For nearly the entire Second Age, the old tree stood, gripping the bank and binding the hill together with its ever-tenacious roots, its trunk growing in girth and its canopy broader and higher and prouder. Then came the storm. The wind tore at it, twisting the tough sinews of its limbs, and the lake's water pounded the bank on which it stood. The torrential rain poured like rivers off the ridge above, cutting across its roots, washing away earth into sliding mud until the great tree lurched and fell, crashing over the crumbled bluff and into the lake to rest half in and half out of the waters, its roots jutting up higher than many of its limbs. And thus, having already provided countless generations of squirrels and chipmunks with its acorns, and endless flocks with the safe shelter of its branches, it now made spawning places for fish, convenient islands for basking turtles, and a hiding place for a Barleyman and his prisoner.
They squatted amid its protruding limbs, their chins just above the water, and they watched as the two soldiers looked for them. All the while, under the water, Robigor Ribbon held with vise-like grip the arm of his prisoner and, with his other hand, the tip of his dagger against the prisoner's back, just hard enough for the point to be felt. For although the boy was compliant, Robigor made it clear that he would not risk any attempt to call out or to attract the attention of the pursuers without the assurance of the weapon held ready to thrust and twist.
So they hid. With the water acting as a soundboard, they listened to every word said by the pursuers, and Robigor Ribbon was satisfied that the two soldiers came to the intended conclusions. They watched the Redvests gather the horses and ride out of sight. For several minutes longer, Robigor held his prisoner close, wary of an unexpected return. But the noise of the riders faded away, and nothing more threatening than the gentle lap of water could be heard. At last, Robigor stood, pulling up the boy, and the two made their way dripping and splashing to the bank, pulling themselves out by the upturned roots to which still clung a prodigious amount of soil.
"Well!" Robigor said, sheathing the knife. "They must've took the ruse, truly. Hook, line, an' sinker, so as to say. So, how does it feel to be a dead man?"
The boy shrugged. "Dunno. I ain't never been dead, before. Except," he shivered, "now what?"
"I took ye at yer word, son. So now ye can either try an' make yer way back home, an' risk bein' takin' by yer countrymen, or ye can come along with me, if ye'll not hold me up, an' take the risk on that way. So make up yer mind an' come along, if ye care to."
Robigor made off, squishing in his shoes as he went, and the boy followed.
"Ye know whar I go," he went on. "To warn all that I can, an' to let the Prince know that the realm has been attacked."
"Wait, please," the boy pleaded. "I know I must decide. You may not believe me, but not all Tracians do what they do willingly. But, still, Tracia is my homeland."
"What's yer age, son?"
"Twenty."
"What I figured. I have a boy just about yer age. For all I know, he's dead, at the hands of yer masters. Or maybe me boy's on the run. At any rate, he's lost his home, as have so many. But it's me hope, if me boy is able, that he's fightin' to get it back. I've helped ye as much as I can, an' be thankful it's me yer with an' not some other of me people who'd sooner cut ye down an' spit on ye as to look at ye. If ye come with me, an' ye behave, I'll not do ye any harm. But we got no horses, no food, an' it'll be a chilly night. What's more, I've got thirty leagues ahead of me, at the least, to the nearest Glareth village, Nor'wick, an' that ain't even a start to our journey. An' when we get to whar we're goin', ye'll be taken prisoner, for sure, an' no doubt questioned most severely, too, for certain. But I reckon ye'll be treated a far sight better than if ye go the other way."
Robigor nodded to emphasize his point.
"An' I might as well say a little more, to get it all out right here an' now. That's this: I'll do whatsoever it takes to get word of this outrage to Glareth. If ye try an' have second thoughts, if ye slow me down, if ye get in me way, or make any trouble, it'll not go well for ye. I'm just sayin' it plain."
The boy nodded. "Aye, sir."
Robigor turned and marched off. The boy hesitated. Behind him the lake glimmered without care, and a pale blue shape, barely discernable from the water itself, rose in graceful curves out from the surface some furlong out and swiftly sank away, leaving behind a gentle spreading wake. But the boy didn't turn to see it, and neither did he see the body of his late comrade suddenly pulled deep and away.
"I'll come with you, then," he announced, striding off after the Barleyman.
"Then ye may as well tell me yer name, son."
"Kalpis," he called ahead. "Falgo Kalpis."
"Come on along, Falgo!"
• • •
They jogged and walked, walked and jogged, up and down the northward path, not stopping to rest even once all day long. Falgo, having tossed away all his accoutrements of war except his red cloak, was amazed at the Barleyman's strength and speed, and kept up just behind though it was not easy to match the older man's sure-footed stride. When the sun set and the forest darkened around the lake, they continued onward as long as they could, slowing to a fast walk since the path was only illuminated by moonlight through the filter of the canopy. At last, Robigor halted, and they moved off the path a safe distance to rest. As soon as the boy fell upon the ground, he slept. But before any comfort could come from it, he was being nudged by Robigor's toe. Sitting up, he saw that dawn was breaking through the limbs overhead.
"Let's be on our way," the Barleyman said.
All day they marched, sometimes jogging down the hills, stopping several times to drink from streams that crossed the path, and once to pluck wild apples.
"Only eat two," Robigor ordered. "Er else ye'll be sick as a dog. Save the others for later."
And off they went again, eating as they hiked. That night was the same as the night before, and the next day the same as the day before, too. On the third day, they began to slow. Their effort, and the lack of any real sleep or food, was catching up with them, making them weak and prone to stumble. But the determined Barleyman kept on, driven by his duty, and Falgo followed obediently. During the days, sweat covered them, and at night they shivered. They ate apples and some berries and drank their fill of cold water from the many streams that poured down the slopes and crossed their path before tumbling into the nearby lake. Sometimes, in places where the path went over a bluff and the view of the lake was not obstructed by trees, Robigor halted to gaze quickly and carefully over the lake, looking, the boy figured, for boats. Seeing none, they jogged on. Once, Robigor pointed at a little stone marker at the side of the path on which was carved the number 73.
"That's the number of miles yet to Nor'wick," he told the boy.
"Are there no villages before then?"
"Not on this track. A few off west, in the hills, whar the land can be tilled. But thar no good. Thar'll be boats at Nor'wick."
They hurried on. More often than before, Robigor slowed, his legs aching and his body begging for rest. On the following day, after a particularly long and arduous climb when the sun was highest and warmest, he suddenly collapsed at the edge of the path, and sat, leaning sideways against a tree.
"Rest!" he cried.
Falgo fell on the ground across the way from him, and rolled over on his back, panting.
As it happened, Sir Wind and his children, Breeze, Puff, Gust, Draft, and Gale, along with all of the rest of his kin had been banished from Aperion's heavenly castle long ago. It had been their duty to guard the gates of Aperion's abode, the abode of all Faerekind since departing the earth. It was Aperion's command that Sir Wind and his kin were to blow from outside the gates, forcing any Faerekind tempted to return to the earth back within the castle. But they failed, it is said, and were expelled to the earth. So, now there was nothing to prevent the Faerekind from returning to the earth except their King's Edict. Even though Aperion was stern, he trusted his people's good nature, and he did
not always care to enforce his will when the Edict was broken. It is said, therefore, that the Faerekind who flew away with Aperion sometimes look back from their starry abode upon the world they had left behind. And, sometimes, they send their spirits to visit, to float among the treetops, to walk with the deer and rabbits, or to look upon the doings of the peoples of the world. It is told that, from time to time, they become attached, if only briefly, to what their spirits perceive, and may even be filled with compassion, and spread their wings about the sad and lonely, or around the hurt, or over the dying in some expression of comfort, or in the desire, at least, to give solace.
So it must have been one of these invisible spirits that silently furled his wings about the drooping shoulders of Robigor as he slumped against the tree, panting and exhausted. Perhaps the kind spirit had been there all along, hovering within the tree that propped the Barleyman up, remembering how, in nearly forgotten days, spirits such as his lived as trees. And perhaps, when Robigor fell against it, this spirit felt his touch, saw his suffering, and reached out to him.
Robigor and Falgo exchanged looks, too tired to speak, each occupied by his own worries. It occurred to Robigor that the boy must be in an awful state of mind, too, and he could not help but wonder about the young Tracian's father and mother. But this put him in mind of Mirabella, and, putting his temple against the trunk of the tree, he closed his eyes and remembered the last words he had spoken to her, the last kiss they exchanged on the porch of the store, the cadence of battle drums approaching over the far hills across the river. He remembered the last time their eyes met, he in a huddle of men, looking past the blacksmith who was speaking to him, and she, some forty yards away, hurriedly putting things into a cart. He saw in his mind and felt again in his heart the smile of love she sent to him. Now, thinking upon it, his face reflected that smile, briefly, before a great lump came to his throat. His breath shortened, and his eyes watered behind their closed lids. Robigor's heart struck a note that came up out of his mouth, a painful gulp that he tried to stifle. This must have been when the spirit pulled tighter his wings and put its head on the poor man's shoulder. For suddenly Robigor felt again some comfort of his wife as all the sweet memories of their time together poured through him. The making of their modest home, the birth of their little child, and all the years of good work, watching their son grow into manhood, each precious moment of his family and home. From the quiet evenings reading by the hearth to the joy he took in Mirabella's feminine touches around the house, and the pride he had at his son's skill in the store. These were things not to be forgotten. These were things that make the fortunate rich, he thought. Even if such things pass away, their wealth remains. It may be that the invisible wings tightened more closely as he heaved a great sigh, and the Barleyman's resolve and his strength returned.
After a moment, he grunted to his feet, gesturing at his charge to come along, and they continued northward. A lake storm blew ashore, howling through the trees and soaking the two travelers with cold rain. In less than an hour it had passed, and a few miles later, the woods were as dry as before, and soon the two travelers were as hot and sweaty as ever.
• • •
That evening, they hastily made beds of leaves and ferns some many yards away from the path, and no sooner than they fell upon them were they asleep. When the earliest birds began their predawn titter and song, Robigor awoke abruptly, sensing a movement in the foggy wood. With one hand he reached out to wake his companion, putting a finger to his lips, while with the other he slipped his dagger from its sheath. Footsteps, for sure, along the path. The boy heard them, too, his eyes widening. Then they heard voices, and they strained even harder to understand what was being said. It sounded something like an argument.
"I told ye she wouldn't take the shallers with all that cordage."
"She'da been fine if ye'd reefed like I told ye to."
"I did like ye said."
"In the most lubberly way! An' right up on them rocks, smashed like I warned we'd be."
"It warn't me at the tiller, mate."
"Ain't no sense in a helm if they ain't no steerageway. Yer lucky I pulled up the leeboard when I did, else it'd a been smashed, too!"
Robigor suddenly jumped to his feet.
"Ho, thar! Lakemen! Hold up, thar, I beg ye!"
The two men, seeing the stranger stumble out of the mist, covered with leaves and ferns and waving a knife, quickly got out their own weapons.
"Who goes? Far enough, mister! Else regret the bite of me steel!"
"No, no!" Robigor sheathed his knife and raised his hands. His companion meekly came out of the woods and stood behind, looking over Robigor's shoulder.
"I'm just needin' some help, is all."
"State yer business, er move aside. We ain't got time for idle chatter!"
"I'm Ribbon, Robigor Ribbon, of Passdale in Barley. Down the Bentwide a ways, south of the lake."
"Aye, I knows the place. An' I knows the man, too. An' he's a right neat feller, not takin' to wildness 'er waylayin' passers-by. An', if I ain't mistaken, them's Redvest colors yer mate's a wharin'. Deserters, mebbe? So move on with ye."
"No, I mean, ye don't understand. He's my prisoner. I am from Passdale. I own the sundries store down thar. But, the place is invaded by Redvests. The town, the county, all 'round them parts is covered with Tracian Redvest soldiers. They mean to loot the place for certain. I'm tryin' to get on to Nor'wick, an' from thence over to the Glareth Lakemen to give warnin' an' get help for me people."
The older of the two boatmen looked askance at Robigor, but it was the younger one that spoke.
"It ain't credible," he said. "Redvests in Barley? Why that's near a hunnerd leagues up from Tracia."
"It ain't credible," said Robigor, "but it's the truth."
"It is true," put forward Falgo, still hesitant behind Robigor. "My army came all this way just to take Barley. And we're just one of many comin' into the Eastlands for grain, forage, iron, gold, and whatnot. There's a war coming, and Tracia's gonna start it."
"Now that's a tale," said the older man at last. "An' mebbe we'll just go on our way, seein' as how it's Barley we're headed to, anyhow, for a bit of lumber an' tar. It'd be by boat if me stupid mate, here, had any lake sense about him. But since we're walkin', we'll just keep walkin', if ye don't mind us passin'. We got ourselves a boat to repair, an' can't waste time fiddlin' 'round. 'Sides, we ain't Lakemen, just plain fisher-folk. So let us pass, ye hear?"
"You'll be taken," said Falgo. "My general wants prisoners to load and push wagons, and to do other work. We didn't catch enough, so you'll certainly be taken."
"If ye can't see sense, then go ahead," Robigor said. "An' we'll be on our way to see Prince Danoss, son of Rulin' Prince Carbane of Glareth. I've got tradin' friends up in Nor'wick, an' they'll sure to get us by boat over the lake. I'm sure the Prince'll be quite interested in how come two fools didn't help out when they could've."
"Now, hold up, thar. If yer bein' straight with us, then tell me this. Who's yer tradin' friends up in Nor'wick, eh?"
"Marler Janks, the fisherman, an' Tiddus Macklebee, the cooper."
"Lo," said the younger to the elder, "Ol' Tiddus is me uncle!"
"I know dang well he's ye uncle, ye lout!" To Robigor, the older man said, "Well, I guess we'll have to trust ye. Argh! It's back the way we done come, then. An' many miles it is back home, too."
The two boatmen, much put out, turned to go the other way, and Robigor smiled, following along briskly.
• • •
A week later, the four arrived in Northwick, much starved, and well exhausted. Along the way, Robigor won over his guides, and by the time they reached the village, they were all too happy to have him and his prisoner as their guests. It did not hurt that many conversations were had concerning all the new trading possibilities that might well come about between Northwick and Passdale after the current troubles were over. These conversations continued over hearty meals and welcomed ta
nkards, along with all the important news Robigor could share with the people who hosted them. Two days later, three well-provisioned fishing boats set out from the docks of the village, carrying Robigor, Falgo, and several village elders. They hoisted their sails and set course north by northeast, lumbering for the town of Formouth over thirty leagues away, the Lakemen stronghold and residence to Prince Danoss, the son of the Ruling Prince Carbane of Glareth. From there, with swift horses, it still would be another three weeks or more to go the five hundred miles to Glareth by the Sea.
It was a long way to go, and Robigor learned to help with the sheets and rigging to take his mind from his worries, thankful that he was saved by the fisher-folk from the long trek around the lakeshore. Still, hoping for stronger winds, he incessantly scanned the lake for other sails. With luck, Robigor thought, they might run into some Lakemen, and he might be transferred to one of their swift-sailing sloops.
Meanwhile, perhaps due in great part to the rocking of their boat on the choppy lake, Robigor's prisoner became quite sick. As Robigor worked to trim the sails, under the tutelage of the two crusty fishermen whose boat it was, Falgo hung himself over the side long after he had nothing to contribute to the wake.
That night, with lanterns hung at the end of their booms, the three boats continued on while those aboard took turns sleeping. The next day the wind was light but steady, and Robigor continued to help with the chores of hoisting or trimming the foresail, spending the long in between times to chat with the fishermen. Falgo seemed no better off than he had the day before. He spent the day holding his belly, or hanging over the side, and the two fishermen aboard laughed at the boy and scratched their heads.
The Nature of a Curse (Volume 2 of the Year of the Red Door) Page 63
