Awakening (57 page)

She was smiling, almost laughing, but then the laughter faded.

The henge was empty and Judith gone.

She sat down, her back to one of the trees, patient until, dusk falling, Judith returned. Just like that.

‘It’s so odd,’ said Katherine calmly, ‘but you look older than I do now!’

Judith, dressed as roughly as ever, boots and all, looked tired and in her late twenties. ‘I
am
older, ageing faster, but it’s not quite what you think. I see things differently.’

‘How is it then?’

‘I run the lines, I sing my way, I swim the deep waters and I grow a thousand shoots. Time is different, but I feel my age, I feel time going. The Earth is quiet right now, but not for long. Mum?’

‘Yes? You still call me that?’

There was such sweetness in being able to say that.

‘Tell me about you and Dad.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Things. What comes to mind. How you met him.’

‘Oh.’

They sat through time itself, talking like that, Katherine knowing this was it, her last time with her daughter. Now, that moment, which was everything. Until by the end, when it was dark, she felt free as a bird, her loss and anger washing out, lost somewhere in the grass, gone. She felt empty of all that.

‘Mum . . . ?’

‘Yes, Judith.’

‘What’s it like being loved?’

‘Like . . . like . . .’ Katherine laughed, unable to answer.

‘Do you know Bedwyn Stort?’

‘Of course I do. He is the best of hydden and he has a gift beyond all others. He makes others happy.’

‘Tell me about him.’

Katherine did.

‘Some more.’

Katherine told some more and they both laughed. ‘He does things wrong but in doing that he does them right. Why do you ask?’

‘He said he felt me move in your stomach.’

‘Womb. He did.’

‘He stared at me as if he knew me.’

‘I suppose he does.’

‘Is being loved knowing that someone knows you, really knows you?’

‘A bit, I think. Why?’

‘I think
he
knows me and . . . and I think I know him. It helps when I feel lonely. I used to cry for loneliness.’

‘And now?’

‘Now too, but it’s not been so bad since I met him. I think of him there when I was inside you, from the beginning of time, and I feel better.’

‘I think of you too. So does Jack, I’m sure. Tell me, Judith, when I was talking to you by the chimes, did you know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could you see me?’

‘It’s not like that. I just know. It just happens. Like running the line, and racing the Reivers. Did that dam burst in Byrness?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it did. People died. We would have died if you hadn’t made us leave.’

Judith shrugged.

‘But I couldn’t save Margaret, could I? I can’t do very much as a matter of fact. Mind you I am not exactly the Shield Maiden yet. I need to let go of some things. Attachments . . .’

Katherine felt a pang.

‘How can I help others if one hand is tied to someone or something else? That’s why I’ve come back, to find out how to leave.’

Katherine smiled.

‘Makes sense,’ she said.

‘Meanwhile . . . all I can do is just nudge things along, feel things, do what She can’t do, try to stop her doing what She can do! Some hope . . . Mum. Sorry.’

‘I’m sorry too.’

‘Mum . . .’ she reached out but then, as Katherine tried to touch her, she was gone just like that, running the line.

Then she came back.

‘I can’t love him. Stort. Not ever . . .’

‘Why not?’

‘Time is against us, and his mortality. How can we ever scale the mountains of time between us?’

‘Then all I can say is that I hope for both your sakes one of you will find a way.’

‘Hmm,’ murmured Judith, unsure of that.

Then she really was gone, running the line, over the Hill, up by the Horse, a star in the sky.

46

T
O
S
UMMER’S
E
ND

T
hey came back towards the end of July of that year when Summer was not itself and might never be again, and found themselves in a great circle of standing stones.

All of them but Feld knew exactly where they were.

‘Avebury,’ said Barklice with relief, looking up towards the down-land scarp above them. ‘If we can get him up there and onto the Ridgeway it’s only twenty miles to Woolstone . . .’

Jack was sick to heart and body, the open wounds of his old burns infected, his blood seemingly poisoned. He was pale and delirious, sweating one moment, shivering the next.

They knew the cause, which was the gem he touched, but not the cure, though in his delirium Jack himself thought he did.

‘Let me touch the gem of Summer again. It made Slaeke Sinistral young, it will do me . . .’

‘No, Jack. It made you ill, not well.’

‘Please.’

‘No.’

‘If you don’t . . . I’ll . . .’

‘I will not, Jack,’ said Stort, ‘and you’re too weak to make threats. I bear the gems for the Shield Maiden alone.’

They made a stretcher from branches taken from around the henge and portered him up to the Ridgeway, taking it in turns to share the carrying. It wasn’t easy and Feld did more than the other two.

The only one among them who found the going easy was Georg the dog who, discovering there was life beyond a rubbish dump, was joyous in all he did.

By evening they had got halfway to White Horse Hill.

‘Where are we?’ said Jack, so weak he could not stop his head rolling from side to side.

‘Nearly home,’ said Stort.

‘I have no home,’ cried Jack dramatically, tears in his eyes, ‘nor family, nor anything . . .’

‘You have Katherine, Jack,’ replied Stort in a measured and sensible way.

But Stort knew he was thinking of Bochum and the female – he had no other name for her – who claimed Slew was Jack’s brother, which meant she was their mother.

‘Jack . . .’

But he was asleep again, grey-faced.

‘Perhaps we should have gone back, Feld. We should have found out the truth of his past, for therein lies something of his sickness.’

‘Through those dogs? I think not, Stort.’

Next day they hurried on, Jack no stronger.

‘We need a miracle,’ fretted Barklice.

‘Perhaps,’ said Stort.

Long though the day was, it was dusk before they got within reach of the Hill and Woolstone, but too late to go all the way.

‘Another half mile on from here is a place I know which will do to shelter him.’

‘Its name?’

‘Wayland’s Smithy, after the old god Wegland.’

Stort looked relieved.

‘I have heard of it. It is a place of sanctuary, a burial place of warriors. You should have mentioned it before, my dear Barklice!’

But as they approached it, huffing and puffing as they went, Jack grey and still, they were very surprised to catch the scents of food and mead and to see, glimmering on the tall trees there, the light of a fire.

‘Travellers,’ said Stort, ‘who may not be friendly.’

They put Jack’s litter down and Stort stayed with him while Feld and Barklice went to investigate.

Georg pattered about, restive, sniffling at Jack’s things, looking for food in Stort’s pockets, staring at them, head to one side, hoping for something, as dogs do.

‘What you need, Jack, is Katherine and love. That’s all. It’s a pity we couldn’t get to Woolstone tonight. It’s not that far, White Horse Hill is already within sight.’

Georg’s eyes stared, his mouth open, his tongue hanging out as he panted and thought.

Was this a command? Did his master wish him to do something? He thought perhaps he did. In fact he knew he did. But what?

‘Maybe, if we get you settled up here somewhere,’ continued Stort, ‘then tomorrow I could . . .’

Georg knew then what he must do, though the place was strange, the scents new, the night mysterious. He delved into Jack’s possessions once again, snuffled about, and then had another thought. He ran around, found what he was looking for, clamped it in his jaw and before Stort could stop him he was off into the night.

‘Dogs!’ said Stort. ‘He’ll soon come back . . . but meanwhile, peace and quiet, Jack, home cooking, stillness, such as I never had when I returned to Brum. Not a crowd, or festivity, or any . . . any . . .’

He heard voices, he saw lights, he heard music and he stood up, his mouth opening in astonishment.

‘Or any excitement. You don’t need that!’

But excitement was exactly what was coming towards them along the Ridgeway from the direction of Wayland’s Smithy.

‘Er, Jack, are you awake?’

Jack groaned.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m not.’

‘Are you perhaps a little better?’

‘I am worse.’

‘Could it be that you could entertain some visitors?’

‘Here? In the middle of the Ridgeway? Are you mad?’

He sounded better.

Whoever it was approaching them, candles in hand, they must be friends, for Feld and Barklice were at their head, smiling.

But then they stopped, and it was not they who came forward but a solitary individual, known to Stort but whose presence there that night, had he tried a thousand times, he could never have guessed right.

She loomed towards them, purposefully, and Stort’s heart missed a beat.

‘Um . . .’ he began.

She came nearer still, her bosom preceding her.

‘Er . . . can that possibly be . . . ?’

‘Good evening, Mister Stort, I am glad and relieved to see you well,’ said Cluckett before her eyes narrowed and she said in a way that would not be denied, ‘Now, sir, show me the patient.’

Stort knelt down by Jack and said, ‘We’ve found a goodwife, she’ll tend your wounds . . .’

Jack gripped his arm.

‘A goodwife?’ he said faintly. ‘
Here?!
Why? How?’

And then, with mounting horror, ‘What’s her name?’

‘Cluckett,’ said Stort.

‘Kill me first,’ said Jack.

Stort smiled and shook his head.

‘No, Jack, she wants you alive.’

They had all come to White Horse Hill together, Pike, Brunte, Backhaus, Ma’Shuqa and even Lord Festoon and many pilgrims besides. They had set up camp at Wayland’s Smithy and when Feld had arrived they were starting a feast.

‘We are keeping old traditions alive, Stort,’ said Lord Festoon, ‘and making this pilgrimage to give thanks, as we folks of Brum always have.’

‘For what?’

‘Why, my dear fellow, hasn’t anyone told you? An envoy was sent from Bochum. We have been pardoned for the insurrection and won our liberty in perpetuity and for all time. The Emperor Blut himself is coming before long to give thanks for what you and Jack did . . . it is a most happy time.’

‘What did we do?’

‘I do not think that this new Emperor likes gems. He was glad you took them back. Now come and feast . . .’

Stort declined. Jack was genuinely ill and he wished to keep him company. Cluckett had seen to it that his wounds were cleaned and dressed and he was in a place of quiet and sanctuary, away from the crowd.

‘I am gratified to see you have applied the balm I gave for his scars very well, Mister Stort, without which I very much fear—’

‘. . . that he might have died,’ said Stort sombrely. ‘I am – we are – very grateful to you.’

Cluckett flushed with pleasure at this unexpected praise and said, ‘I am glad you think so, though I fear your friend may have found my treament just now somewhat rigorous. Needs must, Mister Stort, needs must!’

‘How long will his recovery take?’

‘In the normal course of events it could be weeks, likely months, probably years. But now I’ve given him a tonic, and bled him, and poulticed what needed it, and drawn out the sweats and . . .’

Jack groaned, a deep abiding groan.

Stort went to him.

‘Has she gone?’ he said. ‘Did you by happy chance knife her in the back, cut her up and bury her where she can never be found?’

‘No, Jack, I didn’t, and be careful or she’ll hear you.’

Stort returned to Cluckett.

‘And then I put my thumbs in his back and thighs to speed up the recovery and tweaked his joints and did the jerks, which gets things going I can tell you! All he needs is the comfort of his spouse’s touch and he’ll be as right as rain in the morning.’