‘The Wild Deserters weren’t exactly the sort of chaps you used your real name with,’ he replied. ‘I’m sure he meant to tell me eventually – probably here, when it was all over. But then artillery barrages have a tendency to be a nuisance to one’s long-term plans, don’t you know.’
She came around the table, wiping her hands on her apron and perched on the corner, fixing him with the same blue eyes as her daughter. ‘So, what name did he know you by?’ she asked. ‘Who are you? If he told you such things he must have seen something in you that would flourish here, in our particular situation. But I hear nothing of that in the story you’ve told. If you want to enjoy the favour of He Who Eats the Moon, tell me who you are, really.’
The deserter pushed his plate away. ‘All right, then. My name might as well be Everett, for all I know. As for the rest…’ He shrugged, and told her all of it. He had nothing to lose; if they were revolted and threw him out, then so be it. It was a relief, in the end, not having to maintain a façade of respectability to protect the sensibilities of people who could not possibly comprehend what had been done to him and what he had done in return, in order to survive.
When he was done they did not throw him out, nor did they look particularly revolted. Mother nodded slowly. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘You don’t seem to be too surprised by any of this,’ he commented.
‘You’ll find that our particular circumstances here mean that we have to be a bit more open-minded than most. When you’re washed and presentable I’ll show you what I mean.’ To her daughter, she added, ‘Show him to Michael’s room. His things should just about fit.’
‘We’re taking him in, then?’ Ardwyn looked him up and down with evident distaste.
‘You disagree, I take it.’
‘He’s scrawny, and sickly. And a liar.’
‘Thanks,’ the deserter muttered.
‘And for all we know he could have murdered Michael himself. We’ve only got his word for any of this.’
‘Now wait a moment…’
But the women carried on talking over him as if he wasn’t there.
‘That is true,’ said Mother. ‘But even if it were, so much the better that he take on the responsibilities that Michael abandoned when he left us.’
‘But he—’
‘Enough! We will give him the benefit of the doubt, for Michael’s sake. If he proves incapable of living up to it, well then the Recklings can have him for their sport.’
‘Wait,’ the deserter repeated in sudden alarm. ‘Recklings? Who are the Recklings? What do you mean, sport?’
Ardwyn was looking at him now with something approaching a smile, but he was not altogether comfortable with what it implied. ‘Do you know what?’ he said. ‘I’ve been very rude. Thank you for your kind hospitality and for your food.’ He got up from his chair and backed towards the kitchen door. ‘I feel that I’ve imposed too much on your time already. You have a charming village. Utterly charming.’ He was retreating towards the back door, and they were making no move to stop him. ‘I would love nothing more than to stay longer but I must be getting back or I’ll miss the last train.’ He turned, opened the back door, and found himself face to face with Gar, who was cradling his axe casually across his great barrel of a chest. His eyes were entirely without whites, the tawny brown of his irises filling their orbits completely. ‘Steady now, chum,’ said the deserter. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
Gar shook his head, and his mouth worked slowly, trying to fit the immensity of those teeth around the shapes of human speech. ‘No truh-bull,’ he growled.
‘Gar is one of the Recklings,’ said Mother from behind him. ‘The children of Moccus. The servants of the Farrow. He’s very helpful to us – does a lot of the heavier jobs around the village and looks after us. For example, if there are people who need keeping out, he keeps them out.’
‘And if they need keeping in too,’ added Ardwyn. He felt her hand slip into the crook of his elbow. ‘Come on. When was the last time you had a decent bath?’
4
DE-TUSKING
MOTHER LED HIM OUT TO THE WOODS ON THE OTHER side of the village, which were even thicker, if that were possible, then along the entrance road. Here there was no road, just a well-worn footpath twisting uphill between ancient elms and oaks, their trunks moss-muffled and many times wider than a human armspan. Here and there outcrops of the granite bedrock erupted like half-glimpsed ruins. Birdsong was muted, and the light was dim. He knew that it was only a few hundred yards before woodland gave way to the heath and towering height of the peak known locally as Edric’s Seat, but for the moment it felt like the forest spread unbroken and untrodden for hundreds of miles, if not forever.
‘This wood hasn’t been touched by human hands for over two thousand years,’ said Mother as she led the way deeper. ‘This was once part of the tribal lands of the Cornovii people – that’s what the Romans called them, anyway, and even that word might be overstating it. They were more like a loose confederation of tribes who shared a similar language and beliefs. They revered Moccus, and when the Romans invaded the local Cornovii called on him to protect them. And he did.’
They came to a wide clearing, empty except for a single tall stone set at the centre. Although the clearing was grassy, the ground immediately surrounding the stone was bare and black, and the stone was carved with elaborate curvilinear knotwork and tableaux that he couldn’t quite make out yet from this
