The Annals of Clod

By Anthony Weedon

In the year 2522 AGD (After the Great Destruction), the earth is sparsely populated, and the few remaining nation states wage war using primitive technologies. In the northeast corner of the large land mass known as Peasenland, a special child is born. His parents name him Clod.

Clods mother dies before he reaches his second birthday, so he is raised by his father, Blod, a member of the elite governing class known as the Corps of Cloudegg, and a nursemaid named Wanda, who becomes his closest friend and confidante. After Blod is killed in an uprising supported by the avaricious Grubbers, Clod embarks on a pilgrimage to uncover the secrets surrounding his mothers mysterious origins.

His journey takes him through lands nurturing strange cultures, including the mysterious Biders, the sinister Silvenfolc and the primitive Scaffenhommers. He faces peril at every turn and engages in battles on both land and sea. Along the way, he encounters several captivating and powerful women, including one who may be able to help him to finally discover his familys secret past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450249508

Anthony Weedon

For most of his life Anthony Weedon has lived in remote rural places away from towns and cities. He was an Anglican priest for twenty one years, fifteen of them in Ireland, but left Christianity in 1975, after which he led a very happy life working first in horticulture and then as a management services officer, retiring from that job to live in Lincolnshire with his wife Jenny, after which he began to write books, two of which, The Sisterhood and The Saga of the Red Boar have been published by Authorhouse. He has won several poetry competitions including the Crabbe Memorial Prize in 1978. Tony's and Jenny's long interest in both Buddhism and Humanism and their love of their native rural Suffolk are reflected in much of what he writes.

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Prologue

Real and Unreal

What is the difference between real and unreal? I don’t know; at least, I’ve never been able to find any. It seems to me that all boundaries are artificial. They’re all built as a consequence of thought, which means that real and unreal are no more and no less than opposite ends of the same entity. The mind imagines; it analyses; it invents; it materialises thought. Within its compass real and unreal ought not to apply. All that is needed is that it learns to distinguish between these polarities in the outside world, and this is best achieved by admitting the connection between the two.

When I came to consider this I realised that I have always led a happy life precisely because I have rarely, if ever, polarised judgements in relation to anything. Whether we like it or not, there is always the other side. Whenever we fail to take this into consideration, we lose our balance and topple over. Hence, the world is full of lopsided topplers seeking to moralise, from their hopelessly skewed perspectives, about everything to everyone else.

As a child I lived in a large garden, behind which hedgerows led out beside a flower studded meadow bisected by a clear flowing stream blessed with a profusion of watercress. Beyond the stream, across a wooden footbridge, a path led out and up across arable land and on into the mysteries of a large deciduous expanse known as The Round Wood, wherein, for me at least, the polarities of real and unreal ceased to exist. Within its confines I was as likely to meet up with a friendly goblin dressed in red breeches as I was with a red squirrel or a great spotted woodpecker. Once, on a sunny day in early May, when this same goblin asked me who I truly was, I replied unhesitatingly that my name was Clod and that I was on a pilgrimage.

‘To where?’ he asked.

‘Oh… to just anywhere,’ I retorted with reckless nonchalance.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Oh… From here and there...’

‘Then follow me.’ The goblin rose to his feet from where he had been sitting neatly perched on the end of a large oak log.

Following him along an unknown path into a part of the wood with which I was not familiar, I wasn‘t in the least afraid. Surrounded, as we were, by a profusion of coppiced hazel bushes, I felt completely at home amongst true friends that provided me with spring catkins, summer shade, autumn nuts and winter wood for such items as bean poles and split-wood hurdles. However, just as I thought the copse would never end, the track began to wind uphill through a rib cage of mighty elms whose twigs were soughing a welcome to the new season’s emerging leaves.

After a while the soughing began to be drowned out by a more abrasive sound that presently resolved itself into the familiar cawing of a vast number of rooks. Coming up with the goblin, who had run ahead and was pointing through a gap in the trees, I gasped to find myself gazing out across a vast bush-covered hollow surrounded by nest bedecked elms supporting the largest rookery I could ever have imagined.

Confronting the goblin as he grinned complacently from pointed ear to pointed ear, I demanded to know how I could possibly have missed such a large chunk of landscape in this wood that I prided myself in knowing so well.

‘It’s the third eye,’ he said. ‘You are now seeing with your mind’s eye.’

‘Maybe; but is it real?’ I demanded.

As his grin lapsed, the goblin became pensive. ‘Well… the mind is real enough. The question is, does what you see, hear, smell - does all that seem plausible?’

I nodded. ‘Oh yes, it’s all very real. That’s to say, the great bowl, the elms and the rooks all are, even if you’re not.’

The goblin feigned some displeasure. ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you very much! So then, how do you explain this unreal me being able to lead you into a real experience?’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t. Ah, but wait a minute! What if real and unreal are really one and the same? I mean, like opposite ends of a stick, so to speak? Then they will sort of blend into each other along the length of the stick, especially in the middle.’

The goblin seemed impressed. ‘Very good! If you continue to reason like that you’ll go far. That is, as long as you remember never to confuse unreal with impossible. Both real and unreal can be possible; they can also be impossible.’

Not sure that I understood I looked away in an attempt to hide my embarrassment as I retorted: ‘Impossible? If anything’s impossible, it has to be you.’

Then, surprised by the goblin’s lack of response, I turned to look at him again; but he was nowhere to be seen, not under the elms, not among the bushes, not anywhere; but the rooks were still there, as was the great bowl of bushes that I had never known to be in the wood; it was certainly still there. Suddenly I knew the meaning of what the goblin had been trying to say. He might be impossible, but Clod wasn’t. He was as real as that other self of mine - my perfectly possible self, who lived in the house above the meadow on the far side of the stream. This meant that Clod, who was just as perfectly possible, could live thousands of years in the future far removed from the high technology world, in which myself was presumably destined to persist for some time.

Chapter One: Peasenland

Clod was born in the early spring of the year 2522 AGD (i.e. After the Great Destruction) in the village of Helmthorpe in Peasenland. He could not remember his mother. She had died of a mysterious disease before he had reached his second birthday. Clod’s father, Blod, was the village Chieftain, and the two of them lived together with a housekeeper and other servants in the Chieftain’s residence known as the Kepanhalla, a complex collection of low rectangular dwellings, workshops and storehouses surrounding a courtyard and situated some distance north of the main part of the village. With a few notable exceptions most of the villagers lived in about eighty dwellings built so as to enclose a vast rectangle, within the bounds of which it was forbidden to erect any permanent structure, thus providing the Helmthorpians with ample space within which fairs, fetes and festivals could be held without let or hindrance.

Among the buildings not sited around the village square were a watermill, a saw-mill and two windmills. Most imposing of all was the Temple of Fyor. Built of flint, it was situated on an eastern hilltop. An impressive avenue of ancient oaks connected it to the village. Running between water meadows through a fertile valley just outside the village, on its south side, was the river Helm. Not far from where a flint stone bridge carried the road that led south-westwards deep into the heart of Peasenland across its sluggish waters, a leat, mill pond and sluice had been constructed to work the watermill. The Helmthorpians made hay from the meadows and grazed their cattle there.

West of Helmthorpe, on the plain through which the Helm flowed to join up with the great river Gruber, that finally ended up in the Western Sea, the villagers grew most of their crops. On the hills to the north and east were to be found vineyards, orchards and woods containing a variety of nut bearing trees. Beyond these to the north was the Great Forest, an area dreaded and mostly shunned by the Peasenlanders, or Pulsers as they were derogatorily described by their western neighbours, the Grubbers of Grubberland.

Peas and beans of all kinds formed the staple diet of the Peasenlanders, who preferred not to eat meat of any kind save that which was killed by hunting or fished from the rivers. They did not keep sheep, pigs or most kinds of domestic fowl. However, the goose held a special place in their culture and no village was without its flock of geese and resident goose girl. Cattle were kept mainly for milk, butter and cheese production as well as for producing oxen to work in the fields.

Wool and linen were the main fabrics from which the Peasenlanders made the cloth for their garments; but, whereas they grew the flax for the linen themselves, they obtained the wool by trading with the Schaffenhommers, a semi-wild shepherd folk inhabiting Hommerland, a vast mountainous territory marching with the southern borders of Peasenland.

Early on the morning of his seventh birthday, while it was still dark, Clod was awakened by Wanda, the young serving maid who had mothered him since the death of his mother.

‘Come, young master! Breakfast is early today.’

Although Clod desired nothing better than to snuggle deeper into the security of his goose down bed, his lessons in Etiquette had already taught him that it was not proper that he should show such weakness, not even in the presence of someone as understanding as Wanda.

‘Thank you, Wanda! I shall get dressed at once.’

Having lit the oil lamp on the pine table by the heavily curtained window, Wanda curtsied as Clod sat upright rubbing his eyes and nodding to signify her dismissal.

After breakfast, as it was growing light, Clod rode out on Bosser, his chestnut pony, beside his father Blod, who was mounted on a large bay gelding. As they headed north, Clod surmised that they must be going to visit their summer residence situated on the edge of the Great Forest; but he was puzzled as to why they should be doing so during the chilly days of early spring when snow still lay on the hills. Peasenlandish Etiquette did not permit that he should ask his father the reason for the journey. The rule was that, when out riding with others, the only conversation allowed was as much as was necessary for the safe conduct of the ride. As the bridleway entered in between tall hedgerows bordering a hazel coppice to the east and a plantation of walnut trees to the west, Blod told him to ride ahead as he wished to observe Bosser’s performance.

After a while, as the track climbed up above the plantations onto an open hillside, the horses slowed down to a determined plod. Then, as the track divided and Bosser, of his own volition, began to take the western fork leading to the summer residence, Blod called out sharply: ‘No, not that way!’

Bosser reluctantly obeyed the pull on the rein. Whereas the western fork ran downhill, the other fork led upwards amongst the snow in a north easterly direction. Telling Clod to keep close behind him, Blod took the lead.

After a few hundred paces the track levelled out along a hogback before dipping down again to where scattered hawthorn trees heralded the beginning of the Great Forest. Clod shuddered as a steel blue cloud finally succeeded in blotting out the sunlight. Bosser held back to avoid being splashed by the slushy snow thrown up by the hoof falls of the plodding bay. Blod glanced back, but said nothing. Since the reason for the increased gap was obvious, there was no need for him to say anything. Stating the obvious was considered to be bad manners among the Peasenlanders. For this reason none of them was ever heard to make such remarks as: Isn’t it cold to day! Or: How hot it is!

Blod continued to lead the way as the track began to spiral upwards until it terminated high up on a flat, grassy space. Glancing around him as Bosser came to a standstill, Clod realised that they were on the summit of a small hill overlooking a part of the Great Forest and beyond it into both Peasenland and Grubberland; although Helmthorpe was obscured from view by the hogback they had climbed earlier that morning.

Dismounting, Blod signalled for Clod to do the same. Then, their mounts having been secured, they sat down on one of the several felled tree trunks placed at convenient viewing points. How silent it all was! Even the breeze made no sound as it threaded its way through the leafless twigs. Not a bird was to be heard and, save for two or three large ones soaring high in the distance, none was to be seen. Only when the sunlight managed to break through the steel-blue clouds did Blod break this long silence. ‘This is a sacred place,’ he said.

Turning to look up into his father’s stern, bearded face, Clod was impressed by how the colour of his eyes matched that of the clouds. ‘You mean, sacred like the Temple of Fyor?’ he suggested in his clear, precisely enunciated treble voice?

Blow shook his head. ‘No, not at all like that. There’s a world of difference between what the peasants mean by sacred and what actually is sacred.’

Clod strove hard to understand. ‘You mean this is sort of sacred-sacred?

Blod glanced wistfully at the boy’s blond hair and bright blue eyes, both of which were unusual among the Peasenland ruling class, within which an almost uniform mousiness of hair and greyness of eyes prevailed.

‘Yes, my son, you could put it that way.’

‘Or special sacred, father?’

‘That is better still.’

Nothing more was said for several moments whilst they both gazed around again until Clod erupted eagerly with: ‘And it’s especially special to be able to look down into the treetops.’

The creases at the outer corners of Blod’s eyes intensified, signifying the escape of a beard-smothered smile. ‘What else do you find especially special about this place?’

Clod was pensive for a moment or two before responding. ‘There’s no snow up here.’

Blod nodded. ‘This isn’t what you would call a cold hill. We’re not as high up here as on the Suggenmound.’ He was referring to the hogback hill they had crossed earlier.

Glancing towards the Suggenmound, Clod remarked that it was a pity that they could not see the village from where they were. Ignoring the remark, Blod pointed in a south westerly direction, asking Clod what he could see there.

Clod gasped. ‘Why, it’s the Sommerhalla!’ He could see their summer residence nestling into a hillside on the edge of the forest.

Blod pointed again. ‘And there?’

Turning at his father’s bidding to look north westwards, Clod Described what he saw. ‘The forest goes down and down. It’s like a great basin and the trees are different. At least, those round the edge of the basin are. Even from here you can see that the twigs sort of billow out more as if they were finer ended than the twigs of these nearby oaks.’

‘Well done! I can see that you have been paying attention to your lessons. Now, can you give me their name?’

‘I’d say they’re elms.’

‘And you’d be right. Now, what else do you see?’

‘Bunches of twigs. Nests. Rooks’ nests!’

‘Correct! But where are the rooks?’

‘Do you know, father?’

‘Well, let’s try looking beyond the Sommerhalla towards Grubberland. See there! Where the Helm bends in a north westerly direction. You may recall from your lessons that where it bends it becomes the boundary between Peasenland and Grubberland?’

‘Yes, father, I do. And look! There’s a black cloud. It’s a flock of rooks! And they’re coming this way.’

‘Right! Now look again at the rookery surrounding the Great Basin and listen.’

The forest was no longer silent. Everywhere there was a stirring. From the rookery a rook cawed followed by several more. Rooks were leaving their nests to watch the return of the foraging party from Grubberland. Before long the air above the Great Basin was vibrant with the welcoming cacophony of mate-greeting caws. Clod, who had often seen rooks near the Sommerhalla, now knew where the majority of them nested. He was elated.

Blod was watching him. ‘You like rooks, don’t you?’

‘Oh yes! I do, indeed I do!’

‘It’s your mother.’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes, you take after her. She loved rooks.’

‘You never told me this before, father.’

‘No, but that was only because there was so much else for you to learn, and I had no wish to risk distressing you by harking back to a past sadness; but today you are seven and, just before she died, I promised Gladwina, your mother, to bring you here to explain certain things to you on your seventh birthday.’

‘Then… Did my mother used to come here?’

‘She did; and I must tell you that your mother was not a Peasenlander.’

‘Wanda has always said this.’

‘Wanda talks too mush. I must have a word with that girl.’

‘Please don’t father!’

‘Well, we’ll see. Anyway, if she has told you that, she has probably also mentioned that Gladwina had fair hair and blue eyes just as you have.’

‘Yes, she said that and also that my mother came from the Northlands beyond the Great Forest.’

‘And she also told you how your mother died?’

‘No; I asked her, but she said she didn’t know.’

‘Ah, that’s better! Perhaps Wanda isn’t so much in the wrong after all.’

‘Then, you won’t say anything to her?’

‘Perhaps not; we’ll see. Now you must listen carefully to what I have to say.’

‘Yes, father.’

‘There’s a large black bird bigger than a rook and called…’

‘A raven, father.’

‘Please don’t interrupt. The raven is the sacred bird of Gladwina’s homeland away to the north of the Great Forest and it’s depicted on the banner of that land, although I have neither been there nor seen its banner. Now, as you probably know, the raven isn’t a bird of either forest or farmland.’

‘I’ve seen one, father! It was…’

‘Hush boy! I know. They nest on the craggy eastern face of the Suggenmound. When Gladwina was alive they used to fly this far into the forest to be fed by her here on this grassy height, which she always referred to as Ravencroft. She would also explore far deeper into the forest than most Peasenlanders would ever dare to go. She was fond of making off along a track that you might have noticed branching off from the track that leads up here just before it begins winding upward.’

‘Please, father! May we go along it?’

‘Some day, maybe some day; but now you must listen carefully to what I have to say. It was some ten years ago now since when I found your mother wandering alone in the forest. She led me to this place, which appeared very much as it does now with most of these tree trunks already in place. They had been felled and positioned here by her companions, all of whom had subsequently died of a disease she had never before encountered, but which I recognised from her description of it as that which our peasants call the Plague. Eventually, after Gladwina had learned to speak our language, she told me something of her childhood; but more of that later. She and her compatriots had been sent to explore into the Great Forest to try and discover what lay to the south of it – or so she said.

‘As you know, in Peasenland, it is only the peasants who ever suffer from the Plague. We of the ruling class, the Corps of Cloudegg, are immune to it. Believing Gladwina had survived this scourge because she belonged to the ruling class in her own land, I contrived to marry her against the wishes of my family and the other members of the Corps then living in the Kepanhalla. After Gladwina’s death they all left the Kepanhalla saying she had made the place unclean. It seemed to them that her susceptibility to the Plague could mean only one thing: she was not of noble blood.

‘On account of this, the day may come when you may have to leave home never to return. For as long as it seemed that your mother was immune to the Plague there was always a strong possibility that your mixed blood would be overlooked when it came to the matter of the succession to the Chieftainship of Helmthorpe; but after her death it was supposed that you might be susceptible to the disease, a condition which, if true, would effectively preclude you from ever becoming a chieftain.

‘With these facts in mind, I have endeavoured ever since the time of your mother’s death to have you taught to be able to fend for yourself at an early age. Now you have reached your seventh birthday my intention is that this training will be intensified with a view to enabling you to become fully independent by the time you are twelve years old. Is that clearly understood?’

‘Yes father; but might it not be that I have taken after you in the matter of the Plague?’

‘I would like to believe so; but how can we be sure?’

Clod moved closer to his father and took hold of one of his big hands. ‘Wanda says the reason the peasants fear the Great Forest is because they believe that the Plague lurks there.’

Blod placed an arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘Such a belief isn’t without foundation, although the signs are that the power of the Plague has passed its peak. The last outbreak of epidemic proportions was over sixty years ago, well before I was born.’

‘Father, supposing, sometime after my twelfth birthday, I could be left alone in the Great Forest for a year or so to see if I caught the Plague….?’

‘A brave thought, my son, and I must tell you that such a course of action has been suggested by the Corps; but it isn’t fruitful to speak of such matters at this time; we will consider what to do when the time is ripe.’

‘And if I am proved to be immune to the Plague, would I then be allowed to succeed you as Chieftain?’

‘Let us just say that it would make it easier for you to do so. For the time being it is more important that you apply yourself to learning how to fend for yourself in all circumstances, come what may.’

‘I will try, father; but why is it that Corps members never suffer from the Plague?’

‘We have always believed it is because of Cloudegg.’

‘Wanda says that Cloudegg was a very long time ago.’

‘Yes; over two thousand years, in fact. Cloudegg saved the earth from total destruction and founded the Corps of Cloudegg to guard against any other crisis of similar proportions. Although it did its best to ensure that as many as possible were made immune, it could never be more than a small number. Hence the immunity of the Corps, whose members alone have the right to rule over others.’

‘But why only in Peasenland, father? Why not in other lands?’

‘In the early years after the Great Destruction, the Corps ruled over everyone on earth. However, as the strength of the Plague diminished and the numbers of the common people increased, they were able to oust the Corps in one region after another until it now governs only on Peasenland.’

‘And will it always be that way, father?’

‘No, my son, I think not. Peasenland is one of the last places to be seriously effected by the Plague; but even here its power is waning. Sooner or later the peasants will come to realise that they can do without the protection of the Corps. That’s why you are so important. As you are not a member of the Corps, it is just possible that you may one day be adjudged suitable to rule over Peasenland in your own right. That is, providing…’

‘Yes, father?’

‘That is… If you survive the test.’

‘You mean the test of the Plague.’

Blod hesitated. ‘Well… You could say that. But, tell me, do you fear death?’

‘I have been taught not to, Father.’

As Blod and Clod rode down from the Suggenmound, they were met by a lone horseman. Powerfully built and bearded, the rider was clad in the usual peasant garb consisting of floppy hat and russet smock, except that his leather belt and riding boots proclaimed his special standing within the peasant community. It was Fenhir, the Master Blacksmith. Reining his shaggy mountain pony to a halt, he doffed his hat and bowed. ‘Milord, there’s trouble in the village.’

‘Trouble? You come to me with trouble? Since when could you not handle any trouble in the village?’

‘Begging your pardon, milord, but this isn’t that sort of trouble.’

‘Not that sort! What are you trying to tell me?’

‘It’s Bramlet, milord. There’s rebellion afoot.’

‘So he’s at it again! Well, we’ll soon see about that! Come Clod, keep close to Fenhir; we’re going into the village.’

‘He’s in the Metanhalla, milord.’

‘And not alone, I’ll wager?’

‘No, indeed sir! He’s drawn a fair crowd, although how much of it’s in agreement with him is hard to tell.’

‘The greater part of it I shouldn’t wonder, but we mustn’t allow that to deter us. What can easily be persuaded one way can as easily be persuaded the other.’

The Metanhalla, sited to take up an imposing central position along the eastern side of the rectangular buildings that formed the village square, had been constructed according to the traditional Peasenland style known as the horizontalar. The Peasenlanders preferred not to build upwards. With the exception of windmills, it was rare for their buildings to reach higher than two storeys. They were obsessed with roofs and it was not unknown for certain of their buildings to be roofed right to the ground, the roof structure having been commenced at ground level without the support of any walls. Doors and windows were then fitted either vertically into the sloping roof amongst the large wooden tiles, or at the gabled ends.

The roof of the Metanhalla curled up at the corners like bean pods and its oaken ends were carved in a fashion reminiscent of twining pea vines. Some of this carving was continued onto the roof to give the impression that the eventual purpose of the vines was to envelope the whole building. Inside the roof was hammer-beamed and ribbed to give the feeling of great length tapering into the distance as might be the case if one were placed within the rib cage of some vast leviathan. Save for a dais lifted high towards its north end, now occupied by the ranting Bramlet and a handful of his closest supporters, the building was devoid of furnishings of any kind. As Bramlet, the shoemaker, held forth towards the assembled villagers from his vantage point, it soon became clear that it was the shortage of leather that had stirred his rebellious nature into open protest. On account of the parlous state of the peasants’ footwear, he was assured of a sympathetic hearing.

Despite his small stature and wizened appearance Bramlet was no mere rabble-rouser. The truth was he was a positive thinker, who never spoke against anything unjust unless he could suggest a remedy. He was convinced that the leather shortage could be overcome by the setting up of a monetary system. Whereas the Grubbers used money, the Peasenlanders didn’t.

‘And are the Grubbers poorly shod?’ he asked, his rhetoric rising. ‘Are they dependent upon the whim of every tin pot barterer? I tell you, no! And why? I’ll tell you why. Because they have money. That’s why. Money! And if we had it, we could buy leather from them and be rid of this daft Etiquette imposed on us by the Corps. Do the Grubbers have taboos? They don’t. Do they practise embargoes on the slaughter of cattle? They don’t. Hides they have in plenty because they keep cattle to supply need, and not as part of some outmoded wealth-tallying system as we have here. With them wealth is set aside in the form of money to be used in case of need and not, as with us, tied up in certain forms of stock that may be neither killed nor bartered save at propitious times predetermined by the Etiquette of Cloudegg. Money brings prosperity. We need it here!’

A large section of the crowd took up the cry. ‘Here! Here! We need it here! Money! Money! Money!’

Raising his hands high, Bramlet bellowed back: ‘Whom shall we tell?’

‘The Lord Blod!’

‘And where shall we go?’

‘To the Kepanhalla! The Kepanhalla!’

‘Then follow me!’

Their ride down from the Suggenmound gave Blod, Clod and Fenhir a panoramic view of the Helm valley enabling them to witness the progress of the mob towards the Kepanhalla. Reacting quickly, Blod ordered Fenhir to ride round by the back of the Kepanhalla and endeavour to arm himself with a sword from its armoury, whilst he and Clod would attempt to ride up to the main entrance with the aim of reasoning with the peasants from there.

As it turned out Blod and Clod arrived to take up their positions seated on their mounts under the archway covering the main entrance to the Kepanhalla only moments before the arrival of the mob led by the slender, white-bearded figure of Bramlet striding, staff in hand, well out in front. On catching sight of Blod, most of the peasants held back, leaving Bramlet and a handful of the more adventurous among them to continue onwards right up to the archway. Halting some half dozen paces or so in front of Blod they all, save Bramlet, waited, their heads bared and bowed, for their Chieftain to address them.

Bramlet, however, showed no such respect. Stepping forward, he began addressing Blod in a loud, high-pitched voice. Holding up his right hand in a gesture of restraint, Blod refused to allow the impact of Bramlet’s words to register with him. Ignoring the gesture, Bramlet ranted on. Only when Fenhir rode up from across the courtyard and drew his recently acquired sword did the tirade cease.

With mouth open and beard wisping in the cool breeze, Bramlet stared, his watery blue eyes bulking large in his narrow face. Walking his pony slowly passed Blod, Fenhir lowered the sword until its tip touched against the wavy strands of the loquacious old shoemaker’s beard. It was then that Blod’s voice, firm and clear, cut into the deadly silence. ‘You will return to the village, each to his home or workplace, and you will banish all thoughts of this blatant breach of Etiquette from your minds.’

As, without a murmur, the protestors turned and began walking slowly back towards the village, Blod lowered his voice and addressed the four men who had stepped to the fore behind Bramlet. ‘One of you, step out the distance between yourselves and Bramlet! That’s it! You there, on the right!’

Stepping out with long strides, the peasant, halting beside Bramlet, doffed his floppy hat and bowed. ‘`Tis five and a half paces, milord!’

‘Good! Then the four of you are saved by half a pace. Return to the village and think no more of the matter.’

When the four were out of earshot, Blod turned his attention once more to Bramlet. ‘You are guilty of breaching the age old Etiquette of the Peasenlanders. What have you to say for yourself?’

Bramlet refused to respond.

‘Well?’

Bramlet remained stubbornly silent.

‘Answer me man!’

Even though the point of the sword moved fractionally nearer to his throat, the old man refused to budge. He was determined not to be intimidated by either lord or sword.

Turning to Fenhir, Blod told him curtly to lock Bramlet up in the cells. ‘I’ll deal with him after we’ve eaten,’ he said.

The cell was dark and musty, its only furniture consisting of a wooden bench built in along the whole length of its side opposite the door. Meagre light and some ventilation were provided by a square aperture, fortified by iron bars, in the upper part of the door, which opened into a passageway affording access to five more cells of similar design.

Seating himself on the bench, Bramlet leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He was far from disconsolate. It was sometime since he had given up being concerned about his fate. Dedicated to progress, he considered his personal wellbeing of little consequence beside that of the community at large. He had come to believe that their traditional way of life was no longer viable for the Peasenlanders. The fact that incidents of the Plague were virtually unheard of outside of Peasenland, where sporadic outbreaks still occurred, surely meant that their backward way of life was at least partly to blame for it.

In his youth Bramlet had been apprenticed to a shoemaker in Puddleville, a thriving market town just across the border into Grubberland. It was rare for the Grubbers to take on workers from Peasenland; the risk of catching the Plague was too great. Matters were worse now than when Bramlet had been young. At that time Helmthorpe had been plague free for so long it was considered safe to accept some of its inhabitants as workers in border towns such as Puddleville. However, since the outbreak of the Plague responsible for the death of Gladwina, this custom had ceased.

Bramlet sighed. Since there had been no outbreak now for at least six years, why was it taking so long to re-establish trust? He marvelled at how trust, built up so painstakingly over years could be shattered in an instant. But truth was a two edged sword, and it was equally true that traditions developed over more than two thousand years were not easily changed. But why not? If attitudes could be changed overnight in one direction, why not in another? Comforted by this concept he began to feel better.

Etiquette, as understood by the Peasenlanders, was surely little more than a straightjacket. No other neighbouring culture was trammelled in this way. The Grubbers, above all, thrived without it. Bramlet saw it as little more than an antiquated system of refined fear. Everyone was kept in place through fear of what might happen if Etiquette was breached. Peasenland villagers had become as flies trapped in a web of taboos manipulated from the centre by the local chieftain. However, bad as this system seemed, it was difficult to argue against it. After all, had it not worked well for over two thousand years? Doors in Peasenland needed no locks. There was but one recognised crime: breach of Etiquette[1]. Cells in village kepanhallas existed for no other reason than for locking up persons for having committed this offence.

There was no police force in Peasenland, and the only body resembling an army was the Division of Border Scouts drawn exclusively from families belonging to the Corps of Cloudegg. It wasn’t large enough to defend the country against any concerted attack from a neighbouring power. Since, in the main, foreigners were kept out by fear of catching the Plague, one of its main functions was to keep Peasenlanders in. It also doubled up as the sole enforcer of import and export Etiquette.

Bramlet believed that, as seemed likely, the Plague would eventually die out completely, the main barrier to an invasion from Grubberland would be removed. If Peasenland failed to install a monetary system, adopt modern ways and raise a standing army, its demise as an independent land was certain. It was incredible that no one inside the Corps of Cloudegg seemed able to appreciate such a self-evident fact. But there it was: to a man, the Corps insisted that not even the well trained army of Grubberland was in any position to overcome the age old Etiquette of the Peasenlanders.

Bramlet sat up straight and shook his head. The fools! The blind fools! And they looked upon the likes of himself as a traitor, when all he was trying to do was to save the land of his birth from being overrun by an alien culture. If the Peasenlanders adapted now, they could do it their way. Otherwise, when the Grubbers eventually did invade, it would be too late to avoid the imposition of another nation’s culture in its entirety.

Whilst appreciating Bramlet’s point of view, Blod did not agree with it. For him, Etiquette was the only way. He believed that, with over two thousand years of proven effectiveness behind it, it simply could not fail when the crunch came. So it was that, in a non-violent, crime-free society, any breach of Etiquette, however small, had to be dealt with severely and without delay. The Etiquette-centred Peasenland code of conduct, which Bramlet had breached, demanded that he be punished in accordance with its edicts.

The dwellings of the Peasenlanders epitomised their love of space. Furniture was kept to a bare minimum. Nothing must be allowed to impair the symmetry of an enclosed space. After all, space under the shelter of a roof was nothing more or less than a scaled down version of the greater space of the outside world. This spaciousness was especially evident within the kepanhallas and nowhere more so than in the Judgement Hall.

Since the Peasenlanders believed that wisdom had originated in the east, the dais from which the Chieftain pronounced judgement was situated at the hall’s eastern end. Here Blod sat, having privately reached a decision concerning Bramlet, who, flanked by Fenhir and one of his assistant blacksmiths, now stood behind a waist-high bar on a movable dock situated in the centre of the hall.

Within Peasenland society blacksmiths were revered as belonging to a superior caste. Besides working in iron and other metals, they were proficient in the prevention and cure of all kind of animal ailments, were arbiters in petty disputes and acted as keepers of the peace on behalf of the Chieftain within his village community. By ancient custom each village chieftain governed his peasants through the agency of his master blacksmith.

Fenhir read out the charge against Bramlet in a steady voice that betrayed no sign of his inner distress at the old shoemaker’s long standing hatred of him. The position he took up well to the right of Bramlet was governed by the positioning of the nearest oil lamp, a number of which were suspended from the roof beams at regular intervals on locally forged chains.

The brightest light came from an extra large lamp hung above the dais where it illuminated three high-backed chairs delightfully carved in intertwining animal patterns. Only the centre chair, which was larger than the other two, was occupied. Blod sat there, a solemn figure in his embroidered black, red and gold judgement robes. After the reading out of the charge, he addressed Bramlet in formal fashion.

‘How say you? Do you plead Etiquette breached or not breached?’

‘Breached, milord!’ Bramlet’s response was clear and without hesitation.

‘Then you stand ready to receive punishment?’

‘I have no choice.’

Placing his right hand on the hilt of his sword, Fenhir stepped towards the prisoner.

Blod raise his voice ever so slightly, its tone becoming cold and incisive. ‘Your answer is unacceptable. You are now doubly in breach of Etiquette. Again I put it to you: are you ready to receive punishment?’

Uttering a loud sigh of resignation, Bramlet bowed his head and forced himself to answer according to the time-honoured formula: ‘I am at your lordship’s mercy.’

‘It is well. You will submit to one night in the cells and to one week’s loss of trade. Unless, that is, you have anything you wish to say in mitigation.’

Bramlet hadn’t. He was grateful for small mercies. Beside the fact that his punishment could have been far worse, he had been spared the usual lengthy lecture on the evils of breaching the Code of Etiquette customary on these occasions. When he mentioned this to the assistant blacksmith escorting him back to his cell, the young man replied that it would not have been fitting to prolong the proceedings on Clod’s seventh birthday.

Locked away within the darkness of that rat-infested night, Bramlet muttered away to himself. ‘Important day is it? I’ll give ’em important day! I’ll make sure the young jackanapes never becomes Chieftain. I’ll have his high and mighty father out of it long before then.’

Clod snuggled down into the comfort of his goose down bed. Standing by the pine window table, Wanda asked if she should put out the light.

Clod sat up. ‘The light? But you haven’t…’

Wanda curtsied. ‘Begging your pardon, young master, but ought I to do that now that you’re seven years old?’

‘Maybe not; but I want you to; I shall always want you to.’

‘Always, young master?’ Wanda smothered a giggle.

‘Yes, and even more now that you’ve laughed. Father has never said you shouldn’t, not even today. And he has told me so much! I’m to be taught by Fenhir - ever so many things. How exciting it will be, and how tired I shall get; and if you never again kiss me goodnight, how lonely I shall become!’

Moving to the bedside, Wanda hugged him to her. Reaching behind her head and feeling for her braids, Clod loosened their ends, causing her mass of flaxen hair to cascade around him.

‘You’re Mousewoman peeping out of her temple,’ he whispered.

Wanda kissed him. It was a game they played. She couldn’t help wondering if he would always think of her in that way. If, when, he became Chieftain, would he still continue to love her, his Mousewoman, who had both mothered and reared him, in this same tender way?’

Chapter Two: Plotting

More than three years had passed and it was high summer in Clod’s eleventh year. Fenhir had seen to it that he had been taught basic survival skills including the rudiments of both ironwork and woodwork. Recently he had been helping Fenhir to make a donkey plough small enough for a boy to handle. After harvest he would be taught how to use it.

For Clod, work was akin to play. This was certainly the case with archery, swordsmanship and falconry. When he could find time from his chieftainship duties, Blod would help Fenhir in the teaching of the martial skills, whilst Wanda taught him household management. Her laughter, patience and gentle ways turned what might easily have been the most boring part of his training into one of its greatest joys.

Wanda, who had been chosen to look after the infant Clod when she was in her ninth year, and was now in her nineteenth, was the nearest Clod ever got to playing with another child. Peasenland Etiquette forbade children of the kepanhallas to fraternise with peasant children. The fact that Clod was being allowed to learn peasant crafts was frowned on by most of the villagers, and was only made possible because it was arranged that he never worked in close proximity to any of the village folk except for anyone detailed to teach him.

With Bramlet’s attempted revolt having caused Blod to have a premonition of eventual disaster, he was determined that Clod should be left in a position to fend for himself should be lose his father prematurely. Clod knew that, in the event of a successful peasant uprising, he must attempt to flee into Hommerland, the country of the wild shepherd folk known as the Schaffenhommers. So it was then that, one afternoon, as a session with the great sand tray in the schoolroom at the Kepanhalla came to an end, he asked Blod if it wouldn’t be better for both of them to flee at once to the protection of a kepanhalla in the nearest safe village in the event of an uprising. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘Hommerland is such a long way off and, in any case, I shouldn’t care to have to wait until you were dead before I fled.’

Blod shook his head. ‘We would not be welcome. I had hoped that the passing of the years would heal things, but my kinsfolk have never forgiven me for having married an alien woman. We have little choice but to accept that they regard you as being defiled with the weakness of Plague-prone blood.’

‘But father, is it not the age old custom in the Corps that one of its members is never turned away by another?’

Placing an arm round the boy’s shoulders, Blod drew him close to his side. ‘Although they have an obligation to accept me, there is no such obligation to accept you.’ He sighed. ‘But you talk of safe villages. The truth is, there are none in this north western part of the country if, as I suspect, we are sooner or later to be overwhelmed by revolt.’

‘But the Code of Etiquette, father… Will it not hold?’

‘Until these past few years I had always thought it would, but now I am not so sure. Everything is changing - fast.’

‘Yes father; but the Schaffenhommers… How do we know we can trust them?’

‘Because we can. Ask Fenhir; he will explain.’

‘Then, I will ask him tomorrow.’

‘Not tomorrow, my son. The day after, but not tomorrow.’

‘How so? Ah… Of course it’s the feast day.’

‘Yes, now you remember: the Feast of the First Fruits and the peasants will keep it after their fashion. As for you and I, we shall go hawking - with the peregrines.’

‘Oh father, father, I can’t wait!’

Blod patted him on the head. ‘I know; but, I warn you, the pigeons won’t like it!’

That night, as Wanda kissed Clod good night, he was surprised when she told him she would not be attending the Feast of the First Fruits.

‘But you always do!’

‘Not this year, young master. Times have changed.’

‘They won’t like it in the village.’

‘Be that as it may, the time has come to take sides.’

‘But it’s quite safe, Wanda, really it is! Fenhir says that he hasn’t known the villagers to be so content for years.’

‘That’s what I fear. It’s too quiet. It’s my belief the time’s not far off when… when…’

‘You mean the uprising?’

‘I do indeed. Mark my words: in less than a year, it’ll be upon us.’

Then Wanda did something she had never done before. She sat on a stool by the bedside, her back half-turned in an inviting gesture. Realising that it was a long time since he had unravelled her hair, Clod reached for her braids. Wanda handed him a comb and, after much combing, he asked her to turn towards him. As Wanda pivoted round on the stool, her face was almost hidden by the enveloping mass of flaxen hair.

As Clod peered into the cave of mystery created by its persuasive profusion, he began to recite in a quiet but clear voice:

Mousewoman, Mousewoman, tell it me true,

Shall it be rosemary, shall it be rue?

Taking Clod’s hands in hers, Wanda responded in husky tones:

Clod of Cloudegg, my own darling boy,

Pain is your destiny, mingled with joy.

Then, loosing her hands from his, she hugged him to her as he whispered: ‘And will there be much pain, Mousewoman?’

‘Oh yes indeed; but that’s the way of things. Joy and pain, that’s how it goes; the two of them always walk hand in hand.’

‘Even with you, Mousewoman?’

‘Even with me.’

Not wanting to believe that, Clod buried his face in Wanda’s hair. How could she be anything else but joy personified?

Later that same night, as Wanda lay awake thinking in her room in the servants’ quarters, she had no doubts about the rightness of her decision to cut herself off from the protection of the God Fyor and, consequently, also from any real chance of marriage. Not even a propitious marriage could be allowed to stand in the way of her care for that strange, lonely boy. In any case, she had never been a wholehearted believer in the efficacy of the Fyorite faith. In this she had been much influenced by her mother, who came from a southern village on the border with Hommerland. Some of these southern villages were the home of a relict Earth Mother cult, an ancient religion in which her mother had never ceased to believe.

The Peasenland peasants, or Pulsers, believed that Fyor, the All-Father, had made everything out of a great fire. Mansh, the ancestor of all people on earth, had stolen some of the fire for the benefit of humankind. Angered that Mansh had not waited for the action of godly benevolence to grant the use of fire, Fyor had decreed that, until all people everywhere had learned not to burn themselves, they would be scourged from time to time with a deadly plague that would cause its victims to break out in frightful sores and ulcers all over their bodies until it finally killed them.

The members of the Corps of Cloudegg, believing none of these things, kept well away from anything to do with temple affairs, leaving the administration of them to the blacksmiths, who were responsible for appointing the temple priests. The blacksmiths formed an esoteric group possessing knowledge never divulged to others. Along with her mother, Wanda believed that this knowledge had at least something to do with a connection between the Plague and working with metals, although it has to be said that this belief was intuitive without any foundation in fact.

However, there was nothing intuitive about knowing that the power of the Corps was likely to wane with the dying out of the Plague. The basis for the old culture would disintegrate and Grubber standards would eventually prevail over western Peasenland. This could only mean that placid co-operation would give way to cruel competition. Sighing, she turned over in her narrow bed. Somehow, she must get Clod away into the land of his mother’s people, even if that meant taking him far to the north beyond the Great Forest.

From midnight onwards the sound of the temple drums and the slow, measured chanting of the priests could be heard as far away as the Kepanhalla and beyond. By dawn the villagers had assembled in the village square and, as the sun rose, a colourful procession began to wend its way along the processional way, known as the Halwalken, towards the temple on the hill.

During the course of the temple service Wodicar, the chief priest, addressed the congregation. ‘Blessed be Fyor who has removed the Plague from us. Two thousand long years of trial have passed. He has listened to our prayers. The supplications of our ancestors have not been in vain. Be watchful! Hearken to the voice of Fyor! For he has great plans for us. We must be ready to obey, to act, when the time comes.’

That night, as dancing and revelry continued in the village square, Wodicar called in at the residence of the master blacksmith in answer to a summons from Fenhir. Adopting a severe tone, Fenhir accused him of preaching a political sermon.

From his seat on a stool at the far end of the empty hearth, Wodicar gazed uneasily at the floor. ‘The people didn’t seem to think so.’

‘You were not appointed by the people.’

‘No, but it’s my duty to serve them.’

‘You don’t serve them by playing to the gallery.’

‘What gallery? I teach only the ways of Fyor.’

‘Then, may I ask, do those ways include being ready to obey and act when the time comes?’

‘There can be no better way than to act upon the word of Fyor.’

‘Don’t bandy words with me Wodicar! We both know that’s not what you meant when you said what you did.’

As he looked up and straight at Fenhir, a faint smile flickered around Wodicar’s lips. ‘Then, Master Blacksmith, what did I mean?’

Beneath his thick beard Fenhir felt the colour draining from his face. His right hand, dangling at his side, clenched and unclenched as he responded in a level tone of voice. ‘You know. I know. Bramlet knows. We all know what you meant. And I tell you, it won’t do!’

‘I’m the chief priest, and once a priest, always a priest. You can’t undo that.’

‘Maybe not, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be silenced.’

‘Removing a priest’s right to officiate is a lengthy process, especially when you have no real evidence of misconduct.’

‘Not anywhere as lengthy as you might suppose.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘You may take it whatever way you choose. The point is that, in future, you had better watch what you say.’

Wodicar rose to his feet. ‘I will not tolerate this! What you have just said breaks every rule of Etiquette.’

Fenhir stood up. ‘For that I am indeed sorry, but after listening to your sermon, it seems to me that you’re the one who is working towards the abolition of all forms of etiquette and decent behaviour.’

Wodicar, his round, clean shaven face livid with anger, strode towards the door; but Fenhir was there before him to bow him out in traditional fashion.

The following morning, after Clod had left for Fenhir’s forge to continue helping him make the donkey plough, Wanda went to the sand tray room, where Blod was writing in the dampened sand with a pointed stick. Not best pleased at being disturbed in the middle of important calculations, he frowned as she curtsied before him telling him that she feared for his life.

If he was surprised by such an assumption, Blod contrived not to show it. ‘I’m not sure that you should be,’ he replied quietly as his initial irritation mellowed into an appreciation for her concern. Motioning towards a tall, three legged stool, he told her to sit down and take her time to explain why she had come to such a conclusion.

‘Milord, it was last night. I had a dream. There was a great storm. The Kepanhalla was struck by lightening and caught fire. Taking the young master by the hand, I fled with him into the Great Forest. We were pursued by a horde of men brandishing cudgels and crying out: ’Down with Cloudegg!’ Master Clod raced with me towards a great tree, whose branches caught us up, lifting us out of harm’s way. As we looked down, the sight below was too horrible to contemplate. Milord, it was you! Having severed your head from your body, they pushed it aloft on a long pole. I awoke in a cold sweat.’

Blod slowly shook his head. ‘My child, this was only a dream. Is there anyone anywhere who does not, now and then, have a bad dream?’

‘That, milord, I grant, but you must know that, in the village…’

‘Ah yes, in the village! No doubt you hear them complaining, but that was always the way of things. It’s a safety valve allowed for in our Code of Etiquette.’

Wanda nodded. ‘Yes, and it’s known as leeway after the drift allowed to a boat to counteract overmuch pressure by wind and current.’

Blod smiled his approval. ‘Well said! And it all goes to show that more than two thousand years of control by Etiquette will not be easily overthrown.’

Wanda was not convinced. ‘Milord, not so very long ago I would have agreed with you; but how long is it since any outbreak of the Plague was reported from any part of our land? Men such as Bramlet the Shoemaker regard this as an omen. The Plague will not need to be absent for much longer before they rise in rebellion.’

Blod shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Even if what you say is true, we of the Corps will have no choice but to resist any such uprising, and who is to say we will not overcome it?’

A pleading look in her earnest blue eyes, Wanda edged forward on her stool. ‘But milord, Master Clod… his mother… the Lady Gladwina… She wasn’t…’ Her voice trailed away as she struggled desperately to find the right words. Mouth open, she looked straight up into Blod’s eyes. Then, as he lowered his gaze, the words flowed. ‘Oh milord! Now I see! You, too, are aware of the great danger. Your speech is brave and you will resist in the only way possible for you, but you know inwardly that your cause is already lost. Please, I beg you, we must take the young master and flee northwards with him to the land of his mother’s people beyond the Great Forest.’

Blod held up his right hand in a gesture of admonition. ‘Enough! Flight there will be; when the time is ripe; but it will not be northwards into the unknown. Although it is certainly true that the Lady Gladwina was reared by a northern tribe, it is doubtful if she herself was of that kin. She used to speak of another tribe, that of the Raven Banner, but where its land is we have no idea. So you may not go north, but south into Hommerland, whose people are well known to us. It has all been arranged and you and Fenhir will receive your instructions all in good time.’

Wanda’s eyes continued to plead. ‘If that is your lordship’s wish, so be it; but I make bold to ask: what future will there be for the son of a northern princess among the wild Schaffenhommers, who have no knowledge of working with any kind of…er…metal?’

Leaning forward, Blod spoke sharply. ‘The mention of the word metal causes you to hesitate. Why?’

Wanda gazed at the floor for several moments before raising her head and bursting out defiantly: ‘I know what the blacksmiths know! There’s a connection between certain kinds of metal and the Plague.’

Blod turned pale. ‘Keep your voice down! You’re too far away. Bring your stool and sit by me. Come on! There’s no need to hesitate. This matter is too serious for us to stand on niceties. You must tell me all you know. And I mean all.’

Having taken up her new position, Wanda continued in a lower tone of voice. ‘Certain metals are said to give off rays that cause the Plague…’

‘What blacksmith told you this? Come! Answer me! He shall be punished!’

‘Milord, you misunderstand. It was no blacksmith. I learned these things from my mother.’

‘Your mother? Then, from which blacksmith did she…?

‘Spinwalda, my mother, comes from the far south. She is of an ancient tradition. She needs no blacksmith to tell her what is already lodged in her memory.’

It was then that Blod remembered. Faldhir, the wool trader, had met Spinwalda on one of his frequent visits to Hommerland. She came from Fordham, a village just inside Peasenland on the border with Hommerland that acted as a staging post for his packhorse trains. Fordham, along with a handful of other border villages, was the home of the Earth People of the Long Memory. The Memory People, as they were generally called, were not true Pulsers, and Blod had been lax in allowing Faldhir to marry one of them. They were the remnants of an ancient race whose group memory, so it was said, reached far back in time to long before the advent of the Great Destruction.

Blod rose to his feet. ‘Order horses to be saddled. We will ride out to visit Spinwalda this very instant.’

Some time later a colourful procession left the Kepanhalla. In the lead rode the chieftain’s trumpeter, whose function