Author: David Clement-Davies
Category: Nonfiction
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‘Why don’t you just tell us, Blindweed?’ whispered Sgorr coldly in the darkness, turning his back on the stag on the ground. ‘And we’ll make it an easy death.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ answered Blindweed bitterly. He tried to lift his head from the grass but sank back helplessly.
‘Of course you do.’ Sgorr smiled. ‘I already know anyway. I just wanted you to confirm it.’
‘Never,’ spat Blindweed.
Sgorr walked straight up to the injured stag and stood over him.
‘Let’s go through it one more time,’ he said angrily. ‘That night, by the stream. When Eloin showed me her dead fawn. It wasn’t her fawn, was it? It was Bracken’s. So that makes the fawn with the mark Eloin’s fawn, and consequently Brechin’s. Not only does the blood of a most hated Outrider flow in his veins but he is what you might call. . . a changeling.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ mumbled Blindweed, trying to choke back the blood in his mouth.
‘Yes you do,’ sneered Sgorr. ’That prophecy of yours. It talks of a fawn mark and a changeling.’
Blindweed was silent now and Sgorr threw Narl a glance. The stag kicked Blindweed again.
‘Don’t think I care,’ Sgorr went on casually, as Blindweed bellowed in pain. ’I’m not foolish enough to believe it. But I’ve devoted my life to knowing everything I can in the home herd. It’s more a matter of pride.’
‘And pride will destroy you,’ cried Blindweed suddenly, spitting blood from his swollen lips, ‘when He comes.’
‘Ah, so now we come to it. So it’s true about Eloin?’
‘Yes, it’s true. And you’ll rue the day you let him escape.’ Some of the surrounding Draila looked at each other nervously for, though it was forbidden to talk of Herne and the Prophecy, rumours and murmurings still survived in the herd.
‘Dear, dear,’ said Sgorr, ‘we are getting carried away. I shall do nothing of the sort. I’m not a stupid, superstitious Herla to believe some made-up legend about Herne. Look at me, Blindweed, if you still can. I am Sgorr and I fear nothing.’
‘Until Rannoch returns,’ said the storyteller, blinking up at his torturers.
‘So,’ cried Sgorr, swinging round. ‘Thank you, Blindweed. His name is Rannoch.’
‘It does not matter what he is called,’ sobbed Blindweed, racked with anguish that he had betrayed the fawn.
‘Rannoch. Herne. He is the one.’
‘Really!’ snorted Sgorr suddenly. ‘I’m weary of this. Goodbye, Blindweed. Be assured that with you shall die the last of the old tales and the lies of Herne and the Herla.’
Sgorr turned away with distaste and, with Narl following him, he ran back towards the Home Oak. As they went there was a final, exhausted bark of pain from the old storyteller.
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Narl as the stags ran up the valley in the darkness. ‘If the Marked One is a changeling then maybe there is some truth—’
‘Narl,’ snapped Sgorr, ‘if you wish to serve me then try and hide your stupidity. There’s no truth in it.’
‘Then why were you so keen to know about the calf?’ said Narl.
‘Simple,’ answered Sgorr. ’Because it serves our purpose. When Drail hears of it he will be even more terrified than he already is. And his fear makes him weak.’
‘Besides,’ said Sgorr to himself with pleasure as they ran through the night, ‘when Drail learns of Eloin’s part in this, it will drive them even further apart.’
Sgorr waited a full ten suns to tell Drail what he had discovered. He was looking for the moment the news would have the most startling effect. It came by the Home Oak where Sgorr had gone as usual to report on the activities of the herd. When he approached in the bright sunlight he smiled as he found Eloin and Drail arguing, as they so often did.
‘Can’t you forget him?’ Drail was saying to the hind.
‘Never.’
‘I thought with time you would grow to care for me,’ said Drail quietly. ‘Is it not fine to be favoured by the Lord of Herds?’
Eloin looked coldly at Drail. For two seasons she had been held in Drail’s harem by force, but they had still not mated, for Eloin had used every wile to reject him and keep her oath. The autumn before last she had managed this by stirring up jealousies among his other hinds and making them fight for Drail’s favours. The previous Anlach it was only by pretending to be sick that she had kept him away. But Eloin knew it could not be long before she would have to give in, and she hated him now more than ever.
Drail was very old to mate, for as a stag loses his strength and can no longer fight for hinds he will rarely mate after the age of eleven in the normal life of a herd. But two of Drail’s hinds had born calves last summer, though they were both weaklings. Drail was displeased with them and it was Eloin’s calves that he really longed for.
‘When summer comes,’ said Drail, ‘you will bear me a fine stag to further my bloodline.’
As Sgorr stood behind them he winced. None of his own hinds had ever calved.
‘No, Drail,’ answered Eloin coldly, ‘I will never give you a calf, stag or hind.’
There was something in the way she said it that made Drail pause. The stag turned his head and looked at her closely.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll never give you calves because, my dear, you have wasted much time on the wrong hind,’ Eloin lied. ‘All my fawns will be stillborn. That is Herne’s curse to me.’
‘No,’ came a voice suddenly from behind them, and Drail swung round furiously to see Sgorr standing there watching them.
‘Sgorr,’ he snorted, ‘how dare you interrupt us?’
‘Forgive me, Lord,’ answered the stag, bowing his head, ‘but I thought it right to speak. Especially since Eloin is lying.’
‘What do you mean, lying?’
There was something in Sgorr’s voice, something threatening and knowing, that suddenly chilled Eloin’s blood. The hind glared at him.
‘Because she has already given birth to a fawn that lived. Brechin’s fawn.’
‘Brechin’s fawn?’ said Drail in amazement. ‘But it died. You saw the body.’
Eloin was silent, staring at Sgorr. She was trembling.
‘I saw a body,’ said Sgorr slowly. ‘But it wasn’t Eloin’s fawn. It belonged to a hind called Bracken.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘The storyteller told me,’ answered Sgorr, smiling at Eloin, ‘before he died.’
‘Blindweed!’ cried Eloin. ’What have you done?’
‘Silence!’ shouted Drail and the hind dropped her head. Drail paused. He was trying to remember where he had heard the name before.
‘Bracken?’ he said at last. ‘But isn’t that one of the hinds that we are looking for?’
‘Yes,’ answered Sgorr, ‘and she is looking after the fawn with the oaken mark. Eloin’s fawn. His name is Rannoch.’
‘Eloin’s?’
‘They were changed,’ said Sgorr portentously, leading Drail carefully towards the point. ’Eloin swapped Bracken’s dead fawn for her own at birth. Changed them.’
Drail was staring at both of them now, reaching for Sgorr’s meaning. Suddenly terror awoke in his eyes.
‘So the one with the oak mark is Brechin’s fawn?’ he whispered, almost choking. ‘And. . .’
Sgorr let him get there on his own.
‘. . . And a changeling,’ gasped Drail. ’The Prophecy. It’s true.’
The lord staggered forward in the grass. He lurched to the side and Sgorr made no effort to help him. He was smiling at Eloin triumphantly.
Over the coming months the news of Rannoch and the Prophecy wrought a dramatic change in Drail. He seemed to age visibly, to sag inwardly. He began to spend all his time by the Home Oak, always surrounded by Draila, muttering to himself and asking any deer he could what they knew of the Prophecy.
Sgorr did nothing to discourage this. Indeed he positively fed Drail’s terror. He himself would vis
it Drail and recite it, nodding gravely and pretending to interpret its meaning. Every day Drail ordered Sgorr to send out more and more Draila scouting parties, though of course Sgorr did nothing of the kind.
There was one aspect of Sgorr’s plan though that misfired: the desired rift between Drail and Eloin. For rather than estranging her from Drail, now the aged stag seemed to want her with him all the time. Drail seemed strangely comforted by her presence, as though the mother of ‘the One’ would afford him some protection. He would even ask her about the Prophecy and if she believed in it. Eloin neither confirmed nor denied anything. She wanted to feed Drail’s terror but at the same time knew that it was dangerous for her calf. She was silent and fearful and Blindweed’s murder had reopened the bitter wound in her slowly healing heart.
So the year grew. With the spring showers the herd’s antlers began to fall. First a right or left antler would drop, so for three or four suns a stag would be left with just a single branch on his head. Then the second antler dropped too and the stag walked bareheaded through the home valley. It was always at this time of year that Sgorr felt most powerful and became more vicious among the stags.
After just a few suns new antlers began to rise again on the stags’ heads, furred with soft, downy velvet. On the royals they grew like stunted twigs, their points rounded at first, and then, as the moons turned, the branches arced and the tines became sharper and sharper as they flowered above them. This was the time when the stags would normally have begun to box playfully, not being able to test the strength in their antlers. But the deer’s natural exuberance found no outlet, except in the training camps of the Draila and their endless forced marches. The flowers grew too and the deer began to moult, their coats turning back to a fine, fiery red. The calving began and the herd was blessed with new life, if a blessing you could call it, for many of the hinds hated their Draila mates and feared for their fawns.
As the sun burnt down the stags came out of velvet and their antlers began to peel so that, for several suns, many a stag walked through the valley with bloody tatters of torn velvet hanging like ribbons from their heads. They rubbed their tines on trees and branches and soon the strong new spikes were clean again. All the while, Sgorr seemed to be waiting for something. It was a burning hot day when a stranger appeared in the valley. The stag asked to see Sgorr and Sgorr had obviously been expecting him for the Draila immediately escorted him into his presence.
Narl was sitting down, ruminating thoughtfully by the stream after a tiring morning lecturing to the Drailing, when a Draila brought word that Sgorr had summoned him to the Home Oak. When he arrived he found Sgorr with Drail and Eloin.
‘Ah, Narl, good. I wanted you here,’ said Sgorr as the stag arrived. ‘There is much to do.’
Narl’s master had grown in confidence and authority in front of Drail and Narl suddenly thought that Drail looked terribly old and fragile.
‘What is it now, Sgorr?’ said Drail almost disinterestedly, gazing across the valley.
‘Splendid news, Lord. From the north.’ Drail stirred and looked up slowly.
‘Well then, tell me. I could do with some good news.’
‘Tharn,’ said Sgorr, ‘the Lord above the Loch. He’s been overthrown. He died on the antlers of his own Outriders.’
‘Overthrown. But how?’
‘By the deer who I have had dealings with. His name is Colquhar.’
‘Will he do homage?’ asked Drail, suddenly more interested.
‘Indeed.’ Sgorr nodded, looking away.
‘Then where is he?’
Sgorr paused and measured his words.
‘He’s agreed to meet you, Lord, but not here. He would make the whole journey,’ Sgorr went on slyly, ‘but he is fearful of leaving his own herd for too long, in case of a revolt. So I took the liberty of arranging a meeting place.’
‘Where?’ said Drail almost angrily.
‘By the gully where the Draila lost Rannoch and the others.’
Sgorr was delighted that the mention of Rannoch made
Drail drop his eyes. The lord shook his antlers.
‘But that means. . .’ said Drail fearfully, looking beyond the hills, ‘that means going out there.’
‘Don’t worry, Lord,’ said Sgorr, smiling as he came close to Drail.’Narl and I will make sure you are well protected.’
Drail looked about him helplessly.
‘But I can’t leave Eloin and the herd,’ he said weakly.
‘Eloin will come with us, won’t you, my dear?’ said Sgorr, swinging round to face the hind. ’To look after your lord.’
‘But he is out there,’ said Drail suddenly and his voice was almost pleading, ‘somewhere.’
‘Yes. But he is still young and can do nothing to harm you. Just think of it. When Colquhar pays you homage, you will truly be Lord of Herds, for then none can oppose you in the Low Lands. All the Herla shall be yours, prophecy or no prophecy.’
Drail looked up meekly at Eloin.
‘I suppose you are right,’ he muttered. ‘But if we are to go we must hurry. And I want your best Draila with me at all times. Do you understand me? At all times.’
‘Yes, Lord, of course,’ said Sgorr, looking towards Narl. His single eye was glittering furiously.
The party set off the very next morning. Drail, Eloin, Sgorr and Narl were escorted by ten Draila stags that Sgorr had picked especially for the purpose. They travelled as quickly as they could, allowing for their leader’s limping gait. Once they left the protection of the home valley Drail became very nervous and Sgorr made a point of mentioning the Prophecy at every turn. So when, after five suns, they reached the wood where Rannoch had first met Crak, Drail was at his nerves’ end.
Evening was coming in as they began to rise towards the gully, the gathering twilight casting gloomy shadows through the trees. Drail was especially jumpy now and at every unfamiliar sound, a broken twig or a bird breaking from the undergrowth, the old stag started nervously. All the while Drail wanted to hang back to browse but Sgorr kept insisting they should hurry to meet Colquhar. After a while the deer heard a low, booming grumble. It was the river and now Sgorr pulled up the Draila.
‘I think it’s best we leave the escort here to protect our backs,’ he said quietly, ‘while we four go on ahead. You, me, Narl and Eloin.’
Drail looked fearfully at Sgorr but in the state he was in he would have done almost anything Sgorr told him.
‘Colquhar is proud,’ Sgorr went on, ‘and he will not thank you for forcing him to do homage in front of so many stags.’ They pushed on through the trees, leaving the Draila stags on guard behind them. Drail’s heart was pounding as they broke the cover of the trees and the great ravine plunged before them towards the craggy river. They were standing on the very spot where Crak had told Rannoch about the bridge and, as Drail stepped towards the ravine, he looked around nervously, expecting to see other stags at any moment. But to his surprise there was no one there. No one at all. Just the bare earth and the thundering chasm.
‘Well,’ he said as he looked down into the void, his voice wrestling with the sound of water, ‘where is he?’
‘Colquhar?’ Sgorr smiled coldly, stepping up behind Drail as he stood by the drop. ’Colquhar is not coming, Drail.’
‘What?’ cried Drail, wheeling round. ‘What do you mean not coming?’
‘Exactly what I say.’
Eloin and Narl looked quizzically at each other.
‘But what of his homage?’
‘He will do homage,’ said Sgorr slowly, ‘all in good time. But first, in order to get him to. . . to abandon Tharn, I had to let him believe that he could keep his herd much as it is, with the Outriders still in place. He is probably with them now.’
‘With the Outriders still in place?’ said Drail. ’Then why have you brought me here? I don’t understand.’
‘No, Drail, you never have,’ said Sgorr. ’But rest assured that one day Colquhar will submit.’
�
��So when may I expect his homage?’
‘Not to you, Drail,’ snorted Sgorr contemptuously, ‘but to me and to the Sgorrla.’
Drail looked at Sgorr with horror as he began to understand what Sgorr was saying.
‘Sgorr!’ he cried.’Traitor. . .’
‘Don’t think of it as a betrayal,’ sneered Sgorr.’Think of it more as breaking ranks. How could you ever expect a deer like myself to remain loyal to a vain, foolish, superstitious soft-foot like you? You must admit it would be the height of stupidity. To follow a deer who is frightened of a prophecy.’
‘But the Prophecy,’ whispered Drail.’You believe in the Prophecy?’
‘No, Drail, I have never believed in the Prophecy. Nor in Herne. I thought I could work with you when I found a deer who wanted to drive out Anlach and the spirit of Herne. But that’s the difference between you and me. I wanted to drive Herne away because I do not believe in him. I believe that the Herla must serve intelligence and reason. Serve me in fact. Across the Great Land. But you would change the old laws because you believe them and fear them. You are a fool, Drail.’
‘Swine,’ spat Drail furiously. For the first time anger and something of his old courage were rising in him.
‘Incidentally,’ said Sgorr calmly, ‘since you are so interested in the Prophecy, there is more news from the herd above the Loch. Rannoch and the hinds arrived there the winter before last.’
Eloin, who had been listening in horrified amazement, began to shake violently but Drail stood stock-still. His mind was suddenly on fire. The monumental nature of Sgorr’s betrayal and the sudden talk of the Prophecy made his head reel, but the image of a fawn’s face had just leapt into his mind.
‘The mark,’ he whispered in a strangled voice.’The mark.’
‘Still a victim of your own fears,’ said Sgorr contemptuously.
‘I’ll go away,’ muttered Drail. ’Yes. Go far away and hide myself in the High Land. Hide from His wrath.’
‘And getting it wrong to the last.’
Drail looked up. His eyes were misty with confusion but now he saw the hate in Sgorr’s eye and with it he spied his own fate.