‘Where’s Crete?’
‘An island. A long, thin island, with mountains and valleys, rivers and wilderness.’
‘I like wilderness.’
‘It was famous for a labyrinth that had a very strange attribute. For sacrifice. For a creature that was made of one part man, one part woman, one part bull and one part wood. Once a year, this monster ate a meal of Greeks, fourteen in all.’
‘Quite a feat.’
‘Quite a feast. Four times a year, at the turning of the seasons, the creature was allowed to mate. It gave rise to strange offspring.’
‘You’re making this up.’
Steven laughed. ‘A little embellishment, perhaps.’
‘But the island existed?’
‘It did. Oh yes.’
‘And the strange attribute of the labyrinth?’
‘I made that up as well.’
Yssobel smiled. ‘I don’t think you did. There is something forceful about what you said, something of truth in it.’
Another few lines from the ancient text caught her by surprise.
Twelve ships, painted with crimson bows, came under Odysseus, master of all the masters of Ithaca. This was a great host, a great force, in awe of Odysseus, whose life-force and cunning rivalled that of life-engendering Zeus.
She stared at the words, and without looking up asked, ‘Twelve ships?’
‘He took part in that great war. Against Troy. You know this.’
‘So this is part of what happened to him later. It’s strange to find it written. Master of all the masters of Ithaca. He’ll be very regal, then. Is Ithaca like Crete?’
‘Yes. A territory, a part of a greater land. Not an island. Our young friend Odysseus is destined for long memory and fame; probably most of it wrongly reported.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Time creates confusion. Time changes memory.’
‘Well, of course. Don’t treat me like a child.’
‘Sorry.’
She sighed. ‘I miss him.’
‘You might find him again.’
But Yssobel looked up and shook her head, sad and also knowing; accepting. ‘He’s moved on. Dad, you know that. If he remembers me, I’m pleased. But he’s moved on. I know that.’
Steven was quiet for a moment, trying to find the right words. He couldn’t find them.
You don’t know anything of the sort, he thought to himself. Not in this place. Not in this world. But then: I only know half of you, even though you’re my daughter.
Red side, green side. What must it feel like to have that mix? What colours your dreams?
Yssobel looked up suddenly, sharply. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘What do you mean?’
She stood and came round to him; she was curious. Shorter than her father, she put her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder. ‘What were you thinking?’
‘I was thinking,’ Steven said, ‘that I’d like you to paint a picture of Guiwenneth; and of Jack; and of me. On fragments of The Odyssey, though The Iliad will do if needs be.’
‘Why do you want pictures of yourself?’
‘To be remembered by.’
Yssobel laughed. She stayed where she was, holding Steven tightly. ‘But I know you. I can remember you. Peredur, Deirdrath - I need them because I can’t know them. Why would anyone want pictures of you? Especially of Jack! I’d have to paint him conceited and cocky.’
‘He’s not conceited and cocky.’
‘You don’t know him like I know him.’
‘Then you misunderstand him.’
‘I’m teasing.’ She looked up, pulled away a little. ‘Why? Why pictures?’
‘What if the green side of you should die? How will you remember us? If we’ve all gone.’
‘The red side of me will have everything that I need to remember. It’s blood that comes out of me when I fall and cut myself. Blood at the moon time. The wood is not in my veins, just in my head.’
‘And if the red side of you dies? What about the green?’
‘You will be legend. What else? But then, what is legend to a tree in the middle of the wild? If only the green in me survives, there is no need to mourn the passing of a father. Or a brother. Or a mother. You think too much, dad. You worry too much.’
‘I’d still like you to paint us. If all of you go, and I’m left: a small icon helps. You’ve worked so hard to bring an image of your grandfather to life. I love it. I think Gwin does too, despite your row. Use your skill to leave a little of the rest of us behind. And put something from your dreams in each painting. OK?’
‘Ok,’ Yssobel said without a pause, and with a smile.
‘And in exchange I’ll find you a horse to rival Caliburn. A better horse.’
‘For when I go?’
Steven hugged his daughter. ‘Yes. For when you go.’
‘Caliburn is a wonderful horse. But he’s getting old. He changes when we enter Serpent Pass. It’s as if he’s going home. He knows exactly where to tread as he winds up through the rocks. When he dies I’d like to place him in Odysseus’s cave.’
Steven was pleased by the thought. ‘So you’ll stay and terrorise the villa at least until the old war horse kicks his last?’
‘Yes. Of course. And Rianna has already promised me a new horse - a special horse, she says. So you don’t need to go trading.’
Game and Promise
Yssobel found Jack in the forge, helping Hurthig to beat out a new sickle blade from one of the pieces of iron that they gathered, as well as forage for the fire, from the surrounding valleys.
Her brother, dripping with sweat, was distracted. Hurthig concentrated on his job, talking to Jack with his fingers and gestures. The coals flared and water hissed in the tempering barrel, and Jack was clearly proud of his efforts.
He was learning a lot from the silent Saxon youth.
‘If you’ve come to be shod, you’ll have to wait your turn. Horses come first. And besides, I don’t know how big your feet are.’
‘Very funny.’
Jack hammered the edge of the blade, then tested it with his finger, passing it to Hurthig, who twisted it this way and that, and then nodded approval.
Wiping the sweat from his face, Jack grinned at his sister. ‘I’m getting to be quite good at this.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be rubbing down the horses?’
‘All done. The horses are happy.’
‘That’s good to know. I do like to hear that our horses are happy. And so: you’ve come to see your brother master his skills at . . . sickle making.’
He lifted the blade, made gestures as if using it as a weapon. Hurthig looked bemused.
‘Do you like doing this?’ Yssobel asked.
‘I love doing this. Oh yes. Take something old, shape it new. Bring the gleam back to the dead. Bring the cut back to the edge that was blunted by neglect.’
‘Eloquent. I suppose.’
‘Thank you. Anyway. What makes you stand here watching me? Something of iron for you? Or of bronze? I have bronze. Ask me to make it, I’ll make it. With a little help from Hurthig,’ Jack added quietly and with a confidential smirk, as if speaking quietly mattered. The Saxon was far too busy with his own thoughts and skills. ‘I’m good, but not yet good enough.’
‘Do you have silver?’
Stripping off his leather apron, untying his long hair from the strap that held it back as he worked at the fire, Jack frowned. ‘Silver. Silver? Why silver?’
‘Do you?’
‘Do I? Have silver?’ He walked to a box and opened it, peering down at the loose metal contents, moving his fingers through them. He was thinking hard. He picked out a small figurine, a woman diving as if into the sea, then a coin, turning it in his fingers. He dropped them back into the small hoard. ‘Yes, I have silver. Not much. I could probably find more. Why do you ask? I don’t waste it on horseshoes, not even for my sister.’
‘I don’t want to be shod; nor bridled.’
‘I didn’t think you did. Why silver?’
‘I want a silver ring to hold back my hair. When I ride through the deeper wood my hair catches in the branches. In the briar, if I’m hunting, I need to tie it down. Hard. A ring of silver.’
‘I tie my hair with leather. Or strips of fleece. Or strips of thin metal. Or thin rope. You could tie yours with any of those things. You could tie it back with a sharp word! Tie a parchment picture of our grandfather around it. Anyway, I know you tie your hair with bands of leather.’
‘But now I want silver.’
Jack leaned back against the brick wall that contained the fire, quickly standing up as the heat began to burn him. He swore, brushing at his backside, and Yssobel was amused. Her brother laughed too, then said, ‘All right. Silver. You have something in mind?’
‘Something thin, something designed. Something that if I end up on a field of battle, and my scalp is taken as trophy, the ring will be admired. Something that when I’ve completed my days can be passed on to my daughter. Something that will mark me as Yssobel. Something to be loved by.’
Jack stared at her, eyes wide, face expressionless.
Then he said, ‘Well, that sounds easy enough.’
After a moment, they laughed again, and he said, ‘Yssi, I’ll do my best. A ring to hold your hair. And in exchange . . .’
‘Anything.’
‘Then show me how to find the edge of the world.’
‘That, alas, I can’t do.’
‘I know.’
‘And so in exchange: what? Not another verse of that song!’
Jack turned from her. Hurthig had slumped down, sipping water from a clay flask and brushing some of it across his sweat-saturated face. Over the coals, Jack stirred the fire with the same blade he had just shaped, the reaping knife. He was not a man given to easy thought.
‘I don’t want to lose you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to lose this home, this villa. But we must move to the place that calls us. We have to.’
‘I know.’
‘How will we keep in touch? How will I know you’re safe?’
‘And how will I know that you are safe? And how will our parents?’
‘Gwin will always know. But Gwin is fading. I feel it.’
‘I feel it too.’
Jack looked up from the fire. Yssobel met his gaze.
And the young man said, ‘I don’t know why, or for what reason, or purpose, or because of what dream, or vision, or hawk’s cry of warning, or hound’s growl in your waking dreams, you want a ring of silver for your hair, but I will make it for you and pattern it as you require. With a little Saxon help,’ he stated. ‘In exchange, never let me go. And in exchange I will never let you go.’
Yssobel had slumped down by the wall of the forge, knees drawn up. She was staring into the dusk, towards the darkening sky that came from the valley, from imarn uklyss.
‘Winter’s coming.’
‘Winter?’ Jack said with a frown. ‘We’ve only just had winter. Not so soon.’
He walked away from the heat, out into the cold, stepping beyond the glow of the forge. He raised his head and took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. Winter. Again. So soon.’
He came back and sat down next to his sister. Hurthig walked past them, shivering suddenly, then used his hands to signal goodnight, and could Jack please make sure the fire was controlled until it was reduced to embers, ready for the blow of the bellows tomorrow.
Yssobel said, ‘I want to play the game. We haven’t played it for a long time, Jack. But I would like to play it now.’
‘Yssi ...’
‘Jack! I want to play the game. This might be our last time. And this time, it might be important.’
‘I have to look after the fire.’
‘The fire will die on its own. It can look after itself. It’s going nowhere.’
‘I’ll play the game. But not where we used to play it. I’ll play it here. The fire is still too fierce for silver.’
‘Then we’ll play it here.’
The fire had dropped to a glow. The winter was coming in fast, as it usually did, and in the darkness Jack could see flakes of snow. He had put out the torch, and rearranged the coals with tongs. Yssobel was curled in the corner, waiting for him, a blanket of stitched sheepskin covering her against the wind from the valley. Jack found a small crucible and embedded it in the heat.
‘I’ll melt the silver now. How big a ring do you need?’
Yssobel had already released her hair and tossed him the strap. He fitted his fingers through the loop of skin, stretched them out. ‘You do know that silver won’t be as strong as this. I’ll have to make it thicker; heavier.’
‘Do you have enough silver?’
‘I’m sure I do. But it will weigh on you. You’ll notice it.’
‘That’s what I want. As long as it keeps my hair out of the branches.’
He scrabbled through the hoard. The diving woman. A figurine of a lost god; two coins, quite large; an actual silver ring, with poor decoration, designed for a large finger. And two arrow points, though clearly weapons that had been symbolic and not practical. One of these he kept back. He placed the rest in the earthenware crucible, used the bellows on the coals beneath it, let heat and metal meld and melt. Silver would start to run at a lower temperature than iron. He blew air over the surface for a while to help bring impurities out of the true metal.
Wrapping his own sheepskin around him, he dropped down by his sister, shivered and reached for the water jug. ‘I’m ready. For the question. Who goes first?’
‘Same rules?’
‘Same rules. One question, two answers. One answer truthful, one answer not.’
‘I’ll go first,’ Yssobel said, leaning forward to bring her face close to Jack’s. ‘Are you ready for this?’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Why do you want to go the edge of the world? First answer.’
‘I long to go to the edge of the world because I will find a life there that belongs to me. Now you: why do you want to go to the centre of the earth?’
‘I want to go to the centre of the earth because I think I will find there who I am. Why do you want to go to the edge of the world?’
‘Because I will find my way home there. I will find someone I care for.’