David Gemmel: The Hawk Eternal

Men walked warily around the old bull, but children clambered over him, shrieking with mock terror at his bloodcurdling threats and tugging at his rust-red beard. He was a man who had always wanted sons, and yet had never made his daughter feel guilty, nor blamed his wife for becoming barren thereafter.

And Maeg loved him.

The sound of the axe thudding into logs drew her to the thin north-facing window. In the yard beyond, stripped to the waist, Caswallon was preparing the winter fuel. An hour a day through spring and summer and the logs would be stacked against the side of the house three paces deep, thirty paces long, and the height of a tall man. In this way the wood performed a double service, keeping the fire fed and the north wind away from the wall, insulating their home against the ferocity of the winter.

Caswallon’s long hair was swept back from his face and tied at the nape of the neck in a short ponytail. The muscles of his arms and shoulders stretched and swelled with each smooth stroke of the axe. Maeg grinned as she watched him, and rested her elbows on the sill. Caswallon was a natural showman, imbuing even such a simple task as chopping wood with a sense of living poetry. His movements were smooth and yet, every now and then, as he swung the axe, he twisted the handle flashing the blade in a complete turn before allowing it to hammer home in the log set on an oak round. It was almost theatrical and well worth the watching. It was the same with everything he did, Maeg knew; it wasn’t that he needed to impress an audience, he was merely creative and easily bored, and amused himself by adding intricacy and often beauty to the most mundane of chores.

“You will win no prizes at the Games with such pretty strokes,” she called as the last log split.

He grinned at her. “So this is why my breakfast’s late, is it? You’re too busy gawking and admiring my fine style? It was a sad day, woman, when you bewitched me away from the fine Farlain ladies.”

“The truth of it is, Caswallon, my lad, that only a foreign woman would take you-one who hadn’t heard the terrible tales of your youth.”

“You’ve a sharp tongue in your head, but then I could expect no more from Maggrig’s daughter. Do you think he’ll find the house?”

“And why shouldn’t he?”

“It’s a well-known fact the Pallides need a map to get from bed to table.”

“You tell that to Maggrig when he gets here and he’ll pin both your ears to the bedposts,” she said.

“Maybe I will, at that,” he told her, stooping to lift his doeskin shirt from the fence.

“You will not!” she shouted. “You promised you’d not aggravate the man. Did you not?”

“Hush, woman. I always keep my promises.”

“That’s nonsense. You promised you’d seal the draft from this very window.”

“You’ve a tongue like a willow switch and the memory of an injured hound. I’ll do it after breakfast-that is, if the food ever sees the inside of a platter.”

“Do the two of you never stop arguing?” asked Oracle, leaning on his quarterstaff at the corner of the house. “It’s just as well you built your house so far from the rest.”

“Why is it,” asked Maeg, smiling, “that you always arrive as the food is ready?”

“The natural timing of an old hunter,” he told her.

Maeg dished up hot oats in wooden platters, cut half a dozen slices of thick black bread, and broke some salt onto a small side dish, placing it before the two men. From the larder she took a dish of fresh-made butter and a jar of thick berry preserve. Then she sat in her own chair by the fire, taking up the tiny tunic she was knitting for the babe.

The men ate in silence until at last Caswallon pushed away his plate and asked, “How is the boy?”

Maeg stopped her knitting and looked up, her grey eyes fixed on the old man’s face. The story of Caswallon’s rescue of the lad had spread among the Farlain. It hadn’t surprised them, they knew Caswallon. Similarly it hadn’t surprised Maeg, but it worried her. Donal was Caswallon’s son and he was barely four months old. Now the impulsive clansman had acquired another son, many years older, and this disturbed her.

“He is a strong boy, and he improves daily,” said Oracle. “But life has not been good to him and he is suspicious.”

“Of what?” Caswallon asked.

“Of everything. He was a thief in Ateris, an orphan, unloved and unwanted. A hard thing for a child, Caswallon.”

“A hard thing for anyone,” said the clansman. “You know he crawled for almost two hours with those wounds. He’s tough. He deserves a second chance at life.”

“He is still frightened of the Aenir,” said Oracle.

“So should he be,” answered Caswallon gravely. “I am frightened of them. They are a bloodthirsty people and once they have conquered the Lowlands they will look to the clans.”

“I know,” said the old man, meeting Caswallon’s eye. “They will outnumber us greatly. And they’re fighters. Killers all.”

“Mountain war is a different thing altogether,” said Caswallon. “The Aenir are fine warriors but they are still Lowlanders. Their horses will be useless in the bracken, or on the scree slopes. Their long swords and axes will hamper them.”

“True, but what of the valleys where our homes are?”

“We must do our best to keep them out of the valleys,” answered Caswallon with a shrug.

“Are you so sure they’ll attack?” asked Maeg. “What could they possibly want here?”

“Like all conquerors,” Oracle answered her, “they fear all men think as they do. They will see the clans as a threat, never knowing when we will pour out of the mountains onto their towns, and so they will seek to destroy us. But we have time yet. There are still Lowland armies and cities to be taken, and then they must bring their families over from the south land and build their own farms and towns. We have three years, maybe a little less.”

“Were you always so gloomy, old man?” asked Maeg, growing angry as her good humor evaporated.

“Not always, young Maeg. Once I was as strong as a bull and feared nothing. Now my bones are like dry sticks, my muscles wet parchment. Now I worry. There was a time when the Farlain could gather an army to terrify the world, when no one would dare invade the Highlands. But the world moves on…”

“Let tomorrow look after itself, my friend,” said Caswallon, resting a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We’ll not make a jot of difference by worrying about it. As Maeg says, we are growing gloomy. Come, we’ll walk away and talk. It will help the food to settle, and I know Maeg will not want us under her feet.”

Both men rose and Oracle walked around the table to stand over Maeg. Then he bowed and kissed her cheek. “I am sorry,” he said. “I promise I’ll not bring gloom to this house-for a while, at least.”

“Away with you,” she said, rising and throwing her arms around his neck. “You’re always welcome here-just bear in mind I’ve a young babe, and I don’t want to hear such melancholy fear for his future.”

Maeg watched them leave on the short walk through the pasture toward the mountain woods beyond. Then she gathered up the dishes and scrubbed them clean in the water bucket by the hearth. Completing her chores the clanswoman checked on the babe, once more stroking his brow and rearranging his blanket. At her touch he awoke, stretching one pudgy arm with fist clenched, screwing up his face and yawning. Sitting beside him, Maeg opened her tunic and held him to her breast. As he fed she began to sing a soft, lilting lullaby. The babe suckled for several minutes, then when he had finished, she lifted him to her shoulder. His head sagged against her face. Gently she rubbed his back; he gave a loud burp that brought a peal of laughter from his mother. Kissing his cheek, she told him, “We’ll need to improve your table manners before long, little one.” Carefully she laid him back in his cot and Donal fell asleep almost instantly.