path now dropped steeply into thick woods dotted with small fields. This was Maden’s land, a place of rich soil, tall trees and wide bogs.
The men of Hengall’s tribe moved close to their women as they entered the trees and small boys were given bundles of straw bound tight to sticks, and the straw was set alight from smouldering coals carried in perforated clay pots. The boys then raced up and down the path, waving their smoky clubs and shrieking to drive away the malevolent spirits who might otherwise come and impregnate the women. The priests chanted, the women clutched talismans, and the men beat their spear staves against the tree trunks. Even more chants were needed to propitiate the spirits as the tribe crossed a tangle of small streams close to Maden.
Hengall walked at the head of his tribe, but he waited on the bank of one of the bigger streams for Saban to catch up. ‘We must talk,’ he told his son, then glanced at Camaban who limped just a few steps behind. The boy had found another rotting sheep’s pelt to replace his old tunic, and carried a crude leather bag in which his few belongings, his bones and snakeskin and charms, were stored. He stank, and his hair was once again tangled and dirty. He looked up at his father, gave a shudder, then spat onto the path.
Hengall turned disgustedly away and paced ahead with Saban. After a while he asked Saban if he had noticed how plump Maden’s wheat looked? It seemed the storm had spared those fields, Hengall said enviously, then commented that there had been some fine fat pigs in the woods by the river. Pigs and wheat, he said, were all folk needed for life, and for that he thanked the gods. ‘Maybe only pigs,’ he mused, ‘maybe that’s all we need to eat. Pigs and fish. The wheat’s just a nuisance. It won’t seed itself, that’s the trouble.’ Hengall was carrying a leather bag that clinked as he walked and Saban guessed it contained some of the tribe’s treasures. The people far ahead had started singing and the song grew louder as folk caught up the tune. It passed to the walkers behind, but neither Hengall nor Saban joined in. ‘In a few years,’ Hengall said abruptly, ‘you’ll be old enough to become chief.’
‘If the priests and the people agree,’ Saban said cautiously.
‘The priests just need bribes,’ Hengall said, ‘and the people do as they’re told.’ A pigeon clattered through the leaves and Hengall looked up to see in what direction the bird flew, hoping that it would be a good omen. It was, for the bird made towards the sun.
‘Sannas will want to see you,’ Hengall said ominously. ‘Kneel to her and bow your head. I know she’s a woman, but treat her like a chief.’ He frowned. ‘She’s a hard woman, hard and cruel, but she has powers. The gods love her, or else they fear her.’ He shook his shaggy head in amazement. ‘She was already old when I was a boy!’
Saban felt fear at the prospect of meeting Sannas. ‘Why will she want to see me?’
‘Because you’re to marry a Cathallo girl,’ Hengall said flatly, ‘and Sannas will choose her. There’s no decision made in Cathallo without Sannas. They call Kital chief, but he sucks on the old woman’s tits. They all do.’
Saban said nothing. He knew he could not marry anyone until he had passed the ordeals of manhood, but he liked the idea.
‘So you’re to take a bride from Cathallo,’ Hengall said, ‘as a sign that our tribes are at peace. You understand that?’
‘Yes, father.’
‘But Cathallo doesn’t know you’re my only son now,’ Hengall said, ‘and they won’t be happy that you’re still a boy. That’s why you must impress Sannas.’
‘Yes, father,’ Saban said again. He understood now that Kital and Sannas were expecting Lengar to come to Cathallo and claim a bride, but Lengar was gone and so he must take his place.
‘And you will be chief,’ Hengall said heavily, ‘and that means you have to be a leader of our people. But being chief doesn’t mean you can do what you want. Folk don’t realize that. They want heroes, but heroes get their people killed. The best chiefs know that. They know they can’t turn night into day. I can only do what’s possible, nothing more. I can break down beavers’ dams to stop the fish-traps drying out, but I can’t order the river to do it for me.’
‘I understand,’ Saban said.
‘And we can’t have war,’ Hengall said forcibly. ‘I’m not worried that we’d lose, but that we’d be weakened whether we won or lost. You understand that?’
‘Yes,’ Saban.
‘Not that I mean to die yet!’ Hengall went on. ‘I must be close to thirty-five summers. Think of that, thirty-five! But I’ve plenty of good years left! My father lived more than fifty years.’
‘So will you, I hope,’ Saban said clumsily.
‘But you must prepare yourself,’ Hengall said. ‘Pass your ordeals, go hunting, take some Outfolk heads. Show the tribe the gods favour you.’ He nodded abruptly and, without another word, turned and signalled for his friend Valan to join him.
Saban waited for Galeth to catch up. ‘What did he want?’ Galeth asked.
‘To tell me I’m to marry a girl from Cathallo,’ Saban said.
Galeth smiled. ‘And so you should.’ Galeth knew the decision meant that Saban was favoured to become the next chief, but Galeth bore no grudge for that. The big man was happiest when he was working with wood, and had no great desire to succeed his elder brother. He cuffed Saban lightly across the head. ‘I just hope the girl’s pretty.’
‘Of course she will be,’ Saban said, though he was suddenly afraid that she might not be.
The tribe crossed the last of the marshes, then climbed into hills that were thick with trees, though the woods gradually thinned to reveal the splendours of Cathallo. They passed an ancient shrine, its timber posts rotting and its circle as overgrown with hazels as Ratharryn’s Old Temple, then saw grave mounds on the hill slopes ahead. Those hills were as low as the slopes about Ratharryn, but were steeper, and among them was the famous Sacred Mound. There was nothing like it in Ratharryn, and though some of the tribe’s travellers had brought back stories of other sacred mounds, all agreed that none was the size of Cathallo’s. It was vast, a hill fit to stand among other hills, but this hill had been made by man; it reached from a valley to touch the sky and it was all gleaming white for it had been made by heaping chalk on top of more chalk. It was taller, far taller than Ratharryn’s embankment; as tall, indeed, as the surrounding hills.
‘Why did they make it?’ Lidda asked Galeth.
‘It’s Lahanna’s image,’ Galeth said, his voice touched with awe, and explained that the moon goddess, staring down from the stars, could see herself remade upon the earth and would know that Cathallo revered her. Lidda, hearing the explanation, touched her forehead in obeisance to the goddess for she, like most women, revered Lahanna above all the gods and spirits, but Camaban, who was still limping close behind, suddenly laughed. ‘What’s funny?’ Galeth asked.
‘They have giant moles in C-C-Cathallo,’ Camaban said.
Lidda touched her groin. She was uncomfortable being so close to the cripple, fearing for the child in her belly, and she wished Camaban would fall behind, but he had stubbornly stayed close all day and still dogged her steps as they splashed through a small river and climbed a hill to the east of the mound. The hill was crowned by a temple that came as a relief to many of Hengall’s people for it was much smaller than any of the temples at
