Fire Bringer (7 page)

Bhreac cast a terrified glance at Blindweed.

‘What do you want with a fawn, Sgorr?’ said Eloin. The three deer were trying to move together to shield the fawn behind them.

‘Can’t a stag show an innocent interest in a new life?’

‘No doubt Drail also has an interest in Brechin’s buck.’

‘So, Eloin, it’s a buck. How gratifying. Ah, my dear, but you’re wrong. Drail has no interest whatsoever in Brechin’s fawn. Now stand aside.’

Sgorr bared his teeth and the Draila around him advanced.

‘Very well,’ said Eloin coldly, ‘you shall meet Brechin’s fawn. There. . .’

As Eloin stepped aside Sgorr stopped in his tracks. He was bitterly disappointed.

‘Stillborn,’ snorted Sgorr with disgust. On the grass by Eloin’s feet was a dead calf, lying limp on the ground. ’A great pity. But we must not let it spoil Drail’s triumph. He is waiting for you.’

‘I’ve told you, Sgorr,’ whispered Eloin between her teeth,

‘I would rather die than run with Drail.’

‘Come now. There’s no need for histrionics. The Draila will escort you in honour to the Home Oak.’

Sgorr cast a glance at the Draila who immediately moved closer. Bhreac suddenly stepped between them.

‘Don’t you lay an antler on her,’ cried the old hind.’What do you want with her anyway? It’s not the season.’

‘Much has changed in the herd,’ said Sgorr, smiling. ‘But as for hurting her, they wouldn’t dream of it. Shall we go?’

‘Never,’ cried Eloin. ’And if you refuse to fight me, Sgorr, remember, there are plenty of poisonous plants in the forest. But before I die, Sgorr, I will tell Drail that I have done it because of you. That you wanted me and I couldn’t bear to live.’

Sgorr hesitated. Then he smiled cruelly.

‘Very well, Eloin. We may not be able to force you. But perhaps there are others who you care about.’

‘What are you doing? Get off, you brutes,’ shouted Bhreac, as two Draila started prodding the old deer with their antlers. Blindweed tried to come to her aid but two others were on him, forcing him back.

‘So you see, Eloin,’ continued Sgorr coldly, ‘you have a choice.’

‘Don’t listen, Eloin,’ cried Bhreac, bucking at one of the Draila. ’I’m old. I don’t care what they do to me.’ Eloin still hesitated and Sgorr spoke again.

‘Most touching. But there are others still who can suffer if you refuse. You there,’ said Sgorr turning to the Draila, ‘fetch me that hind over there, and her calf.’

Sgorr had spotted the hind called Bracken and the new-born fawn with the snowy back, standing silently at the edge of the forest.

‘All right, Sgorr,’ said Eloin. ’All right. Leave them alone. They’ve done you no harm.’

Sgorr looked closely at the beautiful hind.

‘And no poison?’

‘And no poison.’

‘Very well, then.’

‘But, Sgorr,’ said Eloin, ‘you must promise me not to harm Bhreac or Blindweed. They’re old. They can do nothing to you.’

Sgorr peered back into Eloin’s huge, proud eyes. Again he felt that strange confusion.

‘Such tenderness,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day I too may hope to receive a little of it myself?’

Eloin’s eyes flickered.

‘Perhaps,’ she nodded bitterly.

‘Very well, then. Release them. It is time we were at the Home Oak’.

With that the Draila surrounded Eloin and, with Sgorr at her side, they led her away. As Eloin ran she felt as though her heart was being torn out. To leave little Rannoch with another doe was almost more than she could bear. But then she thought of Brechin and the sadness overwhelmed her.

‘There’s one thing I swear,’ she whispered between her teeth, ‘by Herne and by the ancient Lore. I shall never have a calf again.’

As the group were crossing the valley they passed Bandach’s body lying still on the bloodied ground. Bandach, who had won them time to take Rannoch over to Bracken. Time to explain a little of what was happening. Time for Blindweed to drag Bracken’s dead fawn to Eloin’s side.

‘Thank you,’ whispered Eloin.

On the meadow two old deer were standing stock-still and a new-born fawn was nuzzling up to a bewildered hind. Bracken shook her head sadly as she watched Eloin being taken away. She had only just learnt the terrible pain of loss that a hind can feel for her young. She looked down at her own dead calf in the grass and quickly looked away.

‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said softly, but with that she felt a strong, new life tugging at her belly and, though she knew that this little fawn at her milk wasn’t her own, she felt the powerful forces of maternal love rising inside her.

‘Eloin will be all right, Bracken,’ whispered Bhreac. The old deer turned to Blindweed.

‘Come, you old fool,’ she said. ‘Let’s get Bracken and Rannoch away from here. Blindweed. Blindweed?’ But Blindweed wasn’t listening.

He was looking at Bracken and the tiny fawn with a smear of mud across his forehead.

‘What? What’s that you say?’ said Bhreac.

‘Changeling child shall be his fate,’ muttered Blindweed.

‘It’s the Prophecy. The Prophecy.’

3 The Edge of the Trees

Give it an understanding, but no tongue. William Shakespeare, ‘Hamlet’

So autumn came. The bees broke their honeycombs with sweetness and the apple began to drip on the stem, fattening with burrowing grubs that bruised its skin to ochre. Petals fell and, on the stirring earth, turned sickly with their scent, until every Lera that understood the seasons caught a warning breath on the breeze.

In a meadow on the edge of the home valley two fawns, little more than four months old, were running through the grass. They had both lost their white spots and their coats were no longer woolly. They tossed their heads gleefully as they ran, full of excitement at being allowed to wander so far from their mothers’ sides. But as they came to the bottom of the meadow a third fawn called to them. He too had lost the snow leaves on his back.

‘Hey. Wait for me,’ he shouted and was preparing to launch himself after them when a grown-up voice called him back.

‘Rannoch. Rannoch. Where are you going?’ called the hind sternly. It was Bracken.

The calf’s ears dropped and he hesitated. Then, dejectedly, he turned and walked slowly back to his mother who was grazing by some ferns.

‘Tain and Thistle are going to the tree stump, Mamma,’ said Rannoch, wagging his tail enthusiastically, ‘and I want to show them. . .’

The little deer raised his head expectantly.

‘Not today, Rannoch,’ said Bracken. The hind looked about her nervously.

‘The tree stump’s a long way off for such little legs and evening isn’t so far away. You know I don’t like you wandering off.’

‘But, Mamma, the other fawns are allowed to play on their own. Why must I always stay so close? It’s not fair. Besides, I can look after myself better than most.’

‘I’m sure you can, Rannoch. But not today. Do as I ask, my little one, and if you are good I will come down to the tree stump with you tomorrow. Now, why don’t you come and suckle?’

‘But, Mamma,’ protested Rannoch.

But the young deer could see that his mother had made up her mind. He sat down sulkily by her side, thinking all the time of Tain and Thistle playing in the meadow.

A calf will stop suckling between four and nine months old and Rannoch still drank from his mother’s milk. He looked at her side now and suddenly felt hungry. But Rannoch was cross and instead of nuzzling in to feed, he laid his head on the ground. After a while Rannoch looked so miserable that Bracken licked his nose.

‘Rannoch,’ said Bracken, ‘you know it’s only because I love you.’

‘I know, Mother,’ answered Rannoch, ‘but it’s not fair. All the fawns laugh at me because I have to stay at home when they go out to play.’

Bracken gazed down lovingly into Rannoch’s eyes and her heart melted.

‘Laugh at you, do they? We can’t have that, can we? Go on then, but be back before Larn.’

‘Oh yes, yes. Thank you. I promise I will,’ cried Rannoch and he was about to race away when his mother stopped him again.

‘What, Mamma?’

‘Before you go, let me look at you.’

Rannoch knew what was coming. He raised his head obediently.

‘I thought so,’ said Bracken. ‘Come over here.’

‘Oh, Mother, do I have to?’ grumbled Rannoch as he followed her to the trees.

He watched Bracken warily as she plucked some blackberries from a branch in her lips and dropped them onto a small pile of leaves on the ground. Then she squashed them in the cleft of her foot until the berries and the moist leaves had turned to a ruddy brown dye.

‘Come here, Rannoch,’ said Bracken, scooping some of the mixture onto her tongue.

‘But why do you always do this?’ said Rannoch as Bracken rubbed the mixture on his forehead, making the fur darker again.

‘It’s good for you, my little one. It will make you all the more handsome.’

Rannoch shook himself.

‘I don’t care. I don’t like it.’

‘You will learn in life, my little one,’ said Bracken, ‘that grown-ups do things you sometimes may not like. But more often than not it’s for your own good. Now run along. Be back before Larn, mind,’ she cried as Rannoch tossed his head and raced away.

Rannoch was delighted that his mother had let him go. But he was still furious that he among all the fawns had to put up with the ritual of the berries and so much trouble when he wanted to play. By the time he got halfway down the meadow, though, he had forgotten all his resentment and was so excited he felt his heart would burst. The sun was glittering in the field and in the distance Tain and Thistle were playing by the old tree stump, taking turns to run at it and throw themselves into the air.

‘Look out there,’ shouted Rannoch as he launched himself across the log and landed right next to the two young friends.

‘Rannoch!’ cried Tain delightedly. ‘We thought you weren’t coming.’

‘Your mother let you go then,’ said Thistle a little unkindly. Thistle was jealous of Rannoch’s friendship with Tain. But before long the three fawns were running and skipping across the log and playing happily in the meadow as they felt the wind on their faces and the strength growing in their young legs. It was a good while before Rannoch began to tire of the game and wandered away from the log in the direction of the trees. He stood there gazing into the distance and was soon lost in thought.

‘Rannoch,’ called Tain, who had just executed what seemed to him a particularly spectacular leap, ‘aren’t you playing any more? What’s wrong?’

‘Oh, leave him. He’s always dreaming,’ said Thistle as he too launched himself over the stump. But Tain was already padding off towards his friend.

‘I’m tired of that game,’ said Rannoch as the fawns reached him. ‘I want to do something else.’

‘What?’ said Thistle, aimlessly nosing a beetle that he had just seen lumbering through the grass. He turned it over with his muzzle and watched it kick its legs helplessly in the air.

‘Don’t really know.’ Rannoch shrugged. ‘Something more adventurous.’

‘We could go down to the stream,’ suggested Tain.

‘And tease the fishes,’ added Thistle more enthusiastically. He had just upended the beetle again.

‘Boring,’ said Rannoch.

‘I could make up a story,’ suggested Tain.

‘No,’ said Rannoch. ‘I want to do something really fun, like. . . like. . .’ Rannoch lowered his voice and looked hard at his two friends. ‘Like going into the forest.’

‘Rannoch!’ said Thistle disapprovingly, losing interest in the beetle which, much relieved, scuttled away under a branch. ‘You know we’re not allowed into the forest alone. We’re still too young.’

‘I know, I know. But just think what an adventure it would be.’

Thistle looked nervously at Tain.

‘What do you say, Tain?’ asked Rannoch, his bright eyes twinkling. The thought of the forest and all its dark places made Tain shudder.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Rannoch,’ he said quietly. ‘We really shouldn’t. My mother told be never to. . .’

‘And mine,’ agreed Thistle.

‘Yes. Yes. But we could just go into the edge of the trees. Down at the stream by that big oak. I was listening to some bucks the other day and one said he had seen an owl’s nest.’

Tain’s eyes opened wide.

‘Well,’ said Rannoch, who had already made up his mind, ‘are you coming?’

‘But we’ll get into trouble,’ said Thistle.

But Rannoch was already gone, running back up the hill. Tain and Thistle looked at each other doubtfully.

‘Come on then.’ Tain shrugged. ‘Just to the edge of the trees.’

The three fawns ran as fast as their legs could carry them with Rannoch leading the way, skirting the home valley and the grazing herd. When they came to the edge of the western hill they paused and looked down. Below them was the stream and beyond it the big oak that marked the edge of the forest. They stopped and then raced down towards it. But before they had even reached the stream Rannoch pulled up suddenly and looked around him, startled, his ears standing up and his tail twitching.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tain, coming up to his side.

‘I don’t know,’ said Rannoch. ‘I feel funny.’

‘What you mean,’ said Thistle, ‘is you’ve changed your mind.’

‘No. I just . . . I don’t know what it is. I’ve never felt like this before.’

‘Felt like what?’ said Thistle irritably.

‘It’s a sort of tingling feeling. I can’t describe it. It’s as though it’s inside me and yet it isn’t. But I feel, I feel. . .’

‘What?’ asked Tain, more kindly.

‘I feel as if something bad is happening. Something wrong.’

‘You’re just frightened.’ Thistle’s thin face looked rather unkind.

With that they heard a sound from beyond the trees to the right, where the stream curled round out of sight. The three fawns walked slowly forward until they caught sight of three more deer by the edge of the water. One of them had his back to the stream. It was a fat little fawn named Bankfoot, who everyone laughed at in the herd because he was so slow and had a stutter. The other two were prickets, young deer with their first heads; single spiked antlers that rose straight above them.