‘We won’t reach the river by tonight. The horses are tired,’ said the bowman.
‘As am I,’ admitted Nogusta.
They rode on, and as dusk deepened they came across Dagorian, camped beside a small lake. He had lit a fire and the weary travellers climbed down from the wagon to sit beside it. Kebra and Conalin unsaddled the horses, wiping their backs with dried grass. Kebra showed the boy how to hobble the mounts, then they left them to graze and unhitched the wagon team. Conalin was moving stiffly and Kebra grinned at him. ‘The muscles on the inside of your thighs have been stretched,’ he said. ‘You’ll get used to it. Did you enjoy the ride?’
‘It was all right,’ said Conalin, nonchalantly.
2.2,5
‘How old are you, lad?’
The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. What does it matter?’
‘At your age I don’t think it does. I am fifty-six. That matters.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my dreams are all behind me. Do you swim?’
‘No. And I don’t want to learn.’
‘It is almost as fine a feeling as riding a horse. But it is up to you.’ Kebra strolled away to the lake side and stripped off his clothing. The water was cold as he waded out. Then he dived forward and began to swim with long easy strokes. Conalin wandered to the water side and watched him in the fading light. After a while Kebra swam back and climbed out of the water. He shivered and dried himself with his tunic, which he then stretched out on a rock. Pulling on his leggings he sat down beside the boy.
‘I don’t dream,’ said Conalin, suddenly. ‘I just sleep and then wake up.’
‘Those are not the dreams I spoke of. I meant the dreams we have for life, things we wish for ourselves, like a wife and family, or riches.’
‘Why are they behind you? You could have these things,’ said the boy.
‘Perhaps you are right.’
‘My dream is to wed Pharis, and to fear nothing.’
The sky darkened to crimson as the sun dropped behind the western peaks. ‘It would be nice to fear nothing,’ admitted Kebra. Bison strolled up and draped a blanket around Kebra’s shoulders.
‘Old men like you should beware of the cold,’ said Bison, walking on and dipping a cup into the water. He drank noisily.
2,2.6
‘Why did he say that?’ asked Conalin. ‘He looks old enough to be your father.’ Kebra chuckled.
‘Bison will never be old. You look at his bald pate and his white moustache and you see an old man. Bison looks in a mirror and sees a young man of twenty-five. It is a gift he has.’
‘I don’t like him.’
‘I agree with you. I don’t like him much either. But I love him. There’s no malice in old Bison, and he’d stand by your side against all the armies of the world. That’s rare, Conalin. Believe me.’
The boy was unconvinced, but he said nothing. Out on the lake the splintered reflection of the moon lay broken upon the water, and to the west the lake gleamed blood red in the dying sun. Conalin glanced up at the silver-haired bowman. ‘Will I ride tomorrow?’ he asked him.
Kebra smiled. ‘Of course. The more you ride the better you’ll get.’
‘It feels safer on a horse,’ said Conalin, gazing out over the lake.
‘Why safer?’
‘The wagon is so slow. When they catch us we’ll not be able to escape in a wagon.’
‘Maybe they won’t catch us,’ said Kebra.
‘Do you believe that?’
‘No. But there’s always hope.’ Conalin was pleased that the man had not tried to lie to him. It was a moment of sharing that made the boy feel like an equal.
‘What will you do when they come?’ asked Conalin.
Til fight them. So will Nogusta and Bison. It’s all we can do.’
‘You could ride away on your fast horses,’ Conalin pointed out.
2.27
‘Some men could, but we’re not made that way.’
‘Why?’ asked the boy. It was such a simple question, yet, at first, Kebra was unable to answer it. He thought about it for a while.
‘It is hard to explain, Conalin. You start by asking yourself what makes a true man. Is it his ability to hunt, or to farm, or to breed stock? In part the answer is yes. Is it his capacity to love his family? In part the answer is also yes. But there is something else. Something grand. It seems to me that there are three instincts which drive us on. The first is self-preservation – the will to survive. The second is tribal. We have an urge to belong, to be a part of a greater whole. But the third? The third is what counts, boy, above all things.’