Across the Face of the World by Russell Kirkpatrick

way and he threw himself at it, only to be brushed off against the wall. Winded, he tried to struggle to his feet.
    All was confusion and noise, then light flared inside the house. In a brief second Leith glimpsed Hal with a burning torch confronting a swarthy figure, while a second strange man grap¬pled madly with his father on the floor. His white-faced mother was being pulled outside, through the broken-down front door, by a third figure that had a gloved hand firmly clamped over her mouth. As he watched in horror, a fourth man burst in, armed with a staff.
    Leith shouted a warning, but before Hal could react the staff was swung across his brother's legs. Body and torch crashed to the floor. The staff swung again, and his father collapsed limply into the arms of his adversary. They began to drag him away.
    'No!' Leith shouted, and flung himself at the invaders. Almost contemptuously, one of the figures drew a curved sword from its scabbard and struck the youth an easy blow across the forehead. The house seemed to collapse inwards at Leith, his eyes rolled back and he sank to the floor beside the inert form of his brother. The figure grunted with satisfaction, then picked up the smoul-dering torch and casually set fire to the thatched roof. Outside he joined his fellows as they mounted their horses smoothly and made off with their captives.
    The soft wind coming from the sea bunted at the front door of the house, moving it slightly on broken hinges. It drifted a thin snow a few feet inside the kitchen, and flicked at the sandy hair of the boy lying bleeding on the floor. It sussurrated unimpeded through the whole house, blowing past shattered furniture and scattered possessions. And gently it caressed the tiny red flames as they spread slowly but hungrily across the thatch and down the walls.

CHAPTER 4

    THE FARMER

    THE MORNING SUN SHONE bright and clear, supervising a roguish westerly breeze. The wind caressed the freshly fallen snow, rattled the bones of the tall poplars and ruffled the dark tunics of the mourners gathered around the two open graves. Around them swirled the glory and bitterness of life: the heartswelling sound of songbirds, the cheeky glint of the sun on the swift-running brook, the crisp wind on downcast faces, the pungent smell of freshly turned earth; the salty taste of sadness and death on such a morning as this filled the hearts of the people grouped together at the grave¬side. The Haufuth spoke deliberately and with restraint, his meas¬ured words reminding the village of the uncertainty of life and the strength of the earth to which they would all one day return. After a time of quiet reflection, four young men stepped up. They lifted and lowered first one casket, then the other into the graves. Then they took up spades and, as the villagers watched, buried their friends.
    The gathering broke up into smaller knots of people, some seeking comfort, others giving it.
    A lone piper played a mournful tune. People began filing down the narrow brick path that led back to the village. Two men, one old and stooped, the other large and short of breath, went aside from the others and stood together in a corner of the small graveyard.
    The Haufuth laid a hand on the shoulder of his companion. Kurr glanced up at the fat headman with steely eyes.

    'Two funerals in two days!' the big man sighed, shaking his head. 'I would have spoken to you yesterday, but. ..' He groped for words. 'I'm so sorry about Tinei.'
    'Nothing anyone could have done,' said Kurr shortly. 'Once the fever took hold it was only a matter of time.' He lifted his chin and gave the village headman a hard-eyed stare, as though trying to prove the loss of his wife was not capable of moving him. But his red-rimmed eyes gave him the lie.
    The Haufuth was no good at times like these. He was torn between trying to say something comforting or placing a consoling arm around the old man, so did neither.
    'Do you know what finally finished her?