I was witness to such proof again when, at a single jab of one finger from Tiny Chanter, Calap Roud sat straight, all blood rushing from his face. Sputtering, he said, ‘But Flicker’s volunteered—’
‘Later for him. Tell us about the giant and the woman.’
‘But—’
‘Kill him?’ Midge asked.
‘Kill him?’ Flea asked.
‘Wait! The tale, yes, the tale. Now, when we last saw them, the Fenn warrior was seated before the chief and a scant meal was being shared out. Gestures are ever delicate among such tribes. Language speaks without a single word spoken. In this song of nuance, it was understood by all the Imass that a terrible fate had befallen the warrior, that grief gripped the Fenn’s broad, wounded shoulders. He bled within and without. His troubled eyes found no other in their weary wandering over the wealth of the chief, the furs and beaded hides, the shell-strung belts and steatite pipes, the circle masks with the skins of beastly faces stretched over them – the brold bear, the ay wolf, the tusked seal. Of the meagre portions of rancid blubber, dried berries and steeped moss tea, he ate each morsel with solemn care and sipped the tea with tender pleasure, but all was tinged with something bitter, a flavour stained upon his tongue – one that haunted him.’
We were gathered, squatting or seated in the shade of the carriage and the stolid mules. The wellspring’s basin trickled as it slowly refilled with water. Flies danced on the mud our passages had left behind. Steck Marynd had dismantled his crossbow and was cleaning each part with an oiled cloth. Midge had produced a brace of fighting knives and was making use of a large boulder bearing the grooves of past sharpening, the whisk-whisk-whisk sound a grating undercurrent grisly in its portent. The host, Sardic Thew, had built a small fire on which to brew tea. Brash Phluster sat leaning against one gouged carriage wheel, examining his fingernails. Purse Snippet had walked behind the carriage to prepare her small pewter cup a few moments earlier, and now sat on my left, whilst to my right was Apto Canavalian, surreptitiously sipping from a small flask every now and then. Flea and Relish had begun dozing, and Mister Must sat upon the driver’s seat of the carriage, drawing upon his pipe. Arpo Relent and Tulgord Vise sat opposite each other, askance their mutually resentful glances. Thus, we were assembled to hear Calap’s tale.
‘The maiden, kneeling to the Fenn’s right, could hear little more than the drum of her own heart. What flower this thing called love, to burst so sudden upon the colourless sward? Its seed is a ghost that even the wind carries unknowing. The blossom shouts to life, a blaze of impossible hue, and in its wild flush it summons the sun itself. So bright! So pure! She had never before known such sensations. They frightened her, stealing all control from her thoughts, from her very flesh. She felt swollen of spirit. She could feel the rough truth of his scarred arm against her own, though they did not touch. She felt herself swaying closer to him with every breath he drew into himself, only to sway back at his exhalation.
‘In all things of self, she was still a child, and her soft cheeks glowed as if lit with the fire of the hearth, as if all coverings but the sky could not contain her heat. Softly, unnoticed by any, she panted, every breath shallow and making her feel half-drunk. Her eyes were black pools, the sweat swam upon her palms, and in the folds between her legs a coal fanned hot and eager.
‘The flower is suffering’s gift, its only gift. Did her kin see it? Did its sweet scent fill the hut? Perhaps, but the winter’s cruel ways had stolen the warmth from their souls. They sat in misery, wilted with need, and as the Fenn ate all he was offered they saw the count of their days diminishing. Before their eyes, they witnessed his return to strength and hale vigour. When blood flows, the place it leaves becomes pale and weak, whilst the new home deepens rich with life. They could not shake the chill from their huddled forms, and outside the sun surrendered to the Blackhaired Witches of night, and the wind awoke with a howl than spun long and twisted into a moan. The hide walls rippled. Draughts stole inside and mocked the ashes that seek naught but contented sleep.’
Calap Roud licked his lips and reached for a gourd of water. He sipped with great care, making certain he did not disturb the settled silts, and then set the bowl back down.
The host poured tea into Snippet’s cup.
‘When spake the Fenn, his voice was the bundle of furs, soft and thick, tightly bound and barely whispering of life. His words were Imass, proof of his worldly ways despite his evident youth – although, of course, with the Fenn age is always difficult to determine.
‘“I am the last of my people,” said he. “Son of a great warrior cruelly betrayed, slain by those he thought his brothers. To such a crime, does the son not have but one answer? This, then, is my tale. The season was cursed. The horned beasts of the mountain passes were nowhere to be found. The Maned Sisters of the Iron Hair had taken them away—”’
‘The who?’ demanded Arpo Relent.
‘Thus the Fenn named the mountains of their home, good Knight.’
‘Why do people have to name everything?’ Arpo demanded. ‘What’s wrong with “the mountains”? The river? The valley?’
‘The Knight?’ retorted Tiny Chanter. ‘Aye, why not just “the idiot”?’
‘“The brainless ox,”’ suggested Midge.
‘“The Bung-Hole Licker,”’ suggested Flea.
The three men snickered.
‘I never licked no—’
‘Hood’s breath, Relent,’ growled Tulgord Vise. ‘Details are abominations with you. Stopper your trap and let him get on with it. You, Calap. No game left in the mountains, right? Let’s get on with the tale. Betrayal. Vengeance, aye, that’s the making of a decent story.’
‘“My father,” said the Fenn, “was the Keeper of the Disc, the stone wheel upon which the tribe’s life was carved – its past, its present and its future. He was, therefore, a great and important man, the equivalent of chief among the Imass. He spoke with wisdom and truth. The Maned Sisters were angry with the Fenn, who had grown careless in their rituals of propitiation. A sacrifice was necessary, he explained. One life in exchange for the lives of all.”
‘“The night’s gathering then chose their sacrifice. My father’s second son, my own brother, five years my younger. The Clan wept, as did my father, as did I. But the Wheel was certain in its telling. In our distress –” and at that moment the Fenn warrior looked up and met the Imass Chief’s eyes – “in our distress, none took notice of my father’s brother, my own uncle, and the hard secret unveiled in his face.”
‘“There is blood and there is love. There are women who find themselves alone, and then not alone, and there is shame held within even as the belly swells. Truth revealed can rain blood. She held to herself the crime her husband’s brother had committed upon her. She held it for her love for he who was her husband.”
‘“But now, on this night, she felt cut in two by a ragged knife. One of her sons would die, and in her husband’s eyes she saw tears from a love fatally wounded. Too late she cast her regard upon her beloved’s brother, and saw only the mask of his indifference.”’
‘Wait, I don’t understand—’
‘Gods below!’ burst out Tiny Chanter. ‘The uncle raped the mother, you fool, and the boy chosen was the beget of that!’
‘The mother’s uncle raped the boy? But—’