Mythago Wood - 1 (21 page)

'Casts?' suggested Keeton. Throws the net?'

'Who by dawnlight throws the net into the glade of the woodcocks. I am the
falcon who watches as the woodcocks rise and are caught in the net. I am the
fish that. . . the fish that . . .' She made exaggerated side to side motions of
her hips and shoulders.

'Wiggles,' I said.

'Struggles,' Keeton corrected.

She went on, 'I am the fish that struggles in the water, swimming towards the
great grey rock that marks the deep pool. I am the daughter of the fisher who
spears the fish. I am the shadow of the tall white stone where my father lies,
the shadow that moves with the day towards the river where the fish swims,
towards the forests where the glade of the woodcocks is blue with flowers. I am
the rain that makes the hare run, sends the doe to the thicket, stops the fire
in the middle of the round house. My enemies are thunder and the beasts of the
earth who crawl by night, but I am not afraid. I am the heart of my father, and
his father. Bright as iron, swift as arrow, strong as oak. I am the land.'

These last words - 'Bright as iron, swift as arrow, strong as oak. I am the
land' - she sang in her reedy voice, matching the words to the tune and the
rhythm of the original. When she had finished she smiled and bowed, and Keeton
applauded loudly, 'Bravo.'

I stared at her for a moment, puzzled. 'Not about me at all, then,' I said,
and Guiwenneth laughed. 'About nothing else but you,' she said. 'That's why I
sang it.'

I had meant it as a joke, but now she had confused me. I didn't understand.
Somehow, in some fashion, the wretched Keeton did. He winked at me. 'Why don't
you check the grounds, the two of you. I'll be all right here. Go on!' He
smiled.

We walked to the garden's edge, and kissed quickly in the darkness where the
young oaks grew. There was stealthy movement in the woodland; foxes, perhaps, or
wild dogs, drawn to the smell of the cooking meat. Keeton was an oddly crouched
shape, silhouetted against the flame and flaring sparks of the fire.

'He understands you more than I do,' I said.

'He sees both of us. You only see me. I like him. He's a very gentle man. But
he's not my
flintspear.
'

The wood seemed alive with movement. Even Guiwen-neth was puzzled. 'We should
be careful of wolves and wild dogs,' she said. "The meat . . .'

'There can't be wolves in the forest,' I said, 'surely. Boar I've seen, and
you've told me of a wild bear . . .'

'Not every creature comes to the edge so quickly. Wolves are pack animals.
The pack may have been in the deep forest, in the wildwoods. They have taken a
long time to get here. Perhaps.'

I glanced into the darkness, and the night seemed to whisper ominously;
shivering, I turned back to the garden, and reached for Guiwenneth. 'Let's go
back and keep him company.'

Even as I spoke, the dark shape of Keeton was rising to its feet. His voice
was subdued, but urgent. 'We've got company.'

Through the trees that crowded about the garden fence, I could see the
flicker of torchlight. The sound of men approaching was a sudden, loud intrusion
in the wild night. I walked with Guiwenneth back to the fire, into the spill of
light from the kitchen. Behind us, where we had stood, there too torches showed.
They closed in upon the garden in a wide arc, and we waited, listening for some
sign of their nature.

From ahead of us there came the eerie tune of the Jaguth, played on the reedy
pipes I had heard before. Guiwenneth and I exchanged a quick, delighted glance,
and then she said, 'The Jaguth. They've come again!'

'Just in time to finish off our pig,' I said ruefully. Keeton was frozen to
the spot with fear, not liking the stealthy approach through the darkness of
these strange men-creatures.

Guiwenneth walked towards the gate, to greet them, shouting out something in
her strange language. I began to step after her, picking up a firebrand from the
fire, to hold as they held their torches. The sweet piping continued. Keeton
said,

'Who are they?' And I said, 'Old friends, new friends. The Jaguth. There's
nothing to fear . . .'

And at that moment I realized that the piping had stopped, and Guiwenneth too
had stopped, a few paces away from me. She stared around her, at the flickering
lights in the darkness. A moment later she looked back at me, her face pale, her
eyes wide, her mouth open; from being delighted, she suddenly was terrified. She
took a step towards me, my name on her lips, and I was caught in her sudden
panic, and reached for her . . .

'Oh God no . . .!' I cried, but Guiwenneth screamed at me, 'Arm yourself!' as
she raced past me to where her own weapons were lodged against the back wall of
the house.

I followed her, grabbing up my flintspear and the sword that Magidion had
presented to me. And we turned, backs to the wall, and watched the gruesome band
of armoured men who emerged, dark silhouettes, through the burning forest, and
spread out around the garden.

The two warriors suddenly ran at us, one at Guiwenneth, one at me. It was the
hawk who chose me.

He came at me so fast that I hardly had time to raise and thrust my spear at
him; the events happened in a blur of burnished metal, dark hair, and sweaty
flesh, as he deflected my blow with his small round shield, then clubbed me
heavily on the side of the head with the blunt pommel of his sword. I staggered
to my knees, then struggled to rise, but the shield was struck against my head
and the ground hit my face, hard and dry. The next I knew he had tied my arms
behind my back, worked my spear under my armpits, and trussed me like a
turkeycock.

For a moment or two I watched Guiwenneth fight, and she fought with a fury
that astonished me. I saw her bring her dagger down into her own attacker's
shoulder; then a second hawk ran from the garden's edge, and she swung to face
him, and firelight glinted on metal and the man's hand seemed to fly towards the
woodshed. A third came, and a fourth. Guiwenneth's war-cry was a screech of
indignation. She moved so fast that I became confused watching her.

And of course, there Were too many of them for her.

Suddenly she had been bowled over, disarmed, then flung high into the air.
She was caught between the hawks, and though she struggled, they tied and
trussed her in the same fashion as me.

Five tall, dark warriors remained at the garden's edge, crouching, watching
the end of the affray.

My own hawk reached for my hair and dragged me to my feet, hauling me, bent
double, across the garden towards the fire. He dropped me to the ground a few
feet from Guiwenneth. She looked at me through bloody eyes and the fall of
dishevelled hair across her face. Her lips were wet, and I could see tears
glistening, bright specks in the fire. 'Steven,' she murmured, and I realized
that her lips were swollen and painful. 'Steven . . .'

'This can't be happening,' I whispered, and felt my own tears rise. My head
was spinning; everything seemed so unreal. My body was numb, with shock, with
anger. The sound of the burning forest was loud, almost deafening.

He dropped to a crouch by the girl and reached a hand to lift up her chin. He
brushed the hair from her face, and twisted her jaw roughly to look at her,
grinning through his greying beard. Guiwenneth spat at him and he laughed; and
that laugh . . .

I frowned, completely unnerved. I sat in the firelight, in pain, unable to
move, and stared at this coarse, ageing warlord.

'I've found you at last,' he said, and the voice sent a long thrill of
anguish through me.

'She's mine!' I cried through sudden tears.

And Christian looked at me and slowly rose to his feet.

He towered over me, an old man, war-worn and ragged. His breeches stank of
urine. The sword he wore on his wide, leather belt, hung ominously close to my
face. He jerked my head up by the hair, and with his other hand stroked his
matted, greying beard.

'It's been a long time, brother,' he said, in a hoarse, animal whisper. 'What
am
I going to do with you?'

Behind him, the side of pig had been reduced to nothing, and the hawks chewed
vigorously, and spat into the fire while they talked in murmuring voices. From
the house came the sounds of hammer on metal. A furious activity of repair was
occurring, on weapons and on the harnessing of the great horses, which were
tethered close by to me.

'She's mine,' I said quietly, staring at him through my tears. 'Leave us
alone, Chris.'

He shouted something gruffly, and one of his older warriors flung him a
length of rope with a noose on the end. The rope was coarse and sharp, and he
tugged the noose over my head and tightened it on my neck, tossing the free rope
over the shed. A moment later the slack was taken up and the noose tugged me to
my toes. I could breathe, but I couldn't relax. I began to gasp, and Christian
smiled, reaching up a stinking hand to block my nostrils and my mouth.

He ran his finger over my face. It was an almost sensuous touch. When I
struggled for breath he released my mouth and I sucked air into my lungs
gratefully. All the time he had watched me curiously as if desperately searching
for some memory of friendship between us. His fingers were like a woman's
caressing my brow, my cheeks, my chin, the junction of the rope and the torn
skin of my neck. In this way he found the oak leaf amulet that I wore, and he
frowned as he sfiw it. He rested the silver leaf in his hand and stared at it.
Without looking at me he said, 'Where did you get this?' He sounded quite
astonished.

'I found it.'

He said nothing for a second, then snapped the thong from my neck, and held
the oak leaf to his lips. 'I would have been dead but for this. When I lost it I
thought my fate was sealed. I have it back, now. I have everything back . . .'

He turned to look at me, then, searching my eyes, my face.

'It's been many years . . .' he whispered.

'What's happened to you?' I managed to breathe. The rope tugged at me,
irritated me. He watched my discomfort, the movement of my lips, through
gleaming dark eyes that showed no compassion.

'Too much,' he said. 'I've searched too long. But I've found her at last.
I've run too long . . .' He looked wistful, glancing away from me. 'Perhaps the
running will never end. He still pursues me.'

'Who?'

He glanced at me again. 'The beast. The Urscumug. The old man. Damn his eyes.
Damn his soul, he follows me like a hound on the scent. He is always there,
always in the woodland, always just outside the fort. Always, always the beast.
I'm tired, brother. I truly am. At last -' he glanced at the slumped form of the
girl - 'At last I have the one thing I have sought. Guiwenneth, my Guiwen-neth.
If I die, we die together. I no longer care if she loves me. I shall have her, I
shall use her. She will make the dying good. She will inspire me to make a last
effort to kill the beast.'

'I can't let you take her,' I said hopelessly, and Christian frowned, then
smiled. But he said nothing, moving away from me, back towards the fire. He
walked slowly, thoughtfully. He stopped and stared at the house. One of his men,
a long-haired, raggedly dressed warrior, moved to the body of Harry Keeton,
turned it over and split through the man's shirt with a knife, raising the blade
above Keeton's breast. He stopped and said something in an alien tongue.
Christian looked at me, then spoke back to the man, and the warrior rose angrily
to his feet and stalked back to the fire.

Christian said, The Fenlander is angry. They want to eat his liver. They're
hungry. The pig was small.' He smiled. 'I said no. To spare your feelings.'

He walked to the house then, and vanished inside. It seemed he was gone for a
long time. Guiwenneth looked up only once, and her face was wet with tears. She
stared at me, and her lips moved; but I could make out no sound, nor what she
was trying to say. 'I love you, Guin,' I called back to her. Til get us out of
this. Don't worry.'

But my words had no effect on her, and her battered face fell down again as
she knelt by the fire, trussed and guarded.

Around me, the garden was a scene of confusing activity. One of the horses
had panicked, and was rearing and kicking against its tether. Men walked to and
fro, others were digging a pit, still others crouched by the fires and talked
and laughed in loud voices. In the night, the burning woodland was a terrifying
sight.

When Christian emerged from the house again, he had shaved off the ragged
grey-black beard, and combed his long, greasy hair back into a pigtail. His face
was broad, strong, even if his jowls were slightly loose. He looked uncannily as
I remembered our father, in the years before I went to France. But bulkier,
harder. He carried his sword and belt in one hand. In the other he held a bottle
of wine, the top neatly broken off. Wine?

He came over to me and drank from the bottle, smacking his lips
appreciatively. 'I didn't think you'd find the store,' he said. 'Forty bottles
of the best Bordeaux. A taste more sweet I can't imagine. Will you have some?'
He waved the broken bottle at me. 'A drink before dying. A toast to brotherhood,
to the past. To a battle won and lost. Drink with me, Steve.'

I shook my head. Christian seemed momentarily disappointed, then flung back
his head and poured the red wine into his mouth, stopping only when he choked,
laughing as he choked. He passed the bottle to the most sinister of his
compatriots, the Fenlander, the man who had wanted to slit open the corpse of
Harry Keeton, and the man drank the remnants down, tossing the bottle into the
woodland. The rest of the secret store of wine that I had failed to discover was
carried out in improvised sacks, and distributed among the hawks for carriage.

The woodland fire burned down and began to die out. Whatever had caused it,
whatever magic, the spell was waning, and the smell of wood ash was strong on
the air. But two very strange figures suddenly appeared at the garden's edge,
and began to run about the perimeter. They were almost naked, their bodies
covered with white chalk, except for their faces, which were black. Their hair
was long, but held back by a leathery band around the crown. They carried long,
bone batons, and waved these at the trees, and where they passed, so the flames
sprang up again, the fire rekindled as furious as before.

At last Christian came back to me, and I realized that the delay, the strange
sense of pause, was because he did not know what to do with me. He drew his
knife and stuck it hard into the shed beside me, and he leaned on the hilt,
taking his weight, resting his chin on his hands, and focusing not upon me, but
upon the grain of the pitch-painted wood slats. He was a tired man, a weary man.
Everything about him, from his breathing to the shadows around his eyes, told me
that.

'You've aged,' I said, pointing out the obvious.

'Have I?' He smiled wearily, then spoke slowly. 'Yes. I suppose I have. Many
years have passed, for me. I went a long way inwards, trying to escape the
beast. But the beast belonged in the heartwoods, and I couldn't outrun it. It's
a strange world, Steven. A strange and terrible world beyond the hogback glade.
The old man knew so much, and he knew so little. He knew of the heartwoods; he
had seen, or heard of, or imagined the heartwoods, but his only way to get there
. . .' He broke off and looked at me curiously. Then he smiled again and
straightened up. Touching me on the cheek, he shook his head. 'What in the name
of the woodnymph Handryama am I going to do with you?'