Hawk Quest by Robert Lyndon Page B

again, but it didn’t. The dog whimpered.
    Wayland sat his sister down under a tree and told her not to wander away or wolves would eat her up.
    ‘I’m not afraid of wolves. They only cross the river in winter.’
    ‘Trolls, then. Trolls live in the Pot.’
    The Pot was the deepest pool in the ravine, a cauldron of black water walled in by dripping cliffs and overhung by trees that gripped the earth with roots like gnarled fingers. Edith looked towards it through the mossy gloom. She brushed at her cross. ‘Can the dog stay with me?’
    ‘You know he won’t leave my side. I’ll tell you what. While I’m gone, you can think of a name for him.’
    ‘I’ve already chosen one. It’s—’
    ‘Tell me when I get back,’ Wayland said, breaking into a run.
    The pup thought it was a game and bounded ahead before crouching to spring up in mock ambush. Wayland began to feel a bit foolish. His mother would scold him for leaving Edith alone in the darkening wood.
    As he approached the clearing he heard voices and the clinking of harness. He threw himself down, grabbed the pup by the scruff and wormed through the forest litter until he reached the treeline.
    There was too much horror to take in at one glance. Two Norman soldiers held Hilda and his mother outside the house. Another pair had pinned his father face down over the chopping block. Thorkell lay on his back, his face a bloody mask. Then Wayland saw the mounted man at the far end of the clearing. He spurred his horse and charged, slashed down and half severed his father’s arm. Whooping, the rider galloped to the other end of the clearing, turned and pounded back. This time Wayland saw his father’s head roll off the stump and blood squirt from his neck.
    His mother and sister were screaming. They were still screaming when the men dragged them into the house. Their screams grew muffled and then stopped. After a while the man who’d murdered his father came out, his face splattered with blood. He took a pitcher of water and poured it over his head. When he mounted his horse, he reeled in the saddle as if drunk. One by one the other men came out, tying up their breeches. Wayland prayed that his mother and sister would come out. After a while smoke coiled from the door. The killers didn’t leave. Flames began to lick up the thatch. The blaze grew and the Normans laughed and held out their hands to it. Even where Wayland lay he could feel the singeing gusts. The Normans left. One of them carried a deer carcass slung over his horse. Another was draped with live chickens. The others drove two cows, a horse and oxen before them.
    Wayland ran towards the blaze. The heat frizzled his hair and blistered his face before it beat him back. He stood screaming as the roof dropped into the house and a ball of fire rolled into the sky. He watched the walls collapse and then he sank to the ground, his mind numbed by all he had seen.
    He became aware of the dog pushing its head against his legs. His face and hands were scalded and peeling. He registered that it was dusk and remembered his sister. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn’t obey him. He reeled and tripped, staggered into trees.
    The basket of mushrooms was still under the tree, but Edith was gone. He listened. There were only the sounds of the wood settling to rest. He called, softly at first, then louder. An owl shrieked. He found Edith’s trail wandering towards the gorge. The trees were thickest in this part of the wood, spreading twilight even on the sunniest days. The dog was too young and shocked to help. It sidled against him, getting under his feet, while he searched and called until it was too dark to see. He slid down with his back against a tree. A wind sprang up and rain began to spit. For a time he continued to call, his voice growing hoarse. Then he sat still, his eyes vacant, the dog pressed shivering against him as he relived one nightmare while anticipating the next.
    In the dripping grey dawn he