Read Dreamer's Pool Online

Authors: Juliet Marillier

Dreamer's Pool (7 page)

BOOK: Dreamer's Pool
5.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

He shot me a glance, then looked down at the ground again. ‘Thought you weren’t scared of anything.’

‘There’s a difference between being afraid and letting people see that you are,’ I said, pushing back an old memory that threatened to surface. ‘Grim, answer the question, will you? You must have somewhere to go, your old home, your old work. But here you are, sitting by my campfire, eating my food. Why?’

Nothing; he just sat there hunched over in his blankets, head bowed. From time to time a shiver ran through his large form.

‘Come on, Grim.’

‘Stupid,’ he muttered. ‘Thought you might need help. Protection, you know? On your own, suddenly back out here, no resources, weakened after so long locked up . . . Seemed as if I might make myself useful.’

I made myself count up to five before I answered. ‘That was kind of you. But completely unnecessary. I’m well able to fend for myself, and thanks to Conmael’s people I didn’t start the journey with no resources at all. I appreciate your concern, Grim, but I’m not in need of a bodyguard or a travelling companion. In fact I prefer to be on my own. You were in that place too; you’ll surely understand.’

‘I’ll be off, then.’ He made to get to his feet.

‘Don’t be stupid! You’re not going anywhere until you’ve had a night’s rest and got your clothes dried out. In the morning you can head off on your own business and I’ll be on my way north.’ One part of my question remained unanswered. ‘Why didn’t you just come up to me and ask if I needed help? Why track me? Though I have to say, for a big man you’re quite good at it.’ I knew nothing of his life before we were locked up; neither of us had ever spoken of those times.

Grim sighed weightily. ‘Because I thought you might say what you just said. That you didn’t need me.’

‘If you’d heard it earlier, you could have saved yourself a lot of effort. And stayed dryer.’

‘I should go.’ He tried to get up again.

‘Stubborn, aren’t you?’ Something about this was really bothering me, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on it. What was I missing? ‘You’re not going off tonight in the rain. Especially not wearing my blankets. And if you weren’t too tired to think straight, you’d see how ridiculous you’re being. Settle down and get some sleep, and in the morning there’s to be no running off before I wake up, understand? I have a job for you before you leave.’

‘What job?’

‘Cutting this off.’ I gestured toward my matted locks.

I had his full attention now; he looked horrified.

‘No! Why would you want that?’

‘Why wouldn’t I? It’s disgusting. Washing it was no help at all.’

‘I could comb it out for you.’

‘Hah! If you believe that’s possible, you’ll believe anything. I want it chopped off close to the scalp. So no disappearing, all right?’

‘If you say so.’

It was only later, when we had banked up the fire and settled ourselves to rest a discreet distance apart, that he came out with it. ‘Lady?’

‘You mean Blackthorn.’

‘Sorry.’

‘What, then?’

‘It’s just . . . it’s just, I’ve got nowhere else to go. I thought . . . I did think . . .’

I opened my mouth to retort,
Then you thought wrong
. But the clouds parted for a moment, admitting watery moonlight, and a bird called, deep in the woods, and I realised that if I had spoken those words aloud, I would have added another year to the seven I owed Conmael, and lost one of my five chances. This was a cry for help if ever I heard one. A pox on the man, how dare he do this to me? With an effort, I spoke in calm, even tones. ‘What did you think, Grim?’

‘Thought you’d say no. But wondered if you’d surprise me. Hoped you might let me come with you, and . . . and keep guard. Keep an eye out for trouble.’ After a moment he added, ‘There’s a few things I can do. Handy things.’ And a little later, ‘But you wouldn’t be wanting someone like me around. I understand that.’

And suddenly my mind was awash with contradictions, too many of them to make sense of in the middle of the night. One thing was certain; I was going to be stuck with a travelling companion, for now at least. ‘We’ll see,’ was my inadequate response. ‘In the morning, we’ll see.’

5

~GRIM~

T
urns out she doesn’t know the way. Just walking north by whatever tracks she finds and hoping she’ll end up in Dalriada. Which maybe she would, but not as quick as with me helping.

The first morning, she makes me cut her hair. Makes me toss the pieces of it in the fire. That’s hard. But, in a way, funny; her hair always was like flames. In that place, I’d look across and see it all glowing red, and I’d think of the things a fire gives you: warmth, light, a feeling like being home.

It’s good sitting by our campfire at night, out in the woods or in a cave or wherever Blackthorn, as she calls herself now, decides to stop. Just the two of us all quiet, and the crackle of the flames. Our little patch of brightness in the big dark. It’s good being free, and it’s good being with her, and it’s even better having a job to do. Seems like she does think I can be useful to her. Even though they called me Bonehead, meaning stupid.

After I cut her hair, I do mine to match. Couple of days later I get her a kerchief off someone’s washing line, but she makes me put it back. In time, she says, she’ll earn a living at her craft – I guessed already in that place that she was some kind of wise woman, with all her talk about plants – and she can pay for her own kerchief if she wants one. Anyway, she says, she likes the wind in her hair, what’s left of it. Makes a change after being shut up so long. I keep quiet about where my new clothes came from. Wonder what she thinks I should have done, tapped on some farmer’s door, looking like the wild man of the woods, and asked if they needed an honest worker?

We cross over the border from Mathuin’s land to the next chieftain’s. I have to tell her we’re safe; she doesn’t know the area at all. We climb to the top of a hill, and I point back south to the place we’ve come from, lost in a haze and too far away to see clearly. We’ve just crossed a bridge, and I make sure she knows that’s got us out of Mathuin’s grasp. Chase us over here, and he’d get himself in a lot of trouble with his neighbour. Most places you go, there’s some kind of war on, a little war between rivals. About whose cattle can graze where or who’s supposed to keep bridges mended, that kind of thing. Probably no different in Dalriada, but I don’t say anything about that.

‘You’re sure?’ she asks when I tell her where we are. ‘That really is the border?’ I see her thinking,
How would he know that sort of thing?

‘It is. Now turn this way.’ I show her the view northward: rolling hills, patches of farmland, lakes and forests and a range of higher hills lying purple-blue in the distance. It’s a pretty sight. ‘You’re looking across the kingdom of Mide,’ I say. ‘Those hills, the big ones, they mark the border with Ulaid. And Dalriada’s in the far north. Don’t know about your place, Winterfalls. But we can worry about finding it when we’re closer.’

‘You’re a fountain of knowledge, Grim,’ she says, and almost smiles. ‘How long do you think it will take to get to Dalriada?’

‘No hurry, is there?’ We’ve been managing all right, what with fishing and trapping and her knack for boiling up handfuls of weeds and making something tasty out of them. The way-bread’s running low, but she seems to think that fellow, Conmael, might provide more if we need it. Seen nothing of him so far, and I’ll be happy if it stays that way. Never did trust the fey. More trouble than they’re worth, tricky and meddlesome. Mind you, he did get her out, and for that reason I can’t hate him. But because of Strangler and the others, it’s hard not to.

Blackthorn’s thinking. There’s a little crease between her brows. ‘I suppose not. And life on the road surely beats what we had before. Still, I’d like to get on. The nights are only going to grow colder, and our supplies are limited.’

‘I can get you a cloak. Good boots. Just say the word.’

‘I’ll manage with what I have,’ she says. ‘Not that I haven’t stolen in the past to keep body and soul together, once or twice, but we won’t do it if we need not. Maybe I’ll find some work as we go.’ She thinks a bit more. ‘The trouble is, I’ve forgotten the ways of ordinary folk, Grim. Forgotten how to say the right things, play the right part. Conmael seemed to think I could slip right back into being a village healer. But I’m not sure I can. Part of me has turned wild, and another part’s turned dark as endless night, and I’m not going to change back just because someone says I must.’

Dark as endless night? Her? Seems like being shut up in that place has made her blind to herself. And even out here in the open, with good things all around, she’s still in the shadows. ‘Give it time,’ I say. ‘Another reason not to rush, maybe.’

‘I’d like to get there before autumn. He said the cottage was run-down. It would make sense to attend to that before the storms set in.’

‘We’ll be there in time.’

She gives me one of her looks, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. ‘You sound so certain.’

I don’t have any answer to that. Inside, certain is just what I’m not.

A few days later, we’re coming along a track between grazing fields when we hear shouting and screaming up ahead. Blackthorn looks at me; I look at her. Whatever this is, it’s trouble, and we don’t want it. But before we can work out a short cut that’ll take us around the spot, a lad comes in sight. He’s sprinting toward us as if a monster’s on his tail. Face a nasty shade of green. ‘Help!’ he wheezes. ‘The cart – Fergus – trapped –’

I’m back in the cells, hearing Strangler’s voice from the ruins, thinking how useless my help turned out to be. And I’m back in the other place, the place I can’t get out of my head, no matter how hard I try. I’m fighting, I’m falling, I’m wondering how a god who’s supposed to be merciful can stand by and watch this. I want to shrink down and hide. I want to be invisible. But I’m out here in the open, and Blackthorn’s right next to me, and there’s no getting away.

‘Help us, please!’ gasps the lad, pulling on my sleeve. ‘The farm – too far – Fergus . . .’

We go back with him, running. When we get there it’s a sorry sight, a cart overturned, sacks of grain spilled everywhere, and a man pinned underneath. He’s alive, at least; he’s groaning in pain, and in my head it’s Strangler all over again. Folk are trying to free the horse, and more folk are trying to lift the cart at the same time, and everyone’s in everyone else’s way.

Blackthorn and I don’t need to talk, don’t even need to look at each other. I pass her the knife, she snaps out a couple of orders and cuts the harness away. Once the horse is free, I squat down and get my shoulders under the back of the cart.

‘When I give the word, slide him out quickly and carefully,’ Blackthorn says to the other fellows. ‘Wait until I say, or you’ll do him more damage. Ready, Grim?’

I grunt a yes, then lift. Needs to be high enough for the wheel to come off the ground, with enough room for them to pull the fellow out clean. ‘Now,’ says Blackthorn. Sliding, scraping, a yell from the man as they move him. I hold until she says, ‘He’s out, Grim,’ then I set the thing down again.

Blackthorn said she’d forgotten how to act around ordinary people, but she does just fine. Tells them she’s a healer; takes a good look at the man and says he’s got a leg broke and maybe ribs too. Makes a splint with sticks and kerchiefs. Talks to the fellow quietly while she puts it on, gets him calmed down. Snarls at a woman who’s panicking, shuts her up quick.

I break down a gate to make a stretcher. One of the fellows helps me lift the injured man on – he screams – and we walk him to the farm. Folk are looking at me a bit oddly, but not saying much. Blackthorn’s not being talkative either. Still, when we get there she gives more orders, and folk run about fetching what she needs. I stay close, but I make sure I’m not in her way. This fellow, the one with the broken leg, is the farmer, Fergus, and the woman who was making all the noise is his wife.

The splint Blackthorn made comes off and she puts on a better one. I get another job: holding the leg in position while she binds the thing right so the bone will mend straight. Fergus’s wife gives him some strong drink beforehand, which helps a bit, but not enough to keep him still while we get everything lined up the way it should be. A couple of fellows help. Fergus’s screams run right through me. It’s hard to hold firm, keep my eyes open, swallow down the dark.

‘All right?’ mutters Blackthorn, sparing me a glance as she wraps her bandage around leg and splint. Some tricky twists and ties there; not sure how she’s doing it, but I can see it’s tight and strong. Seems like she hasn’t forgotten much.

‘Mm.’ Has to be all right. It’s not me lying there wondering if my leg will ever be good enough to let me farm again. And she needs me; that helps.

‘Good. Well done, Fergus, nearly there.’ My guess is, that’s the hard part for her, saying words of comfort, being gentle. The other part, ordering folk around, taking charge, fixing things, that seems to come easy enough.

When the leg’s done she gets Fergus sitting up and puts a strapping around his chest. Rib broken, she thinks. Settles him to rest, propped on pillows. Tells the woman how to make up a draught for the pain, and how long to leave the splint on for. Orders Fergus not to do any work until then, if he wants to be able to use his leg again. Says it all in a rush, as if she doesn’t want to give them time for questions.

She doesn’t need me anymore. I go outside, find a spot where nobody’s in sight, and bring up my breakfast under a bush. Can’t seem to stop. I’m still retching even when there’s only spit and bile left to come. When I’m done at last, my eyes are streaming, my chest’s heaving and my mouth tastes like a cesspit. Funny, that. You could say I saved one today, or helped save him, and that evens the score. But it doesn’t. I could save ten, twenty, fifty, and it wouldn’t make up for Strangler lying dead in the woods, and Poxy and Dribbles butchered on the road, left there like pieces of meat for me to stumble over after Mathuin’s men had done their foul work. That’s a part of the story Blackthorn’s never going to hear. Strangler’s buried in those woods, a stone’s throw from the lockup, and the other two I laid to rest in a quiet field with a nice big willow for shade. But I’ve got them all on my back, and the others from long ago. It’s like a scale that can never balance. A weight that’ll never lift.

I find the well, draw up a bucket, splash my face and take a drink, hoping the foul taste will go. And here she is beside me, bag on her back, staff in her hand.

‘We’re moving on,’ she says.

Fergus’s wife said something about food and drink before, but I don’t mention this. ‘All right. I’ll get my things.’

I fetch them, and Fergus’s wife gives me a little bag. ‘Some provisions, since your woman won’t take any payment. Would have liked her to stay on a night or two, seeing as he’s so poorly. But I didn’t ask; she said you two have to move on.’

‘That’s right.’ I put the little bag into my pack. ‘Heading north.’

‘Good luck to you,’ the woman says. ‘You saved my husband’s life today. I can’t believe what you did. Lifting that cart all by yourself – that’s a feat beyond any ordinary man.’

Nothing to say to that. I shoulder my pack and pick up my staff.

‘Sure you don’t want work here?’ An older man, perhaps her father, comes to the door behind her. ‘Strong fellow like you, you’d be welcome. With Fergus laid low, we could do with the help.’ A pause. ‘And there’s no healer between here and Maedan’s Bridge.’

I shake my head. ‘Got to be moving on,’ I say. I wonder if they’d be so keen to keep us if they knew where we’d just come from.

‘Good luck to you, then,’ says the man. ‘Long way to go?’

‘Long enough.’

We walk on in silence. Blackthorn’s in a hurry. She keeps looking over her shoulder as if she wants to set space between us and the farm as fast as she can. It’s only when we’re away from the fields and up into some scrubby woods that she slows down and draws breath. I don’t ask questions. A lot later, when we stop for a rest by a stream, she says, ‘I saw that woman giving you something.’

‘Mm-hm.’ I fish the little bag out of my pack, open it and find a purse of coppers, which from folk like them is a lot. And there’s a slab of bread and cheese, wrapped in a cloth. I pass the purse to Blackthorn and divide the food in two.

‘Keep them,’ she says, handing the coppers back. ‘It’s your reward, not mine.’

‘Ours,’ I say, giving her a share of the bread and cheese.

She opens her mouth to make a sharp remark – I see this in her eyes – and shuts it again without a word. We eat in silence. I tuck the purse back into my pack.

‘Next market we pass, I’ll buy you a kerchief.’

Blackthorn’s got nothing to say to this. Instead she asks, ‘Why were you sick? After everything we’ve seen, what could be so hard about watching a man get his leg splinted?’

‘Got eyes in the back of your head, have you?’ It comes out as a growl, and it shuts her up, at least for now. One thing’s sure: the story of Strangler and the others is going to stay where it belongs, deep down where nobody can hear it. Nothing will hurt her. Nothing will harm her. I’ll hold to that if it kills me.

BOOK: Dreamer's Pool
5.27Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Veil of the Goddess by Rob Preece
Angel Falling Softly by Woodbury, Eugene
Stage Fright (Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Book 6) by Carolyn Keene, Franklin W. Dixon
The Chair by Rubart, James L.
The Jury by Gerald Bullet
Limestone Man by Robert Minhinnick
Towelhead by Alicia Erian