had a king.
When he told them of his destination, Woodcat and Katrin both drew their fingers across their closed eyes. For them, Vickham was a place of evil.
‘They have a king.’ Katrin said in warning.
‘And so do I Brother John smiled. ‘And he tells me I must go and tell them of him.’
‘The people there are slaves,’ Katrin said.
‘I’m a slave,’ Brother John replied, ‘and have to go where my king sends me.’ He gestured at one of the three shrines standing at the crossroads.
Mike had been looking at them. On one, was a figure of the Buddha, with what he took to be a prayer wheel beside it. Another was a cross, about three metres high, with the figure of a crowned king nailed to it. The third was a standing stone.
He was distracted by the sudden whistle and thrum of an arrow flying from a bow. He turned fast, ready to drop to the ground, when he saw a bird tumbling from the sky, pierced by an arrow. Katrin was already running toward where it would fall.
She retrieved it, and came back, pulling the arrow from it. The bird’s eyes were already glazing over in death. Then Katrin knelt by her pack, and brought a small bag of grain from it. She went to the standing stone. Mike watched, as she slit the bird open and let some of its blood fall to the ground. Then she scattered the grain upon the blood. Her eyes went to the top of the stone and her lips were moving, and Mike looked away.
He found that Brother John and Woodcat were also at their devotions. John knelt before the Hanged God, his eyes on the image of the crucified king. Woodcat was spinning the prayerwheel, and then his eyes went to the distance, his breathing slowed, and he entered a state of quietness.
Again, Mike looked away. He had been made aware of his difference from his three friends. In the presence of the practice of their three very different faiths, he felt a lack within his own life, as if they had a dimension to theirs which his did not have.
Then they were taking leave of Brother John. At the last moment, the deep-set dark brown eyes locked on his and John said, ‘Think on it, Mike. He died in your place.’
Mike’s eyes went again to the image of the Hanged God. When he looked back, John was already walking toward the south, following his king’s orders.
‘He’ll die there,’ Katrin said quietly. ‘No one ever comes back from Vickharn.’
The brown brother in his brown robe was hurrying south. He began to sing. Mike could hear the lilt of his singing but could not catch the words.
They turned east, and rode toward the sea.
After a while, they could hear the breakers. Soon, the flat sea horizon stretched from edge to edge of their view.
And he saw the Island. It was not large. He could not remember it from his own time, but he felt that it might have been a promontory which in the past five hundred years had been cut off from the mainland. It was cliff-bound and separated from the land by a raging channel of sea.
Mike could understand now why the waterfearing Murrays thought it inaccessible. He knew that skilful and determined sailors could get there by boat. He also knew that a landsman would die trying.
They left the road now and walked their horses up the slope toward the clifftops.
They were within reach of their goal. In a short time it would all be up to Mike’s skill with his hang-glider.
They were almost to the clifftop when Katrin turned in the saddle and drew her breath in sharply.
‘Patchies!’ she said.
They looked back.
Three horsemen were following them. They were a wild-looking crew, long-haired and unwashed, and dressed in thonged-together animal skins. They reminded Mike of pictures he had seen of the Mongol horse nomads who, under the generalship of Genghis Khan, had come close to conquering Europe.
The horsemen moved like a group of half-wild dogs, sniffing, interested, but not yet in pursuit.
‘You going to tell me what Patchies are?’
‘They live on horseback. They wander in
When he told them of his destination, Woodcat and Katrin both drew their fingers across their closed eyes. For them, Vickham was a place of evil.
‘They have a king.’ Katrin said in warning.
‘And so do I Brother John smiled. ‘And he tells me I must go and tell them of him.’
‘The people there are slaves,’ Katrin said.
‘I’m a slave,’ Brother John replied, ‘and have to go where my king sends me.’ He gestured at one of the three shrines standing at the crossroads.
Mike had been looking at them. On one, was a figure of the Buddha, with what he took to be a prayer wheel beside it. Another was a cross, about three metres high, with the figure of a crowned king nailed to it. The third was a standing stone.
He was distracted by the sudden whistle and thrum of an arrow flying from a bow. He turned fast, ready to drop to the ground, when he saw a bird tumbling from the sky, pierced by an arrow. Katrin was already running toward where it would fall.
She retrieved it, and came back, pulling the arrow from it. The bird’s eyes were already glazing over in death. Then Katrin knelt by her pack, and brought a small bag of grain from it. She went to the standing stone. Mike watched, as she slit the bird open and let some of its blood fall to the ground. Then she scattered the grain upon the blood. Her eyes went to the top of the stone and her lips were moving, and Mike looked away.
He found that Brother John and Woodcat were also at their devotions. John knelt before the Hanged God, his eyes on the image of the crucified king. Woodcat was spinning the prayerwheel, and then his eyes went to the distance, his breathing slowed, and he entered a state of quietness.
Again, Mike looked away. He had been made aware of his difference from his three friends. In the presence of the practice of their three very different faiths, he felt a lack within his own life, as if they had a dimension to theirs which his did not have.
Then they were taking leave of Brother John. At the last moment, the deep-set dark brown eyes locked on his and John said, ‘Think on it, Mike. He died in your place.’
Mike’s eyes went again to the image of the Hanged God. When he looked back, John was already walking toward the south, following his king’s orders.
‘He’ll die there,’ Katrin said quietly. ‘No one ever comes back from Vickharn.’
The brown brother in his brown robe was hurrying south. He began to sing. Mike could hear the lilt of his singing but could not catch the words.
They turned east, and rode toward the sea.
After a while, they could hear the breakers. Soon, the flat sea horizon stretched from edge to edge of their view.
And he saw the Island. It was not large. He could not remember it from his own time, but he felt that it might have been a promontory which in the past five hundred years had been cut off from the mainland. It was cliff-bound and separated from the land by a raging channel of sea.
Mike could understand now why the waterfearing Murrays thought it inaccessible. He knew that skilful and determined sailors could get there by boat. He also knew that a landsman would die trying.
They left the road now and walked their horses up the slope toward the clifftops.
They were within reach of their goal. In a short time it would all be up to Mike’s skill with his hang-glider.
They were almost to the clifftop when Katrin turned in the saddle and drew her breath in sharply.
‘Patchies!’ she said.
They looked back.
Three horsemen were following them. They were a wild-looking crew, long-haired and unwashed, and dressed in thonged-together animal skins. They reminded Mike of pictures he had seen of the Mongol horse nomads who, under the generalship of Genghis Khan, had come close to conquering Europe.
The horsemen moved like a group of half-wild dogs, sniffing, interested, but not yet in pursuit.
‘You going to tell me what Patchies are?’
‘They live on horseback. They wander in
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