Finders-Seekers

by Gayle Greeno

  The wine was good. The fire was good. The night was good. She could feel it. She had set up camp beside a grassy verge that led into a brook meandering its way into Leger Lake. Lokka, after two double-handfuls of oats, a treat but not enough by her greedy standards, grazed contentedly nearby. Communing with the flames, Khar had tucked her body in a perfect mound, front feet folded inward, tail trimmed close to her side. From the self-satisfied inward smirk on her face, the ghatta had relished the raw liver. Doyce leaned against the saddle; stripped from Lokka’s back it served as a convenient backrest. The wine was good. Hollis Timor had been right. She was, she decided, a bit drunk.

  She took another sip, tried to reorder Claes’s information in her mind, idly toying with it, letting the connections come as they would. The harder you seek for connections, the more they elude you, she told herself, trying to justify her lack of concentration. It felt so good to relax, and perhaps, at last, she’d sleep well tonight. She thought about the cat, Ballen, with its strange head wound, which made her think about Claes, which made her think of ... Vesey?

  “Khar, doesn’t Claes remind you of Vesey a little, especially around the eyes?”

  The ghatta squinted at the fire. “I never knew Vesey. Long before my time. You know that.” The question had surprised her, left her uneasy at the connection.

  Strange how she’d caused two very distinct and separate periods of her life to overlap. Doyce sat upright, perplexed, and shoved the stopper into the flask. “But you’ve seen him in my mind, haven’t you? You know from those images.”

  “That was your mind’s Vesey, not the true Vesey.” The ghatta relented, but only a little. “But from what I saw, yes, Claes does ... a bit. But he opens, I think, more easily than your Vesey did.”

  “You’re probably right about that.”

  One ear twitched and the ghatta snorted, batted at her muzzle. “Midges. Breeze died down.”

  Rolling onto her knees, Doyce began to dig through her saddlebags, knowing by touch, by shape, what most things were. She grumbled and dug deeper, then pulled out a cylindrical object wrapped in a twist of coarse paper. “Citronella candle. You don’t appreciate the smell, but you like the midges even less. Which will it be?”

  “The candle.” She wrinkled her nose as Doyce unwrapped the pudgy candle and lit it. “Too bad their minds are so small that I can’t warn them.”

  “Out to save the world, Khar?”

  The ghatta ignored her, expression contemplative. Setting the lighted candle between them, Doyce walked just beyond the circle of firelight to stroke Lokka and palm her a sugar nugget. Then she came back and sat down again by the saddle, pulling off her boots and shaking out the folds of a blanket. Too tired to wash tonight, even though the plash of the stream sounded inviting. Besides, the midges didn’t need the invitation her bare flesh would offer. Uncorking the flask, she took a final sip of wine, restoppered it, and folded her hands behind her head. Why was Ballen killed? Why had his brain been taken? Why had Oriel’s? Something to sleep on, though not the most pleasant thoughts in the world. Maybe her subconscious knew more than she did. “Good night, Khar.”

  “Sleep well, Bondmate.” And Khar readied herself for what the night-dreams would bring.

  The curtains gusted inward, flapping and bellying like the sails on a ship, then hung limp as the rush of wind subsided. Though the air smelled of moisture, so far no rain had come, but then Mahafny heard the first syncopated patterings and plops, hesitant at first as if targeting their landing sites, then pounding more confidently. She wondered about closing the window, but hated to disturb the mass of papers on her lap, a full day’s worth of reports from the Hospice. If she wasn’t teaching, she was administrating; it seemed she did both more now than she healed. Leave the window be, she admonished herself, it’s not raining in yet and probably won’t. The wind’s changing direction. And the fresh air feels so good. It was then that she sensed the watching, the feeling of not being alone, that someone’s eyes bored into her back from the window. Her shoulders tightened and she set her jaw, moved the papers as casually as she could from her lap, shifted them to crown the untidy pile already on the side table beside her chair. Using the wide, flat wooden arm of the chair for leverage, she swung around to confront the eyes.

  A white cat, amply inked with black on his hips, hind legs and tail, and with a black cap on his head and ears, sat on the windowsill, hunched against the rain, eyes imploring permission to enter. “Damn you, Peterkin, don’t do that to me!” she exploded, nearly throwing a pencil at him. “Go stare at somebody else! You know full well I don’t care for you, for cats in general, or for your ghatti cousins. Now shoo!” She waved the back of her hand at it, but Peterkin continued to regard her with reproachful dignity, becoming wetter, patches of fur sticking and clumping as the large raindrops bulleted him. The sight of him unnerved her. She went to close the window on him, hoping he’d go away.

  He didn’t, just continued to stare at her through the glass, mouth opening pinkly in a silent meow of complaint. Then the problem dawned on her, and she slid the window up. “Trude forget and shut you out?” Accepting that as a welcome, the cat slipped into the room, rubbed wetly against her shin in greeting. “That wasn’t an invitation, beast, merely a logical deduction. Got shut out in the rain, did you?” The cat purred and sat, began to lick himself dry, twisting his head around and working down the length of his back. Mahafny shared the house and the servants with two other eumedicos; each had private quarters with joint kitchen facilities. Peterkin belonged to the other woman eumedico sharing the house, Trude Voss, and she, Mahafny realized with sinking spirits, had the late shift at the Hospice tonight. She must have left her window closed, giving Peterkin no access to the house unless he tried to scratch at the back door, but Cook had the night off as well.

  She detoured wide around the cat and shuffled her papers over to her desk. pulled out the chair and sat down to work, but the unexpected presence of the cat - had shaken her more than she cared to admit. She could boot him out into the hallway until Trude returned, but Trude wouldn’t be well pleased if her simpering little pussykin Peterkin weren’t kindly treated. Lady protect her from cats and their kind; she’d owned a kitten once when she was small, but had given it to her cousin Swan after a few days, unnerved by the constant, assessing stare, even on the fuzzy little kitten face.

  Swan. And what was she going to do about Swan? How could she possibly help? The papers in front of her wouldn’t stay in focus, the writing undecipherable as if in an arcane language. She pushed them away into a haphazard pile, not caring how they rearranged themselves, just needing the sanity of a clear, empty space in front of her. Swan. She’d lied to Swan at that unexpected meeting how many days ago now? The passage of time might elude her, but Swan’s story and her plea for help still treadmilled through her brain, ceaselessly circling and circling. No, she hadn’t really lied to Swan, she’d just hedged the truth, had to hedge it. The one explanation that burned itself into her mind was too preposterous, beyond the pale, and she’d rejected it. But was it, was it so impossible? It was impossible simply because she’d failed to see it coming, refused to consider the consequences.

  Her long white hands scrabbled amongst the papers, churned them, sifted through them, until her fingers closed on the rectangular shape, a tooled leather case hinged to reveal two portraits from so many years ago, her dead husband and her daughter.

  Too many years of thinking about it, fearing it, but not acting; fearing and letting others take on her personal responsibilities, letting others be accountable while she had abdicated her duty. The cat Peterkin jumped on the desk, butted her arm with his head, then decided to burrow through the papers after a phantom mouse. She scooped him to the floor, absently noting his protests.

  Well, time would tell if she were right, that and a visit north for her peace of mind. Because if she were right, time was a luxury she couldn’t afford. How long had it been since she’d gotten out, gotten away? Too lon
g, and now the thought of being constrained paralyzed her. She had to get out, to move, as if the very motion of traveling would stimulate her thinking. Prove to her if she were right or wrong.

  She moved about the room, confident of the whereabouts of everything despite her clutter, choosing, discarding, packing swiftly. The leather case with its two portraits went into the very bottom of her bag, along with Terence di Siguera’s genealogy files. The poor man had no idea how many years of genetic research had their beginnings in her purely ulterior motive. Oh, it had begun innocently enough and with laudable intentions: trace the ancestry of current eumedicos back in time to discover if any bore direct descent from the first spacer eumedicos, some of whom boasted the true mindtrance gift. But the birth of her nephew Jared and later, Evelien, her daughter, had changed the focus of her investigations, though Terence never seemed to wonder why or notice. He’d had no idea that he was corroborating her theory and her guilt with hard evidence while he searched for something entirely different in his branching diagrams. Two birds with one stone.

  With a mental shrug she dismissed Terence from her mind. She’d stop at the Hospice, delegate duties, someone needed to be in authority during her absence, though certainly not Terence. The memory of the last time still haunted her. What to tell Swan? Stopping short, she considered the options. Anything concrete she said now would only increase Swan’s anxiety. And if she indicated she followed on the track of something, it might raise false hopes. Perhaps a noncommittal note indicating that she would be traveling to some of the other Hospices to do some research, some record-checking. And perfectly true, no lie in that. And if, by chance, by fate, by hope, by effort her path should cross Doyce’s after so many years, so be it. For Doyce had a place on those charts as well.

  Oh, Blessed Lady, let me be wrong in this. Please let me be wrong. Because if I am right, I don’t know what I can do, how I can change things. Her knees gave as she reached her old easy chair, never noticed when Peterkin slipped onto her lap, just stroked him with a mechanical rhythm. Praying to the Lady? An atheistic eumedico praying? Well, if divine intervention would help, she’d ask for it.

  A door opened and closed down the hallway; she heard it but didn’t register its meaning at first. Trude, home. She walked to her door, the cat cradled in her arms, then opened it and set him on the threshold. Half in and half out, he balked, twisted his head back at her, and she gently closed the door, pushing it against his bottom until he moved all the way into the hall. Through the crack in the door she spoke, “Go Peterkin, tell Trude you’re home.”

  At first she knew that the boy in the dream was Claes, but then she began to doubt herself. The farther away he walked, the more the angles and planes of his body subtly changed and shifted, the hair lightened and lengthened, and when he unwillingly turned to trudge home, school gown billowing and tugging behind him in the breeze as if to pull him back the way he wanted to go, she could tell from the walk, it was Vesey.

  Vesey the way he had looked on returning from school each day, knowing he came closer and closer to home and to the stepmother, Doyce, whom he would have to face, make conversation with, say the proper words of appreciation to for the snack she’d prepared, though the thanks and the food daily lodged in his throat. He had absented himself in spirit practically all the time, and as much in body as was humanly possible, smoothly and silently sidling to the periphery of any family scene, always edging out of the picture, effacing his presence.

  With a start, she awoke, half-sat and awkwardly tugged the blanket around her shoulders. She had slept, she wasn’t sure how long and the wine had worn off. The memories alone would sober anyone. Why did her mind insist on reliving the past with such tenacity lately when the present remained to oppress her, more than enough to worry about? Still, when the memories struck her like this, nothing could exorcise them but the act of remembrance. She bent to stroke Khar at her feet. “Sleep soundly, little one, I’m going to stay awake for a while.” She stroked and stroked along the curve of the spine, across the silken striped side until Khar exhaled a rippling little snore. The poor ghatta hadn’t been sleeping well, either.

  Vesey. The memories overflowed, tumbled out in no particular order about her previous life, her previous roles, her deficiencies. But that child had always mystified her, almost unnerved her with his uncanny ways. She had wanted to love him so much, to make things up to him, still felt guilty about her lack of success.

  There had been a night when she had turned from the stove, Vesey at her elbow a moment before, only to find him gone, and she was unable to believe he’d vanished. Only much later, after she’d finished preparing the evening meal and had sat down to await Varon’s return from his carpentry shop, she had thrown her head back against the comforting support of the rocker and looked up. Vesey lay stretched along one of the broad ceiling beams, sound asleep, one long, tanned arm dangling free, the other pillowing his face. She hadn’t dared shout, or even speak his name, fearful that a sudden wakening might cause him to fall. Better to let Varon decide what was to be done or let the boy wake himself. But he had stirred, awakened, as if her very look had jarred his soul, and he had climbed down, yawning and stretching, walked by her without a word of acknowledgment, and gone to lift the lid on the casserole.

  Well, she’d been warned, she certainly had been, that she was getting a handful of a stepson when she married Varon Bell, but people always relished warning someone. Mrs. Jopling had been no exception. Every town, even Ruysdael, had someone like Mrs. Jopling.

  Doyce had settled in Ruysdael after leaving the eumedicos because it was at least partially familiar to her from her youth, near yet not too near her old home. She had visited her childhood home but once after leaving the eumedicos, aching for a place to hide, someone to console her. But her mother had kept the big loom in constant motion all through her visit, pausing only once, shuttle in hand, to say, “I was afeared it wouldn’t work out.” The hazel eyes, so like her own, were faded and bleak with regrets, whether for herself or for her daughters, one a cripple and one a failure, Doyce didn’t dare ask.

  The position in Ruysdael had seemed perfect when she’d heard they were in need of an apothecaire and a ledger, someone to inscribe the daily life of the town, its cautions and causes, its trade, its births and marriages and deaths. In short, a recorder, someone who could give permanent life to the town’s recent past and present, give it a needful, authorized reality, something to help decipher its future patterns from its past. Her training with plants and herbs, her knowledge of what combined with which to alleviate the chills and pains of a cold, or worse, were invaluable as well as an apothecaire. The resident eumedico might not care for having a banished member of his Ward in his town, but wouldn’t hesitate to recommend her skill and knowledge, for it would save him time and effort.

  She had been standing behind the counter at the apothecaire rolling pills the afternoon Mrs. Jopling had come stumping through the door, whacking it hard with her cane to make the brass bell leap in metallic fright, try to shake itself free. She winced, didn’t turn around, just concentrated on rolling the pills, but shouted out, “Good day, Mrs. Jopling.” Mrs. Jopling paraded into the shop the exact same way every afternoon, making the place resound like a snare drum as she thumped her cane in time to her unceasing flow of words. Yes, every town had someone like Mrs. Jopling, the town busybody and meddler. Except Ruysdael had managed the economical combination of two institutions in Mrs. Jopling: gossip and hypochondriac. “How are we today, Mrs. Jopling?” As if she really wanted to know! But she would in short order, no doubt of that. And she’d know about the failings, the slights and insults, of everyone in town, new sins and old sins alike.

  The cane rat-a-tatted the countertop, Mrs. Jopling’s personal call to arms. “You look at me, girly, you turn and look at me when you speak!”

  “No rudeness intended, Mrs. Jopling. Just let me get these pills uniformly shaped so I’ve measured the right dosage. Wouldn’t want someone over-
or under-medicated, now, would we?” She continued her methodical work under the circle of light cast by the green-shaded lamp, deliberation in every move. Yes, perfect, consistent size and dosage. She counted them under her breath, scooped the pills off the marble slab with the silver flat-edged spatula and funneled them into a container, coded the label.

  “Who they be for?” Mrs. Jopling wheedled.

  She started to answer without considering, “They’re for ...” and then stopped short. Merciful Lady, that was how Mrs. Jopling obtained some of her gossip! “They’re for stock. No call for them yet, just making sure I’ve advance supplies if needful. Saves wear and tear if it should become busy or someone needs them in a rush.” She set the container on a shelf, as high as she could away from prying bifocaled eyes, making sure the label didn’t face out. She turned at last. “Now what can I do for you? Arthritis acting up again?”

  Mrs. Jopling resembled a collection of dried fruit, wrinkled and leathery dried apricot ears, figgy cheeks, a datelike nose, and raisinette eyes, but nothing sweet or nourishing hid in that dried, shriveled preservation of a face. No candied cherry to the voice, either. “Of course the arthritis is acting up. Didn’t they teach you anything at the eumedicos?” She sniffed for emphasis. “No, of course not. Eumedico Fletcher stayed the course, unlike you, and I don’t think he learned anything either.” She leaned heavily on the counter, beckoned Doyce closer, closer, whispered at her behind her hand, “And I’m a bit costive today as well.”