The Buried Giant (25 page)

“Are they from the village?”

“The village?” She looked at him with contempt. “
Your
village? We pass village after village every day. What do we care about your village? They may come back soon, then you’ll be in trouble.”

“I’m not afraid. I could free you if you like.”

“I always free myself.” She twisted again.

“Why did they tie you?”

“Why? I suppose so they could watch. Watch me try to get free. But they’re gone now, to steal food.” Then she said: “I thought you villagers worked all day. Why does your mother let you wander?”

“I’m allowed because I finished three corners by myself already today.” Then he added: “My real mother’s not in the village any more.”

“Where’s she gone?”

“I don’t know. She was taken. I live with my aunt now.”

“When I was a child like you,” she said, “I lived in a village. Now I travel.”

“Who do you travel with?”

“Oh … with them. We pass this way quite often. I remember them tying me and leaving me here once before, this very spot, last spring.”

“I’ll release you,” he said suddenly. “And if they come back, I won’t be frightened of them.”

Yet something still held him back. He had expected her eyes to shift away, or her body at least to accommodate the prospect of his approach. But she had gone on staring at him, while under her arched back her hands continued their struggle. Only when she let out a long sigh did he realise she had been holding her breath for some time.

“I can usually do it,” she said. “If you weren’t here, I’d have done it by now.”

“Do they tie you to stop you running away?”

“Run away? Where would I run away? I travel with them.” Then she said: “Why did you come to me? Why don’t you go help your mother instead?”

“My mother?” He was genuinely surprised. “Why should my mother want me to help her?”

“You said she was taken, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but that was long ago. She’s happy now.”

“How can she be happy? Don’t you think she wants someone to come and help her?”

“She’s just travelling. She wouldn’t want me to …”

“She didn’t want you to come before because you were a child. But you’re nearly a man now.” She fell silent, arching her back as she made another concerted effort. Then she sagged back down again. “Sometimes,” she said, “if they come back and I haven’t got myself free, they don’t untie me. They watch and don’t say a word until I manage by myself and my hands come loose. Until then they sit there watching and watching, their devil’s horns growing between their legs. I’d mind it less if they spoke. But they stare and stare and
don’t say anything.” Then she said: “When I saw you, I thought you’d do the same. I thought you’d sit and stare and not say a thing.”

“Shall I untie you? I’m not afraid of them, and I’m good with knots.”

“You’re only a child.” Suddenly tears appeared. It happened so quickly, and because her face showed no other sign of emotion, Edwin thought at first he was watching perspiration. But then he realised they were tears, and because her face was half-upturned, the tears rolled oddly, past the bridge of her nose and down the opposite cheek. All the while she held her gaze on him. The tears confused him, making him stop in his tracks.

“Come on then,” she said, and for the first time moved onto her side, letting her gaze fall away towards the bulrushes in the water.

Edwin hurried forward, like a thief spying an opportunity, and crouching in the grass began to tug at the knots. The twine was thin and coarse, cutting cruelly into her wrists; the palms, in contrast, spread open one across the other, were small and tender. At first the knots did not yield, but he forced himself to be calm and studied carefully the path the coils took. Then when he tried again, the knot gave under his touch. Now he went about his work more confidently, glancing from time to time at the soft palms, waiting like a pair of docile creatures.

After he pulled the twine from her, she turned and sat facing him at what suddenly felt an uncomfortably close distance. She did not, he noticed, smell of stale excrement the way most people did: her odour was like that of a fire made from damp wood.

“If they come,” she said quietly, “they’ll drag you through the reeds then half-drown you. You’d better go. Go back to your village.” She reached out a hand experimentally, as though unsure if even now it was under her control, and pushed his chest. “Go. Hurry.”

“I’m not afraid of them.”

“You’re not afraid. But they’ll still do all these things to you. You helped me, but you have to go away now. Go, hurry.”

When he returned just before sunset, the grass was still flattened where she had lain, but there was no other trace left of her. All the same, the spot felt almost uncannily tranquil, and he had sat down in the grass for some moments, watching the bulrushes waving in the wind.

He never told anyone about the girl—not his aunt, who would quickly have concluded she was a demon, nor any of the other boys. But in the weeks that followed, a vivid image of her had often returned to him unbidden; sometimes at night, within his dreams; often in broad daylight, as he was digging the ground or helping to mend a roof, and then the devil’s horn would grow between his legs. Eventually the horn would go away, leaving him with a feeling of shame, and then the girl’s words would return to him: “Why did you come to me? Why don’t you go help your mother instead?”

But how could he go to his mother? The girl herself had said he was “only a child.” Then again, as she had pointed out, he would soon be a man. Whenever he recalled those words, he would feel his shame anew, and yet he had been able to see no way forward.

But that had all changed the moment Wistan had thrown open the barn door, forcing in the dazzling light, and declared that it was he, Edwin, who had been chosen for the mission. And now here they were, Edwin and the warrior, travelling across the country, and surely it would not be long till they came upon her. Then the men travelling with her would tremble.

But had it really been her voice that had led him away? Had it not been sheer terror of the soldiers? Such questions drifted into his mind as he followed the young monk down a barely trodden path beside a descending stream. Was he sure he had not simply panicked when he had been awoken and seen from the window the soldiers
running about the old tower? But now, when he considered it all carefully, he was certain he had felt no fear. And earlier, during the day, when the warrior had led him into that same tower and they had talked, Edwin had felt only an impatience to stand at Wistan’s side in the face of the oncoming enemy.

Wistan had been preoccupied with the old tower from the time they had first arrived at the monastery. Edwin could remember him continually glancing up at it while they had been cutting logs in the woodshed. And when they had pushed the barrow around the grounds to deliver the firewood, they had twice made diversions just to go past it. So it had come as no surprise, once the monks had disappeared into their meeting and the courtyard was empty, that the warrior should lean the axe on the woodpile and say: “Come a moment, young comrade, and we’ll examine more closely this tall and ancient friend who stares down at us. It seems to me he watches where we go, and takes offence we’ve yet to pay him a visit.”

As they had entered under the low arch into the chilly dimness of the tower’s interior, the warrior had said to him: “Take care. You think you’re inside, but look to your feet.”

Glancing down, Edwin had seen in front of him a kind of moat which followed the circular wall all the way to form a ring. It was too wide for a man to leap, and the simple bridge of two planks was the only way to reach the central floor of trodden earth. As he stepped onto the planks, gazing down into the darkness below, he heard the warrior say behind him:

“Notice there’s no water there, young comrade. And even if you fell right in, I’d say you’d find it no deeper than your own height. Curious, don’t you think? Why a moat on the
inside
? Why a moat at all for a small tower like this? What good can it do?” Wistan came over the planks himself and tested with his heel the central floor. “Perhaps,” he went on, “the ancients built this tower to slaughter
animals. Perhaps once this was their killing floor. What they didn’t wish to keep of an animal, they simply pushed over the side into the moat. What do you think, boy?”

“That’s possible, warrior,” Edwin said. “Yet it would have been no easy thing to lead a beast across narrow planks like that.”

“Perhaps in olden times there was a better bridge here,” Wistan said. “Sturdy enough to bear an ox or a bull. Once the beast had been led over, and it guessed its fate, or when the first blow failed to make it sink to its knees, this arrangement ensured it could not easily flee. Imagine the animal twisting, trying to charge, yet finding the moat wherever it turned. And the one small bridge so hard to locate in a frenzy. It’s no foolish notion, that this was once such a place of slaughter. Tell me, boy, what do you find when you look up?”

Edwin, seeing the circle of sky high above, said: “It’s open at the top, warrior. Like a chimney.”

“You say something interesting there. Let’s hear it again.”

“It’s like a chimney, warrior.”

“What do you make of it?”

“If the ancients used this place for their slaughter, warrior, they’d have been able to build a fire just where we now stand. They could have jointed the animal, roasted the meat, the smoke escaping up to the sky.”

“It’s likely, boy, just as you say. I wonder if these Christian monks have any inkling of what went on here once? These gentlemen, I fancy, come inside this tower for its quiet and seclusion. See how thick is this circling wall. Hardly a sound comes through it, though the crows were shrieking as we entered. And the way the light comes from on high. It must remind them of their god’s grace. What do you say, boy?”

“The gentlemen might come in here and pray, right enough, warrior. Though this ground’s too soiled to kneel on.”

“Perhaps they pray standing, guessing little how this was once
a place of slaughter and burning. What else do you see looking up, boy?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“Only the steps, warrior.”

“Ah, the steps. Tell me about the steps.”

“They first rise over the moat, then circle and circle, bending with the roundness of the wall. They rise till they reach the sky at the top.”

“That’s well observed. Now listen carefully.” Wistan stepped closer and lowered his voice. “This place, not just this old tower, but this entire place, all of what men today call this monastery, I’d wager was once a hillfort built by our Saxon forefathers in times of war. So it contains many cunning traps to welcome invading Britons.” The warrior moved away and slowly paced the perimeter of the floor, staring down into the moat. Eventually he looked up again and said: “Imagine this place a fort, boy. The siege broken after many days, the enemy pouring in. Fighting in every yard, on every wall. Now picture this. Two of our Saxon cousins, out there in the yard, hold back a large body of Britons. They fight bravely, but the enemy’s too great in number and our heroes must retreat. Let’s suppose they retreat here, into this very tower. They skip across the little bridge and turn to face their foes at this very spot. The Britons grow confident. They have our cousins cornered. They press in with their swords and axes, hurry over the bridge towards our heroes. Our brave kin bring down the first of them, but soon must retreat further. Look there, boy. They retreat up those winding stairs along the wall. Still more Britons cross the moat until this space where we stand is filled. Yet the Britons’ greater numbers can’t yet be turned to advantage. For our brave cousins fight two abreast on the stairs, and the invaders can but meet them two against two. Our heroes are skilled, and though they retreat higher and higher, the invaders cannot overwhelm them.
As Britons fall, those following take their place, then fall in their turn. But surely our cousins grow weary. Higher and higher they retreat, the invaders pursue them stair by stair. But what’s this? What’s this, Edwin? Do our kin finally lose their nerve? They turn and run the remaining circles of steps, only now and then striking behind them. This is surely the end. The Britons are triumphant. Those watching from down here smile like hungry men before a banquet. But look carefully, boy. What do you see? What do you see as our Saxon cousins near that halo of sky above?” Grasping Edwin’s shoulders, Wistan repositioned him, pointing up to the opening. “Speak, boy. What do you see?”

“Our cousins spring a trap, sir. They retreat upwards only to draw in the Britons as ants to a honey pot.”

“Well said, lad! And how’s the trap made?”

Edwin considered for a moment, then said: “Just before the stairway reaches its highest point, warrior, I can see what looks from here to be an alcove. Or is it a doorway?”

“Good. And what do you suppose hides there?”

“Can it be a dozen of our greatest warriors? Then together with our two cousins, they can fight their way down again till they cut into the ranks of the Britons here below.”

“Think again, boy.”

“A fierce bear, then, warrior. Or a lion.”

“When did you last meet a lion, boy?”

“Fire, warrior. There’s fire behind that alcove.”

“Well said, boy. We can’t know for sure what happened so long ago. Yet I’d wager that’s what waited up there. In that little alcove, hardly glimpsed from down here, was a torch, or maybe two or three, blazing behind that wall. Tell me the rest, boy.”

“Our cousins throw the torches down.”

“What, onto the heads of the enemy?”

“No, warrior. Down into the moat.”

“The moat? Filled with water?”

“No, warrior. The moat’s filled with firewood. Just like the firewood we’ve sweated to cut.”

“Just so, boy. And we’ll cut more yet before the moon’s high. And we’ll find ourselves plenty of dry hay too. A chimney, you said, boy. You’re right. It’s a chimney we stand in now. Our forefathers built it for just such a purpose. Why else a tower here, when a man looking from the top has no better view than one at the wall outside? But imagine, boy, a torch dropping into this so-called moat. Then another. When we circled this place earlier, I saw at its back, close to the ground, openings in the stone. That means a strong wind from the east, such as we have tonight, will fan the flames ever higher. And how are the Britons to escape the inferno? A solid wall around them, only a single narrow bridge to freedom, and the moat itself ablaze. But let’s leave this place, boy. It may be this ancient tower grows displeased we should guess so many of his secrets.”