Roger Taylor - Farnor

To the south, winding slowly over the undulating ground, was a long line of riders.

A clamorous knocking filled the house.

Gryss’s eyes opened first in shock and then in disbe-lief as he eventually identified the noise, and it was a far from genial village elder who struggled out of his chair to answer the door.

His dog was not pleased either, and the two of them wore almost identical expressions of world-weary irritation as they lumbered sleepily down the hallway towards the cause of this unconscionable disturbance.

‘It’s Dalmas Morrow, you know…’ Gryss began crossly as he opened the door. He stopped. There was no one there.

‘Gatherers, Gryss sir, gatherers! The gatherers are coming!’ An anxious and disembodied voice startled Gryss further into wakefulness. Struggling to gather his wits he glanced from side to side, looking for the bearer of this strange message. There was no one in sight. Then a tug on his jacket drew his eyes downwards. They met those of one of the younger village children. The boy was red-faced and breathless, jumping up and down agitatedly and pointing down the valley.

‘Gatherers!’ he shouted again. This time it was the import of the message that impinged on Gryss and the residue of his peaceful doze fled completely. Almost immediately however, a suspicion entered his head.

He crouched to bring himself creakingly level with the boy. ‘Is this some Dalmas jape, young Pieter?’ he demanded. ‘Disturbing the peace with your racket and waking up folk from their well-earned rest?’

The boy shook his head in wide-eyed earnestness.

‘Farnor Yarrance sent me, sir,’ he said. ‘He said to tell you that the gatherers are coming and he and the others are going to get the rest of the elders. He said to come to the tithe barn.’

‘Others?’ Gryss frowned, trying to come to grips with what he was hearing.

‘From the watch,’ the boy replied, almost impa-tiently. ‘The sunset watch.’ He tugged at Gryss’s jacket again. ‘He said to come right away.’

The old dog emerged from behind Gryss’s legs hav-ing finally decided that it was safe to bark. The boy smiled and bent forward to stroke it. Gryss eyed him narrowly. There was little doubt about his innocence in whatever was brewing here; he was merely the expend-able foot soldier sent out as bait for some ambush.

‘Right away, eh?’ he echoed sternly. The boy nodded.

Gryss looked around. It was a fine evening and a stroll would not go amiss. No harm in playing this through, whatever it is, he thought, though the mention of Farnor’s name was a little disturbing. It was some time since he had been involved in any Dalmastide mischief.

He motioned the boy to lead on and, saying ‘stay’ to the dog’s reproachful gaze, he closed the door and set off after the youngster at a leisurely pace.

As he neared the tithe barn he heard voices carrying through the quiet stillness of the evening air.

Several voices.

And talking loudly at that!

Forehead furrowing, he quickened his pace, and soon he was walking up the slope towards the barn. The sunstone was shining brightly, reinvigorated by the light it had received during the day, but what drew Gryss’s attention was not this fine star-bright glow, but the crowd of people gathered in front of the barn. Others were arriving, young and old.

If this was indeed some prank by the youngsters it had all the hallmarks of one that was going to go badly wrong, disturbing so many people on Dalmas Morrow. He shook his head, his mind already running through the kind of recriminations that were liable to be heaped upon the perpetrators. Doubtless they would have asked for it, but it always gave him a twinge of regret to see youthful scapes, as much full of enthusiasm as folly, dashed against parental displeasure with its underlying tinges of envy and regret for times gone.

As he approached, Farnor emerged from the group and strode towards him. All notions of youthful pranks disappeared from his thoughts as soon as he saw Farnor’s face.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked before Farnor could speak.

‘The gatherers are coming,’ Farnor said, pointing south, his voice a mixture of excitement and concern. ‘We saw them from the sunset watch hill.’

Gryss’s stomach tightened and his breathing became cold and shallow. He did not speak for a moment for fear that his voice would shake.

‘Tell me what you saw,’ he said eventually.

‘Riders,’ Farnor replied, simply. ‘A long line of them coming along the valley. There must have been about a hundred of them. They’ll be here within the hour, I imagine. Shall we open the barn?’

Gryss shook his head though more in the mode of someone who did not wish to be troubled with ques-tions rather than someone making a denial. Indeed that was the case, for Farnor’s news seemed to have struck a sudden and cruel blow at the heart of something that was very precious about life in the valley, and Gryss would have preferred to be able to walk away for a little while to think before he faced his friends and neighbours.

In spite of the vigour and heat of the yearly argu-ments about the tithe, Gryss, like everyone else, had pursued them as if they were no more than a harmless and comforting ritual which duly performed would, like one of Yonas’s tales, inevitably lead to a happy ending. Now reality was riding steadily along the valley towards him, and it seemed that whatever the outcome of this day the Dalmastide he had always known could never be again.

Many good things would be lost with it.

Worse, frightening even, the world from over the hill was about to intrude upon them. The world of the King and his needs. The vast world of towns and cities and strange peoples with strange ways and little concern for such as lived in the valley. And, too, the world of other, more distant lands and peoples. He had touched upon such things in his youthful travels and had subsequently valued the valley the greater for his experience.

Please don’t let it be war, he thought desperately.

‘Are you all right?’ Farnor’s voice interrupted his fretful reverie.

He forced a smile to his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Your news took me by surprise, that’s all. I thought young Pieter had been sent on some errand of mischief. Now I’ll have to try to remember what it is I’m supposed to do when the gatherers arrive.’

He realized that he was slouching, ‘like some old man’, and, straightening up, he took Farnor’s arm and set off towards the noisy group by the barn.

Immediately he was the focus of attention. He raised his hands to silence the clamouring questions. ‘Well, my friends,’ he began, his voice as hearty and reassuring as he could make it. ‘It looks like our annual market tomorrow has been called off. It’s an unfortunate surprise for us, to say the least, and I can’t pretend to be pleased about it after all these years.’ He shrugged. ‘But I tell you, I’m well pleased that we’ve kept up the tithe gathering as was our duty. I’d hate to be standing here tonight with the barn empty.’ Much sagacious nodding greeted this remark. ‘What we’ve got to remind ourselves of now is that these men will be the King’s men come for what’s his due. No matter what we feel like, we’ll have to put on welcoming faces and see that they get all the help we can give. Especially as we’ll probably find that the tithe’s been calculated wrongly.’

‘That’s not our fault,’ someone shouted. ‘We’ve never had a proper tithe master.’ A chorus of defensive voices rose in agreement.

Gryss acknowledged the remark. ‘We know that,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure that whoever’s in charge of these gatherers will know that too. But this has been a shock and I know most of you will not be relishing parting with some of tomorrow’s bargains, so I’ll emphasize again that it’s important for us to be as pleasant as we can manage, no matter what. Then if there’s any problem with the tithe, we’ll be more likely to get the benefit of the doubt.’