At first the meaning of the words did not register. ‘What is he saying?’ Nogusta asked Grinan. The man avoided his eyes. He looked down at his daughter.
‘Did this man take you away, Flarin?’ he asked her.
‘No, daddy. I fell down in the woods. I hurt my leg.’
Menimas stepped forward. ‘He has bewitched the child. Hang him, I say!’ For a moment no-one moved, then several men ran at Nogusta. He downed two of them with a left and right combination, but weight of numbers overpowered him and he was wrestled to the ground. They bound his arms and dragged him to the oak on the market square. A rope was thrown over a high branch, and a noose fastened around his neck.
He was hoisted up, the rope burning into his throat. He heard Menimas scream: ‘Die, you black bastard!’ Then he passed out.
139
Somewhere within the darkness he became aware of sensation; warm air being forced into his lungs. He could feel the flow of it, his chest rising to accommodate it. Then he felt the warmth of a mouth upon his own, pushing more air into his starved lungs. Gradually other sensations followed; a burning pain on the skin of his throat, the cool of the ground beneath his back. Strong hands pushed down upon his chest, and he heard a commanding voice. ‘Breathe, damn you!’
The warm air had stopped flowing now, and Nogusta, growing short of oxygen, sucked in a huge, juddering, breath.
He opened his eyes to find himself lying on the ground, staring up at the leaves of the oak. The rope still hung from a thick branch, but it had been hacked in two. The face of a stranger swam into sight. Nogusta tried to speak, but his voice was a croak. ‘Say nothing,’ said the grey-eyed man. ‘Your throat is bruised, but you will live. Let me help you stand.’ Nogusta struggled to his feet. There were soldiers in the square, and twelve villagers were standing by under guard.
Nogusta touched his throat. The noose still hung there. He lifted it clear. The skin below was raw and bleeding. ‘I … rescued … a child,’ he managed to say. ‘And . . . they attacked me. I … don’t know why.’
‘I know why,’ said the man. Turning to Nogusta he laid a slender hand on his shoulder. ‘Last night these people burned your home. They killed your family.’
‘My family? No! It cannot be!’
‘They are dead, and I am sorry for your loss. I cannot tell you how sorry. The killers believed . . . were led to believe . . . that your family kidnapped the child for … some blood rite. They are simple and stupid people.’
140
The pain in his throat was forgotten now. ‘They didn’t kill them all? Not all of them?’
‘Yes. All of them. And though it will not bring them back you will see justice now. Bring the first!’ he ordered. It was the baker, Grinan.
‘No, please!’ he shouted. T have a family. Children. They need me!’
The pale-eyed soldier stepped in close to the pleading man. ‘Every action a man takes has consequences, peasant. This man also had a family. You have committed murder. Now you will pay for it.’ A woman outside the ring of soldiers screamed for mercy, but a noose was placed over Grinan’s head and he was hauled into the air, his feet kicking out.
One by one the twelve villagers with fire-blackened clothes were brought forward and hanged.
‘Where is Menimas?’ asked Nogusta, as the last man died.
‘He fled,’ said the soldier. ‘He has friends in high places. I doubt he will be convicted.’
Leaving the village to bury its dead the soldiers and Nogusta returned to the burnt-out estate. Nogusta was in deep shock now, his mind swimming. The seven corpses had been wrapped in blankets and laid out in a row before the ruins. One by one he went to them, opening the shrouds, and staring down at the dead. The child Kynda was unmarked by fire, and his tiny hand was clutching the dream-deceiver made by Ushuru. ‘Smoke killed him,’ said the officer.