Poldarn nodded. 'Like you said, 'he replied. 'Though it's interesting, because when I was a kid, my grandfather told me this mountain used to be called Polden's Forge.'
'Well, there you go,' Boarci said, yawning. 'Practically the same thing, though you would know more about that side of things, you being a blacksmith. Though for what it's worth, furnace sounds more like it to me, because you melt stuff down in a furnace, like with the molten rock. Don't suppose there's more than a grain of truth in it, because most of these old tales are just a load of bullshit.'
After they'd eaten and the tables had been put away (they had to stack them diagonally in a corner, on top of a feed bin) the rest of the household dissolved like a morning fog, leaving Poldarn and the Colscegsford people to their own devices. As far as Poldarn was concerned, this meant sleep; if he was now the master of Haldersness, soon to be Ciartans-whatever, he could give himself permission to take the rest of the day off, which he did. Rather ostentatiously, he picked out a blanket, climbed up into the loft and made himself as comfortable as a human being can be while lying on bundles of unthreshed thatching reed. Typically, however, he couldn't get to sleep, even though he was dismally tired, so he lay on his side watching the others for a while, figuring that the sight of a parcel of these people (his people) sitting around with nothing specific to do would be enough to send anybody to sleep, overtired or not. It turned out to be a rather remarkable spectacle, because all they did was sit perfectly still, like birds roosting in a tree-conserving their energy, just as you'd expect with such perfectly efficient creatures. Most of them squatted on the floor, their hands folded in their laps, eyes open (in case of predators, presumably); one or two remained standing, by the door and the window, acting as the sentries for the rest of the flock. Nobody spoke, but Poldarn could tell they were engaged in a slow, quiet debate about something or other, anything from their future in their new environment to the proportion of rosemary to chives in the stew. He wondered about himself, roosting apart from the main body; was it useful to the community to have one far-flung sentry disconnected from the rest, a separate mind constituting a back-up or fail-safe (knowing about volcanoes and what to do in the event of mudslides, because unexpected natural disasters and acts of the god in the cart are predators too, in their fashion), and if so, how had they ever managed to cope before he came home? But there was Boarci, just as separate as he was though in a less acceptable way. He was sitting astride a post vice-bolted to a beam set into the wall, and he was whittling something out of a bit of bone he'd saved from his dinner-something for himself, a purely selfish concern, contributing nothing to the well-being of the community. Confounded parasite, no wonder he's not welcome anywhere…
Poldarn drifted into sleep without realising, and had a dream in which he held a slow, quiet debate of his own with someone he couldn't usually see. Whether or not anything useful was achieved he couldn't remember when he woke up, which defeated the object of the exercise; it was pitch dark, the door being bolted and the windows shuttered, and he could hear the busy sound of the two households breathing in their sleep. It was annoying to be awake and suddenly restless, out of time and step with everyone else. Even if there was anything for him to do he couldn't have done it: the floor was completely covered with sleepers so he couldn't have got to the door without treading on a dozen people; so he sat up and tried hard not to fidget, searching for something to occupy his mind. But the only thoughts he could come up with were uncomfortable ones, mostly to do with how different he was-asleep when they were awake, awake when they were asleep, perched up above them in the reed like a god or a nocturnal carrion-feeder. He couldn't make out faces or identities in the general sprawl of sleepers, but he reckoned that the raw, vibrant snore coming from the far left corner could only be coming from Boarci (like a cross-cut saw ripping into green timber, with just a suggestion of an axe being sharpened on a clogged grindstone). He closed his eyes and tried to isolate different breathers-the head of a household should be able to identify his people even in the dark-but it was like trying to pick out the sound of one specific wave breaking on a beach. He wondered; are they all dreaming the same dream, are they all at the same point in the same dream, do they dream at all or are they still in session, gradually debating their way down a long, comprehensive agenda, like monks in chapter? He thought of how horses and hawks slept with their eyes open, and wondered whether these people (his people, now more than ever) actually slept at all, or whether when their eyes were closed their one shared mind was still awake, slowly chewing and digesting facts into policies.
As Poldarn was turning this proposition over in his mind, he realised that someone was standing over him. That was strange-he hadn't heard anyone moving about and there was no other way up into the loft except by the ladder. Old instincts made his right hand twitch, but he made himself turn round slowly.
'You should be asleep,' Halder said. 'You've got a busy day tomorrow.'
You're dead, he thought. But not as dead as all that, apparently. 'I know,' he replied, though he couldn't hear himself speak. 'But you know how it is. I'm wide awake now'
Halder nodded. 'I used to get that,' he said. 'Then I'd get to fidgetting, and that'd wake Rannwey up-she hated being woken up in the middle of the night. So we'd both be lying there, wide awake, sulking at each other, till it was morning and we could get up.' He sighed. 'I think it's something to do with the job,' he went on, 'being awake while the rest of 'em are asleep. Truth is, and don't ask me to explain it because I never was one of your deep thinkers, but there's times when you've got to be awake or else they wouldn't be able to sleep. Only when that happens, it's because there's something important on; and in your case, I don't see how it could apply, since you can't hear them.'
'I know,' Poldarn replied. 'I hate that.'
Halder nodded. 'It's going to be a real problem,' he said unhappily. 'Its a bloody shame you haven't been able to get it sorted out yet. Sooner or later you're going to have to, or else this place is going to grind to a halt. It'd be like when someone has a stroke, the body and the brain can't talk to each other. Can't have that, especially now, with the mountain-what was that word of yours again?'
'Volcano.'
'That's right,' Halder said. 'Fact is, I'm starting to forget things. You'd know all about that, of course. I can see now, it can't be easy for you.'
Poldarn frowned. 'What sort of things can't you remember?'
Halder laughed. 'I've forgotten. Which is a bugger, because it's like they never existed, and there's a lot of stuff I should've told you, but I could never make you hear. Won't be long now before it's all gone, and you'll really be on your own-no disrespect to your grandmother, she's a wonderful woman, salt of the earth, but it was never her business to know that sort of thing, so she'll be no help to you at all.'
'I see,' Poldarn said. 'How long do you think it'll be before you've forgotten it all?'
'Depends,' Halder replied. 'If the ground's wet, obviously much sooner than if it's dry. I'd give it a couple of months, this time of year, and then there'll be nothing left but a few bones, and they won't be much use to you, I'm afraid.' He shook his head. 'Everything loses its memory sooner or later, even if you don't melt it or bash it with a hammer it'll rust or rot or just fall apart and turn into dust; and then it's off and away, you'll never get it back again.' He smiled grimly. 'Sometimes it's just as well, other times it's a waste, but there's no getting away from it. You can't put anything back together again, all you can do is make something completely new using the bits of the old one. In your case, that's as close to hope as you're likely to get, though I have a feeling that you're like a really clever craftsman, you can make the same thing identical, over and over again. Which reminds me, you really have got to stick to the blacksmithing now that you're the head man around here. Asburn-' He made a vague gesture. 'He's a bloody good smith, don't get me wrong, but it's not his place, it's yours. You'll see exactly what I mean by that, sooner than you think, and then you'll understand why I've been banging on about it all this time. I wish I could have explained, but you couldn't hear me. You'll just have to take my word for it.'