Beyond the Burning Lands

NINE

THE EYRIE OF THE SKY PEOPLE

I RECOVERED MY SENSES TO a rhythmic pounding sound that I thought at first was the beat of blood in my temples. My next realization was that I could not move—and yet was moving. It took me several moments to grasp that my limbs were bound and I was being carried along at a rapid pace. The pounding was the thud of the feet of those who carried me.

My face was toward the ground and not far above it. Occasionally a tall weed whipped against me, sometimes painfully. In the moonlight I could see the dizzying rush of the earth under me and the steadily jogging feet: four pairs, naked but not flinching from the roughness of the ground. So four men had my roped figure slung between them. But there were more in the band; other feet thudded alongside these. I tried to estimate how many, but it was hopeless.

They ran in silence apart from an occasional sharp word of command; and effortlessly and with apparent tirelessness. I had no idea how far we were from the place where I had been captured, but knew I was being carried farther at a pace not much less than that of a trotting horse. I debated calling out and decided it would do no good. A nettle slashed my cheek, and I bit my lip in silence.

They ran for what seemed like hours before they rested. I was dropped to the ground, bruising my shoulder against a stone. At last I could see something other than the sickening sweep of the earth. There were perhaps twenty of them. They lay motionless, as though they too were bound, and still without talking. I heard the murmur of their breathing; that was all.

Eventually there was another barked command and the trek began again. My four carriers, or perhaps another four, picked me up as casually as I had been dumped. The ropes which bound me had four loose ends, a few feet long, and they twisted them round their shoulders with the skill of long practice. My face was upward now; either by accident or because by this time we were far enough away from the camp for it to be unimportant what landmarks I might see.

Not that I saw much more—only four straining backs and the sky above. But I was glad of the change when they forded a river. I was held scarcely above water level with the back of my head dipping in and out. As it was, I thought I would choke from the waves that splashed over me and filled my nostrils.

There was a second rest break that followed the same routine as the first. When they started off again the paleness of dawn was challenging the moonlight in the east. I thought our progress was more upward but could not be sure. My limbs were stiff and sore from the ropes, my skin smarting from a hundred small abrasions. All I could think of was an end to this monstrous journey.

It came in a way I could not have foreseen. We were in a forest, with huge trees blotting out the growing light of day. The runners pounded along a narrow track that wound between them. From the front came the cry which had previously signaled a break. I expected to be tossed to the ground and braced myself against the shock of landing. To my astonishment I found myself being pulled upward instead. The two men holding the ropes attached to my shoulders were shinning up the opposite sides of a broad-trunked tree. They traveled with a dexterity that reminded me of squirrels. Once or twice I bumped, but fortunately the tree’s surface was smooth, with no projecting branches. Above was complete blackness—I wondered how branches could be so dense or leaves so thick—with a few oddly regular holes. One grew in size and I saw we must pass through it. This happened, and there was light again. With a quick jerk my captors tossed me clear. I thought of falling the height of the tree—thirty feet at least—but I fell no more than a foot and landed softly.

They left me there. I was on a level surface through which the trunks of trees projected, giving the impression of a bizarrely dwarfed forest. This surface seemed to join them together. Huts had been built on it to form a tree-village. The softness under me came from a sort of moss, deep and springy in texture.

I could not see where the two who had carried me up the tree had gone: perhaps into a hut. I saw no one else and no one came. From the golden light breaking through the tree tops it was plain the sun had risen. I was sore and bruised and aching, the softness of the moss only making me more aware of my discomforts. All the same, and despite the growing evidence of day, at last I fell asleep.

I was awakened by being prodded in the ribs; not roughly, more by way of appraisal. I tried to jerk away but the ropes held me. I opened my eyes and saw what was happening. An enormously fat woman, in a shapeless brown dress, was nudging me with the big toe of a large and very dirty foot. When I stared she looked down at me indifferently and, after one last prod, waddled away and disappeared into one of the nearer huts.

In about ten minutes a figure appeared from the same hut. This was a man and could have been one of those who had taken me: he was sinewy and had an athlete’s walk. I saw with a shiver of fear that he carried a knife, and made an effort to free myself. A futile one; I had discovered already that their skill in roping equaled their running.

He reached me, stooped, and with a quick flash of the knife cut my bonds. The ropes parted and fell away. I tried to move my arms but could not: cramp held them. The man began to rub my arms with his hands. His fingers were firm and sure, kneading the muscles into life. He said:

“What is your name, stranger?”

His accent was far more barbarous than that of the Wilsh but his tone was surprisingly friendly. I said warily:

“My name is Luke.”

“I am Jan.” His face cracked into a distinct smile. “Welcome, Luke, to the eyrie of the Sky People.”

I asked: “Why did you bring me here?”

He went on rubbing and smiling. “The stiffness will soon go. Then we will find food for you. I am sure you must be hungry.”

• • •

They were very strange, these who called themselves the Sky People. The men all showed the amiability of Jan, and were as talkative as they had been silent during the long run through the night. In the village it was the women who scarcely spoke and who ignored me, after that first prodding with the toe. They were immensely fat; even the girl children were balloon-bodied and moon-faced. They ate a great deal, being served with food before the men took any, and did no work of any kind. It was the men who swept the huts, brought fresh moss, made plates from big evergreen leaves which they stitched into the shape of dishes, and even cooked the food. This last was not done in the tree-village but somewhere on the forest floor, and brought up in wicker panniers.

It would have been impossible, in any case, for the women to climb and I realized eventually that they never, from birth to death, left the village. The men were strong and lithe and skilled hunters, bringing back beasts of the chase, and grain and dairy products which they exacted as tribute from nearby earth-dwelling tribes. These they despised, but they cosseted and seemed almost to worship their gross womenfolk. All decisions were left to them, in particular to the one I had first seen and who was their Chief. The men vied with each other in offering tidbits to the gaping maw which was her mouth. Her appetite matched her size and weight. Once a pannier of cakes was brought up and I saw her munch a good three dozen, washing them down with gargantuan drafts of ale.

The men, of course, had built both the huts and the floor of interlaced branches on which the village stood, and kept them in repair. The moss was a polyplant which grew plentifully in the forest. Apart from its softness, it was resistant to rain and protected against heat and cold. The huts were lined with it and it was also used to caulk the external cracks. It kept the huts warm in winter when the trees were leafless and gales blew in from the west and north.

They were cunning builders. In a wind the trees swayed all round and the floor creaked in a manner that alarmed me, but everything held firm. They had also, as I discovered on my first night there, built an equally strong wooden cage in which I was placed and the door padlocked. (The lock and key were among the very few metal objects they had apart from their daggers, and I do not think that they themselves worked metal at all.) I had a bed of moss which was not uncomfortable and they gave me blankets, but there seemed small chance of my getting free. The bars were of thick wood and stoutly roped together. If I could have got hold of a knife . . . but they watched me closely.

Yet in a friendly manner, when I repeated the question as to why I had been captured and brought to the village, they grinned and shrugged and countered with questions of their own. There seemed little point in refusing to answer these, and they listened with great interest. They had heard of the city in the north and looked impressed when I told them I had been there, and that the King himself was my friend and had given me the signet ring I wore on my little finger.

This they examined, passing the band of gold with its blue stone carrying the eagle seal from one to another. They would take it, I thought, to give to one of their fat women, and I resigned myself to the loss. But a thought struck me. I said to Jan:

“The King has many such treasures. And others which would please you and your Ladies. Silver mirrors in which they can look at themselves, precious combs for their hair. If you send him a messenger, carrying that ring and word from me of what is needed, he will give them as ransom for my release.”

They were fascinated by this notion, as I had hoped, and discussed it volubly. A ring for every woman in their tribe? I promised it on Cymru’s behalf. And smaller ones for the girl children? That, too. And these mirrors and combs of which I spoke—what were they like? I described them and they hung on my words. I said at last:

“Is it a bargain?”

Jan said: “We must ask the Chief.”

I knew him better than the others and had thought at first he had some position of importance. But I knew now that, when they were inside the village at any rate, all men were equal, and equally subservient to the women. I said:

“But you will ask her?”

“Of course! Two rings each, do you think?”

This element of bargaining raised my spirits further.

I said: “Two, assuredly. Will you ask her now?”

He looked shocked. “She is resting and must not be disturbed. Later I will.” He took the ring from a comrade and gave it back to me. Gesturing to the others to draw near, he went on: “I have made a new poem. Listen.”

It was another peculiar feature of these peculiar men, who were both silent-running hunters and yapping housewives, that they had a passion for making up verses. Jan recited while the rest listened and then noisily applauded. I knew little of poems but this one struck me as particularly bad. I thought it politic, all the same, to join in the applause.

• • •

I spoke to Jan again in the evening. He said:

“The ransom? Ah, yes. The Chief agrees.”

“Then you will send a messenger to the King?”

“Of course. Hear this, Luke.

“Our huts are swayed

By tempests from far lands,

But like our hearts are anchored

To our high-branched home.”

“Very good,” I said. “Can I see him?”

“Who?”

“The one who is to go as messenger.”

“That will be arranged. The Chief will see to it.”

“But the ring?”

“I will give it to her to give to him.”

“And the message?”

“Say it.”

“It would be better written.”

He said with scorn: “We do not write things down. We can keep them in our minds.”

They did have remarkable memories. Some of their poems were extremely and regrettably long, but no one ever fumbled a word. I said:

“Very well. Say: To King Cymru, greeting from Luke of Winchester. I am well but need your help. Grant safe conduct to the bearer of this ring and message. Send him with . . .” I broke off and looked at Jan. “How many are your womenfolk?”

“More than a hundred. The Chief knows.”

“Then twice that number.” He looked at me inquiringly. “Two rings for each, you said.” He nodded, smiling. “Send him with so many rings, and this will secure my release from captivity. I will repay the debt. Do you have that clear?”

He repeated what I had said without hesitation. I offered the ring and he took it. I said:

“The minors and combs . . .”

“Oh, yes.”

“They would burden a running man.” Jan nodded in agreement. “But you can trust me to send them afterward.”

“Of course.” He laughed. “We can trust you! My poem, now—should it be ‘tempests,’ do you think, or does ‘winds’ sound better? ‘Winds from distant lands,’ perhaps?”

• • •

I calculated that it would not take the messenger more than six days to reach Klan Gothlen. Allowing two days’ sojourn and another six for the return journey made fourteen. I ticked them off in my mind. Sitting one evening just inside one of the huts, while rain dropped from the eaves and soaked away into the moss, I said to Jan:

“He will be there now.”

“Who is that, Luke? And where?”

“Your messenger. He will have reached the city.”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled. “And then he will come back with the rings and you will leave us. But not before the Celebration of Summer, I hope.”

“What is that?”

“We have two great festivals, one in the winter at the year’s turn and another in summer. There is feasting and singing, and we save our best poems to say then.”

I said with a brave attempt at enthusiasm: “A great festival, indeed. When does it take place?”

“In a few days.” He squeezed my arm reassuringly. “I am sure you will not miss it, Luke.”

• • •

Two days later there was excitement which obviously concerned something that had happened on the ground below the village because it centered on a man who emerged from one of the holes and ran to the Chief’s hut. When he came out gossip buzzed round him. It was just possible, I thought, that the messenger had returned. I said so to the two who were with me and they went across to see.

Someone had come from the world outside but not the messenger. It was a peddler, with cloth to sell. The Sky People made no cloth, though the men cut and sewed garments for both themselves and the women. They bought the material from itinerant merchants, and this was such a one. The Chief had commanded that he should be brought up with his wares. I saw her waddle from her hut and sit heavily on her special seat outside. I thought, though maybe it was fanciful, that the whole floor gave a creak of protest as she did so.

At the hole men were hauling ropes. Bundles were brought up and then the peddler. An ordinary dark-bearded man in a peddler’s cloak—but young, I thought, to be his own master. He was lifted clear and stood on the mossy floor. I saw with surprise that he was a dwarf. And in the next instant recognized him: It was Hans.

He did not see me for some time, though his gaze, while he spread bolts of cloth from the bundles, was covertly ranging round the village. The cage standing outside Jan’s hut obviously interested him. When he did catch sight of me he merely gave a small quick shake of the head. It was unnecessary: I had no intention of revealing that we knew each other.

I wondered how he would get a message to me, but in fact he did not try. When his business was finished—they bought several lengths of cloth in dull blues and browns—the bundles were tied up again and they and Hans dropped back through the hole.

I felt a keen disappointment at his departure. Later I reflected that this must have been a scouting trip. Greene and the rest would be hiding nearby, ready to attack at the right moment.

Jan came to me, smiling. “I am glad the peddler arrived at this time. Our Ladies will have new dresses for the Celebration of Summer.”

I said: “They will look beautiful in them, I am sure.”

He said approvingly: “You speak fine words, Luke. You will do us much honor at the feast.”

“If I am still here.”

He laughed. “Of course! If you are still here.”

• • •

I was wakened when my arm was touched by a hand that reached between the bars of the cage. As I jerked upright there was an urgent whisper:

“Captain! It is I. Hans.”

It was very dark, the waning moon hidden by clouds. I peered and saw the blur of his figure. I said, also whispering:

“Where are the others?”

“There are none.”

“But Greene, Edmund . . .”

“They went on, thinking you lost. Captain, I have two knives. Take one. We must cut the ropes and get you out.”

He handed me a knife and we set to work. It was harder than one would have thought. The ropes were deeply embedded in the corners of the cage. It was necessary to saw awkwardly at them and the darkness did not help. Nor did the fact that the knife slipped and cut the base of my thumb. This was painful, but the greater nuisance was that my hands became slippery with blood.

There was a cough from inside Jan’s hut and we hunched into immobility. When nothing more happened, Hans began hacking away again. I tried one of the bars; it seemed as firmly held as ever. I whispered:

“We are getting nowhere.”

“Patience, Captain. We will in time.”

“Listen,” I said. “I am not sure this is necessary.”

I told him, speaking softly through the bars, of the messenger who had gone to Cymru’s court for ransom. He would soon be back. If we were discovered in this attempt at escape they might call off the deal. And they might kill him—their ways were not predictable.

He heard me out, and said: “There will be no ransom.”

“But they have agreed it.”

“They were deceiving you. I have spoken to villagers in this region. In a day or two these people hold a feast . . .”

“They have told me of it.”

“But not all, I think. The women rule here. There is an ancient custom of the tribe. Twice a year they sacrifice. At one time it was a young man from among themselves. He was turned loose in the forest, hobbled so that he could not run, and the women hunted him. When they caught him he was tied to a stake and spit-roasted over a fire. Then eaten. The custom changed. The women grew too fat and idle even to hunt a shackled man. They let their men bring a victim from outside the village. So twice a year they run and make their capture. It is a point of honor to travel great distances—because of that the nearby villages do not fear them. They took you for this purpose.”

I could not believe him. I thought of Jan and the others, reciting their poems to me, and looking for approval. I said:

“But they have been friendly . . .”

“A farmer is kind to his cattle if he wants them to come fat to the knife.”

“But the ransom!”

“They wear no jewels or adornments. They despise them. This is well known. It is true of their women also. I was told not to waste my time offering them brightly colored cloths.”

Realizing this small truth convinced me of the larger one. I had been a fool not to see it. They had bargained with me as an amusement only, and all their seeming friendship had been a mocking lie. I remembered saying to Jan that he could trust me to make up the rest of the ransom. He had laughed as he agreed. Rage swelled in me. In that moment I would have thrown my life away just to have my hands around his throat.

Hans said: “A strand has parted. Keep on.”

I turned my fury into a renewed onslaught against the ropes. I cut myself again but paid it no heed. We sawed away and gradually, strand by strand, the ropes yielded.

Hans whispered: “Now, Captain! Push, and I’ll pull.”

I strained against the bars. They gave slightly, and then resisted. I put all my strength into forcing them. Suddenly, with a loud cracking noise, the whole side of the cage gave way and collapsed with Hans underneath it and me on top.

As we were scrambling free there were sounds of movement from the hut. My eyes were more accustomed to the dark and I saw a figure come out and thought I recognized Jan. My anger had cooled and thoughts of escape were stronger than desire for revenge. We must get to the hole and down the tree. But he had seen what was happening. He gave a yell for help and ran, not in our direction but to the hole.

We could hear others moving, responding to the alarm. In a few moments they would be swarming round us. Even if Jan did not manage to delay us long enough for them to catch us up here, they would be down the tree and after us almost immediately. And they knew the tracks through the forest as I knew the alleyways of Winchester, and were trained and expert runners.

But slight as the chance was, we must try for it. I started to run, then realized Hans was not following. I cried: “This way!” but he was bending over something: a small pack. I did not know what he was doing, except that it must be a waste of time. I went back and tried to grab his arm.

“Come on!”

He shook himself free. There was a smell of oil and he had something in his hands: a tinderbox. Flint sparked against steel and the tinder caught. He thrust a wad of oily rag at it. It flamed, and he tossed it as far as he could toward one of the huts. As it arced, burning, through the air, he lit another wad and threw it in the opposite direction. A new and different cry of alarm came from Jan and the figures that were tumbling from the huts. Fire shot up where the first missile had landed. They ran toward it, and then broke in confusion as a second fire started behind them.

Hans said: “Now, Captain!”

We ran for the hole, which was no longer guarded. I heard shouts but did not look back. Hans had climbed the tree by means of the spikes in its side which the men of the Sky People used, but he had brought a rope with him and made it fast at the top. He wanted me to descend first but obeyed when I ordered him to go. As he slid down I could take in something of the scene. The moss had caught over a wide area in both places where the burning rags had landed. Figures were dashing about and trying to douse the flames with blankets. Then Hans jerked at the rope and I took it in my hands and dropped.

Above us a red circle glowed and opened out, and was followed by another. Bits of burning moss dropped like shooting stars. In their light I could see something of the ground: the kitchens at which the men had cooked food and the spring-fed pool from which they took water. And a pit, a little longer than a man, heaped with charcoal, with blocks at either end that had rounded, lengthwise grooves in them. Grooves in which a stake might rest and be turned like a spit. Sickness and anger rose in me again. I looked up and rejoiced at the spreading fire. The cries were thinner but more anguished. I rejoiced at that, too.

Only when we were clear of the forest, whose whole heart seemed to be consumed in a conflagration that crimsoned the sky like the flaming mountains of the Burning Lands, did I remember the children trapped in it with the rest. Then I felt only sickness, and no more anger.

• • •

I pieced together from Hans the manner in which he had gone about my rescue. I was not missed from the camp until morning, the guard having changed shortly after I spoke to the one on duty. Then Greene instituted a search for me, and closely questioned the people of the village. They claimed to know nothing and when the place had been ransacked it was plain I was not there. Greene searched two more days before abandoning me as lost and taking the troop onward toward the Burning Lands.

Hans, being only a servant and a dwarf besides, could not dispute the decision, but the next night slipped away, taking gold from my pack which, together with the rest of my gear and my sword belt, I had left behind. His only idea then was to make a search of his own, with little notion of how to set about it. But at a village he met a peddler and gave him a good price for his mule and goods and cloak. A peddler could travel anywhere and pick up news.

It was not long before he heard of the Sky People and of their twice-yearly expeditions in search of a victim. Very likely the people in the first village could have told Greene, but had not done so for fear of reprisals from one side or the other. It was safer to know nothing. Hans learned roughly where the village lay and headed for it. The nearer he came the more information he could glean. It was in a village at the edge of the forest that he learned that the Sky People did all their cooking on the ground because the moss they used dried quickly and when dry burned easily: these villagers themselves used it as tinder. In the tree-village no flame was permitted: the moss kept them warm enough even in winter to have no need of fires. Because of this he had brought the tinderbox and oily rags with him.

I said: “You saved my life, Hans.”

“I am your servant, Captain.”

I shook my head. “No longer. Henceforth you are a warrior.”

“A dwarf.”

“That makes no difference.”

“It will in southern lands, in Winchester.”

“Leave that to me,” I said. “I will see to it.”

• • •

We traveled on foot, having too little gold left to buy horses; we sold the mule also to buy food. And extra boots. Because that was the way we crossed the pass through the Burning Lands, carrying water-soaked boots, three pairs each, on strings around our necks, and putting fresh ones on as those we were wearing began to roast our feet. We ran as fast as we could over the smoking black sand, with the boots unlaced so that we spent as little time as possible changing them. I was a near thing, even so. The soles of our last pair were crisped and each step an agony by the time we could discard them and walk, limping and barefoot, down the slope into the valley of black rock.

We bought new boots not in Marlborough but at a village outside. I avoided cities and did not make myself known as we journeyed south. The pigeons would have flown with news of my return and, childishly perhaps, I wished to keep it as a surprise. Fortunately no one would take us for anything but vagrants in the ragged clothes we wore.

So at last we came into the Itchen Valley and saw St Catherine’s Hill, bushy-topped with trees, and a score of other familiar sights; and then the city itself, not towered and domed like Cymru’s, but strong and lovely behind its walls. We came to the West Gate and the guard challenged us. I saw his commander on the step above him: a Captain called Barnes whom I knew well.

I cried to him: “Greetings, John!”

He stared at me.

“Do you not know me? It is Luke. Brought back from the dead by this warrior dwarf of mine!”

He took a step forward but did not speak. Had I changed so much that he could not recognize me, I wondered: not even my voice? I said:

“Will you let me pass to go to my brother?”

“I will do better than that,” he said. He raised his hand.

“Guard, arrest this traitor!”