sight
and Leonor followed.
“I will help Una sort the
woollen garments that we promised,” she said. “That you might take a gift of
thanks to the brave men who shield our home.”
Oswald’s voice echoed down
the passage. “They will delight in such a gift,” and their conversation drifted
out of earshot.
Peter stretched and his bones
cracked. He peered over the top of the chest, the longer he delayed, the
greater the chance of one of them returning.
He crouched and half-ran,
half-scuttled across the room. Women’s voices came from somewhere farther off
than the kitchen. He jumped when Oswald’s voice boomed.
“Tobias, come down from
there. Have some mead to warm you.”
A distant call came back in reply.
Peter inched his way down the passage until the long hallway came into view. Oswald
stood at the opening at the far end.
“You say what?” Oswald called
back in reply to Tobias. “This way?” The old man stomped out of the doorway and
out of sight.
Peter tiptoed back to the
kitchen. With his back flat to the wall, he shuffled through the gap, crossed
the kitchen and darted outside. He crept around the manor, out of view from the
tower and, bent almost double, he took a deep breath and raced into the first
line of trees.
He ran until he thought the
manor must be well behind him, then crouched and glanced back. Oswald appeared
next to the tower with Tobias and they walked into the manor together.
The tree with the charred
branch must be close. With no obvious markers to guide him, like his bedroom
window, he needed to guess the distance between the manor and the tree.
He spotted it to his left.
He’d run too far and approached it from behind. The charred branch pointed at
the sky like a black finger and beside it sat a figure, hunched under a hooded
cloak.
***
“Come closer.” A high-pitched
voice, old and cracked, but male.
Peter didn’t move. More care
taken running through the trees might have saved him from being heard. Even so,
to reach the charred branch meant approaching this person, so it didn’t make
any difference. Might he reach it if he sprinted? He tensed, one foot forward,
ready to run.
“Come, come.”
He hesitated, such a small
person, but with such an old voice. If he ran fast, he might knock him over. Of
the two of them, he must be the stronger.
“I cannot tarry, we must
speak. Come, hurry.”
‘Tarry?’ Peter didn’t know
what that word meant. More curious than frightened, he stepped nearer, ready to
run at the first sign of danger, until he stood before the hooded figure.
The brown robe that covered
the man from head to toe, showed tears and stains and threadbare patches that
age and living rough gave to the homeless who sat on the Council Hall steps in
Peter’s town. The hood fell so far forward that the folds hid his face. Strips
of dirty cloth bound the fingers, except for the thumb and first finger of the
right hand which ended in stumps. The figure didn’t smell, but why not? He
looked right to stink.
“That is good.” The head rose
and in the hood’s shadow, Peter saw a glint of light as it caught the eyes.
“I must give you ...” With
its maimed hand, the figure parted the robes and reached deep inside. A chain
of thick links dangled from the bandaged fingers as he reached up to pass what
he held.
Peter frowned. “What is it?”
“For the one who is waiting.”
He thrust his hand at Peter, who had no choice but to catch the object or let
it fall to the ground. It slipped in his gloved hands and he gripped it
tighter.
“You must be gone, this place
crawls with eyes.” The figure rolled sideways away from the charred branch and
Peter’s mouth went dry, for no shins or feet grew below the knees.
“Away,” and using his arms
like a second pair of legs, the strange man scurried into the undergrowth and
out of sight.
Peter glanced around, fearful
that other strange-shaped men might appear, but nothing moved and no twig
cracked or bush
and Leonor followed.
“I will help Una sort the
woollen garments that we promised,” she said. “That you might take a gift of
thanks to the brave men who shield our home.”
Oswald’s voice echoed down
the passage. “They will delight in such a gift,” and their conversation drifted
out of earshot.
Peter stretched and his bones
cracked. He peered over the top of the chest, the longer he delayed, the
greater the chance of one of them returning.
He crouched and half-ran,
half-scuttled across the room. Women’s voices came from somewhere farther off
than the kitchen. He jumped when Oswald’s voice boomed.
“Tobias, come down from
there. Have some mead to warm you.”
A distant call came back in reply.
Peter inched his way down the passage until the long hallway came into view. Oswald
stood at the opening at the far end.
“You say what?” Oswald called
back in reply to Tobias. “This way?” The old man stomped out of the doorway and
out of sight.
Peter tiptoed back to the
kitchen. With his back flat to the wall, he shuffled through the gap, crossed
the kitchen and darted outside. He crept around the manor, out of view from the
tower and, bent almost double, he took a deep breath and raced into the first
line of trees.
He ran until he thought the
manor must be well behind him, then crouched and glanced back. Oswald appeared
next to the tower with Tobias and they walked into the manor together.
The tree with the charred
branch must be close. With no obvious markers to guide him, like his bedroom
window, he needed to guess the distance between the manor and the tree.
He spotted it to his left.
He’d run too far and approached it from behind. The charred branch pointed at
the sky like a black finger and beside it sat a figure, hunched under a hooded
cloak.
***
“Come closer.” A high-pitched
voice, old and cracked, but male.
Peter didn’t move. More care
taken running through the trees might have saved him from being heard. Even so,
to reach the charred branch meant approaching this person, so it didn’t make
any difference. Might he reach it if he sprinted? He tensed, one foot forward,
ready to run.
“Come, come.”
He hesitated, such a small
person, but with such an old voice. If he ran fast, he might knock him over. Of
the two of them, he must be the stronger.
“I cannot tarry, we must
speak. Come, hurry.”
‘Tarry?’ Peter didn’t know
what that word meant. More curious than frightened, he stepped nearer, ready to
run at the first sign of danger, until he stood before the hooded figure.
The brown robe that covered
the man from head to toe, showed tears and stains and threadbare patches that
age and living rough gave to the homeless who sat on the Council Hall steps in
Peter’s town. The hood fell so far forward that the folds hid his face. Strips
of dirty cloth bound the fingers, except for the thumb and first finger of the
right hand which ended in stumps. The figure didn’t smell, but why not? He
looked right to stink.
“That is good.” The head rose
and in the hood’s shadow, Peter saw a glint of light as it caught the eyes.
“I must give you ...” With
its maimed hand, the figure parted the robes and reached deep inside. A chain
of thick links dangled from the bandaged fingers as he reached up to pass what
he held.
Peter frowned. “What is it?”
“For the one who is waiting.”
He thrust his hand at Peter, who had no choice but to catch the object or let
it fall to the ground. It slipped in his gloved hands and he gripped it
tighter.
“You must be gone, this place
crawls with eyes.” The figure rolled sideways away from the charred branch and
Peter’s mouth went dry, for no shins or feet grew below the knees.
“Away,” and using his arms
like a second pair of legs, the strange man scurried into the undergrowth and
out of sight.
Peter glanced around, fearful
that other strange-shaped men might appear, but nothing moved and no twig
cracked or bush
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