Melforger (The Melforger Chronicles) (4 page)

Raf looked down at the floor. He knew what was coming.

“I’m assuming you’re still not interested in playing if the Festival goes ahead?”

“Dad, I don’t mind getting up there with the others to do something, but there’s no way I’m going to stand there singing by myself or prat around on an instrument.”

His father shrugged. “Your mother will be disappointed. You know how she wants you to be the next musician journeyman.”

“Probably the next Foreman as well,” muttered Raf.

“You can’t be too angry with her. She only wants the best for you. And she has a lot of pride; remember, your grandfather’s a Foreman. The bar was set quite high, unfortunately.”

“But I’m not interested in it all.”

“But you used to be so confident with singing when you were Rio’s age. What happened?”

“Nothing happened. It’s just… well, I don’t enjoy it anymore. Not really. Nobody does. Except for the old villagers, and they’re probably all deaf anyway.” He scowled. “Ned has the same thing when he plays the lute.”

“Tovier?”

“Yeah. Everyone laughs at him when he plays. He hates it, but with his dad being in the Council, too... The second he finishes school, he’ll probably take that stupid lute and throw it down a burial chute.”

“It’s a pity; he’s very good.”

“Maybe, but playing a lute isn’t exactly… well - did you know that some guys our age in Miern are apparently already in the Gerent’s Guard? Some of them are even journeymen. And Cisco’s brother met a boat captain in Sayenham who was only fifteen! Eirdale’s… well, it just seems so lame.”

“Well, our lives are different. For a start, we don’t have an army - or a need for one, thankfully. And boats are a little hard to come by up here in the tree-tops.” Tarvil paused. “Do you even know what you’d like to do?”

Raf shook his head and threw a stick at the ground. “Not really. I’m not really that good at anything. Maybe a canopy-farmer?”

“Harvesting? It’s hardly ambitious, Raf.”

“But it’s important, right? We need the food. And we need people who are good at getting it. It may not be high-ranking in mom’s book, but someone has to do it, right?”

His father laughed out loud. “Tell you what, son, I’ll let
you
tell her you’re giving up the dream to be a woodsmith or Foreman so you can pick mulberries all day.”

“It’s not
my
dream.”

“True.” His father looked fondly at him, patting his shoulder. “So, what about your sojourn? Given any thought to that yet?”

“Yeah,” said Raf. “I was going to ask you about it actually. I think I’ll skip the redwoods up north. Trent Brunnow went last year and I’d like to do something different. The amount he’s talked about it, I feel like I went with him, anyway.”

“So you’re thinking of a trek south? The mountains? I hope you’re ready for the cold. You’ve never seen snow. It’s colder than you can possibly imagine! And someti-”

“No, not south. Or east.”

Tarvil opened his mouth and then closed it. Clearing his throat with a quick cough, he turned to face Raf.

“I’d just like to make this plain and clear. Firstly, personally, I think it’s a terrible idea. Sure it may be where I did
my
sojourn, but that was a long time ago and things were completely different. It was smaller than it is now, and the old Gerent was still in power. He seemed much friendlier than the new one.” He held up his hand to cut off Raf who was trying to butt in. “Secondly, I’d like to know where I can buy tickets to watch you tell your mother.” He laughed loudly, genuinely; and then, mimicking Raf’s voice, said, “Mom, not only am I never going to be something as good as you want, but I’m also going to go to Miern.”

“Dad,” moaned Raf, “it’s my choice. I think it’d be brilliant to see a city. You said it was amazing!”

“Absolutely true,” replied Tarvil, grinning wolfishly. “But I didn’t have your mother to tell.”

“Can’t you tell her?” begged Raf.

“Hah! Not on your life, boy. You’re on your own. If you want to be the first sixteen year old to be killed in Eirdale, you go ahead.”

Raf reluctantly smiled. “So, you don’t mind?”

“It’s your trip, Raf. A sojourn is each person’s own decision.” He paused, pursing his lips pensively. “What I will say though, is that we’ll need some help getting you there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Miern is at least ten days’ travel from here, sometimes more depending on the weather. You can’t do it alone. We need to find out when there will be a caravan down the Pass. The Forest I know you’ll be fine in, but once you get to the Pass, you’ve got to travel with company. Supplies are essential for the trip as well, and obviously you’ll need some coin for food and accommodation while you’re there.”

“How long is the Pass?”

“It’s a decent distance, probably about a hundred and fifty miles all told. And it’s unimaginably hot. It follows a canyon that cuts right through the middle of the desert and although it’s shaded to some extent by the cliffs on either side, they also trap heat in it. That’s why you need a caravan to travel with: when the sun’s right overhead, you have to rest in shelters or else get burnt to a cinder. Us foresters just aren’t able to deal with that sort of open-air experience. Even the canopy-farmers would struggle.”

“Oh.”

“Once you’re on the other side of it though, the landscape turns beautiful. Sand dunes, and little lakes everywhere.”

“It sounds amazing,” said Raf, smiling. He looked up. “Nobody else is going there. They’re all too worried about what happened to those guys from Three Ways last year. People think they died, or maybe were even killed.”

“Sad to say, but as they haven’t heard a thing from any of them, it seems likely. So, with all the dangers and expenses and hassles getting there, you’re still keen to do it?”

Raf thought about it, his eyes flickering around the ground in front of them. Then he nodded
firmly. “Definitely.”

“Right,” said Tarvil, slapping both hands down on his thighs and standing up. “Then what we need to do now more than ever, is get this Festival up and running.”

“Why?” asked Raf.

“Firstly, we need to make a little money for you to spend on your sojourn. Also, people come from all over to see this, and if we’re going to find a company for you to travel with back to Miern, there is no better place to search than in the crowds at the Festival.”

Raf’s face lit up. “Of course!”

“Small problem though. The only way we’re going to get the coin to rescue it at this late stage is from this Miernan trader. Mr. Tunrhak, it seems, is our last hope; but a trader and his coin are tightly joined, as they say.”

Raf tapped his mouth with a finger thoughtfully.

“What?” asked Tarvil.

“Well, funny that you mention it, but, I skipped Ottery’s lesson earlier on today -”

“
Madame
Ottery. And why did you ski-”

“I think I may have overheard something rather interesting, Dad…”

T
he afternoon was well under way by the time the village chimes were rung for the second time. Bonfires had been built and fed in the ironwood fire-pits until they were roaring, with three large, golden-brown boars suspended above the dancing flames. They crackled with the intense heat and emitted a delicious aroma that tantalized the throng of villagers seated on the commons’ benches. Wandering between them were young children delivering bowls of food and filling rapidly emptying mugs with frothy mead.

Raf strolled down from his home and paused as he came across a little cluster of peacocks on the path. One of the males had its tail spread out, a stunning metallic rainbow of colors, and Raf stood and watched it strutting for a while, rapt. His trance was shattered though when one of the brown peahens suddenly screeched and they scurried away, bobbing their heads furiously. Above him, a flock of tiny parrots took off in fright at the noise and soared a few hundred feet further up the trunk in a shimmering green cloud.

As he rounded the last oak classroom before the commons, he was greeted by a blare of noise from the hundreds of villagers already there. Raf decided not to join his family at the Council end and instead, sat down with some friends and attacked a bowl of plump grapes.

Taking one last look around, the Foreman nodded to a young boy with a mop of black curly hair who stood up, cleared his throat and drew a deep breath. He started to sing and a wave of silence swept through the villagers, starting from the Council at the top and rolling down the throng of people towards the back benches. It was one of Raf’s favorite pieces: the
padihsong
. It didn’t matter that it was sung at least once a day at mealtimes in every single home in the whole Forest, it still moved Raf every time he heard it. The first verse came to an end and he felt a swell of goose-bumps tingling up his arms, when there was a disruption and all eyes settled on the trader.

Wesp was clapping loudly, but stopped at the onslaught of surprised looks he suddenly received. “I thought he had finished.” He shrugged his shoulders and grabbed his mug, raising it to the young choirboy.

The Foreman looked across at the young boy who stood fidgeting nervously. “That was beautiful, lad.” Dipping his head, the boy quickly made his way to a bench and sat down with his family.

“I s’pect you’re jealous, really.”

Leiana tilted her head at the trader’s comment. “Jealous?”

“Of the northern villages of course. They’re much closer to the Pass, obviously. They get most of the attention from Miern.”

“Oh, I don’t know. We’re quite happy here in Eirdale. What we miss out on we can probably do without.” Leiana sniffed and took a sip from her mug.

Wesp covered what could have been a smile with his mug. “Of course you do, of course you do.”

Tarvil coughed softly to attract the trader’s attention. “I visited Miern in my youth and remember the old Gerent as a talented musician and an enthusiast of Miern’s musical traditions. I wonder if you’re aware if the new Gerent is equally supportive?”

“Ha! I doubt it. It’s true that not too long ago the Gerent’s Festival would attract thousands from all over the world to see it, but times change and move on. It is only yourselves here -” he looked briefly upwards, “- living in the trees, who cling to the past.” He turned back to the table in front of
him to take hold of a large chunk of golden-brown crackling on a platter. He sank his teeth into it and the fat trickled down his chin and into his scraggly beard. “The Gerent is now more interested in trade and growing Miern. Not to mention sorting out the problems up in the Ka’toan Mountains. Things have changed drastically since the kidnapping.”

“The what?”

Wesp looked up, surprised. “You haven’t heard? Surely you’ve heard about his son being taken by raiders?” The Council looked at each other questioningly and all shook their heads. “There have long been problems with the Ka’toan raiders stealing cattle and sheep from the outer farming districts, something the old Gerent had tried to sort out diplomatically. Fat lot of good it did. So, the new one tried being a bit more aggressive with them, sent soldiers in to warn them to step in line. Then, a few months ago, we found out that a group of raiders had snuck into the city and managed to abduct the child – from right inside the palace!”

“That’s terrible!” muttered Tarvil. “Has he been found yet?”

“Not by the time I left. I suspect he’ll be safe though. They won’t kill him; they’ll keep him to make sure the Gerent backs off. Those filthy raiders have always wanted their own space to do their ritual killings and whatnot.”

The Foreman shook his head irritably and stood up. “The Ka’toans are a peaceful people who, if anything, are less violent than most.” Wesp made as if to argue, but the Foreman cut him off with a raised hand. “Let us get to business, Mr. Tunrhak, as I suspect you would like to get some trading in before you return.”

“Abuniah!” he shouted, his deep voice rising above the general hubbub to where a small group of people sat laughing and eating. A tall, smiling man dressed in a plain white tunic and with a great sprouting bush of curly black hair on his head stood up and stepped forward slowly into the bright orange light of the bonfire. He performed a ludicrous bow that ended with a flourish of his hands. There were a few laughs from the people sitting around him.

“You beckoned, Foreman?”

“I did, you pompous fool,” said the Foreman, chuckling. “We are in for a treat with our guest tonight as he has come from Miern to do trade with us -” there was a small half-hearted cheer from the crowd, “- but what would a night like this be without an introduction befitting such an important occasion?” He raised a huge hand to point at Abuniah, who was posing dramatically. “Let there be music!”

The lanky man sprang backwards to stand beside a colossal wooden drum. Seizing the sticks on either side, Abuniah started beating the drum in a wild rhythm. A few of the foresters behind him grabbed tambourines and beat them animatedly while others pulled out flutes and wood-whistles, lutes and pipes to play. Within seconds, the commons was awash with music, guided by Abuniah’s steady beat.