Traveller Probo
75. 11th Century England

The morning sun greeted the hunters as they filed through the forest, where a warm breeze kissed the forest buds into bloom. With the change in weather there was a renewed optimism that had the hunters smile.

The strangers were all been welcomed warmly. Hurley had been particularly spoiled with affection for the villagers remembered how he was the one who had brought the strangers to fight for the village.

But not everyone welcomed their presence. Michael had met with Godric’s Council and they frowned as Michael told them that the visitors might not be alone for long. “Is this a bad thing?” asked Eadric. “They have helped us and some seem to have become lovers,” he added helpfully.

Desmond growled, “But so many visitors? What of our food, and our homes? Are they to build homes and live here? While we have benefited from the visits, how many more can our village welcome before it is no longer our village? With respect, Lord Michael, we mean no offense. The villagers most lovingly accepted my family when we escaped from Snot, so we know what it is to be strangers among friends. To have too many, as when the healers came, might be too much for the village, surely?”

“What are your thoughts, Lord Michael?” grunted the village thegn. Godric had lost weight since his heart surgery and confessed to feeling much better.

Michael thought a moment. “With your blessings, I have made Giolgrave my home and taken Tatae for my wife. You are my friends and brothers and together we have fought and bled for this people. But what is proposed will not be good for the people of Giolgrave.” He paused a moment in thought. “Some of my people are great warriors. They always look to make their soldiers better and more skilled and, sometimes, this might not be a good thing for everyone else. Our visitors here now, our friends Hurley, Morris and Wicks, are to learn the ways of the hunters, to learn to move even more silently through the forest, like the lynx or the wolf. They will then teach many of our ways to others but I fear others will come.”

“More others,” grunted Godric, who had a more open-minded view of the strangers than his brother. “Why can’t they leave us be? Then again, more others might be good, yes?”

“Perhaps,” agreed Michael reluctantly, “or perhaps not if there are too many. I have to learn what is wanted.”

“You’re not sure what is yet wanted?” asked Desmond with surprise. “Yet they look to come! Is this what you want Lord Michael?”

Michael hesitated before he replied, “I have others I answer to but I think we must be cautious regarding the others now. There can be too much of a good thing,” he added with a small, embarrassed smile.

Godric nodded, “What are your thoughts?” he asked of the other men.

“Perhaps we can continue and hunt with our friends as requested,” suggested Eadric helpfully. Michael found Godric’s eldest to be the conciliatory member of the council who took all opinions under consideration. “We can ponder on what will happen later, as Lord Michael suggests.”

Michael and the others nodded, though he was still unconvinced of any peaceful outcomes for this sleepy village in the ancient forest.

***

The hunters paused a moment to catch breaths that steamed in the morning sunlight. Each carried boar-hunting spears and the weight of the shafts made shoulders weary but they panted as they laughed soundlessly. They were happiest in the wild. A hunt meant escaping into their sacred forest, joining with old friends and comrades, feasting around a fire before returning to the village with the kill to the villagers’ gratitude. It was a time of spiritual renewal, of joy and the importance of being a man.

Hurley wiped sweat from his brow. “Whew, this has got to be good for me!” he panted quietly as the dogs snuffed about. They had picked up the scent but the wily boar had lost them, for the moment at least. Yffi quietly called out encouragement and two of his huge, shaggy mutts, Aart and Boemia, searched with barely restrained delight. They were joined by Michael’s dog, Latis, and one of the newer pups named Garmer, a dog that was as silly as it was large and shaggy. Each season, Yffi trained pups and sold them to the new travelling peddler who then sold them to the Vikings of Snotengaham who were rumoured to pay plenty of silver for a good hunting dog.

Despite Michael’s reluctance in allowing Giolgrave to be used as a military training ground, he enjoyed this time with his old comrades. Morris smiled broadly, his face flushed, while Wicks chuckled at the dogs’ antics. With Hurley, they had earned the trust and friendship of the five Saxon hunters.

With a sudden start, the dog, Aart, raised his head and dashed off, the others in pursuit. The bitch, Boemia, gave Garmer a nip as he followed too closely and there was a sharp yelp of surprise. The men ran, their chests heaving in the chill air.

Suddenly, boar exploded from the undergrowth where they had been rooting for left-over autumn acorns. A grossly swollen, pregnant sow ran, surrounded by last year’s dusty grey piglets that had lost their infant stripes. Despite the long winter, they looked well-fed and healthy. Men and dogs darted after their prey with a yell while the boar squealed and screamed. Hurley gave a shout of laughter as Wicks skewered a young male. The creature thrashed and squealed as Latis latched onto its balls and Garmer grabbed its snout. Wicks leaned onto his spear and pushed it through.

There was another explosion from the undergrowth as more boar were flushed from hiding. There seemed to be many more than usual. Morris swept his spear at a large male that ran near and the head of the spear gouged a nasty cut down the creature’s side. There was a scream and the beast ran off, grunting and panting in fury. Other hunters swept and jabbed. One hunter nimbly climbed a tree to escape a red-eyed male that left gouges in the bark. As the hunter looked down in terror, Hurley threw his spear but missed as the beast nimbly darted off.

There were screams and yells throughout the forest but as suddenly as they had appeared, the boar were gone. All that remained were the sounds of their escape through the undergrowth. Michael remembered his first hunt in Saxon Aengland, a hunt he had barely survived. But it was a hell of a lot of fun and, as he watched some of the hunters emerge, laboriously dragging their kills, this hunt looked to be productive. The boar were fat and healthy. Yes, the villagers would eat well.

As he congratulated the hunters, there was a cry as one hunter ran to Michael and Hurley. Yffi was dragging a dead swine by its back legs and he looked up in alarm. Something was amiss. Boar hunting was a deadly pursuit and it was not uncommon for a hunter to be injured, even killed. Michael counted who was missing. They found Wicks in a pool of blood and he grunted as he tried to hold his leg together. A tusker had dashed from the undergrowth and raked a gouge down his inner thigh. Michael’s knew enough to identify that the injury could have damaged Wick’s femoral artery. That would be life threatening. Their priority was to get him to the Area of Convergence before he bled to death.

He suddenly recalled Tatae’s prediction of Wicks’ death. Morris had brought his pack with first aid kit and radio, so while Morris used the radio to leave a message at the Base Station for a medical evacuation, the others sought to stabilise the wounded man. Once the emergency call was completed, Morris shook his head in concern. Filthy tusks had left a gouge where chunks of torn muscle dangled. With the mud and filth in the wound, it was obvious he would need surgery.

Morris cut away the leg of Wick’s breeches as Hurley and the hunters fashioned an emergency stretcher. Wicks was pale but gritted his teeth and gasped, refusing to scream. The Travellers knew that all they could do was pad the wound to stifle blood loss.

They had about an hour’s brisk walk ahead of them. As a force of habit, perhaps because he had been in Saxon Aengland far too long, Michael subconsciously grasped amulets that hung from the leather tongs about his neck. While he had no faith in any Gods, perhaps here, in these forests, Tatae’s Gods held sway over the fates of men.

He just hoped they would make it.