Hood

CHAPTER
23

6~ith the onset of warmer weather, Bran felt more and more restless confined to the cave. Angharad observed his discontent and, on fine days, allowed him to sit outside on a rock in the sun; but she never let him venture too far, and he was rarely out of her sight for more than a moment or two at a time. Bran was still weaker than he knew, and his eagerness to resume his flight to the north made him prone to overtax himself. He mistook convalescence for indolence and resented it, seldom missing an opportunity to let Angharad know he felt himself a prisoner under her care. This was natural enough, she knew, but there was more.

Lately, Bran's sleep had grown fitful and erratic; several times as dawn light broke in the east, he had called out; when she rose and went to him, he was asleep still but sweating and breathing hard. The reason, Angharad suspected, was that the story was working on him. His acceptance of the tale that night had been complete. Weak from his wandering in the snow, his fatigue had left him in an unusually receptive condition-unusual, that is, for one so strong-willed and naturally contrary; he had been in that state of alert serenity the bards called the trwyddo ennyd, the seeding time, and which they recognised as a singular moment for learning. This condition of attentive repose allowed the song to sink deep into Bran's being, passing beneath his all-too-ready defences. Now it was under his skin, burrowing deep into his bones, seeping into his soul, changing him from the inside out, though he did not know it.

There would come a day when the meaning would break upon him; maybe sooner, maybe later, but it would come. And for this, as much as for the progress of his healing, Angharad watched him so that she would be there when it happened.

She also made plans.

One day, as Bran sat outside in a pool of warm sunlight, Angharad appeared with an ash-wood stave in her hand. She came to where he sat and said, "Stand up, Bran."

Yawning, he did so, and she placed the length of wood against his shoulder. "What is this?" he asked. "Measuring me for a druid staff?" In his restlessness, he had begun mocking her quaintly antiquated ways. The wise woman knew the source of his impatience and astutely ignored it.

"Nay, nay," she said, "you would have to spend seventeen years at least before you could hold one of those-and you would have had to begin before your seventh summer. This," she said, placing the stave in his hands, "is your next occupation."

"Herding sheep?"

"If that is your desire. I had something else in mind, but the choice is yours."

He looked at the slender length of wood. Almost as long as he was tall, it had a good heft and balance. "A bow?" he guessed. "You want me to make a bow?"

She smiled. "And here I was thinking you slow-witted. Yes, I want you to make a bow."

Bran examined the length of ash once more. He held it up and looked down its length. Here and there it bent slightly out of truenot so badly that it could not be worked-but that was not the problem. "No," he said at last, "it cannot be done."

The old woman looked at the stave and then at Bran. "Why not, Master Bran?"

"Do not call me that!" he said roughly. "I am a nobleman, remember, a prince-not a common tradesman."

"You ceased being a prince when you abandoned your people," she said. Though her voice was quiet, her manner was unforgiving, and Bran felt the now-familiar rush of shame. It was not the first time she had berated him for his plan to flee Elfael. Laying a hand on the stave, she said, "Tell me why the wood cannot be worked."

"It is too green," replied Bran, petulance making his voice low.

"Explain, please."

"If you knew anything about making a longbow, you would know that you cannot simply cut a branch and begin shaping. You must first season the wood, cure it -a year at least. Otherwise it will warp as it dries and will never bend properly." He made to hand the length of ash back to her. "You can make a druid staff out of it, perhaps, but not a bow."

"And what leads you to think I have not already seasoned this wood?"

"Have you?" Bran asked. "A year?"

"Not a year, no," she said.

"Well then-" He shrugged and again tried to give the stave back to her.

"Two years," she told him. "I kept it wrapped in leather so it would not dry too quickly."

"Two years," he repeated suspiciously. "I don't believe you." In truth, he did believe her; he simply did not care to consider the more far-reaching implications of her remark.

Angharad had turned away and was moving toward the cave. "Sit," she said. "I will bring you the tools."

Bran settled himself on the rock once more. He had made a bow only twice as a lad, but he had seen them made countless times. His father's warriors regularly filled their winter days, as well as the hall itself, with sawdust and wood shavings as they sat around the fire, regaling each other with their impossible boasts and lies. For battle, the longbow was the prime weapon of choice for all True Sons of Prydein- and a fair few of her fearless daughters, too. In skilled hands, a stout warbow was a formidable weapon-light, durable, easily made with materials ready to hand, and above all, devastatingly deadly.

Bran, like most every child who had grown up in the secluded valleys and rough hills of the west, had been taught the bowman's art from the time he could stand on his own two unsteady legs. As a boy he had often gone to sleep with raw, throbbing fingers and aching arms. At seven years, he had earned a permanent scar on his left wrist from the lash of the bowstring all summer. At eight, he had brought down a young boar all by himself-a gift for his dying mother. Although hunting had ceased to interest him after that, he had continued to practise with the warband, and by his thirteenth year, he could pull a man's bow and put a fowler's arrow through the eye of a crow perched on a standing stone three hundred paces away.

This was not a skill unique to himself, every warrior he knew could do the same-as well as any farmer worth his salt. The ability to direct an arrow with accuracy over implausible lengths was a common, but no less highly prized, facility, and one which made best use of another of the weapon's considerable qualities: it allowed a combatant to strike from a distance, silently if need be-a virtue unequalled by any other weapon Bran knew.

When Angharad shortly reappeared with an adz, a pumice stone, and several well-honed chisels and knives from her trove of unknown treasures somewhere deep in the cave, Bran set to work, tentatively at first, but with growing confidence as his hands remembered their craft. Soon he was toiling away happily, sitting on his rock in the warm sun, stripping the bark from the admittedly well-seasoned length of ash. As he worked, he listened to the birds in the greening trees round about and attuned his ears to the forest sounds. This became, as she had intended, his principal occupation. As the days passed, Angharad noticed that when he was working on the bow, Bran fretted less and was more content. On days when it rained, he sat in the cave entrance beneath the overhanging ledge and laboured there.

Slowly, the slender length of ash took form beneath his hands. He worked with deliberate care; there was no hurry, after all. He knew he was not yet fit enough for the journey across the mountains. It would be high summer when that day came, and by then the bow would be finished and ready to use.

Bran still planned on leaving. As soon as his wrinkled physician pronounced him hale and whole once more, he would wish her farewell and leave the forest and Elfael without looking back.

But one day, as he thought about his plan, something awakened inside him-a vague uneasiness, almost like a grinding in the pit of his stomach. It was a mildly disagreeable feeling, and he quickly turned his attention to something else. From that moment, however, the discomfort returned whenever his thoughts happened to touch on the point of his leaving. At first, he considered it a form of discontent a daylight manifestation of the same restlessness he often experienced at night. Even so, the subtle anxiety was growing, and all too soon Bran began experiencing a bitter, unpleasant taste in his mouth whenever he thought about any aspect of his future whatsoever.

Unwilling to confront the pain fermenting inside him, Bran pushed down the disagreeable feeling and ignored it. But there, deep in the inner core of his hidden heart, it festered and grew as he worked the wood-shaping it, smoothing it, slowly creating just the right curve along the belly and back so that it would bend uniformly along its length-and he forgot the blight that was spreading in his soul.

When at last he had the stave shaped just right, he brought it to Angharad, passing it to her with an absurdly inordinate sense of achievement. He could not stop grinning as she held the smooth ashwood bow in her rough, square hands and tested the bend with her weight. "Well?" he asked, unable to contain himself any longer. "What do you think?'

I think I was right to call you Master Bran," she replied. "You have a craftsman's aptitude for the tools."

"It is good, is it not?" he said, reaching out to stroke the smooth, tight-grained wood. "The stave was excellent."

"You worked it well," she told him, handing it back. "I cannot say when I've seen a finer bow."

"Ash is good," he allowed, "although yew is better." Glancing up, he caught Angharad's eye and added, "I don't blame you, mind. It is difficult to find a serviceable limb."

"Ah, well, just you finish this," she told him. "I want to see if you can hunt with it."

He caught the challenge in her words. "You think I could not bring down a stag? Or a boar even?"

"Maybe a small one," she allowed, teasing, "if it was also slow of foot and weakhearted."

"I do not hunt anymore," he told her. "But if I did, I'd bring back the biggest, swiftest, strongest stag you've ever seen-a genuine Lord of the Forest."

She regarded him with a curious, bird-bright eye. His use of the term tantalised. Could it be that her pupil was ready for the next step on his journey? "Finish the bow first, Master Bran," she said, "and then we'll see what we shall see."

Completing his work on the bow took longer than he expected. Obtaining the rawhide for the grip, slicing it thin, and braiding it so that it could be wound tightly around the centre of the stave was the work of several days. Making the bowstring proved an even more imposing task. Bran had never made a bowstring; those were always provided by one of the women of the caer.

Faced with this chore, he was not entirely certain which material was best, or where it might be found. He consulted Angharad. "They used hemp," he told her. "Also flax-I think. But I don't know where they got it."

"Hemp is easy enough to find. Given a little time, I could get flax, too. Which would you prefer?"

"Either," he said. "Whichever can be got soonest."

"You shall have it."

Two days later, Angharad presented him with a bound bundle of dried hemp stalks. "You will have to strip it and beat it to get the threads," she told him. "I can show you."

The next sunny day found them outside the cave, cutting off the leaves and small stems and then beating the long, fibrous stalks on a flat stone. Once the stalks began to break down, it was easy work to pull the loosened threads away. The long outer fibres were tough and hairy, but the inner ones were finer, and these Bran carefully collected into a tidy, coiled heap.

"Now they must be twisted," Bran told her. Selecting a few of the better strands, he tied them to a willow branch; while Angharad slowly, steadily turned the branch, Bran patiently wound the long threadlike fibres over one another, carefully adding in new ones as he went along to increase the length. The process was repeated until he had six long strings of twisted strands, which were then tightly and painstakingly braided together to make two bowstrings of three braided strands each.

Determining the length of the bowstring took some time, too. Bran had to string and unstring the bow a dozen times before he was happy with the bend and suppleness of the draw. When he finished, he proclaimed himself satisfied with the result and declared, "Now for the arrows."

Making arrows was not a chore he had ever undertaken either; but, like the other tasks, he had watched it done often enough to know the process. "Willow is easiest to work, but difficult to find in suitable lengths," he mused aloud before the fire while Angharad cooked their supper. "Beech and birch, also. Ash, alder, and hornbeam are sturdier. Oak is the most difficult to shape, but it is strongest of all. It is also heavier, so the arrows do not fly as far-good for hunting bigger animals, though," he added, "and for battle, of course."

"Each of those trees abounds in the forest," Angharad offered. "Tomorrow, we can go out together and find some branches."

"Very well," agreed Bran. It would be the first time he had been allowed to walk into the forest since the winter ramble that had sent him back to his sickbed. Even so, he did not want to appear too excited lest Angharad change her mind. "If you think I'm ready."

"Bran," she said gently, "you are not a prisoner here."

He nodded, adopting a diffident air, but inwardly he was very much a prisoner yearning for release.

The next day they walked a short distance into the wood to select suitable branches from various trees. "The arrow tips will be difficult to make," Bran offered, swinging the axe as they walked along. "If I could get back into the caer, I'd soon have all the arrowheads I needed" arrows, too.

"What about flint?"

The idea of a stone-tipped arrow was so old-fashioned, it made Bran chuckle. "I doubt if anyone alive in all of Britain still knows how to make an arrowhead of flint."

Now it was Angharad's turn to laugh. "There is one in the Island of the Mighty who remembers."

Bran stopped walking and stared after her. "Who are you, Angharad?"

When she did not answer, he hurried to catch her. "I mean it who are you that you know all these things?"

"And I have already told you."

"Tell me again."

Angharad stopped, turned, and faced him. "Will you listen this time? And listening, will you believe?"

"I will try."

She shook her head. "No. You are not ready." She resumed her pace.

"Angharad!" bawled Bran in frustration. "Please! Anyway, what difference does it make whether I believe or not? Just tell me."

Angharad stopped again. "It makes a world of difference," she declared solemnly. "It matters so much that sometimes it takes my breath away. Greater than life or death; greater than this world and the world to come. There is no end to the amount of difference it can make."

She moved on, but Bran did not follow. "You speak in riddles! How am I to understand you when you talk like that?"

Angharad turned on him with a sudden fury that forced him back a step. "What did you do with your life, Master Bran?" she demanded accusingly. "More to the point, what will you do with your life now that you have it back?"

Bran started to protest but shut his mouth even as he drew breath to speak. It was futile to challenge her-better to keep quiet.

"Answer me that," she told him, "and then I will answer you."

Bran glared back at her. What reply could he make that she would not revile?

"Nothing to say?" inquired Angharad with sweet insincerity. "I thought not. Think long before you speak again."

Her words stung him like a slap, and they did more. They ripped open the hole into which he had pushed all the festering blackness in his soul-soon to come welling up with a vengeance.