“Aye,” said Peter. “I’ve changed less than he has, it seems. Not that he hasn’t worn well, mind you.” He tipped his head to one side. “How comes your lass by that barley mow of hers?”

  “Bar me all my folks are fair,” she said. “Katie’s eyes are her Dad’s though. The boys seemed to fall betwixt and between.” She stepped up to the fireplace, caught up a corner of her apron and lifted the lid of the iron cauldron which hung from a smoke-blackened chain above the flames. A rich and spicy scent floated over the hearth. She nodded, re-settled the lid and squinted up into the chimney where the other half of the salmon could be dimly seen twisting slowly back and forth in the hot air and the blue-gray woodsmoke. “Let it down again, lad,” she said. “We’ll souse it just once more.”

  Tom unhooked an end of the chain and lowered the fish till she was able to reach it. “Hold it still now,” she said and picking a brush of twigs out of a pot on the hearth she basted the now golden flesh till it gleamed like dark honey. “Up with it, lad.”

  The fish vanished once more up the throat of the flue and a few aromatic drops fell down and sizzled among the embers.

  As Tom was making the chain fast the door to the yard opened and Norris’ two sons came in followed by the three dogs. The men eyed the two strangers curiously and watched without speaking as the dogs bounded up to the hearth and then ranged themselves in a grinning, hopeful semi-circle round the boy who looked down at them and laughed.

  Norris appeared at the scullery door toweling his neck and bawled out introductions as though he were calling cattle in from the fells. The young men nodded and flashed their teeth in smiles of welcome. “You must have got a way with dogs, lad,” observed one. “That lot don’t take kindly to strangers as a rule. They’re like as not to have the arse out of your breeks.”

  Tom eyed the dogs and shook his head. Then Katie came in and summoned them to her. In her hand she held the wooden bucket of fish offal. She opened the yard door, stepped outside, and the dogs tumbled after her, whining eagerly.

  Ten minutes later the men and the boy took their places at the long table. Katie’s mother ladled out thick broth into wooden bowls and Katie set one before each guest, then one before her father and her brothers and, last of all, one each for her mother and herself. Norris dunked his spoon and sucked up a noisy mouthful. “My women tell me we’ve got you to thank for this,” he said to Peter.

  The old man shrugged modestly and winked across at Tom. “You wed a fine cook, Norris,” he said. “I’ve not tasted such a broth since I sampled your mother’s.”

  Norris smiled. “Aye, old Mam taught Annie a thing or two afore she went. How to bear strong men for a start. Now tell us some news, old timer. Is it true there’s a new king in Wales?”

  “Aye. Dyfydd men call him. They say he’s a fierce and cunning fighter.”

  “That’s as may be, but can he keep the peace? Hold off the Paddys? Hey?”

  “Maybe. Along the west border there was talk of him laying court to Eileen of Belfast-King Kerrigan’s widow. That might do it-if he pulls it off.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Norris, reaching out and tearing a ragged lump from the wheaten loaf before him. “You heard they’d fired Lancaster Castle?”

  “There’s no truth in that story, Norris. They were held at Morecambe and hanged at Preston.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “I did a two-day telling in Lancaster myself a month back. On my way up to Kendal. By the time we leg it into York I daresay folk will be telling us the Paddys hold everything west of the Pennines.”

  Norris laughed. “Aye. If cows grew like rumors we’d none of us lack for beef.”

  Peter smiled and nodded. “Are you still under Northumberland’s shield here?”

  “For what it’s worth. The last border patrol we saw was nigh on a year back, and they were a right bunch of thieves. No, the only time his Lordship wants to know about us is at the Mid-Summer Tax Harvest. Our trouble here is that there aren’t enough of us freeholders to make up more than a token force. And we’re spread too thin. The Paddys could pick us off one by one if they’d a mind to, and none of us would be a wit the wiser till it was too late. It’s our luck there’s not much up here they’re likely to fancy.”

  “You’ve not been troubled then?”

  “Nothing to speak of.”

  The younger son glanced round at his brother and murmured something too low for Peter to catch.

  “Poachers?” Peter asked.

  “We had a spot of bother a year or two back. That’s all settled now. Let’s have some more beer here, Katie, lass!”

  The girl brought a huge stone jug and refilled her father’s mug. “Dad killed one of them,” she said to Peter. “With his axe. You did, didn’t you, Dad?”

  “It was them or us,” said Norris. “Don’t think I’m proud of it.”

  “Well, I am,” said Katie stoutly.

  Norris laughed and gave her a cheerful wallop on the behind. “Well, it seems to have taught them a lesson,” he said. “We’ve not been troubled since. Now tell us how the world’s been treating you, Tale-Spinner.”

  “Never better than this,” said Peter taking a long pull at his beer. “I crossed the narrow seas; lived a while in France and Italy. Joined up with a Greek juggler and voyaged with him to the Americas. Made some money and lost it. Came home to die two years ago. That’s about it, Norris. Nothing you’ve any call to envy me for.”

  “You’ve never felt you wanted to settle then?”

  “It’s not so much a question of wanting, Norris; more a question of royals. Some can save money; some can’t. Mind you, I’ll not say I haven’t had my chances. I was three whole years in one town in Italy. Still got connections there in a manner of speaking. But I’ll not be putting to sea again. These bones will lie in the Fifth Kingdom. All I’m waiting for now is to see the millennium out.”

  Katie’s mother spooned out steaming portions of rosy fish on to the wooden platters, piled potatoes and onions around them and passed them down the table. Norris stretched out and helped himself liberally to salt. “And just what’s so special about the year 3000?” he demanded. “A year’s a year and that’s all there is to it. Numbers aren’t worth a pig’s turd.”

  “Ah, now, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, Norris, there you’re mistaken. The fact is the world’s grown to expect something remarkable of A.D. 3000. And if enough people get to expecting something, then like enough it’ll come to pass.”

  “Peace and Brotherhood, you mean? The White Bird of Kinship and all that froth? I just wish someone would have a go at telling it to the Paddys and the Jocks.”

  “Ah, but they believe in it too, Norris.”

  “Oh, they do, do they?” Norris snorted. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. If you ask me the only tune the Jocks and the Paddys are likely to fall on anyone’s neck is when they’ve got a broadsword to hand.”

  “There’ll be a sign,” said Peter. “That’s how it’ll be.”

  “A sign, eh? What sort of sign?”

  “Some speak of a comet or a silver sky ship like they had in the Old Times. In Italy there was talk of a new star so bright you’ll be able to see it in the day sky.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Well, they could be right, Norris. Stranger things have happened.”

  “No doubt. And telling people about them has kept your old belly nicely lined, eh?”

  “Someone has to do it.”

  “Oh, I’m not belittling you, old timer. In truth I sometimes think we need more like you. Faith, it’s a poor look out for folks if they can see no more to life than scratching for food and working up their appetite for it by killing their fellow men.” He waved his knife at Tom. “What do you say, boy?”

  Tom swallowed his mouthful and nodded his head. “Yes, sir,” he said. “There is more than that.”

  “Bravely said, lad! Well, go on, tell us about it.”

  “Peter’s right, sir. About the White Bird, I mean. It is coming.”

  “Oh, yes?” said Norris, winking at Peter. “What’ll it be like, son?”

  “I mean for some of us it’s here already, sir,” said Tom. “We can hear it now. It’s in everything-all about us-everywhere. That’s what I thought you meant, sir.”

  Norris blinked at him and rolled his tongue pensively around his teeth. Then he nodded his head slowly. “Well now, maybe I did at that,” he said. “Not that I’d have thought to put it just so myself.”

  “Tom’s a piper, Dad,” said Katie. “He plays better than anyone I’ve ever heard.”

  “Is that a fact?” said Norris. “Then after supper we’ll have to see if we can’t persuade him to give us a tune. How about it, lad?”

  “Gladly, sir.”

  “Good,” said Norris stabbing a fork into his food and turning back to Peter. “You use him in your tellings, do you?”

  “Not so far,” said the old man. “But the thought crossed my mind just this afternoon. There’s no denying he’s got a real gift for the pipes. What do you say, Tom, lad? Fancy coming into partnership?”

  “I thought you were supposed to be taking him to the Chapter School at York,” said Katie’s mother with an edge to her voice that was not lost on Peter.

  “Why, to be sure I am, ma’am,” he said. “We’re legging by way of Sedbergh and Aysgarth. Aiming to strike York for Christmas. That’s so, isn’t it, Tom?”

  The boy nodded.

  “I was hoping to make a start two weeks ago but I got an invitation to a telling in Carlisle which held me back.” The old man cocked a ragged eyebrow toward Katie’s mother. “I seem to recall you to be a native of Aysgarth, ma’am.”

  “You’ve got a fine memory, Tale-Spinner.”

  “I was thinking that maybe you would like us to carry some message to your folks for you?”

  “You’d have to leg a deal further than Aysgarth to do it, old man,” she said and smiled wanly. “They’re dead and gone long since.”

  “Is that so? Well, indeed I’m truly sorry to hear it.”

  “It happens,” she said.

  Supper over, Norris tapped a small cask of strong ale, drew it off into a substantial earthenware jug, added sliced apple and a fragrant lump of crushed honeycomb, then stood the mixture down on the hearth to mull. By the time Tom had finished helping Katie and her mother to clear the table and wash the dishes, the warm ale was giving off a drowsy scent which set an idle mind wandering dreamily down the long-forgotten hedgerows of distant summers.

  They settled themselves in a semi-circle round the hearth; the lamp was trimmed and turned low, and old Peter set about earning his night’s lodging. Having fortified himself with a draft of ale, he launched himself into a saga set in the days before the Drowning when the broad skies were a universal highway and, by means of strange skills, long since forgotten, men and women could sit snug and cozy by their own firesides and see in their magic mirrors things which were happening at that very instant on the other side of the world.

  Like all good stories there was some love in it and much adventure; hardship, breath-taking coincidence and bloody slaughter; and finally, of course, a happy ending. It’s hero, the young Prince Amulet, having discovered that his noble father the King of Denmark has been murdered by a wicked brother who has usurped the throne, sets out to avenge the crime. Peter’s description of the epic duel fought out between uncle and nephew with swords whose blades were beams of lethal light, held Norris and his family open-mouthed and utterly spellbound. Not for nothing was the son of Blind Hereford known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as “the Golden-Tongued.”

  When the victorious Prince and his faithful Princess had finally been escorted to their nuptial chamber through a fanfare of silver trumpets the enchanted listeners broke into spontaneous applause and begged Peter for another. But the Tale-Spinner was too old and wise a bird to be caught so easily. Pleading that his throat was bone dry he reminded them that young Tom had agreed to favor them with a tune or two.

  “Aye, come along, lad,” said Norris. “Let’s have a taste of that whistle of yours.”

  While Tom was fetching his instrument from his pack, Katie made a round of the circle and replenished the mugs. Then she settled herself at her father’s knee. The boy sat down cross-legged on the fire-warmed flagstones and waited till everyone was still.

  He had played scarcely a dozen notes when there was a sound of frantic scratching at the yard door and a chorus of heart-rending whimpers. Tom broke off and grinned up at Norris. “Shall I let them in?”

  “I will,” said Katie and was up and away before Norris had a chance to say either yes or no.

  The dogs bounded into the kitchen, tails waving ecstatically, and headed straight for the boy. He blew three swift, lark-high notes, pointed to the hearth before him and meek as mice they stretched themselves out at his feet. He laughed, leant forward and tapped each animal on its nose with his pipe. “Now you behave yourselves, dogs,” he said, “or I’ll scare your tails off.”

  Katie regained her place and he began to play once more. He had chosen a set of familiar country dances and, within seconds, he had feet tapping and hands clapping all around the circle. It was almost as if the listeners were unable to prevent their muscles from responding to the imperious summons of his jigs and reels. Even Old Peter found his toes twitching and his fingers drumming out the rhythms on the wooden arm of the ingle-nook settle.

  With the flamelight flickering elvishly in his gray-green eyes Tom swung them from tune to tune with an effortless dexterity that would surely have been the envy of any professional four times his age, and when he ended with a sustained trill which would not have shamed a courting blackbird his audience showered praise upon him.

  “Blest if ever I heard better piping!” cried Norris. “Who taught you such skills, lad?”

  “Morfedd the Wizard did,” said Katie. “That’s right, isn’t it, Tom?”

  Tom nodded, staring ahead of him into the flames.

  “Morfedd of Bowness, eh?’ said Norris. “Me, I never met him. But I recall how in Kendal the folk used to whisper that he’d stored up a treasurehouse of wisdom from the Old Times and Lord knows what else beside. How came he to teach you piping, lad?”

  “He came for me on my third birthnight,” said Tom. “He’d heard me playing a whistle up on the fells and he bespoke my Mum and Dad for me.” He raised his head and looked round at Norris. “After Morfedd died,” he said, “I composed a lament for him. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Aye, lad. That we would. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Then Tom did a strange thing. He gripped the pipe in both hands, one at either end, and held it out at arm’s length in front of him. Then, very slowly, he brought it back toward his chest, bent his head over it and seemed to be murmuring something to it. It was a strangely private little ritual of dedication that made all those who saw it wonder just what kind of a child this was. Next moment he had set the pipe to his lips, closed his eyes and turned his soul adrift.

  To their dying day none of those present ever forgot the next ten minutes and yet no two of them ever recalled it alike. But all were agreed on one thing. The boy had somehow contrived to take each of them, as it were, by the hand and lead them back to some private moment of great sadness in their own lives, so that they felt again, deep in their own hearts, all the anguish of an intense but long-forgotten grief. For most the memory was of the death of someone dearly loved, but for young Katie it was different and was somehow linked with some exquisite quality she sensed within the boy himself-something which carried with it an almost unbearable sense of terrible loss. Slowly it grew within her, swelling and swelling till in the end, unable to contain it any longer she burst into wild sobs and buried her face in her father’s lap.

  Tom’s fingers faltered on the stops and those listening who were still capable of doing so, noticed that his own cheeks were wet with tears. He drew in a great, slow, shuddering breath, then, without saying a word, got up and walked away into the shadows by the door. One by one the dogs rose to their feet and padded after him. Having restored his pipe to its place within his pack he opened the door and stepped outside into the night.

  It was a long time before anyone spoke and, when they did, what was said was oddly inconsequential: Norris repeating dully, “Well, I dunno, I dunno, I dunno,” and Old Peter muttering what sounded like a snatch from one of his own stories-“And the angel of Grief moved invisible among them and their tears fell like summer rain.” Only Katie’s mother was moved to remark: “He’ll not carry such a burden for long, I think,” though, had anyone thought to ask her, she would have been hard put to explain what she meant, or even why she had said it.

  During the night the wind shifted into a new quarter. It came whistling down, keen and chill from the Northern Cheviots, until the dawn sky, purged at last of cloud, soared ice-blue and fathomless above the forest and the fells.

  A bare half hour after sun-up Old Peter and Tom had said their farewells and were on their way. Katie accompanied them to the top of the valley to set them on their path. She pointed to a white rock on the crest of a distant hill and told them that from there they would be able to sight Sedbergh spire. The old man thanked her and said he’d be sure to call and see her again when he was next in the district.

  “You may be,” she said, “but he won’t. I know,” and turning to Tom she took from the pocket of her cloak a small, flat, green pebble, washed smooth by the river. A hole had been drilled in the center and through it a leather lace was threaded. “That’s for my song,” she said. “Keep it. It may bring you luck.”

  Tom nodded, slid the thong over his head and slipped the talisman down inside his jerkin where it lay cool as a water drop against his chest. “Goodbye, Katie,” he said.

  He did not look back until they were well down the track and then he saw her still standing there on the hilltop with the wind streaming out her long hair into a misty golden halo. He raised his arm in salute. She waved back, briefly, and the next moment she had turned and vanished in the direction of the hidden farm.