2. The Paths Home #2
"Huh." The old man glanced to the side, thinking. "That lies south along the trade path? How far?"
Tuathal thought. "A day and a half for a man on his own, three for a man with grown sheep.
South on the path, then turn west at the split rock, then south again at the hill of three stone ravens.
The old way joins the path just beyond, and leads across four burns to the pasture.
The land to the east has a family claim, but no farther that I saw. "
"Truly, ye bring good news." Tulchon sat back on his seat of honor. "Aught of the north?"
A slow, quiet tune came from the clarsach.
"Bedu son of Almeir was chosen chief of Fortreeve on the death of his uncle.
The old chief died in his bed, to the wonderment of all.
" Tuathal smiled a little. He'd been as surprised as any, and had wagered privately that the old man would go to the ravens of the field before age or illness took him.
"Storms at midwinter laid bare a place of the old ones on the Isle of Cats and on Olav's Point.
I know not if treasure was found there." He changed to a faster, lighter tune.
"Rumor holds that a blue calf with green spots was born in Arkill, but rumor also holds that 'twas last season's surfeit of mead that caused the wonder. "
Tulchon, his daughter, and the younger man all laughed at that. "I wager on the mead," Tulchon declared. "A neighbor once, long ago, added wormwood to mead. Truly, he had visions indeed, as did all who tasted the brew."
Tuathal winced, and his stomach churned a little.
His mother's mother gave all in the household a wormwood tea in the spring, to clear the gut of winter's slime.
"That would surely cause sights of wonder and dread to appear before the eyes, aye.
" Even the priests of the Lord of Beasts rejected visions from wormwood.
He shifted in his place and moved the clarsach a little.
Eyes half-closed, he began plucking a rhythmic pattern, both happy and sad.
"For the hospitality, thanks. Guest-welcome is blessed, and host-shields hold strong when leather and wood and even iron fail.
So is the tale of Osswin son of Ninian in the halls of Clove, when the warriors of Pertha came to call.
" Tuathal sensed the others leaning closer as he began to spin the story.
It was well dark by the time he finished. "Ah, truly, ye give good payment for bread and board," Tulchon sighed at last. "Alas that day comes early, and work with it."
Tuathal nodded to the remains of the fire, now mere dark embers and ashes. "Indeed, and the fire burns low. The time for rest has come for all." Without a good moon, there'd be no outdoor work this night. He untuned the clarsach and slid it back into its case.
"It has. Sweet your rest, Tuathal son of Brida.
" At her father's words, the young woman added a small, slow-burning log to the fire, tucking the last peats around it.
Tuathal stepped out of doors to relieve himself before rest. The dog, napping by the door, raised his head and gave the guest a neutral stare, then returned to rest. Tuathal nodded, returned to the house, and found a place well away from Tulchon and his daughter.
The clarsach did not benefit from a dew bath, even on sweet nights such as this.
Come the morning, Tuathal blessed the house once more and departed, rested and refreshed.
He continued north, toward the blue of hills in the distance.
His shadow stretched to the west, then turned back and shrank as noon passed, then grew once more.
The hills too grew, far in the northern distance.
As he walked, he fetched the words from his memory and considered the tune, humming it at half voice.
Something did not fit, the words a shirt with an uneven seam on the music's shoulders.
He turned the words in his mind, testing their grain.
There, a knot, uneven, a good word but not the best one.
Tuathal studied the sky as he walked and sifted words from chaff.
Something stronger, perhaps? Or darker? Ah, that was what the verse needed.
He hummed everything once, locking it into place, and tucked it away.
Ahead, a dark and light swirl of smoke stained the sky.
Did someone burn after harvest, or burn thatch grown weak that harbored illness and animals?
Closer to him, two low, long houses sat far back from the way, their green roofs half-concealing them.
No birds moved overhead, only to the west, into the wind.
Tuathal stopped long enough to move his knife closer to his hand.
He did not have a proper staff. "Lady of the Cauldron, may words be enough. "
The sun lacked a hand and a half to the western sky when he reached the smoke.
Wood and straw and reeds still burned, dull anger and heat, inside low stone walls.
He caught a glimpse of a man's hand and arm, dark skinned and bloody.
A work-tanned, headless body sprawled beside a heap of old straw, the rest of the roof, perhaps.
Of the attackers no tracks marked the foot-hardened ground of the farmyard or the way.
Tuathal touched the rowan in his pouch and looked.
A shadow clung to the headless form. He looked away and continued on. It was not his kin, not his fight.
The sun touched the western sea and half disappeared before he found a sheltered place to sleep.
A thick-woven hedge of thorns, with a half-gap large enough for him and the clarsach would serve for one night.
He wrapped his cloak around the instrument's case, and himself around both.
The stars shone dry, perhaps. A night bird called, silence answered, and he dozed off.
The hedge held rowan and black thorn enough to keep away most trouble.
Dew soaked him to the skin, his hands ached as did the rest of his joints, and he teased bits of thorn twig and leaves out of his hair and even beard.
The songs of light love never mentioned that part of spending the night under the sky and moon!
His cloak had shielded the clarsach. Old Amlod would have beaten him twice over if he allowed the harp to take harm while he slept dry.
Then he'd have sung a tune that would leave Tuathal cringing in shame for the next half year at least. He started to stand.
Bleating, a moo of protest, and harsh voices stopped him. "Get those moving, now," an angry man commanded. "These and the heads might be enough to redeem Father's honor."
"Why'd he even consent to the match?" a different man grumbled. Heavy steps plodded past the hedge, as did several animals, at least three sheep and the cow.
"Better, why'd he not pursue them and end it before the queen of the South and all the world knew of it?" Tuathal twitched at the gruff man's anger. "Him bein' comely and wealthy's no cause for allowin' her to marry out when there's kindred askin' for her hand."
A third voice, lighter than the others spoke up. "Aye. Keep our lands in the family. Even if 'er eldest sister bore no childer, marryin' 'er out's a shame to all the family."
"Moo," the cow protested.
"Little farther," the third man said, voice now soothing. "Good cow, almost there and ye can rest and eat yer fill."
At least the avengers hadn't punished the animals for the dishonor of men.
Tuathal waited until only morning birds broke the dawn quiet, then eased himself out of the hedge and the clarsach with him.
The cloak snagged, and he tugged it free.
Rip. The trim caught and tore. He bit his tongue against harsh words.
Enough woe filled the day without his making more for himself or the one who'd made the trim.
Cursing a black thorn hedge— The rowan would take offense as well, and he'd been in worse trouble.
The sun had risen two hands before his fingers moved without complaint and his neck and back stopped calling him a fool.
He stepped around a cow pat and sheep leavings.
How far were the men going? And how many sheep?
They'd get foot sore if the avengers of honor were not careful, and curse the men for their thoughtlessness and greed.
How many heads had the men taken? Tuathal frowned to himself.
They'd best not have taken the children, if there had been any.
All the gods set a hedge around that. The long shadow grew shorter, and he strode more quickly, staying to the edge of the way and the softer ground.
His shoes wore thin, even though they'd been redone twice now.
A bramble bush and hazel thicket, almost untouched, provided well for him just after the day's peak.
The warmth from above encouraged a slower step, but he dared not.
Would avengers of the dead follow the honor band?
Such did not always ask before striking, if the battle madness filled them sufficiently full.
He'd faced battle-mad men twice. He was no warrior, not of that kind, and twice was more than enough.
More than enough, given that he carried no weapon save his knife and his wits.
He drank from a small burn, then continued north.
The hills ahead grew clearer, blue shading to green and gray as well as blue.
The sun moved south, sending his shadow before him, a herald of sorts.
He passed two farms, gates closed, door flaps likewise.
Sheep in the meadows grazed well away from the path, and twice moved farther at the sound of his passage.
An eagle soared high above. He reached for the bird and looked.
Nothing on the road ahead, then a large man lump.
Movement caught the eagle's attention. Tuathal thanked the bird and returned fully to himself just in time to step over a hole.