The Caves of Périgord: A Novel

might be seen.
    “I await you, Keeper,” came the soft voice. Good, the boy was being careful, still behind the tree. Little Moon must have been clever to have found him. He sidled around to join the youth, led him deeper into the trees.
    “Have you learned your lesson now, apprentice?” he asked.
    “The lesson of banishment for the fall of an old man that I did not cause? What is there to learn from this?”
    “No, the lesson of discipline. The lesson of respect for your elders. The lesson that we must sometimes suffer things without a cause, but accept that suffering for a greater purpose. You have the gift, Deerrunner. Your place is in the cave, with the work, among us.”
    “I have respect for my elders, for my teachers, for the workers such as you, or the Keeper of the Bulls. I have much to learn from you.”
    “Listen, I want to bring you back into the cave,” he said, gripping Deer by the upper arm, shaking him slightly. “You should be a Keeper by now. You know that. Anyone who has seen your swimming beasts knows that. But I must be able to tell the other Keepers that you have learned the lesson of humility. That you respect the judgment of your elders. Do you hear me, Deer-runner?”
    “I hear you, Keeper.” To himself, he said: I hear you, father of Little Moon.
    “It is not just a company of workers that you join, a group of skills and talents. It is a group of men, with their own weaknesses and pride. And one thing to remember is that old men whose limbs are no longer sure as they climb the poles can be too proud to say that, and lash out at a young or nimbler person nearby. Men hate to blame themselves for their feebleness and faults, just as I see you not wanting to take the blame for your own impetuous pride. Do you hear this?”
    “I hear you, Keeper. And I thank you for the lesson.”
    “You will be humble before the Keepers. You will admit your fault to the old man. You will take the blame upon yourself. You will keep your head down and your voice silent, and if you trust in me and are guided by me, you will be a Keeper before the festival of the longest day.”
    “Why do you do me this kindness, Keeper?” he asked, hoping that the man would say it was because Little Moon had asked him.
    “Because of your swimming beasts,” said the Keeper, turning Deer toward him, gripping him by both shoulders to stare him in the face. “And perhaps because one day when I have gone and you see a young fool who has the gift but seems doomed to waste it, perhaps you can do the same for him.” He grinned at the youth, liking him for his clear gaze and the respect he showed. “Just as someone did for me, a long time ago.”

CHAPTER 3
Arisaig, Scotland, 1943
    C aptain Jack Manners was exhausted; sweating so much in the chill Highland rain that he thought the desert fever had come back. His pack was full of rocks. The absurd little Sten gun with its narrow strap was cutting into the side of his neck, and his feet were sopping wet inside the heavy boots. At least in North Africa they had worn comfortable desert boots of light suede. It never ceased to amaze him—the only part of the British Army actually fighting the Germans dressed like a bunch of holidaymakers, in beards and shorts and corduroy slacks, cravats around their necks to keep the dust out. Some chaps even swore by their silk shirts, cool in the heat of the sun, warm as the chill of the desert night made the hard ground as cold as the stern metal of their tanks. Yet back here in Britain they were playing at soldiers, demanding glossy boots and pressed uniforms and close shaves even though there were never any razor blades. And they weren’t even fighting! When the reinforcements came out to Egypt from England, it took them weeks to get ready to fight Jerry. Still, he thought with a fairness that had been bred into him so hard it had become instinctive, it had taken him and his Hussars at least a year, and some decent tanks and a decent general, to learn how to fight Jerry. And given the right ground and enough time to dig in against our air power, Jerry could still dish it out.
    “You need some hate in a war such as this, Jacques,” panted the man beside him. “When the body fades, and the will fades, then must come the hate.”
    Jack Manners did not respond. He slogged on to the top of the hill, bracing against the wind that whipped off the Irish Sea like a volley of cold knives, and plodded grimly down the next slope until the