Now they are gone.
The Iceni are going to the city of Colchester. That used to be our city until the Romans took it and made it their centre.
When the Iceni reach Colchester they are going to kill every Roman in it and burn it to the ground. Then they will move on to London and do the same. And then on to the next place after that.
Our village feels as hollow as an eggshell when the bird has hatched and flown. There is hardly anyone left. Some very young children, and some very old people. Even the dogs have followed their masters. Except for the oldest and stiffest, the village is empty of dogs. People left behind stare at each other. I am not the only person who cannot find a single word to say.
“Look after your grandmother,” said my father, that last night. “You are the best girl in the world.”
“Look after your grandmother,” said Uncle Red. “I didn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”
“Look after our grandmother,” said Finn, hugging me. “I’m sorry.”
I have stopped saying words since those thumbs on my throat, so I didn’t ask, “Sorry for what?”
I soon found out.
My grandmother is already restacking what’s left of the woodpile. Covering the midden. Now she’s on the roof, untangling the torn thatch. She says she is getting ready for when they all come back. Slowly, slowly, the few people left in the village are beginning to stir. We stand close together, gathering up what’s left of our world to feel safe. Babies and old people and a few tired dogs and, I think, Honey!
I’ll fetch Honey! She can live here in the village with Grandmother and me!
So I go racing down to the horse runs.
The horse runs are as empty as the village. I whistle and I whistle but Honey doesn’t come.
Where is she? She was much too young to be taken on such a hard journey! She has never carried anyone heavier than me.
I whistle more, again and again, and at last I hear a reply. A whicker. A pony whicker. And hooves.
Slow hooves though.
It is Old Flax.
Fat Old Flax. The barrel-shaped old horse that my father always laughed at and kept for luck.
Now I understand why Finn said sorry. He was taking Honey.
Honey, taken to war.
There is not much left to eat in the village, but what there is my grandmother has charge of. She has untangled the muddle that is left. The very old people are minding the babies. The oldest of all are grinding grain. There is a fire going and the tired dogs are resting in the warmth. I see someone has brought water. Grandmother has just remembered the fish trap in the river. She doesn’t need me to look after her.
Good.
Because I am going after Honey.
Honey does need me to look after her. She will be afraid. I know what she will do. She will run away the first chance she gets, and Honey is clever. I don’t know how Finn caught her once. He won’t catch her twice.
Honey will be lost.
As soon as I had thought all this I couldn’t wait. I ached to be away.
What do you need for such a journey?
A blanket.
Some bread.
Old Flax.
It will have to be Old Flax. That fat, biting, flea-bitten old horse! But his four legs will be faster than my two. I have a blanket of my own. I’ll take that. There was a batch of loaves that got burnt and were set aside and forgotten. I’ll take them too.
It was easy. This was my plan:
Bread in a sack.
Blanket on Old Flax.
Leave.
I am going to follow the Iceni army to Colchester.
But first I go and stand very close to my Grandmother, so close that I can feel her bones.
“Kassy,” she says with her hand on my tangles, and for a moment we are still. We face south. South is the way they went. Colchester is south, and now that is the only direction that any one can look. The round circle of the world has closed like a fan to a line that points one way.
Every moment that I stand close to my grandmother the Iceni are travelling further along that line.
I didn’t tell her I was going, so she didn’t tell me to stay.
