The
matter of mouths to feed, and the question of withholding taxes,
became far more serious that year, for the wheat crop did poorly, and
not just in Meg's village, but in all the land around. Nor did the
queen lower any taxes; it was twenty bags of grain and ten strong
warriors, the same as ever.
So Meg stood there beside Deirdre, before the gate, with all the
villagers behind her, and told the tax man that a fair tax, as they’d
agreed, meant he would go back empty-handed; so Áed, the Queen's
Hound, came to the village, and there awaited Meg's usual wager –
Only this time she wagered far more.
"If I win," said Meg, "Your queen will not take
taxes from this village, or any from here to the western shore."
The Hound scowled. "That's too much to wager on one match,
Meg."
"Best of three then?"
The Hound grinned. "How many villages are there from here to
the western shore? Fifteen? Let's say best of fifteen."
"I have a better idea," said the tax man. "Let us
say, each of Meg's victories will grant reprieve to one village, starting
from the western shore and moving towards us, so that only the final
victory shall apply to this place."
Deirdre raised an eyebrow.
"Don't give me that look," said the tax man. "I've
been getting no end of grief from the queen about this ludicrous tax
dodge. If it keeps up for too many more years she'll have my head.
One win per village, that's the final offer, or I shall not even
bother honoring this wager any longer."
"Kinda surprised you did in the first place," said Fia,
appearing beside the tax man, who did not startle, but only looked
annoyed.
"Deal," said The Hound, and he spat in his palm, and
held it out to Meg.
"Deal," said Meg, and she spat in her palm, and shook
The Hound's hand.
So the bout began, Meg and The Hound evenly matched, at least at
first – but then The Hound slipped, and stumbled backwards. One
victory, one reprieve. Fourteen to go. Meg was not breaking a sweat.
Then in the next match, The Hound stumbled backwards again. Meg
was still not breaking a sweat. She could not understand why this was
so easy. Perhaps it was because she had more to fight for? Or perhaps
it was because The Hound had weakened.
On the third match, Meg managed to tip The Hound backward so far
that his shoulder touched the earth. And now she was getting worried.
What had happened to the only man in the land who could match her?
Was this an impostor, a Sidhe, glamoured to look like the Queen's
Hound? Yet he wrestled just the same as The Hound did, at least until
he slipped.
So it went for the fourth match, and the fifth, and the sixth, all
the way to the tenth, and Meg began to grow suspicious. On the
eleventh round, she whispered to her opponent, "What in the name
of Brighid are you doing? Are you trying to throw this match?"
"You will see," whispered The Hound.
And on round twelve, The Hound at last strove against Meg with
equal force. She was forced to use all the old tricks Deirdre had
taught her, to twist her opponent, to trick him, to unbalance him,
anything and everything – this accounted for victories twelve and
thirteen.
Yet on the fourteenth round, when Meg at last began to feel
herself tiring, The Hound seemed to have learned Meg's tricks, and
tried to apply them against her. Worse, he was a fast learner. Meg
was nearly forced a step backwards. But thinking of who she was
fighting for, and all the starving people she had seen, she surged
with strength, and at last overbore The Hound by main force, pinning
him to the ground.
But there was one match to go.
And as it began, Meg wondered if she could go on. The Hound had
barely tired compared to her. She felt herself bending backwards far
too easily. But she could not give in now, not when it was her own
village on the line. Not when it was her own people who might be sent
away to die for their Queen. Not when it was Deirdre who might –
no, who would starve, just to be certain someone else did not. At
this thought, Meg surged with strength once more, and began to force
The Hound backwards.
But then he whispered, "I saved the best for last." At
this, his face changed, for one eye grew much larger and one eye grew
much smaller. His shoulders changed, for they grew taller around his
neck, and his limbs grew thicker. He grinned, and his teeth were all
pointed as a dog's.
And he picked Meg up, and tossed her high over the village.
…
Meg was glad that she had not made too much of a crater in the
wheat field. She was not glad to see the faces upon her people, as
she staggered back to them, gathered in the village square. Some
looked fearful, some looked confused – but most looked resigned.
"Had to happen sometime," signed Bleiz.
"Couldn't escape it forever," signed Bébinn.
"You will be missed," signed Conall.
"Missed?" signed Meg. "You two are volunteering to
go?"
Bleiz shrugged. "It's not so bad now," he signed. "If we're not losing infants, people are more easily replaced, right?"
Meg gathered the two into a fierce embrace, and whispered, "Not
a one on this earth I would call expendable."
"Fortunately for you," said the tax man, "you will
not need to say goodbye to them, Meg the Mighty. Because you’re
coming with them. You lost the battle. You no longer have the
protection of your wager. You are called to the Queen’s service.
Along with the sheep and the cattle and the wheat – in full, this
time. Now, will you gather your things and come quietly, or do you
have to be escorted by force?"
Meg cursed. She had forgotten the part about the taxes.
"One year," said Conall. "Give her one year to help
get the village back on its feet. Goodness knows we need to get as
much land under cultivation as we can."
"Your Queen’s patience has reached its limits,"
growled the tax man. "Would you rather I take thirty of your
adults, in place of Meg? No, you would not."
Meg loomed over the tax man. But he did not even flinch. After
all, there was Áed standing in the distance, putting on a show of
looking bored. Meg had no leverage here. "I will go to the
Queen," she growled. "You will not take my people in place
of me."
The tax man chuckled. "As if you were in a position to make
any further demands? Your only mercy here is that I want to get this
nonsense going and get it all over with. Gather your things and say
your goodbyes, then."
Meg looked around, already half-expecting Deirdre to have come tap
her on the shoulder, and a little confused that she didn’t. But her
wife wasn’t even in the crowd. Had Meg’s defeat broken their
bond, that easily? "Gods damn," she muttered, "I can’t
exactly leave without even saying goodbye, can I?"
There was a small whuff of air, and Fia appeared before
Meg. "Deirdre is at home," she signed.
"How did you –"
"Who else would you be looking for? Come on."
So Meg made her way to the roundhouse, terribly nervous to enter,
if it was to stand before the full force of Deirdre’s
disappointment. But as she gingerly lifted the skin over the doorway
aside, she realized that Deirdre was not standing there looking
stern, nor sitting by the fireplace in tears, nor even hiding in the
shadows – she was throwing travel gear into a canvas bag. Meg’s
heart nearly stopped, at the thought that her own wife was so eagerly
sending her away.
But then she realized there were two bags.
"Wait a moment," blurted Meg, and she put a hand over
Deirdre’s.
Her wife paused and looked up in surprise. "Do you not want
me to follow you?"
"I can see that the hard choice you feared has you choosing
me," signed Meg. "But I’m not going to force you to make
that choice, dear. Stay here. Keep working on your plans. I do not
mean to be gone long."
"I – Meg, please, I can’t lose you. Any more than you can
lose me."
Meg took her hands, drew her close, and kissed her hard. Pulling
back, she folded Deirdre in a fierce embrace, and whispered, "I
will come back to you, no matter what it takes." She released
Deirdre, and kissed away her tears -- only for Deirdre to kiss her hard on the mouth in return. And the two of them were lost within each other, for a time.
Until there was a polite cough from the doorway. Meg at last pulled back, and turned to see Fia there, looking bored. Fia sighed. "You two getting dramatic again. Look, it's not that bad. You could sneak out a window and run away home overnight and be back by morning, right? Or I can just get over to the fortress real easy and check up on you."
"Can you get back from the fortress?" signed Meg.
"Do not venture close, my daughter." She picked up the girl
and embraced her – then set her down, and departed, not even taking
a travel bag with her.