Mother knew them all by name and embraced them warmly, along with her daughter. The only thing that made this bearable was how obviously deferential they were to her despite their trappings of power. Ardwyn was kept busy looking after the guests and she had little time to spare for his questions, but he caught up with her as she was taking delivery of a cartload of bread. ‘It’s the spring equinox,’ she said. ‘The most important celebration in our calendar.’
‘Bit of a knees-up, is it? Bit of a sing-song?’
‘Sort of. We summon the god, sacrifice him, butcher his flesh and eat it.’
‘Ha ha, very funny. You should do music halls with that act.’
She gave him a withering look and continued ticking off a wad of receipts.
‘No,’ he said, realising that she was absolutely serious. ‘No!’
‘Is that so strange to you? The Christians have been doing it every Sunday for two thousand years.’
‘I don’t think that’s exactly what the miracle of transubstantiation means.’
‘Well, I’m afraid I don’t really have the time for a long theological discussion at the moment.’
‘But that’s what keeps you strong and healthy, right? Stops you from growing old?’
She sighed. ‘We enjoy the blessing of the first flesh – we take the strength of Moccus into ourselves, if that’s what you mean.’
‘That’s what I want! It’s what I’ve come for!’
‘Out of the question – at least for now.’
‘But—’
‘No! It’s the most hallowed sacrament of our worship! You can’t just barge in here as a complete stranger and expect to take that kind of communion after only a couple of months!’
‘Mother said that I could meet him in September,’ he pointed out.
‘And you will, but you still won’t be one of the Farrow. You’ll be a privileged spectator, at best. Every one of those men has completed what you’ve only just started: spent years raising their boar—’
‘Been a glorified pig-keeper, you mean.’
‘Yes! Except that you still think of it as a low, dirty animal, which is the first thing you’ve got to purge from your thinking. The first of so many. You don’t understand what Moccus is. For women there’s no danger because he doesn’t see us as a threat. But if you, a soldier, and one who’s eaten human flesh at that—’
‘If you’re trying to shame me, it won’t work.’
‘I’m not trying to shame you, you idiot, I’m trying to protect you! I’m trying to explain that if you approach Moccus without due deference and humility – without having devoted part of yourself to caring for one of his creatures – he will rip you apart!’
‘And I’m trying to tell you that I don’t have however many years that would take still left in me! I’m not going to survive another winter, the doctors have told me that. So this whole tusk bracelet business is a total waste of bloody time! You want me here as much as I want to be here, we both know that. There’s got to be something you can do!’
This tirade brought on a fresh bout of coughing, and he collapsed against the side of the bread cart, wiping blood from his lips. It stood out stark against the skull’s pallor of his face. ‘Deference and humility, is it?’ he gasped. ‘Fine then. I won’t give it to him, whatever he is, if he even exists – not until he earns it. No god ever did anything for me. But I’ll give it to you.’ He slid to the ground and knelt in the road before her. He’d never begged for anything as far as he could remember; begging was simply an invitation to be kicked in the face. ‘Please, Ardwyn, I’m begging you. I don’t want to die. Help me.’
She hesitated for an age, then reached down and ran her fingers through his wild hair. ‘You can’t attend the sacrament,’ she said softly. ‘But there might be a way of bringing it to you. I’ll talk to Mother.’
‘Anything,’ he whispered. ‘Anything.’
* * *
On the evening of the equinox Ardwyn told him to wait in his cottage and be patient, but the deserter had no intention of sitting placidly at home while the Farrow performed their sacrament, and possibly she or Mother suspected as much because whenever he went anywhere near the woods on the eastern side of the village Gar was there, blocking his way. He saw armloads of blankets and firewood being taken up towards the clearing. He was permitted into the church where bundles of dried jimsonweed were being burned to produce a sweet-smelling smoke that made his head swim. He stood at the back and watched their liturgy. The celebrants arrived dressed in loose robes and wearing masks in stylised boar designs – some crude and plain, others gleaming with precious metals and gems like religious relics. They sang in a language he didn’t understand; it sounded like Welsh, but he suspected it might have been that of the long-dead Cornovii. Eventually the celebrants made their way along the path into the woods, carrying burning torches, leaving him behind.
The deserter decided that he’d had enough pussy-footing around and strode brazenly up to where Gar was standing with his arms folded and his massive jaw set firm.
‘No,’ said the big man.
The deserter didn’t say anything. He simply reached into his coat pocket and produced the replenished brandy bottle. He waved it at Gar, unscrewed the top, swigged, and then tossed it to the ground at Gar’s feet. ‘I think you know what I
