“I would’ve thought anyone would have been grateful to a man who saved his life, however he managed it.” Godwin glared at him. “With the greatest possible respect, sir,” he concluded, but his tone was not particularly respectful as he took a close interest in cleaning his sword.
“Aye, maybe.” Godwin said, but he was still out of sorts. He turned to me belligerently and said “Is that witchcraft how you bested Elfrith?”
“Who?”
“The man whose collarbone you broke at the inn, on the way to Whitby.”
“Oh, him,” I replied nonchalantly, “No. He was drunk and determined on a fight. He had only one thought in his mind, and that was spilling blood. He wasn’t very bright and so he held any thought as tight as he could. No room in his pea brain for any more than one at a time.”
“So you say you don’t use your spells to overcome others? How can I be sure you won’t get me to be your plaything? How can I be sure you’ll leave my mind alone?”
“Godwin,” I said evenly, “what I have I use carefully, and never for my own gain. Don’t you think,” I said, with some anger, “don’t you think that I would have influenced Oswy to decide in our favour if I was going to abuse my Gift in that way? Don’t you?”
Godwin regarded me for a few seconds and then he turned away with a growl, wrapping himself in a blanket.
“Get some sleep,” he said gruffly, “we have an early start in the morning.” Ethelred took his time finishing off tending his sword but I took the advice and rolled myself up in my turn.
I was floating on a sea of glass and oil and had been for Eternity. I could smell the further shore, the apples that hung in the orchards and I knew I was closer but not yet, not yet.
The skein of wool that the child held out was nearly exhausted. A shadow passed over a dark sky and reached for the tiny boy, its claws extending and stretching with fingers like daggers and twigs. It seemed to hesitate and lurch but came ever onwards, reaching down from the blackness in which it was formed - but there was a point of light! - and reaching but fighting against something, something. Then it pulled sharply away and fled over the hills to the north.
But it was still there, waiting for the child and fearing him. It still hungered and searched for another.
29
The Last Torment
He is standing in a wasteland. Smoke is rising from ruins all around. Streams run red with blood, the ground was soaked in it. There was no-one around, not even a corpse. The Land was laid waste and devastated and the war had moved on. He was alone in the middle of emptiness. Who he had come with and why he had come there - wherever he was - he knew not. Whoever had ridden with him had gone, and his horse had gone as well. He had been betrayed and deserted. His closest companions had gone, there was no-one on whom he could depend. Those he had trusted had run away. His heart is as devastated as the Land and his spirit is as broken as the shattered oak tree he is standing by, its splintered trunk smoking and the fallen branches little more than charcoal, ruined and desolate.
Steam is rising from broken huts and unspeakable piles of waste but there is no rain. The Earth sweats, the sky boils, there’s no rain. A crackle of thunder flashes across the mountains and dry drops of dust fall from the scarlet sky to the black earth. Mountains of ash rear all around, mounting out of the dead earth and leaning over like bones from a stripped, discarded and dissembled skeleton. A hot wind blows out of a dry month and whispers words as meaningless as rats’ feet over broken glass in a dry cellar. There is no water but only rock, rock and ash and an abandoned road from nowhere to darkness.
A Word came out of the south over his shoulder but he does not, cannot hope to turn again. A shadow came from the north and spread its wings across the sky. Not a cloud with rain - sweet water! - but darkness and death and there was no hope.
Embrace the darkness, accept it and you will be whole again.
His vision is failing and he can’t see. He can’t See!
Accept the wings and let them enfold you and comfort you.
He can’t see. He turns in confusion and sees a point of light in the darkness and the dark recoils from it. A hiss of hate came from behind and he turns again, stepping back away from the snake, if snake it was, but even a snake would have been welcome in this lifeless land and he would have embraced it like a lover. But it was nothing. Not even a reed broke the flat, featureless landscape where rocks pushed out of the ash like rotted teeth from fleshless gums in a dead mouth.
A dirty dog dug in the dung and disinterred a corpse, planted last year but ready to sprout. It may bloom this year, if there is water. There are the gashes that were his eyes, there the hole where his heart used to be, that beat so prettily and so well. There is nothing in his head but straw and dry thoughts in a windy month. Had he done enough? This is last year’s tree, which brought life to the Land but now is withered and blackened and has no more to give. Had he a heart, anyone who had a heart, would give it through his hands to bring life to the Land.
A Word came from the south and he turns to hear and turns again to a cold blast at his back and the rattle of bones and chuckle spread from ear to ear.
A movement in a broken hut. A red face, sneering under a blonde thatch, then gone.
A great drum sounds once. Doom. Give. I have given everything. I can give no more.
There is a huge, crudely carved block of stone with slashes for eyes, pits for a nose and a gaping maw lined with teeth that had been so heavily soaked in blood that it was ingrained. He turns and tries to run but his legs would not carry him, they are glued to the ground. Give, the stone boomed.
I have nothing left to give. There is no-one here. There is nothing. I am alone. My friends have betrayed me. My horse has left me. There is torchlight, and red faces running with sweat, and they come for me.
Doom. The drum thundered but it brought no rain.
Give. Invaders come and they kill the Land.
Give sacrifice and bring the Land back to life.
I have no sacrifice.
Give sacrifice.
I have nothing.
He falls to his knees, weeping at his loss and the death of the Land, his Land and he has no Sacrifice to give and bring the Land back to life. He has nothing, no-one in the wasteland but himself, even the torches were extinguished and the red, sweaty faces have gone.
Over the mountains to the north the thunder flashes and there was no rain but he hears the cry of a child.
Give.
He weeps, he weeps and weeps but the tears are dry and are ash, more ash to pile up on the ground before him.