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| "The river was a white-flecked torrent, a roaring, rushing monster with no discernible way to cross." |
They woke after midnight, roused by Haemel’s touch, and packed up the camp with bleary eyes and jaw-cracking yawns. Banac was the worst-tempered of the three, bothered by his argument with Haemel and his lack of sleep. Balor left him to himself, and helped Haemel as much as he could.
Half an hour later they left the dell and made their way silently down the hill. Haemel led the way with Balor beside him, and Banac bringing up the rear in stony silence. No-one said anything. The moon was out in a clear sky, waning from the full, and her clean silver light threw sharp shadows away from them across the ground. Occasionally Banac glanced over at Balor, but mostly he kept his eyes on Haemel’s broad back, turning his resentment over in his mind, trying to think of a way to prove himself right.
At the bottom of the hill they turned on to a narrow road that twisted between tall trees; after half an hour of following it they began to hear a faint rushing of water coming from their left. The road forked, and Haemel led them left down a long slope. At the bottom of the slope the hedgerows came to an end and they found themselves in an open meadow that ran down to the bank of the wide, fast-flowing river glimmering in the moonlight.
When Banac saw the river his stomach tightened. He had not expected this. The river was a white-flecked torrent, a roaring, rushing monster with no discernible way to cross. He briefly supposed that Haemel had brought them to the wrong place, but Haemel walked straight down to the water’s edge without hesitation, and Balor followed him. Banac hung back, eyeing the river doubtfully.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” he said. “It seems a bit deep to wade.”
“It is merely swollen from the rain,” Haemel said. “I crossed it at this place yesterday. It looks deeper than it is. The current is strong, so I will have to carry you across one by one. But there is no hazard. You must trust me.”
“Fine,” Banac said. “You can carry Balor, but don’t worry about me. I can handle it on my own.”
“No.” Haemel’s reply was curt and dismissive, and it brought a warm flush of indignation to Banac’s cheeks.
“Why not?” he retorted, his hackles rising again.
Haemel did not even look at him. “You’re too young,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head.
“It doesn’t matter how old I am! I’m strong! I can do it!”
“No. You can’t. You will put yourself in danger. Balor, come.”
Haemel beckoned to Balor, but Banac put out a hand to stop him.
“Just wait,” he said.
Balor looked from one to the other in confusion, not sure whom to obey. Haemel stopped in the action of folding his shirt and looked up and into Banac’s eyes, and when Banac saw what was there he was suddenly not so sure of himself.
For a long time Haemel said nothing. He held Banac’s gaze, and Banac managed to return the look for more than a minute before he was forced to look away. There was something in Haemel’s eyes he did not like, something more animal than human, something that made him understand where the stories about the beremen had come from. He looked down at the ground and kicked at a tuft of grass.
“You must trust me,” Haemel said, and his voice was soft and stern at the same time. “I have come to help you, so when I offer my help you must take it. I am doing this for you, Banac.”
Banac did not reply. He did not look up. Inwardly he was furious: at himself for giving way, at Haemel for staring him down in the first place, and at this whole stupid adventure for never going the way it should.
Haemel undressed Balor and tied his clothes in a bundle around his neck, then he hoisted Balor on to his back and plunged into the river. Banac watched them go. At first Haemel staggered, the force of the water almost knocking him off his feet, and for a second Banac thought they would be swept away. But Haemel was a warrior, and he had a wiry strength; he quickly regained his balance and strode into the current, swinging his arms to steady himself. Soon he and Balor were no more than a dark shape merging into the surrounding darkness.
Banac waited impatiently, still stinging from Haemel’s rebuke. Why couldn’t he cross a river by himself? He had spent his whole life by the Sea, and had practically grown up in the water. Out of all the children in the village he was the strongest swimmer by far; once he had swum all the way around the headland and into the next bay for a dare. Father had beaten him for it, naturally, but the pain had been worth it for the looks of admiration from the others the next day.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Haemel was wrong. He looked hard at the river. The water roared as loudly as ever, and part of him quailed at the thought of going in; but his wounded pride reared its head and told him not to worry, told him that if Haemel could do it then so could he.
Before he could think of a good reason not to he had stripped off his clothes, tied them in a hasty bundle, and waded into the water.
Straight away the force of the current hit him, as it had Haemel, and he was very nearly swept off his feet. He staggered to one side, the weight of the water catching him by surprise, and stretched out his arms as he had seen Haemel do. Even so he only just managed to keep his balance. His legs had quickly grown numb from the cold, and he quailed and almost turned back. But again his pride overruled, and he pushed his common sense down and waded deeper into the current.
With every step the water rose, past his knees, his thighs, his waist. He looked back, and found he could not longer see the near bank. He looked ahead, searching for the far side, but there was nothing but darkness and foaming water.
And it was in that moment, with the water rushing around his waist and the voice of the river roaring in his ears, that panic decided to rear its head. It was sudden and powerful, a nearly physical force that made him stagger and almost lose his footing. Suddenly he realised just where he was, and he realised also with a sickening certainty that if he did not turn back he was going to die.
He lifted his foot to turn around, meaning to go back — but when he put it down again there was no riverbed underneath, and with a strangled shout he pitched forward into the icy water.
Immediately his feet were swept away from him, and his arms flailed as the world was turned upside-down. His head went under — everything suddenly went dark — all sounds became muffled — a distorted clanging noise filled his ears — dark shapes and shadows whirled around him in a roaring torrent — he felt the river carrying him away — and the last thought that went through his mind was how stupid he had been.
* * *
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