The Hollowing (19 page)

“Are we in trouble?” Richard asked Helen.

As if reacting to his voice, the tall man suddenly came over to him, glowering at him, pushing him back. But then he worked the spear from the door-post, checking the stone point with his fingers, and appearing satisfied. His breath was fruity, although his body exuded a stale, sweaty smell.

Helen said, “No. We’re not in trouble. But they are. Our friend here has just taken the head of the god Mabathagus. Remember the mask Wakeman brought back? Same necromancer. I should have recognised it last night. These three will pay dearly for what they’re doing. But with luck, not before they’ve helped us to the ravine and the colossi.”

They were three of the Sons of Kyrdu, part of a cycle of adventure that had been widely told across the forests and tundras of northern Europe, as far as the Altai Mountains in the east and the rocky coasts of Ireland in the west. These men were
Kurgans,
not the earliest form of the legend they embodied, but the first that had begun to draw influences from other cultures. The Kurgan people had been farmers and raiders, and like the Norsemen who were a much later reflection of their ethic, they were an odd mixture of rustic, warrior, land-grabber, and superstitious monster.

An early form of their story had entered North America, probably with the Clovis Point hunters, and was best preserved in Iriquoian mythology, although it had been rapidly subsumed into a simple tale of a raiding party on another clan’s totem land, elements of which Longfellow had recorded in his account of Hiawatha.

It was a rich cycle, with elements of quest, of revenge, and of hubris. The five sons—these three were all that remained at this fairly late stage of the story, the raid on the shrine—were determinedly seeking the way into the Underworld, to plunder the treasures they believed to be hidden there. On the way they accumulated talismans of various forms, but the stealing of Mabathagus and the Skinning of the Drum, whatever that would turn out to be, was one of the actions that would contribute to their terrible fate. The head was reputed to carry far sight and silent thought, an aspect of the “long gone long to come,” and Kyrdu’s sons wanted that facility for the moment when they would cross Black Pike Lake.

Mabathagus, rising from the earth, would have something to say about the act of vandalism.

That fate remained in the future. From the brief, cautious exchange in the shrine itself, Helen had determined that these raiders were aware of the ravine, and the wooden colossi that probably marked the entrance to the zone where Alex had erected his best defences. The Kurgan would accompany her there, and Helen had agreed to trade for the privilege: their presence would be protection against the Jack, which she was convinced was now dogging Richard’s trail.

For the moment however, they stayed in this silent, wet clearing. The Sons of Kyrdu had spread blankets and were seated now, busy with industry, one working an awl through a long strip of leather, the other re-securing the stone head of the spear he had launched in front of Richard by way of discouragement. These were Herkos and Kyrki. The horse-lord himself, Etherion, picked through the contents of Helen’s pack, but dismissed everything as useless. Richard heard her say “damn,” and she glanced his way, looking apprehensive. “Can he have a look at what you’re carrying? I don’t want him getting ideas about
me
…”

“Of course. He can have what he likes.”

But as he saw Richard preparing to offer his own backpack for consideration, the man shook his head. He drew a slim, stone knife and cut one of the long, silver locks from Helen’s hair, braiding it with facility in his big hands, and using a thin twine to tie it to his own front lock. It dangled there, silver at the end of black, and he smiled broadly and nodded at the woman.

“It’s a little bit of my spirit to protect him against the ‘shadow that comes from shadow.’ He’s just paid me an enormous compliment. And do you know what, Richard? I actually feel complimented.”

“Good. Now let’s get on.”

“Unfortunately…”

Their time at the shrine was not finished. There was a sense of expectation in the air. The birds around the glade began to fall silent. The awling stopped, the spear was laid aside. The three dark men watched the light through the canopy, ears pricked and expectant. Helen sat quietly, just inside the temple itself, waiting out the hours, waiting for the murder.

The drum started. It was distant at first, but came closer. It was high in frequency, like the Irish bohdrain, a single skin round a wooden frame, beaten with a bone. The drumming circled the clearing. The horses twisted against their tethers, and Kyrki stroked their muzzles, calming them as he watched the woods, alert for movement. The other two stood and drew their short, bronze stabbing swords.

The man who ran suddenly into the clearing was wizened, bent double, clothed in swathes of brown rags, with a fur hood drawn tightly around his weatherbeaten face. He beat the wide drum frantically and screamed at the three men, twisting where he stood, using the drum as a weapon, thrusting it at each of them in turn, as if its sound would stop them in their tracks.

The Sons of Kyrdu circled the wild man, wary, unsmiling. They seemed genuinely afraid of him, but purposeful in their movements.

“Time to go,” Helen said, and left the shrine.

Richard stepped out after her and edged away from the confrontation. She stood at the edge of the clearing, watching the dance. “I don’t want to be a part of this.” Her face was full of pain. “It won’t be pleasant…”

Richard looked back at the warriors. Kyrki had snatched the drum from its owner and sliced it into tatters, stripping the leather away from the frame. The other two were unfurling the old man, as if in some bizarre party game. He twisted and screamed as the rags came away, until his grey, scrawny body was exposed, naked and richly tattooed with distorted figures and strange faces. Suddenly he stood still, his hands resting against his skeletal thighs, his head drooping over a hollow chest. Kyrki stepped towards him, bronze skinning knife drawn.

Richard followed Helen into the dense undergrowth, into the welcome darkness. The old man’s shrieks followed them for a while, and then there was a sudden silence. Helen turned and without a word put her arms around Richard, holding him very tightly. She was shaking. Richard felt sick, and as the old man’s ululating death tones seemed to echo everywhere, he asked, “Will they kill us too?”

“No. Of course not. Be quiet, Richard. Just hold me.”

Richard realised she was crying. She felt very small against him. In silence they stood against a leaning oak, the breeze shifting, the smells of the wood fragrant, calming. It was very still, very peaceful. Slowly Helen’s anguish dissipated.

“It’s one of the things I find hard, very hard,” she said softly, still with her face against Richard’s chest. “The violence. So much of myth, so much of legend, so much of it is turned around deeds of heroism, and bravery, and revenge, and war … and it all comes down to one thing: death. Violent death. The duels between heroes. The burning of saints. The skinning of old men. Dan hated it too. Even a good and chivalrous knight can become a killer in this place. We don’t get innocent Jack, the Beanstalk boy with his pleasant trickery … we get Jack who kills, Jack who tricks, Jack who murders for gain.” She trembled suddenly and Richard put a hand against her neck, welcoming the closeness and the sudden deeper contact she initiated. “God I miss him,” she whispered. “So much. So much. I miss him so much…”

If Richard had thought she was talking about “Jack,” he soon grasped her meaning.

“He’ll come back,” he said, pointlessly. “As Lacan told me, time plays silly tricks. He’s probably on his way home even now.”

But she shook her head. “I’ve been deluding myself. He’s dead. Trickster’s got him. It’s happened again and I’ve been a fool to insist otherwise. There are some things that you know in your heart, Richard. And in my heart I’ve always known that Dan’s dead.”

She drew away and sat down against the swollen root of the oak, folding down into herself, head below her arms, the sounds coming from her faintly and sadly. Distantly a drum was being beaten and a deep voice shouted words which suddenly resolved into Helen’s name.

The Sons of Kyrdu were calling her back.

Kyrki welcomed Richard into the glade by beating gently with the handle of his skinning knife on the new drum, the thin, stretched skin colourful and patterned with symbols of the moon, reindeer, and swans. The sound it made was faint, as if the skin was tired, or distant, singing out its pain from another realm. The others had stretched sections of tattooed skin across their round shields. A red carcass lay sprawled in the door of Mabathagus’s shrine. The horses, distressed by the strong stench of raw meat, were almost out of control, twisting, rearing and whinnying as Herkos held their tethers.

“Come on! Time to go!” Etherion shouted, smiling. Not in those words, of course, but his gestures and intentions were clear enough.

Helen stepped into the open, silently gathered up her pack, and grimly followed the riders into the woodland opposite.

Richard was glad to leave the place. He was gladder still of Helen. Her calm behaviour in the presence of these Bronze Age Kurgan mercenaries was very reassuring to a man who would have preferred to be running in the opposite direction.

*   *   *

And when it came to running, these men were more demanding than Helen herself, moving as they did at a fast jog through tracks that hardly existed, their horses snorting and trotting behind at the end of a short tether. There was no open country. All packs were slung over the animals, which made running easier, but too often the Kurgans ran so far ahead that Helen and Richard lost sight and sound of them. Etherion, perhaps honouring his promise to help the woman, was impatient with the two outsiders, but always waited for them to catch up. Richard noticed how he feasted his eyes upon Helen, but he seemed afraid of her, sharing smiles and looks, but not touching. What Helen thought of him wasn’t clear. Richard assumed she was keeping him happy. He knew—it was not hard to realise—that Dan’s was the only face she saw with love.

Etherion used sling-shot to bring down a plump pair of red squirrels, which he spit-cooked in the evening, when a very welcome rest from the relentless wildwood run was called. The fur was stretched over improvised drying frames, the entrails cleaned and twisted into a thong, also to dry, the flesh warmed over the wood fire. Kyrki produced dried plums from his pack and some thin cakes of mashed grain, perhaps emmer wheat, unleavened, in any case, and very dry, very bitter.

The squirrel was strong in flavour, and demandingly tough. The raw skulls were carefully detached from the carcasses and put in a pouch with some earth. Richard assumed the idea was to make a necklace, but Helen said they would more likely be bartered in communities where animal totems were held in reverence.

Etherion wanted to reach a place, which he called the Silent Marshes, before evening of the next day, and so they left the small encampment literally at first light, and ran on. The Sons of Kyrdu smelled the air, and listened to the woodland breezes, watched the flights of birds, and discussed shadows in clearings, using their daggers to make points to each other. They had sought long and hard for the shrine of Mabathagus, and having found it they now seemed to be well aware of where they were going. Some guiding voice, some insight, some reading of the forest entrails had told them their location in the legend-heavy wood. The band moved cautiously towards the ravine, but Etherion was alert to the changing conditions, the land around him, the elements of myth that were in constant flux and shaping his quest, and that of his brutal brothers.

*   *   *

They reached the ravine in mid-afternoon, after stopping to rest in a grove in the middle of some young hazels. It was a welcome break as far as Richard was concerned, but Kyrki had scouted on ahead and his voice suddenly hailed the band from a distance. At once the other Kurgans packed the horses and led them away from the hazel grove at a fast trot. Helen and Richard followed, increasingly excited as the wood opened out ahead of them.

Kyrki was standing on a prominent spur of rock, a tall, dark shape, peering down the steep, forested slope to the gleaming thread of a river below. The far side of the ravine was close, a vertical wood of oak, elm, and hazel standards. His voice echoed in the narrow space as he called to his brothers.

For the next few hours the horsemen picked their way carefully along the lip of this gorge, Etherion looking for the way back into the forest, Helen scouring the descent for a suitable passage to the river below, and the colossal wooden statues that McCarthy had clearly seen in his dream.

“There!” Helen said at last, pointing ahead and down into the forested gloom.

Against the contrasting light and gloom, for a moment it was hard to make out the shapes. But slowly the three figures below resolved into more than shadows, although only the tops of their heads could be seen at this distance. They were braced across the river, and for the moment seemed small.

When the horsemen were almost above the statues, the Sons of Kyrdu abruptly turned away from the edge and with no smiles, but loud exhortations which Richard took to be expressions of good luck, led their steaming horses back into the deep wood, seeking the open land that led to the Silent Marshes. Kyrki rattled his horse chains, Herkos howled, and Etherion grinned at Helen, who raised a hand in a gesture of parting. Richard, however, just felt relief. He was not at all sorry to see them go.

They descended the steep side of the ravine, dropping from tree to tree, clinging on to each other, passing their packs between them, often slipping and coming perilously close to a head-first tumble to the river. As they descended, so the size of these wooden constructs became clear. Colossal was right. When Richard came level with their blind heads it was an eerie experience, particularly since the third figure was turned slightly, and seemed to be listening for him. The wood of their bodies was dark, cracked, and was already beginning to sprout seedlings. The figures were naked, that at the front stooping forward slightly, as if peering up the ravine. The middle figure watched the sky through hollow eyes, its mouth a leering gash. They might have been three naked giants walking in single file up the river, legs braced across the water. When Richard reached the bank, he could see how the feet of the monsters seemed to grow from the land, joining at the belly. They were trees, then, that had been trimmed and carved to create these gargantuan shapes. They stood a hundred feet high, and looking up at them, against the skyline, they seemed to move and creak, as if straining to draw their legs from the deep rocks. Almost immediately Richard felt a familiarity with them, something about them that suggested a painting he had seen, perhaps, but the thought refused to resolve.