When at last he reached the top of the ridge, Hawk-lan found it was broad and grassy, and he paused to revel for a moment in the cool breeze that was rising up from the other side. Gavor glided down to greet him.
‘Come along, dear boy, come along. Don’t dawdle. Come and see your first view of the Decmilloith of Riddin.’
Hawklan followed Gavor across the springy turf.
Just as, days ago, he had suddenly seen a great swathe of Orthlund spread out before him, now he saw Riddin. The view burst on him after he had walked a little way past the top of the grassy knoll. He continued forward until he came to the edge of a cliff which fell away suddenly in a sheer drop.
Riddin looked very different from Orthlund. It had forests and farmlands like Orthlund and it had a harmony of its own, but it was not the Great Harmony of Orthlund: it looked busier, more hectic. It was criss-crossed by hedges and ditches, and roads-so many roads and pathways that Hawklan could hardly believe his eyes. Then there were countless isolated houses and little villages, far more than in Orthlund. He felt vigour and excitement in the harmony of Riddin and wondered what its people would be like. He stood motionless for several minutes, then he opened his arms wide as if to embrace the whole country. Gavor spread his great shining wings in a similar gesture and, laughing out loud, launched himself into the void.
For the remainder of that day, the track they had been following led them down through softer, rolling countryside, becoming wider as they passed farms and the occasional small cluster of houses. Such few people as they saw looked at them uncertainly, but responded pleasantly to Hawklan’s smile and greetings.
Finally, rounding a bend at the top of a small slope, they found themselves looking down on the road that would lead them north to Altfarran and the Gretmearc. Hawklan hesitated.
‘What’s the matter, dear boy?’ said Gavor, sensing his uncertainty. Hawklan did not reply.
Gavor followed his gaze down to the road. ‘Ah,’ he said after a moment. ‘Too many people, eh?’
Used to the scarcely frequented roads of Orthlund, and following his long journey in pleasant isolation, Hawklan felt a momentary reluctance to join the people he could see on the road below. Gavor flapped his wings, ruffling Hawklan’s hair and ending his brief reverie. ‘Wait until it gets busy, dear boy,’ he said brusquely. ‘You’ll soon find out what a crowd is.’
‘Thank you, Gavor,’ Hawklan replied, with heavy irony, as he started forward. ‘I really don’t know where I’d be without your support and encouragement.’ Gavor laughed gleefully.
After a little while however, Hawklan began to find the presence of so many other people as interesting, if not as restful, as the quiet of the mountains. People were riding and walking, some alone, some in groups, some empty-handed, some carrying packs on their backs or on their heads or in panniers. There was an indescrib-able variety of carts-handcarts, carts pulled by horses and other creatures, even ornate wheeled houses, something that Hawklan had never even heard of. At each junction in the road, people joined and people left, but on the whole the road became busier.
‘It’s not Orthlund is it, Gavor?’ concluded Hawklan after a while.
‘Ah, dear boy,’ said Gavor wistfully. ‘There’s nothing like Orthlund in the entire world. It’s a special place. Very special. But the odd trip away will make you appreciate it a little more.’
Generally the many travellers on the road were friendly and courteous, although occasionally the air would be rent by abuse and vilification as the sheer press of numbers, where the road took them through a village or past some small roadside market, resulted inevitably in friction between some of the many disparate travellers.
‘You great donkey!’
Hawklan started at the sound of an impact and the none-too-dulcet cry that immediately followed it; the proximity of both leading him to imagine he was in some way responsible for the former and the intended recipient of the latter.
Turning, he saw that the owner of the voice was a small, stout old woman. She was brandishing an angry fist at a youth who, despite the fact that he towered head and shoulders over her, was retreating and raising his hands defensively. Incautiously, Hawklan smiled at the sight, just as the old lady caught his eye.
‘You,’ she shouted, making a commanding gesture, ‘you with the crow on your shoulder. Stop grinning and give a hand with this.’
Gavor’s head shot round as if he had been stung, and looking over the top of Hawklan’s head he glowered at the old woman.
‘What did she call me?’ he muttered disbelievingly under his breath.
‘Shush,’ said Hawklan urgently, as his legs involun-tarily marched him towards the beckoning woman.
The cause of the disturbance was a slight collision between the woman’s cart and the youth’s, which had left them with their wheels locked together. Looking at the two protagonists, Hawklan had reservations about the old woman’s immediate declamation of the youth’s guilt but, exchanging a quick look of understanding with him, he decided not to pursue the matter.
It took only a few minutes to separate the carts, after which the youth was summarily dismissed and Hawklan conscripted to hold the horse’s head while the woman checked her load.
‘You on your way to the Gretmearc?’ she cried, from the far side of the cart.
‘Yes,’ replied Hawklan, stroking the horse’s head. It was a fine, strong-spirited animal that radiated well-being.
‘I’m going part of the way myself,’ said the woman, bustling back purposefully to take the horse from Hawklan. ‘The horse is rested now so you can ride with me. It’ll save your legs. And you won’t mind, will you, horse?’ She patted the horse’s cheek solidly and Hawklan felt the warmth of the animal’s response. ‘Besides,’ she continued, glancing up at Gavor. ‘It’ll be someone for you to talk to. You must get lonely with only your pet for company.’
‘Hawklan… ’ began Gavor menacingly.
‘Oh,’ cried the woman. ‘It talks.’
‘It!’ hissed Gavor under his breath. Hawklan threw him a pleading glance and with wilful awkwardness Gavor hopped over his head and on to the shoulder farthest away from the woman. ‘In deference to our position as visitors here, Hawklan,’ he whispered, ‘I shall refrain from entering into any badinage with this old… horse-person, but do at least advise her that this it is a he. I can assure you I am anything but neuter.’
Hawklan smiled and, reaching up, tapped Gavor’s beak. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll defend your honour,’ he said quietly. ‘But I don’t think you and the lady are going to get on too well. Give your feet a rest.’ And Gavor was gone, his powerful wings lifting him high into the spring sky.
The woman watched him as Hawklan climbed up onto the cart. ‘I hope I didn’t frighten it,’ she said anxiously. ‘It’ll come back won’t it?’
Hawklan nodded. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be all right.’
The woman grunted then flicked the reins gently. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked as the horse started forward. Hawklan settled himself to the cart’s gently swaying rhythm.
‘Orthlund,’ he answered.
She looked at him in some surprise. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘We don’t get many Orthlundyn over here. Quiet kind of a place I’m told.’
Hawklan glanced at the busying traffic all around them, and nodded. ‘Quieter than this, for sure,’ he said.
The old woman laughed pleasantly. ‘You shouldn’t travel the Altfarran Road if you want peace and quiet,’ she said. Then she clucked at her horse, and fell silent.
‘You’re not going to the Gretmearc?’ Hawklan ven-tured.
‘Bless you, no,’ the woman replied. ‘I’m taking some things up to my sister’s. She lives just this side of Altfarran.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Mind you, I might look in there. It’s a long time since I’ve had a good wander round, and I might find something for the Line’s celebration.’