The Buried Giant Read Free Page A

fetch a tool or receive new instructions from a foreman. In any case, he was stopped by a burst of raised voices from beyond the bushes to his right. His first thought was of ogres, and he searched quickly around for a rock or stick. Then he realised the voices—all of women—though angry and excited, lacked the panic that accompanied ogre attacks. He nevertheless pushed his way determinedly through a hedge of juniper shrubs and stumbled into a clearing, where he saw five women—not in their first youth, but still of child-bearing age—standing closely together. Their backs were turned to him and they went on shouting at something in the distance. He was almost up to them before one of the women noticed him with a start, but then the others turned and regarded him almost with insolence.
    “Well, well,” said one. “Perhaps it’s chance or something more. But here’s the husband and hopefully he’ll drive sense into her.”
    The woman who had seen him first said: “We told your wife not to go but she wouldn’t listen. She’s insisting she’ll take food to the stranger though she’s most likely a demon or else some elf disguised.”
    “Is my wife in danger? Ladies, please explain yourselves.”
    “There’s a strange woman been wandering around us all morning,” another said. “Hair down her back and a cloak of black rags. She claimed to be a Saxon but she’s not dressed like any Saxon we ever met. She tried to creep up behind us on the riverbank when we were attending to the laundry, but we saw her in good time and chased her away. But she kept returning, acting like she was heart-broken for something, other times asking us for food. We reckon she was all the while aiming her spell straight towards your wife, sir, fortwice this morning already we had to hold Beatrice back by the arms, so intent was she on going to the demon. And now she’s fought us all off and gone up to the old thorn where even now the demon’s sitting waiting for her. We held her all we could, sir, but it must be the demon’s powers already moving through her because her strength was unnatural for a woman so thin-boned and aged as your wife.”
    “The old thorn …”
    “She set off only a moment ago, sir. But that’s a demon to be sure, and if you’re off after her you’ll watch you’re not stumbling or cutting yourself on a poisoned thistle the way it will never heal.”
    Axl did his best to hide his irritation with these women, saying politely: “I’m grateful, ladies. I’ll go and see what my wife is up to. Excuse me.”
    To our villagers, “the old thorn” denoted a local beauty spot as much as the actual hawthorn tree that grew seemingly right out of the rock at the edge of the promontory a short walk from the warren. On a sunny day, provided the wind was not strong, it was a pleasant place to pass the time. You had a good view of the land down to the water, of the river’s curve and the marshes beyond. On Sundays children often played around the gnarled roots, sometimes daring to jump off the end of the promontory, which in fact had only a gentle drop that would cause a child no injury, but simply to roll like a barrel down the grassy slope. But on a morning like this one, when adults and children alike were busy with tasks, the spot would have been deserted, and Axl, coming through the mist up the incline, was not surprised to see the two women were alone, their figures almost silhouettes against the white sky. Sure enough, the stranger, seated with her back against the rock, was dressed curiously. From a distance, at least, her cloak appeared to be made of many separate pieces of cloth stitched together, and it was now flapping in the wind, giving its owner the appearance of a great bird about to take flight.Beside her, Beatrice—still on her feet, though with head lowered towards her companion—appeared slight and vulnerable. They were in earnest conversation, but spotting Axl’s approach below, stopped and