Kazuo Ishiguro - The Buried Giant

“Then you should have roused me earlier, Axl.”

“You looked so peaceful, and after that long day I imagined sleep would be welcome to you. And I was right for now you’re looking as fresh as a young maid.”

“Talking your nonsense already and we don’t even know what happened in the night. From the sound of things out there, they haven’t beaten each other to bloody pulp. That’s children I hear and the dogs sound fed and happy. Axl, is there water to wash with here?”

A little later, having made themselves presentable as best they could — and with Ivor still not returned — they wandered out into the crisp, bright air in search of something to eat. The village now appeared to Axl a far more benevolent place. The round huts which in the dark had seemed so haphazardly positioned now stood before them in neat rows, their matching shadows forming an orderly avenue through the village. There was a bustle of men and women moving about with tools or washing tubs, groups of children following in their wake. The dogs, though numerous as ever, seemed docile. Only a donkey contentedly defecating in the sun right in front of a well reminded Axl of the unruly place he had entered the night before. There were even nods and subdued greetings from villagers as they passed, though no one went so far as to speak to them.

They had not gone far when they spotted the contrasting figures of Ivor and the warrior standing ahead of them in the street, heads close together in discussion. As Axl and Beatrice approached, Ivor took a step back and smiled self-consciously.

“I wished not to wake you prematurely,” he said to them. “But I’m a poor host and you both must be famished. Follow me to the old longhouse and I’ll see you’re given your fill. But first, friends, greet our hero of last night. You’ll find Master Wistan understands our tongue with ease.”

Axl turned to the warrior and bowed his head. “My wife and I are honoured to meet a man of such courage, generosity and skill. Your deeds last night were remarkable.”

“My deeds were nothing extraordinary, sir, no more my skills.” The warrior’s voice, as before, was gentle and a smile hovered about his eyes. “I had good fortune last night, and besides, was ably helped by brave comrades.”

“The comrades he speaks of,” Ivor said, “were too busy soiling themselves to join the battle. It’s this man alone destroyed the fiends.”

“Really, sir, no more on this matter.” The warrior had addressed Ivor, but was now gazing intently at Axl, as though some mark on the latter’s face greatly fascinated him.

“You speak our language well, sir,” Axl said, taken aback by the scrutiny.

The warrior went on studying Axl, then caught himself and laughed. “Forgive me, sir. I thought for a moment … But forgive me. My blood is Saxon through and through, but I was brought up in a country not far from here and was often among Britons. So I learnt to speak your tongue alongside my own. These days I’m less accustomed to it, living as I do far away in the fenlands, where one hears many strange tongues but not yours. So you must excuse my errors.”

“Far from it, sir,” Axl said. “One can hardly tell you aren’t a native speaker. In fact, I couldn’t help notice last night your way of wearing your sword, closer and higher on the waist than Saxons are accustomed to do, your hand falling easily on the handle as you walk. I hope you won’t be offended when I say it’s a manner much like a Briton’s.”

Again Wistan laughed. “My Saxon comrades ceaselessly jest not only on my wearing of the sword, but my wielding of it. But you see, my skills were taught to me by Britons, and I’ve never wished for better teaching. It has preserved me well through many dangers, and did so again last night. Excuse my impertinence, sir, but I see you’re not from these parts yourself. Can it be your native country is to the west?”

“We’re from the neighbouring country, sir. A day’s walk away, no more.”

“Yet perhaps in distant days you lived further west?”

“As I say, sir, I’m from the neighbouring country.”

“Forgive my poor manners. Travelling this far west, I find myself nostalgic for the country of my childhood, though I know it’s some distance yet. I find myself seeing everywhere shadows of half-remembered faces. Are you and your good wife returning home this morning?”

“No, sir, we go east to our son’s village, which we hope to reach within two days.”

“Ah. The road through the forest then.”

“Actually, sir, we mean to take the high road through the mountains, there being a wise man in the monastery there we hope will grant us an audience.”

“Is that so?” Wistan nodded thoughtfully, and once more looked carefully at Axl. “I’m told that’s a steep climb.”

“My guests have not yet breakfasted,” Ivor said, breaking in. “Excuse us, Master Wistan, while I walk them to the longhouse. Then if we may, sir, I’d like to resume our discussion of just now.” He lowered his voice and continued in Saxon, to which Wistan replied with a nod. Then turning to Axl and Beatrice, Ivor shook his head and said gravely: “Despite this man’s great efforts last night, our problems are far from over. But follow me, friends, you must be famished.”

Ivor marched off with his lurching gait, prodding the earth at each step with his staff. He seemed too distracted to notice his guests falling behind in the crowded alleys. At one point, when Ivor was several paces ahead, Axl said to Beatrice: “That warrior’s an admirable fellow, didn’t you think so, princess?”

“No doubt,” she replied quietly. “But that was a strange way he had of staring at you, Axl.”

There was no time to say more, for Ivor, at last noticing he was in danger of losing them, had stopped at a corner.

Before long they came to a sunny courtyard. There were roaming geese, and the yard itself was bisected by an artificial stream — a shallow channel cut into the earth — along which the water trickled with urgency. At its broadest point the stream was forded by a simple little bridge of two flat rocks, and at that moment an older child was squatting on one of them, washing clothes. It was a scene that struck Axl as almost idyllic, and he would have paused to take it in further had Ivor not kept striding firmly on towards the low, heavily thatched building whose length ran the entire far edge of the yard.

Once inside it, you would not have thought this longhouse so different from the sort of rustic canteen many of you will have experienced in one institution or another. There were rows of long tables and benches, and towards one end, a kitchen and serving area. Its main difference from a modern facility would have been the dominating presence of hay: there was hay above one’s head, and beneath one’s feet, and though not by design, all over the surface of the tables, blown around by the gusts that regularly swept through the place. On a morning such as this, as our travellers sat down to breakfast, the sun breaking in through the porthole-like windows would have revealed the air itself to be filled with drifting specks of hay.

The old longhouse was deserted when they arrived, but Ivor went into the kitchen area, and a moment later two elderly women appeared with bread, honey, biscuits and jugs of milk and water. Then Ivor himself came back with a tray of poultry cuts which Axl and Beatrice proceeded to devour gratefully.

At first they ate without speaking, only now conscious of how hungry they had been. Ivor, facing them across the table, continued to brood, his eyes far away in thought, and it was only after some time that Beatrice said:

“These Saxons are a great burden to you, Ivor. Perhaps you’re wishing to be back with your own kind, even with the boy returned safe and the ogres slain.”