Celtika (12 page)

Jason welcomed them, urged them to fatten up, to get some strength (even their beards were wispy!), and asked them why they had ventured this far north.

They hadn’t intended to, they explained. For pure devilry, set a challenge during a feast in their father’s hall, they had stolen Llew’s famous bronze and wicker chariot, pulled by its two fine black mares, and equipped with throwing spears that always returned to the hand that had thrown them. Having stolen the chariot from its garage, they whipped the horses into a gallop and rode by moonlight round Llew’s famous, high-walled
dun.

But the horses never tired. They galloped on and nothing the boys could do could stop the wild ride. Over hill, through forest, over misting sea and frozen river, the chariot had been drawn north, finally throwing the young thieves out and plunging through the ice and into the lake. For a long time they had been left to their own devices. That they had survived, and even stolen a skiff, suggested that they could make their devices work.

They had learned a lesson. Now they wanted to go south. And home. Jason accepted them willingly.

The Cymbrii had learned of Jason and his new Argo from their neighbours by the lake, Volkas, dark-haired warriors who wore thin plates of iron over their chests and thighs, and rattled bone knives against them to signal pleasure or irritation. The Volkas, too, had been intrigued by Jason’s quest. They were led by a man called Michovar. They came by foot, running, packs on backs, spears held in brawny hands, iron protection glinting. The Volkas agreed to row with us as far as their homeland, by whatever route we took. That was their reason for coming with us; they had been too long away from home, and those among them who knew about boats had died during the winter.

Our numbers, recruited, it seemed, from the lost and lonely, were increasing. With Cathabach and Manandoun from Urtha’s
uthiin
horsemen, and his neighbours Borovos and Cucallos, we now numbered at least twelve, and possibly thirteen, since Lemanku was keen to join us. His age worried Jason. I pointed out that Jason was older than the boat-builder. Jason suggested that some men aged better than others, and Lemanku’s taste for cloudberry wine had not helped him. But a boat-builder aboard a boat on a long and potentially shattering journey would be a useful addition.

Lemanku’s oar was almost certainly guaranteed.

Soon after this, the wailing and whining of three dying wildcats announced the arrival of Elkavar from Hibernia. He had come through the woods and stood silently as the droning from below his arms died away. Urtha was delighted to see him.

‘Music at last! You’ll be a guest at my table. Or at least, what passes for a table in this snowball on a cow’s backside of a country…’

Urtha had long since become impatient with the Pohjolan vocal wails and whines that constituted song. The young man’s leather air-pouch and three pipes, a musical instrument played by pumping his elbows, sounded much the same to me, but clearly not to Urtha and the other
keltoi.

‘I’m sorry to startle you,’ the new arrival said in a soft and awkward dialect of Urtha’s language, ‘but in the country where I come from you quickly learn to mind your Ps and Qs. When I see men from Ghostland, and remember my part in the raid at Dun Eimros not so long ago, where I won in combat against the champion of the king Keinodunos—a hard match that was, a hard head to steal—well, when I see such as yourselves, I can’t be sure of my welcome.’

Ghostland was close to Urtha’s territory, and to Hibernians such as Elkavar would have seemed to encompass the whole of the land, though in fact it was inaccessible except to the dead. Neither Urtha’s group, nor I, knew of the skirmish or the king referred to, but none of us were strangers to raiding and this man was clearly remembering a coastal attack, and its prompt and bloody settlement.

‘If that bag of pipes can raise our spirits when you play them,’ Jason said through Urtha, ‘then you’re more than welcome.’ I suppose he was thinking of Orpheus and his exquisite harpsong.

‘The way I play them will more likely raise the dead,’ the young man retorted with a grin. ‘But it looks as if you could use them anyway. The dead, I mean. That’s a big ship for so few pairs of hands.’

‘You’re welcome to add yours,’ Jason replied.

‘Then add them I shall. I’m Elkavar. I know how to use an oar and I can throw a spear from one hilltop to another using only my right foot. For some reason, we’re trained to do that sort of thing in my country, though I’m glad to say I’ve never had to resort to it.’

He was not tall and not heavy in build and he looked hungry, his face quite drawn. His russet hair was cut short. He had a ready smile, but a quick and careful look in his eyes, both hunted and curious.

When he had settled by the fire, and eaten a little meat, he asked a strange question. ‘Is there anybody here who can tell me where I am? I know that I’m north—I recognise the bright patterns of some stars—the Elk, there, and Deirdre’s breasts. But some have vanished. I’ve travelled further under the sky than I knew was possible. And besides, this cold land can only be north. When we raid to the north it’s always cold and wet. I don’t know why we bother, really. South is warm and misty, and there’s always good wine and good cheese. But this endless night!’ He looked at Jason. ‘So I’ll ask again. Where am I?’

Jason laughed, ‘I’m not the best qualified to answer that question. You’d better ask Merlin. He can work enchantment, but is too lazy to do so. As a matter of interest, though, how did you get here?’

‘Well, I’m not the best qualified to answer
that,
’ Elkavar replied with a weary laugh. But he gave us an account of what he knew.

He had been fleeing from a failed raid in his own land. Running south towards his own tribal territory, pursued by five fleet-footed men, he had managed to stay ahead of them, keeping to rough woodland and shallow rivers. Five days after the running had begun he had passed his clan-marked boundary and rested among the tree-covered hills of the dead, the mounds of earth that concealed the roads and tracks that led
under
the world.

Cheered by his escape he had indulged himself in a song.

‘Just the one, and not even a song of triumph! Just of joy to be home. Sometimes I wonder if I have the sense in my head of a goose at winter’s start, still honking as the knives are sharpened.’

The wailing and whining of dying wildcats had given away his place of hiding.

‘All the silent hills have small entrances to the hidden roads,’ he went on. ‘When the bastards came out of the night at me, I had little choice but to dive in and crawl for my life. I crawled for ages before I was able to stand. Then I stood and walked, and kept on walking, and I was thinking: this has to come out
somewhere
in the country! But I kept walking, always in twilight, no stars, no sign of life, nothing but the tunnel and the dangling roots of the forest above—and then I came out by this freezing lake. When I tried to go back into the cave—somewhere over there—it was just a cave. And I recognise some of the stars, but I’m north! Some of my stars are missing.’

‘We’re sailing south,’ Jason said. ‘We’ll get your stars back for you.’

‘Well, I thank you for that. And I’ve heard you’re sailing in search of your son. I’ll stay with you until you do. Anything, just so long as I’m south again.’

Jason took me aside.

‘Could this cave of his be useful? Should we explore it?’

‘We can’t take the ship through. And if Elkavar himself couldn’t return, then I doubt any of the rest of us could.’

‘You, perhaps.’

I told him that I knew of several such underways along the path I walked, dark roads that connected lands that were far apart. But like so much else in my world and his, those silent roads frightened me and I avoided them deliberately.

Our pairs of hands increased as the finishing flourishes of paint and shield were put on Argo.

By foot came Tairon of Crete, frozen and miserable, his travelling companions long since in their icy graves. He shared Elkavar’s enthusiasm for returning to the warm south. He could offer weak rowing but strong bowing; his bow was small and shaped from horn, but when he demonstrated its use I was reminded of Odysseus, who had shot an arrow through a line of axe-rings before slaying his wife’s oppressors.

Tairon was the eldest son of one of his island’s oldest families. He had come north in search of the clay tablets carved by Daedalus, which showed the true pattern and keys to the labyrinth built to imprison the Minotaur. The world to which Tairon belonged was older, even, than Jason’s.

If Tairon was immortal, however, he gave no sign of it, and when I used a little of my charm to see into his heart there was only youthfulness and that clumsy curiosity that condemns all men to quest beyond their abilities.

Tairon would be a man to watch; confusing and intriguing in equal measure, but for the moment simply eager to sail south.

The last to arrive at this time was a youthful Scythian, by all the signs younger than he was pretending, from his soft voice to his small hands. His name was Ullan. I couldn’t remember Ullan from our recruiting circuit of the lake, and something was defying my wits at that moment. His face was painted black because of the loss of his companion, he advised us, during the foul, freezing winter, and he was robed and cowled in a heavy cape, also black. He declined, for the moment, to say why he had come to the Screaming Lake.

Jason was unsure about him.

‘An ancestor of mine sailed with you to Colchis in search of the fleece, many hundreds of years ago,’ the youth said.

‘Which one?’

‘You knew her as Atalanta. She hid her true nature from you, at the time, her true homeland. It would have been dangerous for her, otherwise. You were at war with her country.’

‘I remember her,’ Jason said. ‘She went ashore with Hylas at the mouth of the Acheron, soon after Heracles deserted us, looking for the boy. She didn’t return. She didn’t see the fleece. She didn’t take part in the fight at the end.’

‘She was going home. She was hitching a ride. As many of your new argonauts will do, she simply stepped into your life, then out of it. But she never stopped talking about the time she’d spent aboard this Argo. I would like to step aboard for a while.’

‘And your family has remembered this for more generations than I can imagine?’ Jason was sceptical.

‘Where I come from,’ Ullan said pointedly, ‘there’s not a great deal to talk about. A good story lasts. Am I to sail with you?’

‘You look skinny.’

‘We can’t all be as strong as Heracles, and slim Hylas helped pull his weight, didn’t he? And Tisaminas wasn’t exactly the best at getting the blade
into
the water, rather than just slapping its surface. So the story goes.’

‘Yes,’ Jason said, clearly impressed at the remembered detail. ‘Yes, it’s true. He was a good friend but a hopeless oarsman. Do you have any specialities?’

Ullan smiled. ‘I can move unseen and unheard through the wildest wood: and bring you supper.’

‘A hunter.’

‘Am I to come aboard?’

‘You are.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Then it’s “huntress”. My name’s Ullanna.’ She pulled back her hood and blew Jason a cheeky kiss. ‘Just get me south.’

Jason laughed. ‘With pleasure. There’s nowhere else to go!’

The only arrival by horse was a Dacian of great stature, a man as old as Jason, his beard a nest of grey, edged with black. He dismounted, leading his horse to where Argo was propped, torchlit and half built. He slapped the unfinished hull.

‘Is there room on this ship for a horse?’ he demanded in Jason’s language.

‘What can the horse do?’ Jason asked.

The Dacian laughed dismissively. ‘What can he do? He can gallop, turn on the spot, show fearlessness in battle. He’s faithful to his master, can carry a great weight … without complaint. He eats from the land, minds his own business, makes dung, makes a
lot
of dung … which is useful. Isn’t it? Some think so, at least. In short, I love this horse.’ He slapped the animal’s broad flank. ‘I certainly won’t go without him.’

‘What else can he do?’

The Dacian glanced at Jason, then looked at his steed again, stroking the dark mane. ‘What else can he do? That’s not enough? Well, he’s warm at night. I can vouch for that. Yes. Very warm. Even in the worst snow, lost on a mountainside, you won’t be cold curled up against his back. And there’s room for a lot of men against my proud horse. A very warm beast!’

More affectionate stroking.

‘What else can he do?’ Jason persisted.

The Dacian looked irritated. After a long pause he asked quietly, ‘What else did you have in mind?’

‘Can he cook? Can he row? Can he sing to keep up our spirits as he gallops? Can he perform magic?’

The horseman stared impassively at Jason for a moment, then said dryly, ‘I have no idea. It never occurred to me to ask him. I’d hoped strength, warmth and copious dung-making would be enough.’

‘Can he placate Poseidon?’

‘Poseidon? What’s Poseidon?’

‘Sea-god. Bad news when he’s in a temper. Big waves. Broken ships.’

‘Now that you mention it,’ the tall man said thoughtfully, ‘he’s a strong swimmer.’

‘We don’t need swimmers, we need oarsmen.’

The Dacian’s stare was withering. ‘He’s a horse. He has no fingers. But is that a coil of rope I see? May I use it?’

Without waiting for an answer he went to where bales of rope were stacked, ready for lashing the new Argo’s timbers. He tied two lengths around a thick-trunked and deep-rooted tree at the edgewood, then ran it back to his horse, twining the cord crudely around the beast’s shoulders. Turning the horse to face the lake he slapped its haunches.

‘Go for a swim.’

The animal cantered to the lake’s edge, then stepped carefully through the icy shallows, soon reaching its depth and beginning to strike at the water. It took the full tension of the rope and at that moment I expected to see the animal stop and struggle back to the bank, but it kept on swimming, and behind us the tall tree creaked, bent, complained, groaned, then uprooted, crashed down, was dragged over the ground, its branches scattering us and whipping the side of Argo as it went.