Ruth Downie - Terra Incognita

She did not expect them to do anything serious to him-she had already told them he was a good man and probably not a spy-but then, she had not expected them to take him prisoner either.

“There was no need for that!’ she had pointed out as the men were dragging him toward the house. “He was leaving anyway.”

They said he had seen too much.

“Now the soldiers will come looking for him.”

They had looked at one another, then back at her. “Do they know where he is?”

She said, “I cannot tell you what the soldiers know.”

“Why did he come here?”

“Perhaps you should have asked him before you hit him on the head.”

They told her that she had not changed while she had been away. It was not meant as a compliment.

“My da would never have attacked a harmless soldier like that.”

“Your da was an old man,” they had said, flinging the struggling medicus face-first onto the ground and twisting a rope around his wrists.

“We’re running things now.”

Tilla made her way down to the trees where the horses were tethered. There were about a dozen animals in the line now. All were still saddled. Girths had been loosened and reins tied for safety, but it was clear that most of the riders were expecting to leave tonight. That was good. The black horse with one white sock that the medicus had brought was in the middle of the line, stretching its neck down to tuck into the long grass. Sizing up the other animals, she settled on a neat-looking dark bay that seemed to have no distinguishing features. That would do nicely for herself. It looked like an intelligent horse. It looked like a fast, fit, well-kept horse. It looked like…

She moved toward the animal. “Cloud?” she murmured. The mare reached down to nuzzle her hand, looking for a titbit she could not offer. Tilla moved along the horse’s flank, sliding one hand down the inside of the front leg and feeling the smooth weight of the hoof in her hand as the animal obediently lifted the leg. With her other hand she brushed at the dried mud coating the long coarse hairs. There, just visible in the stark light, was the little patch of white.

She was turning to leave when a voice said, “Hey!” A skinny figure was lugging two buckets of water from behind the lines. “No touching the horses, all right?”

“She is a fine animal,” said Tilla. “Is she yours?”

“My master’s,” said the youth, placing a bucket in front of the mare.

“You keep her well.”

The youth lowered his head and mumbled something, clearly flattered.

“Who is your master?”

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“I am looking for a good horse like this. Do you know where he bought her?”

“My master don’t buy horses,” said the youth proudly. “People give them to him.”

“And who gave him this one?”

The certainty faded. “I’m not allowed to say nothing. Not unless he says I can.”

Tilla smiled. “You are very loyal,” she assured him. “That was the right answer. But if your master gives you permission, tell him the person who wants to know is the daughter of Lugh, whose family used to live on this land.”

“I have come to check on the prisoner,” announced Tilla, handing the heavy jug of mead to one of the guards outside the house.

As he said, “Nobody’s allowed in,” his companion emerged from the black shadow of the porch, lifted his club, and slapped it slowly against the palm of his hand as if he were testing its weight.

“I need to check his injuries,” she explained. “We don’twant him to die.”

“He’s not badly hurt,” said the guard. “He was putting up a good fight when we gagged him.”

“He is a good man,” urged Tilla, raising her voice in the hope that the medicus might take some reassurance from it even if he did not understand the words. “He gives people medicines. Let me see him for a moment.”

“We don’t need foreign medicines. We have our own.”

She slid up her right sleeve. Her skin gleamed white in the moonlight. The scar was a faint dark streak. “I was near death and he saved me. My arm was broken and he mended it.”

“And from what we hear, you’ve paid him back,” said the guard.

“Is it honorable to treat a healer in this way?”

The guard shrugged. “Don’t ask us what’s honorable. We’ve got our orders.” He took a sip of the mead, then crouched and balanced the jug on the ground next to the wall. “Not bad. Thanks. We’ll enjoy that later. Bring us some food when you start serving it, will you?”

A second storyteller, a much younger man, emerged from between the fires. He lifted the hood of his cloak to survey an audience whose lips and fingers glistened with pig fat and who rested against one another with the relaxation of a people well fed and alcoholically watered.

The young storyteller leaned forward. “Long ago…” His voice was just quiet enough to ensure that everyone kept silent, “There was a time before memory. There was a time when the gods walked on the earth. And the people…” he paused for dramatic effect. “The people lived in peace and prosperity.”

“Ah!” came the response from one or two voices at the back of the crowd, as if he had reminded them of something delightful whose existence they had forgotten about. As the man recounted the lost wonders of the past, Tilla craned forward to get a closer look. She felt Rianorix’s breath against her ear as he whispered, “We could move closer.”

She shook her head. The moonlight was as stark as lightning. She did not need to be closer to know that she had seen this man before. “What’s his name?”

“They just call him the Messenger.”

“Do you know him?”

“Sh!” came a voice from behind, the meaning emphasized by a poke in the back.

“And all was very well,” continued the man, “until into this land there came…,” He crouched and glared at a child in the front row, “the Gray Wolf!”

“The Gray Wolf!” repeated the crowd. There was hissing. The child began to cry.

When the noise died down the man continued, “The Wolf was greedy. The people knew he had stolen the crops from the south, killed the animals, and burned down the houses, and many warriors had died trying to resist him.

“So when they heard the Wolf was coming they made offerings to the gods and sharpened their weapons and mounted their best horses and stood on the north bank of the sacred river, fierce and proud. Then the Wolf opened his mouth and showed his sharp teeth and his slavering tongue, and the children trembled and the men drew their swords and the women raised their spears… but the Wolf did not attack. The Wolf summoned his servants.

“On that soft grass south of the river, the servants laid out a banquet. There were fine wines and flowing honey, roasted meats and warm spices from the East, all laid out in golden bowls with silver spoons. The people saw the feast and wondered at it, but the men kept hold of their swords, and the women kept hold of their spears.

“When the meal was served the Wolf licked his lips with his slavering tongue, and he smiled and showed his sharp teeth, and he said, ‘Come across and dine!’ ”

“Don’t do it!” yelled a voice from the back of the crowd.

The storyteller bent to address someone at the front. “Would you dine with a wolf?”

The reply was inaudible.

He moved along. “Would you?”

“No!” came a child’s voice.

“Not even for fine wines and warm spices and flowing honey?”

“Yuck!” responded the child. There was laughter.

“Good boy.” The storyteller nodded and resumed. “But the people of old were not as wise as this child. They smelled the wine and the spices, they saw the golden bowls and the silver spoons, and they lowered their swords and their spears and asked one another, “What does this mean?”