goldsmith. “But we Garholters have our pride.” He looked round, with satisfaction, at the gold glimmering on people’s necks and wrists.
“I’ll say No very tactfully,” said the Chanter.
“Why is he so set on fighting the Dorig?” Gest asked.
“It’s the natural order of things,” Miri, the Beekeeper’s wife, told him. “Men against Dorig, Giants against men.”
“They say the only good Dorig is a dead Dorig,” added the oldest smith.
The Beekeeper, who always had news, said, “The Dorig have been pulling their people and sheep under water for years. A while back, they took to waiting outside Otmound in their own shapes and attacking anyone they met. Og warned everyone who went outside to carry a thornbush against them, but Dorig don’t seem to be afraid of thorns the way they used to be. Their latest trick is to pretend to be game when the Otmounders are out hunting: let a man chase them, then shift to their true shape and kill him. You know their crafty ways.”
“Well, no,” Gest said apologetically. “I’ve only met a Dorig once and it ran away before I could speak to it.”
“Then you have a lot to learn,” said the smith.
Gest smiled again. “I know I have. That’s why I think I’d better go over the Moor and talk to Og.”
To the consternation of all Garholt, this is just what Gest did. He sent Og’s messenger back to say he was coming and then prepared to set out himself, with only Banot for company. Everyone implored him to consider. They reminded him there was no one to be Chief after him. They said, if he must go, he should take twenty good men with him to protect him from Dorig. They told him fearsome tales about the way the Dorig sacrificed their victims and hung them up to the Sun.
Gest attended to none of it. He was quite pleasant, but completely firm. The Garholters discovered that their new Chief was the most obstinate man on the Moor. They respected him greatly for that, but it made them all the more anxious to have him safe back again. They took Banot aside and made him promise to see Gest was safe.
“I’ll do what I can,” said Banot. “But you don’t know Gest.”
They had to be content with that. Everyone anxiously watched the two set off along the line of the old road. The early Sun glinting on the gold collar of each was the only bright thing about them. Their clothes and weapons were dull and serviceable. Banot’s harp was shut in a dingy travelling case, so that it would not catch the attention of Giants. When the two had disappeared into the mists, the Garholters retired to the mound and spoke words for their safety. Then they waited.
Two days later, to their dismay, Banot came back alone. He was vague-eyed and abstracted, and Tille was the only one who was wholeheartedly glad to see him. The rest crowded round him, demanding to know where Gest was.
“In Otmound, I suppose,” Banot said vaguely. “He sent me home.”
Though they were all relieved to hear Gest was still alive, they wanted to know what Og had said, why Banot had been sent back, and what Gest was doing.
Banot seemed tired. “Gest always does things his own way,” was all he would say. “Someone bring me a drink.”
Miri, the Beekeeper’s wife, hurried up with beer, hoping it would loosen Banot’s tongue. Tille helped him take the harp off his back. The case came open as she did so, and she noticed that one of the harp strings had broken. It had been replaced by a queer pale length of gut, which gave off a strong smell of glue.
“Where did you come by that peculiar string?” she said.
“Oh that – I had to take what I could get,” said Banot. He drank some beer, seemed to recover, and began to laugh a little. “I’ve been singing and playing and talking for hours,” he said. “I’ve no voice left and I ache all over.”
“Was this in Otmound?” said Tille, glad to hear things were so merry there.
Banot shook his head. “No. By the roadside. We met some friends, Gest and I, while we were on our way – no one you know, but great fellows – and I stopped over with them on the way back.” He laughed. “The best of friends.”
“But when is Gest coming?” everyone wanted to know.
“In a day or so,” said Banot, yawning. “If he comes at all. And he may be in a hurry.” With that, he laughed and yawned and staggered off to sleep, leaving no one much the wiser. Nor would he say any more the next day.
Gest arrived in the middle of the following night. The first anyone knew of it was when Gest turned and shouted the words that sealed the main door against enemies. Startled by the shout and the thump of the door, people scrambled from their beds. Someone had the sense to raise the light, whereupon everyone stared in amazement. Gest had brought with him a beautiful young woman, tall and pale, with hair as black as peat. Both of them were splashed with mud to the eyebrows and almost too much out of breath to speak. Gest no longer wore his golden collar. The woman, on the other hand, wore a collar richer and more intricate than anyone in Garholt had seen before in their lives.
“Speak the rest of the doors shut!” Gest panted to the first person to arrive.
The boy scampered to do as he was told. The rest crowded up, shouting, “Why? Is it Dorig?”
Gest had used up all his breath and could only shake his head. The young woman shyly answered instead. “It’s my brother, Orban. I’m Og’s daughter, Adara.”
This caused gasps and murmurs. It was well known that Og loved his daughter more than he loved himself. Adara was said to be the most beautiful woman on the Moor, and the wisest who ever lived. And it looked as if Gest had carried her off.
“War,” said the Beekeeper gloomily. “This means war.”
“Doesn’t,” said Gest, still very short of breath. “Did three tasks for her. Marry her tomorrow. Got to rest now. Get a feast ready.”
“Just like that!” Miri said indignantly, as she and Tille led Adara off to Tille’s house to rest. “Does he think we can have a feast ready in five minutes?”
“Of course you can’t,” said Adara. “I don’t suppose he thought. I’ll go back and tell him to put it off, shall I?”
This of course put both Tille and Miri on their mettle. “You’ll do no such thing!” said Tille. “We’ll manage.”
“Besides, if he’s carried you off, it’s not proper to wait,” said Miri.
“He didn’t carry me off. I came of my own accord,” Adara protested.
“What you thought of it doesn’t count,” Miri said severely. “Now you get to bed and get some rest. We’ll see to it.”
By the time she and Tille had put Adara to bed, they had both lost their hearts to her. Neither of them blamed Gest for losing his. “Or his head into the bargain,” Miri said sourly. Adara was gentle and sympathetic and not in the least proud. But the greatest point in her favour, Miri and Tille agreed, was that though she was supposed to be the Wisest Woman ever, you would never have known it from the way she talked. “I
