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| "... trees loomed ahead in the flickering torch-light, hunched into twisted forms ..." |
They followed a faint track down the hill, winding back and forth through knee-high gorse. At the bottom of the hill lay the edge of the wood, little more than an inky shadow under the burning sky. Banac went in front, knocking aside the thickest of the scrub with a stick; Balor followed patiently, pausing when his brother paused and walking where he walked.
They did not speak, but their silences were for different reasons. Banac was planning the next steps, feeling the exhilaration of leadership; Balor was pensive and moody, his mind’s eye turned back the way they had come, fretting and worrying about what they were doing.
The sun sank lower and lower, briefly setting the clouds on fire before she finally slipped out of sight. With her departure the sky began to darken and cool, and by the time they reached the tree-line dusk was deepening into warm, fragrant night. They stopped next to a dense hedge of chest-high ferns that flourished all along the edge of the wood. Balor flopped down on the grass, his cheeks flushed, the novelty of the adventure wearing off already.
“We’ll rest here for a few minutes,” Banac said. He swung his pack to the ground and took out a water-skin. Balor snatched it from his hand and slurped greedily, the water splashing down his chin and onto his smock.
“Be careful,” Banac warned. “There’s not much.” But the warning was half-hearted, and Balor was either ignoring him or he did not hear. Banac let him drink. There would be water enough to be found in the woods.
He dug around in the pack again and found two torches and a tinder-box he had borrowed. Balor stopped drinking long enough to look over with renewed curiosity.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Getting ready,” Banac replied shortly. He found the last item he was looking for — a wax-sealed clay jar — and broke the seal with a fingernail and sniffed at the black paste inside. A sharp smell stung his nostrils, and he wrinkled his nose.
His answer had not satisfied Balor. “Getting ready for what?” he persisted.
Banac tore a strip from the hem of his smock and used it to smear some of the paste from the jar on to the heads of the torches.
“We’ll need more light in the woods,” he said as he worked. “It’ll be too dark to see otherwise — the moon’s not up for hours.”
“But I thought you said we would stop here tonight.”
“No,” Banac said patiently. “I said we would rest here. We have to go on.” He finished coating the torches and stood up. “Look, I told you this would be hard — you can still go home, if you want. You don’t have to come with me. But I have to go. I can’t wait for you.”
Stung by the suggestion that he might not be brave enough, Balor set his jaw as he had done in the village.
“I’m not going home,” he said. “I’m not afraid.”
Yes you are, Banac said to himself, but he did not argue. “Here,” he said, handing him the torches. “Hold these while I light them.”
It took a lot of fiddling with the steel and flint, and a lot of wasted sparks, but in the end the first torch roared into sudden flame, and the second followed a moment later. As Banac took one of the torches he looked down and saw Balor’s free hand clasping and unclasping.
“Are you all right?” he said, catching Balor’s eye.
Balor said nothing, but the hand clenched and he nodded tightly.
“All right then.” Banac hoisted the pack on to his shoulders. “Let’s go.”
* * *
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