At first she felt only relief to find that he had finished a chore that her aching arms had dreaded. But there were more important things than a few sore muscles, things a woman had to be cautious of. This man wasn't going to trick her into paying him the last of her coins for doing a job she hadn't asked him to do. “I can clean the cart later,” she said. “I'll feed you for winning the bet, nothing more."
He cocked his head, his fine white teeth showing as he grinned.
His gypsy charm wouldn't work on her.
"I'd be pleased to stay for supper, but when I unloaded the cart payment was not my intent. I was thinking that you take on too much.” He picked up a broom and hoisted himself into the cart.
Hands on her hips, Meg glared at him.
Keeping his eyes down, Lanni swept the broom hard against the floorboards of the cart and said, “I'm hungry, though. And I believe that is side-pork I smell burning."
Without a word, she ran back into the cabin.
The salt-pork was crisp, barely burnt, and when Lanni sat for supper, he ate with gusto.
After his plate was empty, he pumped water to wash the dishes. Then, he said his thanks and left.
Meg watched from the open doorway as he walked down the path to the shallows, the dark-haired man becoming a part of the deepening twilight. She could see the rippling as he crossed the stream, his outline cresting the horizon, moving back and forth by his wagon, and a glow followed by flames as he lit a fire.
It was a scene devoid of sound, except for the rustle of the slight breeze high in the canopy of hemlocks. She watched him in the dark as if he was a figment from a dream, and for a moment she felt like she was a part of him, of how he lived: his wagon and horses, relying on his wits, sitting by the fire, watching the sparks and stars, alone.
Hollowness welled up inside of her.
She turned to go inside: the low light of the kerosene lamp draped across her bare table, the narrow bed. Shadows. Silence.
Meg took the lantern from its hook beside the door. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and closed the cabin door behind her. At the shallows, she held her skirt up and let the water swirl around her legs.
Lanni turned at the sound of her wading through the stream, the light of the fire dancing on his face.
As she reached the top of the bank, he disappeared into his wagon. When he came out, he had a wool blanket under one arm and mandolin in his hand.
"It looks small.” He gestured at the wagon. “But it holds almost everything a man could need. It was my grandfather's,” he said, walking to the bonfire and setting his mandolin on an upturned log. He unfolded the blanket and snapped it so it spread out flat on the ground.
Meg found it hard to swallow. Her heart beat as fast as that of a bird flushed into flight. Maybe she'd made a mistake coming here.
"Let me play for you.” Lanni picked up his mandolin and sat on the upturned log.
Hesitating for a moment, Meg settled down on the blanket.
From behind his seat Lanni produced a green bottle. “It's from a vineyard outside Montreal—friends of my family for generations, a glorious place, magic.” He leaned forward, handing her the open bottle.
She could smell the tang of wood smoke on his shirt and feel the warmth of his fingers as they paused on her arm. She put the bottle to her lips. The wine was sweet. It heated as she swallowed it.
Lanni took up his mandolin. His fingers caressed the strings and he began to sing in words Meg understood only through his changing tone and the expression of his eyes.
She drank and listened, and watched the sparks of the bonfire rising into the moonless sky.
One song seemed his favorite. He sang it with such sadness that she stared into the darkness and bit her tongue to keep her eyes from tearing.
Lanni paused, looked at her and sang it again, this time in English as clear as any gentleman. It was a song about a selkie who shed her seal-skin and became a woman and a wife.
Putting down his mandolin, Lanni sat silent.
The sparks crackled and the crickets sang, and Lanni moved down onto the blanket next to her. He reached out and took the bottle. “I stayed at the vineyard last week, traded a pregnant mare for twelve cases of this wine.” He hesitated, staring blindly at the fire. “Usually I visit there in the spring. This year I didn't. I couldn't talk about it, then."
Meg sat motionless.
Lanni's voice was a whisper. “Last winter, in Montreal—typhus—it took my kumpania, my family and companions, all of them. Twenty empty wagons I had to burn or sell.” He picked up a stick and jabbed the fire. He laughed, sad and distant. “See the sparks like birds turning into stars—like souls flying to heaven.” He squeezed his eyes shut as he bowed his head.
Meg was not sure where the urge came from, perhaps it was her fatigue, the wine, or just to break the fevered silence. But suddenly she found herself sharing a thought she had never dared put into words before. “Sometimes I wonder if the clay is alive. It feels that way, sometimes."
He opened his eyes. “The earth's alive.” He picked up a handful of dirt and let it fall slowly from his fist. “And it can take into its darkness more than just a man's body. It can devour souls.” His eyes were shadowed. “The farmer: his every dream sown in the womb of the earth. The gypsy: dirt flying behind our feet lest the earth steal the passion that is our nature.” He paused, took a sip of wine. “And potters, turning clay, creating life the way God did: the water from your slurry, the breath from your lips, and the fire of your emotions combining with clay ... The four elements of magic are in your art."
Meg felt his hand on her shoulder, saw the firelight flickering in his dark eyes. She trembled as he continued. “Be careful—earth, water, air and fire—you may not realize the power of the magic you create. The earth lives—sometimes through the man who thinks he works it."
Meg wasn't sure exactly what he meant. But without warning a fear rose up inside her and her shoulders trembled. She covered her face with her hands.
"Hush, hush,” Lanni said.
She could feel his warmth and feel how he wanted to hold her, to comfort her. His cheek brushed her hair. Her fingers touched his scarf, then reached for the buttons of his shirt. He clutched her close. Her hand fumbled and found the sharp edge of the cross he wore, the warmth of his chest, the soft smooth hair at his beltline.
His response was fast and demanding: lips on hers, hands freeing her from her dress.
Meg closed her eyes. One by one she forgot the weight of her work, the lack of coins, the farmers scoffing and predicting failure ... The earth was hot and damp against her back. He was strong and hard, gentle and fast, giving and entrancing ... nothing like Mr. Clews when he had taken her on the turning-room floor.
She fell asleep watching the fire from Lanni's arms, coals like eyes in the dark, wood burnt black.
It was the coolness that woke her. Lanni had risen and was taking another blanket from the wagon. He returned to her, carefully covering her with it. She pretended to be asleep. Even when he lay back beside her, his arm holding her close, his breath warm and low, she lay awake listening to the coals shifting as they burned to embers.
* * * *
The smell of wintergreen. Meg opened her eyes. Lanni crouched in front of her, a steaming tin cup in his hands.
She sat up, pulling the blanket around her. Shivering from the morning dampness, Meg took the tea.
Lanni reached out and pushed her hair from her face. “You are so beautiful.” He bent forward, kissing her fingers where they wrapped around the cup.
Meg shifted away.
Lanni cocked his head. “I promise, there is no shame,” he said. “We've merely loved under the stars like newlyweds.” He smiled and added, “My beautiful selkie bride."
Meg's shoulders tightened. In the dark with the fire and damp bed of dirt and leaves, the poetry of his words had made for a rich fantasy. But now, in the creeping light of morning, she could not think of a single word to say
.
Lanni sat back, his brows drawn together. She knew her silence disappointed him.
And down through the canopy of hemlocks drops of rain fell, a slow prelude to the distant rumbling of thunder.
Lanni broke the stillness. “How much more clay do I need to haul, so you can work all winter?"
"There is a storm coming, the clay will be too slick to shovel.” She turned away to show him it was time for them to part.
He ignored her gesture. “Trust me, I know the signs. That storm will pass south of here."
* * * *
A month later, when fall frosted the mountains, Meg still had not found a way to rid herself of Lanni.
Most often, he ignored her when she suggested that he move on, and when he did choose to hear, he had a ready excuse for staying. She had to admit that he had earned his meals. There was more than enough clay stored for winter, and the shed brimmed with firewood, enough for the kiln and cabin. It was just that, even though she enjoyed sharing her bed with him at night, she hated him watching and talking to her while she tried to concentrate on her work. What was keeping him here? Weren't gypsies supposed to wander?
Today, however, Lanni had been conspicuously absent. Meg had only caught a glimpse of him now because she happened to glance out the window. He was across the stream by his wagon building what looked like branch-wood crates. For a second she wondered what he was up to, then, grateful he was busy elsewhere, she hurried back to her work.
Meg lined up a dozen fist-size lumps of clay on her workbench, covered them with a cloth, and went to her wheel. She centered a ball of clay on the turntable, dipped her fingers in the slurry, and kicked the wheel. As her thumbs entered the clay, her body fell into the rhythm and her mind cleared. No more worries about winter. No more thoughts of coin. No more Lanni...
A waft of cool air raised the hair on her arms. Without looking, she knew Lanni was watching from the doorway. How had he gotten here so quickly? It had only been minutes since she had seen him working across the stream. But here he was ... and in front of her on the turntable sat a glistening milk-pan. It was well proportioned, perfect in every respect. Meg bit her lip. The problem was she didn't remember turning it.
Lanni's hand rubbed her shoulders. “That's enough for today,” he said. “There won't be many more afternoons like this. Let's walk."
Still trying to recall making the milk-pan, Meg closed her ears to him. She felt herself pale as she spotted six more newly turned pans lined up on the rack.
Lanni kept on talking. “I'll gather butternut, so you can't say we're wasting our time. Tonight I'll show you how my mother made penuche."
Too confused to argue, Meg let him wipe her hands with a damp rag, and lead her outside by the arm.
The afternoon sun was hot even under the bare-branch shade of the butternut trees. Lanni crawled on hands and knees tossing nuts into a basket. Despite herself, Meg rested against the trunk and closed her eyes. Lanni began to talk. At first she didn't quite hear what he was saying. “That's nice,” she mumbled.
"Renting a boat would be a better idea, but I own the wagon. If we pack them in hay, the pottery should ride well. In Montreal, I can dicker for a good price ... should be back in a week, not much more."
Startled awake, Meg scrambled to her feet.
Lanni sat cross-legged in the dead leaves, his hands stained black from the nuts, his chest the same gold as the beeches behind him. “What's wrong?” He looked at her.
Meg couldn't speak. Since she first met him, she'd never gotten over her suspicion that he was planning something, and this proved it. He had courted her, seduced her, and now he was going to take the only thing she had of value, the pottery she had spent all summer making.
"I'm going with you,” Meg said.
Lanni smiled sheepishly, unfolded his legs and rose. “Next time. I have something in mind. Where I have to go you'd not be ... you'd feel uncomfortable."
In dead silence, she turned from him and strode toward the workshop.
"Trust me, Selkie.” He hurried to catch up with her.
Meg turned to face him. Her jaw tightened, and her fists opened and closed.
Frowning, Lanni let out his breath. He spoke slowly. “You made the pots to sell, didn't you?"
Meg's heart beat wildly. She couldn't think or speak.
"Is there a reason you don't want me to take them?” Lanni gazed directly in her eyes. “Is it that you don't trust me? Or is it that your heart doesn't want to part with them?"
Meg's rapid pulse stopped. Her eyes stared beyond Lanni, to the clay pit. She swallowed. Was he right? Was she trying to avoid selling them? Was that why she couldn't even bear to talk about this? Everything he was saying made sense. In the village she could never get enough coin for them to last the winter. But Lanni was a gypsy, a horse trader—there was no doubt that he could get top price in Montreal.
Meg let out her breath. She'd have to chance that he would return.
* * * *
Two weeks had passed since Lanni had taken the load of pottery to Montreal. This was the first day Meg stopped working before darkness made lighting lamps necessary.
She built up a fire in the woodstove and put on the kettle. How much kerosene had she squandered these past weeks by burning the lamps so late? The number of pots she had turned in those midnight hours had hardly made up for the cost. But unless she worked until her fingers cramped and her mind grew numb, she only spent the night lying in bed listening, thinking.
When she had first fled the smoke and noise of Burslem, the quiet of the wilderness had felt like a sanctuary. But now, especially since Lanni had left, the night crept with memories of her childhood: the heat of the hungry-mouthed kilns, the cold air freezing in her lungs, her arms straining to push the carts of pottery, and the ragged boys—at least they had steered clear of her.
Hattie Savage had given Meg more than nonsensical warnings—she had given Meg a little knife to protect herself.
Hattie Savage. How long was it after Hattie hung herself before Mr. Clews laughed at that little knife? Had he held her arms over her head? Was he heavy? He had smothered her. It had been dark outside the windows, her innocent blood red as clay washed down the banks with rain. “You're beautiful,” Mr. Clews said. Her wrist bruised. A potter needs her wrists. “I'll take care of you.” His mouth tasted like vomit, his hands damp.
Meg dropped the kettle. It fell, clanging as it hit the floor ... another louder crash echoed outside the cabin. The kiln. Something was wrong. Meg ran to the door and froze on the threshold.
Lanni's wagon was by the shed. He was tossing bundles out the back. “Give me a hand.” He grinned.
Meg's heart pounded, a chill sweeping over her as the sweat from her panic dried. Her hands went to her hips.
Lanni hopped off the wagon, a case of wine in his hands. “You mad because I'm late, or because I didn't run off?” He winked at her as he passed her on his way into the cabin.
She followed him.
Setting the case on the table, he took a bundle of folded papers from between the bottles. “Sit,” he commanded.
He sounds like Mr. Clews, Meg thought as she sat.
He pulled a chair up close to hers. Unfolding the papers, he said, “This is our future."
Meg felt her eyes narrow as she squinted at them. “They're not in English,” she said.
"This is French. This one's sort of Romany.” He flipped through the receipts and contracts. “The figures add up in any language. You'll be busy all winter filling all these orders, yes?"
Her face heated. He hadn't even mentioned how much he had gotten for what he had sold this time and he was already talking about new orders.
"If we can fill these, especially this one with Bull-leg Ben, we'll be all set.” He twisted the knob on the oil lamp up. The light glowed. “What's wrong?” He looked at Meg, then beyond her to the floor by the woodstove where the kettle lay.
She shifted and straightened in her chair. “You
startled me when I heard you outside."
He leaned across the table and touched her hair. “My beautiful Selkie."
She shivered as he kissed her forehead.
"Come, I'll show you what I traded for,” he said.
Lanni hung a lantern off the back of his wagon.
The wagon was chock-full. And it was noisy.
"Chickens?” Meg gasped. She could see it: the birds trotting all over the clay pit, their droppings soiling everything.
"Hens.” Lanni gingerly slid a crate onto the tailgate, and crouched down to examine them. “They aren't layers, too old.” I traded them for a fifty-gallon crock. The woman wanted it to put up eggs for the winter."
He hopped up next to the birds and started handing things down to Meg: a velvet quilt, a box of taffy, a keg of kerosene, honey-comb, maple sugar, salt, and a crate with a picture of a red mackerel and another with oriental flowers painted on its sides.
In the circle of lantern light Meg stood at the edge of the growing pile. She took a deep breath. “Lanni,” she said quietly from between clenched teeth.
He leapt off the wagon.
"What good are chickens that don't lay?” she asked, her voice straining.
He grinned at her.
She had no choice except to be blunt. “Where is the money?"
"By trading, you end up with more.” He waved at the assortment of dry goods. “Isn't this enough?"
Meg opened and closed her hands. The pottery he had taken from her had taken six months to make. These things were not enough. The only thing that had separated her from Hattie Savage back in Burslem had been the bonuses from Mr. Clews, no matter that it wasn't always her skill as a potter that earned them. It was coin, hard and real, saved and stashed—something she could make plans with.
"Coin does matter,” she said.
Lanni's lips tightened. He pushed a small purse into her hand. “Here."
Snatching the purse, Meg headed for the cabin.
"That stack of papers in the cabin, that's the real money,” Lanni called after her.
* * * *
"The quartermaster at Chambly, two innkeepers, four merchants, a poultry farmer, a vineyard and, of course, Bull-leg Ben,” Lanni summed up the pottery orders.
Challenging Destiny #23 Page 13
