Roger Taylor - Valderen

He relinquished his hold on the handrail and hugged his arms. ‘Yes,’ he said. Then, rather than discuss his inner confusion, he added, ‘But does everyone have such powerful hands?’

Edrien’s forehead furrowed and she looked down at her own hands. They were long and delicate. ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Come on.’

A few minutes and two more ladders later, they reached a door which Edrien announced as being the entrance to Bildar’s lodge. She was beginning to enjoy the authority of her role as guide to this strange young man. Looking over the handrail, Farnor saw that they were about the height of the Yarrance farmhouse above the forest floor. For some reason, the mere sight of the ground made him feel much safer, even though he knew that a fall from such a height was just as likely to seriously injure or kill him as a fall from much higher.

Edrien knocked vigorously on the door and pushed it open without waiting for permission. She ushered Farnor in.

Any reservations he might have had about visiting the healer disappeared as he stepped inside and was greeted by the savoury smell of cooking. Somewhat to his embarrassment, his stomach rumbled noisily. Edrien laughed and Farnor looked a little guilty. ‘I didn’t realize I was quite so hungry,’ he said uncomfortably.

Bildar emerged from a steamy doorway and ges-tured the two arrivals forward. He gripped Farnor’s arms very gently. ‘You must be extremely hungry by now,’ he said, without any preamble. ‘That’s if I’m any judge of the average young man’s stomach. And you, Edrien, I know, will eat anything, any time.’

‘We were once a starving people,’ Edrien said im-mediately.

‘Not within our known history,’ Bildar replied.

‘But…’ Edrien began.

‘… we must preserve the trait against harsher times in the future.’ Bildar concluded the exchange as if by rote.

‘Something like that,’ Edrien conceded.

Bildar cuffed her gently. ‘That tongue of yours was always too glib, young Edrien,’ he said, motioning both of them towards a table. ‘I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to you that you might be just plain greedy, has it?’ he went on, as they sat down.

Edrien shook her head wisely. ‘Not for a moment,’ she said, pursing her lips earnestly.

Bildar grunted.

Farnor watched this apparently regular ritual in silence. Again, he felt unfamiliar whirls of anger rising in response to the love and friendship permeating it. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He shuffled on his chair unhappily.

Then, almost as if he had read Farnor’s mind, Bildar said, ‘Last night, you told us that your parents had been murdered, Farnor.’

Farnor looked up at him, uncertain what was about to happen following this unexpected bluntness. Bildar’s dark brown eyes held him fast.

‘There’s nothing I’ve ever found that can ease the pain you must be suffering, except time. But I’ve known others thus hurt, and you can speak to me about anything, at any time, as the mood takes you. Do you understand what I mean?’

Edrien looked pained and disconcerted by the abrupt mention of this dark topic which she had been assiduously trying to avoid since she collected Farnor, and she glanced nervously from Bildar to Farnor several times as the old man was speaking.

Farnor returned Bildar’s gaze. There was neither offensive intrusion nor simpering pity in it and, under the impact of Bildar’s directness, he felt the small knots of anger within him dissolving into confusion and regret and many other lesser feelings that he could not name. ‘Thank you,’ he said inadequately, after a moment.

Bildar held his gaze for a little longer, then, rubbing his hands together slowly, he said, ‘I’ll get your food.’

As Bildar fussed out of the room, Farnor caught Edrien’s eye. She gave an embarrassed smile and looked awkwardly away from him without speaking. Bildar’s gentle but stark reference to Farnor’s tragedy seemed to have left her exposed and vulnerable in some way. She was uncertain how to behave.

Equally uncertain himself, Farnor gazed around the room. It was obviously much lived in, and was full of splendid disorder. Shelves, stacked untidily with all manner of books, lined much of the walls, and where spaces were available they were filled with boxes, jars, ragged heaps of papers, various ornaments and many small wooden carvings. Farnor noticed several carved wooden inkstands, and it occurred to him that they were very similar to the one that Gryss owned and used so meticulously. He did not dwell on this strange coinci-dence, however, for his attention was drawn by the cutlery with which he was absently toying. Even they were made out of wood. Spoons, forks, knives. He picked up one of the knives and examined the delicate patterns carved into both blade and handle. Then he tested its fine, toothed edge gently against his thumb. It was surprisingly sharp. How did they make such articles? he wondered. And how could they sharpen them?

Bildar ended any further speculation however, by returning with a large tray on which stood two steaming dishes. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘This’ll get you started.’

Edrien bowed slightly as the dish was placed in front of her. ‘Thank you, Woodfar,’ she said. But hunger had swept away Farnor’s usual politeness and he began eating the thick soup ravenously and without comment. Edrien gave Bildar a slightly shamefaced look as Farnor plunged on with his meal, oblivious to all around him. The old man raised his finger a little for silence. ‘Eat,’ he mouthed to her.

Only as he demolished the last of the soup did Far-nor’s awareness of his surroundings begin to return. He looked at his host and his guide guiltily. ‘I didn’t realize I was so hungry,’ he said again.

Bildar smiled, and Edrien laughed outright. ‘No,’ they both said, simultaneously.

‘You can’t ignore the needs of the body for long, whatever’s happened to you,’ Bildar said, chuckling understandingly. ‘You fill your trunk, young man. Your need is honest. And it’s not as if we’re short of anything here.’ Then his eyes widened, and he lifted his head up and sniffed. ‘Oops,’ he said, suddenly flustered, and scuttled quickly out of the room, knocking a brightly coloured figurine on one of the shelves as he swung the tray around wildly in the process.

Involuntarily Farnor reached out to catch the totter-ing statuette even though it was on the other side of the room, but it lolled gently from one side to the other a few times, then finally settled back on its base. ‘I thought it was going to fall and break,’ he said, self-consciously dropping his hands into his lap.

‘Break?’ Edrien queried.

Farnor leaned forward and stared across at the statuette with narrowed eyes. ‘Is it made of wood as well?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Of course,’ Edrien replied. ‘What else could it be?’

‘Well, pot, perhaps,’ Farnor offered, feeling himself moving towards a strange conversation.

‘What’s pot?’ Edrien’s question confirmed his con-cern.

He waved his hands vaguely. ‘Earthenware,’ he said, adding quickly as he saw her begin to frown, ‘Clay, baked hard. And painted.’

‘I’ve heard of that.’ It was Bildar, returning with his tray, laden this time with plates filled with meats and a variety of vegetables. ‘The Koyden-ushav do it, I’ve heard. They say they can make the clay as hard as a good heartwood, and shape it into all manner of things.’

‘You mean axes and knives and things?’ Edrien asked, eyes widening.

Bildar smiled and shook his head. ‘No, only plates and jugs and ornaments,’ he said. ‘It’s hard, but it’s brittle. Like glass, in a way, but not clear.’