Terra Incognita

76

Then what more can I give you? There is nothing else! You promised!’

“The Wolf’s laughter rang across the water. ‘If you want her, you must come across and get her yourself.’

“The young man knew the Wolf could not be trusted, but he must have a wife. A wife of his own age. He could hear the girl calling to him. Just as he was about to step forward onto the first stone he heard a movement behind him and smelled the smell of wild dog and he knew in a flash that this was a trick: The Wolf had him surrounded. So he leaped aside and drew his sword, and thrusting it this way and that into hot bodies that grunted and snarled at him in the blackness, he made his way back up the bank and fled to safety.”

“You were right,” murmured Rianorix in her ear. “It was the sun. And he had to kiss the old woman on the lips.”

“The old woman sat beside the fire, waiting. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘The land is dark by night and dark by day. The crops have died and birds are silent. You have no wife your own age, and the rest of our people are still held prisoner. A fine deal you have done with the Wolf.’

“Do not nag me, woman,’ replied the young man. ‘You are not my wife.’

“Then the old woman took him by the arm and led him to her bed, saying, ‘I am not your wife. But I am all you have.’

“Then the young man cursed the old woman. And when he had finished cursing the old woman he lay on the bed and wept, and when he had finished weeping he lay on the bed and thought, and when he had finished thinking he took the old woman in his arms and took her for his wife.

“When he awoke it was still black as night, for the land was dark by night and dark by day. But standing above the bed, shimmering in the firelight, was the tallest, the most beautiful, the most terrifying woman he had ever seen. On her head was a golden helmet. Her hair flowed down to her waist, and her cloak was fastened by silver brooches with precious stones set in them. In her hand was a flaming spear. And the woman hurled the spear into his pillow and cried, ‘Awake at last, son of Brigantia!’

“The young man did not dare ask who she was. He looked around for the old woman. There was no sign of her.

“‘Long have I waited,’ said the shining woman, ‘and with much patience.’

“The young man trembled, and did not know what to say.

“‘Long have I waited, and with much patience, listening to the cries of my people in slavery, watching the Wolf steal the goodness from the land, watching while you plunge the earth into darkness with your foolish bargains!’

“The young man knelt at her feet, but the woman said, ‘Do not grovel. Sons of Brigantia should not grovel.’

“So the young man stood, and followed the woman out of the cave as he was ordered. And outside were two magnificent horses, a white one for her and a black one for him. Before they mounted, the woman turned to him and said, ‘Son of Brigantia, will you save your people?’

“The young man said, ‘I will.’

“‘Will you fight for them and for their freedom against the Gray Wolf and all his armies?’

“The young man looked into the woman’s eyes and he knew that by her side, he would never be afraid. He said, ‘I will.’ ”

The storyteller suddenly bent and glared at a young child in the audience. “Son of Brigantia, will you save your people?”

The child said something.

“Louder,” urged the storyteller.

“Yes!” came the reply.

The storyteller turned to the child’s companion. “Will you?”

“Yes!”

There was a cheer.

The storyteller rose to his full height. “Sons and daughters of Brigantia, will you save your people?”

The crowd cheered louder, shouting, “Yes!” and “We will!” From somewhere a chant began to spread, “Death to the Wolf! Death to the Wolf! Death to the Wolf!” until Tilla felt herself swaying in time to the words and the air around them was alive with the roar, “Death to the Wolf! Death to the Wolf!”

Suddenly the chant died away as if the storyteller had given a signal. A lone voice cried, “Death to-” and faded amid the derision of his companions.

“Children of Brigantia!” The storyteller’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It is no easy thing to kill a wolf. For a wolf is cunning.”

There were murmurs of agreement.

“And a wolf is strong.”

More murmurs of agreement.

“And a wolf is brave.”

“But we’re braver!” shouted a voice from the back. There were yells of support.

“Yes.” For the first time that evening, the storyteller smiled. “ So it was with the young man. Once he had turned to the wise old woman, he found the courage of his ancestors, and he rode down to the river and fought with the strength of fifty men. The people who were held captive rose up with him and there was a terrible battle. The Wolf, seeing what was happening, disguised himself as a dog and fled. At last every one of the Wolf’s followers lay on the ground with his head hacked from his body. Then the young man and the people marched back over the river carrying the gold of the sun and the silver of the moon, and the crops grew again and the birds sang and the people prospered in the land. But remember this, my children…”

The storyteller paused, surveyed his audience, and continued softly, “The Wolf is still out there, waiting. Waiting with his soft words and fine promises.” He paused again, then raised his voice. “Would you be deceived by a wolf?”

“No!” was the unanimous shout.

“Would you bargain with a wolf?”

“No!”

“What would you do with a wolf?”

“Take his head!” roared a voice from the back of the crowd.

“Take his head!” yelled the crowd, stamping and clapping and swaying in time to the words. “Take his head! Take his head!”

As the chant rose to a crescendo, Tilla gasped. Figures were leaping out from between the fires. Wild, naked men with painted bodies and spiked hair pranced in front of the crowd, brandishing shields and flaming torches. A man on horseback was moving among them: the storyteller, now with antlers sprouting from his head. Then another figure emerged into the light. Not dancing. Stumbling. Dragged forward, his hands roped together, his face pale and wide-eyed with terror.

“Take his head, take his head!”

It was the medicus.

“No!” shrieked Tilla, springing to her feet and scrambling toward the fires, tripping over legs and cloaks and children. “No, he is a good man!”

Behind her she could hear Rianorix shouting, “Leave him alone!”

“Take his head!” howled the crowd.

As she reached the front, she was seized and dragged aside. As soon as she hit the ground, a body landed on top of her. She struggled to get up, but her captor was sitting on her, crushing her so she could hardly breathe. She tried to kick at him, but he seemed not to notice. Seconds later someone else landed beside her. Over the chant she was conscious of a flurry of grunts and punches and gasps, and then beyond all of them a new rhythm. A harsh, relentless rapping of swords on shields. Getting closer. The chant of death giving way to shouts of “Soldiers!” and suddenly she could breathe again.

All around her was running and confusion, feet trampling over her, the blare of army trumpets, screaming as people fell into the fires, and the roar as the soldiers charged into the stampeding crowd.