though she clearly wanted to browse the meadow.
No amount of kicking with his bare heels moved Goodie out of her walk, and so the boy relaxed and watched as swallows crisscrossed before them, chasing after insects the horse and cow kicked up.
It took them the greater part of an hour to get close enough to see that the wall was not part of a town but marked the site of a large ruin. They picked their way carefully through the debris of some old outworks, the broken weedy remains of a road. Goodie stepped high over the crumbled stones. The boy had to yank several times hard on the cow's rope to encourage her to follow. But when at last there was a wind off the lake and she smelled the water, Chum picked up her legs in a fast trot, suddenly almost young again.
At the lake's edge, the two animals drank eagerly. But after a handful of water, the boy went over to the ruins, curiosity getting the better of thirst.
There was a series of high walls, all broken at the top, though several half-roofs of dark tile still guarded the upper rooms from weather. At his approach, a dozen doves clattered up into the light, proving that the place was long deserted.
The ruins reminded him, oddly enough, of his dream: the same high walls, the half-gabled roofs. They lacked only the crow women in their black robes, and the priest. He wondered what people had lived in this place and for a moment closed his eyes, as if that could help him envision them. But he could not imagine anyone here. It was too long empty. Too musty. Too cold.
He stepped over some broken stones and found himself in a kind of courtyard, clearly once a garden, for there were several ancient fruit trees bent like old men, the browned remains of unharvested fruit by the twisted roots. Stones lined out a series of still-neat borders but nettles had taken over the plots of earth. In the very center of the garden was a mosaic, partially covered with dirt and uneven where the ground had shifted beneath it. The boy could make out some sort of spade-bearded, fish-tailed god; it looked a lot like Master Robin, broad shouldered and with red-brown hair. The boy turned away quickly before he had time to weep, his hand going to the leather pocket where the hawk's bell rested.
It was when he stepped through two massive upright pillars, grooved by human hand and pitted by wind and storms, that he smelled something that was neither meadow, nor lake, nor the musty, stale scent of the ruins.
It was smoke.
3. SMOKE
HE KNEW THAT SMELL. NOT THE ODOR OF A house burning down, still so fresh and bitter to him. It was the smell of a cookfire, with meat on a spit.
This time, though, caution claimed him. He crept to the side of the garden wall and, using it to shield his back, inched up a set of stone steps that were still preserved and whole.
At the top the stairs broke off awkwardly, but the boy could look down over the entire ruins. He saw the cookfire. It was in one of a series of outlying half-roofed houses beyond the main walls. A man dressed all in black was poking at the fire with a stick. He reminded the boy of the priest in his dream.
The boy almost called out then, but there was something about the man's shoulders he did not care for, a tense roundness, like a hawk right before it mantled, throwing one wing out, then another, to protect its food. Those shoulders belonged to a greedy, angry man, the boy thought. He needed to find people, butâeven moreâhe needed to be careful.
Taking his bearings, the boy ran back down the stairs, turned in through a massive archway, and threaded his way as quietly as possible through the remains of the halls, now only broken masonry and vines.
When he found the cookfire, more by smell than by the mapping in his head, creeping up to peer through the doorway, the man was gone. A rabbit roasting on a spit was not quite done.
He heard a low growl behind him and slowly turned.
In the ruined hallway, glaring at him, was a massive dark dog, its
No amount of kicking with his bare heels moved Goodie out of her walk, and so the boy relaxed and watched as swallows crisscrossed before them, chasing after insects the horse and cow kicked up.
It took them the greater part of an hour to get close enough to see that the wall was not part of a town but marked the site of a large ruin. They picked their way carefully through the debris of some old outworks, the broken weedy remains of a road. Goodie stepped high over the crumbled stones. The boy had to yank several times hard on the cow's rope to encourage her to follow. But when at last there was a wind off the lake and she smelled the water, Chum picked up her legs in a fast trot, suddenly almost young again.
At the lake's edge, the two animals drank eagerly. But after a handful of water, the boy went over to the ruins, curiosity getting the better of thirst.
There was a series of high walls, all broken at the top, though several half-roofs of dark tile still guarded the upper rooms from weather. At his approach, a dozen doves clattered up into the light, proving that the place was long deserted.
The ruins reminded him, oddly enough, of his dream: the same high walls, the half-gabled roofs. They lacked only the crow women in their black robes, and the priest. He wondered what people had lived in this place and for a moment closed his eyes, as if that could help him envision them. But he could not imagine anyone here. It was too long empty. Too musty. Too cold.
He stepped over some broken stones and found himself in a kind of courtyard, clearly once a garden, for there were several ancient fruit trees bent like old men, the browned remains of unharvested fruit by the twisted roots. Stones lined out a series of still-neat borders but nettles had taken over the plots of earth. In the very center of the garden was a mosaic, partially covered with dirt and uneven where the ground had shifted beneath it. The boy could make out some sort of spade-bearded, fish-tailed god; it looked a lot like Master Robin, broad shouldered and with red-brown hair. The boy turned away quickly before he had time to weep, his hand going to the leather pocket where the hawk's bell rested.
It was when he stepped through two massive upright pillars, grooved by human hand and pitted by wind and storms, that he smelled something that was neither meadow, nor lake, nor the musty, stale scent of the ruins.
It was smoke.
3. SMOKE
HE KNEW THAT SMELL. NOT THE ODOR OF A house burning down, still so fresh and bitter to him. It was the smell of a cookfire, with meat on a spit.
This time, though, caution claimed him. He crept to the side of the garden wall and, using it to shield his back, inched up a set of stone steps that were still preserved and whole.
At the top the stairs broke off awkwardly, but the boy could look down over the entire ruins. He saw the cookfire. It was in one of a series of outlying half-roofed houses beyond the main walls. A man dressed all in black was poking at the fire with a stick. He reminded the boy of the priest in his dream.
The boy almost called out then, but there was something about the man's shoulders he did not care for, a tense roundness, like a hawk right before it mantled, throwing one wing out, then another, to protect its food. Those shoulders belonged to a greedy, angry man, the boy thought. He needed to find people, butâeven moreâhe needed to be careful.
Taking his bearings, the boy ran back down the stairs, turned in through a massive archway, and threaded his way as quietly as possible through the remains of the halls, now only broken masonry and vines.
When he found the cookfire, more by smell than by the mapping in his head, creeping up to peer through the doorway, the man was gone. A rabbit roasting on a spit was not quite done.
He heard a low growl behind him and slowly turned.
In the ruined hallway, glaring at him, was a massive dark dog, its
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