Tale of Birle (7 page)

A
S THE AFTERNOON OF THE
second unhappy day drew into its evening they came to their destination. The high island, with a single pine tree on its stony crest, sat so close to the right-hand riverbank that where the river ran between the two it was no more than a stream, rushing shallow over stones. A lowering sun turned the river to liquid gold.

Birle let the main current carry the boat beyond the island before she put oars into the water and turned toward land. When they lay in the lee of the island, she drew up to a low, flat rock. The Lord waited while she carried the rope over the rocks to reach one of the twisted roots. There she tied the boat fast, forcing the rope under the thick root, tying a double knot. She pulled the knot as tight as she could and turned to watch him stand, pick up his sack, and follow her path up, over the rocks.

This was the place where she must part from him, she knew that. But it need not be immediate, the parting. “My Lord,” she said, when he stood tall beside her and before he could say anything to her, “let me catch some fish. Aye,” she argued, seeing in his face that he would tell her to leave him straightway, “you should begin the journey with a full belly.”

“True enough,” he agreed, and sounded tired. He sat himself on a boulder, his pack at his feet.

He might, of course, choose to go on while she was away, thinking that the parting needed no farewells. “You might also want to bathe,” Birle suggested. “You don't know how long it will be before you find enough water to bathe in again.”

“True enough,” he said, never moving his eyes from the nearby bank, with its steep incline and thick trees.

By the time they had eaten, the sun had set and the light was flowing out of the air. It was too late for him to start off, Birle thought, and was glad to think she had put off the parting for another few hours. But the Lord stood, picked up his sack by its leather drawstring, and swung it over his shoulder. His eyes, in the dim light, looked black. “Here is where I go on alone, Innkeeper's Daughter.”

Birle rose, alarmed and afraid. “But, my Lord,” she protested. He already had his back to her, was already moving off toward the mainland.

Birle would have fallen down before him in the suppliant's position. That was all she could think: that she must go with him, that unless he were to strike her down and leave her unable to move, she would go with him. She could follow him secretly, she could. . . . “My Lord,” she called to his back. “Take me with you.”

He turned but she couldn't see his face. “Why?”

Birle didn't know what answer would persuade him. If she said that he needed a servant, he would refuse her in his pride. If she told him she feared being left alone, to make her way back alone, he would answer that that had been her choice. If she told him she had little wish to live in a world he had gone from, that one day in his company was worth more to her than a lifetime elsewhere, he would leave her behind for distaste, or for pity. Aye, and he might well laugh. Her mind ran helplessly, like a mouse between the cat's paws, seeking the words to convince him.

“Do you fear they'll make you marry your huntsman?” the Lord asked.

Birle couldn't speak for the sudden tightness in her throat at his quick sympathy, for all that it was wrongly placed.

“What would I do with you?” he asked, gently.

“I know the forest, what roots are good for eating, what greens.”

“Hunger, they say, is an easy death. Freezing, they say, is easier.”

“You must not die, my Lord.”

“And you'll save me from it?” His voice was laughing now. Birle couldn't promise that, and so she said nothing.

“But what a monster this huntsman must be, if you fear him so.”

Birle didn't deny it, although she could have said that Muir was no worse than other men. What she feared was not Muir himself, but Muir as husband. To live her days with him, to have him come to her as a man comes to his wife—that, she feared. It was only when she had no longing of her own that Muir's hunger for her seemed enough reason to say yes to him. “Let me find you the path the merchants speak of. My eyes know better how to read the forest paths.”

“You'll do that, and having done it you'll say, ‘Let me go along it with you,'” the Lord prophesied.

Birle drew her cloak around her, against the chill of dark. “Aye, my Lord,” she promised him.

“What if, at the fair, you're not there to be wed?”

Birle's spirits bubbled up, like the spring at her grandparents' house. “Muir will be shamed and mocked, and he would refuse to have me.”

“Will you give me your word? When I say you must go, you'll obey?”

“Aye, my Lord.” She would promise him anything.

“All right, then,” he said. “Let's be on our way.”

“You don't think to sleep the night here? It would be better to travel by daylight into the forest.”

She felt his anger before he had time to voice it, and she didn't blame him. She was servant, not master. “I'm ready, my Lord,” she said, before he needed to speak. “Let me carry the sack.”

She took it, and put it over her own shoulders. He climbed down the boulders and splashed across the stream, before clambering up the bank and into the forest. Birle followed. It was as she had first seen him, a dark, moving shadow.

He stepped in among the trees and she had to hurry to keep him in sight. The sack was heavy, clumsy. Twilight was deeper among the trees. It was hard to see what roots, or stones slippery with moss, waited to catch her feet. Although the Lord moved quickly, he often stumbled. It wasn't long before he stopped and let Birle catch up with him.

“You should be the one to lead,” he said. “Since, as you say, you know the forest. What kind of path will this be, do you think?”

“A secret way,” she answered him, “but wide enough for a small cart. The merchants have carts, and their beasts travel abreast by twos. So I think it won't be difficult to see.”

“Shouldn't there be such a path for us to follow here?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Birle told him. The forest crowded around them, tall looming trees whispering to themselves. What little light was left of evening leached out of the air, so quick you could almost watch it fade.

“How large are these caravans?”

“Sometimes only six folk, sometimes as many as twenty, or even more. Never fewer than six, for safety.”

“Then they'll leave a track clear enough to be found. If we go on, we're bound to cross it. Lead on, Birle.” He was impatient.

Birle set the sack down, to pull its drawstring loose so she could pull it over her head, as the huntsmen carried their quivers. This freed her arms. She moved more slowly than he had, but more steadily. They didn't speak. She could always hear him behind her, as her feet climbed the slope of the ground, up among trees and rocks and bushes. When she heard his steps stumble she stopped, to give him time.

He came up close and spoke in a dark whisper. “Can you smell that?”

Birle's ears and eyes had been the tools she used. She hadn't thought to smell. There was the tangy smell of pine needles and the moist odor of earth. There was the cold smell of the air, too, and with it something that she couldn't name at first. “Meat?” she whispered.

“Fowl, I think. Something roasting.”

Birle sniffed the air like a dog. Faint though it was, the smell brought to her mouth the imagined taste of roasted fowl, crisp skin and juicy flesh. She'd had naught but fish for days, she thought.

“Wait,” he whispered.

“It's this way,” she said, sure of the direction.

“But who is it?”

Birle hadn't thought to wonder that. He was right to hesitate. “The merchant caravans, going north for the fairs?”

“Outlaws, lying in wait for those merchants?” he suggested. “But they wouldn't be building a fire, would they? And if they wanted to ambush the caravan, they'd wait until it was carrying gold, not goods. So it's likely that these are your merchants. It's not sure, but it's a good chance.”

“If they were on their way back south, you could go with them.”

“But they aren't. I can't be seen, Birle. Word of me must not get back to the Kingdom.”

She didn't question that. She had another idea. “My Lord, they'll return by this same way. You could travel safely with them, then. It would be seasons before they could take word of you to the Kingdom.” If he were to do that, then the two of them might stay in the forest, for however many weeks it took the merchants to complete their business. She would have his company for day after long day.

“If we are thinking of safety, it would be safest for you to travel north with them,” he said.

“Except for the boat.”

If he were to stay here, in the forest, she would be able to remain with him for the time. She waited for him to decide. He also waited, but she didn't know for what.

“I don't hear anything,” he said at last, his voice pitched low.

“We shouldn't go any closer,” she warned him.

“Why not?”

“They may have men on watch.”

“Men on watch? Merchants? This isn't an army, Birle.”

“They'll have dogs, it may be. Or the beasts, mules or horses, beasts hear more sharply than men.”

“Nonetheless, we have to go closer. Where these men are, that's where the track is. When I've found it, I can circle around their camp.”

“What about me?”

“Once we've found the track, you can return to the boat. I'd like you not to argue about this: It'll be a longer, slower trip upstream; and you can make it last as long as you need. If you delay your return home long enough, your huntsman will have found himself another bride.” When she didn't say anything, he reminded her, “You gave me your word, Birle.”

But she had not thought it would be so soon. She thought she had given her word in exchange for days, not hours, and she had had hope for weeks, not days.

“Tie your cloak closed, as I have,” he instructed her. “For silence.”

Birle obeyed. She still carried his sack on her back. Perhaps, she thought, following his shadowy figure among the trees, she would pretend to forget she carried his sack. Then, even though she would have to leave him, she would have an excuse to return. So she would see him once again, at least once again. He moved so intently that she thought there was good hope that he had forgotten his sack.

Their footsteps sounded loud, but she knew that to any human ear the sounds they made would blend into the forest noises. She peered into the shadowed dimness, to see and follow him.

They heard the voices at the same time that they saw the light of a fire, glimmering through the trees ahead. The Lord put his hand up and Birle stopped, immediately obedient. They crept forward until, by a hand on her shoulder, he directed Birle to move behind a wide tree trunk.

She moved to look around one side of the trunk, as he looked around the other. Flames from a small fire lit a clearing. Six men were seated or crouched around the fire. Two held the ends of a long stick upon which the bodies of three rabbits hung, roasting. Beyond the fire, so still that Birle thought they must be hobbled, the sumpter beasts waited. Their backs were piled high with goods—wools and knives, ribbons and papers, woven cloths, spices and laces, the whole array that would be spread out on tables before the Lords, first, and then the people. Even at night, the goods stayed in their packs and the packs stayed on the beasts, piled onto the patient backs or hung down in thick woolen bags by their sides. At the end of a day's travels the men rested by the fire, but the beasts' labor had no end. They stood together with lowered heads, too tired to do more than nuzzle the bare ground for any blade of green.

Birle could see the cooking flesh, the skin growing crisp and brown, and see the sudden spurt of flames when fat dripped into the fire. She couldn't hear what the cloaked figures were saying to one another as they conversed around the fire. She stepped back behind the tree trunk.

“I think the track must come in here,” the Lord said.

They were silent for a time.

“I'm tempted to join them, if only for the sake of a meal,” the Lord said, speaking softly into her ear. “We won't, but I am tempted.”

Birle nodded. She had felt, like the gesture of a moth, the momentary warmth of his breath on her cheek and her sadness threatened to choke her. She moved hastily away, as if to look again at the camp. The flames of the fire lit up the underbranches of the trees, and the low, curved arms of pines. The firelight moved through the surrounding darkness as restlessly as clouds through the sky.

Birle saw the dog, then. It came out from among the beasts to walk behind the men. She heard the Lord's voice pitched low to warn her, “See it?” and saw by his ears that the dog, too, had taken warning.

She didn't know whether better safety lay in drawing back so that she might be hidden, or in keeping still where she was so that she could see, and know what was happening. The dog walked out slowly from behind the men, slowly, low, across the clearing, to the edge of the firelight. It was big, big as a hound. It growled, deep in its throat.

One of the men at the fire lifted his head, and turned around. He looked toward the tree, where she stood frozen. Birle thought the man must see her there, but she knew he could not, looking as he was from light into darkness.

Growling, head low, the dog came closer.

The Lord grabbed Birle's cloak and pulled her back, behind the tree. He motioned her to come with him as he backed carefully, silently, away from the dog, and the clearing, backed into the sheltering forest.

The dog stiffened, and barked. The sound cut through the night like a lightning flash. It barked again, deep and baying. The men at the fire jumped up. The rabbits fell into the flames. “Run!” the Lord said.