by Helen Gosney
Most of his memories of the time were random, disjointed sorts of memories, a bit confused in his mind, but there was one that was startlingly clear.
**********
Rhys was sitting by the bedside holding Rowan’s thin sweaty hand in his own two strong ones, wondering if this might be the night that saw the rampant fever finally claim him. He realised wretchedly that he’d never known just how strong Rowan truly was… he’d fought long and hard, far longer than the healer or anyone else had thought possible, but now even his reserves of stamina and strength were nearly exhausted. Rhys wished with all his being that he could somehow transfer some of his own great strength to his son.
“Don’t cry, Pa… I’ll be all right… I won’t let that murdering bastard Rollo kill me too…” the soft voice, rough with disuse and coughing, wasn’t much louder than the gentle purring of the big ginger cat that refused to be evicted for long, but Rhys jumped as if someone had suddenly kicked him.
“Rowan…”
Rhys looked down at the gaunt, ashen face of his son, oddly different now with the broken nose and the livid scars on forehead and jaw. He knew that Rowan simply wouldn’t care if his nose was crooked or his face scarred. He seemed frighteningly weak, but his hazel eyes were calm and lucid for the first time in far too long.
“Don’t try to talk, Rowan lad, you’re safe now.” Rhys had been there when the terrible nightmares had haunted his son, had chased Rowan’s Gran and sister out of the room and held him as best he could without causing him more pain from his injuries, and he knew that Griff had done the same. It was only in the last day or so that they’d learnt how Rowan had come to be so badly hurt, and from what the priest had told Rhys and Griff privately about the terrible battle in Wirran and its aftermath in Trill it would be more surprising if Rowan didn’t have nightmares. Some of his delirious ramblings now made chilling sense too.
“Pa…” Rowan coughed painfully and raised his left hand to peer at it worriedly. “Pa… I’ve lost Zarinya’s ring. I thought I had it, I thought it was safe, but…” he sounded heartbroken.
“No, laddie, no.” Rhys tried to soothe him. “It’s here, it’s all right. Rose put it on a chain around your neck so you’d not lose it. Here…” He raised Rowan’s head a little and put his hand on the delicate gold and silver ring threaded onto his sister’s fine silver chain.
His dead wife’s ring, it was. They hadn’t even known that Zara and her unborn baby had died until Rowan’s horses had brought him home, badly injured and so ill with the lung fever that he’d not been expected to survive that day. Rowan smiled and looked almost like his old self for a moment, but his eyes grew desolate as he remembered exactly what his having his wife’s ring meant. He closed his hand around the ring and turned his head away. Time passed and Rhys thought Rowan must have lost consciousness again when he blinked wearily and looked up. He swore softly as he tried to find a more comfortable position.
“Pa, what about Mica and Soot? Mica was hurt…is he…?”
How typical of him to be so worried about his horses, Rhys thought. Mind you, he’d never have survived without them.
“They’re both fine, Rowan. Mica’s cuts are healed and he’s sound. He’s got a couple of scars, of course, but they don’t matter. He’s fit and healthy and strong and he’s moving as well as he ever has. He and Soot are out there in the paddock eating their heads off, they won’t stay in the barn.” Neither would any of the other animals, of course. Rhys didn’t understand how they knew, but it was obvious they were anxious about their Whisperer. “And we’ve groomed them for you too. They did a good job to get you home at all. But they had no saddles or bridles…?”
Rowan shook his head.
“I left the saddles in Den Siddon, ‘twas too hard to manage with my arm… and I left the bridles with the…” he frowned uncertainly, “With the Thallassians, I think…”
Thallassians? Rhys wondered if Rowan was slipping away again, but he still seemed fairly rational. And there was something else worrying him, Rhys knew. He waited patiently until Rowan coughed and swore some more, and finally managed to ask about the other thing that was fretting him.
“And what about the men… the troopers…?”
“I don’t know how the hell you did it, but you managed to get more of them home than anyone had a right to. We’re all very proud of you, lad.” But Rhys could see that Rowan was still troubled. He patted his uninjured shoulder gently. “Please don’t fret yourself, Rowan. Truly, nobody could have done more than you did. Nobody. None of those men would have got home at all if not for you… And you stopped that bastard Rollo too.”
“That was the only good thing to come out of it,” Rowan said miserably. He turned his face away again.
There was nothing else that Rhys could say. He sat quietly as the cat purred on and Rowan finally fell into a shallow, troubled sleep. They’d had their arguments over the years, Rhys thought. Rowan had his mother’s fiery temper though he’d learnt to control it early and he very rarely lost it these days. He looked very like her too, but he was his father’s son through and through. Both were fair-minded and generous but strong and tough too, plain speaking and honest to a fault, and they were both too stubborn for their own good. No wonder there’d been damned arguments, Rhys mused. Really, it’d been inevitable. But through it all there’d always been loving respect and closeness between them too, and truly, a good argument had never hurt anyone. For a moment he remembered the battles he’d had with his own father, Rhuary. Now HE’D been an obstinate old bugger if ever anyone was. Maybe that’s where Rowan had got it from.
He looked down at Rowan again. His much-too-pale face was sheened with sweat and he was mumbling about wells and babies and blood again – Rhys shuddered as he thought about what the priest had told him – but even so… Rhys thought perhaps his son’s breathing might be a little less laboured, and he didn’t seem to be coughing blood as he had been. He wondered if he dared to hope that Rowan might somehow survive as he carefully bathed the sweat from his face and body. It didn’t seem right that you didn’t realise what a good man your own son was until you were about to lose him.
**********
8. “… ‘tis a song about the way to Plausant Bron...”
Rowan shook his head to clear his thoughts a bit as he twisted Zara’s ring on his finger. He’d always thought it odd how that one memory was so clear and the others from that time were so confused. Perhaps it was because it was the first time he’d ever seen his father weep. He looked at the others waiting so patiently for the rest of his tale, took a sip of tea and continued on.
“When I did finally start to recover I spent a lot of time just leaning on the fence watching the horses, and wandering in the forest thinking, brooding I suppose really... and I spent a lot of time sitting in the sun with old Gran...” he smiled as he remembered the old lady who’d brought him up. “She’s lived with us forever... our mother died when we were only three. She’s a tiny, feisty little thing, as tough as a boot and sharp as a blade. I couldn’t really tell her anything about Messton, but I think she guessed a lot more than I ever realised... she never even questioned my wanting to go to Plausant Bron, not like everyone else... and then one day as we were sitting outside the back door in the sun, peeling potatoes and shelling peas, she told me something I’d forgotten all about...”
“I can only just remember our mother, you know,” Rowan said quietly, “I remember she had hair like Rose, long and fiery it was, and she used to brush it at night by the fire...” he glanced across at his sister and she smiled back at him.
He continued slowly, almost reluctantly, Cris thought.
“She used to sing us a song - a nursery rhyme, I’ve always thought. Gran said she used to sing it herself, to our mother and to us, and she could remember her own mother and her grandmother singing it to her, too. It’s probably been passed down through untold generations of Yaarlian grandmothers...” he hesitated. “Ah, you’ll really think I’m daft, b
ut ‘tis a song about the way to Plausant Bron...”
“...‘One way to Plausant Bron’...” said Bimm in a wondering voice, “My old Granny used to sing that...”
“And mine too,” said Cris, “But I can’t remember it very well... there was something about, er, ‘the sunset causeway is the start’ and stairs and a tunnel... I used to wonder sometimes... but there isn’t a tunnel or stairs at Sunset Wash, just the causeway and the road...” he stopped suddenly.
“Aye, just the causeway and the road,” said Rowan, his manner suddenly intent. “Have you ever heard of anyone exploring that road to its end?”
“No, a few have gone to Dimlit Marsh, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone going further than that,” said Cris thoughtfully, “Have you, Bimm?”
“No, just to the Marsh, as you say. Some have tried to get across to the old ruins there, but it’s very dangerous... the bridges have rotted and fallen and the road disappears into the muck... the buildings are all sort of lop-sided and half-sunken,” Bimm said, “I’ve often wondered why anyone would want to build in a swamp anyway, much less live there.”
“Maybe it wasn’t always a swamp,” said Shana unexpectedly.
“Aye, maybe it wasn’t... there’s no mention of it in the song,” Rowan said, shrugging, “Anyway, old Gran remembered it much better than you, Cris... like this...” He began to sing in a passably good baritone.
‘Fear not my friend, be strong in faith
Do not falter on the path;
There is but one to take you there,
One way to Plausant Bron...’
Bimm nodded to himself as Rowan continued,
‘The causeway is the starting point,
And it becomes the road;
Sacred mountains at the end,
The stairway of the Gods...
A tunnel for the stairway,
Great portal at the top,
Through rough darkness to the stars
The way to Plausant Bron...’
“The tune’s a bit different, but otherwise it’s more or less the same, except for that bit about, er, what was it…? ‘rough darkness to the stars’? Here it’s…umm, something like ‘through darkness to the end’ I think. But what does it...?” Cris found himself thinking aloud, “How could it really...?”
“I don’t know what that bit means either, it varies a bit from place to place, but I think... well, Rose and I both think... that it really does tell us how to get to Plausant Bron, as it says. I think it’s been passed down as a… a folk tale or legend or whatever, and over the generations it’s ended up as a children’s song or story. There are others like that: the ring o’rosies that’s really something to do with a great plague, and the one about the four oaks that were really princes of Balakon or wherever it was…” Rowan said intently, “And everyone has heard of the ancient causeway to the north of here... that’s why we’ve come here to Gnash.”
And if they didn’t think I was daft before, they surely will now, he thought to himself. He looked around at the others, trying to imagine what they must be thinking. He knew they’d been shocked to the core by his experiences at Messton and Trill, but they must surely be thinking it’d all turned his mind. It wouldn’t change anything though.
“There are other causeways of course, this whole western coastline’s littered with them for some reason, but none are like that one,” Bimm said, after some thought, “It’s huge, the most amazing thing, it goes out into the Sunset Wash for miles... some even call it the Causeway of the Gods...” he finished slowly.
“And Cris’s Gran called it the ‘sunset causeway’, ” Rose said quietly, “In Borl Quist, it’s just ‘the causeway’, but it must be the same...”
“It’s not that far from here, a day’s ride or so; it’s just north of Fleecing Litt. I could show you if you...” Cris stumbled to a halt as the others stared at him.
“I think I’d like to go with you, if you’d let me... I think I’d like to know what’s going on too... if the Gods are really dying, or whatever they’re doing...” he said hesitantly, “Fish and frogs are one thing, but wars like Rowan told us about are quite another...”
“Aye, they are,” said Rowan, a bit surprised but happy to go along with it, “And we’ll be happy to have you travel with us, Cris, for as far as you want to come. You know, everywhere we’ve been, even in places where terrible things have happened, people just complain among themselves and weep and wail, but none of them seem to think maybe they can do anything more than that... well, I used to think like that too, but now I think maybe we can do something... I’m not sure what, exactly, but at least I can try…”
“If I was a bit younger and fitter... and I hadn’t fallen down those cursed stairs... I’d go with you too...” said Bimm wistfully.
Shana said little. She couldn’t join them now, even if she wanted to, for Bimm was likely to be out of action for some time. And in truth, she thought she wasn’t as brave as she’d always believed. To actually go to Plausant Bron and confront the Gods... she wasn’t sure if it was courageous or foolhardy, but though a small part of her mind was regretting that she couldn’t go, another part was telling her firmly that she was better off out of it.
**********
The next day dawned bright and beautiful and Gnash bustled noisily about its business. Rowan helped Bimm downstairs for breakfast as his ankle was very bruised and swollen, in spite of the firm bandage, and he still couldn’t bear his weight on it. The healer had promised to send a splintmaker to him, so that he might fashion a better support for the ankle and also make him a good solid walking stick; Bimm was feeling a bit happier at the prospect of being able to move about more freely again. He was even wondering if he might be able to work behind the bar for a while, but he hadn’t quite thought of the best way to approach this topic with Shana. Rose and Rowan thought privately that Bimm was being a bit optimistic if he really believed he’d be able to do much walking or standing today, walking stick or not.
“And what about you two?” Bimm asked Rose and Rowan over another of Sheree’s excellent breakfasts. “What are you going to do with yourselves today? You’re not leaving us just yet, are you?”
“No, Bimm, not yet. Not for a few more days, I think. Rose is keen to see the Terraced Gardens here in Gnash, and we’ve got to get some more supplies and things too.” Rowan replied.
Bimm was happy to tell them the best route to the gardens for which Gnash was famous, and though it was still quite early, the twins decided to set off when they’d finished their meal. Rose ran back upstairs to get her cloak and found Bimm sitting by himself when she got back downstairs, watching the world going by past the windows.
“Don’t worry, Bimm,” she said as he turned to speak to her, “I know exactly where he’ll be. I’ll find him. We’ll see you again later on.”
She quickly found Rowan just where she’d known he’d be: in the stables checking on his horses.
“Nobody’s stolen them, have they?” she asked cheekily, knowing full well that it wasn’t going to happen. The two stallions were magnificent and well worth stealing, but it would simply be more than one’s life was worth to even attempt it.
“No, they’re still here, safe and sound,” he grinned at her. “I’ve been thinking, Rose…”
“Oh?” she said dubiously. She wasn’t about to miss out on her trip to the famous gardens. She’d been looking forward to it ever since Rowan had said they’d be coming this way.
“Aye…how about I come with you to see the Terraced Gardens, so I can protect you from big bad bullies like Donnie Whatsit and his friends, and any dirty old men you might happen to find,” he offered, “And then maybe you can come with me to the market for stores and whatever else we’ll need to get. You’re much better at bargaining than I’ll ever be,” he added with a charming smile and a flutter of his long, long lashes.
She grinned back at her cheeky brother. There weren’t a lot of things that she was better at than Rowan, b
ut bargaining was certainly one of them. He was quite prepared to pay a fair price and he’d never cheat anyone nor allow anyone to cheat him, so to his way of thinking the back and forth of bargaining was a complete waste of time. Rose had never been able to convince him otherwise. Luckily, she quite enjoyed the game of wits in the market place and thought it all added a bit of fun to a very mundane chore, so she was happy to agree to his plan. She didn’t think she’d be confronted by more louts again, but then she hadn’t thought it would happen yesterday either. And Basil the lecher had been something she could have done without, even though she’d handled him with no problem. She realised it might have been different in other circumstances though. And she knew that Rowan would take good care of her… well, discreetly, without being ridiculously over-protective. Yes, it seemed like a good plan.
The twins walked along towards the river Blon, taking their time and missing nothing. This part of Gnash was mainly residential and as with all of Gnash, the architecture was very varied. Here was a sandstone house with a fine pillared portico and a stiffly formal garden of low clipped hedges; there a dark square box of a house, almost hidden behind a high wall; next to it a tall limestone dwelling, its facade carved and fretted and much adorned; and over there was a rambling timber house with a great number of gables and tall brick chimneys and interesting grounds filled with statues and topiary.
