Chapter Thirteen - Bridge Over Swift Water

(Part I)

‘Almost there, Wil.’

The pony snorted, eyeing the bottom of the low hill distrustfully. Ren rolled his eyes.

‘Stop complaining.’ he told animal, patting his flank, and looked back over his shoulder. The emerald grass of the South Realm was laid out behind him in the midday sun like the face of a great green canvas, folding around gentle hills and low valleys, laced with brushes-strokes of silver water. Cottages, farmsteads, thickets full of ash and birch and oak. An endless (or so it seemed to Ren) collection of slow-moving, slow-talking life. They had been riding most of the morning; the farm was a long way behind them, and though the thought filled Ren with a giddy kind of excitement, even he had been hard-pressed to tell the difference between it and the half-dozen other farmsteads they’d passed on their way. There was another rider coming his way across the grass, flicking sparkling dew into the air behind him. The sun was hot today, and Ren could see sweat gleaming on his forehead.

‘Come on, Trin!’

‘She’s going as fast as she can!’ Trin replied, panting. Beneath him, Pol snorted steam, grumbling. Ren smiled, turning back to the hill.

‘Let’s go, then.’ he said to Wil, tightening his grip on the saddle. He shook the reins and the pony snorted, lurching forward. Ren leaned into the slope, putting one hand on the pommel of his saddle, and the hill began to slide past him. The sun was warm against his cheeks, and Wil's hooves beat at the dirt, sinking softly into the turf. Halfway there. The pony began to slow, but Ren squeezed his heels gently against the beast's flanks, clicking his tongue.

‘Almost there.’

Ren closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the air streaming gently past his cheeks, listening to the rhythmic beat of the pony's breath, the drum of his hooves against the soft loam. He remembered, not for the first time that day, why he was so fond of riding.

Then they were there, and the sunlight burst over the hilltop, sweeping across the fields to the north, setting the pale line of the Swiftwater aflame as it streaked across the grass. Beyond, the grasslands tumbled on, interminable, towards the sea, or the edge of the world; whichever came first. Ren sat there, quietly, contemplating the world beyond the grasslands on his panting steed, until Trin pulled up beside him a few minutes later. Pol snorted irritably. She was a little smaller than Wil, a ruddy brown in colour, and rather plump around her flanks. Both she and her rider were panting alarmingly.

‘Well that's a sight.’ Trin murmured in spite of himself, breathing hard. Ren smiled, tracing the line of the Swiftwater from east to west, squinting into the brightness. There was a thick swathe of trees squatting against the far bank, dark and brooding.

‘There!’ he said suddenly.

‘What?’ Trin asked, confused.

Ren pointed. Directly north of them, there was a small building pressed against the south bank of the river, dipping its toes in the crystal waters. A trail of smoke rose from its roof, swept this way and that by the breeze, dissolving in the midday air. Beside it, a narrow stretch of stones bridged the frothing water, disappearing into the shadows of the trees on the far bank.

‘The mill?’ Trin frowned. ‘I thought you didn’t like Ted?’

But Ren barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on the river. How far was it? A mile? Two, more like. He lifted the reins expectantly. Not far. Just a short canter across the fields. They'd be back before dark, still, and his grandparents would be none the wiser.

‘Wait... You mean the bridge? Your grandfather said-’

‘Yah!’

Ren shouted suddenly, snapping his reins, and Wil lurched forward down the slope. For a moment the rush of air filled Ren's eyes with water, dissolving Trin's red face into a ruddy blur, then they were away. Wil whinnied happily, wind streaming through his pale mane, and Ren clung tight to the saddle, watching as the grass raced by, savouring the rush of the wind on his face, the tug of it in his hair. He snatched a glance back over his shoulder. Trin was hurrying after him worriedly, doing his best to coax Pol into a reluctant gallop as he clung, ungainly, to the saddle. Ren looked back at the river, the mill, the bridge, and decided his friend would be fine without him.

They were at the foot of the hill in moments, and Wil set about eating up the fields in great hungry bounds, hooves whirring over the grass. He remembered his grandfather's lessons, and let himself move with the pony, sighing into the saddle. He listened to Wil's hot breath steaming into the autumn air, the solid thump of his heart vibrating through his back. Ren had always thought there was a deep calm in the rhythm of riding. The speed of it. He found himself smiling. The mill was not far now. He dare not look back over his shoulder again, lest he fall, but he knew Trin was somewhere behind him, struggling to keep pace. He was starting to make out the cottage ahead, leaning lopsidedly against its great wooden wheel, churning frothing, foaming water through spokes big as men. Couldn’t see anyone though. Not that it mattered. Wil's steps drummed against the ground, and the river drew closer. Closer. Until the mill was beside them. Behind. Ren barely looked up as they shot past it, bound for the bridge beyond.

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‘Whoa.’

He pulled hard on Wil's reins. The beast dug in his hooves, and they skidded to a halt a few feet from the start of bridge-stones. The water whipped by, rumbling. It was suddenly, eerily quiet, without the sound of the wind in his ears. He listened breathlessly for a few moments, staring at the shadows of the trees on the far bank, then glanced back over his shoulder. Trin was still a fair distance away across the fields, swaying unsteadily in his perch. He never had been a great rider. Ren turned back to the wooded far bank, watching the leaves shifting in the breeze, shadows shifting through thick boughs. He slid slowly from the saddle, and his boots landed on the soil with a faint thud, wet earth squelching softly underfoot. Wil snorted quietly, and he put a hand on the pony's nose.

‘Stay, Wil.’

The river was foaming around the stones of the bridge, and a fine spray was floating over the walkway, shifting and turning like mist. Ren took a step. He looked over at the far bank, and hesitated in spite of himself. The trees were taller than he had thought, their shadows deeper. Darker. An open doorway. Licks of silver flame.

He shook himself. He was being foolish. He glanced back at Wil, but the pony was stood obediently where he had left him, looking back at him with large, dark eyes. One step. Then another. Just a few more. His boots left the grass, and the stones pressed against the balls of his feet, hard and unyielding. He felt the spray of the river against his cheek, ice cold, and he almost shivered, blinking at the mist. The shaded trees seemed to shift and blur, trunks twisting. Another step.

‘Hey!’ Trin shouted behind him. Ren started, but did not turn back. ‘Where are you going?’

Ren ignored him.

‘Ren!’ Trin called. ‘Come back!’

This time he looked back. Trin had dismounted, red-faced and breathing hard, waving at him franticly from the bank. He was standing as close to the bridge as he could, without touching the stones, and Ren knew he wouldn’t follow him.

‘Just having a look!’ he called back, turning away from his friend again. The spray parted around him as he stepped forward, peeling back the grey blur from the faces of the trees. They seemed stark and black in the sudden clarity, and shadows moved through the branches, twisting and turning in the breeze. He was past halfway, now. Just a few more steps.

‘Ren!’

Ren barely heard him. The word was swept away in the rumble of the river, the soft sigh of the wind over the trees, creaking. His feet were still moving, gliding, floating over the stone. The wind was picking up, and the shadows quickened, whirling through webbed branches.

‘Ren!’

His feet touched the grass, and he drew up short, suddenly still. Frozen beyond the spray, staring into the boughs. It seemed to him that the shadows were taking shape, black faces leering back at him from the dark, grins flashing in the dappled sunlight. A black mask. Silver flames. Gold eyes. The fortuneteller’s tent closed in around him, pressing at his shoulders, and he almost fled, but realised he couldn’t move. The shadows drew closer, grinning as they came, reaching out to him, and something knotted in his belly, something cold as ice. The nightglass pendant was heavy around his neck. His head ached. Eyes blurred. Were those lights, in the trees?

‘Boy?’

There was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. He flinched away from it, frowning. But something caught his heel, sending him sprawling, tumbling. Back into the dirt. He hit the ground hard, and the breath went out of him in a gasp. Faces in the trees. He shook his head, blinking. He was on his back, half-blind from the sudden gleam of sun, and there was a dark figure leaning over him, light flooding over his shoulders. He squinted, half-dazed, at the axe-head gleaming in the man’s hand, and froze. Then he spotted the stack of firewood under his other arm, and exhaled hard, rocking back on his elbows.

‘Temur's teeth boy!’ the man exclaimed. He was wearing a thick, worn tunic, stained brown from use, and his boots were caked with wet grass. ‘Jumpier than a rabbit in a wolf den.’

Ren took a deep breath. His heart was slowing. He looked up at the trees again, but the sun seemed a little brighter now, and the shadows were nowhere to be seen. He exhaled hard, hesitating, then squinted up at the newcomer, blinking into the sun.

‘Ted?’

‘Well, fuck me.’ the miller grumbled, laying the firewood down at his side and running a gloved hand through his red hair. A face of deep lines, belly more than a little rounded, hair shot through with grey. The scar across the side of his neck had always made Ren shiver; long and puckered, tugging at the corner of his throat like a fishing line. ‘Derin's boy. What you doing out here?’

‘I… We’re just out for a ride.’

‘Your Grandda know you’re so far from home, then?’ the old miller asked him, raising an eyebrow. ‘Come on, let's get you up.’

Ted held out a hand, and Ren took it, letting the older man help him to his feet.

‘When d’you get so big, boy.’ the miller told him, grunting with effort. ‘Still running off, then?’

'Sometimes.' Ren admitted, more than a little bashfully.

‘Sometimes, he says.’ Ted mumbled through his grin, scar tugging at his throat. ‘You eaten? Werla’s got some stew on the boil.’

Ren hesitated, glancing at the trees again, then back at the miller. ‘I could eat.’

Ted chuckled. ‘Come on, then. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, anyways.’

Ren nodded politely, looking back over the bridge. Trin was almost hopping with anxious energy on the far bank, but he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to set foot on the stones. Ted frowned at the red-faced youth as he reached down to pick up his bundle of firewood.

‘What's got him so excited?’

Ren shook his head. ‘No idea.’

Ted raised an eyebrow at Trin. ‘South Realmers.’ he muttered, in an accent thick as farmer’s milk, tucking the wood underneath his arm and setting off over the bridge. Ren shot one last nervous look back towards the trees behind them, then followed close behind.