“The sun is high, my stomach grumbles and I think it’s lunchtime,” said Aleyne, pausing to let Paul catch up to him. They were climbing up a hill again, where the forest grew less thickly, but Paul was always slow uphill.
“I also think Rhysamarn is only a little way away, and at its foot there is the Ascendant’s Inn. And since…”
“We lost our packs,” interrupted Paul, “we might as well go on because there’s nothing for lunch anyway.”
“Exactly,” smiled Aleyne, who hadn’t missed Paul’s bad temper or the slight quiver of his lower lip. “How are your feet?”
“Sore,” grumbled Paul, who was now well over the night’s dangers and more concerned with his various discomforts. Trust Julia to get kidnapped to a place without buses, he thought sourly as Aleyne set off again, trying to pick the easiest way up the hill. And every “adventure” I have is always without food, and in forests full of prickles and thorns…
Paul was still thinking about thistles, because they were the most immediate nuisance, when Aleyne suddenly stopped ahead of him. Paul looked up from the ground and saw that the trees no longer rose up to the sky, and only a few metres further on lay the top of the hill–the real top, and not just another tantalisingly close ridge.
“Well,” said Aleyne, “we’re there–or near enough.” Paul rushed up the last few metres, on to the flat rock where Aleyne gazed to the east. They were truly on top of the hill, for below them the forest thinned out to nothing, to be replaced by green fields which stretched down to a narrow river spanned by a wooden bridge.
On the other side of the river, the land stretched up again, turning from lush farmland to yellow heather, which grew up and up along the slopes of a mountain that disappeared into mist.
“Rhysamarn,” said Aleyne, in a sort of deep, polite tone. Just like he was talking about a church, thought Paul, who was busy looking for the inn. Then he saw it–a large yellow house, with several red-brick chimneys, the whole place nestled in the folds of the heather, just a little way up the Mountain of the Wise.
“Let’s go,” said Aleyne, looking back from the mountain to see the boy several metres below him. Aleyne noted with amusement that Paul was not slow going down hills–at least those with the prospect of food and shelter at the end. But then neither was Sir Aleyne, sometime Knight and watcher of events on the River Awgaer.
5. Rhysamarn / The Mountain of the Wise (#ulink_4e3c40a6-8e72-5694-9a2c-8b1990e6e274)
THREE DAYS LATER, Paul was looking down on the Ascendant’s Inn again, but this time he was standing amidst luxuriant yellow heather, headed for the secret heights of Rhysamarn. And this time he was alone.
The Ascendant’s Inn had provided a very welcome rest. The innkeeper, Master Aran, had welcomed them with foaming pints of a heady beer, of which half a pint was sufficient to stun Paul. Then they enjoyed three days of idling around the fire, fishing in the river Rhysamarn, and best of all, sleeping on the goose-feather beds under heavy eiderdowns.
Then, on the morning of the fourth day, Master Aran had said that Paul should go up–alone. How he knew, he didn’t say, but Aleyne said that this was the normal practice, and Paul must go if Aran said so.
It’s all very well for him, thought Paul crossly, looking down at the distant figure of Aleyne standing outside the inn. He doesn’t have to struggle up this mountain where it’s all cold and damp.
It was cold and damp, but to tell the truth Paul hadn’t really been bothered by it. Aleyne had bought him good woollen clothes from Aran, and roughly cut them down to size. With a sheepskin coat, soft doeskin boots and a broad-brimmed hat, Paul didn’t feel the cold at all.
All I need is a sword, thought Paul, or a short-sword anyway. He practised a few film-style lunges and slashes, and thought swashbuckling thoughts, till it occurred to him that he might really need a sword–and if he were attacked by things like the Gwarulch it wouldn’t make much difference anyway.
“Just let me find Julia,” he whispered up at the mountain. “And get us back to where it’s safe.”
Suddenly, the mountain looked less of an obstacle, compared to the problems he might have to overcome to get home–the Ragwitch and all her powers, for one. Setting his hat firmly on his small head Paul set off, up into the mist that shrouded the Mountain of the Wise.
There was a sort of path up through the heather, which wound its way between the large rocky outcrops that occasionally loomed up out of the mist. Paul took care to follow the path–the mist had become much thicker and he knew that getting lost here would mean certain death, as no rescue teams or helicopters would be around to find him.
The mountain grew steeper, and the rocky parts more numerous, and Paul was forced to use his hands to scramble up. The path became less distinct among the rocks, and he had to stop and look for it several times. Hours passed in this stop-start way and Paul began to feel less confident. Suddenly, climbing a mountain all by himself seemed incredibly stupid. He wouldn’t have done it at home, after all. And looking for “the Wise” didn’t seem very sensible – he didn’t even know what they looked like!
Aleyne had said to keep to the path and not to stop for too long, thought Paul. He started up the mountain again, then he suddenly remembered Aleyne first telling him about the Wise and his journey up the mountain. Aleyne had said “I rode my horse”–but the path was too steep and narrow for a horse.
I must have gone the wrong way! thought Paul, angry at all his wasted climbing. He thought of all that effort and considered going on. But it was obviously the wrong path…
“Down it is,” said Paul aloud, turning back down the path. But even as he took the first, easy, downhill steps, the path seemed to fade away, melting into the yellow heather or the green-grey mottled stone.
He took a few more steps, but the path disappeared, leaving no sign of its prior existence. He quickly looked around and the path uphill was going too–though it was contracting, racing up the hill, rather than fading.
With a strangled yelp, Paul jumped after it, taking great bounding steps up the slope. The heather brushed against his legs as he crashed through it, chasing the path that retreated just a little faster than he could run.
Then, without warning, both the path and the boy burst out of the mist into yellow sunlight. The path suddenly stopped and Paul jumped on it, taking great satisfaction in seeing his boot-prints on the open dirt. He took a few steps along it, to give himself a head start in case it started to race away again, and looked around.
Downhill, a thick wall of mist obscured any view, but uphill, the sun was shining, its warmth already touching Paul’s mist-wet clothes and face. A little further along, the heather started to fall back, and above this border of heather loomed the grey shale peak that was the top of Rhysamarn.
But it was what lay in between that attracted Paul’s attention. Just above the heather, but before the grey stone, lay a field of dark brown earth. It was larger than a suburban garden, but not really a decent market garden size. And in the middle of it, an old man was planting something that looked very like cabbages.
Hesitantly, Paul walked over to the field. Aleyne had told him that the Wise appeared in different guises, but he hadn’t expected an old man planting (or transplanting) baby cabbages.
“Hello,” said Paul, upon reaching the edge of the field. “I’m Paul. I’m looking for the Wise.”
The old man looked up from the cabbages, revealing a lined face, rosy cheeks and a reddish nose. His white hair and moustache threatened to weave a mask around his face, but he parted the long locks with a dirty hand. The bright eyes that looked at Paul were in no way obscured or dimmed by his bushy, walrus-like eyebrows, which quivered as he spoke.
“The Wise, eh? Well, you’ve come to the right place. Rhysamarn–the Mountain of the Wise. Or literally, Place of Wisdom Mountain.”
“Yes,” said Paul doubtfully. This wasn’t the reception he’d been expecting, particularly since the old man hadn’t stopped transplanting cabbages. He had hundreds of them, it seemed, in a wooden box that he dragged along between the rows.
“Well, come and help, boy,” snapped the old man. “Part of being wise is knowing the value of things. And advice got for nothing is often worthless. In your case, I would say you need counselling to the value of…about eighty transplanted cabbages.”
“Uh,” said Paul, who’d avoided even doing the weeding in his father’s garden. But he knelt down next to the box of cabbages and asked, “What do I do?”
The old man told him, demonstrating how to make a suitable hole, with a clenched fist pushed into the soil and twisted several times. Paul soon learnt the knack of it, but even so he lagged behind the old man. Closer to, this potential sage looked even more unsuitable for the role of one of the Wise. He was dressed in a simple robe of what looked like sackcloth, and wore wooden sandals that clattered as he crawled forward on his knees. And having been in the cabbage field all day, he was covered in dirt.
The sun rose higher above the cabbage planters and then began its slow decline into the west. As the shadows lengthened, Paul kept looking at the old man, hoping that he was about to call it quits. The cabbage planting business had seemed easy enough at first, but it soon became tiring and his back was stiff from being bent over all day.
Failing the signal to stop work, Paul would have welcomed some conversation, or at least some questions regarding why he was there. But the old man was silent as he planted the cabbages with a monotonous regularity; left fist in to make the hole, right hand to pick up the cabbage and place it carefully, left hand to smooth the dirt around it. Over and over again.
Eventually, the sun sank low enough to send the distant clouds red and Paul had had enough. He stuffed his current cabbage in the hole, smoothed it over and stood up, his back creaking. “I’ve had enough,” he said, a trace of self-righteousness creeping into his voice. “I’ve been planting cabbages nearly all day–a lot more than eighty cabbages!”
“One hundred and thirty-two, by my count,” said the old man cheerfully. “I was wondering when you’d realise.” He got up, straightening his back with the help of both hands thrust against his backbone. “Well, I suppose for that number of cabbages, I can give you supper as well.”
The old man bent down again and pulled a thick, oilcloth covering over the box with the remaining cabbages.
“What do I call you then?” he asked Paul. “Boy? Cabbage-planter?”
“My name is Paul,” said Paul. “What shall I call you?”
“Old Man?” suggested the sage, rolling it off his tongue as if to see how it sounded. “Cabbage-planter? Tanboule? Tanboule is the name of my house–so you may call me that. Tanboule the house and Tanboule the old man. And one shall go to the other for a supper of cabbage and bacon, bread and tea. Eh, Paul?”
“Err…that sounds very nice,” said Paul, who was thinking Tanboule didn’t seem so much wise as mad. Still, he did seem to be on Rhysamarn mountain…
Obviously encouraged by the mention of supper, Tanboule took off up the slope at once, easily outpacing Paul with his long strides. Unlike Aleyne, he didn’t stop for Paul to catch up with him and was soon a dark speck against the grey shale. Paul struggled on angrily, slipping on the wet slabs of stone and wishing he’d never even seen the stupid old man and his cabbages.
Then he looked up, and even the dark speck had gone. Tanboule was nowhere to be seen and there was no sign of a house up on the rocky peak, or even a cave mouth. Paul hesitated and looked back down the mountain, but the mist was as thick as ever. And he could clearly see the cabbage-field–a little square of dirt on which he’d spent considerable labour.
“At least I deserve to eat some cabbage,” muttered Paul. “And I’m going to get some, like it or not!” And with that promise, he started back up the shale, using his hands when the rockface became too steep or broken.
Twenty minutes later, he reached the approximate spot where Tanboule had vanished–and the mystery of his sudden disappearance was explained. Paul had been climbing a peak that he thought was the very pinnacle of Rhysamarn, but it was only a lesser projection from the high mountain that lay before him. Down below Paul, there lay a saddle between the two peaks: a tiny valley of yellow heather, nestled between the greater and lesser peaks of grey shale.
