Roger Taylor: Farnor

This could not be denied and was a cause of much furrowing of brows amongst those advocating this course. Others, less cautious, thought differently.

‘The King’s got no need for our small offering, else the gatherers would have been around fast enough,’ they declared. ‘And in any case, we haven’t had a tithe master in living memory. How are we supposed to know what’s due? We can’t prepare for collection what we don’t know about, can we?’

This was a telling point and invariably provoked much sage nodding, even amongst their opponents.

‘Nevertheless…’ came the final rebuttal, uttered with great significance but never completed. It needed no completion. The penalties for non-payment of the tithe were indeed severe, and not something to be risked lightly, especially as the tithe, calculated by whatever method, was not particularly onerous.

The debate had reached the status now of being an annual ritual, and so too had the conclusion. On the due date, Dalmas Eve, the estimated tithe would be ceremo-niously prepared in the tithe barn for collection by the King’s gatherers and the barn officially sealed by the senior village elder.

Although many matters relating to the tithe were contended amongst the villagers, all, both ignorant and knowledgeable, knew for certain that the gatherers having failed to appear on Dalmas Day or Dalmas Morrow meant that the King had munificently returned the tithe to his loyal subjects.

Thus, three days into Dalmastide, no gatherers hav-ing appeared, the seals would be solemnly broken and the barn opened.

With continued solemnity, a short speech of grati-tude would be made to the generosity of the absent monarch and then a portion of the tithe would be distributed to those whose crops had fared least well and those who could not properly fend for themselves from whatever cause. That done, the solemnity faded rapidly and the barn would become a market place filled with loud haggling and bartering over the remaining produce. This would be followed by a large and usually raucous banquet.

During the fourth day of Dalmastide the village – indeed the whole valley – was invariably unusually quiet.

It was the approach of Dalmas, rather than any concern about sheep worrying, that had prompted Garren Yarrance to send his son out to check on the sheep, and he was leaning on a gate pondering the extent of his contribution to the tithe this year when Farnor came into sight over the top of a nearby hill.

Garren clicked his tongue reproachfully as he watched his son running and jumping down the steep hillside.

How many times had he told the lad not to run? ‘You stumble and fall, break a leg, then where are we, your mother and me? Tending you and doing your work, that’s where. Or getting into debt paying someone else to do it.’ He would pause. ‘That’s always minding we find you, or that old Gryss can put you together again if we do.’

It was a litany that he himself had learned, from his own father, as doubtless he in his turn had from his. And Farnor ignored it similarly.

Garren changed the emphasis somewhat as Farnor reached him, sweating and breathless. ‘Very good, son,’ he said. ‘You save ten minutes by risking life and limb to bring me an urgent tale, then I have to wait for ten minutes before you can speak.’

But the reproach faded from his voice even while he was speaking as Farnor’s agitation became apparent. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, as much man to man as father to son.

Farnor told his tale.

Garren scowled. He had hoped that, the last attack having been some months ago, the dog responsible would have moved on, but now there would have to be a hunt. There was always the risk that there might be more than one dog and that raised the spectre of their breeding and thus turning a problem into a nightmare.

‘What was Rannick doing out there?’ he asked ab-sently as his mind went over what was to be done next.

‘I don’t know,’ Farnor replied. ‘I didn’t ask.’ He shied away from describing Rannick’s behaviour. ‘I don’t like him. He’s strange.’

Garren wrinkled his nose. ‘He’s not the most pleas-ant of men, that’s true,’ he said. ‘But some people are like that. Never content with what they have. Always wanting something else, then still miserable when they’ve got it. He’s probably quite a sad soul at heart.’

Farnor curled his lip in dismissal of this verdict. ‘Well he can be sad on his own, then,’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t disturb me if he went on his wanderings and never came back. He makes my skin crawl sometimes.’

Garren looked at his son again, considering some reproach for his harsh tone, but the simple openness of Farnor’s response forbade it and instead he reached out and patted him sympathetically on the arm.

‘Not a nice sight, is it, a mangled sheep,’ he said. ‘Go inside and make yourself presentable then we’ll go into the village and see old Gryss.’

Old Gryss was the senior elder of the village: the one who got things done. He mended broken limbs and cracked heads, cured sick animals, extracted teeth, settled quarrels and generally organized the villagers whenever organization was needed. He was also one of the few villagers who, when younger, had travelled beyond the valley; been over the hill, seen towns and even, it was said, cities.

‘Noisy, smelly, and too crowded,’ was all that he would say about such places however, whenever he was asked directly. Though, in his cups, he would sometimes regale his audience with tales of his adventures, albeit somewhat incoherently.

The sun had fallen behind the mountains when Garren and Farnor reached Gryss’s cottage, and the few clouds drifting overhead were slowly turning pink. The cottage was not unlike its occupant, having a thick but rather scruffy thatch lowering over two sparklingly bright, polished windows and a hunched and slightly skewed appearance due to its original builder having been both wall-eyed and too fond of his ale.

An iron ring hung from a chain by the door. It was attached to a small bell. Garren took hold of it but did not pull it immediately.

‘He brought this back from his travels, you know,’ he said. ‘Heaven knows how many people have tugged on it through the years, but it’s not shown a scrap of wear. I’d give something for a plough made of the same.’

Farnor, familiar with this oft-repeated parental wish, gave the ring a casual glance for politeness’ sake. Gryss had many relics of his wandering days and, over the years, Farnor had been made tediously familiar with all of them.

Then, on an impulse, he took the ring from his fa-ther and looked at it more closely. As if for the first time, he saw the finely etched rows of tiny figures that decorated it. They were warriors, some on horseback with lances and some on foot carrying long spears. They were amazingly detailed and lifelike and, as Farnor moved the ring to examine it further, it seemed to him that they were alive with movement. For a moment he felt he was inside the scene. It was a lull in a terrible battle. A waiting for a final, brutal onslaught from an enemy who…

‘It’s a lucky charm.’

Gryss’s familiar, authoritative voice made Farnor jump. The old man had opened the door silently and was standing watching Farnor’s scrutiny of the ring. Startled, Farnor let it fall. The chain rattled as the ring bounced then swung to and fro, and the bell rang slightly. Thus summoned, an old, sleepy-eyed dog emerged from behind Gryss’s legs, gave a desultory bark into the evening and then turned back into the cottage.

Garren laughed at his son’s discomfiture.

‘You’d think he’d never seen it before,’ he said.

‘Where did you get it from?’ Farnor asked, almost rudely. His father raised his eyebrows and was about to intervene when Gryss answered the question.