him.”
“I will.” The boy nods sagely as he agrees.
“And ask him if we could please have some food.”
“I will.”
“And tell him my friend is injured.”
“I will.”
“And thank him.”
“It is fine,” the boy repeats. “There is plenty of time. They are generous hosts.” After assuring us of this, he turns to speak to the host in his own language. Even in this language, he does not appear to be entirely comfortable or fluent. There is a brief conversation between the two before he returns to talk to us.
“The Burt,” he gestures to our host, “would like to welcome you to his home and invites you to share in his food. But first, he would like to know who you are.”
“My name is Crow. This man is Goat. We are pleased to meet you, Burt,” interjects Morrigan before I can answer. His tone of voice is, again, loud and deliberate. Respectfully, he addresses the host rather than the boy. Burt once again talks to the boy in his own language.
“We do not have names in the way that you do. A ‘Burt’ is the leader of the household. Unless the others speak to you, you speak only to him. You can speak with me, to interpret. He is unhappy that we understand each other and warns it is an insult to exclude him from conversation.”
It is now I realise that the boy’s intonation reminds me of a less sophisticated version of Vesta; an accent that is, at once, neutral yet foreign. My eyes are, once again, drawn to the black ram branded on to his left shoulder.
“Then I suggest that if we have questions for you , or vice versa, we add them into conversations we are having with him. This way, he will not realise he’s being excluded.”
“That makes sense. I’ll tell him you accept and thank him.”
And so begins an intriguing double conversation with both our host and his other guest. The evening is fuelled by an incredibly generous variety of smoked and dried meats as well as an almost hostile distilled liquor called ‘spebru’, which, we are told, translates as ‘fire and water’.
We learn that the savages are loosely allied with about ten or so other families in the area. Their livelihood largely consists of hunting seal or fish from the frozen sea, although they have also been known to capture other land animals. The tribe that they are allied to is, by and large, one of the more peaceable peoples, although their attitudes towards strangers vary. We are assured that we have been very lucky to have been met by our particular family.
We are warned that ‘the real savages’ live further west. Beyond the frozen sea, we are told, most of the people we are likely to meet will be cannibals: those that eat the flesh of the slain. The man talks gravely, terrified, as he describes the so-called ‘pale tribe’, led by a ‘pale man’, who visit periodically, demanding hefty tribute.
Whilst I have no doubt of the authenticity of his feelings – his concerns, his grief, his fears – everything he says seems to further emphasise what Lady Vesta has already told me. A tribe will always refer to their neighbours as savages; they will always mythologise and fear the great unknown in just the same way they will seek to sanctify their own culture. I can imagine an islander, myself even, less than a month ago, talking in the exact same way about the world beyond the mountains.
Our own tale is, of course, also a source of great interest. Despite my reservations, Morrigan spills the truth of our kingdom and our purpose without so much as a second thought. To these people, clinging onto their lives on a block of ice, such a kingdom must sound unfathomable, fantastical even. The Burt demands to know where such a kingdom could be located and, Morrigan, perhaps having been warmed too thoroughly by the liquor provided, happily obliges. The Burt laughs as he sees it located on our map.
“The end of the world!” he smiles.
Meanwhile, they have never heard of Brightstone and know even less about any Son of
“I will.” The boy nods sagely as he agrees.
“And ask him if we could please have some food.”
“I will.”
“And tell him my friend is injured.”
“I will.”
“And thank him.”
“It is fine,” the boy repeats. “There is plenty of time. They are generous hosts.” After assuring us of this, he turns to speak to the host in his own language. Even in this language, he does not appear to be entirely comfortable or fluent. There is a brief conversation between the two before he returns to talk to us.
“The Burt,” he gestures to our host, “would like to welcome you to his home and invites you to share in his food. But first, he would like to know who you are.”
“My name is Crow. This man is Goat. We are pleased to meet you, Burt,” interjects Morrigan before I can answer. His tone of voice is, again, loud and deliberate. Respectfully, he addresses the host rather than the boy. Burt once again talks to the boy in his own language.
“We do not have names in the way that you do. A ‘Burt’ is the leader of the household. Unless the others speak to you, you speak only to him. You can speak with me, to interpret. He is unhappy that we understand each other and warns it is an insult to exclude him from conversation.”
It is now I realise that the boy’s intonation reminds me of a less sophisticated version of Vesta; an accent that is, at once, neutral yet foreign. My eyes are, once again, drawn to the black ram branded on to his left shoulder.
“Then I suggest that if we have questions for you , or vice versa, we add them into conversations we are having with him. This way, he will not realise he’s being excluded.”
“That makes sense. I’ll tell him you accept and thank him.”
And so begins an intriguing double conversation with both our host and his other guest. The evening is fuelled by an incredibly generous variety of smoked and dried meats as well as an almost hostile distilled liquor called ‘spebru’, which, we are told, translates as ‘fire and water’.
We learn that the savages are loosely allied with about ten or so other families in the area. Their livelihood largely consists of hunting seal or fish from the frozen sea, although they have also been known to capture other land animals. The tribe that they are allied to is, by and large, one of the more peaceable peoples, although their attitudes towards strangers vary. We are assured that we have been very lucky to have been met by our particular family.
We are warned that ‘the real savages’ live further west. Beyond the frozen sea, we are told, most of the people we are likely to meet will be cannibals: those that eat the flesh of the slain. The man talks gravely, terrified, as he describes the so-called ‘pale tribe’, led by a ‘pale man’, who visit periodically, demanding hefty tribute.
Whilst I have no doubt of the authenticity of his feelings – his concerns, his grief, his fears – everything he says seems to further emphasise what Lady Vesta has already told me. A tribe will always refer to their neighbours as savages; they will always mythologise and fear the great unknown in just the same way they will seek to sanctify their own culture. I can imagine an islander, myself even, less than a month ago, talking in the exact same way about the world beyond the mountains.
Our own tale is, of course, also a source of great interest. Despite my reservations, Morrigan spills the truth of our kingdom and our purpose without so much as a second thought. To these people, clinging onto their lives on a block of ice, such a kingdom must sound unfathomable, fantastical even. The Burt demands to know where such a kingdom could be located and, Morrigan, perhaps having been warmed too thoroughly by the liquor provided, happily obliges. The Burt laughs as he sees it located on our map.
“The end of the world!” he smiles.
Meanwhile, they have never heard of Brightstone and know even less about any Son of
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