K Parker - Pattern

'I know,' Poldarn replied. 'I hate that.'

Halder nodded. 'It's going to be a real problem,' he said unhappily. 'Its a bloody shame you haven't been able to get it sorted out yet. Sooner or later you're going to have to, or else this place is going to grind to a halt. It'd be like when someone has a stroke, the body and the brain can't talk to each other. Can't have that, especially now, with the mountain-what was that word of yours again?'

'Volcano.'

'That's right,' Halder said. 'Fact is, I'm starting to forget things. You'd know all about that, of course. I can see now, it can't be easy for you.'

Poldarn frowned. 'What sort of things can't you remember?'

Halder laughed. 'I've forgotten. Which is a bugger, because it's like they never existed, and there's a lot of stuff I should've told you, but I could never make you hear. Won't be long now before it's all gone, and you'll really be on your own-no disrespect to your grandmother, she's a wonderful woman, salt of the earth, but it was never her business to know that sort of thing, so she'll be no help to you at all.'

'I see,' Poldarn said. 'How long do you think it'll be before you've forgotten it all?'

'Depends,' Halder replied. 'If the ground's wet, obviously much sooner than if it's dry. I'd give it a couple of months, this time of year, and then there'll be nothing left but a few bones, and they won't be much use to you, I'm afraid.' He shook his head. 'Everything loses its memory sooner or later, even if you don't melt it or bash it with a hammer it'll rust or rot or just fall apart and turn into dust; and then it's off and away, you'll never get it back again.' He smiled grimly. 'Sometimes it's just as well, other times it's a waste, but there's no getting away from it. You can't put anything back together again, all you can do is make something completely new using the bits of the old one. In your case, that's as close to hope as you're likely to get, though I have a feeling that you're like a really clever craftsman, you can make the same thing identical, over and over again. Which reminds me, you really have got to stick to the blacksmithing now that you're the head man around here. Asburn-' He made a vague gesture. 'He's a bloody good smith, don't get me wrong, but it's not his place, it's yours. You'll see exactly what I mean by that, sooner than you think, and then you'll understand why I've been banging on about it all this time. I wish I could have explained, but you couldn't hear me. You'll just have to take my word for it.'

Poldarn pulled a face. 'Yes, all right,' he said, 'I'll try and fit it in, when I'm not building houses or dodging mudslides. Was there something important, or did you come back from the dead just to nag me about my homework?'

'You shouldn't talk to me like that, it's not respectful. And yes, there was something. There's a whole lot of stuff, and if you'll just shut up for a moment I can tell you-'

Poldarn opened his eyes. He'd fallen asleep after all (and he'd done it in such a way as to crick his neck and his back and put his right arm to sleep; hardly a good start to a busy day) and now daylight was seeping through the bald patches in the thatch, thinning and curdling the darkness. What's the betting I'm the last to wake up, as usual? But not this time: down below in the main body of the barn, the household was just beginning to stir, all at the same time. It was an extraordinary sight, to see so many people waking up at precisely the same moment. Well, I was right about that, he told himself, though that doesn't make it any the less weird. I really don't want to know why they do that.

He stood up, and his legs were stiff and cramped; he had to steady himself, or he'd have fallen out of the loft and broken his neck. He closed his eyes to get rid of a brief moment of dizziness; and when he opened them again, he realised that he knew what he had to do today. All of it, the whole thing, as if he'd known it all along and only just remembered it (but he hadn't, he was sure of that; if this was a memory, it wasn't one of his).

Just as well, really, he said to himself, otherwise it'd have been really embarrassing. His legs felt much better now, and he scrambled down the ladder like a twelve-year-old. For the first time in a long while, he actually felt cheerful and confident about the day ahead, because he knew what he was supposed to be doing and knew how to do it. Of course, he reflected, this is what it's like for them every bloody day of their lives, no wonder they're always so damned smug. Feeling like this, there's absolutely nothing you couldn't do, it'd be like you're omnipotent. This is what it must be like if you're a god.

He knew who to look for first; Autcel, one of the Colscegsford men, and Horn, the Haldersness cooper and wheelwright, were the best tool-grinders in the two households, and he needed them to put an edge on the axes, hooks and adzes they'd be using today. He ran his gaze round the barn and saw them, yawning and stretching on their way to the door, which someone else had already unbolted and opened. They would go and start up the big treadle grindstone in the middle house, and by the time they'd finished, the rest of them would be kitted up and ready to make a start. What else would they need? Shovels and picks, which Raffen and Carey would fetch from the trap-house, and baskets-Rannwey and Jelda would see to them-and a line and a basin of water, of course, he'd get them himself, he knew where they were kept. For a moment, he fancied that he could see the whole job, every detail of it from beginning to end, all at the same time (like an illuminated manuscript chained to the desk in a sword-monks' monastery, where scenes from the beginning and the middle and the end are all played out in the same picture against the same background, with three identical heroes-one of them hearing the call of religion, one of them killing the dragon, one of them suffering martyrdom thirty years later in a different city five hundred miles away).

Easy, Poldarn said to himself, piece of cake, slice of duff, child's play. I could do this standing on my head. I can remember it like it was yesterday, from the last time (-the last time I did this? But it's a once-in-a-lifetime event, that's the whole point.)

Beer, he thought, we'll need plenty of that, and cold beef and cold smoked lamb and bread and cheese, can't expect men to work hard on an empty stomach (and he saw the Haldersness women packing up food in baskets, out in the cider house, filling a row of half-gallon barrels with beer from a newly tapped hogshead; he could see the beer was bright and clean, which meant it must have been racked and fined and left to settle at least a week ago, and how the hell had they known to do that, when Halder was still very much alive and showing no signs of being about to die?). Of course there'll be at least one thing we'll find we haven't remembered when we get there, and we'll have to send someone running back for it while we all stand around waiting; that's inevitable, it wouldn't be right unless that happened, it'd be bad luck on the house or something. But it'd be nice if we could keep it down to the one token forgotten thing.

At the back of Poldarn's mind there was a memory, a genuine one; he could feel it, like a bone stuck in his throat or a fibre of meat lodged between his teeth, but he couldn't prise it loose. It was infuriating, because he was sure it was something relevant (just as the one piece of steel you can't seem to find in the scrap pile would undoubtedly be just the right width and thickness for the job in hand, and the more you search for it, the more clearly you can picture it in your mind's eye; and nine times out of ten, when you come across it by chance a week later, after you've used something else, it turns out that it wouldn't have been suitable at all, it was just your imagination playing games with you). But as he worried away at it, he could feel it growing vague and flimsy, as if he was trying to pick up a page that had burned to ash.