Andre Norton - The Toads of Grimmerdale

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The Toads of Grimmerdale

Andre Norton

The drifts of ice crusted snow were growing both

taller and wider. Hertha stopped to catch her breath,

ramming the butt of the hunting spear she had been

using as a staff into the one before her, the smooth shaft

breaking through the crust with difficulty. She frowned

at the broken hole without seeing it.

There was a long dagger at her belt, the short hafted

spear in her mittened hand. And, under her cloak, she

hugged to her the all too small bundle which she had

brought with her out of Horla’s Hold. The other burden

which she carried lay within her, and she forced herself

to face squarely the fate that had been brought upon her.

Now her lips firmed into a line, her chin went up.

Suddenly she spat with a hiss of breath. Shame—why

should she feel shame? Had Kuno expected her to whine

and wail, perhaps crawl before him so he could

“forgive” her, prove thus to his followers his greatness

of spirit?

She showed her teeth as might a cornered vixen, and

aimed a harder blow at the drift. There was no reason for

her to feel shame, the burden in her was not of wanton

seeking. Such things happened in times of war. She

guessed that when matters worked so Kuno had not been

backward himself in taking a woman of the enemy.

It remained that her noble brother had sent her forth

from Horla’s Hold because she had not allowed his

kitchen hags to brew some foul potion to perhaps poison

her, as well as what she bore. Had she so died he could

have piously crossed hands at the Thunderer’s Altar and

spoken of Fate’s will. And all would have ended neatly.

In fact she might believe that perhaps that had been his

true intention.

For a moment Hertha was startled at the grim march

of her thoughts. Kuno—Kuno was her brother! Two

years ago she could not have thought so of him or any

man! When yet the war had not nearer the Hold. But that

was long before she set out the Landendale. Before she

knew the world as it was and not as she had believed it.

Hertha was glad she had been able to learn her

lesson quickly. The thin-skinned maid she had once been

could not have fronted Kuno, could not have taken this

road—

She felt the warmth of anger, a sullen, glowing

anger, as heating as if she carried a small brazier of

coals under her cloak’s edge. So she went on, setting her

rough boots firmly to crunch across the drift edge. Nor

did she turn to look back down at that stone walled keep

which had sheltered those of her blood for five

generations. The sun was well westward, she must not

linger on the trail. Few paths were broken now, times in

number she must halt and use the spear to sound out the

footing. But it was easy to keep in eye her landmarks of

Mulma’s Needle and the Wyvern’s Wing.

Hertha was sure Kuno expected her to come

creeping woefully back to accept his conditions. She

smiled wryly. Kuno was so very certain of everything.

And since he had beaten off the attack of a straggling

band of the enemy trying to fight their way to the

dubious safety of the coast, he had been insufferable.

The Dales were free in truth. But for Kuno to act as

if the victories hard won there were his alone—! It had

required all the might of High Hallack, together with

strange allies from the Waste, to break the invaders, to

hunt and harry them back to the sea from which they had

come. And that had taken a score of years to do it.

Trewsdale had escaped, not because of any virtue,

but by chance. But because fire and sword had not riven,

there was no reason to cry upon unbroken walls as

gamecocks. Kuno had harried men already three-quarters

beaten.

She reached the divide, to plod steadily on. The

wind had been at work here, and her path was free of

snow. It was very old, that road, one of the reminders to

be found all across the dale land that her own people

were late comers. Who had cut these ways for their own

treading?

The well weathered carvings at the foot of the

Wyvern’s Wing could be seen easily now. So eroded

they were by time that none could trace their meaning.

But men—or intelligent beings—had shaped them to a

purpose. And that task must have been long in the doing.

Hertha reached out her mittened fingers to stroke one of

the now vague curves. She did not believe they had any

virtue in themselves, though the field workers did. But

they marked well her road.

Down slope again from this point, and now the

wind’s lash did not cut at her. Though again, snow

drifted. Two tens of days yet to the feast of Year Turn.

This was the last of the Year of the Hornet, next lay the

Year of the Unicorn, which was a more fortunate sign.

With the increase of snow, Hertha once more found

the footing dangerous. Bits of broken crust worked in

over the tops of her boots, even though she had drawn

tight their top straps, and melted clamily against her foot

sacks. She plodded on as the track entered a fringe of

scrub trees.

Evergreens, the foliage was dark in the dwindling

light. But they arose to roof over a road, keep off the

drifts. And she came to a stream where ice had bridged

from one stony bank to the other. There she turned east

to gain Gunnora’s Shrine.

About its walls was a tangle of winter killed garden.

It was a low building, and an archway faced her. No gate

or door barred that and she walked boldly in.

Once so inside the outer wall she could see

windows, round as the eyes of some great feline

regarding her sleepily. Those flanking a door by which

hung a heavy bell-pull of wrought metal in the form of

Gunnora’s symbol of a ripened grain stalk entwined with

a fruit-laden branch.

Hertha leaned her spear against the wall that her

hand might be free for a summons pull. What answered

was not any peal of bell, rather an odd, muted sound as

if some one called in words she did not understand.

That, too, she accepted, though she had not been this

way before, and had only a few whispered words to send

her here.

The leaves of the door parted. Though no one stood

there to give her house greeting, Hertha took that for an

invitation to enter. She moved into gentle warmth, a

fragrance of herbs and flowers. As if she had, in that

single step, passed from the sure death of mid-winter

into the life of spring.

With the warmth and fragrance came a lighting of

heart, so that the taut lines in her face smoothed a little,

and her aching shoulders and back lost some of the

stiffening tension.

What light there was issued from two lamps, set on

columns, one right, one left. She was in a narrow entry,

its walls painted with such colors as to make her believe

that she had truly entered a garden. Before her those

ranks of flowers rippled and she realized that there hung

a curtain, fashioned to repeat the wall design. Since

there still came no greeting, she put out her hand to the

folds of the curtain.

But before she could finger it, the length looped a

side of itself, and she came into a large room. There was

a table there with a chair drawn up to it. Before that

place was set out dishes, some covered as if they held

viands which were to be kept warm, a goblet of crystal

filled with a green liquid.

“Eat—drink—” a voice sighed through the chamber.

Startled, Hertha looked about the room, over her

shoulder. No one—. And now that hunger of which she

had hardly been aware awoke full force. She dropped the

spear to the floor, laid her bundle beside it, let her cloak

fall over both, and sat down in the chair.

Though she could see no one, she spoke:

“To the giver of the feast, fair thanks. For the

welcome of the gate, gratitude. To the ruler of this

house, fair fortune and bright sun on the morrow—” The

formal words rang a little hollow here. Hertha smiled at

a sudden thought.

This was Gunnora’s shrine. Would the Great Lady

need the well wishing of any mortal? Yet it seemed

fitting that she make the guest speech.

There was no answer, though she hoped for one. At

last, a little hesitatingly, she sampled the food spread

before her and found it such fare as might be on the feast

table of a Dales Lord. The green drink was refreshing,

yet warming, with a subtle taste of herbs. She held it in

her mouth, trying to guess which gave it that flavor.

When she had finished, she found that the last and

largest covered basin held warm water on the surface of

which floated petals of flowers. Flowers in the dead of

winter! And beside it was a towel, so she washed her

hands, and leaned back in the chair, wondering what

came next in Gunnora’s hall.

The silence in the room seemed to grow the greater.

Hertha stirred. Surely there were priestesses at the

Shrine? Some one had prepared that meal, offered it to

her with those two words. She had come here for a

purpose, and the need for action roused in her again.

“Great Lady,” Hertha arose. Since she could see no

one, she would speak to the empty room. There was a

door at the other end of the chamber but it was closed.

“Great Lady,” she began again. She had never been

deeply religious, though she kept Light Day, made the

harvest sacrifices, listened respectfully to the Mount of

Astron at Morn Service. When she had been a little

maid, her foster mother had given her Gunnora’s amulet

and later, according to custom, that had been laid on the

house altar when she came to marriageable age. Of

Gunnora’s mysteries she knew only what she had heard

repeated woman to woman when they sat apart from the

men. For Gunnora was only for womankind and when

one was carrying ripening seed within one, then she

listened—

For the second time her words echoed. Now her

feeling of impatience changed to something else—awe,

perhaps, or fear? Yet Gunnora did not hold by the petty

rules of men. It did not matter when you sought her if

you be lawful wife or not.

As Hertha’s distrust grew, the second door swung

silently open—another invitation. Leaving her cloak,

bundle, spear where they lay, the girl went on. Here the

smell of flowers and herbs was stronger. Lazy curls of

scented smoke arose from two braziers standing at the

head and foot of a couch. And that was set as an altar at

the foot of a pillar carved with the ripened grain, the

fruited branch.

“Rest—” the sighing voice bade. And Hertha, the

need for sleep suddenly as great as her hunger had been,

moved to that waiting bed, stretched out her wearied and

aching body. The curls of smoke thickened, spread over

her as a coverlet. She closed her eyes.

She was in a place of half light in which she sensed

others coming and going, busied about tasks. But she

felt alone, lost. Then one moved to her and she saw a

face she knew, though a barrier of years had half

dimmed it in her mind.

“Elfreda!” Hertha believed she had not called that

name aloud, only thought it. But her foster-mother

smiled, holding out her arms in the old, old welcome.

“Little dove, little love—” The old words were as

soothing as healing salve laid on an angry wound.

Tears came as Hertha had not allowed them to flow

before. She wept out sore hurt and was comforted. Then

that shade who was Elfreda drew her on, past all those

about their work, into a place of light in which there was

Another. And that one Hertha could not look upon

directly. But she heard a question asked, and to that she

made truthful answer.

“No,” she pressed her hands to her body, “what I

carry I do not want to lose.”

Then that brightness which was the Other grew. But

there was another question and again Hertha answered:

“I hold two desires—that this child be mine alone,

taking of no other heritage from the manner of its

begetting, and of him who forced me so. And, second, I

wish to bring to account the one who will not stand as its

father—”

There was a long moment before the reply came.

Then a spear of light shot from the center core of the

radiance, traced a symbol before Hertha. Though she had

no training in the Mysteries yet this was plain for her

reading.

Her first prayer would be answered. The coming

child would be only of her, taking naught from her

ravisher. And the destiny for it was auspicious. But,

though she waited, there was no second answer. The

great One—was gone! But Elfreda was still with her, and

Hertha turned to her quickly:

“What of my need for justice?”

“Vengeance is not of the Lady.” Elfreda shook her

veiled head. “She is life, not death. Since you have

chosen to give life, she will aid you in that. For the

rest—you must walk another road. But—do not take it,

my love—for out of darkness comes even greater dark.”

Then Hertha lost Elfreda also and there was nothing,

only the memory of what happened in that place. So she

fell into deeper slumber where no dreams walked.

She awoke, how much later she never knew. But she

was renewed in mind and body, feeling as if some

leachcraft had been at work during her rest, banishing all

ills. There was no more smoke rising from the braziers,

the scent of flowers was faint.

When she arose from the couch, she knelt before the

pillar, bowing her head, giving thanks. Yet still in her

worked her second desire, in nowise lessened, by

Elfreda’s warning.

In the outer room there was again food and drink

waiting. And she ate and drank before she went forth

from Gunnora’s house. There was no kin far or near she

might take refuge with. Kuno had made loud her shame

when he sent her forth. She had a few bits of jewelry,

none of worth, sewn into her girdle, some pieces of trade

money. Beyond that she had only a housewife’s skills,

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TheToadsofGrimmerdaleAndreNortonIThedriftsoficecrustedsnowweregrowingbothtallerandwider.Herthastoppedtocatchherbreath,rammingthebuttofthehuntingspearshehadbeenusingasastaffintotheonebeforeher,thesmoothshaftbreakingthroughthecrustwithdifficulty.Shefrownedatthebrokenholewithoutseeingit.Therewasalongda...

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Andre Norton - The Toads of Grimmerdale

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