Widow's Welcome

by D. K. Fields

  ‘Melle?’ he said, feeling only as tall as a Tiller beneath her mother’s glare.

  ‘You get away—’

  ‘It’s all right, Mama,’ Melle said, slipping past her.

  Ghen felt joy surge through him. It was all right.

  ‘Don’t you be long with him, you hear?’ her mother called after them. She stayed watching from the doorway.

  Melle walked with him across the yard but would go no further.

  ‘Is it bad, Ghen, working for Sot?’

  He was surprised to hear himself say that it wasn’t so bad. ‘I like the work. Making Tillers, it’s just like growing things.’

  ‘But how can it be? You only work with dead wood, for dead people.’

  There was a rising note of anguish in her voice that he tried not to hear.

  ‘It’s only for a little while,’ he said.

  ‘Is it?’ she said, surprised, and pleased. ‘When will you go home?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I will. Sot can’t keep me forever.’

  Melle’s shoulders slumped. ‘You should have hidden here, in the barn.’

  And then she was walking away, back to her mother.

  *

  Sot found him in the barn, in the hay bales. His face was red from the scratching of the hay, and from the tears. He let her gather him up and guide him to the cart where Wyne was waiting. There were no lanterns now. The three of them were in darkness.

  ‘When can I go home, Sot?’

  He murmured it over and over again. He would say nothing else, and neither would he stop asking. At last Sot ran out of patience.

  ‘You want to go home, Ghen? Fine! We’ll go now. Your house isn’t far, and I’m sure Wyne won’t mind the detour. He’s been on at me about it for long enough.’

  Ghen uncurled from where he was lying in the back of the cart.

  ‘Do you mean it?’ he said.

  ‘If it will make things any easier then yes, I mean it.’

  ‘I’ll walk back,’ Wyne said. ‘Set me down by the bridge.’

  ‘In the dark?’ Sot said. ‘Will you be safe?’

  ‘I’d rather risk bandits than be part of this.’

  ‘Part of what?’ Ghen said.

  *

  Ghen threw open the front door, and his parents and the girls looked up from heaped, steaming plates in surprise. His father said his name with such warmth, such longing, that Ghen had to grip the doorframe to stay on his feet. Sot stood quietly behind him.

  ‘Did I forget someone’s birthday?’ Ghen said, taking in the well laid table. There was roast hennie fowl with holens and squash, all covered in rich gravy, and bowls of other vegetables, and thick bread. Waiting near the sink was a tall cake, topped with cream and tiny red berries he didn’t even recognise.

  ‘Ghen? What’s going on?’ his mother said.

  ‘I’ve come home, Mama.’

  ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ his father said. ‘Making them.’

  ‘Is he not working hard enough?’ his mother asked Sot.

  ‘I’ll be in the cart,’ Sot said in a low voice. ‘Do it now.’

  ‘There’s no need to wait for me,’ Ghen said. ‘I’m not going back.’

  ‘Sot!’ his mother said, getting to her feet. ‘You can’t do this. We’ve spent nearly all of it. We had an agreement!’

  ‘There was nothing in that agreement about me having to do your mothering for you. Tell him now or he stays. You’ve already left it late enough.’ Sot walked back to the cart.

  ‘What agreement, Mama? What are you talking about?’

  She snatched a spoon from Elin, who was looking to drop it on the floor. ‘You just— It was supposed to—’ She gave a strangled cry and turned away from him.

  It was then Ghen noticed the cupboard doors were hanging straight, and the walls had been tempered. The pans by the sink were shiny with newness. The more he looked, the more he saw: the thick rug by the stove, the stove itself now bigger. New, well-stuffed chairs.

  And then he realised Elin wasn’t coughing.

  ‘How did you…’

  ‘There’s money for some better things,’ his mother said. ‘We’re not saving now, see.’

  ‘Why not?’ he whispered. But he already knew.

  *

  He climbed up next to Sot and they both sat in silence for a time. No one came after him from the house.

  ‘They bought the land from Hend,’ he said.

  She nodded.

  ‘And the money, that came from you. For me.’

  She nodded again.

  ‘So it’s not just for a little while that I’m working for you. It’s forever.’

  ‘It’s for as long as you want these fields to thrive,’ she said, gesturing towards the dark. ‘If you leave the workshop, they have to pay back the money. The longer you stay with me, Ghen, the better it is for them.’

  ‘You’ve worked out the account.’

  She flicked the reins and the cart rumbled forward. ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘And how long until the debt’s paid off, until I can leave and they can keep the land?’

  ‘Think of it this way, Ghen. Wyne is halfway paid.’

  *

  Ghen was glad the order list was full. The work kept his hands busy and when his hands were busy his mind emptied out and then he was saved from thinking about what Sot had told him. But as the next few days passed, he found that in the pause between finishing one Tiller and picking up the next length of wood, he couldn’t help watching Wyne: Wyne, who was perhaps ten years older than he was. Wyne whose hands made such beautiful things, but whom no Lowlander would touch. Wyne who was halfway paid.

  Ghen worked faster, harder, but not for Sot and her orders. He worked to tire himself out so that when he got into bed he could sleep rather than lie awake staring at Wyne’s back.

  One morning, Ghen drifted into a kind of waking-dream. He watched Wyne’s utter concentration in his work, the Tiller and the rooters and the man as one. Then his thoughts turned to Melle, and a moment later his mother and father crowded in beside her, followed by Elin and Lyra; even Rit shoved his way in. But all at once they stiffened, lost their features, became silent, wooden figures. The world he knew before was gone.

  He needed to get outside, to see the trees. To see something living.

  He called to Sot that he was going for more wood. She was in her room, working on the accounts, and didn’t answer. She’d said little to him since the visit to his parents, spending more time than usual with the order list, the part payment forms and her columns of figures. She forgot to call them for dinner, when it was usually only her who remembered they should eat, and when she did remember, she ate little herself. Just ran a thumb across her lip, backwards and forwards, staring into the hearth, which was more often cold than lit. Ghen could almost see the sum she was working, as if her concentration had conjured it into the air. He could tell that the figures weren’t adding up.

  Wandering through the orchard he found himself thinking about the Wayward woman, and the dream of the coins bouncing off the mostin-catching jar. She’d known everything: not just that he would leave the land, but about the price paid for him too. She’d sent him the dream, with the Child’s permission. Maybe she knew what would happen next, what he should do. He shook the thought away. The only thing that was going to happen was him working for Sot.

  He stayed outside for as long as he thought he could without being missed, then walked slowly back to the workshop, and all too soon the porch came in sight. He climbed the steps to the door, and then he heard the voices.

  For a moment Ghen wondered if he’d come back to the right workshop. The fire was lit, the flames tall and bright. The kettle was on and the remaining cups were set out on a bench, together with a kind of dried biscuit Sot had unearthed from somewhere. Wyne stood by the hearth, poker in hand, watching Sot talk to the women.

  There were two of them. The elder was a short, fat woman in a wool dress with a fur stole around her shoul
ders, pinned at her breast by a glittering red stone. She wore red leather gloves, the leather so fine Ghen could see the softness of it. She had been crying, he thought, and still tightly clutched a handkerchief. The younger woman was closer to Wyne’s age. Her hair was the colour of the sun, her eyes the colour of early myrtleberries. Sot held a rennwood Tiller and was explaining about the tool it held, what they could do for personalised Tillers. The woman with the handkerchief nodded without seeming to listen. The girl’s distraction was much more pronounced: she looked all around her, mouth open in wonder.

  The kettle began to shriek, but Wyne gave no sign he could hear it. He kept staring at the girl. Ghen pushed past him to reach the hot rag they kept nearby, and Wyne came to with a start. His eyes widened and he lurched at the kettle, reaching out.

  ‘The cloth!’ Ghen shouted.

  But it was too late. Wyne picked up the boiling kettle by the handle. He dropped it straight away and looked at his hand as if amazed by the angry red mark that swelled there. Ghen ushered him to the water pail in the corner and shoved Wyne’s hand in. Wyne yelped like a kicked dog, and some understanding of what had happened came into his eyes.

  ‘My apologies,’ Sot said to the woman with the handkerchief. ‘Wyne there is very gifted when it comes to making Tillers, but such skill comes at a price, I’ve found. This is one of his pieces.’

  The woman looked around the workshop with distaste. The young girl was watching Wyne and Ghen, her head tilted to one side. The light streaming through the windows made her hair gleam.

  The skin on Wyne’s palm was rising to a blister. The image of the burned boy in the Seed Bed flashed into Ghen’s head.

  ‘The Wayward at the bridge,’ Ghen said. ‘She’ll have a salve.’

  Sot shook her head and mouthed ‘not now’ at him. ‘Can I offer you Greynal?’ she said to the woman. ‘To drink to your husband’s memory.’

  Ghen was amazed. Since he’d come to the workshop Sot hadn’t even offered buyers tea, let alone Greynal.

  The woman walked the length of the workshop, her long dress sweeping the floor. It wasn’t a working dress. It was a dress bought from a lifetime’s work.

  The girl darted after her, bending to pull something caught in the wool.

  ‘Grandmama, the shavings.’

  The woman yanked her dress from the girl’s fingers. ‘Don’t fuss, Pinna!’

  The girl shrank back between the benches, head bowed.

  ‘Mistress Sot, as you know, my husband was an important man in the valley,’ the woman said. ‘He tended his land, and the land he rented to tenants, with great care. And many of those renters don’t look after land properly, I can tell you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sot murmured.

  ‘I want my husband to have Tillers who reflect his stewardship, and his many talents.’

  She swept down the workshop again. Ghen had the feeling she was used to people standing and listening to her. And doing as she said.

  ‘That’s why I’ve come to you, Mistress Sot. I’ve heard about the detail your workshop offers – personalised tools, real-looking hair. Well, I want more than that.’

  ‘More?’ Sot said.

  ‘My husband wasn’t just a farmer, Mistress Sot. He was a farm. I want his Tillers to show that.’

  ‘You want us to make a whole farm?’

  ‘In essence, yes. Everyone else has one model of Tiller replicated, isn’t that right? Well I want fifty Tillers, each holding a different tool, each wearing different clothes. I want horses pulling ploughs. Sacks of seeds. I want everything my husband did, made in wood. Can you do that, Mistress Sot, you and your workshop?’ She looked over at Ghen and Wyne still huddled by the water pail as if she doubted they could make a cup of tea between them, let alone all the figures she wanted.

  ‘I… we’ve never…’

  ‘Because if you can’t make them then I will go to Master Canna. He would not be my first choice but to get what I want I will do whatever it takes.’

  Sot put the rennwood Tiller back on the shelf. ‘We can do it, Mistress Hend.’

  ‘Good. The Planting will be in five days. Pinna will arrange the items with you. She knows what I want.’

  Pinna nodded without lifting her head.

  ‘Your granddaughter is welcome at the workshop any time,’ Sot said.

  Wyne seemed to forget his burned hand then and stood grinning.

  ‘Tomorrow morning, Pinna,’ Mistress Hend barked.

  Pinna’s gaze flicked to Wyne, only for a second but Ghen saw it. Mistress Hend opened the door and was away without another word, Pinna scurrying after her.

  As soon as the door had shut behind them, Sot rushed to Wyne’s side and took hold of his hand.

  ‘How could you be so foolish?’ she said. ‘And with this order to complete, an order that could safeguard the future of this workshop. Five days! Oh Wyne.’

  Wyne wasn’t listening. He was staring at the door. Ghen wasn’t listening either; three words rushed round his head, drowning out everything else.

  Hend was dead.

  *

  Sot was reluctant to let Wyne go to the Wayward. She didn’t want to waste a moment when Mistress Hend’s order was so large.

  ‘And so complicated!’ Sot said, throwing up her hands. ‘We don’t even have the final list, not until that girl comes tomorrow.’

  ‘Pinna,’ Wyne said cheerfully, as if his blistered palm gave him no pain at all. ‘Her name is Pinna.’

  ‘Why did you say we could manage it if you don’t think we can?’ Ghen said.

  Sot sank onto a stool. ‘Because we have to try,’ she said. ‘If we get it right then we’ll have more orders than we know what to do with. Once people see Hend’s Tillers, what we can do, I won’t ever have to worry about Canna again.’

  ‘If that happens then you’ll need more makers,’ Ghen said. ‘You’ll have to find some other boy to buy.’

  If Sot heard him then she gave no sign of it. ‘Let’s have that tea.’

  As he picked up his cup, Wyne realised the problem he was facing: he couldn’t make anything with his hand as it was.

  ‘Let Wyne go to the Wayward,’ Ghen said again. ‘It’ll save time in the long run.’

  Sot tapped her thumb nail against her cup’s handle for a moment, then finally agreed. ‘I’ll take him in the cart. You ready some rennwood, Ghen. We can at least start on the figures while we wait for the details from the girl.’

  They left a few minutes later, Wyne still in a daze. It was, Ghen thought, putting the rennwood on his bench, the first time he’d seen anyone fall in love. He was surprised by how clear, how obvious it was. And that it had happened to both Wyne and Pinna, almost at the same time! Ghen felt in his pocket for the shell Melle had given him. If there was hope for Wyne then maybe there was hope for Ghen too.

  *

  Wyne returned with his hand bandaged in a blue patterned cloth. Ghen could smell the fint of the salve, his eyes watering as Wyne passed him. Ghen wanted to ask about the Wayward but a fever of work was on Sot, a fever that appeared to be mostly panic, and she hurried the rooters into Ghen and Wyne’s hands, brooking no idle chatter.

  Wyne winced as he fitted the handles of his rooters over the bandage. Sot hovered at his side, waiting to see if he could wield them as before. He scraped a length of rennwood, then nodded at Sot.

  She was visibly relieved. ‘Figures then. We’ll work on getting a set made and then we can add the detail tomorrow, once we know what Mistress Hend wants.’

  She set to work. Ghen did likewise, and they stayed like that until the light went. Sot said they should break then, and eat.

  ‘I bought some meat the Wayward had trapped.’

  Ghen nearly fell over himself in surprise.

  ‘We need to keep our strength up for this order,’ Sot said. ‘I’m accounting for it as an investment.’ She went to stir up the fire.

  Ghen stretched out his back and glanced at Wyne. The bandage was dark with blood.

/>   *

  Sot cursed the Wayward, all the while eating a roasted gresta thigh she’d bought from the woman.

  ‘It’s not the Wayward’s fault,’ Ghen said. ‘Wyne should be resting his hand, not making Tillers.’

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ Sot said. ‘Bind it with fresh cloth, Ghen. At least you won’t charge me just short of a mark to do so.’

  Wyne didn’t move or make a sound as Ghen unwrapped the Wayward’s blue cloth. It was Ghen who did the wincing when he saw the bloodied, raw mess of flesh.

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ Ghen asked.

  Wyne turned to look at him, slowly, as if he was only barely aware he was being spoken to. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Your hand, Wyne!’ Sot shouted. ‘Wake up! Please, you need to wake up. I can’t do this without you.’

  He smiled at her, but it was the woozy smile of a drunkard. Or a fool.

  *

  They worked well into the night, and only when Ghen fell asleep at his bench did Sot say they should go to bed. He felt as if his head had barely touched the pillow when Sot shouted at them to get up again. They’d already been at work for more than four hours when there was a knock at the door.

  Wyne jumped up to answer it, dropping his rooters and knocking over his stool as he went. Sot hurried in his wake, setting things right, muttering worry.

  It was Pinna.

  ‘I have a list,’ she said. Her voice was shy, girlish.

  She pulled a well-crumpled sheet from her pocket and held it out to Wyne. Her hand was shaking and a blush flamed her cheeks. She made no move to come inside the workshop, just stood looking at her boots.

  Ghen couldn’t understand Wyne’s fascination with Pinna. She was so wispy and wet. She wasn’t like Melle, he thought, and felt a pang that made it even more difficult to watch Wyne and Pinna so drawn to one another. Wyne now reaching for the list, Pinna not wanting to let go, their fingers so close to touching.

  ‘Come in, Miss Hend, come in,’ Sot said.

  She had to bodily push Wyne out of the way. Pinna giggled like Elin and Lyra did, as if she were a babe, and waited just inside the door to be told where she should place herself.