Beyond the Burning Lands Read Free

the cries of the hucksters, the hum and laughter of the crowd, the thin hiss of the naphtha lamps. At one stall a man had puppies for sale. They whined when he picked them up and a woman upbraided him for his clumsiness. So he lifted another, a ball of golden-brown fur, and it howled louder than the rest, and I watched him sell it to her for five shillings, which was much more than was reasonable.
    After the months of confinement everything was interesting. I reached another tent and, peering in at the entrance, saw that it had been set up as a tavern. Potmen served drinks from behind trestle tables and there were benches at which men sat. Braziers glowed red with coals. The men were talking and laughing, their faces crimson like the stoves. They would be singing soon.
    I was about to move away when a hand clamped on my arm from behind. I turned quickly to see a man in sheepskin coat, square black hat and shining gaiters: a farmer, probably, and one who looked prosperous. He said:
    â€œIf you’re seeking a pot of ale, lad, enter and get it. Don’t block the road for thirstier men.”
    I said: “I was just going, sir.”
    â€œA draft of mulled ale will warm your heart on a night like this.” I shook my head. “Then in that case what were you up to, Tom-peeping in?”
    I was anxious to get away from him and even more anxious not to raise suspicions. I said:
    â€œI was looking for my father, but he is not there.”
    â€œHave you looked properly?” I nodded. “Then come inside and wait. You are as likely to find him by staying as by wandering around. A drink will do you good.”
    I tried to pull away but he had me fast. I said:
    â€œI came without money . . .”
    â€œThen you are lucky that I am in a different case! I’ve sold five cows today and for once I have no complaint about the price.” With his free hand he jingled coins in his pocket. “You will drink with me till your father comes, and then if he wishes he can buy me a pot in return. And if not, no matter. The Spirits would not look with favor on any man who showed a hard heart on the eve of the Christmas Feast.”
    I said: “Thank you, sir. But I must . . .”
    He pushed me ahead of him through the entrance to the tent and steered me to a table at the center. I realized that this was not the first tavern he had visited since he sold his cows. He shouted for mulled ale—a pint for him and a gill for me. There were others round us and he was between me and the entrance. For the moment there was nothing I could do.
    I expected questions: who I was, where I lived, all natural enough but things to which I might find difficulty in making safe answer. To my relief, after he had seen me take my first sip of the hot spiced ale, he turned his attention to other men sitting at the table. They were talking of some scandal involving a Captain of the Prince’s guard, and my farmer had much to say and loudly. I sat quiet beside him. When I had finished my gill, I would slip away. He was so engrossed that he perhaps would not notice my going.
    Concerned with this and not much interested in local gossip, I did not at first realize that the conversation had changed. I was made aware of it when my companion declared, loudly enough to make me sit up despite the wool over my ears:
    â€œThat I don’t believe! No one can cross the Burning Lands. Whoever says so is a liar.”
    â€œBut he that told me saw the man himself.”
    It was a thin, leathery old fellow who spoke, a veteran judging by the scar that ran down one cheek. The farmer said:
    â€œAnd knew it was so, I warrant, by the flames that came out of his boots and the cinders in his beard!”
    The veteran said stubbornly: “There is a pass. It lies due north of Marlborough.” This was a town in Oxford’s territory and lying nearest to the Burning Lands. “He had to go through hot ash, he said, and