“My wife is even now packing provisions for the journey.”
“Then please wait by the south gate. I’ll come by presently with the mare and the boy Edwin. I’m grateful to you, sir, for the sharing of this trouble. And glad we’re to be companions for a day or two.”
Chapter Four
Never in his life had he seen his village from such a height and distance, and it amazed him. It was like an object he could pick up in his hand, and he flexed his fingers experimentally over the view in the afternoon haze. The old woman, who had watched his ascent with anxiety, was still at the foot of the tree, calling up to him to climb no further. But Edwin ignored her, for he knew trees better than anyone. When the warrior had ordered him to keep watch, he had selected the elm with care, knowing that for all its sickly appearance, it would possess its own subtle strength and welcome him. It commanded, moreover, the best view of the bridge, and of the mountain road leading up to it, and he could see clearly the three soldiers talking to the rider. The latter had now dismounted, and holding his restless horse by the bridle, was arguing fiercely with the soldiers.
He knew his trees — and this elm was just like Steffa. “Let him be carried off and left to rot in the forest.” That was what the older boys always said about Steffa. “Isn’t that what happens to old cripples unable to work?” But Edwin had seen Steffa for what he was: an ancient warrior, still secretly strong, and with an understanding that went beyond even that of the elders. Steffa, alone in the village, had once known battlefields — it was the battlefields that had taken his legs — and that was why, in turn, Steffa had been able to recognise Edwin for what he was. There were other boys stronger, who might amuse themselves pinning Edwin to the ground and beating him. But it was Edwin, not any of them, who possessed a warrior’s soul.
“I’ve watched you, boy,” old Steffa had once said to him. “Under a storm of fists, your eyes still calm, as if memorising each blow. Eyes I’ve seen only on the finest warriors moving coldly through the rage of battle. Some day soon you’ll become one to fear.”
And now it was starting. It was coming true, just as Steffa had predicted.
As a strong breeze swayed the tree, Edwin moved his grip to a different branch and tried again to recall the events of the morning. His aunt’s face had become distorted out of all recognition. She had been shrieking a curse at him, but Elder Ivor had not let her finish, pushing her away from the doorway of the barn, blocking Edwin’s view of her as he did so. His aunt had always been good to him, but if she now wanted to curse him, Edwin did not care. Not long ago she had tried to get Edwin to address her as “mother,” but he had never done so. For he knew his real mother was travelling. His real mother would not shriek at him like that, and have to be dragged away by Elder Ivor. And this morning, in the barn, he had heard his real mother’s voice.
Elder Ivor had pushed him inside, into the darkness, and the door had closed, taking away his aunt’s twisted face — and all those other faces. At first the wagon had appeared only as a looming black shape in the middle of the barn. Then gradually he had distinguished its outline, and when he had reached towards it, the wood had felt moist and rotten. Outside, the voices were shouting again, and then the cracking noises had come. They had started sporadically, then several had come at once, accompanied by a splintering sound, after which the barn had seemed slightly less dark.
He knew the noises were stones striking the rickety walls, but he ignored them to concentrate on the wagon before him. How long ago had it last been used? Why did it stand so crookedly? If it was now of no use, why was it kept like this in the barn?
It was then he had heard her voice: difficult to distinguish at first, on account of the din outside and the sound of the stones, but it had grown steadily more clear. “It’s nothing, Edwin,” she was saying. “Nothing at all. You can bear it easily.”
“But the elders may not be able to hold them back for ever,” he had said into the dark, though under his breath, even as his hand had stroked the side of the wagon.
“It’s nothing, Edwin. Nothing at all.”
“The stones may break these thin walls.”
“Don’t worry, Edwin. Didn’t you know? Those stones are under your control. Look, what’s that before you?”
“An old and broken wagon.”
“Well, there you are. Go round and round the wagon, Edwin. Go round and round the wagon, because you’re the mule tethered to the big wheel. Round and round, Edwin. The big wheel can only turn if you turn it, and only if you turn it can the stones keep coming. Round and round the wagon, Edwin. Go round and round and round the wagon.”
“Why must I turn the wheel, mother?” Even as he had spoken, his feet had started circling the wagon.
“Because you’re the mule, Edwin. Round and round. Those sharp cracking noises you hear. They can’t continue unless you turn the wheel. Turn it, Edwin, round and round. Round and round the wagon.”
So he had followed her commands, keeping his hands on the upper edges of the wagon’s boards, passing one hand over the other to maintain his momentum. How many times had he gone round like that? A hundred? Two hundred? He would keep seeing, in one corner, a mysterious mound of earth; in another corner, where a narrow line of sun fell across the floor of the barn, a dead crow on its side, feathers still intact. In the half-dark, these two sights — the mound of earth and the dead crow — had come around again and again. Once he had asked out loud, “Did my aunt really curse me?” but no reply had come, and he had wondered if his mother had gone away. But then her voice had returned, saying, “Do your duty, Edwin. You’re the mule. Don’t stop just yet. You control everything. If you stop, so will those noises. So why fear them?”
Sometimes he went three or even four times around the wagon without hearing a single sharp crack. But then as though to compensate, several cracks would come at once, and the shouting outside would rise to a new pitch.
“Where are you, mother?” he had asked once. “Are you still travelling?”
No reply had come, but then several turns later, she had said, “I’d have given you brothers and sisters, Edwin, many of them. But you’re on your own. So find the strength for me. You’re twelve years old, almost grown now. You must be by yourself four, five strong sons. Find the strength and come rescue me.”
As another breeze rocked the elm, Edwin wondered if the barn he had been in was the same one in which the people had hidden the day the wolves had come to the village. Old Steffa had told him the story often enough.
“You were very young then, boy, perhaps too young to remember. Wolves, in broad daylight, three of them, walking calmly right into the village.” Then Steffa’s voice would fill with contempt. “And the village hid in fear. Some men were away in the fields, it’s true. But there were plenty still here. They hid themselves in the threshing barn. Not just the women and the children but the men too. The wolves had strange eyes, they said. Best not to challenge them. So the wolves took all they wished. They slaughtered the hens. Feasted on the goats. And all the while, the village hid. Some in their houses. Most in the threshing barn. Cripple that I am, they left me where I was, sitting in the barrow, these broken legs poking out, beside the ditch outside Mistress Mindred’s. The wolves trotted towards me. Come and eat me, I said, I’ll not hide in a barn for a wolf. But they cared not for me and I watched them go right past, their fur as good as brushing these useless feet. They took all they wished, and only after they’d long departed did those brave men creep out of their hiding places. Three wolves in daylight, and not a man here to stand up to them.”