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Chapter 30

We walked through the night, my furry companion and I, meeting no one—save a few hares we scared up from the brush and, once, a small herd of roe deer. Ursa gave chase but caught nothing, and we walked on. Just before dawn, we came to a valley with a pool at the base of the hill opposite the road. A beechy copse grew at one end and, all but staggering in my steps, I decided we’d gone about as far as we could for one night. It was time to stop and rest.

“I’m tired, Ursa. Let’s have a sleep, shall we?” We left the road and picked our way down the slope and into the glen, making our way over the marshy reed-grown ground toward the stand of slender beech trees. It was dry enough, and somewhat protected; the brambles I found along the way were thinner here and the birds had taken most of them, but I ate enough to take the edge off my hunger. Having seen rabbit droppings and a burrow or two since starting down, I knew Ursa would find the food she needed. Deep in the copse, I found a small cup-shaped depression lined with dry leaves—perhaps used by a deer or some other creature—and curled up in it. Ursa sniffed around the area a few time, then came a looked at me. “I’m just going to close my eyes a little,” I said, and patted the ground beside me. “You can share my bed.”

The big dog did lie down—but only for a moment—then jumped up again and ran off. She was gone some time, and when she did return it was with a muzzle dripping water and flecked with blood. “Found something to eat?” I said, sleepily. “Good for you. I wish I could fend as well.”

The day passed quickly—all too quickly—and I was still tired when I woke, groggy, my mouth dry as the leaves beneath me. At some time while I was dreaming, Ursa had come and nestled in beside me, warming me with her body. She was still there when I woke, her head resting on my hip—protecting me, even in our sleep. This, I marked, was Ursa’s way of letting me know that I was hers and she was mine; we belonged to each other and she would allow nothing to come between us.

Reluctantly, I rose and looked around. The sun was low in a gray sky, and a chill was creeping into the air. It would be a cold night, but I had no way to make a fire and, anyway, it was time to be moving on. Wrapped in my good cloak and with Ursa beside me, I started off again.

Sometime around midnight, the cloud cover began to thin and break up. A pale moon shed a thin light over the land. Mist rose in the valleys and glowed with a silvery sheen in the moonlight. I marveled at how still it was, and how empty the land. To keep myself company, I talked to Ursa and sang her some songs I knew—a few of my favorites and some Psalms I knew by heart—and told her about Venta, and Augustus and Dorcas and Tomos and some of the other people I knew there. However, remembering began to make me sad and homesick, so I quit thinking about that and turned instead to imagining what I might find in Deva and what life might be like for me there. It was no use, I knew nothing of Deva or the welcome I might receive.

I must have dozed while I was walking—if such a thing is possible—because it seemed that we had just climbed up one hill and down another and the sky began to lighten in the east. From somewhere nearby a blackbird called, spilling its liquid song into the early-morning mist. Everything was so peaceful, so serene, the melancholy I had labored under vanished at once and I was overwhelmed by a feeling of joy; an almost sublime happiness stole over me. And I thought: What if the world could always be this way?

Hard on this notion came the realization that I had been walking for some time and watching a thin pillar of smoke rising into the stillness of the early morning sky. It appeared to be coming from just over the next hill. Weary as I was and longing to rest, curiosity drew me on; I decided to see what the smoke signified. This was easily done. I gained the top of the hill and looked down into the next valley to see a single small steading—merely a few houses and outbuildings surrounded by fields, with a pasture along the stream that ran along the valley floor.

I paused a moment to observe the place and hunger, awakened by the dawn, closed its hand on me in such a fearsome grip that before I knew it my feet were already starting down the narrow beaten path leading to the settlement. Indeed, I was half-way down before a thought about what I would do there beyond beggar myself for a meal and a quiet place to rest.

“What say you, Ursa?” I said as we drew closer. “Will they have us do you think?”

Three houses sat clustered together; oversized dwellings of timber roofed in the flat gray stone of the hill country. Two barns or cattle sheds stood nearby and other sheds or granaries close about. I did not see a cookhouse or brewhouse. Closer, I had just gained the valley floor and was entering the wide foreyard when the door of the central house opened and out stepped a fellow in a pale yellow tunic and shapeless breecs. He wore a length of green cloth wound round his head in a peculiar fashion, and in his slender hands, he carried a large wooden bowl.

As he started for one of the outbuildings, I gave out a call. The fellow glanced around, saw us, and stopped to stare—at Ursa as much as me. I raised my hand and he responded with a slight nod, and allowed me to approach. As I neared, I called a greeting and he replied in a soft, pleasant voice which somewhat confused me. Then I took in the shape of his body and the softness of his face and realized it was not a man I hailed; it was a woman in a man’s clothing.

Though dressed as a man, I could now see that she was trim and comely; indeed, she reminded me somewhat of a slightly younger Dorcas—with her heart-shaped face and smooth dark brows. She regarded me warily, and waited for me to approach.

“God’s blessing on you this day,” I said, using the greeting Tomos so often employed. “I hope I find you well.”

“Good day to you, traveler.” The cast of her speech was so odd I could hardly make out what she said. Eying Ursa with some concern, she added, “And to your dark friend.” Glancing to the path leading up to the road—as if expecting to see someone else there—she said, “A little young to be travelling alone, are you not?”

Touching my ear, I explained that I did not hear too well and so she repeated her question a bit more loudly. I caught the import of her words and replied, “It is not at all as I had planned, believe me. And I could heartily wish it otherwise.”

She nodded. “Is that the southland I’m hearing in your voice?”

Not certain I had heard her correctly, I asked her to repeat and then answered, “It is that, yes. I am from Venta. Do you know it?”

She shook her head. The name meant nothing to her. I tried again. “My people are Silures and Demetae on the south coast.”

“I’ve heard tell of them,” she allowed. “We’re mostly Ordovici up here, and some Deceangli scattered about.” She looked me over again. “You’re far from home, then.”

“Far enough.” I glanced around at what I took to be a substantial holding. “What place is this?”

“This is Tŷ Bryn,” she said, the north-country lilt coloring the words.

“Aye,” she agreed. “Do you have a name?” Her question was blunt as her manner.

I smiled and put out a hand to her. “My name is Aurelia.”

She merely nodded. “That sounds like a southland name.” Putting a hand to her chest, she said, “I am called Catia.” She glanced again to the road winding through the hills above the valley. “I expect you are hungry.” Without waiting for me to answer, she said, “I was just going to the dove cote to get some eggs. Come along with me.”

Behind the house stood a tall, thin wooden structure with dozens of tiny square openings in the sides. Catia slipped into the building while Ursa and I waited outside—a dovecote is no place for a dog—as the sun began to warm my shoulders and back. Catia returned with a few small white eggs in the bowl and then led me back to the house. Pausing at the door, she looked at Ursa and said, “Tell your beast to stay here. I will fetch water and a bone for her.”

I did as she asked and when she returned she placed the bowl of milk on the ground with the meaty bone beside it; leaving Ursa to her meal, I followed Catia inside. The room was dark and it took me a moment to see that an old woman sat on a stool beside the hearth, tending the fire and stirring a big black iron pot of porridge.

“Mother,” announced the woman in an loud voice. “This is Aurelia. She is a traveler come to beg a meal.”

I felt my face redden. Was my purpose so nakedly obvious?

Perhaps it was. No doubt the hunger showed on my face. Then again, perhaps living so close to the road the steading saw more than its share of travelers stopping by for a drink or a meal—so many that this was merely assumed. However it was, though I had not so much as hinted at a meal, I readily agreed. The old woman merely nodded and went back to stirring the pot.

“That’s Mara. She’s mostly deaf, too,” Catia confided. “Come sit down and rest.” She pointed to the bench at the board which was piled high with fresh-picked herbs, some already bound into bundles to be hung and dried. She picked up a bunch and put them aside to clear a space. She then busied herself pulling bits of this and that from little nooks and crannies in the wall alongside the board. “Have you walked all night then?”

“I have,” I told her. “I think it is much the safer way.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “I don’t know about that at all.”

Just then, there was a shout outside and Ursa started barking. I heard what sounded like a muffled curse. I leapt up and ran outside to find my loyal protector holding a bearded man at bay. “Ursa! Quiet!” I shouted and took hold of her collar. “Be still,” I told her and to my immense gratification, she obeyed, stopped growling, and sat down.

“Keep that killer away from me!” cried the man. He was dressed in a loose, mantle-like garment and carried a thick hazel stick, waving it before him. He glanced around, gave me a frightened look, and said, “Who are you?”

“This is Aurelia,” the woman told him, stepping quickly between us. “She’s a traveler.”

“Oh? Is that so?” he regarded me with a doubtful expression. “Where are you going?”

Again, that same blunt manner. Were all folk up there so uncivil?

“To Deva Vitrix,” I answered. “I have friends there.”

“And you alone on the road on your own?”

His accent, like Catia’s, was so heavy I had to work to make sense of what he was asking. “I am alone, true enough—though not of my own choosing.” I explained that I had been abandoned by my companions in Aberdyfi and was forced to travel the rest of the way on foot. “I was hoping to reach Deva before too long. Is it far?”

“Far enough,” replied the man unhelpfully.

“She’s been walking all night,” put in Catia. Then, as an afterthought, she said, “This is Seisyll, my husband.” Turning to him, she said, “You should not be out on your leg. You should be at your rest.”

He waved aside her complaint, muttering, “I had to tend to the calf.”

“Your father and the boys can do that. They don’t need you poking your finger in the pie.”

They aren’t here, are they!” he snapped. “They’re not coming back!”

I saw anger in his face, yes, and something else: fear and pain—a great deal of pain—pinching his expression, giving him a tense and desperate look. He turned away and hobbled to the door, leaning heavily on his stick. Catia reached out to help him, but he shook off her hand. “Leave me be, woman!”

Seisyll heaved himself inside, moving with such difficulty, I could not help but ask, “Forgive me, but what his wrong with his leg that he walks so?”

“He should not be walking at all!” Catia replied sharply. She gave out a growl of frustration and said, “He was chopping wood on Creddin Hill—by himself, alone he was—and a boar attacked him.”

I gasped.

“Oh, the creature must have been sick or crazed. Seisyll hit it with the axe and the wicked thing ran away, but not before it gashed his leg bad.”

I was beginning to get a better grasp of their speech and understanding came a little easier. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

Catia shook her head. “That was seven, eight, days ago. I’ve done all I know to do and the man’s leg is no better.” She paused and turned worried eyes to me. “Between you and me, I think it is getting worse.” She shook her head as if coming back to herself. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

It came to me then why she was telling me: the Good Lord was sending me a sign.

“Maybe I can help,” I said.



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