“I’m here beside you, princess. But let me take this staff and keep us clear of the rushes.”
The baskets were moving ever more slowly now, pulling inwards towards the sludge-like water where the bank made its turn. Thrusting the staff into the water, Axl found he could touch the bottom easily, but when he tried to push off back into the tide, the river floor sucked at the stick, allowing him no purchase. He could see too, in the morning light breaking over the long-grassed fields, how weeds had woven thickly around both baskets, as though to bind them further to this stagnant spot. The boat was almost before them, and as they drifted lethargically towards it, Axl held out the staff to touch against its stern and brought them to a halt.
“Is it the other boathouse, husband?”
“Not yet.” Axl glanced over to that part of the river still gliding downstream. “I’m sorry, princess. We’re caught in the reeds. But here’s a rowing boat before us, and if it’s worthy, we’ll use it ourselves to complete the journey.” Pushing the staff once more into the water, Axl manoeuvred them slowly to a position alongside the vessel.
From their low vantage point, the boat loomed large, and Axl could see in fine detail the damaged, coarsened wood, and the underside of the gunwale, where a row of tiny icicles hung like candlewax. Planting the staff in the water, he now rose carefully to his full height within his basket and peered into the boat.
The bow end was bathed in an orange light and it took him a moment to see that the pile of rags heaped there on the boards was in fact an elderly woman. The unusual nature of her garment—a patchwork of numerous small dark rags—and the sooty grime smeared over her face had momentarily deceived him. Moreover, she was seated in a peculiar posture, her head tilted heavily to one side, so that it was almost touching the boat’s floor. Something about the old woman’s clothes tugged at his memory, but now she opened her eyes and stared at him.
“Help me, stranger,” she said quietly, not altering her posture.
“Are you sick, mistress?”
“My arm won’t obey me, or I’d by now be up and taken the oar. Help me, stranger.”
“Who do you speak to, Axl?” Beatrice’s voice came from behind him. “Take care it’s not some demon.”
“It’s just a poor woman of our years or more, injured in her boat.”
“Don’t forget me, Axl.”
“Forget you? Why would I ever forget you, princess?”
“This mist makes us forget so much. Why should it not make us forget each other?”
“Such a thing can’t ever happen, princess. Now I must help this poor woman, and perhaps with luck we’ll all three use her boat to journey downstream.”
“Stranger, I hear what you say. You’ll be most welcome to share my boat. But help me now for I’m fallen and hurt.”
“Axl, don’t leave me here. Don’t forget me.”
“I’m just stepping onto this boat beside us, princess. I must attend to this poor stranger.”
The cold had stiffened his limbs, and he almost lost his balance as he climbed into the larger vessel. But he steadied himself, then looked around him.
The boat seemed simple and sturdy, with no obvious signs of leakage. There was cargo piled near the stern, but Axl paid this little attention, for the woman was saying something again. The morning sun was still fully upon her, and he could see how her gaze was fixed with some intensity on his feet—so much so that he could not help looking down at them himself. Noticing nothing remarkable, he continued towards her, stepping carefully over the boat’s bracing.
“Stranger. I see you’re not young, but you’ve strength left. Show them a fierce face. A fierce face to make them flee.”
“Come, mistress. Are you able to sit up?” He had said this for he was troubled by her strange posture—her loose grey hair was hanging down and touching the damp boards. “Here, I’ll help you. Try to sit higher.”
As he leant forward and touched her, a rusted knife she had been holding fell from her grasp onto the boards. In the same instant, some small creature scampered out from her rags and away into the shadows.
“Do the rats bother you, mistress?”
“They’re over there, stranger. Show them a fierce face, I say.”
It now occurred to him she had not been staring at his feet, but beyond him, to something at the back of the boat. He turned, but the low sun dazzled him and he could not discern clearly whatever was moving there.
“Are they rats, mistress?”
“They fear you, stranger. They feared me too for a little while, but they sapped me little by little as they will. Had you not come they’d be covering me even now.”
“Wait a moment, mistress.”
He stepped towards the stern, a hand raised against the low sun, and gazed down at the objects piled in the shadows. He could make out tangled nets, a soaked-through blanket left in a heap, a long-handled tool, like a hoe, lying across it. And there was a wooden, lidless box—the sort fishermen used to keep fresh the dying fish they had caught. But when he peered into it, he saw not fish but skinned rabbits—a considerable number of them, pressed so closely one against the other their tiny limbs appeared to be locked together. Then, as he watched, the whole mass of sinews, elbows and ankles began to shift. Axl took a step back even as he saw an eye open, and then another. A sound made him turn, and he saw at the other end of the boat, still bathed in orange light, the old woman slumped against the bow with pixies—too many to count—swarming over her. At first glance she looked contented, as if being smothered in affection, while the small, scrawny creatures ran through her rags and over her face and shoulders. And now there came more and more out of the river, climbing over the rim of the boat.
Axl reached down for the long-handled tool before him, but he too had become enveloped by a sense of tranquillity, and he found himself extracting the pole from the tangled netting in a strangely leisurely manner. He knew more and more creatures were rising from the water—how many might have boarded now? Thirty? Sixty?—and their collective voices seemed to him to resemble the sound of children playing in the distance. He had the presence of mind to raise the long tool—a hoe, surely, for was that not a rusted blade on the end rising into the sky, or yet another creature clinging to it?—and bring it crashing down onto the tiny knuckles and knees mounting the side of the boat. Then a second swing, this time towards the box with the skinned rabbits from which more pixies were running out. But then he had never been much of a swordsman, his skill being for diplomacy and, when required, intrigue, though who could claim he had ever betrayed the trust his skills had won? On the contrary, it was he who had been betrayed, but he could still wield a weapon in some fashion, and now he would bring it down this way and that, for had he not to defend Beatrice from these swarming creatures? But here they came, more and more—were they still coming from that box, or from the shallow waters? Were they even now gathering around Beatrice asleep in her basket? The last blow of the hoe had had some effect, for several creatures had fallen back into the water, and then another blow had sent two, even three, flying through the air, and the old woman was a stranger, what obligation did he have to her before his own wife? But there she was, the strange woman, hardly visible now beneath the writhing creatures, and Axl crossed the length of the boat, hoe raised, and made another arc in the air to sweep off as many as possible without injury to the stranger. Yet how they clung on! And now they even dared to speak to him—or was that the old woman herself from beneath them?
“Leave her, stranger. Leave her to us. Leave her, stranger.”
Axl swung the hoe again, and it moved as though the air were thick water, but found its mark, scattering several creatures even as more arrived.
“Leave her to us, stranger,” the old woman said again, and only this time did it occur to him, with a stab of fear that seemed bottomless, that the speaker was talking not of the dying stranger before him but of Beatrice. And turning to his wife’s basket in the reeds, he saw the waters around it a
live with limbs and shoulders. His own basket was nearly capsizing from the pull of the creatures trying to climb in, preserved only by the ballast of those already inside. But they were boarding his basket only to gain access to its neighbour. He could see other creatures massing over the animal skin covering Beatrice, and uttering a cry, he climbed the side of the boat and let himself fall into the water. It was deeper than he had anticipated, coming above his waist, but the shock of it took his breath only for an instant, before he let out a warrior’s bellow that came to him as if from a distant memory, and he lurched towards the baskets, the hoe held high above him. There was tugging at his clothes, and the water felt honey-like, but when he brought the hoe down onto his own basket, even though his weapon travelled with frustrating slowness through the air, once it landed more creatures than he could have suspected tumbled out into the water. The next swing caused even greater destruction—he must this time have swung with the blade outwards, for was that not bloodied flesh he saw flying up into the sunlight? And yet Beatrice remained an age away, floating complacently even as the creatures rose about her, and now they came from the land too, pouring through the grass on the riverbank. Creatures were now even hanging from his hoe and he let it fall into the water, suddenly wishing only to be at Beatrice’s side.
He waded through the weeds, the broken bulrushes, the mud tugging at his feet, but Beatrice remained further away than ever. Then came the stranger’s voice again, and even though now, down in the water, he could no longer see her, Axl could picture the old woman with startling clarity in his mind’s eye, slumped on the floor of her boat in the morning sun, the pixies moving freely over her as she uttered the words he could hear:
“Leave her, stranger. Leave her to us.”
“Curse you,” Axl muttered under his breath, as he pushed himself forward. “I’ll never, never give her up.”
“A wise man like you, stranger. You’ve known a long time now there’s no cure to save her. How will you bear it, what now lies in wait for her? Do you long for that day you watch your dearest love twist in agony and with nothing to offer but kind words for her ear? Give her to us and we’ll ease her suffering, as we’ve done for all these others before her.”
“Curse you! I’ll not give her to you!”
“Give her to us and we’ll see she suffers no pain. We’ll wash her in the river’s waters, the years will fall from her, and she’ll be as in a pleasant dream. Why keep her, sir? What can you give her but the agony of an animal in slaughter?”
“I’ll be rid of you. Get off. Get off her.”
Locking his hands together to make a club, he swung one way then the other, clearing a path in the water as he waded on, till at last he was before Beatrice, still fast asleep in her basket. The pixies were swarming over the animal skin that covered her, and he began to pull them off one by one, hurling them away.
“Why will you not give her to us? This is no kindness you show her.”
He pushed the basket through the water until the ground rose up and the basket was sitting on wet mud amidst grass and bulrushes. He leant forward then and gathered his wife in his arms, lifting her out. Thankfully she came back to wakefulness enough to cling to his neck, and they made faltering steps together, first onto the bank, then further, into the fields. Only when the land felt hard and dry beneath them did Axl lower her, and they sat in the grass together, he recovering his breath, she becoming steadily more awake.
“Axl, what is this place we’ve come to?”
“Princess, how are you feeling now? We must get away from this spot. I’ll carry you on my back.”
“Axl, you’re soaked through! Did you fall in the river?”
“This is an evil spot, princess, and we must leave quickly. I’ll gladly carry you on my back, the way I used to do when we were young and foolish and enjoying a warm spring’s day.”
“Must we leave the river behind us? Sir Gawain’s right surely that it will carry us all the more swiftly where we’ll go. The land here looks as high in the mountains as we ever were before.”
“We’ve no choice, princess. We must get far from here. Come, I’ll have you on my back. Come, princess, reach for my shoulders.”
Chapter Twelve
He could hear the warrior’s voice below him, appealing to him to climb more slowly, but Edwin ignored it. Wistan was too slow, and in general appeared not to appreciate the urgency of their situation. When they were still not halfway up the cliff, he had asked Edwin: “Can that be a hawk just flew past us, young comrade?” What did it matter what it was? His fever had made the warrior soft, both in mind and body.
Only a little further to climb, then he at least would be over the edge and standing on firm ground. He could then run—how he longed to run!—but to where? Their destination had, for the moment, drifted beyond his recall. What was more, there had been something important to tell the warrior: he had been deceiving Wistan about something, and now it was almost time to confess. When they had started their climb, leaving the exhausted mare tied to a shrub beside the mountain path, he had resolved to make a clean breast of it once they reached the top. Yet now he was almost there, his mind held nothing but confused wisps.
He clambered over the last rocks and pulled himself up over the precipice. The land before him was bare and wind-scarred, rising gradually towards the pale peaks on the horizon. Nearby were patches of heather and mountain grass, but nothing taller than a man’s ankle. Yet strangely, there in the mid-distance, was what appeared to be a wood, its lush trees standing calmly against the battling wind. Had some god, on a whim, picked up in his fingers a section of rich forest and set it down in this inhospitable terrain?
Though out of breath from the climb, Edwin pushed himself forward into a run. For those trees, surely, were where he had to be, and once there he would remember everything. Wistan’s voice was shouting again somewhere behind him—the warrior must finally have arrived at the top—but Edwin, not glancing back, ran all the faster. He would leave his confession until those trees. Within their shelter, he would be able to remember more clearly, and they could talk without the wind’s howl.
The ground came up to meet him and knocked the breath from him. It happened so unexpectedly he was obliged to lie there a moment, quite dazed, and when he tried to spring back to his feet something soft but forceful kept him down. He realised then that Wistan’s knee was on his back, and that his hands were being tied behind him.
“You asked before why we must carry rope with us,” Wistan said. “Now you see how useful it can be.”
Edwin began to remember their exchange down on the path below. Eager to start the climb, he had been annoyed by the way the warrior was carefully transferring items from his saddle into two sacks for them to carry.
“We must hurry, warrior! Why do we need all these things?”
“Here, carry this, comrade. The she-dragon’s foe enough without us growing weak with cold and hunger to aid her.”
“But the scent will be lost! And what need do we have of rope?”
“We may need it yet, young comrade, and we won’t find it growing on branches up there.”
Now the rope had been wound around his waist as well as his wrists, so that when finally he rose to his feet, he could move forward only against the pull of his leash.
“Warrior, are you no longer my friend and teacher?”
“I’m still that and your protector too. From here you must go with less haste.”
He found he did not mind the rope. The gait it obliged him to adopt was like that of a mule, and he was reminded of a time not long ago when he had had to impersonate just such a beast, going round and round a wagon. Was he the same mule now, stubbornly pushing his way up the slope even as the rope pulled him back?
He pulled and pulled, occasionally managing several steps at a run before the rope jerked him to a halt. A voice was in his ears—a familiar voice—half-singing, half-chanting a children’s rhyme, one he knew well from when he was younger. It was
comforting and disturbing in equal measure and he found if he chanted along while tugging on the rope, the voice lost something of its unsettling edge. So he chanted, at first under his breath, then with less inhibition into the wind: “Who knocked over the cup of ale? Who cut off the dragon’s tail? Who left the snake inside the pail? ’Twas your Cousin Adny.” There were further lines he did not remember, but he was surprised to find that he had but to chant along with the voice and the words would come out correctly.
The trees were near now and the warrior tugged him back again. “Slowly, young comrade. We need more than courage to enter this strange grove. Look there. Pine trees at this height’s no mystery, but aren’t those oaks and elms beside them?”
“No matter what trees grow here, warrior, or what birds fly these skies! We have little time left and must hurry!”
They entered the wood and the ground changed beneath them: there was soft moss, nettles, even ferns. The leaves above them were dense enough to form a ceiling, so that for a while they wandered in a grey half-light. Yet this was no forest, for soon they could see before them a clearing with its circle of open sky above it. The thought came to Edwin that if this was indeed the work of a god, the intention must have been to conceal with these trees whatever lay ahead. He pulled angrily at the rope, saying:
“Why dally, warrior? Can it be you’re afraid?”
“Look at this place, young comrade. Your hunter’s instincts have served us well. This must be the dragon’s lair before us now.”
“I’m the hunter of us two, warrior, and I tell you that clearing holds no dragon. We must hurry past it and beyond, for we’ve further to go!”
“Your wound, young comrade. Let me see if it remains clean.”
“Never mind my wound! I tell you the scent will be lost! Let go the rope, warrior. I’ll run on even if you will not!”
This time Wistan released him, and Edwin pushed past thistles and tangled roots. Several times he lost his balance, for trussed as he was he had no hand to put out to steady himself. But he reached the clearing without injury, and stopped at its edge to take in the sight before him.