K Parker: Pattern

Sitrych, Poldarn thought, which one is Sitrych? Then he remembered; of course, the short, square man two down on Grandfather's left. At that moment, Sitrych was conscientiously chewing on a crisp, hard pear, his eyes fixed on a space about two feet over Poldarn's head.

'I can't picture it,' Poldarn admitted, 'but once we're there I expect it'll come back to me.'

His cup was empty, and there was that boy with the jug again. He put his hand over the cup. The boy stared at him, stood awkwardly for a moment, and then moved on down the line.

'You weren't at the forge today.' Not a question, or a reproach, or an accusation; just a statement of fact.

'No,' Poldarn said. 'I was helping Eyvind get in that gravel.'

Halder frowned, just slightly. 'I think you should make sure you put your time in there,' he said. 'There's still a lot you've got to learn.'

Poldarn looked up. 'Seems a bit pointless, really,' he replied. 'After all, we've already got a smith, best on the island by all accounts. I can't see where there's any need for me to get under his feet when he's busy.'

Halder's glare was like a slap round the face. 'I think mid-morning'd be a good time to go down to the wood,' he said. 'That way you can put in a good morning at the forge and be back when Asburn's ready to start again in the afternoon.'

Well, Poldarn thought, I tried; I failed, but nobody knifed me. So, no harm done, at any rate. 'That seems sensible,' he said. 'Very good cheese, this.'

'That's the last of the eight-weeks,' Halder said. 'The six-weeks'll be ready tomorrow.'

Well, yes, Poldarn said to himself, it would be, wouldn't it? 'Hope it's as good as this,' he said. Halder looked at him as if he'd said something that didn't make sense.

That night, when the tables had been put away and the fire was burning low, Poldarn made a conscious effort and called up the memory of that childhood walk among the trees. Mainly it was because he couldn't sleep-with the exception of Halder and Rannwey, who had the private room at the far end of the house, everybody slept on the floor of the hall, wrapped in blankets like a nest of silk-moths, and he found this hard to get used to-and recalling his childhood made a change from counting sheep. Partly it was conscientious reconnaissance in advance of tomorrow's expedition, in case there was something there he needed to be prepared for. To a certain extent, though, it was little more than self-referential tourism, a leisurely visit to the garden spot of his past, with a packed lunch and a parasol. In this respect, he was as limited as a citizen of Boc Bohec, whose choice of pleasant walks was limited to two rather crowded public parks; Poldarn had very few genuine memories to wander through, and several of them weren't places where he'd choose to spend time if he could help it.

Probably overtired, he told himself, which is why I can't get to sleep. He propped himself up on one elbow and looked round at the neat rows of sleepers, dim shapes in the flickering red glow of the fire, like a mass cremation. It stood to reason that these people (his people, must get used to thinking of them as that) should all roost together, all fall asleep together (because when the mind falls asleep, the parts of the body have no choice but to sleep too). Poldarn knew for a certainty that he was the only person awake in the whole house. In a way, it was a good feeling; for the first time in days, he could really be on his own, instead of being alone in the middle of a crowd.

But leaning on his elbow gave him cramp, so he lay down again and closed his eyes, summoning the memory like a nobleman calling for his jester. For some reason, though, the walk in the plantation wasn't available-someone else was dreaming it, or it was sulking and didn't want to come out. Instead, he remembered another walk with his grandfather, a month or so before or after the trip to the wood 'Are we there yet?' he heard himself say.

He knew where he was; it was the reverse of the view from the porch, because they were standing on the lower slopes of the mountain, looking down at their valley. Behind them, the constant hiss and gurgle of the hot springs were almost loud enough to drown out Grandfather's voice. A dozen or so yards to his right, a solitary crow was tearing at the ribcage of a long-dead lamb.

It was his birthday.

'Not quite.'

'How much further?'

'Not far.'

'When will we get there?'

'Later.'

Grandfather was looking at the view; he seemed to like it a lot. Presumably he enjoyed looking at the farm from different angles, which was fair enough. Ciartan liked the view too, but now he'd seen it and he was getting cold and fidgety, and it wasn't as if anything about it was going to change. 'Can we go on now, please?'

Grandfather sighed. 'Yes, all right.' He dipped his head sideways, to say this way.

They were above the last scruffy patches of grass and heather now, in the belt of black rock and clinker that separated the marginal grazing of the lower slopes from the snowcap. It was foul stuff to walk on, particularly with short legs; every time you put your foot down it went over sideways on the chunks of black stuff, and you could feel the sharp edges right through the soles of your boots. Nothing at all lived up here, not even crows.

Ciartan was bored.

Grandfather sensed that; he was good at guessing people's moods. 'All right,' he said, 'let's see how much you know. Let's see: do you know the name of this mountain?'

That was a silly question. 'The mountain,' Ciartan replied. But Grandfather shook his head.

'All mountains are called The Mountain by somebody or other,' he said. 'No, this one's got a proper name, just as the farm's called Haldersness and the valley's called Raffenriverdale. Do you know what the mountain's proper name is?'

Ciartan shook his head.

'Thought not,' Grandfather replied.

'Tell me,' Ciartan said. 'Please,' he added, remembering his manners.

Grandfather stopped, either for effect or because the gradient was a bit too much for his bad knee. 'This mountain,' he announced, 'is called Polden's Forge.'

'Oh,' Ciartan said. 'Why's it called that?'

Grandfather shook his head. 'It's a long story,' he said. 'I don't suppose you want to hear it.'

'Yes, I do,' Ciartan replied eagerly. 'Please.'

'Well.' Grandfather dug the point of his short spear into a soft crack between two lumps of rock and leaned hard on the butt end. 'Many years ago, our people didn't live here. In fact, nobody even knew this country was here. We all lived far away across the sea, in what they used to call the Empire.'

'I know all about that,' Ciartan interrupted. 'That's where the men go raiding every year, to bring back the metal and stuff.'

Grandfather nodded. 'That's right,' he said. 'Now, the Empire's a very big place-bigger than our island, which is East Island, and almost as big as East Island and West Island put together. That's how big it is.'

Ciartan closed his eyes for a moment, visualising the enormous extent of the Empire. That was an impossible task, so instead he thought of the biggest thing he could think of, which at that moment happened to be the long barn. 'All right,' he said, 'go on.'

'Go on, what?'

'Please.'

'In the south of the Empire,' Grandfather said, wiping condensation out of his moustache with his left hand, 'is a country called Morevish, which is where our people used to live. That was over two hundred years ago, by the way; for what it's worth, Morevish isn't even part of the Empire now, it broke away a long time ago.'

Ciartan frowned. 'Broke away?'

'Rebelled. The people decided they didn't want to belong to the Empire any more, so they chased out the Empire's soldiers and became a free nation.'

'Oh, I see,' Ciartan replied, dismissing the image that had formed in his mind of a huge crack appearing in the ground, and the whole country slowly breaking away and drifting off into the sea.