Beguilers by Kate Thompson Page B

home, and needing. I had no food, no spare clothes, no bed-roll. I had no matches to light a fire and no pot to heat water in even if I’d had food to cook in it. Before I was out of sight of the village I was, despite the fur-lined boots, beginning to get cold feet. Very cold indeed.
    I might have turned back if there had been anywhere to go. My heart was still heavy with the memory of what I had found at home, and I didn’t need any further confirmation of my ostracised condition. But I was about to get it, anyway.
    Ahead of me on the path, coming in the opposite direction, was a small group of women who were bringing head-loads of firewood down from the trees. On another morning I might have been among them, bringing an extra load for one of the elders who couldn’t fetch it for himself. But today I was very much alone. I moved off the track on to the bank as they passed by, and not one of them greeted me or acknowledged that I was there. Not even the woman who was bringing up the rear. My mother.
    Her eyes were cast down and her expression was hard and inscrutable. My heart went out to her, imagining her pain at having to deny me. But what I saw next changed my feelings abruptly.
    A young chuffie bumbled along at her heels, full of enthusiasm and, quite clearly, bursting with pride at its new appointment. I was unprepared for the shock that its appearance created in me. Perhaps I was wrong about my parents’ sentiments. Perhaps they were only too pleased to be rid of me. Now, at least, our family could be like the others in the village.
    I walked on again, trying to pretend that I didn’t care. But I did. The incident had been painful, but worse than that, it had made me aware of how utterly alone I was.
    I saw a few other people as I climbed; some of the men and boys harvesting timber in the forest, a group of girls gathering twine-cane for making chairs and a couple of smaller boys cutting eazle-wood. I went over to them to ask for a piece because my teeth felt furry after the sweet tea, but they ran off, giggling. That made me angry. If I wasn’t mad yesterday, how could I be mad today? It made me want to prove to them all that what I was doing was as valid and purposeful as the way they had chosen to spend their lives, and for a while I strode on with renewed resolve.
    But it didn’t last long. An hour or so later, the sun was reaching its highest point and even among the bushes where I sat down to rest it was too hot for comfort. Down in the village the smaller children would be swimming in the pond while the adults slept or gathered in the cool tea-shops to chat away the worst of the afternoon heat. The leaves around me were wilting slightly, as they did every afternoon, and I was wilting, too.
    Because of the way our ‘lap’ juts out of the steep mountainside, the streams that run down from the melting snows pass to either side of our hill. The village was built there because when the spring floods are at their worst, the streams and rivers swell so much that they sweep away any terraces that are built closer to them. But it means also that if it weren’t for the drowning pool we would have famished from drought during the recent long spell of hot, dry summers.
    Further up the mountain and further down it there are streams where I could have dangled my feet and refreshed myself. But here, above the village, they were all dry. Even the birds were quiet; even the insects were idling in the heat. The best I could do was to fold the yellow shawl beneath my head and try to rest.
    As I drowsed, the sun disappeared behind the peaks. Strictly speaking it had gone down, but the horizon is so high here that there is still another two or three hours of daylight after the sun has vanished. I spent the first hour putting more distance between myself and the village, knowing that the further I got from it the more chance I would have of finding wild food. When I thought I had walked far enough I settled down to some