| Chapter Three
THE ROAD TO TREGG
The memory-beer of the dream cannot have been as powerful as that which the Punchkins had drunk in reality, but it did seem to serve to fix the dream fully, with all its details, in Swin’s mind. He remembered it ever after, and indeed he has never experienced any more memory-losses. At the time, however, the vision disturbed him greatly, as anyone would expect. Impossible to doubt what Yabeth had said of his lineage. Still, what of it, and what next? He lacked any ambition to throw down King Oresgal and take his place on the throne. Her words continued to vibrate in his mind, and he had at least an inclination to return to the City of Ruminas, for somehow it was clear to him that his destiny lay there. Yet what of that other command and desire of the Goddess which had somehow become fused with the Oath that he could not remember – that he should follow the wolf?
His two companions were still sleeping. He decided to say nothing to them about his dream. Presently the light grew stronger, the grey light of a cold February dawn. Many birds were singing in the trees of the forest. A pair of red squirrels came running over the limbs of the fallen beech-tree at whose roots the embers of the camp-fire were covered with white ash; the branches of the trees were all black, still and expectant, sprinkled with their tiny gemlike buds of red or greeny-brown. Erum and Melohtar lay peacefully beside him in the little dell. In crept a diffused radiance, until Melohtar’s dark, sleeping face was gently illuminated. He opened his eyes. He looked into Swin’s eyes with a love that was at last wholly untroubled. He got up and came towards Swin, and they embraced one another. Swin felt the shuddering of his friend’s breast, and knew that Melohtar was shedding tears of joy, and felt the tears pricking at his own eyes; and Erum, awakening, looked upon them happily, like a child who sees his parents reconciled after a quarrel.
‘Mercy, you’re strong,’ said Melohtar. ‘You’re a miracle. I’ve only just begun to believe in you.’
And Erum refrained from moralising on the words; and Swin smiled, being now firmly resolved, in the face of his dilemma, to go along with his blood-brother. The three friends set off, speaking little, each enjoying respite from the pain of his own internal strife. They travelled slowly, for their pace was set by Erum, the weakest; but Swin and Melohtar were grateful for this slowness, and Swin had time to hunt for meat and to cook it on their camp-fire. Two weeks passed, and then, one evening, looking North-west, they saw the broken pale line that wound about the next range of hills, and knew that they had almost arrived at the Road.
They made their way down the hillside, along the bank of a stream that plunged from pool to pool and at last cascaded into a blue valley-lake. Swin stripped off his clothes and dived in. The other two, with wiser caution, climbed down and undressed on the pebbly shore before joining him in the water. As they all came out, Erum and Melohtar had their first clear view of the scars on his body. This shocking sight, and the nearness of the Road, prompted them to have their first long talk. Sighing, Melohtar told of the encounter with Fëaruk and the sea-burial; and then, under repeated insistent questioning from Swin, of all that had happened since Swin had arrived at his house. Erum helped and amplified whenever he could. And again, though Swin took in all the facts they gave him, the story struck no sparks in his mind. The whole of that strange time was still buried in darkness.
The next day was like the end of a long holiday. Before them lay the Road to Tregg, to Dunbury and Ruminas. Behind them – ‘Hey!’ said Erum, grabbing Swin’s arm. They looked back at their camping-ground beside the peaceful water, at the trees in faint green mists of leaves and the crag from which Swin had dived. On top of this crag sat the white wolf. The light was broad in the East: she was clear and conspicuous, and there could be no doubting her.
‘Come!’ called Swin. ‘Lady Gauriel, Princess, come!’
She did not come. She got up and padded away, disappearing below their line of sight. There was a cawing of crows from the higher trees. Without thinking, Swin turned back to follow her. Melohtar laid a firm hand on his arm.
‘No,’ said he, ‘this time we’re going to take the task seriously. We’re not going to be led astray. We’re going to hunt her and cage her.’
In the afternoon they reached the deserted Road. Tregg was only seventy miles to the North, and the going would be much quicker now. The friends felt the grim network of their destinies drawing tight once again.
And so, on a bright and blustery March evening, almost a year after Swin’s first visit to the little town, the wayfarers came to the Southgate, and spoke to the Gatekeeper, and were admitted; and so, at last, they stood below the creaking signboard of The King’s Head, and saw the twinkle in the King’s eye, and went into the courtyard. It was a fairly humble arrival. The three had walked a very long way through pathless country before they reached the Road. Their clothes were stained and tattered, and Swin’s and Melohtar’s beards were grown, and Erum’s chin also was fringed with light hair. Melohtar had to take some little trouble to convince Mr. Gough of who he was. But recognition soon dawned on the Innkeeper, while a couple of gold coins from Melohtar’s belt helped to win him over and to ensure for the travellers a good welcome.
‘Very good, my lord,’ said Mr. Gough, bowing. ‘I’ll have your bags taken up to the best parlour. Ah no, I was forgetting. Then maybe a change of clothes, so Mrs. Goodwort can wash and mend what you’re wearing?’
‘Certainly,’ said Melohtar. ‘But now, as to my friends – this is Bishop Erumardil of the Daelum province –’ ‘Good evening, Your Reverence –’ ‘And this is our guide and helper, Mr. Swin Gumasson.’
‘Ah, Mr. Gumasson,’ said Mr. Gough. ‘I recollects you now. You stayed a night with us last spring.’ Swin nodded. ‘I’m sorry about that purse or wallet as you lost, sir: it never did turn up, though we searched. It’s my belief that it was stole off you, sir.’
‘Was that the one that Brydda gave me?’ asked Swin impulsively.
Mr. Gough failed to notice the oddness of the question. His brow was furrowed. ‘But Mr. Gumasson, sir, Mr. Gumasson... News reached us here in Tregg, in what you might call a roundabout way, sir, as how you’d been ate up by the dragon?’
Swin had collected his thoughts. He made no more response to this question than to smile with raised eyebrows and open hands. Again, though, and again strangely, this response appeared to suffice. The preoccupation or perplexity that the Innkeeper’s face was expressing continued to deepen. His brow having contracted to its utmost, his mouth began to open and twist sideways like the grimace of a clown. He stared at Swin even more intensely. His shoulders shook. He was beginning to laugh.
‘Mr. Gough!’ said Melohtar.
The clown disappeared, the innkeeper came back. ‘Good Heavens, sirs, what must you be thinking of me? Please to come this way.’
The room he showed them into was the best in the house, snugly furnished, with a dining-table and chairs set in the midst. A bay window gave a good view of the road and the marketplace. Another door led out into the bedroom.
‘Excellent,’ said Swin. ‘But please tell: what were you thinking of just now, Mr. Gough?’
The Innkeeper shook his head, grinning hugely at some joke which, as he evidently believed, needed no explanation. He left the room without a word, leaving the three friends staring at one another in bemusement. Quite soon, after a knock on the door, his wife came in with the clean clothes, followed by maids with bedding and large jugs of hot water. Mrs. Gough placed candles round the room and lit them.
‘Will you be wanting a fire, sirs?’ she asked. ‘Hal can make one for you, but we’re hardly lit a fire in a grate all winter, it’s been so mild.’
‘No thanks, mistress,’ said Melohtar, ‘we’ll be comfortable. But I’d like a good lamp please, as I have to do some writing.’
‘Ah, now I’m sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘Not that I’d deny Your Lordship a thing you’d asked for, but we’ve not a drop of oil left in the house, and I don’t believe there’s been a can of fine rock-oil to be had in Tregg, not for love nor money, since Yule. But these here candles, they do give a good light, sir, the best white wax, and if I was to put them on the table for you –’
‘Very good. Now pen, ink and paper if you please.’
‘Yes, my lord. And dinner for you gentlemen?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Melohtar: ‘whatever’s good, whatever you’ve got. With plenty of vegetables.’
‘My lord?’
‘Vegetables!’
It was extremely pleasant to wash with soap, shave and change into clean garments. ‘Ah, civilisation,’ sighed Erum, and Melohtar smiled in full agreement. They shared a bottle of red wine while waiting for dinner, and Swin downed two mugs of the excellent beer. At length the Landlady bustled in with the dinner, which was saddle of mutton with cabbage, kale, cooked split peas, carrots, onions and a mound of barley, all of which were greatly enjoyed by Melohtar and Erum. After the meal Melohtar settled down to his letter. Erum and Swin got ready to go down to the tap-room, agreeing to say that Erum had been exploring the South on a missionary expedition from Thandor, with Swin acting as his guide.
Not being Punchkins, they were subject to the guarded friendliness of the other Men, rather than the powerful inquisitiveness of the Little Folk. The general outline of the sensational events that had taken place in the City a year ago was known to most of those present. Swin said that his hunt for the Wolf had proved unsuccessful, and he had simply left the Northern Wastes to return to the City: as all present could see, the reports that he had been eaten up by the dragon were quite unfounded. Erum asked for news of Tregg and was told that things were pretty well, bar the shortages and the troubles with newcomers, outlandish folk who had been arriving since last autumn. He himself talked about the plight of the Foro and his own mission to the Lowerath. As he talked, however, Erum became aware of a silence around his words – another of those outward-spreading pools. Though the conversation around the table at which he and Swin were sitting continued to be lively, the rest of the room was growing still. And yet there were more folk present than when they had entered. The Landlord and the Punchkin waiter, Hal Hardedge (a cousin of Waltrot’s), came in with trays full of beer-mugs, and more figures entered behind them to stand along the walls, drinking or smoking their long clay pipes. Everyone in the room, in fact, was now staring at him and Swin. Or was it him? Or just Swin? The scrutiny was palpable now, and there was laughter in it, though not hostility: a hilarity strangely blended with respect.
Suddenly Swin broke into his talk. ‘Gentlemen and gentle Punchkins all,’ he said, ‘whatever is the great jest? Is the seat of my breeches torn, or something like that? Pray tell!’
He was answered by an old Punchkin with a square red face and a shrewd eye. ‘Well, gents,’ said he, waggishly holding his head on one side, ‘maybe we’re remembering this young Man’s last visit here, and the song he sang to us then – sillicker tree, or some such, weren’t it?’
‘That’s right, Farmer Onions!’ said Hal Hardedge. ‘Could you sing that song for the company again, master?’
So Swin did sing the song again. This time, having matured very considerably during the last twelve months, he kept his self-possession and avoided making a fool of himself. As before, there was long and loud applause; after which the company’s attention was dispersed. But not a soul would explain to Swin or to Erum what the joke was. Swin’s repeated enquiries merely provoked fresh chuckling.
‘Mr. Gough,’ said Erum when that worthy came in again, ‘you saw the joke as soon as we arrived, didn’t you? Won’t you tell?’
‘Ah, Your Reverence, I see you’ll have your bit of fun too,’ was the only answer. Half amused and half vexed, the two retired to their room, where Melohtar still sat at his writing.
‘May we look over your shoulder?’ asked Erum.
‘As you like.’
They looked over his shoulder. It was a long letter to the steward of Melohtar’s ancestral home in Dunbury. Melohtar had written detailed orders about the hunting expedition that must start from Tregg as soon as possible.
‘Lord Melohtar writes beautifully,’ said Erum to Swin.
‘I can see that,’ said Swin.
Melohtar reached the conclusion of the letter. He added his ornate signature and paraph, and laid the paper aside to dry.
‘Well, nothing but bed for me,’ said Swin.
‘I’ve found these,’ said Erum: ‘Would you like a game, Melohtar?’
As he laid his head on the deliciously soft pillow, Swin glanced through the open doorway and saw the beginning of the game. The two intent faces, lit by a pair of candles, confronted one another over the board and the wooden chessmen.
| |