I could not see where the two who had carried me up the tree had gone: perhaps into a hut. I saw no one else and no one came. From the golden light breaking through the tree tops it was plain the sun had risen. I was sore and bruised and aching, the softness of the moss only making me more aware of my discomforts. All the same, and despite the growing evidence of day, at last I fell asleep.
I was awakened by being prodded in the ribs; not roughly, more by way of appraisal. I tried to jerk away but the ropes held me. I opened my eyes and saw what was happening. An enormously fat woman, in a shapeless brown dress, was nudging me with the big toe of a large and very dirty foot. When I stared she looked down at me indifferently and, after one last prod, waddled away and disappeared into one of the nearer huts.
In about ten minutes a figure appeared from the same hut. This was a man and could have been one of those who had taken me: he was sinewy and had an athlete’s walk. I saw with a shiver of fear that he carried a knife, and made an effort to free myself. A futile one; I had discovered already that their skill in roping equaled their running.
He reached me, stooped, and with a quick flash of the knife cut my bonds. The ropes parted and fell away. I tried to move my arms but could not: cramp held them. The man began to rub my arms with his hands. His fingers were firm and sure, kneading the muscles into life. He said:
“What is your name, stranger?”
His accent was far more barbarous than that of the Wilsh but his tone was surprisingly friendly. I said warily:
“My name is Luke.”
“I am Jan.” His face cracked into a distinct smile. “Welcome, Luke, to the eyrie of the Sky People.”
I asked: “Why did you bring me here?”
He went on rubbing and smiling. “The stiffness will soon go. Then we will find food for you. I am sure you must be hungry.”
• • •
They were very strange, these who called themselves the Sky People. The men all showed the amiability of Jan, and were as talkative as they had been silent during the long run through the night. In the village it was the women who scarcely spoke and who ignored me, after that first prodding with the toe. They were immensely fat; even the girl children were balloon-bodied and moon-faced. They ate a great deal, being served with food before the men took any, and did no work of any kind. It was the men who swept the huts, brought fresh moss, made plates from big evergreen leaves which they stitched into the shape of dishes, and even cooked the food. This last was not done in the tree-village but somewhere on the forest floor, and brought up in wicker panniers.
It would have been impossible, in any case, for the women to climb and I realized eventually that they never, from birth to death, left the village. The men were strong and lithe and skilled hunters, bringing back beasts of the chase, and grain and dairy products which they exacted as tribute from nearby earth-dwelling tribes. These they despised, but they cosseted and seemed almost to worship their gross womenfolk. All decisions were left to them, in particular to the one I had first seen and who was their Chief. The men vied with each other in offering tidbits to the gaping maw which was her mouth. Her appetite matched her size and weight. Once a pannier of cakes was brought up and I saw her munch a good three dozen, washing them down with gargantuan drafts of ale.
The men, of course, had built both the huts and the floor of interlaced branches on which the village stood, and kept them in repair. The moss was a polyplant which grew plentifully in the forest. Apart from its softness, it was resistant to rain and protected against heat and cold. The huts were lined with it and it was also used to caulk the external cracks. It kept the huts warm in winter when the trees were leafless and gales blew in from the west and north.
They were cunning builders. In a wind the trees swayed all round and the floor creaked in a manner that alarmed me, but everything held firm. They had also, as I discovered on my first night there, built an equally strong wooden cage in which I was placed and the door padlocked. (The lock and key were among the very few metal objects they had apart from their daggers, and I do not think that they themselves worked metal at all.) I had a bed of moss which was not uncomfortable and they gave me blankets, but there seemed small chance of my getting free. The bars were of thick wood and stoutly roped together. If I could have got hold of a knife . . . but they watched me closely.
Yet in a friendly manner, when I repeated the question as to why I had been captured and brought to the village, they grinned and shrugged and countered with questions of their own. There seemed little point in refusing to answer these, and they listened with great interest. They had heard of the city in the north and looked impressed when I told them I had been there, and that the King himself was my friend and had given me the signet ring I wore on my little finger.
This they examined, passing the band of gold with its blue stone carrying the eagle seal from one to another. They would take it, I thought, to give to one of their fat women, and I resigned myself to the loss. But a thought struck me. I said to Jan:
“The King has many such treasures. And others which would please you and your Ladies. Silver mirrors in which they can look at themselves, precious combs for their hair. If you send him a messenger, carrying that ring and word from me of what is needed, he will give them as ransom for my release.”
They were fascinated by this notion, as I had hoped, and discussed it volubly. A ring for every woman in their tribe? I promised it on Cymru’s behalf. And smaller ones for the girl children? That, too. And these mirrors and combs of which I spoke—what were they like? I described them and they hung on my words. I said at last:
“Is it a bargain?”
Jan said: “We must ask the Chief.”
I knew him better than the others and had thought at first he had some position of importance. But I knew now that, when they were inside the village at any rate, all men were equal, and equally subservient to the women. I said:
“But you will ask her?”
“Of course! Two rings each, do you think?”
This element of bargaining raised my spirits further.
I said: “Two, assuredly. Will you ask her now?”
He looked shocked. “She is resting and must not be disturbed. Later I will.” He took the ring from a comrade and gave it back to me. Gesturing to the others to draw near, he went on: “I have made a new poem. Listen.”
It was another peculiar feature of these peculiar men, who were both silent-running hunters and yapping housewives, that they had a passion for making up verses. Jan recited while the rest listened and then noisily applauded. I knew little of poems but this one struck me as particularly bad. I thought it politic, all the same, to join in the applause.
• • •
I spoke to Jan again in the evening. He said:
“The ransom? Ah, yes. The Chief agrees.”
“Then you will send a messenger to the King?”
“Of course. Hear this, Luke.
“Our huts are swayed
By tempests from far lands,
But like our hearts are anchored
To our high-branched home.”
“Very good,” I said. “Can I see him?”
“Who?”
“The one who is to go as messenger.”
“That will be arranged. The Chief will see to it.”
“But the ring?”
“I will give it to her to give to him.”
“And the message?”
“Say it.”
“It would be better written.”
He said with scorn: “We do not write things down. We can keep them in our minds.”
They did have remarkable memories. Some of their poems were extremely and regrettably long, but no one ever fumbled a word. I said: