From across the river

FROM ACROSS THE RIVER

by

Colin Milburn

Blore watched the grey-brown streaks of the silt-laden river drift
past. Brittle shards of sunlight glanced off its rippling surface.
Further out into the main, faster, flow of the river the moss-covered
boulders resisted the press of water around them, forcing it to part in
cascades of foam, slicking the grey-green stones with an oily sheen
...
And then the thread of his concentration was snapped like a dry twig by
the two cries from across the river.
First there was the screech of a suddenly-wounded animal. A boar? A
wild pig? And then came the triumphant, mocking whoop of the Boy.
Blore's eyes, already slitted against the glare of the water, closed
against these sounds, his ears trying to tune to the sucking lap of the
river.
Blind, he reached a hand into the moving water, feeling the soft
abrasion of the silt through his fingers. The warm force of the water
calmed him, letting him think about the Boy without the anger rising in
hot, then cold, waves within his chest.
The two skinned rabbits, suspended by vine rope, that he had seen that
morning told him the Boy had crossed the river during the night.
When would, not might, he come again?
In the past few days the river had risen so that, if Blore stood on his
favoured outcrop of rocks to view the South Side, the water splashed
over the edge and soaked his legs. Soon he would need to wade through
water knee-deep to reach this vantage point. Blore knew he would have
to find another place before this happened.
The rock at the end of the outcrop was almost surrounded by the
boiling, angry water. Blore feared that there was a giant beast living
in the depths of the water that was making the level rise and causing
the water to dance and roar.
He saw no movement on the South Side. The Boy must be feeding on the
beast he had killed that morning.
The river boomed louder around him and an extra body of water was
hurled against the rocks to shatter in white coins of foam that rose
above his head.
As he turned to leave the rocks he heard the same sound of the Boy from
the South Side. The whooping cry seemed to last a lifetime until its
tone lowered and died away only to rise up again, this time as a
caroming ululation that echoed back and forth across the water. Blore's
answering cry seemed to be sucked into and absorbed by the crash of the
river. His impotence and anger at the Boy's ability to touch him, even
from this distance, was like another being standing beside him, shaking
him, whispering words of anger and fear.
These were words he could not make out but the nature of them was
plain. It was something in the tone and manner of the voice that made
his knees weaken and his own voice crack.
As he had done before, Blore turned and scooped up a handful of stones
from a crevice in the rock and hurled them with a grunt of effort
towards the South Side. As they fell harmlessly into the shallows of
the far side Blore turned and walked from the rock as though to hide
his shame from the river.

Night fell on the North reserve like a caul of darkness. Blore returned
to his camp and lit the fire he had prepared that morning. He put on
water to boil and ate his evening meal of Marr peppers and a porridge
made from Stray fruit and goat's milk. He then settled down with his
pipeful of slow-burning tobacco and a stone jar of hot tea laced with
Gritt spirit to read the night sky.
Other than his futile cries in answer to the Boy Blore only allowed
himself to speak at this time of the day. It was only in these hours of
darkness, with the river just a distant murmur, that speech was
necessary. He looked up at the canopy of stars, drew long and deep on
his pipe and spoke, his voice low and soft.
"Show me, this night, Silent Spirit, that what I intend is the true
thing to do." As he spoke, whisps of smoke from his mouth drifted
upwards like ghosts to be caught by the light currents of night air.
"Show me," he repeated.
In the East, just above the razor back of the mountain range that
separated the North reserve from the rest of the King's Land, there
appeared, to him alone Blore felt, a line of stars brighter than all
the others in the sky. The line moved along the track of the mountain
range until it was over the South Side. It was there that the line
stopped and turned until it was perfectly vertical, as if pointing down
at he Boy and up toward the Silent Spirit. This was surely the sign he
was looking for.
Blore's sleep that night was deep and without dreams. He awoke before
the Sun was fully above the mountains and breakfasted only on a jar of
goat's milk.
He took the long-handled spade and his clearing knife and walked
towards the river. The day would be as the days before it, hot and
humid. The canopy of trees filtered the angling sunlight and threw
dappled shadows upon Blore's body. Soon, even before he commenced his
work, sweat ran from his scalp into his eyes and beard. His woven coat
was a sticky outer skin but he knew he must keep it on to avoid the
insect bites.
He found the small clearing that he knew the Boy used as a storage area
when he came into the reserve. There were no fresh signs that he had
been across that night.
Choosing an area beyond the clearing, towards the river, where the Boy
must walk, Blore pulled back the long ground creepers and tied them to
the nearest tree trunks. He then began to dig into the moist, exposed
earth.

The Sun had quickly set into the distant sea as Blore at last untied
the creepers and laid them over the mouth of the pit. Satisfied that
this area of the forest floor looked no different from that around it
Blore cut the ends of the creepers so that they would afford no
escape.
The light in the forest was but a faint smear of blue-grey from the
West as Blore returned to his camp. Too keyed-up to attempt to eat or
sleep he busied himself in a bout of much-needed housekeeping. He
tidied the one room of his hut and bundled up the rubbish in several
Stray fruit leaves. He was about to take the bundle to his midden site
to bury it but that chore was too similar to his day's labour. The
bundle was left for dispersal on another day.
His last chore of the night was to milk the goat. He took the milk in
its stone jar and sealed the top with wax. He then placed the vessel
into his rainwater tank.
Sleepy now, he took a long swig of Gritt, settled down on his mattress
and, unexpectedly, was instantly asleep.

The Gritt-fuelled dream of the river demon, red eyes and foul breath,
woke him to the morning Sun, already well into the sky. Blore stood
upright, rubbing sleep and the dream from his eyes, and listened. Was
that moaning, animal sound a still-lingering aspect of the dream or was
...? The Boy?
Snatching up the clearing knife, he ran to the pit. The moaning grew
louder as he approached and was then cut short as he entered the
clearing. The mouth of the pit was still covered with the loose
creepers. The boy had not fallen in! He approached the pit slowly,
looking around him, trying to feel the Boy's presence. The quiet of the
clearing pressed around him like the pressure of the river's
flow.
He stood at the edge of the pit. Was this the edge? Or had he dug it
further into the forest? Where was the Boy?
The mat of ground creepers suddenly caved into the pit in a cascade of
dry, brittle noise. Had the Boy pulled the creepers down on himself in
an effort to escape? The floor of the pit was covered with the fallen
creepers. Where was the Boy?
The steep sides of the pit, cut so smoothly by Blore, were scored with
long marks where the Boy had jumped up and then fallen back. The edges
of the pit had pieces pulled away like large bite marks. But where was
the Boy? Had he finally managed to gain a firm enough handhold and
pulled himself over the edge?
The pile of creepers in one corner of the pit erupted as the Boy sprang
up towards him, a cry like a wounded animal echoing from him. Blore
staggered back from the edge of the pit and fell to his knees.
Gathering his breath, he crawled forward.
The Boy crouched in the same corner of the pit from which he had just
sprung, emitting a low, threatening growl. His face, marked with
streaks of sweat, blood and soil, was a mask of fear and pain. The
growl subsided into a pitiful meowing as the Boy's hairless chest
heaved beneath the torn pig skin jacket. He seemed smaller than Blore
had imagined him to be. Was this the source of those echoing, mocking
cries from across the river?
Blore was so surprised that this&;#8230; this boy was not the great
hulking giant he had been told of, and feared, but, just as his name
suggested, a mere boy, that this surprise gave way to relief and Blore
began to laugh. At first just a low, nervous giggle, which rapidly gave
way to a convulsed, gulping guffaw. Blore stamped his booted feet in
time with his laughter and pointed towards the Boy. Several moments
passed before Blore was able to look sensibly into the pit. The Boy had
been reduced to silence by this outburst but the fear was still etched
into his face.
Their eyes clashed rather than met. The defiance in the Boy's belied
the visible fear. Blore was the first to look away as a question,
nagging and at first unformed in his mind, finally materialised. How
was he to get the Boy out of the pit and safely to his camp? The Boy's
defiant gaze seemed to shout this question at him.
Blore unsheathed his knife and cut lengths of fresh creeper. He tied
the end of one to the nearest tree and threw the other end into the
pit. The Boy moved towards it but was halted as Blore threatened him
with a menacing shout and a slicing movement of his knife. The Boy
backed again into the corner and cowered down.
Holding the secured creeper, Blore lowered himself in the pit, watching
the Boy all the time. The Boy stayed in the corner but his eyes
followed every move his captor made.
Stepping warily over the layer of creepers towards the Boy, Blore felt
as if the dead, dry mat was a mass of snakes, pulling and coiling at
his feet. The Boy began a feral hissing, baring his yellowed, jagged
teeth. Blore swiped at him with the clearing knife and the Boy jerked
his head back as the blade cut into the side of the pit. The dry, loose
soil trickled onto the floor and the Boy was silenced.
As Blore towered over him the Boy pushed his face into the side of the
pit. Blore took this opportunity to grab the Boy's hair and throw him
face down onto the floor. With his knee in the Boy's back, Blore
quickly tied his hands and feet with lengths of creeper. The loose end
of the long creeper went around the Boy's chest and was tied. Blore
then began to climb up using the creeper. The loose, friable sides of
the pit gave him no purchase with which to reach the top. His heels and
toes scrabbled wildly to gain some foothold, sending cascades of
stones, pebbles and broken roots into the pit. The edge of the pit was
just beyond his reach and the increasingly pendulous action of the
creeper began to wear away at the soil with pieces breaking off and
falling onto his head and into his eyes.
At last Blore was able to reach the edge of the pit and pull himself up
onto the forest floor. He lay on his back for several long moments,
each breath in his chest rising up into his throat in a hot ball. Birds
called and swooped at their prey, monkeys swung in the upper reaches of
the forest and the wind, gathering its strength, caused the forest to
sussurate, like a restless crowd in the distance.
The dry snapping of creepers from within the pit caused Blore to rise
to his feet. The Boy had risen from where Blore had tied him and was
looking up. Avoiding his eyes, Blore took up the slack on the creeper.
The Boy was heavier than he imagined and, as Blore pulled him over the
edge of the pit, sweat was running into his eyes and his breathing was
as laboured as before.
The Boy lay limply on his side, making no sound or movement save the
shallow rasp of his breathing.
"Get up!"
Blore was surprised at how loud his voice sounded. The Boy remained
still. The forest life seemed to stop and listen.
"Get up! Get up!!"
The words, meaningless noises now, rose up to be echoed by the birds
and monkeys in a jeering chorus of calls and whistles.
Blore aimed a kick at the Boy's side but was stayed by a voice that
seemed to come from within himself. The voice uttered no words but the
meaning was clear. The Boy must not be harmed.
Heeding Blore's command at last, the Boy rose first to his knees and
then to his feet. Blore motioned with the clearing knife for the Boy to
walk in front of him. A sharp pull on the creeper jerked him into
action.
On reaching his camp Blore was faced with another problem. Where to
keep the Boy while he waited for the Sign?
As temporary measure he tied the Boy to a tree and prepared some food.
What did the Boy eat? Meat of course, the barbarian. Well, while he was
here, he would eat what he was given or leave it and go hungry. Anyway,
the Weeping Rock would soon provide the sign and then he could leave
with the Boy and pay tribute to the King.
The meal of ground nuts, Stray fruit and peppers was prepared. Blore
untied one of the Boy's hands for him to eat and laid the food beside
him. The Boy looked from him to the food and back again. He made no
attempt to eat.
Blore was hungry and finished his meal quickly. The Boy's meal remained
at his side until it was covered with ants. Blore picked it up and took
it away to be buried later. He gave the Boy some water of which he took
barely a sip.
Blore re-tied his hands and then set to work making the cage.

He fashioned the cage from freshly cut branches that he inter-wove with
vine rope into latticework sections. These he strengthened with thicker
branches and then assembled the cage, tying the sections together with
strips of hide soaked in brine. Once dried, the hide strips would
shrink and bind the sections tightly together.
The Boy was coaxed in to the cage with the clearing knife. Blore left
his hands tied.
The building of the cage had taken most of the day and Blore's hands
were cut and blistered. He soaked them in salted water before he lit a
fire to prepare an evening meal.
Blore ate his meal with relish. The Boy did not even look at his.
"Eat! Eat!!"
It was as if Blore's words made no sound. The Boy remained crouched in
the corner of the cage, his eyes like two charcoal-coloured
pools.
"Eat, or may the Spirits forever damn you!"
Blore's voice became high and brittle. He could see the Boy wasting
away before the time came to offer him to the King. What use would a
skeleton be as a King's sacrifice?

In the morning Blore rose before the Sun had penetrated the forest.
Forsaking food or water he walked towards the mountain range. The
ground gradually became steeper. The forest changed imperceptibly as he
neared the range, the green of the foliage darkened, the leaves of the
trees became smaller and coarser and the call of the animal life grew
quieter.
The last distance to the Weeping Rock was dominated by the sound of the
river. Until now it had been but a muted hiss, there but easily
forgotten. Now, as it took a sharp, sweeping turn to the North, its
voice was as of a thousand charging warriors. Blore stopped, as he
always did at this point, to gain his bearings and calm the emotions
within himself.
The Weeping Rock jutted out from the steep side of the lower mountain
slopes. The Narrows were close by and the sound of the river was now as
if the beast Blore feared living beneath the surface was engaged in a
titanic struggle with the rocks that blocked its onward rush to the
Sea. The air was clammy with the fine mist, like wood smoke, thrown up
by the escaping river.
Blore approached the Rock cautiously, his head bowed. He then stopped a
respectful distance from it and fell to his knees.
The roar of the Narrows seemed to recede into the distance as the area
around himself and the Rock became an island of silence and calm.
"Spirit of the Rock, I have the Boy from the South Side in my power. I
wish to present him to the King. He will make a fine sacrifice. Tell me
when it is safe to cross the mountain."
Blore murmured the words towards the wet, glistening ground. The
silence was now complete. The river and the Narrows could have been
with the Moon for all the sound they made now. Blore repeated his
words, louder. The silence continued. He looked up at the Rock, its
glistening face teary with the river's spray.
He shouted his words, demanding an answer. Silence Thunder grumbled in
the distance as if warning him against any further impertinence. He
knew that the Rock would give its answer only when the Spirit was ready
and would not be hurried by his impatience. He would try again the next
day.
On his return to camp he found the Boy curled in a foetal ball in the
corner of the cage, barely breathing. Reaching through the bars of the
cage, he laid a hand on the Boy's forehead. The skin was cold and slick
with perspiration. Blore knew that the Boy was dying while he waited
for the Rock to give him a sign!
Maybe the sign would come the next day and it would not be too late.
But if it did not? Then the Boy would surely be dead but a few days
after. Blore's anger and frustration at the capriciousness of the
Spirits was released as a huge, impotent howl that bounced and echoed
around the forest.

Later Blore lit a huge fire. He used every piece of dry wood he could
find. The light from it must have been visible on the mountain range.
Its heat was an angry pressure that squeezed the flesh of his face. He
smoked the coarse tobacco until his throat burned with the same heat as
the fire and he drank the remaining jar of Gritt spirit neat, uncut
even with hot water.
The shapes of the flames danced and spun before his eyes until they
appeared to step from the fire and whirl and cavort about on the ground
in front of him. Writhing, upright snakes with faces of humans.
Two-headed birds of prey with clearing knives for talons &;#8230;
And what was that shape? It stepped from the blaze and stood to his
right, looking about. It had no definition, it was just a black,
pulsing smear as though there was a figure moving beneath a dark
cloak.
The dark shape moved across the fire in front of him and stopped as if
scrutinising him. A pulse of fear that drained the heat from his face
and chilled the rest of his body ran through him. Just as he was sure
it was about to envelop him the shape moved towards the cage. Here the
shape stopped. Its pulsing quickened and it seemed to increase in size,
blotting out the cage.
Blore covered his eyes at the sight of this and rolled himself into a
ball to shut out the sight of the shape.
"Warden."
The voice, barely a breath of air passing his ears, was a woman's,
soft, light and persuasive.
"Warden of the North Reserve, get up."
The fire, still blazing as fiercely as when first lit, seemed far in
the distance now. The black shape had gone and in its place, over the
cage, was a shimmering blue-green light. As Blore continued to stare,
afraid no longer, the light took on the shape of a woman dressed in
long robes the same colour as the light.
The woman's face was indistinct, as though seen through a curtain of
fine gauze.
Blore attempted to speak but his voice broke on the first word.
"Warden. Your actions have harmed the balance of the Forest. You have
taken the freedom of one of its dwellers."
The woman's voice hardened with these accusations. Her veiled eyes
widened in such a way that chilled the very core of his body. Blore
felt despair at these words. He had expected praise from the Spirits
and now he was being damned.
"Return his freedom. Return him to his rightful place. Return the
Forest to equilibrium. Return. Return &;#8230;"
As the woman's voice died away the blue-green light increased in
strength until Blore had to shield his eyes once more. The fading voice
was replaced by a whirring sound that came from within himself. It
pulsed in just the same way as the black shape had done. Blore spun
around and around in a hopeless bid to shake the sound from his body.
The spinning action grew more vigorous until he knew it was the sound
within himself that was turning his body. He felt himself moving
towards the fire, spiralling into its vicious heat. His hair began to
singe at the ends, his clothes began to smoulder. He tried to push
himself away but the flames licked at his hands and the flesh
blistered, split and melted off the bone ...

The lizard, a green and red mass more than the length of a man's leg,
slowly approached the crumpled body of the man. Its stubby, hooked
claws scraped dryly over the cleared ground as its tongue flicked like
a blinking eye, tasting the air for danger.
The man's body lay with one arm out flung, fingers pointing as if in
accusation. The face was pushed into the ground and the hair matted
with dirt and dried sweat.
The lizard was aware of the dying embers of the fire nearby. It
filtered out the taste of it and concentrated on the small life signs
it was receiving from the body.
The signs appeared to ebb into insignificance. The lizard crept closer,
sure it was nearing a corpse, ready to drink its blood. It paused by
the head, preparing to strike at the offered, unprotected vein
&;#8230;
Before the lizard could probe the flesh Blore rolled away and, in the
same movement, snatched the clearing knife from his belt and brought
the blade down onto the lizard's head. The blade carved through the
leathery skin of the lizard's neck, severed the spine and parted the
remaining flesh. The head spun away from the body and rolled several
times before coming to a rest, its sightless eyes gazing accusingly at
Blore. The reptile thrashed in an impotent death struggle that threw
its body onto its back where, within a few moments, it lay still.
Blore looked around the camp clearing as if seeing it for the first
time. Was this still part of his dream? Or had it all been true? Had it
all happened? He glanced over at the lizard's body, flies already
amassing around the severed head, and then to the clearing knife, its
blade smeared red and greasy with the lizard's blood.
The cold realisation hit him that he had broken his own code. Never
kill. The Boy killed. He killed for food and for sport. He deserved to
have sport made of him!
Blore strode over to the cage. The boy was in the same position as
before, in the corner, motionless. With the knife Blore slashed wildly
at the bindings of the cage. As the hide strips unwound the sides of
the cage gave way. The Boy barely moved as his prison collapsed about
him. Blore pushed the wreckage aside and dragged the Boy out into the
clearing.
He had the blade at the Boy's throat as he spoke, almost chanted:
"Never kill! Never Kill! Never KILL!! NEVER KILL!!"
The Boy's face began to mist over as tears blurred his vision. Their
saltiness stung him as he blindly swung the blade upward to deliver the
same fate as the lizard's. The weight of the blade felt good to him,
its power filling him. Then suddenly, before he could deliver the final
blow, the blade became heavier still. And heavier. His arm shook with
the effort of supporting it. Before the knife attained an unbearable
weight and fell to crush him he summoned up all his remaining strength
and pushed it aside.
His anger was still directed at the Boy. He clutched at the limp,
offered neck but his hand had no grip left. The Boy's eyes opened
slowly, as though roused by Blore's efforts. Blore leaped backward as
if stung. He crouched down to watch the Boy, whose eyes remained open,
watching him while his body lay where Blore had dragged it.

The two figures remained immobile for the rest of the day. The
grey-green shadows moved around them like prowling beasts. Their
stillness encouraged forest life to ignore them and cross the clearing
to forage in the camp midden.
A gnawing hunger forced Blore to rise and build a fire and cook food.
Once the hunger had been calmed he resumed his position several paces
from the Boy. A few remaining strands of tobacco yielded a momentary
smoke while he considered what he had to do to win back the good favour
of the Spirits. That they were displeased at his work was clear. That
he must return the Boy to the South Side took but a passing
consideration of the facts. The problem that occupied Blore's thoughts
now was not what he must do but how he was to carry it out. Returning
the Boy to his own side of the river and restoring this 'balance' that
the Spirits spoke of, a concept Blore was having difficulty
comprehending, would mean carrying him across the river at its
shallowest, and widest, point.
To feel the water pressing on his hands was a soothing, calming
experience. His feet were firmly on dry land. He was in control. To
venture into the tearing, roaring sound and force filled him with fear
while only thinking of it. The gathering darkness brought a quietening
to the forest life and, with it, the sound of the river, mocking him,
daring him to do what he knew he must find the resolve to
accomplish.

The Boy was reduced to a limp, skeletal shape wrapped in the coarse
blanket. He was no weight for Blore to carry but, as they approached
the river, Blore began to draw his breath in short, shallow gulps. A
chill morning mist hung over the water. Blore's teeth rattled as he
laid the Boy down by a tree.
He estimated the far side of the river to be a hundred paces. The
surface appeared calm at this wider point but to Blore it did nothing
but hide the dangers beneath. The longer he stared at the far side the
more it seemed to recede into the distance.
He propped the Boy up into a sitting position, supported by the tree.
Crouching down in front of him, with his back to him, Blore took the
Boy's arms over his own shoulders where he tied them with vine rope.
Another rope went around both his and the Boy's waists and was tied
then looped through the ropes tying the wrists. Blore stood up to test
their security. The Boy's body slid down his back a short way and then
held. The support of the water, Blore hoped, should prevent any further
slippage.
His mouth felt as dry as Sun-baked sand as he stood on the bank of the
river. The mist was beginning to lift, as though beckoning him to
cross. He picked up the two staves he had cut that morning and, with
one in each hand, stepped warily into the river.
Feeling the river bed with the staves, he made deliberate, exaggerated
strides forward. The water, calm and quiet at the edge, began a
steadily increasing push-pull force on his legs. He could feel the
rocks and boulders of the river bed through the probing staves. The
water rose around him. The far bank seemed to have receded further into
the last of the morning mist. The river began to growl with the effort
of trying to push him over. Its level was now up to his thighs. The
Boy's body, caught by the rushing water, slipped further down his back
and swung to and fro, throwing his balance from side to side. The
staves were now his main means of support against the pressing
water.
Blore felt the cold of the river seep into his whole body but sweat
still beaded in his scalp and on his forehead, running in slick
rivulets into his eyes and mouth.
The water level was now over his waist, with spume and spray dancing
around him. Thankfully the water began to lift some of the Boy's weight
from his neck and its pressure, although still increasing all the time,
was more even, more predictable.
He was making good progress now as the water's depth appeared to have
reached its maximum. The far bank was clearly nearer. He felt now that
he would reach the South Side.
The level of water fell to below his waist. The Boy's body felt
heavier. He lengthened his stride as he became surer of his footing,
reaching out with the staves to feel the way ahead.
The steep gully, felt through the staves, was like a precipice on a
mountain top. It fell away without warning, taking the staves and his
balance. He stumbled onto one knee, catching a sharp rock as he went
down. His cry of pain and shock was cut short as water filled his mouth
and was gulped down. The Boy's body slewed around his waist, assisting
the undertow to carry Blore and his inert burden, both helpless, down
the river.
Blore attempted to release the Boy from the bindings and regain his
balance. The river pulled him along at a terrifying pace, rolling him
over onto his back, onto his front and back again. He gulped air at
every opportunity and fought the bindings.
The Boy's tied arms were swept over Blore's head, giving him freer
movement of his upper body but allowing the Boy's body to swing in the
current. The cold now numbed his fingers and what little control he had
over them was taken away by a knot of panic that rose in him faster
than the river water.
He was fighting the Boy now, not the bindings that held them together.
The Boy now appeared to move by himself, as though the river had given
him strength. He pushed and pulled at the Boy who, willed by the river,
matched his every move. Blore's distressed mind he was fighting both
the Boy and the river. The roar of the water brought to him his past
fears of a river beast, existing in the depths of the water, even
within the river bed itself. There came another cry. Was it his voice?
Was it the River Beast? Was it&;#8230;? The swirl of the current
moved them around in a full circle. He sensed the rock jutting from the
water before he saw it. He pushed impotently against the water. The
Boy, his head thrown up by the water, was between Blore and the rock.
The Boy must not be harmed. There must be balance. There must be
equilibrium. Blore turned the Boy away from the rock. There was a cry
from the River Beast before the pain, like night, fell.

He was beneath the water. No, not in the water, he was looking up at
the body of slowly rippling water and, through it, to the sky above. He
was dry and clean, his beard and hair freshly washed and trimmed. His
clothes were not only clean but were of freshly cut and sewn cloth. The
whispering voices eddied around him like the moving river. Beyond these
voices was the far off pulse of a beating drum. He looked around
himself but everywhere all he could see was the sky filtered through
rippling water.
The whispering voices became a chanting choir as the water above him,
or maybe below, opened up into a flight of steep, glassy steps. They
reminded him of the King's Stone of Sacrifice. The notion that he was
climbing up towards the cold, lonely slab, stained black with years of
offered blood, came in the chanted voices. He felt no fear. Why should
he? This was, perhaps, his fate. His work had not pleased the Spirits.
It was nothing less than he deserved. The beating drum sounded louder
now. As he neared the top of the steps he could see it was the Boy
beating the huge drum beside the sacrifice slab. He looked well. A
bright light was in his eyes and his skin shone with a yellow-gold
glow.
The beating drum now drowned out all other sounds and, strangely the
sound of it was not that made by the Boy's drum. The Boy rhythmically
beat the drum but the sound Blore heard was a jagged, uneven pattern,
slower than the Boy's.
The Boy stopped beating the drum and pointed to him and then away into
the distance. He appeared to shout something but the pounding, uneven
beat in Blore's head denied him. He looked in the direction in which
the Boy pointed. The green-grey rock with scars of moss and lichen like
gaping wounds, water foaming and misting around it, loomed up, blotting
out the sky ...
Blore rolled over and clutched the grass, surprised at its dampness.
His head ached, the forest life sounded around him. He held the clump
of grass pulled from the ground up to his face and smelled the fresh
tang of the sap.
He was dry but his tunic was streaked with smears of blood and strands
of slimy green weed. A near-by animal broke cover and Blore turned his
head towards the sound. The pain from his temple made him cry out. He
put his hand up to the pain and felt the soft mass of broken and
bruised flesh. His fingers came away stained with blood. He rose to his
feet and walked, with a sureness that surprised him, to the river's
edge.
He knew that he was down river from the point at which he had tried to
cross. When had that been? It was early afternoon by the position of
the Sun. He had been unconscious for a full day at least.
Blore crouched down and held his hands in the water. He took a scoop of
the brown, silted water and sluiced his face, feeling its gritty
roughness scour his skin. Some of the drying blood on his temple
stained his hands. He looked out into the river. The view was as it
always had been. Rapid water. Grey-green stones. A barrier. But now it
seemed a natural thing. He was where he should be. And the Boy? That he
had been revived by the river waters and had saved Blore, his captor,
after all he had made him suffer was a train of events it would need
many a pipeful of tobacco and a few jars of Gritt spirit to make sense
of. But had the Boy's strength revived enough for him to return to the
South Side?
The Sun moved towards the Western Sea as Blore remained by the
riverside, his hands trailing in the water. The throbbing of his temple
eased and hunger began its gnawing journey from his stomach to his
throat. Was it all hunger? Or was the tight, cold fist in his chest
caused by the unexplained fate of the Boy?
He turned from the river, his vision misted by the tears, but was
stopped after a few paces by the distant cry. From across the river
came the once feared, now welcomed, whoop of triumph.

End.