Dodinal ate well that night.
Days passed, then months. Remembering everything his father had taught him, he grew into an accomplished hunter. His gifts meant he always knew where to find game, and his presence did not disturb it. It was as if the animals saw him as one of their own, a creature of the wild. When summer arrived and a putrid stench arose from the village he knew it was time to move on. He could not live inside a tree forever. Besides, he was growing at such a rapid rate it was becoming a squeeze getting in and out of the hollow. This did not worry him. He had all summer to find somewhere else.
He had to make one last journey home, to find clothes, as those he wore were becoming too small for him. So foul was the smell that he was forced to cut off a strip from his cloak to bind around his nose and mouth. The tracks of scavengers covered the ground and flies picked their way leisurely across the bony corpses. Dodinal changed his old clothes for some of his father’s and fled for the trees, never to return.
From that day he wandered the forest, sleeping under stars and hunting whenever he was hungry. He learned which plants could be eaten safely and which would make him sick. Each year when the leaves changed colour and fell, he would fashion a shelter roomy enough to light a fire in and there he would spend the winter.
As he grew taller and stronger, he found work in the settlements and farmsteads he encountered on his travels. Ploughing, sowing, harvesting… he laboured for food or for clothing, which was quickly worn through.
And so his time passed, uncomplicated and untroubled, until the day came when he heard the sound of fighting.
The knight snapped out of his reverie. There was a deer close by. Its life did not burn brightly; the animal was either injured or sick. That made no difference to Dodinal, for meat was meat and his mouth watered at the thought of it.
He stole through the trees, closing on his prey. It was a large roe buck, moving away but slowly enough for Dodinal to be confident it had not caught his scent. It had been attacked by some predator, leaving one of its hind legs lame.
Dodinal raised the spear to his shoulder, ready to strike the moment he was close enough. If he threw it from this distance, he could easily miss and the deer would be gone in the blink of an eye. It could outrun him, bad leg or not. He might not get another chance to track game for a long time.
It stopped to lower its head, nosing through the snow in search of food. Dodinal crept up behind it until it was almost close enough to touch, but as soundlessly as he moved, the deer somehow sensed him; it suddenly lifted its head and looked around, startled. Before it could run from him, Dodinal lunged forward and rammed the point of the blade deep into its shoulder, driving it towards its heart.
The deer bucked violently. The spear was torn from Dodinal’s hands as it bolted, racing through the forest with an almost comically lopsided gait. He followed at a slow pace. There was no reason to hurry. The deer was dead but did not yet know it.
Sure enough, he found its body after a few minutes. He wrenched the spear from its side and wiped the blade clean in the snow. Idris would doubtless be pleased to hear the weapon that had served him so well for many years could still put meat on his table.
Butchery done, he picked up the gutted carcass, hoisted it over his shoulder and set off for the village. The deer was heavy, but Dodinal was strong and tireless, all the more so with the prospect of fresh meat that night spurring him on. As long as his luck and the weather held he would be back by late afternoon.
EIGHT
The Great Hall was uncomfortably hot, as much from the mass of bodies that had gathered inside to celebrate as from the fires that burned day and night. Smoke made his eyes sting, and it was difficult to hear anything above the excited chatter of voices as the villagers welcomed the stroke of good fortune that had come their way after so many months of hardship.
The venison had been spit-roasted and stripped from the bone before being shared out between them. There was not much to go around, but Dodinal heard no complaints. Every last scrap of meat had been devoured but the air was still rich with the smell of it.
The chieftain’s great hound lay contentedly near the fire, front paws outstretched as it chewed and crunched on a bone. The rest of the deer carcass would be boiled into a broth, its skin fashioned into clothes, stitched together with its sinew. Nothing went to waste here.
Dodinal had again been given pride of place in the chieftain’s chair at the head of the table. Idris, Rhiannon and Owain sat nearest to him on the benches. Gerwyn was there too, sulking in his chair. It did not escape Dodinal’s notice that the younger man’s lips and chin were glistening with grease; he might resent Dodinal eating the village’s food but had no problem with the village eating his.
Neither had Dodinal’s gift softened his disdain. Gerwyn would not speak directly to him, and scowled whenever Dodinal spoke. There was no doubt he was still fuming at being humiliated in front of his friends. Dodinal did not care. He had friends of his own now.
It was starting to feel like home.
Villagers gathered around the table or sat with their backs against the walls, basking in the heat of the fires, laughing as they picked meat from their teeth. At first they had been nervous in Dodinal’s presence, but as the evening wore on and ale had flowed, they had slowly relaxed around him. Many even thanked him for what he had done. The children regarded him with outright reverence. A few adults plucked up the courage to ask questions, but Idris shooed them away. Looking around the hut, Dodinal was in good spirits. He had helped to lift these people’s hearts, for a while. Tomorrow they would return to their relentless struggle. Spring had still not arrived
“So, then,” Idris bellowed, leaning forward as though his voice was not already loud enough to ring in Dodinal’s ears. “When will you hunt next, my friend? Now we have the taste of fresh meat in our mouths, we hunger for more. Oh, and next time I will come with you. Between us we can carry more than you can manage alone.”
Dodinal’s expression was doubtful. “There is still little game to be found. I was lucky. The deer was lame. We might have to travel days, weeks possibly, before we find more.”
“Then we travel for weeks or days.”
“And if the storm returns?” Dodinal challenged. “No man could survive those conditions, not without fire and shelter. If we are caught in another blizzard, it would be the end of us.”
“It could well be the end of us if we do nothing.”
Idris was determined not to give up without a fight. Dodinal wondered what he could say to convince him to abandon the idea, when Rhiannon spoke up.
“You should listen to him.” She was seated across from Idris, Owain at her side. The boy had his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands. He looked lost in his thoughts. “Remember how close he was to death when we found him? Dodinal is a man who has spent much of his life in the wilderness. He knows what he’s talking about. If he has concerns, you would be wise to heed them.”
“Siding with the stranger over your own brehyrion?” Gerwyn asked, his mouth curled into a sneer.
Rhiannon’s blue eyes flashed. “Stop behaving like a child. It is not a question of siding with anyone. It’s common sense.”
“You’re right, as always,” Idris boomed, laughing with indulgent affection. “We have enough supplies to see us through the next few weeks and surely by then this bloody winter will be over.”
His mood was more optimistic than it had been when he had walked Dodinal back to the hut.