IX
Thalo now took to wandering, just as Asfoa had before him. With little to guide him but his whims, he spent the next year or so travelling here and there, doing whatever work presented itself. This was usually farmwork, but he also found himself carrying messages or hunting criminals and the like, all in exchange for bed and board in a farmer’s house, or whatever else he needed to get from place to place.
The long road proved to be a great boon to his horsemanship. Despite her many other talents, horses demanded a set of skills which Asfoa ever lacked, for she had neither the cause nor the means to make use of one. Thalo instead learnt to ride only sporadically on the farms around Klagenn, where he lent his labour now and then in his youth. His saddle-skill at the time of Asfoa’s death was unremarkable at best, but, in time, his horse became his firmest friend and trustiest ally. He named him Ondayo, after Ondayo the Bear-breasted, an old hero said to be of paramount strength and virility, and who was well revered among men of Thalo’s ilk. It was a fitting name for a powerful, reliable horse.
Early in his first winter on the road, Thalo came to a farm called Dyar in Fawnavol. There he met a man named Sroaro, who had previously lived on another farm called Lammam, where his forebears had made their home for many generations. Sroaro likewise held the house at Lammam for many years. However, he and his family had recently been forced to leave their ancestral home amid a bitter feud with a neighbour called Wavo.
Wavo was by birth a man of Syenavol, but he was outlawed for unseemly deeds. He left the earldom and brought his family eastwards to Fawnavol, and they found hospitality with Sroaro at Lammam, although they said nothing of Wavo’s past wrongs. After living with Sroaro for five winters, Wavo decided to establish a farm of his own across the river. This displeased Sroaro—he wanted to be the only householder in the local area—but it was not his place to object. Instead, he determined that, if he were to have Wavo for a neighbour, it would serve everyone to be on good terms. He therefore offered to help build the farmstead, and he and Wavo toiled together until it was a house worthy of renown. Wavo named this farm Wavonnawl and soon moved his family from Lammam into their new home. They would have exclusive use of the land on the north side of the river, and Sroaro’s family would have the land on the south, although they agreed to share access to the woods on Sroaro’s side, and also his dairy.
Things were then pleasant for a time, but, with a landholding of his own, Wavo’s true manners came to the fore once again. The good relations that had once existed between Lammam and Wavonnawl only deteriorated. It happened slowly at first, through petty jibes flung between neighbours, or minor disputes needing little resolution, yet the matter progressed until the only words taken across the river were curses.
This culminated when Wavo’s son, named Wavono after his father, took a herd of pigs to forage in the woods, as was his right. However, as he walked between the trees, he stumbled over a log and fell face-first into a beehive. The bees swiftly stirred, and a great swarm amassed. Wavono fled to a nearby woodshack, fearing for his life all the while, and he suffered many stings before he got there. A short while later, when the bees had finally forsaken their fury, Wavono ventured back out of the woodshack to collect the pigs, but he found a handful had gone missing. Wavo later came along to help him search for them, but they had no luck.
‘Hopefully,’ said Wavo, ‘they will turn up somewhere soon.’
That they did. The missing pigs found their way into one of Sroaro’s fenced fields and pillaged his crops. In a fit of anger, Sroaro took up an axe and set upon the interlopers, killing every one of them, and screeching all the while.
He and some of his kinsmen paid a visit to Wavonnawl shortly thereafter. They dumped the pigs’ carcasses in Wavo’s pigpen, then went into the house to demand compensation for the damage, and also punishment for Wavono, who had let it all happen. Wavo was outraged by the very notion.
‘My pigs may have wrought ruin upon your crops,’ said Wavo, ‘but I will pay you nothing for it. They were my finest, fattest stock, and you have gone and butchered them with such haphazard frenzy that I can scarcely salvage a tail or toe. I would be well within my right to extract compensation of my own. Yet, in recognition of the damage they caused, I will not. Thus, I offer to you this settlement: I will pay you nothing, nor will I seek payment from you.’
Wavo further refused to punish Wavono for his blunder (he had suffered enough for that) and bade Sroaro leave his house forthwith.
He did not. Unable to tolerate this dire affront to his honour, this awful lack of discipline and respect, Sroaro’s temper escaped him, and he took it upon himself to strike Wavono on the head, to ridicule him, and to admonish him as only a father should. Upon seeing his dear son treated so, Wavo immediately succumbed to his own rage. With a wrath-wrought fist, he struck Sroaro’s chin, knocking him down, whereupon Sroaro’s kinsmen set upon Wavo, and Wavo’s kinsmen set upon them, and a terrible brawl unfolded. This did not end until, outnumbered and outmatched, Sroaro and his fellows fled the house, bruised of both body and pride.
Yet that was not sufficient for Wavo. It was not at all fitting that Sroaro should dare to father another man’s son. That night, Wavo gathered a gang of his choicest friends and went over the river to Lammam. They forced their way into Sroaro’s cowshed and drove six head of cattle home to Wavonnawl.
When Sroaro found half his herd missing the next morning, he howled an infernal cry. He knew without doubt what had become of his cattle—it was surely Wavo’s work.
‘It would seem,’ he said, ‘there can be no cordial resolution to this feud.’
Thus did Sroaro ambush Wavono as he was walking up to the dairy later that morning, bound him in rope, and took him before the local chieftain. She was called Koyala. Sroaro shoved Wavono at her feet and had him testify against his father and confirm the theft of Sroaro’s cattle. Wavono did as he was told, fearing for his life once more. Yet when Koyala heard his testimony, and then Sroaro’s demand for justice, she stood unmoved.
‘You are making small things big,’ she said. ‘It is no crime to move one’s own cattle. There is no cause for justice.’
‘I hear your words,’ said Sroaro, ‘but they baffle me. He moved my cattle, not his own. He stole them from me. Do you understand?’
‘How can a man steal what is his? I will tell you: he cannot.’
Koyala then vowed to subject Sroaro to the harshest penalty she could if he attempted to steal Wavo’s cattle and move them back to Lammam. With that, she freed Wavono from his bonds and sent Sroaro home unsatisfied. It later turned out that Wavo had come to Koyala earlier in the morning and given her two of the stolen cows for protection against the law.
While the loss of his cattle was a sore blow, it was not sufficient to render Sroaro destitute. From then on, he always had someone awake to keep watch, for he would not let fate turn against him once more. But mighty fate cannot be ruled, and so it was that Wavo, empowered by his deal with the chieftain, came back one night with nearly his whole household, armed with spears and axes, to lay claim to as much of Sroaro’s livestock as they could. When the night wardens let up the cry of theft, Sroaro and his fellows seized whatever weapons they could and rushed to meet the thieves. But though they fought hard and well, Wavo’s kin were the victors.
Wavo returned to Wavonnawl with two head of cattle and twenty head of sheep, and one clever chap also came back with a pregnant sow in his arms, from which a foremost farrow would soon be born. The deaths were none on Wavo’s side and two on Sroaro’s—they were Lopare and Kalropo, the two younger sons of Sroaro’s sister, Arlopa—though the lesser woundings were many more for both.
Sroaro was now truly impoverished. He returned to Koyala to accuse Wavo of further thefts and also murder, hoping she would finally heed his plea, but she was much too chuffed with her new flock of sheep to hear him. She refused to deliver justice. This left Sroaro with no choice but to reclaim his livelihood by force, or else to abandon Lammam, his ancestral home, once and for all. He sought support from his household for a counter-raid, but he found none. His relatives were all much too weary to fight again. Instead, they resolved to give up, to go their separate ways, and to make new lives for themselves wherever they might find them—preferably well away from Wavonnawl.
In this way did Sroaro’s household dissolve. He and his closest kinsfolk came to Dyar, where they lived with his sister-in-law, Moa, though she and her lot needed much persuading to take them in. Wavo, meanwhile, took control of Lammam, where once he had been a guest in Sroaro’s house.
Sroaro spent the rest of his days ever cursing Wavo. He would often incite his younger friends and relatives to avenge the destruction of their household, but this never came to anything. Some said they did not want to bring harm to Wavo, fearing his grudge would only worsen and they would be forced from their home once again. Others said they did not care for vengeance at all, for Dyar was a much nicer home than Sroaro had ever kept at Lammam. In any case, Wavo went unpunished for his crimes. He always went to bed full and content, while Sroaro spent his nights weeping for all he had lost.
* * *
‘So,’ said Sroaro, ‘I am eager to find some other agent of justice. Would you, Thalo man, be willing to deliver it?’
‘What would I gain from this?’ said Thalo.
‘I will reward you handsomely enough.’ Sroaro showed Thalo a fantastic jewel, bright red and blazing. ‘This is the prize for the murder of Wavo. It is an old family heirloom. I received it from my father on the day of his death, and likewise has it been handed down through many generations prior. I had once intended to pass it on to my sons just the same, yet they have squandered their honour and mine. If they wish to so manfulnesslessly disregard their father, they will disregard their inheritance as well.’
That jewel, that most aweworthy gem, was of such resplendent quality, such beautiful make, that Thalo thought not twice about it.
‘I will deliver your justice,’ he said. ‘By my hand will Wavo be slain.’
To hear these words, Sroaro was moved to rapture. He clasped Thalo’s head in his hands, pulled him close to his breast, and kissed him three times, each kiss the firmer. Then they sat together to plan the murder. Sroaro told Thalo how to get from Dyar to Wavonnawl.
‘It will be no trouble to get inside,’ said Sroaro. ‘Wavo is cruel, but he is not remotely clever. Nor will he be difficult to find. He sleeps with his husband at the back of the house, behind an embroidered curtain. That was a gift from my wife when they first moved there. You will know him by his looks—a tall bloke, and thin, with close-cropped hair and a long black beard. He is missing his right eye. Do him in there and then, and my wealth will be yours.’
Thalo said he would do as Sroaro proposed, and he spent the rest of the day preparing himself.
The time came that evening, shortly before sunset. Sroaro walked Thalo down to the river and saw him off. The journey was long, but Thalo came to Wavonnawl without going astray—Sroaro knew the land well indeed, and his directions were faultless. He first tried to get into the house through the door, but this was bolted from the inside and could not be opened without making a racket. The same was true of the door to the smithy.
‘Perhaps,’ said Thalo, ‘this Wavo is cleverer than is reckoned. But I am all the cleverer.’
Then he got onto the roof, crept along to the smithy, took off the roofcap, and dropped into the house. After opening the door from the inside, only one task remained.
‘Now to do and be done,’ he said.
All the candles in the house had already been snuffed, the room lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the crack of the door. At the other end, Wavo would surely await him. Before venturing further, Thalo took a moment to look for any restless movements, to listen for any sign of wakefulness, but no such sounds could be heard above those of sleeping men, all snoring and grunting. He went in. Each step was carefully placed, each breath considered, his hand ever outstretched in the darkness. It was only a few paces from the smithy door to Wavo’s bed, but Thalo went with such caution, such absolute awareness of every step and every sound, that it might as well have been a nightlong endeavour.
Then, at last, his hand clutched a curtain. Peering behind it, he could not discern one man from the other, but the darkness would not dissuade him. He reached within, groping blindly in the dark, to find their faces. His touch fell first upon a shaven cheek, but Wavo wore a beard. That, then, was Wavo’s husband, Goldhego. Wavo himself would be sleeping on the farther side of the bed. That was his chance. Though Thalo held no grudge against Wavo, the thought of Sroaro’s jewel glinting in the firelight, the desire to feel its heft in his hand, was stuck fast in his mind. With but a stab and a dash, it would be his. He could not let such an opportunity pass. He must not. There could be no turning back.
Thalo drew his knife from his belt, reached once more behind the curtain, and with one quick strike he plunged the blade hard into Wavo’s neck, then ran. And how he ran! As Wavo lay sputtering behind him, as Goldhego leapt up and cried murder, as the household jostled awake, Thalo sprang through the smithy door and out into the night. Wavo’s relatives all armed themselves for vengeance, but they dealt none. They had been taken by surprise, and Thalo left so quickly, and amid such confusion, that he got away unstopped.
When he came back to Dyar, it was nearly sunrise. Sroaro, having slept poorly that night, was awake to meet him. Thalo showed him the bloody knife and declared Wavo to be dead, and that was all the proof the old man needed.
‘Joy!’ he said. ‘I cannot tell you, Thalo man, what elation swells within me! Come inside, and I will share it with you.’
Sroaro brought Thalo inside and gave him his jewel. Thalo received it with pleasure and went to bed.
Then a very peculiar thing happened. While Sroaro was preparing his breakfast above the fire, he heard raised voices outside. Before he could so much as lift his bottom from his seat, in came Wavo, armed and armoured, his face clean-shaven.
‘Oh!’ said Sroaro, leaping to his feet. ‘A haunting!’
But this was no ghostly apparition. There stood Wavo, glowering, firm of flesh and fierce of face.
‘Why are you here?’ said Sroaro.
‘My Goldhego,’ said Wavo, ‘has been murdered in the night.’
Sroaro could not comprehend this news. He understood well enough that Goldhego was dead and Wavo yet lived, but it made no sense at all. Wavo was dead, but there he stood. It could not be.
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Am I sure I was awoken in the night by my husband’s death cry? That his dying words struggled out through a cloven throat? That I held him in my arms as he bled in our bed? Do I seem unsure?’
Eyes wide, Sroaro whimpered, ‘I see. Who could have done this?’
Wavo scoffed. ‘Who indeed?’ He took his axe from his belt, and with an eye of fire, aflame with grief and a grudge, he strode towards Sroaro. ‘Let me tell you exactly why I am here, Sroaro. I am here to accuse you of this crime. To avenge Goldhego’s death, and all else you have made me suffer. To be rid of you once and for all!’
Then Wavo took up his axe and killed Sroaro with a single blow to the neck.
‘What is dealt is dealt in kind,’ he said, and he left the room. No one dared stop him.
Thalo was still asleep when Wavo left Dyar. The walk to Wavonnawl and back, and the thrill of the murder, had worn him out so thoroughly that he slept soundly from Wavo’s coming to his going. He was not awoken until Moa, Sroaro’s sister-in-law and the head of the household, pried him from his bench a little while later. She told him Sroaro had been killed and bade him make himself useful.
‘Who killed him?’ said Thalo.
‘Wavo,’ said Moa. ‘Sroaro’s resentment must have finally deluded him. He murdered Goldhego, and Wavo paid him back. A terrible mess. This is why we tried to turn him away.’
Thalo did not correct her, nor did he make himself useful. He packed his things, the jewel of Lammam among them, and left Dyar before he could be held to account. He did not look back.