When All the Leaves Have Fallen

by Mark McCabe

  As the farmer passed, he tipped his hat to them. “Mornin,” he mumbled in a quaint rustic accent with barely a glance in their direction before his attention was drawn back to his charges. “Git along there, you boys,” Sara heard him call out in a thick voice as he passed. “Git 'em, Scratch, git 'em,” he called out to the dog, cackling in delight as it rounded up a pair of sheep that had taken advantage of his momentary distraction to make a bid for freedom through a gap in the stone wall that ran along beside the road. Before Sara realised that she had missed her chance to strike up a conversation, they were gone, the swirling dust and bleating of the sheep as they receded into the distance their only legacy.

  And so the morning went. A young lad rode along with them for a league or two and finally, they were able to appease their burning desire for information. He was only twelve, but he seemed well informed for his age. All was not as peaceful as it seemed. Although they were safe here, he told them, the most easterly of the Algarian provinces had gone up in flames only a week or so earlier following a major slig offensive the likes of which hadn’t been seen in many a year.

  “Me dad’s gone away to help the Rangers,” he told them quite proudly, puffing out his chest as he did so. “Me mum cried, but dad said he’d be back soon enough. He said the Rangers’ll put things right as quick as you can blow out a candle.”

  “I’m sure they will,” responded Rayne in a confident voice, though both he and Sara knew what Josef claimed would be the outcome of the war that was now beginning.

  “I’m the man of the house now,” said the boy proudly, puffing out his chest even further still and trying to look as earnest as he could. “I told me mum we gotta prepare for the worst. Just in case, mind you.” Then he added in a conspirational aside, “Me dad said that would keep me mum busy and stop her from worrying too much about him.”

  “I think that’s very wise,” said Rayne with a straight face. “Maybe you should have a few essential things packed and ready to go, in case you have to leave in a hurry. Your mum could work out what you could take.”

  “Yes,” said the boy thoughtfully, rubbing his chin as he did so. Sara wondered if he were mimicking a habit of his father’s. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “How far is it to the nearest town from here?” asked Rayne after a few moments. “And what’s it like?”

  “Renniston’s not far. It’s about an hour from here. They’ve a blacksmith there. And a store.”

  “Is it very big?” asked Rayne. “Does it have an inn?”

  “Oh yes, it’s quite big. It don’t have an inn, but old lady Farrarson has a room she lets to travellers.”

  “What’s the biggest town hereabouts, then?”

  “Novistor,” he answered without hesitation. “Me dad went there once. It’s huge. There’s a big wall around it, and a mill, and shops, lots of shops me dad told me. One of them sells nothing but sweets.”

  The conversation continued on in this vein but revealed little else in the way of useful information. When the boy turned aside from their trail for his neighbour’s farm, the two travellers continued on, alone once more. About midday, they reached Renniston. It wasn’t at all what Sara had expected.

  The picture she had formed in her mind when the boy had mentioned it was one of a small village full of white-washed, stone cottages with thatched roofs, and flower beds all around the walls and spilling over from window boxes below quaint little curtained windows. That was what she expected. It wasn’t what she found.

  Renniston was small, that much was right at least. Rather than stone, however, the walls of the houses seemed to have been made from large, roughly shaped blocks of what looked to Sara like a dried mix of mud and straw. Most had indeed been painted, though whitewash seemed not to have been favoured. Brown was the colour of choice. For curtains, simple rough sheets of material served adequately, if not attractively. Most hung limply, obscuring any view of the interiors of the dwellings. The roofs were indeed thatched, but not in the tight and orderly way Sara had seen in pictures at home. The layer of soil that had been sprinkled over the reed thatching came as a shock to her. She had no idea what purpose it served and could only guess at the dirt that must seep down through the thatching, particularly when it rained. The whole affair seemed very rough and ready, though she guessed it must be effective. Presumably, no one would want to live in a house that leaked water through the roof.

  Bundles of flowers hung from the overhang of the roofs of many of the houses. They were most likely herbs, thought Sara. Tied in bunches and hanging upside down in the morning sun, they seemed to cluster around the doorways in particular. At one house, a pair of muddied boots sat beside the front door. A ginger cat could be seen on the windowsill of another, sitting and watching them lazily as they passed on by. One house had a wooden frame attached to a side wall from which hung strips of cloth. From the low trough which had been placed beneath the material and in which could be seen a thin layer of coloured water, Sara guessed it was cloth that had recently been dyed.

  She was particularly intrigued by the small recess which could be seen in the wall to the left-hand side of the door of each of the houses. A small squat figurine could be spied within and below this invariably hung a short string of garlic. Though she could see that the figures were gaily painted, Sara had no idea what they represented or what purpose they might serve. In answer to her query, Rayne said simply that they were ‘the Protectors of the Hearth’, as if that explained everything. Sara wasn’t even sure what a hearth was, let alone why or how it could be protected.

  The whole town comprised only a dozen or so of these dwellings clustered around a slightly larger building that appeared as if it might be a general goods store of some kind, judging by the paraphernalia that was stacked along the wall bordering the road. A blacksmith’s workshop could be seen under a lean-to attached to one side of the building. Two horses were tied to a post near the entrance to the workshop, and the forge, which was visible to them as they passed, was cold and silent. Sara wondered if, like the boy’s father, the blacksmith had gone east to the war.

  Despite, or perhaps because of, its lack of ostentation, Sara sensed that the town’s inhabitants were hard-working people who led simple but honest lives. The few people they saw as they passed through the hamlet, though showing little inclination to stop and talk, greeted them with smiles and friendly looks and seemed relatively unperturbed at the sight of strangers. Sara found it hard to believe that only the night before she and Rayne had slept uneasily, wondering if they might awake to find slig warriors standing over them with blades drawn. The thought of sligs appearing here in this peaceful little hamlet seemed inconceivable.

  After watering their horses at the trough outside the blacksmith’s, Rayne suggested they push on to the next town. Though the village was pleasant enough, they had no need to stop. He said he wanted to put as much distance as he could between them and the wilderness while the weather was fine. It was with some regret that Sara agreed. She felt safe in the village and hoped it was only a taste of what they could expect to find now that they had left the forest.

  Beyond Renniston, the countryside was much as they had seen that morning, rolling hills and tilled fields, broken by the occasional stream. The locals they encountered were invariably women, children or old men. Though they too were friendly enough, like the villagers, few had much to say.

  As far as Sara could see, everybody seemed to be busy with something, either going somewhere or keen to get whatever it was they were doing done before . . . before what? Before the slig storm descended upon them? Probably not, she thought. They wouldn’t be expecting matters to reach that sort of pass. They hadn’t the advantage, or was it the misfortune, of the prescience Josef had shared with her and Rayne. Nor the awesome responsibility that went with it, thought Sara ruefully.

  Not far from Renniston, they broke their journey beside the road, where a stone bridge spanned a babbling brook. Stretching out on the thick carpet of gras
s that ran right down to the water’s edge, they ate a quiet meal, greedily soaking up the serenity of the surrounds, both guessing there would be days ahead when they would wish themselves back where they were now. They chatted together happily and for once no mention was made of what lay behind them.

  Sara sensed that Rayne’s hopes had lifted as well. He talked of what lay ahead, of the route they should take, of the Algarian people and their preparation for the war that was coming and of how that might make their task easier. The confusion, he said, should aid them. No one would have the time or the inclination to bother with two travellers making their way across the province. Five or six days, he thought hopefully, should see them in Annwn.

  After a short rest, they moved on. They covered a good many leagues that day and finally, as the shadows began to lengthen, the town walls of Novistor loomed up in the distance. The road had by this time become quite busy.

  They had found that the deeper they travelled into the province the more willing to chat the people they met seemed to be. By the time that Novistor came into view, Sara was not only becoming accustomed to their thick accents. She was beginning to feel quite relaxed in their presence.

  At first, she sat back quietly and let Rayne do most of their talking. She had already met many more people in this one day than she had encountered in the whole of the previous few weeks. Although she found that daunting initially, as the afternoon wore on she began to relax. They were just people after all, much like Rayne and herself. Most appeared friendly and as she warmed to them she found their mannerisms and sayings both quaint and intriguing. Eventually, without realising it was happening, she began to venture into the conversations herself, cautiously at first, and then with increasing confidence as the afternoon progressed.

  Most of the talk was of the slig assault, though few knew much of its progress, only that it seemed to be the biggest offensive in living memory and that much was being done to prepare for what few believed likely, that the fighting should spread this far.

  Most of the traffic they met was headed, like them, for Novistor. Those that were prepared to heed the warnings saw it as the most likely place of refuge. Apparently, its walls and its size offered protection the smaller towns and villages could not.

  Despite what they had heard, when the town did loom up in the distance, they were both greatly surprised. This was certainly a town, not a village, and its huge stone walls along with the towering buildings that rose behind them could be seen from some distance away. The traffic seemed to jam up as they made their approach and by the time Sara and Rayne arrived at the gates it was almost dusk.

  They were held up there by a small squad of Rangers who were examining all who sought to enter or leave the town. A small queue had formed but it was moving forward quite briskly. The Rangers were clearly going about their duties with some efficiency and those waiting seemed patient and in good humour. Finally, when the wagon in front of them passed in under the arch of the gate, it was Sara and Rayne’s turn to be questioned.

  “What business would you in Novistor?” asked one of the guards of Rayne, who had edged Ned slightly forward of Nell.

  “We seek lodging for the night,” answered Rayne. “Can you recommend a decent inn? This is our first visit to Novistor.”

  “The province is under martial law,” declared the guard in a haughty tone, ignoring Rayne’s question. “Are you planning to stay in Novistor?”

  “No. We’re passing through. We should be on our way again on the morrow.”

  “You’ve the sound of Marcher,” said the guard, relaxing a little. While he spoke, one of his companions moved along side of Ned and gave Rayne and his gear a good looking over. “Where are you making for and on what business?” continued the first guard as this was happening.

  “My sister and I are on our way to see our uncle,” replied Rayne, without a moment’s hesitation. “He has a smallholding on the bounds of Annwn. Our father passed away not two months back and we bear the ill news to his brother.”

  Sara felt herself blinking at the natural ease with which the lie rolled off Rayne’s tongue. They hadn’t discussed what they might say in such a situation so either he had amazingly quick wits or he had previously thought through what he might say if questioned. If it was the latter, then he had done so without mentioning it to her.

  It hadn’t occurred to Sara that the truth might be best kept to themselves. Who knows, it suddenly dawned on her, what reaction they would get if they said they were searching for one of the Guardians. Certainly, it would draw more attention than they needed at the moment, especially if anyone was still looking for them.

  That prospect seemed to have diminished considerably now. In the wilderness they had been alone and their trail had been an easy one to follow. Here they were but two among thousands and the further they travelled the harder they would be to find. Still, she couldn’t say that she wasn’t grateful for Rayne’s continuing caution. If they could just get themselves within this town without attracting too much attention, she guessed that pursuit would become virtually impossible.

  “Mmmm,” said the guard, scratching the rough stubble on his chin and looking up at Rayne’s face with a brief but piercing look.

  Although Sara could feel her own stomach doing somersaults, she sensed that Rayne was in control of the situation. She felt sure that if she were questioned her anxiety alone would betray them. Talking to their fellow travellers along the road was one thing; standing up to an interrogation by the town guards was another entirely. Ignoring her pounding heart, she somehow managed to glance around at the activity going on around the gate, trying desperately to look calm and relaxed as she did so. Though her eyes swept the surrounds, her ears were tuned to the exchange between Rayne and the guard. For a few moments there was silence, then the guard spoke again.

  “Next.”

  Sara breathed a sigh of relief. She had worked herself up over nothing. The guards had no reason to stop them. They were no different from all of the others, just two travellers busily trying to get from one place to another. She sensed Ned moving forward from beside her. As his hooves began to clatter on the wooden planks of the bridge that spanned the small culvert that surrounded the walls, she urged Nell to follow.

  Beyond the bridge lay the huge arch of the gateway and as they passed under it Sara found herself looking up in wonder. The engineering feat that had enabled the Algarians to lift the huge stone blocks into place seemed to her in direct contrast to the simple dwellings of Renniston, with their thatched roofs weighted down by soil and muck. Pulling her gaze back down to street level as the gates passed behind them, she felt a momentary feeling of panic. They had entered Novistor and all of a sudden there were people everywhere.

  It seemed to take them hours to find a decent inn and by then it had long since fallen dark. Fortunately, the streets of Novistor, or at least the ones they travelled, were both adequately lit and well frequented. Lamps had been hung up at every junction and interior lights from dwellings or businesses lit most of the rest of the way. Of greater comfort was the presence of townspeople out and about in the cool of the evening, though it seemed to Sara her dad’s advice when she and her family had travelled to a large city back home applied equally well here. “Stick to the main roads where everyone else is,” he had said, “and don’t go nosing around back-streets where no one’s about.” Even the locals seemed to steer clear of the dark little lanes and alleys that branched off from the better-lit thoroughfares Rayne kept them to.

  Sara was of no use at all to Rayne in the search for an inn. She spent the first half hour or so ‘rubber-necking’ as she would have called it at home. So much so that when she finally did begin to tire of the ‘sights’ she hadn’t the slightest idea how they had got to where they were or how far they had come from the gate. At first, however, she bombarded Rayne with an endless stream of questions.

  “What’s a cooper?” she asked. “Who’s St. Terac?” “What’s a reeve?” “What doe
s a wheel-wright do?” “What’s a farrier?” “Is two shillings a lot of money?”

  When she sensed he was tiring of that, she kept her peace and contented herself with taking it all in. And there was much to take in: the man who was rolling a large barrel down the middle of the street; the two men in bright red robes who chanted in harmony as they slowly made their way along the wooden boards that constituted the sidewalk; the young woman with the strange, little, feathered cap and the heavily smocked skirt who looked for all the world as if she had just won the lottery as she strutted along by herself, smiling broadly at everyone who looked her way; the little girl who skipped along holding her father’s hand and humming a tune that Sara could have sworn was ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’; and much more besides.

  When she saw two more young women enter a building arm in arm with their beaus, she couldn’t help but comment to Rayne on their outfits. “I like those cute little hats with the tall feathers,” she remarked chirpily. “They seem to be all the rage here.”

  “They’re harlots,” responded Rayne with a slightly embarrassed look. “The tall feather marks them as harlots.”

  “Oh.”

  After that, she kept quiet again. She did think it a shame though that such a cute fashion should be reserved only for prostitutes.

  The inn they finally settled on was the third they had tried. Though the previous two had rooms on offer, Rayne had chosen on both occasions to keep looking. The first, he said, was a rough place that was unfit for either of them to stay in unless they were incredibly desperate, which they weren’t yet. The ‘Archer and the Boar’ it was called, though Rayne said neither its name nor the fine painting that hung over its door, of a hunter about to shoot an arrow at a wild boar from behind a tree, were any indication of the quality of the establishment itself. From the wild sounds coming from the downstairs room, Sara sensed that he was right and she was only too glad to give the place a wide berth. It seemed to her that the inn was on the verge of a riot.