Chapter 5
The dream had returned many times during the night, taking Bartan Drumme back to the day of his airboat flight.
He had just tethered the boat and was walking towards the whitewashed farmhouse. An inner voice was shrieking at him, warning him not to enter the house, but although he was afraid he was unable to turn back. He unlatched the green door and pushed it open—and the creature was waiting inside, gently reaching for him with its single tentacle. As had happened in reality, he sprang backwards and fell, and when he looked again the monster had been transformed into a conglomerate of old clothes hanging on a wallhook. Where the dream differed from the reality was that the apron continued to beckon him, languorously, in a manner which could not have been caused by transient air currents, and somehow that struck more fear into him than the confrontation with the monster itself…
At that point Bartan had always awakened with a moan of alarm, relieved to find himself back in the normal night-time world, but each time he had recaptured sleep the dream had begun again. Consequently, he had welcomed the return of daylight, even though he had risen with a lingering tiredness in his system. He had claimed an entire section on his own behalf, as Jop Trinchil had wanted him to do, and was working himself to exhaustion every day in an effort to get the place ready for Sondeweere’s arrival.
Now, as he drove his refurbished wagon towards the Phoratere section, the contrast between the sunlit ambience of the morning and the terrors of darkness was invigorating him, dispelling all traces of weariness from his limbs.
There had been rain during the night and as a result the air was soft, thick and sweet. The mere act of breathing it was subtly thrilling and evocative as though it were wafting around him from out of those years in which he had been a dreamy-eyed child who perceived the future as little more than a shifting aureate glow. And what added a psychic sparkle to the surroundings was the realisation that the instinctive optimism of his boyhood had been fully justified. Life was good!
Keeping the bluehorn moving at a leisurely pace, Bartan reviewed the various circumstances which were conspiring to make this a special day in a special time. There had been the news from the reeve, Majin Karrodall, that all the expedition’s claims had been registered and approved in the provincial capital. The farmers, who had been happy to take over ready-made buildings and cleared land, now regarded Bartan as a benefactor. Jop Trinchil had set a date, only twenty days away, for Sondeweere’s wedding. And, finally, there was the prospect of the festive gathering—to celebrate the ratification of the claims—at which there would be many kinds of food and drink, and dancing far into the night.
The revel was not due to begin at a set time, but would gradually accrete during the day as family groups made their way in from outlying sections. Bartan was going exceptionally early in the hope that Sondeweere would do the same, thus giving him some extra hours in her company. He had not seen her for at least twelve days, and he was hungry for the sight of her face, the sound of her voice and the dizzying feel of her body against his own.
The thought that she might already be at the Phoratere farm prompted him to urge the bluehorn to a faster pace. He soon reached the top of a shallow dome, from which he was able to see many miles ahead, and the pastoral serenity of the view accorded with his mood. The night’s rain had deepened the blue of the sky, as was evidenced by the fact that he could discern several whirlpools of light in addition to a generous sprinkling of daytime stars. Below the horizon were sweeps and swathes of grassland in which the only perceptible movements were occasional reflections from near-invisible ptertha drifting on the breeze. In the middle distance, fringed by striated fields, were the buildings of the Phorateres’ farm, visible as tiny rectangles of white and grey. Harro and Ennda Phoratere had volunteered the use of their place because it was one of the most central.
Bartan began to whistle as the wagon rolled more easily on the downward slope, following the parallel ruts of the track. When he neared the main farmhouse he saw that several wagons were standing by the stable, but Trinchil’s—in which Sondeweere would have travelled—was not among them. It was likely that those which had arrived so early belonged to families whose female members were helping with the preparations for the party. A long table had been set up and a number of men and women were standing near it, apparently deep in discussion. Children of various ages were at play in the vicinity, producing a cheerful hubbub of laughs and screams, but as Bartan halted near the stable he received the impression that something was troubling the adults.
“Hello, Bartan—you are early.” Only one of the farmers—a ruddy-cheeked young man with spiky straw-like hair—had left the group to greet Bartan.
“Hello… Crain.” Bartan named the man with some difficulty because the Phorateres were a large family, with several cousins of similar age and appearance. “Am I too early? Should I depart and return later?”
“No, it’s all right. It’s just that… something has happened. It has taken the wind out of our sails a bit.”
“Something serious?”
Crain looked embarrassed. “Please go into the house. Harro needs to see you. We were on the point of sending a rider to fetch you when we saw your wagon coming over the rise.” He turned and walked away before Bartan could question him any further.
Bartan walked to the farmhouse’s front entrance with growing curiosity. Harro Phoratere was the head of the family—a reserved and taciturn forty-year-old who had not warmed to Bartan as much as the other members of the community. The fact that he had invited Bartan into his home was unusual in itself, a hint that something extraordinary had occurred. Bartan tapped the planked door and went inside, to find himself in a large square kitchen. Harro was standing by an inner door which probably led to a bedroom. He had a cloth pressed to his right cheek and his face was devoid of the high colouring which was a family characteristic.
“There you are, Bartan,” he said in a subdued voice. “I’m glad you came early—I’m sorely in need of your help. I know I haven’t shown you much cordiality in the past, but…”
“Put that out of your mind,” Bartan said, starting forward. “Only tell me what I can do for you.”
“Speak quietly!” Harro said, putting a finger vertically to his lips. “Those wondrously fine little tools that you showed us… the ones you use for repairing jewellery… have you brought them today?”
Bartan’s puzzlement increased. “Yes, I always keep some by me. They are in my wagon.”
“Could you unlock this door? Even with the key still in the lock on the other side?”
Bartan examined the door. It was unusually well crafted to be in a farm dwelling, and its having a lock instead of a latch was an indication that the original builder of the house had had gentlemanly aspirations. The shape of the keyhole, however, indicated that the lock itself was of the simplest and cheapest warded pattern.
“An easy enough task,” Bartan whispered. “Is your wife in that room? I hope she isn’t ill.”
“Ennda is in there, all right, and I fear she has gone mad. That’s why I didn’t break the door down. She screams when I so much as touch the handle.”
Bartan remembered Ennda Phoratere as a handsome, well-made woman in her late thirties, better educated and more articulate than the other farmers’ wives. She was eminently practical, with a good sense of humour, and probably the last person in the community he would have expected to fall prey to fevers of the mind.
“Why do you think she is mad?” he said.
“It started during the night. I woke up and found Ennda pressing herself against me, working herself against me. Intimately, you understand. Moaning she was, and insistent—so I obliged. To tell you the truth, I had little choice in the matter.”