by Ruth Downie
“And the bridegroom drank from the cup too. And she laughed when she saw that he had drunk all of the poison, and she said, ‘This is my vengeance for the wrong you did me!’ Then she died and went to rejoin her true husband, and the bridegroom died there too, in front of all the guests, and instead of holding a wedding feast they held . . .”
“A funeral!” shouted several voices.
“A funeral,” agreed the old man solemnly.
This dismal tale of justice and revenge was a familiar favorite, and there were murmurs of appreciation and a few cheers from the old man’s supporters among the crowd gathered around the fires. Someone else stepped up to sing a song.
Tilla glanced over her shoulder toward the house. The moon was clear now but her eyes were still dazzled by the bright flames and it was difficult to make sense of the silver and black world beyond them. She thought she could make out the shapes of the guards standing by the sagging porch. She wondered how the medicus was feeling. Alone in the dark house, listening to the crowd outside filling up with beer and bravado, he would be afraid.
She did not expect them to do anything serious to him—she had already told them he was a good man and probably not a spy—but then, she had not expected them to take him prisoner either.
“There was no need for that!’ she had pointed out as the men were dragging him toward the house. “He was leaving anyway.”
They said he had seen too much.
“Now the soldiers will come looking for him.”
They had looked at one another, then back at her. “Do they know where he is?”
She said, “I cannot tell you what the soldiers know.”
“Why did he come here?”
“Perhaps you should have asked him before you hit him on the head.”
They told her that she had not changed while she had been away. It was not meant as a compliment.
“My da would never have attacked a harmless soldier like that.”
“Your da was an old man,” they had said, flinging the struggling medicus face-first onto the ground and twisting a rope around his wrists.
“We’re running things now.”
74
TILLA MADE HER way down to the trees where the horses were tethered. There were about a dozen animals in the line now. All were still saddled. Girths had been loosened and reins tied for safety, but it was clear that most of the riders were expecting to leave tonight. That was good. The black horse with one white sock that the medicus had brought was in the middle of the line, stretching its neck down to tuck into the long grass. Sizing up the other animals, she settled on a neat-looking dark bay that seemed to have no distinguishing features. That would do nicely for herself. It looked like an intelligent horse. It looked like a fast, fit, well-kept horse. It looked like . . .
She moved toward the animal. “Cloud?” she murmured. The mare reached down to nuzzle her hand, looking for a titbit she could not offer. Tilla moved along the horse’s flank, sliding one hand down the inside of the front leg and feeling the smooth weight of the hoof in her hand as the animal obediently lifted the leg. With her other hand she brushed at the dried mud coating the long coarse hairs. There, just visible in the stark light, was the little patch of white.
She was turning to leave when a voice said, “Hey!” A skinny figure was lugging two buckets of water from behind the lines. “No touching the horses, all right?”
“She is a fine animal,” said Tilla. “Is she yours?”
“My master’s,” said the youth, placing a bucket in front of the mare.
“You keep her well.”
The youth lowered his head and mumbled something, clearly flattered.
“Who is your master?”
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“I am looking for a good horse like this. Do you know where he bought her?”
“My master don’t buy horses,” said the youth proudly. “People give them to him.”
“And who gave him this one?”
The certainty faded. “I’m not allowed to say nothing. Not unless he says I can.”
Tilla smiled. “You are very loyal,” she assured him. “That was the right answer. But if your master gives you permission, tell him the person who wants to know is the daughter of Lugh, whose family used to live on this land.”
“I have come to check on the prisoner,” announced Tilla, handing the heavy jug of mead to one of the guards outside the house.
As he said, “Nobody’s allowed in,” his companion emerged from the black shadow of the porch, lifted his club, and slapped it slowly against the palm of his hand as if he were testing its weight.
“I need to check his injuries,” she explained. “We don’twant him to die.”
“He’s not badly hurt,” said the guard. “He was putting up a good fight when we gagged him.”
“He is a good man,” urged Tilla, raising her voice in the hope that the medicus might take some reassurance from it even if he did not understand the words. “He gives people medicines. Let me see him for a moment.”
“We don’t need foreign medicines. We have our own.”
She slid up her right sleeve. Her skin gleamed white in the moonlight. The scar was a faint dark streak. “I was near death and he saved me. My arm was broken and he mended it.”
“And from what we hear, you’ve paid him back,” said the guard.
“Is it honorable to treat a healer in this way?”
The guard shrugged. “Don’t ask us what’s honorable. We’ve got our orders.” He took a sip of the mead, then crouched and balanced the jug on the ground next to the wall. “Not bad. Thanks. We’ll enjoy that later. Bring us some food when you start serving it, will you?”
75
A SECOND STORYTELLER, a much younger man, emerged from between the fires. He lifted the hood of his cloak to survey an audience whose lips and fingers glistened with pig fat and who rested against one another with the relaxation of a people well fed and alcoholically watered.
The young storyteller leaned forward. “Long ago . . .” His voice was just quiet enough to ensure that everyone kept silent, “There was a time before memory. There was a time when the gods walked on the earth. And the people . . .” he paused for dramatic effect. “The people lived in peace and prosperity.”
“Ah!” came the response from one or two voices at the back of the crowd, as if he had reminded them of something delightful whose existence they had forgotten about. As the man recounted the lost wonders of the past, Tilla craned forward to get a closer look. She felt Rianorix’s breath against her ear as he whispered, “We could move closer.”
She shook her head. The moonlight was as stark as lightning. She did not need to be closer to know that she had seen this man before. “What’s his name?”
“They just call him the Messenger.”
“Do you know him?”
“Sh!” came a voice from behind, the meaning emphasized by a poke in the back.
“And all was very well,” continued the man, “until into this land there came . . . ,” He crouched and glared at a child in the front row, “the Gray Wolf!”
“The Gray Wolf!” repeated the crowd. There was hissing. The child began to cry.
When the noise died down the man continued, “The Wolf was greedy. The people knew he had stolen the crops from the south, killed the animals, and burned down the houses, and many warriors had died trying to resist him.
“So when they heard the Wolf was coming they made offerings to the gods and sharpened their weapons and mounted their best horses and stood on the north bank of the sacred river, fierce and proud. Then the Wolf opened his mouth and showed his sharp teeth and his slavering tongue, and the children trembled and the men drew their swords and the women raised their spears . . . but the Wolf did not attack. The Wolf summoned his servants.
“On that soft grass south of the river, the servants laid out a banquet. There were fine wines and flowing honey, roasted meats and warm spices from t
he East, all laid out in golden bowls with silver spoons. The people saw the feast and wondered at it, but the men kept hold of their swords, and the women kept hold of their spears.
“When the meal was served the Wolf licked his lips with his slavering tongue, and he smiled and showed his sharp teeth, and he said, ‘Come across and dine!’ ”
“Don’t do it!” yelled a voice from the back of the crowd.
The storyteller bent to address someone at the front. “Would you dine with a wolf?”
The reply was inaudible.
He moved along. “Would you?”
“No!” came a child’s voice.
“Not even for fine wines and warm spices and flowing honey?”
“Yuck!” responded the child. There was laughter.
“Good boy.” The storyteller nodded and resumed. “But the people of old were not as wise as this child. They smelled the wine and the spices, they saw the golden bowls and the silver spoons, and they lowered their swords and their spears and asked one another, “What does this mean?”
The man went on to describe the arguments between people who wanted to trust the wolf and people who did not. Tilla breathed into Rianorix’s ear, “Have you heard this story before?”
“No.”
“Neither have I. He said it was an old story of our people.”
“So? He’s a storyteller. They tell lies for a living.”
“Shh!” came a voice from behind.
“The wolf, seeing the people were divided, said, ‘Why not put me to the test? Why not come across and try a little of the wine, have a taste of the roasted meat, a sniff of the spices? See for yourselves that I come in friendship. Look, I and my servants will stand back while you eat.’
“Some of the people began to move forward. Others seized hold of them and tried to stop them, saying the Wolf was not to be trusted. But the trusting ones said, ‘The Wolf offers hospitality. It is rude to refuse.’ So they made their way across the stepping-stones and ate and drank. And the Wolf stood back and did nothing. And when the trusting ones had eaten and drank, they turned to the others and said. ‘See? There is nothing to fear. Come across and dine with the Wolf.’ ”
“Would you dine with a wolf?”
“No!” said a child’s voice.
The man nodded. “Good girl. But the people of old were not as wise as this child. The ones who had held back looked across at their companions eating and drinking and said, ‘The feast is safe. The Wolf is a friend.’ And they began to sheathe their swords and put down their spears and walk over the stepping-stones toward the banquet. Only one boy looked across at the Wolf and saw the sharp teeth and the slavering tongue and said, ‘We have everything we need on this side of the river. We should stay away from the Wolf’s fine food and his soft words.’ But no one heeded the boy except an ugly old woman, who was too lame to cross the stepping-stones.
“So all the rest of the people crossed over the river and sat down to dine. And when they had sat down, the Wolf secretly called up all the wild dogs, and the wild dogs leaped on the men and tore them to pieces!”
There were cries of “Traitor!” and “Shame!”
“Then the Wolf’s servants rounded up all the women and children and made them into slaves!” More hisses and protests rose into the night air.
Tilla had to concede that he did it well. If she had not recognized him, she would have been impressed. As it was, she was wondering what he was up to, and what she should do about it. This was not a traditional story. This was a very dangerous story. He had not even bothered to conceal the meaning in a riddle. Everyone had seen the soldiers who carried the image of the emperor wearing a wolf pelt instead of a crest on their helmets. It was a foolish story to be telling when nobody really knew—even among an invited gathering like this—who could keep a secret and who was a spy. And what if the children talked?
“Then the Wolf and his wild dogs came across the river and plundered all the fruits of the land, stealing all the treasure and burning the houses, while the boy and the old woman fled to a cave high in the hills. And in that cave the old woman grew older and uglier, while the boy grew into a man.”
Predictably, the young man wanted a wife. Equally predictably, the old woman pointed out that there was no one to be had except herself, and the young man was not impressed. While Tilla was wondering what the old women in the audience would make of that, the young man went in search of the Wolf and shouted across the river,
“ ‘How much will it take to buy back one of my people?’ ”
“The Wolf thought for a moment, and said, ‘Bring me all the silver in the land. Then I will give you a woman your own age for a wife.’
“Then the young man went away very sad, because he knew there was no silver in the land. The Wolf had already stolen it.
“When the old woman saw that the young man was sad, she asked him why. He told her, ‘Because there is no silver in the land to buy a wife.’
“The old woman shook her head, and said, ‘Never bargain with a wolf. Take me as a wife.’
“The young man wrinkled his nose. ‘You are old and ugly,’ he said. ‘I want a wife of my own age.’
“ ‘And do you trust the Wolf?’ asked the old woman.
“ ‘I do,’ the young man said. ‘But I have no silver.’
“The old woman replied, ‘You are a fool. But if you give me one kiss, I will tell you where to find the silver.’
“The young man looked at the woman’s old, gnarled face and thought he could not bear for his lips to touch such skin. But then he thought it was not such a bad price to pay for a wife, so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and kissed the old woman on the cheek.
“And she said, ‘You must go out in a boat at midnight at the next full moon and harvest all the silver from the waters. Take that to the Wolf. See if he will give you a wife.’
“So the young man went out and harvested all the silver of the moon and the nighttime grew black all across the land. Then he went to the river where he saw a beautiful young girl tied to a tree across the water, and he sent the silver across on a raft to the Wolf.
“ ‘Now release me that girl for a wife,’ said the young man. The Wolf counted the silver. He shook his head. It was not enough.
“ ‘But that is all the silver in the land!’ cried the young man. The Wolf smiled, showing his sharp teeth and his slavering tongue. ‘Bring me the gold, then,’ he said.”
Tilla pressed closer to Rianorix and whispered, “The gold will be the sun. I need to go to the bushes. Too much beer.”
The guards were still standing outside the house. The mead jug was still propped up in the same position by the wall.
“How is the prisoner?”
“Sh. We want to hear the story.”
“The story is not true,” she retorted. “He is just making it up.”
“So? It’s good.”
“Let me see the soldier. I can find out if there are others coming.”
“It’s no good asking us.” The guard pointed his club in the direction of the storyteller. “You’ll have to talk to him.”
76
THEN WHAT MORE can I give you? There is nothing else! You promised!’
“The Wolf’s laughter rang across the water. ‘If you want her, you must come across and get her yourself.’
“The young man knew the Wolf could not be trusted, but he must have a wife. A wife of his own age. He could hear the girl calling to him. Just as he was about to step forward onto the first stone he heard a movement behind him and smelled the smell of wild dog and he knew in a flash that this was a trick: The Wolf had him surrounded. So he leaped aside and drew his sword, and thrusting it this way and that into hot bodies that grunted and snarled at him in the blackness, he made his way back up the bank and fled to safety.”
“You were right,” murmured Rianorix in her ear. “It was the sun. And he had to kiss the old woman on the lips.”
“The old woman sat beside the fire,
waiting. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘The land is dark by night and dark by day. The crops have died and birds are silent. You have no wife your own age, and the rest of our people are still held prisoner. A fine deal you have done with the Wolf.’
“Do not nag me, woman,’ replied the young man. ‘You are not my wife.’
“Then the old woman took him by the arm and led him to her bed, saying, ‘I am not your wife. But I am all you have.’
“Then the young man cursed the old woman. And when he had finished cursing the old woman he lay on the bed and wept, and when he had finished weeping he lay on the bed and thought, and when he had finished thinking he took the old woman in his arms and took her for his wife.
“When he awoke it was still black as night, for the land was dark by night and dark by day. But standing above the bed, shimmering in the firelight, was the tallest, the most beautiful, the most terrifying woman he had ever seen. On her head was a golden helmet. Her hair flowed down to her waist, and her cloak was fastened by silver brooches with precious stones set in them. In her hand was a flaming spear. And the woman hurled the spear into his pillow and cried, ‘Awake at last, son of Brigantia!’
“The young man did not dare ask who she was. He looked around for the old woman. There was no sign of her.
“‘Long have I waited,’ said the shining woman, ‘and with much patience.’
“The young man trembled, and did not know what to say.
“‘Long have I waited, and with much patience, listening to the cries of my people in slavery, watching the Wolf steal the goodness from the land, watching while you plunge the earth into darkness with your foolish bargains!’
“The young man knelt at her feet, but the woman said, ‘Do not grovel. Sons of Brigantia should not grovel.’
“So the young man stood, and followed the woman out of the cave as he was ordered. And outside were two magnificent horses, a white one for her and a black one for him. Before they mounted, the woman turned to him and said, ‘Son of Brigantia, will you save your people?’
