Harvest Read Free

nervously, ‘we’d best leave you to settle in. You’re welcome to join the feast later if you’ve a mind for
it.’
    With that they left the travellers to it, without a backward glance lest the three decided not to stay.
    As they went, one said to another, ‘Now that’s a strange question from the tall one who, if I’m not mistaken, must be . . .’
    ‘No, don’t speak his name! ’Tis indeed most strange to ask the way to Abbey Mortaine when there’s nary living there but mean spirits and old choristers!’
    News of the arrival of the three young travellers in Cleeve spread fast and, despite the fall of darkness, far beyond the village. It was already full of visitors from places roundabout, there
for the festival. From the descriptions given by the two who first met them, and further discreet investigation from afar, there was little doubt who the new visitors were.
    Not that anyone actually said so, but it seemed plain enough. No wonder folk sent runners out to their own communities to say who had come and that there was a chance, though no doubt a slim
one, that that night, by the communal fire in Cleeve, if it was in the wyrd or destiny of things, three heroes of the Hyddenworld might honour the company with their presence and maybe share a tale
or two of their own.
    ‘Are you serious? They’re in Cleeve right
now
?!’
    ‘They are, seen ’em myself and they looks like what folk say they look like: one tall and gangly-legged, one strong with the famous stave that shows his proper rank and one a female,
who must surely be . . .’
    ‘Ssh! Speak
that
not, lest mal-destiny or Fyrd get to know of it. You say they’re there now and might attend the feast?’
    ‘I do and they might. Bring the kinder, for this could be a night none will ever forget.’
    ‘Should we bring gifts?’
    ‘No, better not. Best to pretend we don’t know who they are. Best not to tell the kinder except to say that important people are about, very important, the like of which they may
never have a chance to meet again.’
    From Woodmancote and Southam folk came hurrying, from Slades and Longwood and the old fort on Nottingham Hill; from Postlip and the Common, and those places beyond that rarely venture over the
hill to Cleeve – the lads in Corndean, the good folk of Humblebee and old folk from Winchcombe, they came too.
    Then in the late hour, burdened by their sick and lame, and by kinder sad and ill, one with a head swollen with water and pain, and a fair girl of three whose limbs grew awry and old Gretton of
Greenfield, carrying his wife on his back in hope she might be healed of furrowed tongue. Even Old Annie, who lost a child and never recovered, came a-crawling out of Saxilberry as the fire
deepened and the stories began.
    All of these hurt ones and maybe the healthy too, hoping to find healing in the weave of the words of such great strangers should they decide to speak.
    ‘As for you young ones, if you must stay up so late, you’d better be as quiet as mice and good as well-fed voles.’
    Wide eyes, whispers, stomachs full, the feasting over, the singing dying now, the dancing to tuble and ’bag only occasional, the jokes and japes quietening, as a night hush fell and
someone stoked the fire.
    A hush then and a hope that the strangers would come from over the field, slipping in among them all, to listen awhile, to nod their heads, to smile and let their hearts move with the story-flow
until someone of them, if their wyrd made it so and it was in the Mirror’s reflection, offered to speak.
    That was the hope of all, but not a body there who said it.
    Say it and it might never happen.
    Hope it and it might.

2
O LD F RIENDS , N EW Q UEST
    T he three travellers whose arrival had brought such excitement and anticipation to Cleeve were more famous than they knew, and with good reason. No
wonder their reputation preceded them.
    The sturdy one with the stave that transformed light to something magical was Jack,