This is a post-FiN story.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

Turning the Wheel

by Mary Morgan

Part II

Gabrielle pulled Plato to a halt, tossed his reins over his head and jumped out of the saddle. She moved a little away from him and sniffed deeply, sorting out scents: Plato, of course, and the lush green of the undergrowth. Nettles, cow parsley, wet earth, old, crumbly bark. Her nose twitched and she tried just a bit harder. There! That's it! Smiling, she stepped off the path, into the woodland around it. Four paces, five and she was into a clearing. She crouched, moved away leaves heavy with rain drops which spattered her hands. There, underneath, glowing like rubies, she saw them. She plucked a large leaf and piled it with berries, slipping those which she crushed into her mouth. It's summer. Really summer at last.

Straightening, she glanced up at the sky. Nearly dusk. And the clouds are melting away. She smiled once again. Time to make camp. The clearing was perfect, screened from the track but close to the stream which it shadowed. She stashed the strawberries, then went back for Plato. "You'll like this campsite," she told him, rubbing his muzzle. "Lots of grass." She walked round the edge of the clearing, ears open and listening. Only animal sounds; squirrel and rabbit, birds up above. Worry snaked out a tendril. Calm down. Focus. She extended her hearing. Ah. Just not ready to stop yet.

Stones blackened with fire lay at the heart of the clearing. They weren't the first to camp here. She pulled off Plato's saddle, replaced his bridle with a halter, tethered him near the stream. Then she gathered dry brushwood and lit it, set up a pan to heat water, remembered her cache of ripe berries and went back to collect them. Now for the main course. Rabbit would do. With slingshot and stone she caught two, then got them roasting before darkness fell.

While supper cooked, she groomed surly Plato, leaning into the strokes of the brush. "Good boy, Plato," she told him. "You're not concerned. You know there's no reason to worry." He snorted, ducked his head, shook it and tugged at the grass at his feet. "Yeah. I'm being stupid. Of course it's okay." She moved away from the horse, stood in the gloaming, worked through her forms till she ached. Still out there. Closer, at least. She could smell that the rabbit had cooked and walked back to the fire, where she made herself eat.

The girl came to the campsite before her portion cooled down completely. Gabrielle did not react, merely watched quietly. She's dry anyway. Must have found shelter when it rained. The girl squatted just within reach of the firelight, eyes downcast as always, long fingers tearing the meat into shreds, cramming it into her mouth. When she had finished, she looked round for more. Gabrielle, hiding a grin, keeping her distance, leaned over, pushed close her own plate. When that was clear too, she picked up the leaf, displaying the berries. After a moment, the girl stretched forwards and snatched them away.

Then Gabrielle held her breath. She was always a little afraid the girl would dash off at this point, that she would disappear into the night. But she did not. She curled up by the fire, her back to Gabrielle, who cleared their leavings away, then banked down the fire. She talked as she did so, telling a story. A small story, a quiet one, one of the tales she remembered from her childhood. "And that is how the tortoise beat the hare," she finished. She paused, biding her time, watching the girl breathe. Asleep. Gabrielle stood, shook out a blanket, draped it over the slumbering form. It was usually only at such times that she could get so near. "Sleep well, sweetheart," she whispered.

Settled back against Plato's up-ended saddle, Gabrielle fed scraps of bark into the fire, watched sparks fly upwards. Would Alse approve? Letting her run wild like this? But the girl had grown strong over the past weeks. Her frame had filled out, her skin had lost its waxy pallor. She had even grown taller. And no more scratches. No more tearing at herself, thank the gods. The last time was more than three weeks ago. Gabrielle had held her for hours, gripping her hands, cupping the nails within her own palms, absorbing the rage till both collapsed in exhaustion. At least that's stopped now. And she lets me get closer. Only a few days ago, she had washed the girl's hair. "It's lovely," she'd crooned, combing it dry, admiring the colour: chestnut banded with copper and gold to make a rare brindle. And she always stays near, within hearing distance.

Gabrielle sighed, rubbed her face with her hands. The spinney was still, the night peaceful. Up above, though she could not bring herself to look at them, she knew the stars gleamed quietly. She should sleep now, if she could. This was a respite, something told her. Something darker was waiting just ahead. She shrugged off the foreboding, hitched her blanket over her shoulder, curling into herself. And no dreams, please? She might just be lucky. She quite often was nowadays. Did Alse know? How this would help me?

She'd gotten so much back. Even a fingerhold on her stories. She remembered the days when her loneliness had seared her, when she had, time and again, looked up from her camp fire wanting to see a particular face, a particular gaze, and nearly been overwhelmed by the grief which surged up when she saw nothing. She remembered days when she had found herself travelling with others, and had had to move her bedroll to avoid seeing features which did not resemble those she would never see again. But tonight, and every night since she had started this journey westwards with the girl, she had felt only comfort in her company. Thank you, Alse. Smiling a little, Gabrielle slept until dawn.

---

She and Plato had set a good pace, though the old gelding was fractious and edgy. By close to midday they were deep in the forest. They should take a break; the girl must be hungry, and Gabrielle's patience with Plato had almost run out. She hauled him to a halt, prepared to dismount. Then sounds shattered the peace: steel on steel, human screaming. It must come from just round the bend in the trail, not far ahead. She tethered Plato, pivoted on her heel till she was sure she was looking straight at the girl. "Stay here," she hissed into the trees. "Look after Plato." Her first command to the girl, she reflected, working her way into the forest, weaving through shadows, closing in on the fight. I hope she obeys.

A glance took the scene in. Three carts, drawn by oxen. Several old people, some women and children were huddled inside. Hampered by panicky livestock, men were fighting around them; six farmers with sickles and staves, trying to hold off bandits. She counted nine, mostly in leather, rusty swords dented. Not fighting with style, but they were pressing in closer. She grimaced as one thrust in wildly, punctured a thigh. Time to do something, she thought, slipping back fast to where she'd left Plato. Whispering, "Stay," to the girl, she tied his reins to the saddle, slapped his rump hard, ducking out of the way of his hooves as he bucked. Then he was off down the track while she followed, high in the trees now, as supple and silent as light gilding their bark.

From above, she watched the effect, smiling grimly. Plato peeved was impressive, thundering up in a shower of clods and sprayed foam, teeth wicked and gleaming. There! That was the leader, the tallest. He had grasped what had happened, was ready to rally his men. She summoned her rage, then launched herself down, latched onto his shoulders, locked one strong arm round his neck. Both on the ground now, Gabrielle knocked the sword from his hand. She tightened her stranglehold, brought up one knee and rammed it firm in his back. Reaching a hand, she snatched for the sword where it lay, caught his head with its hilt.

Then she stood up, aware of something behind her, spinning round, catching a blade with a deft parry that flicked it away from its owner. She side-stepped and swung, slicing through muscle, then kicked out knees which were already buckling. Two down. Another came at her. She planted her foot and kicked up and out, catching the man at his temple. He dropped like a stone. She hefted the sword and spotted a fourth, who was climbing up one of the carts. When one of the women swiped at his head with a pan, he leaned away backwards. Gabrielle seized hold of his belt and heaved hard, launching him over her head. He staggered, just kept his footing, turned round to face her, taking a two-handed hold on his sword, his eyes opening wide as he saw who opposed him.

"Come along, little girl," he blared out, but she read doubt in his gaze. She let herself grin, but said nothing, just beckoned him on, quietly changing her stance as she did so. When he swung down, she ducked under his blade and aimed a shrewd slap with the flat of her blade at his rump. He staggered forwards, but wrenched himself round and rushed at her. Gabrielle dodged him with ease, angling one leg so it tripped him, and followed it up with a pounce which placed her above him. Then, with the hilt of the sword in her hand, she threw a punch at his jaw which knocked him cold.

And then it was over. There were no more attackers. Three of those she had dealt with were down and not moving. Two others were penned by the rest of the men from the carts. The remnants, she saw from the corner of her eye, were far back down the track and still running, one trailing blood. Fool, she thought coldly, shaking her hand; the punch had felt good, but it hurt now. Of course. She widened her survey, saw people climb down from the carts. The oxen, sweating and wild-eyed, strained at their yokes. Some of the women edged up to them cautiously, catching hold of the traces. Others started to gather in chickens and pigs. A boy broke away from the group and ran towards Plato. Alarmed, she almost leaped to prevent him, but the old gelding had tired himself out. Head down and sides heaving, he succumbed to the child like a pet. Just behind, in the bushes, pale fabric fluttered. At least she stayed out of the fight.

"Bors!" a voice moaned. Gabrielle whipped round. A woman knelt by the side of a tree, hunched over someone. The guy I saw stabbed. Damn, I almost forgot him. Upset with herself, she became aware of a dark shape beside her. It was a youngster, tall for his age and bashfully smiling. Gabrielle thrust the sword into his hands. "Tie that lot up and watch them," she told him, nodding her head at the unconscious bandits. "Help him," she said to a pair of old men who had joined them. "They'll be waking up soon."

Crouching down by the woman, Gabrielle said, "Let me see." She kept her face still as she did so. The tip of the blade had snapped off and was still in the wound; she hated to think of the state of the metal. Blood welled up around it. She smiled, for the man and the woman. "We'll get that out," she assured them, then said to the woman, "Light a fire and heat up some water." She leaned forward, feeling the flesh which surrounded the wound, disliking its heat. She patted Bors' shoulder. "Don't worry, I've seen a lot worse."

She rose, intending to go to her pack and sort out some herbs for a poultice, but a flicker of movement caught her attention. One of the farmers was prodding his captive, egged on by the others. As she watched, he jabbed harder and the man yelped.

"Hey!" Gabrielle called. She sauntered into the knot of angry men, which loosened around her. "Keep it down, guys. You'll spook the oxen." She pointed with her chin. "Those women can hardly keep them under control." Two of the men, looking sheepish, peeled away from the group and went back to the carts. She slipped between those that were left and the captives. "Great work, by the way, catching these bandits."

They blushed and shuffled their feet. One remembered his manners. "You did the real work. We should have thanked you."

Now Gabrielle blushed. "Nah, just happened along." She'd sized up the men they'd been guarding. Young and half-starved, they wouldn't last long on their own. "You'd better secure them," she said. "There may be a price on their heads. More if they're brought in alive."

"Excuse me." A hand tugged at her sleeve. The woman with Bors, her face pinched and beaded with sweat.

"Is everything ready?" She resumed her walk to Plato and her supplies, the woman tagging behind her. "I'm Gabrielle."

"Jennah," the woman replied, her voice breathy with her fear. Her eyes fixed themselves on the small woman's hands, watched as they dug into the saddle bag and extracted a number of small, washed-leather bags. Gabrielle studied her from the corner of her eye. Jennah was pregnant, she was fairly certain of it. Three months along, perhaps. Under wispy, pale hair, her face looked sallow and thin. Gabrielle added another bag of herbs to her haul.

"He'll be just fine, Jennah. All we have to do is get the sword blade out and make sure everything is clean. Okay?" She unfurled her best, most confident smile, saw Jennah relax a little, brighten. She snatched a moment to turn away from the woman, direct her smile and a nod at a screen of branches behind which she knew the girl was hiding. Then she turned back, said briskly, "Come on, let's get started," and led the way back to her patient.

It was nearly dark before she was done. The further north she went, she had noticed, intrigued, the longer the evening, the shorter the night. She even had the impression the sun was moving north too. It must be very late, she deduced. Bors had been treated, the animals penned, the prisoners secured, the farmers' camp set up. She could see their fires through the twilight. She rolled her shoulders to loosen tight muscles and hissed in pain. Craning her head round, she noticed a tear in the seam of her jerkin. She shrugged it off, checked again and spotted the end of a long, red scrape on her shoulder. Must have caught it on something. Damn. She could do without the hassle.

Sighing, she tipped some water from the pan over her campfire into a metal cup, nestled that in the heart of the blaze to get hotter. For the first time since the fight, she had nothing to do except wait. She could have snarled with impatience, but instead clenched her fists, caught her lower lip in her teeth, made herself sit down and settle back. Calm down, Gabrielle. Breathe. Breathe. It was the aftermath of her anger, making her feel burned out but edgy. She wanted to work through her forms, or run through the forest, or simply hit something. But she couldn't afford to let go; not with the girl out there, hanging about, waiting to come in.

Her gaze drifted back to where the farmers were gathering for their supper. They had invited her, but she had pleaded tiredness. They'd been half-insulted, of course. But the girl would never join her over there, among so many people, and Gabrielle was reluctant anyway. The days when she had welcomed the chance to be part of a gathering, to tell her stories, to chatter and giggle and exchange gossip for hours were long gone. Too much had changed, too much been lost. I'm not the same person anymore. She wanted to sigh with regret, suppressed it with resignation. Everything changes. Shape up or give up, Gabrielle. She shrugged, felt the scrape twinge. They had given her food anyway, bread, almost fresh, and good cheese. She set out both beside her, where the girl could see them. That would have to do for supper tonight.

Gabrielle checked on the water. It was still not boiling, not even rolling. Using the tip of her hunting knife, she prodded it deeper into the fire. Waiting, scraps of what the farmers had told her began to connect in her mind, began to make a picture. Gabrielle frowned. They were refugees, running from something. She had known that from the start, as had the bandits, who had wanted to loot their wagons. But when she had asked them what had happened, they could not give a clear answer.

"It's bad back there," Jennah had said. "It's cold and it's cloudy, but it never rains. Summer hasn't come where we used to live."

Gabrielle had looked her surprise. That was what farming was like: you had good years and bad ones. Whatever happened, you stuck to your land.

"Nothing is growing, Gabrielle." Jennah had struggled to put what she felt into words. "Nothing. The trees haven't leafed even. And nothing has been born there, not since last year. No calves, no piglets, not even chicks. It doesn't feel right, Gabrielle." She'd laid a hand on her belly. "Not with my baby coming."

Gabrielle rubbed her hand over her face. She'd got snippets from others, all tending the same way. That it was bad, and getting worse, but must be still worse farther on. No one had come out of the far west since the first snows of winter. In her mind's eye she could see it: a dark cloud ahead, keeping out sunlight, sucking up life. She shuddered. This was it, she was sure, what she had been working towards. What had been drawing her. And I'm taking her into that? But what other choice was there? She had to go on, now that she knew. I'll ask Jennah. Tomorrow. To take her. It felt like a betrayal.

The water was boiling at last. She used her gloves, folded over, to pluck it out of the fire, wadded a rag, dipped it into the pan. Then she attempted to wash clean the scrape, but it was awkwardly placed. Twisting and turning only made her grimace with pain as she tightened the skin round the wound. Gabrielle wiped hair out of her eyes with her forearm, tamped down her impatience, tried once more. This time she managed one swipe which was vaguely on target.

But now someone was standing beside her. She looked up, through hair which had flopped back over her brow. The girl, her face hidden in shadow, but one hand extended. After a moment, Gabrielle held out the pad she had made. The girl took it and kneeled down beside her. Gabrielle held her breath. Deep inside, something awoke. Something which warmed her. A feeling she barely could name now. She watched as, gently, absorbed in her task, the girl dabbed at the wound until it was clean.

» Continued in Part III of IV