Luthold followed behind Joturn and his nephew, Torvald, as they tracked Oli’s footsteps under the grey morning sky, back from the village to the river. A little rain had fallen in the night, but the deep prints confirmed at least a part of his son’s story. He had fled hard and fast back to the village. No doubt flustered; he had even deviated from the familiar path on his journey South. Fortunately, he had stumbled across a new one which even Joturn looked surprised to see.
Luthold peered into the gloom around them and shuddered. The colourful shirt and the Western words he had shared with everyone. They’d nodded to each other and tutted about outsiders and Heridan had looked hopeful.
Fearful of leaving omissions, he had told the odder aspects of Oli’s story to Oslef. Luthold was close to Oslef, and he had relayed the extra details with a whisper and a chuckle, as though to make a joke out of the things a child could imagine, but Oslef had stared at him coldly until he fell into an embarrassed silence.
Later that morning, Joturn had announced he would lead the search to the river and then he told Luthold and Torvald in private to leave all weapons at home. Out here, with trees so close it seemed like twilight, the idea of clumsy western adventurers abducting forest-born children felt less credible. The darkness lent itself to the notion of more sinister threats. It did not help his nerves that Oli’s story, the full version, had given the elders pause for thought. He did not know how much Joturn had told his nephew, and he did not ask him.
Joturn broke Luthold’s reverie, speaking as he measured the gap between prints with his spread hand. “Someone scared your boy,” he muttered in his direction, “he’s rarely in such haste.”
“Hmph.” Torvald grunted in agreement.
Luthold did not answer. He’d heard worse taunts than that and something caught his eye on the edge of the path.
“Here,” he called, “Are these boot prints? A man in pursuit?”
Joturn closed the gap between them in a single leap and bent his face to the ground.
“It’s a boot. Probably a man, running hard... and then it stops and then... it turns... off the path.” Joturn dissected the stranger’s movements of a day ago, gently pushing undergrowth aside as he danced lightly from one print in the earth to another.
“Both come from the river,” added Torvald.
“And only one child.” Luthold pointed out.
“Only one child returning,” Joturn corrected. “Going out, we see neither Oli nor Ingo. Could have been one or both. Light tracks, gone by now. We may find answers at the river... or more questions.”
Luthold and Torvald set off down the path.
“Wait.” Called Joturn. They turned back and saw that he had not moved. The old hunter stood with his eyes closed, his face raised, and the wrinkles of his skin tightened in concentration. The only part of him that moved were the ends of his long hair that drifted in the breeze.
“What is it?” Torvald asked.
“Shh.” He held up a hand. They waited.
“Perhaps my ears are not what they used to be, but I can’t hear the village from here.”
The others closed their eyes and sought through the noises of the forest, the cracks and rustles and cawing of birds, for those strands of sound belonging to human beings; children shouting, pots banging, the sharp chop of axes.
“I hear nothing.” Said Torvald.
“Me neither,” added Luthold.
Joturn shook his head slowly.
“Why break off such hot pursuit just here? He could not see the village, nor could he hear it. How did he know that Oli would soon arrive there? That is, unless he knows the forest very well.”
Luthold swallowed and looked again into the thick darkness around them. As much to break the silence, perhaps, as anything, Torvald ventured “He grew tired?”
“Pfft,” scoffed Joturn. “To the river now.”
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Oli jogged around the perimeter fence to a gap at the far end of the fields. The Hallin didn’t keep a lot of livestock, but what sheep they tended for wool and milk ambled around inside an enclosure on the South side of the village. He clambered through the small gap in the picket fence, against which the enclosure was bounded, and circled outside the village to where Pasha would be waiting.
The outer ‘fence’ resembled a sort of stretched-out porcupine tail encircling the roundhouses. It was formed of stakes of varying length driven into the ground and angled outwards. The larger ones were supported by poles arrayed in the opposite direction. Climbing over them would be difficult but not impossible. A determined force would have to be deterred by spears as well, but the picket fence was not really meant to defend the village from other humans. Root sleepers, despite their strength and speed, would struggle to drag their bulbous bodies over the sharp points. And if they tried, the wood could be set alight.
As Oli ran, he jumped over the supporting poles, challenging himself each time to edge closer to the sharp points and leap higher.
A shout broke his concentration, and his foot caught on something. The fence whirled upside down and his body, a moment earlier free, now spun around a new fixed point; his ankle.
A moment later, he heard a ripping sound and his body fell free. His stomach would have sunk if it knew which way was down. His hands, moving on instinct, found the ground before the crown of his head hit it. Nothing could save his pride though as he heard the giggles.
Lifting his head, still dizzy, he saw Kuno and Koen, the twins. He must have jumped right past them. They stood behind him, beside one of the poles he had cleared.
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“Oli’s chasing his sweet-heart,” drawled Koen. Oli’s face, already hot from running, could not redden anymore. Kuno took up the chant. “Oliiis chasing his sweeeaat heeeeaaart.”
“Get lost,” hissed Oli, regretting his inability to compose a sharper insult. So much of childhood depended on that skill he lacked. He turned back and kept walking, his torn trouser leg flapping about his calf. The two younger boys followed, repeating the chant until a better idea struck Koen.
“He’s leading her off into the woods,” he whispered to his brother, just loudly enough for Oli to overhear, “I bet he’s taking her where he took Ingo!”
Oli kept walking, the heat rising into prickles on his skin. The twins repeated the accusation, louder and bolder. Oli could not run away from two boys three years his junior, nor did he dare turn to confront them. He could have insulted them, if he had the wits. Something whistled passed his ear and Kuno yelped, falling to the ground.
“Haha! Kuno looks like a dirty hoarder!” Pasha’s voice rang from behind the fence.
Kuno sat up and brushed the clump of earth off his head.
“Not fair, Pasha,” protested Koen, arms folded.
“Why, ‘cos he’s ugly?”
Kuno’s bottom lip trembled, and Oli shifted uneasily.
“It’s ok, Kuno,” he mumbled, “it’s not your fault your face is all wrinkled and weird.”
Pasha roared with laughter. Kuno’s eyes opened wide, tears welling as he blew a long raspberry at them, and the two boys scuttled away. Pasha sat down, her back to the pole, and patted the ground beside her.
“You shouldn’t make fun of how Kuno looks, Pasha. Mum says it’s not ok.”
“Ha! Says you! That was so funny. ‘It’s not your fault your face is all wrinkled and weird,’” She imitated Oli, putting a cruel slant on the clumsy words he had meant to be conciliatory and fell about laughing again.
“I wasn’t... oh, never mind. He can’t help that he got ill as a baby.”
“Well, look at his twin brother. He wasn’t going to turn out handsome anyway. Not like Ingo... or you.” She winked and watched him with her inquisitorial eyes. Oli stared at a wisp of cloud, watching it dissipate and hoping her attention would do the same. For once, it did.
“What’s going on, Oli?” She asked in a hushed tone, “Everyone’s saying you know what happened to Ingo.”
“I don’t know why. He always makes up excuses. He never came to meet me. But...”
“But you do know something, don’t you?”
“Not about Ingo. Or maybe. It wasn’t the hoarders. My Dad says half the stories about them are made up.”
“What about the other half?”
Ignoring her, Oli continued. He was thinking out loud, articulating for the first time his thoughts about what happened without the pressure of grown-up ears straining to hear a version that appealed to their interests.
“The hoarders have always been there, and they’ve never taken Ingo. But someone is in the forest who shouldn’t be.”
He looked at Pasha and saw the eager curiosity on her face flicker momentarily into doubt. Her big, black eyes scoured their surroundings and the nearby tree line, and she edged back deeper into the fence.
“Your monster. Mother says you made it up, but she won’t let me go into the forest today.”
“It was a man, not a monster. But he appeared from nowhere. He crossed the bottom of the river. He had a cloak made of wolf hides and a twisted spear. My parents think it was a Western adventurer, but I know they’re wrong. Even they know they’re wrong.”
She gulped and shivered. Oli knew he was scaring her, but it felt so good to talk that his words tumbled over each other. “I think that man got Ingo. My Dad's gone to the river. What if he gets my Dad? He wanted to know about the mountains. I think he wanted to find the hoarders. I should have told him how to get there. Maybe he found Ingo and forced him to be a guide?”
“You’re not lying.” Stated Pasha, regarding him intently and holding her cloak tight. “But you told the grown-ups, didn’t you?”
Oli half nodded. “I told my parents.”
Pasha smiled and patted his leg. “Well then, there’s nothing else you can do. My dad says there’s no one as clever as your dad, apart from Oslef, of course. Come on, let’s play.”
Oli heard the rattle as Pasha pulled out a pouch and emptied it on the ground. The wood and stone disks clicked together as they fell into a pile. Oli beamed and reached for the nearest stone.
“Ah, ah.” Pasha chided, “you always win when you play the gods. I’m trying your tricks today. Here, spirits.” She took the stones for herself and pushed the wooden disks across to him. Oli smirked. He had plenty of tricks for playing spirits, too. He arranged his pieces in order, stopping momentarily to admire the engravings. They were far better than those on his parents’ set.
“A gift to my mother from Aimar,” said Pasha in a low voice. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? She gave them to me and said not to let dad see.”
Oli was always drawn to the sleek abstractions of the gods’ signs etched into stone pieces, but most people judged the maker’s skill by how they carved the spirits. The spirits in this set were particularly arresting. The aspect of the Bear seemed to capture its size, despite being contained in an oak disk a thumb’s width across. The Sleeper Queen stared malevolently at him, as though she would jump out and bite him if he looked too closely. The Sea Raven disk somehow contained the whole expanse of the sky and made Oli wonder what it must be like to soar so high above the world in any direction he pleased.
“Come on, your turn.” Pasha’s voice drew him from the pictures. “I played Hurean on the North stack.”
“Bear on the West.” Oli replied automatically as he placed the disk.
“Terlos on the South.”
“Too fast.” Oli commented under his breath as he claimed the East stack for the Sleeper Queen.
“You know you sound about forty years old when you play,” teased Pasha. “Lost Daughter above Terlos.”
“Sea Raven above her.” Oli didn’t care about her jibes when they were playing Sevenstones. He settled into the same calm that washed over him in the moment after he cast a line. Whenever he started playing, he just relaxed and knew he was going to win. He usually did.
Pasha hesitated. She’s already wasted a good attacking piece, thought Oli. She bit her tongue between her lips and swapped the stone in her hand for another, reaching for the South stack. Before Oli could see what she had played a shout went up from the village and his head snapped round. In the next moment, the sound of dropped tools, flapping doors and hurrying feet came through the fence. Oli’s heart swelled in his chest. Fierce hope and a powerful dread whirled through his body, and he was grateful when he felt Pasha’s sticky palm against his, tugging him toward the gap. Abandoning the game, they pushed themselves through. Oli saw that a crowd had already formed around the watchtower and Lien atop it was shouting and waving her arms for quiet.
They dashed to the edge of the crowd, weaving their way between houses and bodies until they could hear.
“It’s coming from near the mountains.” Lien yelled to the crowd, which erupted with questions. The tall shepherd, near whose sheep Oli and Pasha had just been playing, was leaning at a nauseating angle from atop the watchtower, holding on with one hand and shielding her eyes with the other as she scoured the treetops. With her back to the crowd she added, “not the hoarders. Farther North. Much farther.”
Oli looked round. “What’s near the mountains? What are they talking about” He asked Pasha, who shook her head and gestured at him to be quiet.
“Where?” A loud voice demanded. “Where exactly?” Impatient men and women repeated the question.
Suddenly, Pasha gasped and nudged him in the side, pointing up beyond the watchtower. Oli finally saw it. A great column of smoke rose in the distance, billowing into an unnatural cloud that hung in the clear sky above the forest. Had it come later in the year it could have been a clan leaving its old home in search of new paths. In early Spring, though, it could only be a sacking. He could not tell how near or far it was.
Lien turned and even from a distance, Oli saw incredulity in her expression. She had stared long and hard without answering their questions, he realised, not because she could not see where it came from, but because she did not believe what her eyes showed her.
“It’s coming from the Sullin Fort.” She announced. The onlookers fell silent. When a village was sacked, it was sacked by the Sullin for refusing payment. Sometimes villages managed to defend themselves, but nobody ever retaliated. Oli heard her ask in a trembling voice. “Who would attack the Sullin? Who could?”