman.
“Well, that’d be telling a great secret,” said Tybalt. “But you may be sure, she’s rare and precious.”
Hunting of the Last Dragon Page 2
