CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

THE OLD MAN slowed down to an infuriating pace as they neared the hills of Hathel Vale. Bukham could see the first standing stones at the roadside miles before they reached them with the sun starting to set. He supposed that the girl could have got this far if she’d kept going but why she would do that he couldn’t imagine. He’d never been this far from his family and how she would manage it when he was finding it so hard he didn’t know. He kept asking himself why she would have bothered; wouldn’t she have stopped or looked for something, someone, else to help her? But Murti said nothing, just put his staff out, then his foot, kept on walking. It’s not as if he needed the answers telling him, Bukham maintained inwardly, because he could see them for himself, it’s just that if Murti said them he’d feel confident that he was right and that they were on the right path whereas now he just felt upset with everything, that it was all out of joint. He didn’t want to admit how badly he longed to abandon the search and go home. His uncle would be happy to see him back and the girl was obviously able to fend for herself if she’d got this far. What they were doing was quite unnecessary.

But then he thought of the messy little girl, alone, and, if Murti was right, alone without family in the world, wandering in terror because he had driven her off with his stupid failures to act and stand up to his uncle. He couldn’t think of going back without her. But now, with the light going, he started to think that really they should find a place to stop for the night. As he was about to open his mouth to suggest this Murti spoke.

“Nearly there.”

“Nearly where?”

“Where we’re going.”

Bukham’s feet were too tired and sore to pursue the point. If it was soon then at least it would soon be over. He felt a renewed surge of shame at wanting to give up and made an effort to copy Murti’s easy-going stride. They came around the hillside in the wake of many fresh footprints and a horse’s tread and then paused. He saw Murti surveying the rolling woodlands with a contemplative air as though he had all the time in the world to enjoy the view. It was pleasant but nothing special. The avenue of stones marched away through the brush and was soon lost in the tall trees that marched upwards over the next rise. Then he realised.

“Wait. This is Hathel Vale. But where’s the fire?”

“Yes, quite,” Murti said. “I think we should go find out.”

“But…” Bukham began, realising as he said it that there was no point. Murti was already off the road and knee high in thistles and grass, striding as if he was off on a spring jaunt.

Bukham hurried after him, suddenly anxious at leaving the road, taking another detour, another delay.