Jarek and I walked into the village, passing a group of children playing by the open doors of the central hall. There was much giggling as the youngsters, dressed in simple tunics and trews of wool — most of them grime-ingrained — chased each other around the building. An old man sitting in a narrow doorway nodded at Jarek and lifted a weary hand in greeting. Jarek waved and moved on.
A young girl, scarce in her teens, watched us as we passed. Her blonde hair was cropped close to her head and her eyes were wide and frightened. She shrank back against the side of the building, her gaze locked to us. I smiled at her, and she turned and sped away between the houses.
‘Ilka,’ said Jarek. ‘The village whore.’
‘She is but a child.’
‘Fifteen or thereabouts,’ he said, ‘but she was raped two years ago in the forest and left to die. She is an orphan with no hope of marriage. What else could she become?’
‘Why no hope of marriage? She is comely.’
‘The rapists cut out her tongue,’ he answered.
‘And for that she is condemned?’
He stopped and turned to face me. ‘Why do you say condemned? She has employment, she earns her bread, she is not despised.’
I was lost for words. I could see from his expression that he was genuinely curious, and lacked any understanding of the girl’s grief. Her future had been stolen from her, the gift of speech cruelly ripped from her mouth. Yet she was the one who faced a lifetime of punishment. I tried to explain this but Jarek merely chuckled, shook his head and walked on. I wondered then if I had missed some subtlety, or overlooked an obvious point. But her face stayed in my mind, haunted and frightened.
We came at last to a narrow house built near the water’s edge. Beyond the dwelling was a tall net hut and a fenced area which had been dug over and shaped for a vegetable patch. Nothing was growing now, but inside the house there were sacks of carrots and dried onions, and various containers filled with edible tubers that were unknown to me. It was a long, one-roomed dwelling with a central hearth of fired clay and stone. Screens had been set around the hearth and there were four rough-hewn seats close to the fire. Against the far wall was a wide bed. Jarek loosed the string of his bow and laid it against the wall, his quiver and sword alongside it. Shrugging off his sheepskin cloak, he sat beside the fire staring into the flames.
‘Who lives here?’ I asked, pulling up a seat alongside him.
‘Megan,’ he answered, which told me little.
‘Is she your lover?’
He chuckled and shook his head; he had a fine smile, warm and friendly. ‘You’ll meet her soon enough,’ he said. ‘Show me some magick. I have been here for only a few moments and already I’m bored.’
‘What would you like to see?’
‘I don’t care. Entertain me. Pretend I’m a full audience in a tavern.’
‘Very well…’ I sat back, thinking through my repertoire.
Then I smiled. Before his eyes on the dirt floor a small building appeared, then another, and another. Between them was an alleyway. A young girl, no taller than the length of my hand, came running into sight pursued by ruffians. A brightly-garbed young man carrying a harp entered the scene. ‘Stop that!’ he cried, his voice thin and reedy and far away. The ruffians advanced on him, but suddenly a tall hero leapt from an upper balcony. He moved like a dancer, yet his sword was deadly and soon the ruffians were either dead or fleeing. I let the scene fade from sight. It took great concentration, but to have enchantment merely vanish always seemed to me to be the mark of a clumsy magicker.
He was silent for a moment, staring at the dirt floor. ‘That’s good, bard,’ he said softly. ‘That’s very good. Is that how it looked to you?’
‘It did at the time.’
‘How have you lived so long?’ he asked me.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The romance in your heart. This world of ours is a garden of evil. You should have been a monk, locked away in some grey monastery with high walls and strong gates.’
‘Life can be like the stories,’ I said. ‘There are still heroes, men of great soul.’
‘You have met them?’
‘No, but that does not mean they do not exist. Manannan, the Last Knight of the Gabala, or Rabain the Vampyre Slayer, both walked these woods, saw the stars above the same mountains. It is a dream of mine to see such a man, perhaps to serve him. A soldier or a poet, I do not mind. But someone with the courage to change this world, a man with a soul as bright as the last star of the morning.’
‘Dream on, bard. Morningstar, indeed! You know much of weapons?’
‘Very little. My older brothers were trained to be knights. Not I.’
‘A morningstar is a terrible weapon. It has a short handle of iron and attached to it is a chain; on the end of the chain is a ball of spiked metal. It is a kind of mace. When a man is struck by it he dies, his skull smashed to fragments.’
‘That is not the Morning Star I spoke of.’
‘I know, but you spoke of a dream. I am giving you the reality.’
‘Only your reality.’
‘What is it you are looking for? Glory? What?’
I shrugged. ‘What do all men seek? I want to he happy. I would like a wife and sons one day. But I want them to grow in a land where there is hope for the future, where men do not take to the road. If that is a hopeless dream — and maybe it is — then I will sire no sons. I will wander, and play my harp, and weave my magick until the end.’
I expected him to laugh, or to say something scornful. But somehow what he did was worse. He stood and walked to a nearby water-butt, lifting a copper gourd and drinking deeply.
‘You think the weather will break soon?’ he asked me.
I did not answer him. I felt a sudden need for music and took my harp outside, walking to the water’s edge and sitting beside a long, narrow boat. The wind was rippling the water, and small sections of ice came floating by on the grey surface. Snow began to fall and I played for the snow, my fingers plucking daintily at the shorter strings, the higher notes, the music drifting out over the lake. Darker, deeper tones crept in as the storm-clouds gathered.
Several villagers came by as I played but I ignored them. The first person I noticed was the whore, Ilka. She crept in close and sat hugging her knees, her huge blue eyes fixed to my face. The music changed as I saw her, becoming wistful and sad. She shook her head and rose, beginning a curious dance in the mud. I saw her then as a nymph, a magical eldritch creature trapped in a world that understood nothing. And the music changed again, lifting and swelling, still sorrowful but filled with a promise of new tomorrows.
At last my fingers became tired and the music died. Ilka stopped too, and looked at me with those wide, haunted eyes. Her expression was hard to read. I smiled and said something — I don’t remember what it was — but fear came back to her then and she scampered away into the gathering dusk.
Towards evening I saw Wulf and his killers striding towards the village.
For a moment only I was filled with stark terror; but then I saw the children running up to meet them. The hunchback lifted one small boy high into the air, perching him on his twisted shoulder, and the sound of laughter filled the village.
Jarek was right, in part at least.
This forest was a garden of evil.
CHAPTER THREE
I see that you are quizzical, my ghostly friend. How, you wonder, does the laughter of children in such circumstances denote evil? Well, think on this… is it not comforting to believe that all acts of murder and malice are committed by brutes with no souls? Worshippers of Unclean Powers?
But how dispiriting to see a group of men coming home from a day of toil, ready to play for an hour with their children, to hold their wives close, to sit at their hearth-fires, when their work has been the foul slaughter of innocent travelers. You take my point? Evil is at its most vile when it is practised by ordinary men.