Sword at Sunset (47 page)

At last the lightning became less incessant, and the thunder trod less swift upon its heels, the whiplash crack of it that had all but split the eardrums dulled to the rolling of great drums
that throbbed and reverberated among the dark glens. And I knew that for the time, at least, the crown of the storm was past – so far, that is, as the thunder was concerned; for after the
thunder came the wind and rain. We got the horses quieted at last; wind and rain they understood, whereas thunder is a thing that no horse ever understands – nor any man either, which I
suppose is why we have always given it to our highest and most angry gods.

Presently the tilt went, ripped away like a torn sail. I got Guenhumara under the cart, and in a while, with Signus’s bridle pitched over an alder branch nearby, I was crouching beside
her, my arm around Cabal’s strong rain-cold neck, trying to shelter her with our bodies from the in-driving lances of rain; while the wind roared up the valley and the wet drove by in solid
sheets, in gray trailing curtains that blotted even the far side of the narrow glen into nothingness, and beat and drenched through the thin moaning woods.

And as we crouched there, in the space of a hundred heartbeats, every summer-dry runnel in the heather became a rushing ale-colored water course that leapt over the stones and sprang out among
the heather roots and went swirling down to join the little burn that was already swelling into spate; and under the chill of the storm, the smell of wet refreshed earth rose all about us, aromatic
as the rising incense of bog myrtle in the sun, and was drowned by the gray deluge and washed back into the ground. It was well on toward evening when the rain began to slacken and the light to
return, but we still had six or seven miles to go, and with the warning of the swollen burn in my ears I dared not wait any longer.

Guenhumara was whiter and more pinched than ever, her eyes enormous and nearly black, so that they seemed to shadow all her face. And when the driver had yoked up the mules, I had to all but
lift her to her feet. ‘Guenhumara,
is
there anything amiss?’

She shook her head. ‘I hate thunder, I’ve always hated thunder. It is no more than that.’

Pharic, who was standing near with his arm across his horse’s neck, turned quickly to look at her, the straight black brows almost meeting above the bridge of his nose. ‘That is the
first I’ve ever heard of it, then. You must have changed since the days when you used to stand on the bull shed roof to be nearer to the storm, while Blanid shrilled at you like a black hen
from underneath.’

‘Yes, I’ve changed,’ Guenhumara said. ‘It is because I am growing old.’ She turned to me, gathering her drenched garments into bunched folds as though suddenly
aware of how they clung to her swollen belly. ‘Artos, take me up before you on Signus. Not – not the cart any more.’

So I took her up before me, with a drenched sheepskin saddle rug flung across Signus’s withies to give her softer riding, and felt how tensely rigid she was in the hollow of my bridle arm.
I gave the mule driver orders to follow after us, left two of the patrol with him, and again we rode on.

Below our left, the Tweed was roaring like a herd of bulls. The sky was clearing as the storm rolled away into the dark heart of Manann, and the evening blue was beginning to show through the
rags of the fraying storm clouds, when we came around the flank of the high ground and dropped through hazel woods toward the burn that came down there from the high moors to join the river. But
the roaring of the burn warned us what we should find, even before we came in sight of it. Farther south, the storm must have broken with a wilder fury even than we had suffered, and the burn was
coming down in a roaring spate of white water. It was far out over the banks on either side, clutching at the roots of the hazels and swirling in yeasty turmoil about the red earth of the lower
hillside, tearing away great lumps of turf and boulders. The ford was completely lost; it might even be carried away; bushes, tree roots and clods of earth were sweeping past, and even as we
checked in consternation at the water’s edge, the body of a half-grown roe deer went by, rolled and tossed like a wineskin in the surf.

Pharic was the first to make a move, and as usual with him, it was a reckless one. ‘Well, it’s a cheerless prospect, biding here all night,’ he said, and urged his horse
straight forward into the rush of water above the submerged bank.

I yelled him back. ‘Don’t be a fool, man. It’s death!’

And the horse neighed in sudden terror as the spate caught at its legs and all but swept it down into the full flood. There were a few hideous moments of struggle and then with a heavy crash of
hoof-flailed water, and a slipping scramble, he was on solid ground again. I had opened my mouth to tell my marriage-brother a thing, but in that instant Guenhumara gave a tiny gasp, almost a moan,
but checked before it broke surface, and I felt her make a convulsive movement as though she would have drawn up her knees against her belly as one does in cramp. And looking down, I saw her whole
face clenched and twisted together, small in the shadow of her sodden cloak hood. Fear shot through me. ‘What is it? – Guenhumara. Is it the baby?’

Slowly and with care she unclenched her face as one unclenches a fist, and opened her eyes with a long sigh. ‘Yes, the baby. It is better now, until the next time. I am sorry,
Artos.’

‘Oh God,’ I said, ‘what do we do now?’ And I know that I could have howled like a dog against the sense of utter helplessness that overwhelmed me. It might be many hours
before the spate ran down; if we tried making any kind of footbridge by uprooting the hazel saplings and laying them across, that too would take time; and even when it was accomplished, our own
Horse Burn would be in a like state, between us and Trimontium. And meanwhile, Guenhumara’s child was on the way.

‘How long do you think it will be?’ I asked her. The others, dismounted for the most part, were probing about the banks.

‘I do not know, I have never borne a child before – I think it may not be for a long while – oh, but it hurts me sore already, Artos – I didn’t know it hurt as much
as this.’ She broke off in a little gasp, and again I felt that bracing of her body, the cramped convulsive drawing up of her knees, and held her close while the pang lasted. When it was over
she began to speak again, hurriedly. ‘Artos, find me a sheltered spot – a hollow of some kind among the bushes, and spread me the driest saddle rug you can find, that the child does not
lie like a lamb dropped into the wet—’

‘No,’ I began stupidly.

‘No, listen, for we have no choice. I have told you that I know what to do. Give me your knife to sever the child’s life from mine, and I shall do well enough, if you keep guard that
nothing comes out of the woods upon me while I am – busy.’

But suddenly I also knew what to do, and while she was still speaking, I wheeled Signus toward the half-lost herding path that led up from the ford into the hills. ‘I’ve a better way
than that. Hold out for a small while, Angharad, and you shall have surer shelter than a wet hollow in the ground, and another woman to help you.’

‘Artos, I can’t – I can’t bear the horse much longer.’

‘Only a short while,’ I said. ‘Bear it for a short while, Guenhumara.’ And I called to Pharic and the captain of the patrol. ‘Pharic, come, I am taking Guenhumara
up to Druim Dhu’s village. Two of you come with me, and the rest of you bide here and pick up the cart when it arrives, and get across when the spate goes down. Keep Cabal with
you.’

‘But you’ve never been there.’ Pharic urged his horse up beside mine on the verge of the drowned droveway.

‘I have once – six or seven years ago. I’ve been close to it since, on the hunting trail.’

‘And you can find it again?’

‘Please God, I can find it again,’ I said.

In the last wild light of the fading day, with the cloud flitters flying low above the hills and the low shining of a sodden yellow sunset in my eyes, and Guenhumara hanging a dead weight on my
bridle arm, I came over the last heather ridge, and checked for an instant, with an almost sick relief, looking down into the shallow upland valley that I had seen once before.

But the valley of Druim Dhu’s homestead was not the peaceful place that it had seemed that other time. Here also, the little burn that had come down shallow over its bed of trout-freckled
stones had run mad and become a roaring torrent, bursting out of its old course to cut a new one for itself that deepened and broadened even as I urged Signus into the downhill track, rending away
great chunks of the bank and spreading itself all abroad in a swirl and tumult of white water that swept perilously near to the little huddle of turf bothies within their hawthorn hedge. All across
the shallow cup of the valley, men were struggling to get the lowing, terrified cattle up to higher ground, while others, women too, were struggling waist-deep in the water to shift the dam of
torn-down bushes and debris that had built up across the true course of the burn. Above the roar of water their shouts and the barking of the cattle dogs came up to us, small and sharp and
desperate, even reaching Guenhumara, so that she turned her head to look down into the valley ahead of us. ‘What – is this place?’ she demanded, and then with a sudden thrill of
fear in her voice, ‘Artos, what
is
this place? Those little green howes? Artos, you’ll not be taking me into the Fairy Hills?’

‘The Fairy Hills, or Druim’s village. It is all the same.’

‘It is a bad place!’ she cried. ‘They are all bad places, the Fairy Hills!’

‘Not to me and mine,’ I said. ‘Listen, Guenhumara, I have been inside this place. It is only a living place, as your father’s hall. I have drunk heather beer in there,
and no harm came to me. Druim Dhu and his kin are our friends.’

She made no more protest, but I do not think the fear left her; it was only swallowed up in the urgent needs of her body.

Thank God, the village was on the near side of the water; I rode down toward it, Pharic and Conn just behind me. A small dark man dragging a sheep hurdle staggered past us, with dazed eyes that
seemed not to see us until he was almost past. Then he turned about, not knowing me even then, and demanded fiercely, ‘What do you here, big man on a big horse? This is our place; go home to
yours!’

‘Great God, man, I had better welcome last time I came here,’ I said, and as though his eyes cleared, I saw the recognition come into them.

‘Artos – my Lord Artos!’

‘As to what I do here – the way into the Place of Three Hills is cut off by the burns in spate, and my woman is far gone in labor, therefore I have brought her to Itha. Is she in the
houseplace?’

He shook his head, then jerked it in the direction of the straining figures about the dam.

‘The water’ll be in the houseplace soon, if we can’t turn it.’

‘Meanwhile I take my woman there. Send Itha to me – I’ll come back and take her place as soon as may be.’ I had dismounted by that time, Guenhumara scarcely conscious in
my arms, and called to the other two, as the little man staggered on toward the desperate struggle that was being fought out around the dividing of the burn. ‘Tie up the horses and then go
down and help with that dam. I’ll be with you in a while.’

I found the houseplace by the feather of smoke rising from the crest of its bush-grown roof, and the smell which came from it, and ducking low under the lintel, carried Guenhumara down the four
turf steps into the smoky darkness. In the first moment I thought no one was there but the Old Woman on her stool, looking as though she had never risen from it, and a handful of children huddled
about her, staring at me under their brows like little wild things. And then from behind her came a small fretful wailing, and I saw another woman crouched against the far wall and bending over a
child in her lap.

At sight of me, Old Woman cackled with laughter that set her enormous belly heaving. ‘Artos the Bear! So you come back, Sun Lord. Maybe those that drink in the Fairy Hills must always come
back.’ And she nodded at Guenhumara in my arms. ‘No need to ask what ails that one.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Her time is on her two moons early, and the burns in spate, even as yours, between us and the gate of the Place of Three Hills. Where may I lay her
down?’

‘Over there.’ She jerked her head toward a pile of skins against the wall, and I carried Guenhumara over and laid her on it. I had scarcely done so when, with no sound of her coming,
the girl Itha was at the foot of the steps, standing there like something drowned, to wring the water from her long black hair. Not that she was a girl now, but worn and weather-lined. They are
beautiful young, but they age quickly, the women of the Ancient People. Some of the children ran to her, clinging to her drenched skirts, but she paid no heed to them. ‘Istoreth told me that
you were here, and your woman needing my help.’

‘As you see,’ I said. ‘I am going now, Itha. Your menfolk need help too, with the burn.’

‘You trust me?’ she said, looking up from where she already knelt by Guenhumara. ‘I that am a woman of the Hollow Hills?’

‘The water of the little well was good and sweet, and the faces in the fort were still the faces I knew, when I got back to them. I trust you.’

And I went out into the wild evening, down to join the men by the parting of the burn. The sun was set by now and some of the women had brought out torches, and in their flaring light the rush
of water was fired with gold over swirling depths of immeasurable darkness, and the alder trees stood up gaunt and black against the last bright rags of the stormy afterglow. Pharic and Conn had
joined those who were fighting to clear the dam of uptorn bushes, and I joined another band, who, waist-deep in the racing water, were striving with hurdles and sods and uprooted furze bushes to
guide the threatening flood away from the village and turn it back into its true course. Again and again we saw our work torn away and the water pouring through the breach; again and again we
restarted the desperate struggle to make good the damage. Most of that night, by the windy torch flare, I worked thigh-deep in the racing flood, one with the Little Dark Men about me, as I had not
been even at Cit Coit Caledon. I lost all count of time, all my world was the white fury of water that must be fought like a killer horse, and the strength of my own body pitted against it; and
Guenhumara in the turf house, fighting as I was fighting.