The middle house was where things ended up when nobody had any immediate use for them. It had a high roof, half-boarded to form a gallery-come-loft, where the apples were spread out on racks and the onion-strings hung from hooks driven into the rafters. There wasn't a middle-house crew as such-people only went there to dump something or collect something-which made it one of the more peaceful places on the farm, somewhere to lurk when you didn't particularly want to be found. If only there was a bit more light in there, Poldarn thought, it'd be a good place to come and read a book, if only I had a book.
He couldn't hear any voices as he walked in through the door into contrast-induced darkness, but that didn't necessarily mean anything, given his people's tendency to long, solemn silences. Sure enough, when he located them, they were standing in front of a neat pile of scrap metal-mostly brass, with some copper and lead-staring at it without moving or speaking. If they noticed him come in, they didn't give any sign. He could only see their backs; Grandfather was easily identified, needless to say, and the older man would have to be Colsceg. Of the other two men, he took an arbitrary guess and assumed that the taller one was the middle son-name, name: Barn or Bran, something like that-which would make the shorter one Egil, the youngest. All Poldarn could see of the daughter was a hank of very long light brown hair, with a pair of heels poking out underneath. Still, he thought, at least she's not bald.
For what seemed like an insufferably long time, nobody moved or spoke. Then the man who was presumably Colsceg dipped his head, meaning Yes, and held out his hand. Grandfather took it and shook it, the inference being that a deal had been struck.
'Ciartan,' Grandfather said without looking round. 'Perhaps you'd like to come over here.'
Now they all turned to face Poldarn, though it wasn't until he was much closer that he could make out any degree of detail in the dim light. Understandably, he looked at the daughter first, and was pleasantly surprised. She was young-half his age, quite likely-and pleasant enough to look at; an oval, slightly flat face with a solemn mouth and round blue eyes, and she wasn't fat or bow-legged or anything. Colsceg was extremely broad, almost square, with a small nose and a stretched-looking white scar from his ear to his beardless chin, an affable-looking type. Barn or Bran was extremely tall, blank-faced, slightly gormless. Egil, if Poldarn had got them the right way round-Egil he recognised.
And Egil recognised him, because as soon as he came forward out of the shadows, Egil's face twisted with sharp, instinctive panic. It only lasted a moment, but so does a sudden loud noise; Poldarn knew that all of them had felt it, and were choosing to ignore it.
Here we go again, Poldarn thought.
Yes, he recognised the face (and it was a very nondescript sort of face, the kind you couldn't begin to describe, if you were asking someone if they'd seen him); but he couldn't remember him at all. There was just a picture in his mind-the same face, twenty years younger, little more than a boy, but staring at him in bleak horror. That was all. No backdrop, no words or movements or associations, nothing but a portrait, Young Man Horrified.
'Ciartan,' said Colsceg. 'Haven't seen you for a while.'
(If he tells me I've grown, Poldarn thought, so help me, I'll strangle him. And as he thought that, Colsceg's lips tweaked into a tiny smile.)
'I'm very sorry,' Poldarn replied, 'but-'
'You don't recognise me.' Colsceg nodded a couple of times. 'Halder's told me about all that. These are my sons, Barn and Egil; and my daughter, Elja.'
At least Poldarn had got the brothers the right way round. Egil's face was completely expressionless now, like plaster after you've smoothed away a blemish. They're all five of them as nervous as cats, Poldarn realised. Curiously enough, that made him feel a whole lot easier. Watching someone else getting twitchy made a pleasant change. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said, thinking sincere as he said it.
Elja smiled at him. She had a nice smile. That was good.
'Thirty years ago,' Halder said abruptly, 'Colsceg and I agreed that, as and when he had a daughter, it would make good sense for you to marry her.' He hesitated. It would be nice, Poldarn reckoned, if he'd paused because he wished he'd put that another way, but he felt sure that wasn't the real reason. 'But you left before Elja was born, and to be straight with you, nobody knew when or if you'd be coming back. Naturally, we both reckoned the deal had lapsed. As it turns out, though, Colsceg hasn't made any other arrangements, so there doesn't seem to be any reason why the original deal shouldn't go through.'
He's leaving something out, Poldarn thought. More than that, he's hiding something, and whatever it is, it's important enough that hiding it is almost the same thing as telling a lie; and Grandfather doesn't really know how to do that. They all know it's a lie.
'That's wonderful,' he heard himself say. 'And of course I'm deeply honoured. Assuming Elja will have me, of course.'
Now I'm talking gibberish, as far as they're concerned. Might as well ask the plough's permission before sticking its nose in the dirt. But they're going to be polite and pretend I didn't say anything. Elja's still smiling, though it's a reasonable bet her jaw's going to start aching if she has to keep it up much longer. Poor kid, he thought; in her shoes, I'd be dead with embarrassment by now.
Anyway, that seemed to conclude the meeting. Colsceg and Halder nodded to each other and walked out of the building, Barn and Elja following as if there was a string tied to their collars. Egil went with them as far as the door, then hesitated.
(I definitely know him from somewhere, Poldarn thought. Question is, do I really want to know the details? Probably not-)
'Ciartan,' Egil said; then he glanced nervously over his shoulder.
'Hello,' Poldarn replied.
The invisible string was pulling Egil hard; he staggered, slightly but perceptibly. 'You're back, then.'
'Yes,' Poldarn replied. 'Obviously we know each other, but I'm afraid I just don't remember you-'
Egil stared at him; curious expression, as if they were fighting and Poldarn had passed up an easy opportunity for a finishing cut, leaving himself wide open. 'Is that right?' Egil said.
Poldarn shrugged. 'Afraid so,' he said. 'Bits and pieces of my memories about this place drift back from time to time, but that's all.'
There was a scar on the back of Egil's hand; Poldarn knew that, though he was sure he hadn't seen it. Only a little one, a patch of smooth white about a thumbnail's width long. No big deal.
'I see,' Egil said. 'And none of these bits and pieces have got me in them.'
'That's right. Not so far, anyway.'
'Good,' Egil said. 'You've changed since you've been away.'
Almost impossible to figure out what he meant by that. 'Have I?'
A short nod. 'You've changed a lot,' Egil said.
'For the better, by the sound of it.'
'Maybe. I'm in no position to judge.'
Poldarn couldn't help grinning. 'That makes two of us,' he said. 'You know, since I've been back, everybody's been trying to make me feel like I was only away for a week or so, not twenty years. But it stands to reason I'll have changed, people do.' He paused, trying to make a decision, then went on: 'Were we friends, then?'
Egil's face had gone dead. 'Oh yes,' he said. 'Very good friends.'
'We used to knock around together? Do things?'
'At one stage.'
A picture formed in Poldarn's mind. 'I think we went crow's-nesting once,' he said. 'I've got this image of us walking across a meadow towards a wood; you were about ten, eleven years old. We're carrying long, thin poles, for pushing the nests out of the trees with.'