Pattern (43 page)

‘What was it you came here to tell me?' Poldarn asked.

‘Look.' There was a suggestion of panic in Leith's voice. ‘If it's stuff only you and me would know about, and you've forgotten it anyway, who the hell cares any more? Besides, we're different people now. Married, with responsibilities, we can't go dwelling on the past. Take me, for instance, I'm nothing like I used to be. If I caught my eldest boy doing some of the stuff I used to get up to at his age, I'd skin him alive. People change, it's part of life; but if you're going to change, you've got to get rid of some bits of the past, break the old habits, get out of the patterns, that kind of thing. Like, if you and I were meeting now for the first time ever – well, I guess that's what we
are
doing, far as you're concerned – I mean to say, would we be best friends now? 'Course not, we've grown apart, nothing in common except the obvious stuff – the farm and the weather and running a house. Do you really want to hear a lot of things about someone who's nothing but a stranger to you now? That's me – and you, of course, you as well.' Leith shook his head. ‘I'll bet you anything you like, if it was the old you, like you were when we were kids, the old you stood here instead of me – do you think you'd recognise him, or have anything in common with him? I don't think so. You probably wouldn't like him, even. So why burden yourself with stuff that a perfect stranger did, twenty years ago? Makes no sense. I'm the only one who remembers now, and I won't tell anybody, for sure. So; it never happened. It's like a log of wood you put on the fire, it burns up and it's gone for ever.'

Or a book, Poldarn thought, the last copy of a book in a big old library; and I can remember burning the library down, but God only knows what was in the books. ‘Looks like you've had a pretty pointless journey, then,' he said.

‘Oh, that's all right,' Leith replied. ‘Doesn't bother me. And it's done me a favour, when you think about it. Like, there's only so much room in a man's head for memories. Means I can clear out a lot of old stuff I won't ever need again. So that's that, then. And remember, if ever you're out our way, make sure to drop by. Always glad to see you, any time.'

‘Thank you,' Poldarn said. ‘And if ever you get one of those sudden urges to dash off somewhere a long way away for a bowl of porridge and a quick chat about the weather . . . you know where we are.'

‘That's right,' Leith said. ‘Though I don't get out much as a rule these days, I don't go raiding or stuff like that. I'm very quiet these days. It's better that way.'

‘I think so too,' Poldarn said. ‘There's always so much work that needs doing, for one thing. Some days, I hardly know what to do with myself.'

‘Oh, same here,' Leith said emphatically. ‘If it's not one thing it's another. Anyhow, take care, and my regards to your wife. I'd have brought her some flowers or a bottle of wine, only I left in such a hurry.'

‘Of course. And besides, I only just told you I'm married.'

‘Yes.' Leith took a step backwards. ‘I really had better be going,' he said, ‘it's a long way. We'll see each other again, I'm sure of it.'

‘It's a small world,' Poldarn replied.

When Leith had gone, chivvying his horse into a canter as soon as he was out of the yard, Poldarn went and found Raffen, who was splitting kindling.

‘Who was that?' he asked.

Raffen put down the hatchet and looked up. ‘How do you mean?' he asked.

‘That man who was here just now. You told me you knew him.'

‘Of course I know him. Him and his brother, they lived here for years, when you and he were kids. You two went everywhere together.'

‘So you said. But I don't remember, and he wouldn't tell me anything. In fact, he was acting like he was crazy or something. What else do you know about him?'

Raffen shrugged. ‘Not a great deal,' he said. ‘Really, you want to ask Colsceg, not me.'

‘Colsceg.'

‘That's right. They're related.'

‘Oh.' Poldarn frowned. ‘He didn't say anything about that.'

‘Probably thought you already knew.' Raffen put a piece of wood on the chopping block and tapped it smartly with the hatchet, dividing it neatly into two. ‘His uncle married Colsceg's sister, but she died young. And Colsceg married his other uncle's sister, that's his uncle on his father's side, of course. That was his first wife, Barn's mother. She died young, too, when she had Egil. Then Colsceg married Sterley's eldest daughter – Sterley was Leith's mother's brother, or at least properly speaking he was her half-brother, because their mother was married twice, once up north, which is where Sterley came from, and then again when she moved back here. There was some sort of trouble with a stranger, apparently, and she left her husband up there. Anyway, her second husband was Halder's uncle Crim; so when they both died, Leith and his brother – what was his name, now?'

‘Brin,' Poldarn said.

‘That's right, Brin. And there was an older sister, too – Essel, she married Suart, Lyat's dad, back when they lived at Suartsdale. I think she stayed there when Lyat moved on to Lyatsbridge. Leith and Brin, they came over here to live, till their dad died and it was time for them to go back and build their house. So you see, they're all family, one way or another.'

‘I see,' Poldarn said. ‘Well, I think I'll go and do some work. Is there any work I can be doing?'

Raffen frowned; then his face relaxed into a grin. ‘So happens there is,' he said. ‘Just the job for you, if you feel like it. You know the three-cornered field just below the old house, where we put in the peas, just before we left there?'

‘Of course I do, I live here. What about it?'

‘Bloody crows are tearing it all to pieces,' Raffen said, with a touch of anger he couldn't help. ‘I was going to go up there later on and put up some bells, but that won't do any good. Waste of time, soon as my back's turned they'll be in there again. Where's the point of planting stuff if those bastards pull it all up, anyway?'

‘I can see that,' Poldarn replied. ‘And I used to be good at scaring birds, when I was a kid. Isn't that right?'

Raffen nodded eagerly. ‘You really took to it,' he said. ‘Made a good job, too. It isn't as easy as it looks, you know.'

‘Then maybe it'll come back to me,' Poldarn replied. ‘It'd be nice to find something I'm actually good at around here, even if it's just clapping my hands and shouting.'

Raffen pulled a face. ‘There's a bit more to it than that,' he said. ‘Just scaring the buggers off won't do any good. You've got to sort 'em out, once and for all.'

‘Whatever,' Poldarn said.

The three-cornered field lay under a long, low, crescent-shaped hill topped with a knot of spindly fir trees. Along the western edge ran a ditch backed by an overgrown thorn hedge, with a thick mass of nettles and cow-parsley on the field side. The other two boundaries were open, marked only by a low drystone wall on the side facing the house, and a hump on the southern side where a bank had been grubbed out at some point, twenty or thirty years ago.

When Poldarn arrived, carrying a billhook, a leather bottle of weak cider and an old wooden bucket, the field was black with crows. They didn't get up as soon as he came into view, which annoyed him rather. About a third of them spread their wings and lifted off the ground in a spiral, the way dust blows up in a high wind; they swirled round in a tight circle and pitched a little further up the field, in good order. He stopped and studied them for a moment – careful reconnaissance is never wasted – taking note of the patterns they made on the ground, the way they aligned themselves to the wind, their spacing, the distances between groups, the gaps they left so that newcomers could pitch without overflying a contingent and spooking them into the air. Observing them, he couldn't help being impressed at the perfection of their society – their orderly conduct, unselfishness, consideration for others, flawless cooperation, unblemished unity of purpose. Against the grey of the turned soil they stood out like the shadow of a low cloud on a bright day, or the black ash that the volcano had dumped there, not so long ago.

Poldarn knew or remembered enough to keep perfectly still; but as the sun moved through the scattered clouds, the light changed, brightening up enough to flash a slight reflection off his pale face. At once, four or five crows got up from the edges and wheeled over him, slow, high and screaming; he froze, but they were aware of him now, and the whole flock lifted in a jarring explosion of harsh voices – you didn't need to know their language to get the gist of what they were saying. For a few heartbeats they hung in the air like smoke on a calm day; then they began to swirl and circle, winding broad, lazy hoops of concerted movement, boldly overstated brush strokes against the grey sky.

Poldarn had been expecting that, relying on it. On his way he'd picked up half a bucketful of flints from the headlands of the neighbouring fields, where generations of field hands had tossed them as they'd harrowed and mashed the clods. As the flock billowed over his head – they always made this mistake, just once, it was almost an arrogantly chivalrous gesture, allowing him one clear chance to take a few easy shots, satisfy his honour – he stooped down, grabbed a flint from the bucket, marked a point in the sky where the press of bodies was so thick he couldn't miss, and let fly. The first stone somehow managed to thread a way through the crowd without hitting anything, but the next five stones knocked down four birds – one dead in the air, two with broken wings landing indignant but in good order, and one pitching messily on its back, skipping and hopping in a dance of murderous rage until Poldarn got his foot behind its head and crushed it into the hard soil. The two broken-winged runners were harder to catch, they waddled with furious determination towards the hedge side, jinking and tacking out of the way every time he came within arm's length, so that in the end he had to resort to a desperate, flamboyant tackle to bring them down. Once he had his hand over their backs, it was a different matter – thumb pressed against the neck-bone, two forefingers to lever back the head until the neck snapped. Four crows had changed sides; not nearly as many as he'd have liked, but enough to make a start.

Next, Poldarn chose his place. That was a simple enough decision; all he had to do was look at the pattern of the green haze of pea-sprouts just starting to show above the ground, and mark out the biggest bare patch, where the core of the flock had been feeding. The size of it made him very angry; almost a quarter of the crop was already ruined, an act of war against him and his household that he would have to make good against them, one way or another. Life was hard enough without this sort of thing, the sudden advent of a horde of merciless raiders who didn't care if the Ciartanstead house starved. Something had to be done, and it was already way past diplomacy or settlement.

Next, he built his hide. Again, he didn't need to think hard about that. The bare patch was tight in to the middle point of the hedge and ditch side; that was where they wanted to be, so that was where he'd have to go. Fortunately, it was the place he'd have chosen anyway; there was even a young oak standing up out of the hedge, to mask him from above. With that, the ditch to hunker down in, and the screen of weeds and nettles out front, he was practically invisible until he chose to show himself. Admittedly, it wasn't going to be comfortable crouching in the bottom of the ditch. The mud (silt from the recent rains, the last of the black ash filtered and ground small by the water) came oozing up round his ankles, and he had to sit on his heels with his back braced against the trunk of the oak, his head and neck craned forward so he could look out through a narrow gap in the weed-curtain. If he stayed here any length of time he'd be crippled the next day. As if that mattered.

Having marked his place in the ditch, Poldarn scrambled out and set up his decoys. From the thorn hedge he cut four straight sticks, each as long as his hand from fingertip to wrist. He sharpened these on the thin end and dug the points in under the dead crows' lower jaw, up through the brains until they stopped against the roofs of the skulls. That was enough to hold the dead birds' weights as he pegged them out, as realistically as he could manage, standing them upright with the heads raised and the beaks jutting out like spears at port arms, proud sentries at their posts. With only four of them to play with he couldn't suggest a convincing pattern, so they would have to be scouts, marking out the limits of the safe zone in advance of the main body. Accordingly he posted them at the extreme corners of his killing field, fifteen paces from his hide. The idea was that the crows would come in along the obvious flight-line from their castle, the knot of thin trees on the hilltop. Once they'd marked the position of the scouts and been made aware of the safe zone, they'd slow down by turning into the breeze, bank, and glide down to pitch in the centre of the approved space, gradually filling it from the middle outwards until there was no more room; whereupon another platoon of scouts would establish further safe zones in suitable adjoining areas, and so on until the field was carpeted with crows like black snow.

Before going back to his hide, he skirmished the headland for a few more handfuls of stones, just in case it turned into a good day (nothing worse than having to disrupt a fluent spell to go scrabbling out in the open for ammunition). Then he folded himself into the hide as best he could, wriggled his back into the closest approximation of comfort that he could find, and waited to see what would happen.

Poldarn knew, or remembered, that it was no good expecting birds to come in for at least half an hour after set-up – it was set down in the rules as a fundamental principle, unshakeable as the orientation of the rising and the setting sun. During that time, it was absolutely essential to keep perfectly still; you could just about get away with blinking so long as you had a first-rate hide, but anything more energetic than that and you might as well go home. After that, if you were really lucky, you'd hear the screams and squawks of the advance scouts, gliding slowly over at double-treetop height. You wouldn't see them, of course, because one thing you had not to do when the scouts were overhead was lift your head, or even raise your eyes; the flicker of the whites of your eyes would be enough to send the scouts into a scrambled, flustered turn, followed by a fast and noisy retreat, after which you might as well go to sleep for an hour for all the good you were likely to do—