“What's wrong with you, boy?” demanded Tylag. His uncle's voice came close and strong in his ear, and Brand made a croaking sound in reply. Tylag had once been the chief of the Riverton Constabulary, and his old training showed in times like this.
“He's gaping like a gigged bog-yelper,” said Corbin's older brother Sam. He had massive arms, the biggest in the family. He walked with a dragging foot, and everyone knew he worked his arms all the harder to make up for it.
“Here now, off with you!” ordered Tylag, waving away his sons. “Back to your stations before we swamp the ferry with all you lot standing at one corner.”
Brand shook himself, suddenly aware that he was sitting on the cold wet logs of the ferry, his right hand still clutching the thick landline. He noticed that his face was wet too, as river water had lapped up and splashed him. His eyes focused on his uncle, and then upon Jak and Corbin, all of whom looked worried.
“Did you see him?” Brand asked.
“Who?” demanded Tylag. He helped Brand to his feet. “See who?”
Brand looked to Jak, who looked even more concerned than before. Jak turned to look at the western shore of the river, into the Deepwood. “No, no, that way,” said Brand, gesturing up at the cliffs. “Up there.”
“He was on Stone Island?” demanded Jak.
“The shadow horseman?” asked Corbin.
Tylag was looking from one to another of the boys in confusion. “What's going on here?” he demanded gruffly. “I'm not accustomed to ignorance when aboard my own ferry!”
Brand, who was feeling better, stood up unaided and quickly explained. This time, however, he added in his feelings of numbness and cold dread. When he had finished, Corbin told the story of the great owl at the window the night before.
Tylag was left rubbing his heavy growth of beard, which was even thicker and redder than Corbin's was. Corbin's brother Sam scoffed and told them they were all scared of their own shadows, literally, but Tylag halted him with a raised hand. “No, no, this might fit,” said Tylag slowly. He looked older somehow, more worried and daunted than Brand had ever seen him. Brand felt responsible for everything and suddenly wished he had kept the whole thing to himself. His Uncle Tylag had never looked weak. Even when Brand's father, Tylag's brother, had died, he had looked stronger than he did now.
“Your Aunt Suzenna saw one of the Wee Folk just a few nights ago,” said Tylag.
“One of the Wee Folk?” gasped Brand, feeling a rush of wonder and fear all at once.
“Yes, Mama-cat chased him off. He was after her kittens in the barn,” Tylag grunted and half-smiled. “She always was a good ratter. She came home with a scrap of his coattails in her claws.”
“But what has that got to do with the shadow horseman?”
Tylag didn’t answer for a moment, clearly he was thinking hard. “We must get news of these events to the Riverton council,” he muttered at last.
They pressed him for answers on the rest of the journey, but he only shook his head at them, deep in thought. “It's been a strange autumn,” was all he would say. Tylag had been the head of the Rabing clan since Brand's father had died, as he had been the second oldest child of Gram Rabing's family. Old Gram had passed the clan leadership to her children on her seventieth birthday, and now that she was nearly ninety she rarely did more than offer a word or two of sage advice. As the head of the Rabing clan, Tylag was a key member of the Riverton Council.
Brand pulled the ropes along with the rest of them, his strength had returned if not his peace of mind. He could not imagine what was going on, but felt it had to be something terrible. Could the Pact with the Faerie have been broken? Wasn't the great Offering that the folk of the Haven had spent so long gathering this hard season enough?
It took only a short while to get the ferry to the stony shores of the eastern point where a cart and oxen awaited. The men loaded the cart quickly, with many wary glances cast up at the ridge. Brand himself felt cold dread and guilt for having put so many years onto his uncle's face.
Tylag seemed to pick up on his mood. He stumped over and threw an arm around Brand. He squeezed with this one arm, giving him a crude hug. “You're getting so tall boy, I can hardly look you in the eye!” he said, some of his normal bravado returning. Brand noted that he was indeed several inches taller than his uncle was, although not nearly as wide. “I want you and your brother to come with me to meet the clan leaders. You too, Corbin,” he said over his shoulder.
The boys nodded and a few hours later-after a fine lunch where Aunt Suzenna surpassed herself once again-they all headed back to Riverton. Corbin and Jak rode behind Tator with the load of melons and berrywine casks, but this time Brand rode on Tylag’s on his ox-cart. Ahead of them, the oxen lowed. All around them, the sheep that Corbin's brothers were herding to the common bleated and rang the bells at their necks. Brand glanced back wistfully many times at Froghollow. He had the sinking feeling that he was leaving something behind forever.
Chapter Seven
On the way, Tylag grilled Brand about the details of his encounters. Before they had left, he had inspected the damage done by the owl to his windowsill as well. He had waved away Jak and Brand's apologies for the damage as irrelevant. Brand answered all the questions as best he could. It seemed clear after a time that Tylag was searching for something, some kind of hint, perhaps.
“Was this man wearing clothes, would you say?” he asked, looking at Brand with a peculiar intensity.
“Yes, a cloak at least. Although it seemed to be of some kind of odd, flowing material. Not woolen, I'm sure of it.”
Tylag nodded. “What about headgear? Did he bear a hat or some type of helm?”
Brand shook his head.
“Would you say that the man on the cliffs just now was the same, or a different one?”
“Most likely the same,” reported Brand. Could there be many of these shadow men? The thought was alarming. He turned on the driver's board and eyed the forests around them. Suddenly, they seemed far less friendly. “Do you know this man?”
“I should say not!” shouted Tylag with sudden intensity. He was loud enough to attract the attention of Jak and Corbin, who turned to look at them. Seeing Brand's uncomprehending stare, Tylag waved away his concern with his large hands. “It matters nothing, boy. What is important is that I get you to see Myrrdin straight away.”
“Myrrdin!” gasped Brand. “The Clanless One?”
Tylag nodded firmly. “The same.”
Brand fell silent for a time. It seemed that all his worst fears were being realized. Myrrdin was a traveling man from distant lands who aided with the Harvest Moon ceremonies each year. It was clear he was no peddler, and no one knew where his home was, or even if he had one. Some wagging tongues had gone so far as to label him a wizard, although most of the clearer heads scoffed at this idea. Wizards were myths-the talk of legends like the stories about the Dragon's Eyes, the colored jewels of power. The Faerie, however-they were very real.
If this involved Myrrdin, then it certainly involved the Faerie as well. The thought of it made Brand go cold inside. All he could think of was the old stories that his mother had told him as a child. The terrible wonders of the Faerie were without number.
They traveled the rest of the way to Riverton without talking much. The usual festive mood that buoyed up the last few days before the Harvest Moon feast was absent. Even Tator seemed dispirited, his tail and ears drooping.