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“Let’s have a proper meal this evening,” I suggested, smiling. “Real food for once.”
“And a bed?” asked Uther hopefully.
“We’ll see,” I replied, cagily, hoping he would forget asking. Yes, sleeping so roughly was no good for his old bones, but spending a night in town made us more vulnerable to discovery. Even a meal was a risk, but a quick in-and-out seemed a risk worth taking when our supplies were so low.
Uther looked at me. Alongside the childlike joy that was the main symptom of his distraction, there was also an uncomfortable melancholy. That melancholy probably occurred as he struggled to get his mind back—this was the time when he was most aware that there was something wrong, something missing. In that respect, I supposed it was a good thing as it showed that the father I’d known was still in there somewhere. But it was almost unbearable to witness.
“Are you… Are you Cara?” He looked at me, sure he was wrong but unable to get the name out of his head.
“No. I’m Selena. Remember?”
“Selena. Of course. Selena.” He frowned. “Where is Cara?”
My mother had died when I was still very young, and though he’d put on a brave face for his children, I’d grown up knowing that my father felt my mother’s loss every day.
But I couldn’t say that to him now; I would just be forcing him to relive the pain.
“I’m sure she’ll be waiting for us when we get where we’re going.”
That probably wasn’t a very helpful thing to say either. But Uther nodded and was quiet again, though the tortured expressions passing back and forth across his face showed that he was still trying to put the broken fragments of his mind back together, and still failing. When we got back and Cara wasn’t there waiting for him, then I’d have to tell him the truth. I’d break my father’s heart all over again and run the risk of shattering his fragile mind still further.
The madness could be cruel as well as kind.
***
The town’s name, according to the sign on its outskirts, was ‘Casper’s Relief’, presumably an allusion to some local figure of history or legend. All the wilderness towns seemed to have names like ‘Drake’s Hideout’, ‘Mary’s Repentance’, and, most intriguingly ‘Roger’s Shaft’—names that told a story. Even when the original story was lost to time, they were names that invited you to make up a new story.
Casper’s Relief was pretty typical of wilderness towns; a market that had grown up over time to become a permanent home for those who serviced the nomads and herders who traversed the steppe. There were blacksmiths to get your horse shod, tailors to get your clothes mended, bath houses where you could get a bath (with a happy ending if you slipped a coin to the right girl), tanners, butchers, dairies and, of course, taverns.
The herders spent long months out in the wilderness with nothing but sheep, goats, or the hardy longhorn cattle for company. When they came back to town, they wanted three things, two of which they could get at the ‘bath houses’, and the third was a drink. The wilderness taverns sold dreck, the sort of drink that makes up for months of nothing but water and goats’ milk by knocking you out cold with one draft. They said that if you left the dreck in the tankard too long, it started to corrode the metal. It was a wilderness rite of passage that a young herder would take his first sip of dreck at the end of his first stint—if he was still able to see the following morning, then he was judged to be a proper man.
“Put your hood up,” I whispered to Uther as we passed through the bustling throng—every day was market day in a place like Casper’s Relief.
“Is it another game?”
“No.” Sometimes it was better to be clear—to let Uther know this was serious.
Uther nodded and pulled the hood of his woolen robe over his head. The robe had been woven for him specially and when new, had cost a pretty penny. It had been a gift from my mother and Uther had worn it until it was worn almost through. He’d never let it go—even now it seemed to mean something to him, even if he could no longer explain why or what that something was.
Hooded and, hopefully anonymous, we wandered, looking for a quieter tavern—with so many, there surely had to be one. Occasionally people would look in our direction and my whole body seemed to tense and contract at the feel of their eyes on us, but it was always no more than a glance. No one was looking too closely.
Truth be told, even if anyone had gotten a good look at Uther’s face, it was unlikely that they’d recognize him, because what would he be doing here? In a place like this? They’d write it up as one of those coincidences—everyone is said to have their doppelgänger.
“Here looks alright.”
‘Alright’ might have been stretching—what the tavern looked like wasquiet, which was my main criteria, although you did have to wonder what was wrong with it when every other place seemed to be heaving the seams. Still, beggars could not be choosers, so we went in.
Even with hoods up, Uther and I stood out among a clientele that was overwhelmingly male, between the ages of sixteen and sixty, and drunk.
“What’ll it be?” The barman gave us a funny look but had apparently seen enough not to ask questions.
“What’s good to eat?” I asked.
“I don’t know about ‘good’ but I’ll tell you what’s on.”
“Okay.”
“There’s goat stew,” announced the barman as if beginning a list, but then fell silent.
