Law of the Wolf Tower: The Claidi Journals Book 1 by Tanith Lee (black authors fiction txt) 📕

It was as unlike the friendly Sheepers’ town as seemed possible, as if specially formed to be off-putting.

Well, I think it was. I’m writing this last section at night, in a sort of barn place, which stinks and is full of enormous rats. Actually the rats are rather handsome, better than the hill-villagers. Quite easy, that.

They behaved foully as soon as we got there. Some stared at us in the sheep-chariot, and some just went in. They’d have banged their doors if they could, but such doors as they have would have fallen off.

Presently a fat gobbling sort of man arrived and baa’d at the Sheeper. Nemian said to me he baa’d so badly the Sheeper obviously could hardly understand, and Nemian not at all.

Even so the Sheeper told Nemian – baaing properly – that we’d ‘be all right here’. And yes, they’d let us have a cart with a mule – what is that? – either tomorrow or the day after.

They are called Feather Tribe. They like birds?

Naturally they wanted paying? No, said the Sheeper, apparently. I saw he looked embarrassed. He had to leave us here (to go back to his own so-much-pleasanter place). Nemian didn’t comment. I couldn’t.

We got out, and the Sheeper went into a hut with the awful fat gobbly person. (Later the Sheeper reappeared loaded with sacks of something, got in his chariot and went off, not even waving good-bye.) Nemian and I were sort of shovelled, by a couple of revolting women, into one of the barns. This one.

I thought Nemian would throw up at once. His face went white and his eyes went white and his nostrils curled.

‘Oh, Claidi. What can I say. What will you think?’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I said. Grudgingly, I have to admit. I didn’t think it was his fault. But in a way it was. I mean, he’d gone ‘travelling’, and then involved us both in all this. I really mean I was angry with him. Love is like this, so the songs of the House used to say. You adore them one minute. Then want to throttle them.

Anyway, he didn’t hang about. He left me sitting on the smelly straw, and went to find someone to do something. He didn’t come back.

At first I wasn’t worried. Then I was worried. Going to the barn door, I then saw Nemian in conversation with the gobbly fat one. (Nemian must speak this language too.) They were both drinking something and yowling away with amusement. Typical.

I sat on the stony ground outside the barn.

Soon a dog wandered up and bared yellow fangs at me for no reason. Stupidly, I snapped, ‘Oh stop it, you fool.’ Then I thought it’d leap for my throat. But it whined and ran off with its tail on the ground.

Nemian and the GFO – their leader? – went striding off, on what looked like a tour of the village. (This dung-heap goes back to my grandmother’s day. This hole in the roof was made by my great grandfather’s pet pigeon, which ate too much, and so fell through.)

A woman came up near evening, and plunked a bowl down beside me.

‘Er – excuse me – what is it?’ I fearfully asked.

‘Germander pop,’ said she. Or so it seemed.

I tried the germander pop. And it was OBSCENE. So no dinner for Claidi.

There are no lamps in the barn, though the huts lit up later. The moon is very bright, and I’ve written this by the light of it.

The village-Feather-Tribe are making dreadful sounds. Are they eating, or talking, or what? It’s sickening.

(I saw Nemian again, about an hour ago. He wandered by with the GFO and saluted me. He seemed happy, enchanted by these Featherers, some of whom were now trailing him in a merry group. Was he drunk, or just being tactful? Or is he … is he useless? When the bandits were there, I never felt for one moment Nemian could save me, as in the old stories the hero always does the heroine – but am I even a heroine? Some chance.)

Retreated back into barn. I might as well go to sleep. Deadly day. Yes, of course I should be glad and pleased I’m on this big adventure. But I have to assure you, the smell in here is enough to make the boldest flinch.

Outside, it seems to be getting brighter and noisier. The moon? Is the moon noisy? Who knows.

Keep thinking of that glass charm the bandit had, the one who leaned on the chariot.

I think they were the end, being so insulting about me (bird! Problems!) when I was only desperate to defend myself, which nobody else would.

FLIGHT

The roof goes up so high, it’s hard to believe it’s a wagon. The bumping helps, though, to remind me.

It’s difficult to write here. I’ll leave this, I think, until we stop.

Have to note the colours in the roof. Deepest crimson, and purple with wild greens. The pictures are of horses and dogs, mostly. And a sun done in raw gold, dull with time.

They’ve had these wagons for ever.

Bump.

I’ll wait.

When I’d been asleep in the Feather Tribe’s barn just long enough to be confused if woken, and not long enough to have had a rest, thumps and yodels started and someone was shaking me. (I believe I said before that’s a terrible way to wake anyone.)

I shot up, and there were all these Feather Tribe people, looking entirely changed. That is, they were beaming and nodding at me, and one of them was flapping a feathery thing about in front of me, like an enormous wing.

Not amazingly, I sat staring.

Then Nemian appeared through the crowd.

‘It’s all right, Claidi. It’s a gift.’

‘What? What is?’

‘That dress.’

‘Is it a dress?’

‘It’s made out of feathers sewn on wool. It’ll be rather hot. I’m sorry. But they seem to want you to have it. There’s some sort of festival tonight.’

‘Oh.’

‘They want us to go with them to some shrine in the