The Buried Giant (39 page)

The old man hesitates still, but feels his wife shiver in his arms, and his eyes look to me with desperate entreaty.

“If you wish,” I say, “I’ll carry the good lady and make the way to the cove easier.”

“I’ll carry her myself, sir,” he says, like one defeated yet defiant. “If she’s not able to go by her own feet, then she’ll go in my arms.”

What to say to this, the husband now almost as weak as the wife?

“The cove’s not far,” I say gently. “But the way down’s steep, with pits and twisted roots. Please allow me to carry her, sir. It’s the safest thing. You’ll walk close beside us where the way allows. Come, when the rain eases, we’ll hurry down, for see how the good lady trembles for cold.”

The rain stopped before long and I carried her down the hillpath, the old man stumbling behind, and when we came out to the beach, the dark clouds were swept to one side of the sky as if by an impatient hand. The reddish hues of evening all across the shore, a foggy sun falling towards the sea, and my boat rocking out in the waves. With another show of gentleness, I laid her down under the rude cover of dried skins and branches, placing her head against a cushion of mossy rock. He comes fussing about her even before I can step away.

“See there,” I say, and crouch beside the slumbering fire. “There’s the island.”

Only a small turn of the head gives the woman a view of the sea, and she lets out a soft cry. He must turn on the hard pebbles, and stares bewildered here and there at the waves.

“There, friend,” I say. “Look there. Midway between the shore and the horizon.”

“My eyes aren’t so good,” he says. “But yes, I believe I see it now. Are those the tops of trees? Or jagged rocks?”

“They’ll be trees, friend, for it’s a gentle place.” I say this all the while breaking twigs and attending the fire. They both look out to the island and I kneel down, the pebbles harsh against my bones, to blow at the embers. This man and woman, did they not come of their own will? Let them decide their own paths, I say to myself.

“Do you feel the warmth now, princess?” he cries. “You’ll soon be yourself again.”

“I see the island, Axl,” she says, and how can I but intrude upon this intimacy? “That’s where our son awaits. So strange how we ever forgot such a thing.”

He mumbles a reply and I see he grows troubled again. “Surely, princess,” he says, “we’re not yet decided. Do we really want to cross to such a place? Besides, we’ve no way to pay for our passage, for we left the tin and coins with the horse.”

Am I to remain silent? “That’s no matter, friends,” I say. “I’ll gladly take what’s owed later from the saddle. That steed won’t wander far.” Some may call this cunning, but I spoke from simple charity, knowing well I would never come upon the horse again. They talked on in gentle voices, and I kept my back to them, attending to the fire. For do I wish to intrude on them? Yet she lifts her voice, and one more steady than before.

“Boatman,” she says. “There’s a tale I once heard, perhaps as a small child. Of an island full of gentle woods and streams, yet also a place of strange qualities. Many cross to it, yet for each who dwells
there, it’s as if he walks the island alone, his neighbours unseen and unheard. Can this be true of the island now before us, sir?”

I go on breaking twigs and placing them carefully about the flame. “Good lady, I know of several islands to fit such a description. Who knows if this one is among them?”

An evasive answer, and one to give her boldness. “I also heard, boatman,” she says, “there are times when these strange conditions cease to prevail. Of special dispensations granted certain travellers. Did I hear right, sir?”

“Dear lady,” I say, “I’m just a humble boatman. It’s not for me to talk of such matters. But since there’s no one else here, let me offer this. I’ve heard it said there may be certain times, perhaps during a storm such as the one just passed, or on a summer’s night when the moon’s full, an islander may get a sense of others moving beside him in the wind. This may be what you once heard, good lady.”

“No, boatman,” she says, “it was something more. I heard it said a man and woman, after a lifetime shared, and with a bond of love unusually strong, may travel to the island with no need to roam it apart. I heard they may enjoy the pleasures of one another’s company, as they did through all the years before. Could this be a true thing I heard, boatman?”

“I’ll say it again, good lady. I’m just a boatman, charged with ferrying over those who wish to cross the water. I can speak only of what I observe in my daily toil.”

“Yet there’s no one here now but you to guide us, boatman. So I ask this of you, sir. If you now ferry my husband and me, can it be we’ll not be parted, but free to walk the island arm in arm the way we go now?”

“Very well, good lady. I’ll speak to you frankly. You and your husband are a pair as we boatmen rarely set eyes upon. I saw your unusual devotion to each other even as you came riding through the
rain. So there’s no question but that you’ll be permitted to dwell on the island together. Be assured on that point.”

“What you say fills me with happiness, boatman,” she says, and appears to sag in relief. Then she says, “And who knows? During a storm, or on a calm moonlit night, Axl and I may glimpse our son close by. Even speak with him a word or two.”

The fire now burning steadily I rise to my feet. “See there,” I say, pointing out to sea. “The boat stirs in the shallows. But I keep my oar hidden in a nearby cave, dipped in a rockpool where tiny fish circle. Friends, I’ll go now to fetch it, and while I’m gone, you may talk here between you, unhindered by my presence. Let’s have you come to your decision once and for all if this is a voyage you wish to make. Now I’ll leave you a moment.”

But she will not release me so easily. “One word more before you go, boatman,” she says. “Tell us if when you return, before you’ll consent to ferry us, you intend to question us each in turn. For I heard this was the way among boatmen, to discover those rare ones fit to walk the island unseparated.”

They both gaze at me, the evening light upon their faces, and I see his filled with suspicion. I meet her eyes, not his.

“Good lady,” I say, “I’m grateful for this reminder. In my haste I may easily have neglected what I’m bound by custom to do. It’s as you say, yet in this case only for the sake of tradition. For as I said, I saw from the first how you were a pair tied by an extraordinary devotion. Now excuse me, friends, for my time grows short. Have your decision for my return.”

So I left them then, and walked across the evening shore till the waves grew loud and the pebbles turned underfoot to wet sand. Whenever I looked back at them, I saw the same sight, if each time a little smaller: the grey old man, crouched in solemn conference before his woman. Of her I could see little, for the rock she leant
on hid all but the rise and fall of her hand as she spoke. A devoted couple, but I had my duty, and I went on to the cave and the oar.

When I came back to them, the oar upon my shoulder, I could see their decision in their eyes even before he said, “We ask you to take us to the island, boatman.”

“Then let’s hasten to the boat, for I’m already much delayed,” I say, and move away as though to hurry towards the waves. But then I turn back, saying, “Ah, but wait. We must first go through this foolish ritual. Then, friends, let me propose this. Good sir, if you’d rise now and walk a little way from us. Once you’re out of hearing, I’ll speak briefly with your gentle wife. She needn’t stir from where she sits. Then in time I’ll come to you wherever you stand on this beach. We’ll soon be done and return here to fetch this good lady to the boat.”

He stares at me, a part of him now longing to trust me. He says at last, “Very well, boatman, I’ll wander a moment about this shore.” Then to his woman, “We’ll be parted but an instant, princess.”

“There’s no concern, Axl,” she says. “I’m much restored, and safe under this kind man’s protection.”

Away he goes, walking slowly to the east of the cove and the great shadow of the cliff. The birds scatter before him, but return quickly to peck as before at their seaweed and rock. He limps slightly, and his back bent like one close to defeat, yet I see still some small fire within him.

The woman sits before me looking up with a soft smile. What am I to ask?

“Don’t fear my questions, good lady,” I say. I would wish now for a long wall nearby, to which to turn my face even as I speak to her, but there’s only the evening breeze, and the low sun on my face. I crouch before her, as I saw her husband do, pulling my robe up to my knees.

“I don’t fear your questions, boatman,” she says quietly. “For I know what I feel in my heart for him. Ask me what you will. My answers will be honest, yet prove only one thing.”

I ask a question or two, the usual questions, for have I not done this often enough? Then every now and then, to encourage her and to show I attend, I ask another. But there’s hardly the need, for she speaks freely. She talks on, her eyes sometimes closing, her voice always clear and steady. And I listen with care, as is my duty, even as my gaze goes across the cove, to the figure of the tired old man pacing anxiously among the small rocks.

Then remembering the work awaiting me elsewhere, I break into her recollections, saying, “I thank you, good lady. Let me now hurry to your good husband.”

Surely he begins to trust me now, for why else wander so far from his wife? He hears my footsteps and turns as from a dream. The evening glow upon him, and I see his face no longer filled with suspicion, but a deep sorrow, and small tears in his eyes.

“How goes it, sir?” he asks quietly.

“A pleasure to listen to your good lady,” I reply, matching my voice to his soft tones, though the wind grows unruly. “But now, friend, let’s be brief, so we can be on our way.”

“Ask what you will, sir.”

“I have no searching question, friend. But your good wife just now recalled a day the two of you carried eggs back from a market. She said she held them in a basket before her, and you walked beside her, peering into the basket all the way for fear her steps would injure the eggs. She recalled the time with happiness.”

“I think I do too, boatman,” he says, and looks at me with a smile. “I was anxious for the eggs because she’d stumbled on a previous errand, breaking one or two. A small walk, but we were well contented that day.”

“It’s as she remembers it,” I say. “Well then, let’s waste no more
time, for this talk was only to satisfy custom. Let’s go fetch the good lady and carry her to the boat.”

And I begin to lead the way back to the shelter and his wife, but now he goes at a dreary pace, slowing me with him.

“Don’t be afraid of those waves, friend,” I say, thinking here’s the source of his worry. “The estuary’s well protected and no harm can come between here and the island.”

“I’ll readily trust your judgement, boatman.”

“Friend, as it happens,” I say, for why not fill this slow journey with a little more talk? “There was a question I might have asked just now had we more time. Since we walk together this way, would you mind my telling you what it was?”

“Not at all, boatman.”

“I was simply going to ask, was there some remembrance from your years together still brought you particular pain? That’s all it was.”

“Do we still speak as part of the questioning, sir?”

“Oh no,” I say. “That’s over and finished. I asked the same of your good wife earlier, so it was merely to satisfy my own curiosity. Remain silent on it, friend, I take no offence. Look there.” I point to a rock we are passing. “Those aren’t mere barnacles. With more time, I’d show how to prise them from the rockside to make a handy supper. I’ve often toasted them over a fire.”

“Boatman,” he says gravely, and his steps slow further still. “I’ll answer your question if you wish. I can’t be certain how she answered, for there’s much held in silence even between those like us. What’s more, until this day, a she-dragon’s breath polluted the air, robbing memories both happy and dark. But the dragon’s slain and already many things grow clearer in my mind. You ask for a memory brings particular pain. What else can I say, boatman, than it’s of our son, almost grown when we last saw him, but who left us before a beard was on his face. It was after some quarrel and only to a nearby village, and I thought it a matter of days before he returned.”

“Your wife spoke of the same, friend,” I tell him. “And she said she’s to blame for his leaving.”

“If she convicts herself for the first part of it, there’s plenty to lay at my door for the next. For it’s true there was a small moment she was unfaithful to me. It may be, boatman, I did something to drive her to the arms of another. Or was it what I failed to say or do? It’s all distant now, like a bird flown by and become a speck in the sky. But our son was witness to its bitterness, and at an age too old to be fooled with soft words, yet too young to know the many strange ways of our hearts. He left vowing never to return, and was still away from us when she and I were happily reunited.”

“This part your wife told me. And how soon after came news of your good son taken by the plague swept the country. My own parents were lost in that same plague, friend, and I remember it well. But why blame yourself for it? A plague sent by God or the devil, but what fault lies with you for it?”

“I forbade her to go to his grave, boatman. A cruel thing. She wished us to go together to where he rested, but I wouldn’t have it. Now many years have passed and it’s only a few days ago we set off to find it, and by then the she-dragon’s mist had robbed us of any clear knowledge of what we sought.”

“Ah, so that’s it,” I say. “That part your wife was shy to reveal. So it was you stopped her visiting his grave.”

“A cruel thing I did, sir. And a darker betrayal than the small infidelity cuckolded me a month or two.”

“What did you hope to gain, sir, preventing not just your wife but even yourself grieving at your son’s resting place?”

“Gain? There was nothing to gain, boatman. It was just foolishness and pride. And whatever else lurks in the depths of a man’s heart. Perhaps it was a craving to punish, sir. I spoke and acted forgiveness, yet kept locked through long years some small chamber in
my heart that yearned for vengeance. A petty and black thing I did her, and my son also.”