Consorts of Heaven (10 page)

Finally the sun sank below the mountains and the cry to halt went up.

Once again, Damaru didn’t stop. Kerin ran after him. He ignored her calls and when she tried to touch him, he shook her off. She tripped and fell. Despite his exhaustion, Sais hurried over to help. Kerin was already on her feet by the time he reached her, and they set off after Damaru together. Sais hoped they wouldn’t have to physically carry the boy back to the camp - he’d never manage it.

‘Damaru!’ said Kerin, when they caught up with him. ‘Please, you have to stop and rest for the night. Time to sleep, Damaru.’

He shook his head fiercely. ‘No . . . wrong wrong
wrong
. This is not where I sleep.’

‘That is right. But you cannot just keep walking, Damaru. You must rest.’

He paused long enough to look at her, then shook his head. ‘Wrong,’ he said emphatically. ‘Your pattern is
home
. Not
here
. Here I am. Just me.’

‘Damaru, I know this is strange, but—’

‘Not strange.
Wrong
. You are wrong. Maman is hut is food is . . . not here.’

On impulse, Sais stepped forward. ‘How about me?’ he said. ‘What am I?’

Damaru stopped, looking confused. ‘Different pattern,’ he muttered.

‘That’s right!’ said Sais, hoping he’d understood - as far as anyone could - what was going on in the boy’s head. ‘I was outside the pattern, then I—I came in. And now - now your Maman, Kerin, has come out of the pattern she was in. Into your world. I’m here, she’s here, you’re here. Together, outside the hut and the village. And she’s still your Maman, Damaru. She still loves you, still wants to help you. Do you understand?’

Damaru turned to Kerin, looking uncertain. Then he said, ‘You are wearing Da’s clothes.’

‘Aye,’ said Kerin, ‘I am. Because that is what I need to do to be your Maman outside the hut. I know it is hard, and everything we have known is gone, but you are still my beautiful boy, and I am still your loving Maman.’

He thought for a moment, then said, ‘All right.’ When Kerin reached out to take his hand Damaru let her lead him back towards the drovers.

As they passed Fychan, he called out, ‘Kerin! Control your son!’

‘He is just tired,’ she replied.

The word ‘arsehole’ came unbidden into Sais’s mind - though perhaps the boy had a point. He asked Kerin if she thought Damaru would be this much trouble the whole way. She shook her head. ‘He just needs to adjust. Besides,’ she added, ‘I have a supply of powdered bogwood bark. It will relax him, make him more compliant. If I were not here they would probably be giving it to him with most meals. I would prefer to save it until we need it.’

They watched as the drovers pulled out the sled’s two carrying poles, each made of bundles of thinner poles lashed together, and untied the ropes securing the waxed fabric covering the sled. They extended the fabric out on either side, supporting it with the poles and ropes. The resulting pair of shelters were large enough for everyone to sleep with heads and chests under cover, though they’d have to rely on the greased leather of their bedrolls to keep their lower body and legs dry.

Sais had hoped for a fire, both for warmth and for comfort. The idea of sleeping outside made him feel exposed and vulnerable. He asked Kerin, ‘Are we safe out here at night?’

‘There might be wilder-dogs: someone will stay awake to watch for them,’ she said.

‘Wilder-dogs? I don’t know what those are.’

‘They are scavengers. They are too small to take a bullock, and rarely bother people. We should be fine.’

‘So the ditch around the village wasn’t to keep these dogs out?’ It hadn’t looked like much of a deterrent.

‘No, that is to defend against reivers.’

‘And they’re what? Outlaws?’

‘Aye. But they have not troubled us for many years.’ Kerin didn’t sound convinced, but before he could ask more, Huw called them over to eat - he appeared to have appointed himself their guide. Sais tried hard not to stare when Huw picked at the scabby rash on his neck and ear.

Bedrolls were unrolled and food was passed around. Without a fire to sit round, the men formed little groups. Sais nodded to the two men sitting with Huw when he took his place. He was careful to mutter under his breath and make the ‘circle of the world’ gesture over his food before he ate.

After the food was finished, a water-skin went around. Sais took a gulp and spluttered: it wasn’t water but a sour yeasty drink that foamed up his nose.

Huw and his companions laughed. ‘Ha,’ said one, ‘looks like our upland ale is too strong for delicate lowland tastes.’ Sais toasted him with the skin and took another, more careful swig.

Sais had hoped to see the night sky, but as darkness fell, clouds crowded in. He steeled himself to pull his boots off. By the end of the day’s walking his feet had become mercifully numb, but when he’d taken the weight off them they had started to throb and now he could feel the blisters as well. He kept the socks on, despite the smell.

His sleep was fitful. He found himself waking up every few minutes, because he was cold or stiff or damp, or all three. At least there were no nightmares.

The next morning his feet felt like they’d been boiled. He forced them into his boots, biting his lip. Every step hurt. He tried walking in slightly different ways, putting his foot down at an angle, taking longer strides, walking on the sides of his feet. Some ploys worked for a while, until something else hurt - a calf muscle, his knees, his toes. When Kerin asked if he was all right, he snapped at her. He didn’t apologise, because that would have meant opening his mouth, and if he did that he might just start crying from the pain.

The valley opened out onto a plain of tawny grass. Distant mountains lurked like earthbound clouds under the overcast sky. They ate their lunch beside the stream they’d been following, then filled their water-skins before striking out across the plain. Damaru stuck close, apparently disconcerted by the open terrain. From the pointing fingers at the front of the party, Sais guessed they were aiming for a particular feature in the far mountains. During the afternoon they also passed several waymarkers, chest-high posts painted white, with a deep groove cut in the top. The ground was relatively even, allowing the sled to be towed rather than carried.

Huw spent most of the day walking with them, chatting with Kerin. At one point he darted away and returned with a handful of pale green leaves, which he waved under Sais’s nose. Sais, sunk in misery, was tempted to tell him where he could shove his leaves, but Huw said, ‘Put these on the blisters tonight. T’will sting like a scold’s tongue, then the blisters will go numb. The next day you will feel as though you have grown a second skin just for walking on.’

Sais made himself grunt a thank you.

That evening, Damaru again refused to stop. Sais was in no state to help, but he watched, concerned, as Kerin physically wrangled her son back to the drove. Fychan stared belligerently at them, but said nothing this time.

While the drovers made camp Sais addressed himself to his feet. He took a deep breath and pulled one sock off, wincing as the skin tore. He felt compelled to count the blisters - just
six
, so why did his whole foot hurt? He applied one of Huw’s leaves to the largest blister on his heel and gasped in shock - even though he’d been expecting pain, this felt like acid being dropped onto raw skin. He fought the urge to rip the leaf off, and after a few moments, glorious numbness spread. He gritted his teeth and applied the rest, then eased the sock back on to keep the leaves in place. The other foot hurt just as much.

He was colder than ever that night, and more than once he awakened thinking he could hear howls in the darkness.

 

Once they got going the next morning he felt better. Huw’s herb had reduced his blisters from agonising to merely sore, and his body had started to get used to walking. The journey was giving him a chance to think, though the conclusions he was reaching weren’t comforting: his memory wasn’t returning by itself, and though he was getting by, some things, like the Skymothers, or his own past, remained complete blanks. When Huw went off to take a turn on the sleds he mentioned his concerns to Kerin. ‘It is possible you have a malady of the spirit,’ she said.

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘I am not sure myself. Perhaps you need a priest.’ Kerin didn’t sound enthusiastic.

‘Are we likely to meet one out here?’

‘There will be one waiting for us at Piper’s Steps, to accompany the drove to Plas Aethnen. And we can ask the men from the other villages who will meet us at the Steps if they know anything about you.’

In the afternoon sleet like chunks of freezing cloud began to fall. Though Sais’s rain gear was well-greased, the wind drove the sleet inside the stiff woven cloak and the damp seeped through the hat to chill his head.

When he saw an orange glow ahead he wondered if the bone-biting cold and constant discomfort was making him hallucinate.

Around him, the drovers sped up: they must have seen it too.

Huw, walking with them again, said, ‘Ah, we have not made such bad time; we should be there long before nightfall.’

‘Is that the meeting point?’ asked Kerin. When Huw nodded, she explained to Sais, ‘This is where we meet the drovers from Penfrid and Carregogh. The fire is lit by the first of the three villages to arrive.’

A fire sounded like a great idea, though Sais hadn’t seen any trees since they left the village. ‘What do they burn?’ he asked.

Kerin replied, ‘When a boy becomes a man, he walks out here with a pack full of supplies - much more than he needs for his journey. He spends the night out here, making any repairs that are needed to the storage hut. Older men do it too, as a way of being alone with their thoughts and the grace of the Mothers. They leave most of what they bring for the drove. I expect you have similar customs in the lowlands.’

‘I’m sure we do,’ he said. Everyone assumed he was a lowlander, but he had his doubts, though he said nothing.

Just by dint of travelling with the drove without complaint or fuss, Kerin found she and Sais were becoming accepted. When they met up with the drovers from Penfrid and Carregogh, most of the Dangwern men were happy to explain the presence of a stranger and a woman; only Fychan and Howen scowled and changed the subject when asked.

They made merry that evening, passing around a skin of heather ale, singing, and telling tales of old droves. Kerin enjoyed being included in the fireside circle, and even Damaru came into the light for a while, leaning up against Kerin as he watched the flames. Sais, sitting on her other side, politely declined requests for a song or story.

The next morning, there was dissent. By tradition, the drove leader from Dangwern took charge, but the councillors from Penfrid and Carregogh would not accept the leadership of a boy on his first drove. In the end, Howen took over.

The argument was loud and public, and watching it Sais whispered, ‘Did Arthen really think the others would accept Fychan? He’s such - he’s so inexperienced.’

‘Arthen does not make his decisions lightly,’ Kerin replied. ‘He may have suspected Howen would take charge, but he must believe Fychan will make his peace with Damaru.’

‘I didn’t know Fychan had a problem with your boy - well, no more than he appears to have with anyone else.’

‘Back when people thought Damaru merely simple, some of the village lads used to tease him. One day he fought back, and moved the pattern so the leader’s stick went into his eye. That was the first time his true nature became apparent.’

‘Shit, Kerin! So the reason Fychan wears a scarf round his head is because Damaru
put his eye out
?’

‘It was not so bad at the time. I tried to help, but Gwellys would not let me. Then the cut went bad, and he lost his sight.’

‘We’d better hope he doesn’t bear a grudge, though I’d say he’s just the type.’

Once the new order of the drove was settled they set off: the councillors at the front, then the common men, then the three sleds, with the cattle bringing up the rear. Fychan walked a little apart from the other leaders, talking to Cadmael but ignoring everyone else.

The next day they woke to fog. They could see but a short distance and the plod and plash of the animals’ hooves on the damp ground was swallowed by the mist. Kerin found herself more alert then ever to Damaru’s position, concerned he would wander out of sight. Sais made little attempt at conversation.

That evening another row broke out amongst the leaders, conducted in harsh, angry whispers to avoid eavesdroppers. Fychan was not the focus this time; he stood off to one side and glared.

Despite their leaders’ attempts at secrecy, the rumour soon went round: they had missed a way-marker. They were lost.

‘Can’t we just wait until the fog lifts and retrace our steps?’ asked Sais.

‘Aye,’ said Huw, ‘we can. But if we do not reach Piper’s Steps in time to meet the ox-carts, we will have to carry the sleds the whole way. That will be hard work, especially in the drylands, and we will most likely not arrive in Plas Aethnen in time for the market.’

The fog persisted the next day. Kerin asked Damaru if he could find their path, but he just gave her a look she knew well, the one that said her question had no meaning for him.

In the evening Kerin heard howls in the darkness: the wilder-dogs shadowing the herd were awaiting their moment. Those on watch that night kept their weapons close to hand.

The fog lifted the following afternoon, and the sun set in a froth of red cloud. The next day broke clear, and the dawn was greeted with smiles and prayers of thanks. The joy was short-lived: those who knew the route took their bearings on the mountains at the edge of the plain and soon confirmed that they were a long way off-course.

The following day they set off before dawn and travelled until after dark. By the time they stopped Sais looked fit to drop, and even Damaru was flagging. The day after that they started out early again. Huw had overheard the leaders talking the night before when he went to relieve himself. ‘We will reach Maen Bulch today - they plan to carry on through, rather than risk stopping,’ he told Kerin and Sais.