The Endless Knot (55 page)

“Here!” he called. “Here! I need help!”

“Go back!” The voice seemed to come from above. He raised his eyes to see a huge black bird watching him from a branch directly over his head.

It was only an old raven. “Shoo!”

“Go back!” said the bird. “Go back!”

“I won't,” shouted Bran. He reached for a stick on the path, picked it up, drew back, and threw it at the bothersome bird. “Shut up!”

The stick struck the raven's perch, and the bird flew off with a cry that sounded to Bran like laughter. “Ha, ha, haw! Ha, ha, haw!”

“Stupid bird,” he muttered. Turning again to the young pig beside him, he remembered what he had seen other hunters do with small game. Releasing the string on his bow, he gathered the creature's short legs and tied the hooves together with the cord. Then, passing the stave through the bound hooves and gripping the stout length of oak in either hand, he tried to lift it. The carcass was still too heavy for him, so he began to drag his prize through the forest, using the bow.

It was slow going, even on the well-worn path, with frequent stops to rub the sweat from his eyes and catch his breath. All the while, the day dwindled around him.

No matter. He would not give up. Clutching the bow stave in his hands, he struggled on, step by step, tugging the young boar along the trail, reaching the edge of the forest as the last gleam of twilight faded across the valley to the west.

“Bran!”

The shout made him jump. It was not a raven this time, but a voice he knew. He turned and looked down the slope toward the valley to see Iwan coming toward him, long legs paring the distance with swift strides.

“Here!” Bran called, waving his aching arms overhead. “Here I am!”

“In the name of all the saints and angels,” the young man said when he came near enough to speak, “what do you think you are doing out here?”

“Hunting,” replied Bran. Indicating his kill with a hunter's pride, he said, “It strayed in front of my arrow, see?”

“I see,” replied Iwan. Giving the pig a cursory glance, he turned and started away again. “We have to go. It's late, and everyone is looking for you.”

Bran made no move to follow.

Looking back, Iwan said, “Leave it, Bran! They are searching for you. We must hurry.”

“No,” Bran said. “Not without the boar.” He stooped once more to the carcass, seized the bow stave, and started tugging again. Iwan returned, took him roughly by the arm, and pulled him away.

“Leave the stupid thing!”

“It is for my mother!” the boy shouted, the tears starting hot and quick. As the tears began to fall, he bent his head and repeated more softly, “Please, it is for my mother.”

“Weeping Judas!” Iwan relented with an exasperated sigh. “Come then. We will carry it together.”

Iwan took one end of the bow stave, Bran took the other, and between them they lifted the carcass off the ground. The wood bent but did not break, and they started away again—Bran stumbling ever and again in a forlorn effort to keep pace with his long-legged friend.

Night was upon them, the caer but a brooding black eminence on its mound in the centre of the valley, when a party of mounted searchers appeared.

“He was hunting,” Iwan informed them. “A hunter does not leave his prize.”

The riders accepted this, and the young boar was quickly secured behind the saddle of one of the horses; Bran and Iwan were taken up behind other riders, and the party rode for the caer. The moment they arrived, Bran slid from the horse and ran to his mother's chamber behind the hall.

“Hurry,” he called. “Bring the boar!”

Queen Rhian's chamber was lit with candles, and two women stood over her bed when Bran burst in. He ran to her bedside and knelt down. “Mam! See what I brought you!”

She opened her eyes, and recognition came to her. “There you are, my dearling. They said they could not find you.”

“I went hunting,” he announced. “For you.”

“For me,” she whispered. “A fine thing, that. What did you find?”

“Look!” he said proudly as Iwan strode into the room with the pig slung over his shoulders.

“Oh, Bran,” she said, the ghost of a smile touching her dry lips.

“Kiss me, my brave hunter.”

He bent his face to hers and felt the heat of her dry lips on his.

“Go now. I will sleep a little,” she told him, “and I will dream of your triumph.”

She closed her eyes then, and Bran was led from the room. But she had smiled, and that was worth all the world to him.

Queen Rhian did not waken in the morning. By the next evening she was dead, and Bran never saw his mother smile again. And although he continued to hone his skill with the bow, he lost all interest in the hunt.