Across the Face of the World (6 page)

Leith looked wide-eyed at the old woman. Stella and Druin, hctrothed? He had seen them together, skating on the lake, but had thought nothing of it. Surely not! But wild images of Stella and Druin together came hot into his mind, and as though his imag¬inings somehow made it real, he saw them in their own house, with children. He looked down at his carving, but his hand was not steady enough to resume his work. Herza began talking about something else, but Leith paid no attention. And when the woman finally left, hours later, Leith was still sitting by the fire, knife in one hand and carving in the other.

The weather - the whole world - spiralled towards Midwinter. The villagers, so free to wander abroad in field, forest and town during the precious summer months, now found themselves locked inside fragile homes, tempers fraying, able to venture out only in clement weather.

Darkness pressed in on them like shadowy, snow-laden trees stooping over a dusky road, an ever-darkening tunnel through which the villagers of Loulea travelled towards the shortest day of the year.

To Indrett, this time of the year was particularly oppressive. Her two boys bustled about amusing themselves in various ways, while she slowly withdrew into herself. Winters were not like this in Rammr, far to the south. There the snow settled only occa¬sionally on wide, paved streets, and was welcomed as a playful friend. But here it stole colour and life, smothering everything in a sterile, cold weight, just as it had smothered her heart. Her hopes of ever seeing Mahnum again faded into a creeping numbness.

Leith did not notice his mother's decline. He was going to show everyone that things were all right, that Stella didn't matter to him. So every opportunity saw him out with the sledge his father had made him, riding the snow-covered downs below Kurr's farm with his friends. He had packed a great deal into the last two months - learning how to repair a roof and succeeding in repairing their own, collecting and chopping wood, working another week for Kurr, then days on the snow of the downs and evenings indoors, close to the fire, working away at his birch carving. It was this carving that occupied him during the solitary, indoor days; a carving of a tall, unshirted man pulling an axe from a log. He had long finished the rough outlining, but was having trouble with the detail, particularly the face. For long periods he would stare into space, and afterwards could never remember what it was he had been thinking about.

Soon the week before Midwinter was upon them. Activity on the cold, snow-lined streets increased, regardless of the weather, as preparations for Midwinter's Day gained momentum.

This year's celebrations were to be held at Falthwaite End, a special place on a low hill half a league north of the village. The farm there was recent, but the name was from antiquity. It meant 'cultivated land', and was the older form of Faltha, the name given by the First Men to the whole of the Western World. Tradition said that the tree-crowned hill was the furthest north ever tilled by the hands of the First Men, but many thought this dubious in the light of old farms still occupied at least ten leagues to the north of Loulea. The feast would be held under a group of magnificent oak trees, and tarred canvas would shield the villagers from the weather. Should the heavy snows come, or the wind rise, there was a small, cramped barn on the far side of the hill they could retreat to. Wherever they were held, the Celebrations would last most of the day and on into the night, with the culmination, the Midwinter Play and the Haufuth's invocation of summer, coming at midnight.

Tradition might point to the invocation as being the highlight of Midwinter's Day, but for most of the revellers the true high¬light would be trying to eat as much of the vast amount of food as possible. As a rule winter fare was bland and soon became unap¬petising, and many villagers consoled themselves throughout autumn and winter with dreams of the Midwinter Feast. And what a feast it would be! Although for some unexplained reason the old farmer Kurr would not be providing the mutton this year, meat from various farms had been promised. Hogget from the downs, hare from the coastal clifflands, and tasty venison from the borders of the deep woods miles to the north. Sweets came from the cupboards and pans of the women of the village: light scones, crunchy biscuits sparingly seasoned with precious spices bought from the Vapnatak market, honey cakes, sticky sweetmeats, toffee and dried fruit.

The drink, supplied ostensibly to aid in digestion of the food, was traditionally laid down in the autumn of the previous year. It was considered bad luck if one lapsed into unconsciousness during the celebrations, so few people became offensively drunk. On the other hand, wine and ale were not regular parts of the villagers' diets, so little would be left over at the end of the night.

Music was an important part of the festival. This year, as well as the regular musicians from the Vale, a well-known family of singers from Oln in the faraway south were wintering over with Prester up at Longacre, and had promised to put in an appearance if the weather permitted. As the evening progressed, people would join the musicians in song and dance.

The stately dances of the North March allowed even those who had overindulged to partici¬pate, and eventually all present would be coaxed or cajoled into singing and dancing right up to the time of the Play and the Speech.

Midwinter had been celebrated from time immemorial. The custom probably had its origins as some simple, spontaneous cele¬bration of the turning of the tide, an acknowledgement that from here on the days would get longer, even though the worst of the winter was yet to come; an expression of faith in summer in spite of the evidence all around. Like all such things it had become a tradition, unquestioned by those who took part in it. All over the northlands of Firanes, and in cold, dark places throughout northern Faltha, the custom was played out on the shortest day of the year. In ways such as these winter was made bearable.

The observances at Midwinter and Midsummer were the nearest the northerners of Firanes came to participating in organised reli¬gion. They all knew that the Most High had chosen them from all the races of the world many thousands of years ago, and had given them Faltha as a mark of His favour. But it was said by those who thought deeply about these things that the Most High now had little to do with the world of men. Certainly, if He was inter¬ested in anyone, it would hardly be in a few northern farmers. And for that the farmers and their families were thankful: wrestling with nature was difficult enough without involving the Most High. Midsummer and Midwinter were really symbols of the victory of humanity over nature, a demonstration of how stubborn persist¬ence could blunt the sharp edge of the wilderness.

The Most High - if indeed He existed at all - had obviously left the people of the north to their own devices. And they had made a good fist of things without Him.

The morning before Midwinter found Leith up early. It was his turn to prepare breakfast, and he was busy frying bread dipped in eggs when he heard a knock on the door. Frowning, he took the pan off the heat and went to answer it.

Out in the moonlit yard waited the lightly clad figure of Kurr. When the door opened, he stepped boldly inside and stamped up and down to rid his legs of their numbness.

'Where's your mother, boy?' he asked harshly. 'Get her up, lad; I've got a favour to ask her.'

The farmer moved stiffly over to the fire, not even looking to see whether Leith carried out his instruc-tions.

Indrett dressed and followed her younger son out to where the old farmer stood rubbing some feeling back into his hands. 'Isn't it a little early to be making social calls?' she said shortly.

Kurr grunted an acknowledgement. 'I need your boy for the day,' he grated. 'Got some sheep to shift. I'll put in a day around the house after Midwinter. Most High knows you need it,' he said, gesturing towards the corner-post. 'That'll never stand up to another strong wind. I can replace it. Do we have an agreement?'

The woman put her hands on her hips. What sort of a man would refuse to help with Midwinter and then seek assistance moving a few sheep about? Maybe Herza was right. 'It's up to the boy.'

The farmer narrowed his eyes. 'You know where I live,' he said to Leith. 'Be there soon, boy.

There's a lot of work to do.' He nodded again, but as he turned away Leith thought he saw a troubled look in the proud man's eye. Indrett gently closed the door behind the departing farmer.

She looked at her son, who sat in a chair and stared into the fire. Eventually he sighed and turned to his mother. 'Will you take care of the breakfast? I think I'll go and help Kurr.'

'You haven't forgotten about the Play?' It was an unnecessary question. She could tell he had not forgotten.

The day before Midwinter was the day when the Haufuth selected the Players for the Midwinter Play. Indrett knew that all of the young people of the village would stay home today, waiting for that knock at the door which heralded the Haufuth's invita¬tion to play Snaer, Sumar or Falla. Her thoughts drifted as she remembered that special Midwinter in Rammr when she had been chosen to play the Falla, the harbinger of spring, the part trad¬itionally played by a young woman. Rammr, the capital city of Firanes, the seat of the King's Court, celebrated Midwinter just like anywhere else in Firanes. It had been Ansula, the most senior of the King's officials, who had knocked on the door of her father's house and who had placed the delicate Flowermask in her trem¬bling young hands. An honour for any young woman, an especial honour for one not born to the noble houses, but that year Indrett had been the flower of the Firanes Court. An honour for the most presentable young virgin of the land, as the tradition said. An invocation of fertility. So Ansula had chosen her.

Ansula had not known about her father.

That Midwinter's night had been special; she had indeed been the centre of the huge celebration, beside which Midwinter in Loulea seemed pale and mundane. Dancing on the marble floor of the Great Hall, heady wine, the murmured compliments of many a lord, a smile from the King himself, gossip and laughter, the handsome, stone-chiselled face of a softly spoken Trader from the north ... and the unbelievable, never-to-be-expected sensation of falling in love. Her breath still caught in her throat whenever she thought of that night.

Leith shook his head. 'I haven't forgotten,' he said wryly. 'But what can I do? Not much chance I'll be chosen, anyway.'

As he went to get his boots and overcoat, he asked himself what he was doing. Of all the days of the year, why today? Of all the people of the Vale, why him? He peered through the shutters. The weather was cold but clear, and Leith could clearly see the treacherous layer of ice that had formed overnight. A dangerous day to be outside.

Leith hurried through the dark village and on to the Westway, being careful to run on the crackling grass rather than on the icy, rutted road. The youth could feel the cold rising from the ground, biting through his furs, his woollen hat and mittens, and his snug straw-filled felt boots. He shuddered and pressed on. A pale light spread slowly from the mountains behind him, lending a faint glow to the downs before him.

The road to Stibbourne Farm crested over Swill Down, a few hundred feet above the Vale of Loulea. At times like these, when he found himself all alone in the quiet beauty of the Vale, Leith liked to swagger down the road as the owner of the world. But today, as he hurried past darkened hedgerows and snow-laden groves of trees, he felt uneasy. He saw the snow and ice around him take on a rosy glow, noticed the occasional load of snow sigh and slough off a pine branch, listened to the faint hum of a myriad of faraway sounds brought to him on the crisp morning air. But this morning it failed to move him.

At the top of the first ridge he turned and looked to the east, back over the Vale and the flickering points of light that made up his village, towards the seat of the dawn. Though the sun was still shy of the horizon, the reddish glow in the eastern sky threw the outline of the distant Fells into sharp relief. But to Leith the morning just didn't feel right. He deliberately turned his back on the unfolding scene and made his way towards Kurr's farm.

Leith caught up with the farmer on the last slope down to the farmhouse. At the sound of panting breath and crunching gravel the farmer waited, and grunted an indecipherable greeting to the youth when he finally arrived at his side. Without another word, the old man and the youth made their way past the outbuildings to the place where twenty or so long-haired sheep were penned.

To the relief of the embarrassed youth none of his friends witnessed the strange sight of Leith and Kurr driving a flock of cantankerous sheep through the middle of the village. Probably all still in bed, Leith thought ruefully. The hard winter had its benefits; it was too harsh to do much outdoors work, the bulk of which was done in the short summer. This meant that, for the youngsters at least, winter was a time of leisure, apart from two afternoons a week learning from the Haufuth. But Leith was finding that as he grew older there were more demands made on him, like working for this cranky old farmer, and less time remained to pursue his own interests. And he knew that if his father ever returned, the job of teaching him a skill would begin in earnest. Leith hadn't thought much about that. He didn't know much about being a Trader, and he didn't know if he wanted to find out.

A grunt of command snapped the youth out of his thoughts.

'Pardon?'

'I said turn them left here, boy.' The old man pointed with his stick down a rutted path towards a tree-crowned hillock.

'Here? I thought you weren't - I mean, aren't you—'

'Yes?' There was menace in the voice. Leith knew he was in trouble. He took a deep breath.

'Someone said that you weren't sending any sheep to Midwinter this year.'

'Oh? Where did you think we were going then, boy?'

Leith mumbled something in answer. He never should have asked the old man questions. He should have stayed in bed.

'Who said I wasn't bringing the sheep? Who said? I'll wager that it was useless old villagers with nothing better to do than flap their tongues like swallows flying south for winter!' The farmer stabbed his stick repeatedly into the ground to punctuate his words. 'None of 'em with the gumption to come and ask why, and just as well for them! And none of 'em with the decency to come and lend a hand! I'll tell you why I wasn't going to bring the sheep. No one offered to help round them up!' The old man swore, then struck the gate a fearsome blow with his closed fist. 'Tinei and me out in the snow! I never should have listened to her. Out in the snow rounding them up, and now she's in bed again, stretched out by the fever. And I've got Mahnum's boy helping bring the sheep to Midwinter. And no thanks will I receive - you'll see! A few polite words, or maybe not so polite, and then back to their work, glad to see the back of an irritable old farmer.' He lifted his face to Watch Hill, the highest land in the North March, a few miles to their right. 'They're not worth it, they're not worth it! No matter what you say!' He stared at the forested hill as though he expected it to answer.