text: Dunston dozed by the barrow's entrance as the sun slid into the west. Aedwen had curled up once more, resting her head on her forearm. For a time she had turned and fidgeted, unable to sleep, casting furtive glances into the shadows at the back of the barrow, but Dunston had whispered that she was safe and eventually she had found sleep again.
  
  Clouds had gathered all that afternoon, so as dusk ap-proached, darkness was already creeping over the land. Within the barrow it was dark when Dunston woke Aedwen. He had only ventured out of the barrow to relieve himself and to find some more food. He didn't wish to risk discovery, so he had not returned to the river to fish, instead limiting himself to foraging for some more berries in a thick stand of alder and hawthorn.
  
  He had also cut some linden bark and withies with which he fashioned a bag for any food they might pick up along the way. Into this bag he placed the leather flask.
  
  Near the entrance to the barrow, Dunston pulled up some long grass. This, along with the fire-making materials that he had made earlier in the day, he wrapped in some of the linden bark and slipped the parcel inside his kirtle.
  
  Finally, he had found a stout branch of oak, which he had cut to length and smoothed.
  
  He handed the meagre handful of berries to Aedwen, who took them bleary-eyed and yawning.
  
  "We will follow the road," he said. "We will make better time that way and it should be safe enough. Nobody will be abroad at night, save for outlaws and brigands." He smiled without humour.
  
  He passed her the oak staff he had made.
  
  "It will help with the walking," he said. "And, if we do run into any wolf-heads, that staff is thick enough to break a skull."
  
  She accepted it without comment and together they walked into the gloaming.
  
  As the night before, Dunston set a brisk pace, but he was careful not to push them too hard. His knee throbbed and he was already favouring his left leg, limping slightly. He would be of no use to Aedwen if he could not walk.
  
  They stomped down the hill, through long damp grass, leaving the yawning black opening of the barrow behind them. Aedwen crossed herself as they looked back. Dunston had nothing to leave the spirits that dwelt there, but he vowed that if he were able to return, he would give them a small offering as a token of his thanks. Soon, the mound on the hill and the dark doorway were lost in the gloom of dusk.
  
  When they reached the road, it was full dark and the rising gibbous moon cast but a dull glow through the roiling clouds.
  
  Staring up, face pale in the moonlight, Aedwen whispered, "What happened to the moon last night? It looked as though it was being eaten." She shivered.
  
  "I have thought long about what we saw," he replied. "But I have no answers."
  
  "Could it be an omen?"
  
  "Perhaps, but of what, I know not."
  
  They walked on for a time. The stones of the road were cracked and pitted, ravaged by centuries of passing seasons. But the path was easy enough to follow, even in the darkness.
  
  Without warning, Dunston broke the silence.
  
  "Whatever the sign meant, the moon is whole again now, as it should be. It seems that if it was being eaten, it was quickly spat out again." She glanced up, perhaps to check that his words were true. "Put thoughts of the moon from your mind. We have more pressing matters to be concerned about."
  
  A light rain began to fall, making the road slick and treacherous underfoot. They trudged on in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Now that they had decided on a course, Dunston was calm and less concerned with what might happen to him. He could fend for himself and defend himself, and, if things went badly and the tithing-men came after them and caught them, he would be taken before the moot. Was that so bad? Even if they found him to be guilty of murder, the only thing he truly valued that would be lost would be his honour, and that was his alone. Should they take his life, that would not be so terrible. He was content enough with his existence of hunting, trapping and forging. But he had not been truly happy for many years. Not since Eawynn. No, the idea of death did not concern him. He had walked with death for so many years when he had served his king, it held no fear for him now.
  
  But what of the girl? She was innocent in all this. As he had sat in the barrow during the quiet calm of the summer afternoon, his hands nimbly bending and softening the withies to tie up the edges of the bark bag, his mind had turned to Aedwen's father. For a moment he could only picture him as he had seen him, bloodied and broken, fish-pallid skin splattered with gore. But then he began to imagine the man Aedwen had talked about with such a mixture of emotions – grief, longing, sadness, exasperation, pity, but above all, love. And he had started to see Lytelman as he must have been in life. A man with desires and dreams, weaknesses and strengths, and with the responsibility for the life of a young girl. It seemed to Dunston that when he had stumbled upon the man's corpse, when he had looked into those unseeing, staring, horrified eyes, he had somehow taken on that responsibility. And he was not one to shirk from his duty.
  
  "Very well, Lytelman," he whispered into the night, "I will keep her safe, or I will give my life trying. You can ask no more of me than that."
  
  The rain fell heavily then in a squalling gust of wind that shook the boughs of the oaks that grew at either side of the road. Dunston shuddered before nodding at the dark sky. Aedwen glanced at him, peering through the darkness and the sheets of rain. Had she heard him? He could not tell, but if she had, she said nothing, merely pulling her cloak about her, lowering her head against the chill of the rain and trudging on.
  
  He decided to make camp well before dawn. They were both wet, cold and miserable. Despite her cloak, Aedwen was shivering and Dunston had only his kirtle for warmth. It provided none, as it was sopping and plastered against his skin.
  
  In spite of the season and the warmth of the previous day, the nights were cool, and the rain fell relentlessly, soaking them and leaching the heat from their bodies. Cold was a killer, Dunston knew. They needed a fire and shelter.
  
  Leading Aedwen away from the road and beneath the dense canopy of the forest Dunston cast about in the gloom until he saw the familiar shape of a young sallow. The moon was high in the sky now, and some of its silver light filtered through the clouds and rain.
  
  "We will make camp there," he said, pointing.
  
  Aedwen did not reply. She was stooped against the cold, arms wrapped tightly around her in an effort to ward off the chill. Reaching the tree, Dunston pointed to its trunk, beneath the thickest foliage.
  
  "Sit there. I'll make a shelter."
  
  He went about constructing a rough shelter as quickly as he was able. First he used DeaÞangenga to cut several branches from the sallow. These he then piled up at an angle around the bole of the tree, using the branches there for support. In this way, very quickly he had a steep roof of branches and leaves, that whilst not affording complete protection from the rain, prevented most of it from reaching Aedwen where she sat against the tree's trunk.
  
  "Now, help me collect bracken," he said, offering his hand and, when she grasped it, pulling her up to her feet.
  
  Bracken grew thick around them and it didn't take them long to pull up an armful each of the stuff.
  
  "Pile it up under the shelter," he said. "It will be our bed, so make it thick enough to keep us off the ground." She did as she was told. He looked at the small mound of bracken for a moment. "Fetch some more, while I start on a fire."
  
  "Fire?" she asked, incredulous. "But how? Everything is so wet and we have nothing to provide a spark."
  
  "It won't be easy in this weather," he said, "that's for sure, but with a bit of luck, I'll get a fire lit." I had better, he thought. Without the warming heat of a fire, they would get colder as their wet clothes drew the heat from their limbs.
  
  She set to ripping up more of the ferns, while he took up his axe and quickly chopped into the lichen-covered trunk of a fallen alder. Within moments he had cut a few sizeable logs, splitting the trunk to get at the dry heartwood. Snatching up a couple of the branches he had cut for the shelter, he set to work on them with his stolen seax. It was not as sharp as he would have liked, but it would serve. His hands were numb with wet and cold, and in the dark it was clumsy work at best, but he worked with care. He knew that to rush would be to risk cutting himself, and so he went slowly, slicing into the wood of the branches and cutting along its length. Long curls of wood wound up from the seax blade. When he was close to the end of the branch, where the sliver of wood would be separated from the limb, he stopped, leaving the thin spiral of sap-rich wood exposed. He repeated the process several times until he had created something that resembled a wooden feather which would burn fast and well to get the fire going.
  
  Aedwen carried over more bracken and placed it in the shelter. And then she sat on the leaves, out of the wind and rain and watched him. It was dark and he could not see her face, but her eyes glimmered in the moonlight.
  
  Positioning himself in the wind shadow and partially under the sheltering branches, he reached inside his kirtle for where he had stored his fire-making items, wrapped in linden bark against the wet. He prayed they were dry enough. It would be nigh impossible to create a flame with wet tinder and wood.
  
  Carefully opening the small packet, he withdrew the firelighting utensils he had fashioned the previous morning. He placed a sliver of wood on the ground and atop that, a larger flat piece of linden that would serve as the hearth. Then he took up a straight stick, as thick as his thumb and cut to a rounded point. He knelt, using his body to further protect the wood that would hopefully give them a fire. Holding the wooden board on the ground with one of his feet, he placed the dowel in the darkened groove that was already there from where he had created an ember to light the fire the previous day while Aedwen had slept. Placing the stick between the palms of his straight-fingered hands he began to rotate it rapidly. Rubbing his hands together with the stick between them, he pushed downward, forcing the dowel into the darkened depression.
  
  The stick rotated against the wooden board as his hands descended. When they reached the bottom of the stick, Dunston quickly pulled his hands to the top and repeated the motion. Before long, his palms were warm. He carried on, more vigorously.
  
  Was that smoke he smelt?
  
  He knew not to stop too soon. This was a delicate process and on such a night as this, he could easily lose the precious ember after all his efforts. He continued until he was sure. A tendril of smoke rose from the depression where wood dust had accumulated and he detected a tiny glow, like a ruby in a distant cave. Quickly, careful not to lose it, he lifted the hearth block, discarded the stick and picked up the sliver of wood and its glowing ember and smouldering wood dust. With the utmost care, he gently tipped the ember onto the grass and lichen he had carried within the bark parcel.
  
  Tenderly, he wrapped the tinder about the ember, like a father swaddling a tiny baby. Raising it to his lips, as if he were going to kiss it, he blew gently. Softly, he breathed life into the ember, blowing and then pulling the tinder ball away from his face. Then, blowing again, and a third time. The ball smoked profusely now and he knew the instant the flame would come.
  
  After the fifth lungful of air that he offered the spark enshrouded in its grass and lichen, the ball of tinder burst into flaming life. The flames lit Aedwen's pale face. Her eyes flickered, reflecting bright tongues of fire. With haste he placed the burning tinder on the earth, positioning the first of the feather sticks over it. He held the stick delicately, dangling the wooden feathers into the hottest part of the new flame. They smouldered and blackened and for a sinking moment Dunston thought that perhaps the wood was too damp, that the tinder would not burn for long enough for the larger feathers of wood to catch. And then, just as it looked as though the tinder flame was about to die, a sudden brightness leapt up from the feathered wood. The flames crackled, giving off varied hues as the sap caught.
  
  Dunston let out a long breath. By Christ, how a fire lifted the spirits.
  
  He placed the second feather stick on top of the first, feeding the newborn fire's insatiable appetite. When it was burning hot, he carefully added some twigs and slivers of wood from the boughs he had cut down, before finally adding one of the logs. The fire was not large, but it was burning well now, and it would not be extinguished easily, as long as he continued to feed it.
  
  Rising, he stretched, working out the aches from his back and rubbing his fingers into his stiff right knee. Being careful not to disturb the fire or to topple into the shelter's sloping roof branches, he slid in beside Aedwen. She was half asleep, but she moved enough to make room for him, and then rested her head on his shoulder.
  
  Warmth from the fire washed over him. He had sat thus, enjoying the heat from a campfire in the wilderness countless times before, but it was something that always filled him with pleasure and wonder. To conjure the flames from nothing was a special magic and when it was cold a fire was not only a balm for strained nerves, it was life-giving warmth.
  
  They sat in silence for a long while, staring into the ever-changing dancing tongues of flame.
  
  Aedwen's shivering slowly abated.
  
  "I am glad you know how to make fire from nothing," she said, her voice thick with sleep.
  
  He gazed into the flames, enjoying the movement and randomness of them. Their vitality.
  
  "So am I," he said at last. He recalled sitting in just such a shelter as this so many years before that he was uncertain whether he truly recalled it, or if he had created the story for himself, to think of on lonely nights. Still, the memory was vivid and it always pleased him. He remembered sitting beside a thickset man. Dunston had been a child then, and the man had placed his arm about his thin shoulders. They had sat in pleasant silence and watched the flames that the boy-Dunston had kindled. The man of his memories was grey-bearded and broad-shouldered; old, but wise and still powerful. Dunston smiled. He must look the same to Aedwen.
  
  "My grandfather taught me how to kindle a fire," he said. He sighed, stretching out his hands to capture the warmth from the flames. Christ, he had loved that old man. "I could teach you, if you'd like."
  
  Aedwen did not reply. After a moment he looked down at her and smiled ruefully. The firelight gave the girl's face a ruddy glow. Her eyes were closed and she was sleeping peacefully.
  
  Around them, beyond the glow from the small fire, the night was impenetrable. The forest whispered and rustled out there in the dark. Somewhere far off, a vixen shrieked. A tawny owl lent its haunting voice to the forest music. Leaning forward he placed a fresh log on the flames and settled back next to Aedwen.
  
  He was sure that nobody would be on the road now, and the glow from the fire would not be visible. But he knew that the smell of the smoke would be noticeable from quite some distance. Still, there was nothing for it. The fire would keep them alive. Tiredness engulfed him with its heavy, silent cloak and Dunston's eyelids drooped. He rested his right hand on DeaÞangenga's haft and offered up a prayer that nobody would stumble on them while they slept. Then, placing another chunk of wood onto the fire, he allowed sleep to overcome him.