The Book of Koli (Rampart Trilogy #1) - M. R. Carey Page 0,94
got to see, had not faded. And then Woodrue Hunter found some dried-up shit at the foot of the wall he said was most likely dropped by a bear – after that we decided to let the whole thing rest until a Winter and a Spring had come between.
My needs now was more pressing, but if there was a bear sleeping in the lee of that tower, I was not going to nudge his shoulder and ask him to make room for me. But I was not fool enough to go into the forest in the dark neither, and the half-outside didn’t offer no other shelter. We kept it clear for good reason. So it had got to be the lookout, or else a hollow in the ground and a hope that was hollower still.
I made my way up the hill, turning my head all ways at once in case something heard or smelled me and come barrelling at me out of the thick dark. The lookout was a black blot against other black blots. I could only just make it out. I moved towards it slowly, with my arms out in front of me, until I touched the cold stone. Then I feeled my way around to the bottom of the steps.
I waited there, listening. Nothing was moving inside, or if it was then it didn’t make no sound when it moved. There was lots of deadly things that could come on you quiet, though, so I didn’t feel much cheered. I stayed there as long as I could – and when I moved at last it was because I heard tree-cats calling and answering a ways off on the shoulder of the hill. They was said to see in the dark, so maybe they was crying each to other that they seen me coming.
I went up the stairs, treading as softly as I could.
The top platform was empty, but that didn’t mean it was going to stay that way. I went to one of the corner posts, and I leaned on it hard to test that it was still sound. Of course it was. My mother give the wood for the repairs, and she never let a plank or a pole go out of her workshop until she was satisfied with it.
There was a rail there, around the height of someone’s waist, that was wooden too. I scrambled up on it, and balancing with my one hand on the corner post I throwed my bundle out onto the lookout’s roof. Then I shinnied up the post and climbed up after it. I would of dashed my brains out if I fell, but the climbing wasn’t no harder than climbing the wall of the broken house when we was children.
I crawled up to the mid-ridge of the roof. There was three pegs at one end of it that was for hanging signal flags for times when warning had got to be give to the village without raising a hue. I tied the rope I got from Catrin to one of the three pegs and myself to the other end of it so if I rolled over in the night I would not fall off the edge and die from a hard waking.
Then, having done all I could, I lay down full length on the wooden shingles and closed my eyes.
That night lives in my memory. The strangest thing about it is that I slept deep. I had been shut underground for a long time, and in fear of my life. The wind that whipped around me from time to time was cold, but it smelled richly of the world, having the sharp bite of pine resin, the earthiness of mould, the sweetness of fruit that had not made it to the ground when it fell but broke on the shingles and left its juice and its memory there. I found some happiness in them smells, and then some peace. The next thing I knowed, morning light was touching my face and the birds was telling their prideful tales to anyone that cared to listen.
I was slow in coming up out of that sleep. A moment later, I realised what the light meant and I made to scramble up, but the tied rope kept me from moving more than an inch or two. It was a lucky thing I tied it well, for otherwise I would of pushed myself right off the roof with moving so sudden.