Urbis

Crispin’s people were farmers and hunter gatherers. They grazed sheep and a few cattle on the uplands surrounding their village, they gathered mushrooms and wild fruit, they fished in the rivers, and they organised hunting expeditions. Besides their animal husbandry, they had also learned to cultivate some vegetables for themselves. As a rule, the work was divided in such a way that the men tended the animals and the women the vegetables.

The country round about was scattered with villages, but, for the most part, they kept themselves to themselves, and travel between villages was uncommon.

It was the evening of the third day following the slaughter of the mammoths when the hunters returned home to their village of Vale-By-The-Waters, a small community nestling in a deep valley, straddling a fast flowing stream. The herdsmen were returning home from their pastures. Many people were in their homes, and a few were in the communal longhouse, sitting round the fire, talking and playing music. As the dusk descended, those who were out and about observed the glint of lanterns as the wagon made its weary way up the track.

The people in the longhouse were alerted, and all moved slowly and calmly out to welcome the hunters on their return and to congratulate them on their success. They spoke softly, their upturned faces glowing in the light of the lanterns, and a few women embraced their men.

“You’ve caught a fine beast, Crispin.”

Crispin started at the voice of his father, Dirk, turned, and saw the grizzle-haired man walking beside the wagon. He realised that his father had been watching him for a few moments before revealing his presence, sizing up his son. It was a habit of his: he would always approach Crispin from the rear if he could, to observe him silently. It was a habit that continued to annoy Crispin, but he had long since ceased to protest about it. He had had his turbulent days of rebellion against his father, there had been times when, as a scrawny youth, he had hurled himself at him in a fit of rage, only to be contemptuously thrust aside by the older man. But they had made their peace, to an extent, and had grown tolerant of each other, and moderately respectful, as they had grown older, still more so since Crispin’s mother had died. But Crispin’s filial loyalty had never matured into love, and his father had never softened in his demand for the highest standards in all things from his son. The only thing they had agreed on unequivocally was the rightness for Crispin of Tana as a bride.

Crispin nodded. “We have seen some strange things, father,” he said. “We will go to the longhouse as soon as the horses are tended. Please inform the elders of our return.”

“I will,” said the older man. He began to walk away.

“Father?”

The old man stopped and turned. He smiled, guessing what his son had to ask. “Yes?”

“Tana...?”

“...Is in the house. Sleeping, I would guess. She misses you very much when you are away.”

Crispin smiled. “Thank you.”

His father melted into the darkness as he hurried to assemble the wisest men in the village to hear Crispin’s news. Crispin guessed his father would be keen to garner any reflected glory deriving from his son’s exploits.

The horses pulled the wagon through the village, past the baker’s and the potter’s and the smithy, crossing the stream by a ford in its centre, and were taken to a paddock at the upper end of the village. There they were unhitched and hay was brought for them from a barn. They thrust their muzzles into their drinking trough and drank deeply.

Skins were brought to cover the wagon for the night. In the morning the mammoth meat would be cut up and put into store, and much of it would be smoked in the village smokehouses.

When he was satisfied with the condition of the horses, Crispin went to their trough and splashed water on his face. He picked up one of the chainsaws and walked out of the paddock. Arne picked up the other one and followed him. In a close, silent group, the hunters made their way to the longhouse.

The longhouse was located in roughly the middle of the village. It was built in the traditional manner of the region, partially sunken into the ground, with an outer wall of wattles daubed with mud attached to the framework, and a thatch roof with broad eaves a little above the height of a man. It was entered by means of a short tunnel which sloped from the level of the ground outside to that of the excavated floor inside. In more warlike times in the distant past, this style of entrance had been adopted to prevent enemies from entering the longhouse en masse.

The hunters stepped through the curtains at the inner end of the tunnel. The interior framework of the building had taken the regular design of a central square of four upright timbers supporting crosspieces placed in notches in their ends, and had extended it into a long colonnade. Between the uprights, in the middle of the hall, was a fire pit in which a welcoming fire was now burning, illuminating with a golden glow the faces and cloaked figures of the men sitting around it. They sat staring into the flames and talking softly among themselves. Some were chewing on platters of bread, goat’s cheese and fruit, and drinking from mugs of ale. Three or four had lit pipes, and were smoking the herb they called peacegrass. One man seated on a stool close to the flames was strumming a guitar.

Dirk was seated close beside the village head, Torfinn. Tall and thin, with a slight stoop, Torfinn made every effort to look the part, drawing himself up self-consciously to affect the regal bearing of a leader, and fixing any miscreant with an eye that was rheumy yet imperious. Sitting close by were the other elders, Gunnar, Lars and Eirik. Of the three, Eirik was the closest to Torfinn in age, and also the most biddable of the three, for, sensing that the position of leader would surely be his in not more than three or four years, he was willing to be patient and do Torfinn’s will while the old man still lived. Gunnar and Lars were of much the same age, appreciably younger than the other two, with hints of brown still visible amongst the predominant grey of their hair, and both were apt to gainsay Torfinn, in their private conferences at least. Between the four of them they made the laws of the little community, and were ultimate arbiters in all disputes. With them rested also the sum of the village’s learning, the understanding of the thread of its history.

The elders guarded closely their power, and part of the initiation into their company of any newcomer was a sworn oath to preserve that power on pain of death. They had little fear, however, that any secrets they cherished might be revealed, for the rest of the villagers were too hard pressed simply providing the necessities of life to concern themselves with what many of them suspected to be esoteric mumbo-jumbo. And the elders were content to keep things that way.

As Crispin entered, their heads were inclined towards each other in quiet conversation. They sat up as Crispin entered, leading his men.

As Crispin and Arne approached, the eyes of the elders fell at once on the chainsaws. As he rose from his chair, Torfinn squeezed Gunnar’s arm tightly in an unmistakable gesture of warning.

“Welcome home, Crispin,” Torfinn said, his voice sounding reedy and ancient. He stood up, a stately yet angular old man with wispy white hair falling onto his shoulders, clutching around himself the embroidered cloak of his office. “Your father tells me you have brought home a fine beast.”

Crispin inclined his head at words of praise from the venerable old man. “We were fortunate, Master Torfinn.”

Torfinn chuckled. “I will not permit such modesty, Crispin. Fortune goes hand in hand with skill, and you are certainly the equal of your father in skill.” He extended a bony hand and patted Dirk on the shoulder. “Come closer, all of you. Come and warm yourselves by the fire after your long journey.” He beckoned, and the twelve men shuffled forwards. Chairs were shifted, others brought from around the hall, and space was made for the new arrivals close to the fire. Food and ale was brought for them, and they ate and drank heartily.

When they had had their fill, Torfinn turned to Crispin. “Crispin, your father says you have some strange news for us. I see you have some objects with you, the like of which I have never seen before.”

Crispin drew a deep breath and told the tale of the two men and the flying machine, of what they had done, and how angry it had made him, angry enough to kill them. He told of the chainsaws, and how he had used one to carve up the mammoth.

Torfinn motioned for him to give him one of the machines. Crispin laid it carefully in the old man’s lap. Torfinn glanced edgily at the other elders.

“Do not touch this,” Crispin warned, pointing to the starter button.

Torfinn looked at it carefully, weighed it, ran his fingers delicately along the teeth. Then he looked at Crispin. “I have certainly never seen anything like it,” he mused. “If you had not brought me this, I would have said you had been either dreaming or drinking.”

A few men laughed nervously. The wizened village elder returned his attention to the chainsaw.

“I don’t know what this means,” he said at last. “It may mean nothing. I hope so. We will have to wait and see what passes. Your actions, young Crispin, are understandable, but somehow I wish your bolt might have stayed on the bow. I fear there may be further consequences of this.”

Torfinn fixed him with his gaze for a moment, and let the words sink in. He had a reputation as a seer, Crispin knew, and he wondered what the old man had seen looming in the future.

Then, as if waking from a trance, Torfinn’s face became animated once more. “I’m afraid I have a little bad news.”

Crispin raised an eyebrow.

“Upper Vale is rebuilding its longhouse. You may recall it was destroyed by a falling tree in the last storm. Well, they are rebuilding, and they have requested that we send them all possible help.”

Crispin glanced around at those who had accompanied him on the hunting trip. They were weary, and wanted to rest, but the longhouse was central to the functioning of a village, and they were duty bound to obey the elders’ directive. They nodded silently. Crispin sighed and smiled. “We will leave at first light.”

Torfinn beamed. “Most of our young men are already there. They will certainly welcome you. Now, go home. All of you. Sleep well in the arms of your wives. Our thanks go with you.”

The men drained their ale mugs and got to their feet. Sleepily acknowledging further softly murmured greetings, they shuffled out of the building. Other villagers gradually drifted after them, until only the four elders remained, standing by the glowing embers of the fire, watching in silence as they gradually diminished and died.

Torfinn lit a lamp. He sat, still nursing the chainsaw between his knees. He established eye contact with each of the others in turn, his gaze steely and hard.

“Well?” he snapped angrily, suddenly no longer the frail old man. “Have you heard?” He slapped the machine with his fingers. “Have you seen?”

Gunnar sighed. “Clearly, the Others have visited.”

“Clearly they have!” said Torfinn loudly.

“It’s surprising,” said Lars. “They haven’t come for so many years.”

“And in all likelihood wouldn’t come again for just as long,” said Torfinn scornfully, “if Crispin and Arne hadn’t killed two of their number. Now we can expect them back again very soon. They’ve had three days since the killing. Someone is sure to come looking.”

“What do we do if they come here?” asked Eirik.

Torfinn sighed. “I don’t know. We shall just have to see what transpires.”

Outside the longhouse, the air seemed suddenly cold. The night sky was clear and moonless. Thousands of stars shone in the firmament. Crispin breathed deeply and stared at them in wonder. Then, bidding good night to his friends, he turned and walked to the edge of the stream. A little upstream of the ford there was a footbridge, and at the water’s edge a large rock. He sat on the rock for a few minutes, as was his wont on returning from the hunt. He took time to watch the way the water swept around the stones in the river bed, the accumulation of sand in the eddies, the dams of trapped vegetation brought here by the current in the last strong rain. Somewhere a short distance away a nightingale was singing its sweet song.

He sat musing on his strange encounter for a while, listening to the endless rush of the water. Then his eyes lifted to his own house, a short distance away on the other side of the river. He had built it into the side of the hill, and had roofed it with slate, with turf over the top, so that it was extremely well insulated and also merged with its surroundings perfectly. Tana had left a lamp hanging by the door to welcome him on his return. He climbed off the rock and crossed the footbridge.

In moments he was standing at the door. He took down the lamp and silently turned the latch.

Inside, he closed the door and looked around. In the hearth, the last embers of a fire still glowed warmly, and the remains of a meal stood on the table. Stepping softly across the earthen floor, he paused in the entrance to the bed chamber.

The light from his lamp fell on Tana as she lay on a bed of sheepskins. She had left the blanket thrust to one side and was naked. She lay sleeping, one arm at her side, the other stretched behind her head. One leg was drawn up slightly, as if intentionally coy, concealing from Crispin’s sight that most private place.

His blood raced as he ran his eyes over her body, up from her lean thighs, across her angular hips and slender waist, her flat stomach and the smooth curves of her full breasts. And then the lamplight fell on her face, and she was awake. She raised herself on her elbows, and her deep brown eyes met his. She shook gleaming raven dark locks from around her face and smiled. “Welcome home, husband,” she said softly.

Crispin stared at her as she got to her feet and approached him. She reached up and put her arms around his neck. The smile on her face was genuinely warm, a mixture of relief at his safe return and genuine pleasure at seeing him again. But he could not fail to notice a shred of hesitation in her movements. As she began to undress him, there was something almost dutiful in her actions. In the past, in his darkest moments, it had occurred to Crispin to wonder if she were finding her pleasure with another man during his absences, but on this occasion, as on so many others, all the able bodied men of the village were away on the hunt together. Surely she was not receiving the attentions of a man from another village. Surely not.

His head swam with the intoxicatingly musky smell of her body, and he intensified the rhythm of his lovemaking. The rational part of his mind told him that he was imagining things, and that he must not allow a lack of passion to betray his thoughts to Tana.

He rocked to a furious climax and lay still.

“Welcome home, husband,” she murmured again.