Roger Taylor - Farnor

‘I think that’s all we can do,’ Gryss said finally. ‘We’ll discuss it at the tithe meeting tomorrow night. Everyone will be there. A time of great healing.’

The two men chuckled conspiratorially. Knowing that arrangements for night watches were being prepared, more than a few of the interested villagers could be expected to find tasks out in the fields for the next day or so. But absence from a tithe meeting was potentially disastrous, as those attending would determine the tithing to be paid by those absent. Many a bed-bound invalid had been miraculously cured by the announcement of a tithe meeting.

‘I’ll put these away,’ Garren said, gathering up the writing materials and the unused papers.

Gryss nodded his thanks, then, as Garren left the room, he took a risk. He leaned towards Farnor and spoke softly and urgently.

‘In your own time, Farnor, talk to me about this creature and what happened yesterday. I’m troubled by something I felt. Something bad.’

To his alarm, he saw panic filling the young man’s eyes. He raised his hand reassuringly but Farnor was speaking even as he did so.

‘Am I related to Rannick?’ he asked hoarsely.

Garren’s footsteps sounded along the hallway.

‘This is a small community, Farnor,’ Gryss said hastily. ‘We’re all related in some way.’ The panic grew. ‘But no. You’re no more related to Rannick’s line than I am.’ He waved a hand for silence as Garren returned.

‘We’ll leave you to rest,’ Garren said. ‘I must admit it’s been a day or two since I walked so far and my own legs are letting me know it. Is there anything I can fetch for you before we go?’

Gryss declined the offer and rose to see his guests out. The air was pleasantly fresh as they stepped outside. The drizzling rain had stopped and a warm sun was yellowing the thinning grey sky.

Farnor rested his hand on the iron ring as he passed it, causing the bell to tinkle slightly. A faint bark wandered down the hallway.

Gryss laid his hand on Farnor’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad you came, Farnor,’ he said. ‘You helped me get some things clear in my mind about this business.’ Farnor smiled awkwardly by way of acknowledgement. Not only for the words, but for the pressure on his shoulder that said again, ‘in your own time, speak to me about this creature.’

When they had gone Gryss returned to his wicker chair. He had been right to risk speaking to Farnor. The boy – he corrected himself – the young man, was indeed troubled in some way. But the question he had asked, ‘Am I related to Rannick?’ was puzzling.

Why in the name of sanity should Farnor suddenly imagine he was related to Rannick? And be so terrified at the prospect? Distaste Gryss could understand, but fear?

What had happened the other day when Farnor had met Rannick? And what had Rannick been doing so far up the valley?

He frowned. Alone now, he felt a much greater sense of urgency about these recent happenings than he had hitherto. He really must seek out an opportunity to be alone with Farnor with a view to tackling these ques-tions head on. Then he swore at himself for a dull-witted old fool and, slapping his hands hard on the arms of his chair, he heaved himself up and almost ran to the front door. The chair creaked unhappily at this treatment, and the dog, caught in this sudden maelstrom of activity, scuttled indignantly out of his way and, grumbling darkly, went to lie down in a corner.

Farnor and Garren had not walked very far, and both turned at the sound of Gryss’s penetrating whistle. The old man beckoned them back.

‘I’m sorry, Garren,’ he said as they reached him. ‘There is a little job that Farnor can do for me if it’s not too much trouble. Can you spare him for a while?’

‘Of course,’ Garren said. ‘Any time. Just ask. You know that.’

As he closed the door, Gryss motioned Farnor to the back room.

‘Sit down,’ he said, indicating the chair that Farnor had been sitting in previously. Then he dropped back into his own chair opposite and, without preamble, said simply, ‘Now. Tell me everything.’

Farnor looked at him for a moment, then, clearing his throat, said, ‘Did you really sense something about the… sheep-worrier… yesterday?’

Although he had already admitted this to Farnor only minutes before, Gryss found that the prospect of giving a more detailed explanation was more daunting than he had anticipated. He made his face stern, fearing that he was going to look as awkward as the young man in front of him.

‘Yes,’ he managed to say, authoritatively. ‘Just a flash of something when I held that piece of fur. But my guess is that you felt much more. That’s why you passed out. Please tell me what happened to you. I think it’s important.’

Farnor grimaced and turned away from the old man’s gaze.

Impatience crept into Gryss’s voice. ‘Farnor, you’re not remotely interested in organizing the night watches, are you?’ he said. ‘Least of all if it means walking here through the pouring rain.’ He paused to let the words take effect. ‘You came to warn us about something. And you called that animal out there a creature. Not a dog, a creature. And why have you suddenly got the idea that you’re related to…?’

Farnor lifted a hand before he could finish the ques-tion. ‘Rannick touches things… animals… insects,’ he blurted out. ‘Controls them.’

Then, scarcely pausing for breath, he spilled out the details of his meeting with Rannick and the strange behaviour of the flies.

‘And, yesterday, I touched the… thing… that’s out there.’ He waved his hands vaguely. ‘When I held that fur I seemed to go into… some other place. And I touched it. And it’s more than just savage, it’s bad… evil. It’ll kill people without a doubt. It might even prefer people to sheep.’

He stopped and looked intently at his interrogator.

Gryss had received Farnor’s outburst like a man trying to catch several things falling simultaneously from a shelf; only with an effort did he prevent his mouth from dropping open. He wanted to dismiss this young man’s nonsense out of hand, but he could not deny what he himself had felt, however fleeting it had been. And there was the strange trance that Farnor had fallen into.

He met Farnor’s gaze. The lad was imaginative. He knew that, having watched him many times sitting spellbound as Yonas the Teller had spun his sonorous tales of wonder. Yet, too, he was solid and practical, with his feet well on the ground. His father had seen to that. Farnor would be a fitting heir to the Yarrance land when the time came.

Despite their clamour, he set the how and the why of it all firmly to one side.

‘I believe you,’ he said quietly. ‘Though what it all means and how it’s all come about, I can’t say.’ He went on, anticipating Farnor’s next question, ‘And we have to accept that we can’t tell this tale to the others as you’ve told it to me.’ He smiled weakly. ‘They’ll think we’ve both gone down with brain fever.’ He made his face become thoughtful lest Farnor misconstrue his levity, and when he spoke again his manner was bluntly practical. ‘What we must concern ourselves with is the danger that this creature offers. Nothing else. Perhaps what you and I felt was…’ He shrugged. ‘Something like the tension we feel when a thunderstorm is about to break, or that quality in the air that tells us winter is coming… who can say?’

‘But why now?’ Farnor’s question burst through. ‘I’ve never had anything like that happen before, have you?’

‘No, not really,’ Gryss admitted. ‘But we’ve never known a sheep-worrier like this before, and we mustn’t fret about it. Not yet, anyway. We must stick to practical matters. We must protect ourselves when we go hunting and, above all, we must protect our herds – our winter food and our future. If we catch this thing, or kill it or drive it away, then perhaps we can give some thought to what’s happened and why, but for the moment it’s not important.’