K Parker - Pattern

Between completing the covering of the long barn and starting on the middle house there was no perceptible delay-the first team was already setting the ladders up while the second team were still pegging the guy ropes. In spite of the quite astonishing speed at which they worked, it was obviously going to be a long day, and there was still a depressingly large area of unprotected thatch for an unusually hot cinder to nest in. More than anything else, Poldarn wished there was something he could do to help, because he'd never been lonelier than he was now, crouched in a doorway on the edge of the yard. He'd saved the day again, of course; if he hadn't woken up when he had and realised the danger, the whole farm might be ablaze by now. But that didn't console him in the slightest. Of course, nobody was going to reproach him for lounging about gawping while everybody else was breaking their backs. They understood, they were happy to make allowances, until such time as he snapped out of this lost-memory business and started acting normal again. They couldn't be more tolerant or patient. That didn't make it any better; quite the reverse.

As if to make the point that the danger was real and immediate, the cider-house roof caught fire, just as the ladders were going up against the side wall. Instead of trying to put the fire out with buckets of water, they carried on hauling and laid a sopping wet sail on the blazing thatch. Of course the sail was ruined, but it put the fire out (and it'd be far easier to patch a sail than build a new cider house, not to mention the loss of a whole season's apples, the press and all the cider-making gear). That aside, they got the job done without any further damage, while the cinders continued to fall. They were getting larger, Poldarn noticed-some of them were now the size of pigeons' eggs-and the thick carpet of hot ash they made on the yard was now over a finger's length deep in places. Never mind about the thatch, the buildings themselves were timber-framed and timber-cladded. How much heat could they take before they started to burn?

One damn thing after another, he told himself; but he wrapped a couple of empty turnip sacks round his head and shoulders, twisted the corners over his hands, and went to find Halder.

'Good point,' Halder said, when Poldarn explained what was on his mind. 'I hadn't thought of that. When we've done putting on the covers, we'd better make a start on damping down the walls. Bloody thing isn't going to give us a moment's peace, I can see that.'

It occurred to Poldarn that his grandfather, who'd been shifting ladders and hauling ropes for over six hours, was well over eighty years old; his coat was more holes than cloth, and he'd taken three serious-looking burns to the top of his head, more still on the backs of his hands. 'Here,' he said, shrugging out of the turnip-sacks and draping them over Halder, 'better late than never.'

'Thanks,' Halder said. 'Any more where those came from?'

I should have thought of it for myself, Poldarn told himself, as he dashed from group to group handing out sacks, blankets, rugs, pillows, anything he could find that'd go between hot coals and bare skin. I've had long enough to think of it, God only knows. Still, maybe if I'm good they'll let me have a bucket to play with when they get on to the damping-down, if I promise to play nicely and not bother anybody.

They left covering the forge till last, since half the roof was slated rather than thatched; but in spite of all Poldarn's most earnest prayers and entreaties, the loathsome place stayed resolutely unignited. If I was to find a nice hot cinder and chuck it up there while nobody was looking, he said to himself as he filled his arms with leather aprons, would anybody know? Yes, of course they would. He abandoned the idea and hurried back outside, just in time to get hit right between the eyes by a scorching hot nugget as big as a child's fist. He turned back into the forge, rummaged around in the scrap and eventually found what he'd been looking for: an Imperial cavalry helmet, just the one round, jagged hole in the side of the left temple. Compromised, but a damn sight better than a severely burned scalp.

Back outside. The glow from the mountain was getting fainter, undoubtedly a good sign but inconvenient since it was still pitch dark. That didn't seem to bother the others, needless to say, and he guessed that they had some way of figuring out where they were in relation to each other, navigating by sounds inside their heads, like bats. There were times (and this was definitely one of them) when his fellow countrymen irritated the hell out of Poldarn.

But they couldn't read him, of course; which accounted for the fact that he walked straight into a ladder, being carried by Eyn and Symond, and ended up on the ground, sitting on a carpet of very hot ash. He didn't stay there very long; he jumped up, bashed his head against the ladder, and passed out.

Well now, said the mountain, here we are.

He looked up. He was kneeling on the ground, but the ash wasn't hot any more, and the yard was deserted. He could see the mountain, though. It was glowing orange through a crown of burning cloud, and streams of liquid fire, like molten metal flowing from a crucible, cascaded down its flanks.

Go away, he replied. I can't hear you; and even if I can, it's just because I banged my head. Besides, you've got me in enough trouble already, I don't want to talk to you. Not now, not ever.

The mountain laughed; then, like an old man with a weak chest, it spat up three enormous spouts of fire. Don't be like that, it said. It's getting so we can't talk to each other unless something bashes your head in. I don't mind, but I'm sure it can't be good for you.

Go away, Poldarn thought. Damn it, I was certain I'd given you the slip when I left the Bohec valley. How dare you come sneaking after me like this?

Somehow, the mountain made the earth shake under his knees. Don't give me that, it said, you know perfectly well, where you go, I go, just like your shadow. Running away-you're like a cat with its tail on fire running through a cornfield. Believe me, it'd be far better if we talked it over like sensible people, got it all sorted out here and now. For their sake (a brilliant orange flare illuminated the whole farm), if not for yours and mine.

He shook his head. Get lost, he said. There's nothing to talk about, you know that perfectly well. I've finished with that life. I'm not going back and you can't make me. If you think torturing these people is going to make me have a change of heart Oh, come on, said the mountain impatiently (and one of the streams of liquid fire changed course and rushed down the eastern slope, towards a wooded valley). Where do you get that from, making out it's all my fault? It takes two, you know. It's all very well you coming over all pure as the driven snow, but I don't remember you being all squeamish and ladylike at the time. Quite the opposite. Such enthusiasm.

Shut up, Poldarn screamed. That wasn't me, that's what you tried to turn me into. I'm not responsible for what you did through me.

A gust of wind blew a handful of cinders straight into his face, but he didn't feel anything. Oh, for crying out loud, said the mountain, we've been over this again and again and again, can't you stop hiding behind this moral indignation thing and talk to me straight up, no more pretences? Come on, it's me you're talking to; you can't fool me, I know you too well.

He felt angry, more angry than he could remember having felt before. All right, he said, let's be straight about it, if that's what you want. Leave these people alone, they never did you any harm. And leave me alone, because I'm finished with you. It's over, can't you understand that?

The wind sighed all around him, hot and full of sparks. I don't know how you can say that, the mountain replied sadly, when you know, as well as I do, it'll never be over between you and me. As you proved just a few hours ago, right there, in the smithy.