Roger Taylor - Farnor

Farnor left the room. Gryss threw the bandage he was holding on to the bed and, pushing past Marna, ran after him. He was opening the front door when Gryss reached him. The old man laid a restraining hand on his arm.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

Farnor turned to him. Gryss could barely meet the coldness in his eyes. ‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘To bury my parents.’

He pulled the door open and stepped outside, oblig-ing Gryss to move aside. As the bright sunlight washed over him he paused momentarily, blinking.

His hand took hold of the iron ring, almost as if for support, and he ran his fingers absently along the sharp-etched carving. When he spoke, his voice was expres-sionless.

‘Then I’m going to the castle to find out who’s re-sponsible, and kill him.’

Yakob and Harlen had had an uneasy journey to the Yarrance farm. Harlen had hoped that they might talk about what had been happening, but then had found himself oddly reluctant to speak. They could not reasonably dispute Gryss’s account of recent events, but there was so little in it that they could take hold of and worry into a more familiar, understandable form. And the implications were too alarming for sensible conjecture. They moved like men riding under a thunder-laden cloud, their minds filled only with the possible ills that might befall them.

It came, therefore, almost as a relief when Farnor galloped up to them as they were about to turn into the lane that led to the farm. The relief faded however, as they saw the look on his face.

‘This may be a wretched job, Farnor,’ Harlen ven-tured sympathetically. ‘It’s usual for friends and neighbours to attend to such matters rather than close family. You’d be better off at Gryss’s, resting.’

‘I’ll attend to my parents, thank you, Harlen,’ Farnor said coldly. ‘And I’ll rest when I’ve killed the man, or the men, who killed them.’

Harlen and Yakob reacted as Gryss had only a little while earlier: with dumbfounded silence. Farnor’s manner was a bewildering combination of childish petulance and grim adult resolution.

He was riding up the lane before either of them had recovered sufficiently to respond.

‘What do you mean?’ Harlen asked when they caught up with him.

‘What I said,’ Farnor replied. ‘I shall attend to my parents, then I shall go to the castle, find out who did this and kill him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, boy,’ Yakob snapped. ‘How in the world do you expect…?’

He got no further, his voice failing as Farnor reined to a halt and turned to him. ‘Don’t call me boy, old man,’ he said.

Yakob looked at him, at first angrily and then un-certainly as fear started to stir within him. Whatever else Farnor might be, he was young, fit and strong through his years of working about the farm and his mood now added a menacing perspective to these attributes.

Harlen reached across and took his arm. ‘Farnor, Yakob meant no harm,’ he said. ‘We’re none of us ourselves after what’s happened. Don’t misjudge a hasty word. We’re your friends and all we want to do is help.’

Some of the grimness left Farnor and after a mo-ment he eased his horse forward again. The two men moved either side of him, Yakob keeping station a little to the rear.

‘You weren’t serious about going to the castle, were you?’ Harlen asked tentatively.

‘Yes,’ Farnor replied, starkly.

Harlen and Yakob exchanged glances. ‘What do you hope you’ll be able to do there?’ Yakob asked.

They were at the farm gate. Farnor leaned down and opened it.

‘What do you expect to do there?’ Yakob pressed.

Farnor, however, was gazing about the yard. Harlen took in a sharp breath and Yakob’s face wrinkled in distress. In the daylight the devastation of the farm-house and the tumbled disorder of the yard seemed even worse than they had at night. Already the house was gaining the air of a long-derelict building.

Farnor showed no emotion as he dismounted. From somewhere the two dogs appeared. One of them barked as they ran towards Farnor and began fawning about him. He bent down and stroked them.

‘Where are my parents?’ he asked. Yakob looked around for a moment, at a loss to remember in the daylight. Then he pointed. Leaving his horse to wander, Farnor strode towards the stall. Reaching it, he drew the bolts, pushed the two halves of the door open and stepped inside.

Yakob and Harlen dismounted and followed him into the musty gloom, both anxious about his state of mind and searching for an opportunity to know his intentions more clearly. There was an unpleasant warmth in the stall and a few flies rose noisily into the air as they entered.

Farnor looked down at the rough blanket that Gryss and Yakob had covered the two bodies with. After a brief hesitation, he pulled it back and looked down at his parents.

For a moment it seemed as if he were going to weep.

Please, Harlen thought, silently urging the young man’s tears on. Let it go.

But the moment passed, and Farnor found no re-lease. Very gently he replaced the blanket. ‘We must bury them immediately,’ he said.

‘Of course,’ Yakob said. ‘We’ll take them down to the village, right away. Old Nath will look after them properly. See that they’re in a fit state to be buried.’

‘No,’ Farnor said. ‘We’ll bury them here, now.’

Both Yakob and Harlen stared at him in disbelief, but it was another voice that spoke the denial.

‘No!’ Gryss said powerfully, stepping into the stall. ‘Enough’s enough, Farnor. I understand your anger and your hurt, but you’re still half drugged with my sleeping draught, and you’re on the verge of doing things that you’ll regret bitterly.’

‘This is my family’s land, this is where they’d want to be buried,’ Farnor said defiantly.

‘Your father’s wish was to be buried with the rest of your family in the Resting Field,’ Gryss said. ‘As was your mother’s. That I know for a fact – as, I would think, do you.’

Farnor made to speak, but Gryss, hot and flustered following his chase after him, was in no mood for debate. ‘It was their choice to make, Farnor, not yours, nor mine, nor anyone else’s. And it’s the duty of the Council to ensure that their wish is followed. Do you understand?’ He did not wait for an answer, though his manner softened. ‘Besides, your parents had many friends, not least those here. They’ll need to pay their respects, say what they have to at the graveside. That can’t be denied them, Farnor.’

Farnor seemed set to argue the point, but Gryss’s demeanour allowed him nothing. Briefly, it seemed again that he was going to weep, but again he did not. His mouth curled unpleasantly.

‘Do as you wish,’ he said, pushing past the three men and going out into the yard.

‘Find a cart and harness it up,’ Gryss said to Harlen and Yakob. ‘Get them to Nath’s. I’ll see if I can settle Farnor down a bit.’

Farnor was standing in the doorway of the farm-house when Gryss emerged into the yard. He had withdrawn the knife that Nilsson had hurled away and that had stuck in the door frame. He was looking at it idly.

‘It’s one of my mother’s favourite kitchen knives,’ he said as Gryss approached him. He appeared to be his normal self again, but there was still a distant note in his voice as if his mind were elsewhere. ‘Strong blade, good steel, kept its edge for a long time. I wonder who stuck it in the door.’

Gryss briefly considered a shrug of ignorance, then he told the truth. ‘It was probably used to kill your mother,’ he said, as gently as such a statement would allow. ‘She died very quickly. As did your father.’

Farnor hefted the knife. ‘I sharpened it only a week or two ago,’ he said.