by Helen Gosney
“No-one who wins the Champions’ Trophy is undeserving,” Moss said slowly, “Even we trolls know of it. It is only won by hard work, discipline, talent and courage.”
“Aye, I suppose you’re right. But I truly didn’t think I’d win the damned thing and neither did anyone else. I was barely eighteen.” Rowan shrugged. “By the time it came around again, I was stronger, faster, more experienced and even better with a blade. Who wouldn’t be, with a g’Hakken sabre like this in their hand? Truly, I only entered it to see if I could do it again and… well, I did. I won it again. There was a hell of a fuss when I did…” he smiled at the memory of it and flipped the dagger into his other hand. “But this time the g’Hakken made an axe for my father, and a lovely thing it is too; he’s a woodcutter and he uses it every day. And they made me this fine pair of daggers. I hadn’t expected that at all, I was just happy they’d agreed to make Pa a useful tool rather than making me another sword I didn’t need.” His smile faded.
“But then… then there was a battle…” he looked down at the stump of his little finger and the scars on that hand for a moment and shook his head very slowly, “It was… indescribable… and after that, after Messton and… and Trill… I simply couldn’t face using the sabre again. It… it just sickened me.”
He knew if he’d only been able to get into the forest somehow in the early days of his recovery, he’d certainly have killed himself. He’d been through too much, lost too much, and he could see no reason why he should keep on struggling as he was, but he wouldn’t do it at home. And he simply hadn’t had the strength to do the job properly with the sabre. He’d killed so many with it that it had seemed very important it should be the sabre he killed himself with, not his knives.
By the time he could have reached the deep forest, could have ridden Mica or Soot, he’d realised how much it would hurt Rose and Rhys and Gran and Griff if he took his own life. It hadn’t meant that he hadn’t still wanted to, but he’d known it would break their hearts. They’d done so much for him, they deserved better than that. He hadn’t cared what happened to himself, still didn’t really, but he would never hurt his family like that.
He looked back at Moss and Cris, both waiting patiently for him to speak again and continued quietly.
“And then one day some g’Hakken dwarves turned up on our doorstep. Pa had sent word to them that I… that I’d been injured… they wouldn’t take the blades back, but they could have had them for all I cared. They said if I was really intent on trying to find Plausant Bron, I’d need something to, to protect myself, and there are simply no finer blades than those the g’Hakken make. They were right of course, and so I carry them still.”
Finn, Anna, Dann and Owen had simply appeared one morning. They’d come as quickly as they could after a distraught young forester hunter had run into their village with the news of Rowan’s return home with mysterious injuries and life-threatening illness. In their hearts they’d known that he couldn’t possibly survive, that they’d only be able to lay flowers on his grave and plant a tree for him. They’d tried to prepare themselves and they’d pushed their ponies hard to keep up with the young hunter as they’d travelled to Sian. And there Rowan had been in the yard: thin and pale and frail looking, limping and barely able to move his right arm and hand, swearing horribly at his own weakness, but still too stubborn to give up as he struggled through his exercises. They’d been appalled at his fragility and his scars, dismayed at the loss of his beautiful fluency of movement, but they could see the renewed determination in him. And they’d somehow convinced him that he’d be even dafter than he was if he didn’t take his sabre with him when he was ready to go to Plausant Bron. Like his family, they’d seen little sense in the scheme but again like them, the dwarves believed that anything that gave Rowan a sense of purpose again would be a good thing.
Cris knew most of this already, but of course he hadn’t heard it from Rowan himself. He was fascinated.
Rowan sighed and continued slowly as he turned the dagger over and over without looking at it.
“For a long time, I truly believed that I’d rather kill myself with the sabre than kill anyone else, but… but now, if it really came to it…” he looked infinitely sad as he took a deep shuddering breath, “If it really came to it, and there was no other choice, if there was no other possible way to do things… I think now … no, I KNOW now that I’d use the sabre to the best of my ability. And if things are ever that dire, then I’ll need all the skill I’ve ever had.”
He paused again and stared into the distance.
“That’s why I still do the drills… mainly…and, well, the sword is so beautiful, it’s so perfect, that I hate to think of it hidden away, unused. That’s what the g’Hakken say, that the blades should be used. But the only problem with that is that a sabre has only one real purpose… At least I can use the knives for something other than killing people…” he sighed again as he slipped the dagger back into its sheath. “Anyway, Moss, that’s how I come to have them, and that’s why I still carry them. Rose is only here because I am, and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her. If anything happened to her because I was too stupid and too frightened to maintain the skills I worked so hard to acquire, if I was too cowardly to protect her, I truly couldn’t live with myself.”
**********
27. “Either thou art, or thou art not…”
The days passed and the troll’s back began to heal, though he’d always have scars. He began to spend less time sitting by his bridge and one morning he took the others to see the little wild onagers that had kept him company.
“I do not think they will let thee touch them, they are very shy... even with me, sometimes,” said Moss, “But I think they will let thee at least look at them from a distance, if we are quiet and careful.”
Moss went ahead and sat down by the river and called to the onagers. Slowly they came to him and nibbled gently at his fingers, each one vying for his attention. The twins and Cris were entranced by the little creatures - each no bigger than a hound, but finely made, with soft silver-grey furry hides, long velvet ears, absurd bristly black manes and tufted tails, and huge trusting brown eyes.
Without thinking, Rowan walked quietly forward and sat beside Moss and held out his hand to one of them. The tiny mare snorted at him and stamped a dainty black hoof; then, curiosity getting the better of her, she carefully sniffed the proffered palm and decided perhaps it could be allowed to pet her. Her herdmates noticed this and trotted over to investigate for themselves, and Rowan soon found himself being poked and prodded and snuffled at by many inquisitive velvety muzzles.
“How didst thou do that?” Moss’s deep voice rumbled in amazement. “Canst thou charm the birds from the trees too?”
Rowan shrugged.
“Birds? Aye… but there’s no charm to it. I truly don’t know how I do it, and it always used to drive poor Rose mad when we were young. Any dog would bring back sticks and things for me, but she couldn’t even get our own mutt to do it for her, if I was anywhere near.” He smiled at the memory of the younger Rose’s frustration.
He didn’t notice the troll looking at him very closely indeed as they sat in the sun together stroking the onagers. As soon as Rose and Cris tried to come a bit closer the little creatures shied away in alarm, but they were quickly back nuzzling at Rowan’s hands when the two retreated again.
“Stay there, Rowan...” Rose said, after a couple of attempts to join him had been unsuccessful, “Stay and enjoy the little beasties... they’re so pretty... but I think Cris and I are just too much for them. We’ll go downriver a bit and see what we can see down there.”
“I’m sorry they are so shy; sometimes I forget they truly are wild creatures,” said Moss, “But there’s a fine walnut tree over that way, laden with nuts, if thou canst climb a bit.”
“Climbing is one thing I am good at,” Cris said with a grin, “We’ll go and bring you back a feast.”
They went off in the dir
ection Moss had indicated and soon the little onagers returned, more of them this time, all wanting to be petted and to have their long ears gently tickled. Rowan and the troll were happy to oblige and as they sat there amongst the little herd Moss suddenly said, “I think thou art what we would say in Trollish…” there followed a short rumbling grumble of words.
Rowan looked up at him, startled. He hadn’t really been paying full attention to what Moss was saying as a couple of onagers nibbled at his hair and tried to lick his face, and the Trollish words had taken him by surprise. Surely he couldn’t have heard that right, though. He hoped not. It wasn’t the sort of thing one friend would call another, not even in fun. He didn’t want to have to thump the poor troll in the nose when they were getting on so well.
“Er… a what, Moss? I’m sorry, but my Trollish isn’t always completely reliable,” he said carefully.
“A…hmm…er, um, a Beast Master,” Moss replied as he worked out the translation in his head.
“Oh. That wasn’t quite what I thought you’d said. Sorry.” Rowan was relieved as he grinned at his new friend and thought about what the troll had actually said. “Aye, I suppose I am, in some ways.”
“There is no ‘in some ways’ about it, Rowan. Either thou art, or thou art not…” Moss looked at the wild onagers happily eating grass out of Rowan’s hands. It had taken many weeks before the troll had even been able to approach them closely, but even so he’d almost dared to wonder… Now he realised that had only been wishful thinking and he was disappointed for a moment. He looked down at the man sitting beside him, laughing as he tried to fend off the cheeky colts that snuffled at his face and butted their hard little heads against his back. No, the true rarity was there beside him, all unknowing. The disappointment was replaced with a sense of amazement; suddenly Moss was certain he was right about this.
“And I believe thou art.” The troll finished slowly.
Rowan looked puzzled.
“They called me Horse Master in Wirran, but…”
“And they were right. I have seen what thou canst do with thy horses, but thou art more than that, I am sure of it. Canst thou not do this…” he waved a hand at the crowding onagers “… with any creature if thou shouldst wish to?”
“Aye…I suppose I can, but…”
“Then Beast Master thou art.” Moss seemed to be very excited about what to Rowan was simply something he’d been able to do all his life without thinking about it. He must have missed something important, he thought.
“A Beast Master might be seen once in many generations…” Moss continued, completely oblivious to Rowan’s bewilderment. “We trolls have not recorded one for… nigh on a thousand years, I suppose. I do not know about the other races. Perhaps there could have been another one or two, maybe even three, in that time…”
Bugger me! Rowan thought, stunned. That was the important bit. I hadn’t missed it... but…
“Moss, I don’t know anything about any of this… it’s just a part of me that’s always been there…” Rowan looked and sounded as shaken as he felt.
Of course he knew that Whisperers were very rare, but he’d simply never thought about or understood their true rarity. After all, many of the Forest Giant clan would be considered Horse Whisperers or Horse Masters and nobody at home thought anything of it, except it was a damned handy talent to have. That Rowan was far more than that had surprised the foresters at first, but after all the lad couldn’t help being what he was and his family and kin had protected him from ignorant outsiders as much as possible, while at the same time treating him no differently than they would any other youngster.
In Wirran, though, the idea of Rowan’s being a Horse Master had been startling at best and downright shocking to some. When he’d understood the awe, mistrust and sheer abhorrence that a ‘True Whisperer’ or ‘Bewitcher’ was held in by those who knew no better, he’d decided it was best if they simply didn’t know that he was in fact exactly that, and he’d kept the true extent of his odd talent from everyone except, later on, Fess. He realised now that the g’Hakken had known, but they were as sensible as the foresters and had simply accepted it.
Moss smiled down at him.
“Do not fret, my friend. It is not something to be frightened of… after all, it is a gift. Some would say a gift of the Gods…” Moss almost laughed at the horrified look on Rowan’s face, “But truly, I doubt the Gods have much to do with it...” Rowan looked only a little less dismayed, “Thou shouldst just enjoy thy gift as thou hast all thy life without thinking of it. Having a name for it changes nothing.”
Rowan thought about it some more. Yes, Moss was right, he decided. Just as well one of them had some common sense.
“Aye, Moss. That’s true, I suppose. You just, um… surprised me a bit, that’s all,” he hesitated, “But you won’t mention it to the others just now, will you? Rose worries about me enough as it is, and I think this would only fret her more.”
“No, Rowan, if that is thy wish. Perhaps I should not have spoken of it at all.”
Rowan laughed.
“Moss, it’s just a name, as you say. It doesn’t really change a thing.”
They sat in companionable silence for a while before Moss said hesitantly, “Rowan, dost thou think that...?” just as Rowan began, “Moss, I don’t want to...”
They laughed and each waited for the other to continue; and again they started at the same time.
“Please, Moss, you go first,” Rowan said, chuckling at the absurdity of it.
“All right, my friend, perhaps it would be better if I did, or we might never get our saying said,” the troll replied with a smile. He became serious suddenly.
“Rowan, I must thank thee and Rose and Cris again for what thou hast done these last few days...no, please...” as Rowan shook his head, “I do not know what I would have done if thou hadst not been here to help me... I would probably be sitting by... by my poor Bridge still... and weeping still... but... but I know that I cannot help my Bridge or myself that way...and I cannot help my Bridge at all...” Moss hesitated, then said in a rush, “Rowan, dost thou think I might come with thee when thou leavest here...?”
Rowan looked up at him for a moment.
“If... if thou dost not want me... I understand...” Moss stumbled on, “But I would try not to delay thee or be in thy way...’
Rowan put an arm around the troll’s great shoulders.
“No, no, Moss, it’s not that,” he said gently, “It’s just that I was... I’ve been trying to think of the right way to ask you if you might consider coming with us when we go on. We’re all worried about leaving you here by yourself, but we thought that you mightn’t leave your bridge...”
“No, thou art right... normally I would not leave my Bridge for more than a day or two, but now... now I have no Bridge...” Moss sighed and was silent for a moment, then he continued, his voice a little stronger, “Mayhap I will find another Bridge, somewhere else... the world is full of rivers, and there must be bridges too...”
“Of course there are, Moss, of course there are. Why, in Gnash alone there are lots of bridges... but I think not so many Bridge trolls to look after them. And let me tell you about another place we came past, I think you’d like it, it’s like the biggest bridge in the world in some ways... except it doesn’t really go anywhere... they call it the Causeway of the Gods...”
From high in the branches of a huge old walnut tree, Rose and Cris could see them talking together; of course they couldn’t hear what was said, but they knew that Rowan would make the most of this opportunity to speak to the troll about what was concerning all of them.
“Do you think Moss really will come with us, Rose?” Cris asked, reaching up for more nuts.
“Well... I don’t know...I hope he will,” she replied, sitting comfortably on the wide branch beside him, “That poor troll has lost his whole world and his place in it, now that he’s lost his bridge. I think if he stays here alone, after we go... I think he�
�ll pine away and die.”
**********
Once Moss had made his decision he didn’t want to prolong his departure. He spent the following day in a private leave-taking of his bridge and his animals and the valley that had been his home for so long. The next day found them all travelling a winding deer trail further up the valley towards a place where they could cross the river in safety.
Moss strode easily at the head of the little party, his few possessions in a leather bag on Max’s back - some spare clothing; a wide-toothed comb made of bone; a few bone needles; some small pieces of dark wood and some beautiful, delicate onagers and deer and birds he had carved himself, carefully wrapped in sheets of thinly pounded bark; and a stone from his bridge. He was sad at leaving, but having made his farewells he was at peace with himself.
“It is not very much further,” he said to Rowan, who walked behind him on the narrow trail with Mica and Max at his heels, “Canst thou hear it yet?”
“Hear it...? Moss, what do you mean? Wait... I think I can hear something.” Rowan listened intently. Below the sounds of birdsong and the wind in the trees and the thud of horses’ hooves he could hear a sort of muted rumbling. As the trail turned back towards the river he realised what it must be.
“A waterfall, Moss? How can we cross at a waterfall? I thought I heard you promise Rose she wouldn’t get her feet wet!”
