with his arms thrown around its neck.Mavourneen looked back in puzzlement, and an inquisitive velvet nose left a chill moist print on his cheek. He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve and tried again. This time he got the little beast to step back; the wheels were freed and they came forward again. Nemain, up on the wagon seat, looked once over the parapet and then at Hob, her eyebrows raised. Hob smiled sheepishly and turned upslope again, pulling at the bridle rope, his face hot.
Up and up, and soon there came in sight a rock formation with a jagged semicircular cavity in its side: the famed Thonarberg Bite. Fireside tales insisted the opening was ripped in the rock by a flying serpent, always well before the tale-teller’s grandfather’s time. This marked the highest reach of the pass. Part of the Bite overarched the trail, and as they trundled under this overhang, relief from toil was immediate as the slope reversed from steeply upward to gently downward.
Once past the rock jut, Hob saw the valley beyond sprawl out before him. This flank of Monastery Mount spread southward at a gentle grade, and the track could be followed with the eye, spacious and welcoming, down to the tree line, where it plunged into the forest. About two furlongs past the Thonarberg Bite was a boundary stone set up by the monks. The land here was clear to all sides; the caves and ravines that provided such excellent retreats for outlaws and bandits were all on the other side of the Thonarberg; escort was deemed unnecessary from here to the forest. In the forest lay other dangers, but the hand of St. Germaine did not stretch so far.
Farewells were said, and they moved past the eight monks, who stood quietly to watch them from sight. Molly remounted the wagon seat. Nemain plied the brake on the little wagon, and Hob, one hand to the ass’s bridle, leaned back somewhat against the gentle slope, but the going was clearly easier and, were it not for the biting cold, would have been pleasant walking.
Molly, her hood pushed back, her cheeks glowing pink with thesting of the wind, leaned out from her seat on the ox wagon ahead and beckoned Hob forward. He trotted up to her.
“Lead on a bit, child. It’s safe enough Nemain will be on this slope, so douce and gentle it is.” Molly waited till he had hold of the bridle, and then disappeared into the wagon through the hatch behind the seat. He heard her open the rear door and swing down behind. He looked back and saw her climbing into Nemain’s wagon, where she kept most of the herbs and powders she used for her remedies. In short order she returned, a clay jar in her hand, striding past him to the two young men and their dark-haired mother. Hob watched with interest as Molly walked along beside the little group, by the look of things explaining, cajoling, although he could not hear what was said.
Now the little group of four had stopped by the roadside, and as Hob and the ox came up to them, he saw Molly hold the jar to the woman’s lips. Then he was past, too polite to look back but hearing a gagging cough, and the sound of someone spitting, and then spitting again. Milo decided at this moment to veer from the path, perhaps intending a subtle slow turn that surely would go unnoticed by Hob, and that would bring them around to a stableward direction. Hob whistled sharply between his teeth and gave a brisk tug on the bridle, and the ox slewed back to the center of the track, snorting in mild annoyance.
A moment later the woman and her two sons passed Hob, the woman now walking much more easily, the strain gone from her face and only one hand laid lightly on a son’s arm. The three pilgrims drew ahead of Milo’s slow plod. Soon thereafter Molly swung up into the driver’s seat, moving with a surprising nimbleness for so queenly a woman.
Hob heard coming up behind him the chunk, chunk of a staff, thrust into the path to slow the bearer’s descent. Aylwin, the jovial leader of the little pilgrim
Up and up, and soon there came in sight a rock formation with a jagged semicircular cavity in its side: the famed Thonarberg Bite. Fireside tales insisted the opening was ripped in the rock by a flying serpent, always well before the tale-teller’s grandfather’s time. This marked the highest reach of the pass. Part of the Bite overarched the trail, and as they trundled under this overhang, relief from toil was immediate as the slope reversed from steeply upward to gently downward.
Once past the rock jut, Hob saw the valley beyond sprawl out before him. This flank of Monastery Mount spread southward at a gentle grade, and the track could be followed with the eye, spacious and welcoming, down to the tree line, where it plunged into the forest. About two furlongs past the Thonarberg Bite was a boundary stone set up by the monks. The land here was clear to all sides; the caves and ravines that provided such excellent retreats for outlaws and bandits were all on the other side of the Thonarberg; escort was deemed unnecessary from here to the forest. In the forest lay other dangers, but the hand of St. Germaine did not stretch so far.
Farewells were said, and they moved past the eight monks, who stood quietly to watch them from sight. Molly remounted the wagon seat. Nemain plied the brake on the little wagon, and Hob, one hand to the ass’s bridle, leaned back somewhat against the gentle slope, but the going was clearly easier and, were it not for the biting cold, would have been pleasant walking.
Molly, her hood pushed back, her cheeks glowing pink with thesting of the wind, leaned out from her seat on the ox wagon ahead and beckoned Hob forward. He trotted up to her.
“Lead on a bit, child. It’s safe enough Nemain will be on this slope, so douce and gentle it is.” Molly waited till he had hold of the bridle, and then disappeared into the wagon through the hatch behind the seat. He heard her open the rear door and swing down behind. He looked back and saw her climbing into Nemain’s wagon, where she kept most of the herbs and powders she used for her remedies. In short order she returned, a clay jar in her hand, striding past him to the two young men and their dark-haired mother. Hob watched with interest as Molly walked along beside the little group, by the look of things explaining, cajoling, although he could not hear what was said.
Now the little group of four had stopped by the roadside, and as Hob and the ox came up to them, he saw Molly hold the jar to the woman’s lips. Then he was past, too polite to look back but hearing a gagging cough, and the sound of someone spitting, and then spitting again. Milo decided at this moment to veer from the path, perhaps intending a subtle slow turn that surely would go unnoticed by Hob, and that would bring them around to a stableward direction. Hob whistled sharply between his teeth and gave a brisk tug on the bridle, and the ox slewed back to the center of the track, snorting in mild annoyance.
A moment later the woman and her two sons passed Hob, the woman now walking much more easily, the strain gone from her face and only one hand laid lightly on a son’s arm. The three pilgrims drew ahead of Milo’s slow plod. Soon thereafter Molly swung up into the driver’s seat, moving with a surprising nimbleness for so queenly a woman.
Hob heard coming up behind him the chunk, chunk of a staff, thrust into the path to slow the bearer’s descent. Aylwin, the jovial leader of the little pilgrim
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