by Gayle Greeno
She wheeled around, paused, held a hand over her eyes to block the sun. How far did she dare run from “home,” leaving it undefended? Or had everyone scattered so far that she had no hope of tagging them? A shadow moved, wavered in a direction counter to the breeze, and she darted toward it, dashing helter-skelter, hoping to flush as many from their hiding spots as she could. Faces flashed and spun by, faces she knew, faces she could barely place, so long ago and far away.
“Tag!” she sang out, and tapped the shoulder of an elderly woman with a face that looked made of wrinkled, dried fruits. But she wasted no time in remembering the name, whirled back toward the tree and tagged another, a man, this time, hitting him so hard he stumbled and fell. He skidded on one knee, threw her a reproachful look as he panted. “Sorry, Rolf!” But she didn’t have time to be sorry for any of them if she wanted to protect “home.”
It seemed to last all afternoon, countless figures fleeing and shrieking with laughter as they dodged her, her breath ragged in her throat, an overpowering thirst gripping her. How many more still out there? She risked a quick look at the tree, a milling cluster of people on the right side, those she’d tagged; perhaps five or six to the left, those who had journeyed home free. Limping back, pressing her fist hard against the stitch in her side, she saw Varon standing to the left, holding Briony, smiling and pointing in her direction.
And somehow she knew that she had at least one more person to find. “Varon,” she shouted. “Know you’re not supposed to tell, but is Vesey still out there?” Mayhap he was on the right side, hiding from her as usual, but she couldn’t remember having tagged him.
Varon put his finger to his lips, made the universal hushing sound, then, eyes dancing, made the smallest gesture behind him. She was off and running, holding her side, squinting into the setting sun, scarcely able to see. Her breath whistled through her nose and she couldn’t stop the little “uphing” sounds that pushed out of her lungs. He’d hear her coming, have to, or smell the sweat of exertion on her while he stayed cool and still in some secret place.
She quartered the meadow, grass trampled flat from running feet, quartered it again, moving as far as where the woods began, and retraced her path halfway back to the tree, pretending indifference. After all, he deserved to make it “home,” but he should have to run to earn it. She whirled, quick and sharp, hoping to have lured him out behind her. Nothing, absolutely nothing, as she shaded her eyes again to peer toward the woods. But something, definitely something glinted a short way off. She lost the glint as she moved forward, had to track back and forth to find it again, then snatched downward at the matted grasses. Vesey’s Lady’s Medal! The thin chain had broken while he ran.
She waved it trophylike in the air. That should lure him out! “Finders-Keepers! Losers-Weepers!” she sang out, breathless with triumph. “Come on! You want it back, race me home!” And without looking, she turned and ran toward home base, the great overshadowing maple filling her vision, mahogany red leaves touched with deep green, its roots sinking deep into the earth, limbs soaring toward the sky and beyond ... past and present united, welcoming shade and rest with those she loved beside her.
Khar waited, waited to see if the time had come to draw her net tight, not sure of what lay within it, but sure that she had trapped something of interest. Now to understand it, the seeming and the not-seeming, the truth and the not-truth.
The shaking went on, inexorable, irritating, as she struggled to revert to the dream. The air stung cold, smarting as a slap, and she pulled at the blankets, straining to settle them tightly around her. She couldn’t find them, and the shock of the night air on her body made her gasp and roll over, hands scrabhling as she chased the comforting scratchy wool.
A hand rested on her shoulder, twitching her to and fro. She grabbed at the wrist, pinned it in place. “Tag! I’ve got you now, Vesey!” she shouted as her eyes shot open, realized she clutched Jenret’s gloved hand. Her fingers uncurled one by one, unwilling to admit her mistake. “Wha ... ? Oh, Lady ... not Vesey—you. His laugh so near I swore ...”
She dragged herself into a sitting position, doubled over for warmth, then rubbed the crook of her arm against her eyes, ran her fingers through her hair as a rough comb. Anything not to have to look at him, at the perplexed expression on his face, the way he cradled his wrist where she had grabbed him. With a low groan she stood and jumped in place to set the blood flowing, her feet stiff and clumsy in her boots. “All right. I’m awake. I’m on duty.”
The fire looked freshly tended, and Jenret thrust a metal mug of cha into her hands. She flinched at the sudden contact and nearly dropped it as the metal sides throbbed with heat, her hands throbbing in unison. “Ow! No gloves!” she protested. “Take it back for a moment, quick!”
He grasped the cup one-handed. “Vesey? Who’s Vesey?” Dark smudges circled his eyes, his face gaunt and strained under the dark wool-knit cap he’d pulled down over his hair. How he had managed to cold-water shave every other day she couldn’t imagine.
“No one, no one important,” she evaded, but the untruth was something he didn’t deserve. “No one ... that you know,” she managed, “just someone from long ago, another life, another world.” He stood still, holding the mug, sympathetic but wordless, as if certain what she said was only a partial answer and he would bide his time until she found the words.
“Just give me a moment and you can turn in.” She felt guilty making him wait as she swung up one of the waterskins, pulled the plug and squirted a stream of water on her handkerchief. She scrubbed her face with it, shivering as errant trickles ran off her cheeks and coursed down her neck, startling the words from her. “Vesey was my stepson, Varon’s son from his first marriage. I guess it’s not surprising that I dreamt of him after our conversation this evening. He was ... he was a....” The word wouldn’t come, it strangled her. “He was only a child, but he was a.... And I couldn’t stop him, couldn’t save him, couldn’t save anyone ...”
“Gleaner.” Jenret finished the sentence for her.
She wound the wet cloth around her hand, unwound it, glad of something to do, something to see other than the compassion she glimpsed on his face, shaded with concern. “I can’t always control the nightmares from those days. Why can’t I dream about Oriel? Why is it always about Varon and Briony and Vesey? Why, can you answer me that?”
She didn’t want an answer, didn’t expect one, grateful at least for his unvoiced compassion, but he surprised her by speaking. “Because to deny them or try to hide them would be a lie, a lie about something that made us who and what we are. But not the whole part, not by a long shot. Remember that when you remember your dreams.”
Her smile wavered, she could feel it flickering, but it was sincere nonetheless. Lady help them both, but she was robbing him of sleep by keeping him up like this. “Quiet tonight? How’s Mahafny doing?”
“Quiet. I’d say she’s doing well enough. Resting, not restless, and I think the fever’s easing.” He handed back the mug when she rewrapped the wet cloth around her hand. “Peaceful without as well. No fuss, or nothing that the ghatti have reported. I’m going to turn in. Sorry to leave you with the worst part of the watch.”
“You’ve had that. Smack in the middle.”
He gave a quick head toss, as if ready to argue, but it turned into a confidence. “Perhaps. I always hate that final stretch before the sun rises. As if I’m afraid that someday it won’t, or something absurd like that. Just like you I start thinking about all the things that are done and gone and will never rise again.”
“Then don’t. I’ll promise to let them go if you will as well,” she whispered. “Go to sleep now. I’ll be on watch.”
“I know.” With a sinuous grace he whipped the knit cap off his head and tugged it over hers, then pulled up her collar to meet it. “Stay warm.”
“I will,” she reassured, knowing that they both knew he meant, “Stay safe.”
She marched along the outer boundaries of
the firelight, always looking outward, amazed anew at the varied shades and densities of blackness, the subtleties and variations one learned to gauge rather than seeing a uniform pitch dark. Too easy, too seductive, and too dangerous to sit in huddled converse with the fire. Then one’s eyes adjusted to the light and not the dark, and the dark, the beyond, was what needed watching. A good rule to learn early and abide by. The cha warmed her hands and stomach, and she no longer felt sluggish.
“Three glider squirrels, one fox, one deer. Two owls, one hawk. Saam and I are coming in. Rawn and Parm will be out on guard. That’s probably all the movement you’ll see. But I doubt that.” The last sentence sounded distinctly smug.
“Well, I saw you before you ’spoke me.”
“You were supposed to, silly.”
“It’s not that difficult unless you smear dirt on that white muzzle and chest of yours. Not to mention your precious feet. Ever thought of advancing backward?”
“Hmmph!” The ghatt slid up beside her, appearing out of the patchy ground fog and darkness like a conjuring.
“Stay up for a moment, will you? I want to check on Mahafny.”
Sliding her knife out of her boot top, she tiptoed to the sleeping figure, one leg elevated on her saddle. Easing the blanket back, Doyce crouched and examined the bare leg and foot. Hard to tell in this light, but she judged the swelling had receded, and the color looked more normal, the purplish-rose flush leaching away. With delicate balance she scraped the point of her blade along the sole of Mahafny’s foot and saw with relief the curl of toes at the sensation. Good, the numbness had gone, or nearly so. Retucking the blanket, Doyce rose and began to walk the bounds she’d set for herself.
“Thank you, little one, you can go to sleep now.”
“No, I’ll stay up with you. Mayhap doze a little. I have thinking to do.”
She cast along the demarcation of light and dark, nerves twitching; someone unaccounted for. “What’s Saam up to? Where is he?” She hadn’t noticed if the big gray ghatt had come off-duty or not. She almost decided to risk a sidelong glance toward the fire, but controlled herself to wait for Khar’s response.
“Over by the fire, taking a bath.”
So, she had felt something but hadn’t realized it. “Did he find anything?”
“Yes and no. They’re all around, so dose it seems as if we could touch them. The scent pervades everything. They’ve crossed over and over their tracks so that you can’t tell the old from the new or which leads where. Worse than a yarn tangle. And that other ghatt keeps leaving markers for us on the trees. You should see Saam’s and Rawn’s hackles rise then.”
“Maybe he’s trying too hard to pick up the trail.” She paused, then forced the words out. “Khar, does he think about Oriel much?”
The ghatta delayed, licked a paw with meditative slowness, spread it wide to nip at a space between toe and paw pad. “Thorn. Yes.” A longer wait for the next words. “As much as I think about you, about us.”
Overcome, Doyce squinted through dark stillness where trees blended into night, and night into rock, and the ground fog draped itself over all like an airy silken shawl. Always the darkest, heaviest part of the night when hope and life so often slipped away, forgetting the eternal promise of the newly refreshed sun.
And in that period of dark and loneliness was time to think, perhaps too much time to think. Of Oriel. Of Varon and Briony and Vesey. And of all the others left behind or lost. Jenret had the right of it; this was the worst time to think about all the old things and loved ones done and gone, never to rise again. And of what she would do when she met those Gleaners face to face. Ah, they’d cost her dearly through the years, a price too high to assess. Too much time to think things through and still to find no answer renewing itself like the sun. She slipped her hand into her pocket to fondle the misshapen piece of silver that had been Vesey’s medallion, but her fingers drew no comfort from it. It felt curiously cold and dead, unwarmed by her flesh, as if it had withdrawn into itself. Nor did it warm for as long as she held it in her clenched fist during the rest of the night.
PART FIVE
Dusted, straightened, and tidied, with fresh candles burning and oil lamps polished and filled, wicks trimmed to avoid smoking, the Hall of Records at last looked as clean and organized as it had before Sarrett and Parcellus had begun their research. A thorough dusting, sweeping, and airing had also helped control, if not conquer. Parse’s allergies.
The one disorder came from the gaping holes on the shelves where leather volumes had been removed to the Tribune Meeting Room, awaiting the Tribune’s perusal. At least twenty massive volumes, including several locked records, had been carried there by Sarrett and Parcellus, their pages marked with annotated slips of colored paper fluttering like miniature flags. Nothing for it now but to wait.
Sarrett stalked back and forth, mindlessly whistling a single shrill note; her Bondmate T’ss appeared edgy as well, back rippling, tail tip flicking. Having salvaged a puzzle-toy from his waist pouch, Parcellus fingered it this way and that—he’d found the solution early that afternoon but couldn’t find it again for the life of him. The single shrill note cheese-grated at his nerves and he skimmed the puzzle across the table, blew his nose, more out of habit than need at this point. His back to her, he missed Sarrett’s wince at the sound.
They had turned over their findings to the Seeker General and the Tribune early that morning; late evening now approached, and their nerves felt frayed and raw. Twice they had been summoned to explain some fine points and details in their findings, to rebut an argument, and it was clear that no agreement would be reached easily—or soon. Swan Maclough and Rolf stood ready to act, but Andwers Rendell and Dovina Marskyll, the other two Tribune members, were cautious, conservative, and concerned, but shortsighted to the potential disaster ready to overtake not just Seekers but the whole of Canderis if the Gleaners gained a foothold. They argued deadlocked, the solution as achingly distant as the answer to Parse’s puzzle-toy.
“Heels cooled sufficiently?” Parse inquired of his pacing friend. Per’la’s teeth showed in a huge yawn as she rolled over on her back, exposing her stomach for a tickle.
Pulling up short, Sarrett shot him an indignant glance, then managed a rueful smile at her frustration and pent-up energy. “Mayhap walking cools down horses, but it isn’t working for me. I just keep getting madder and madder. When are they going to reach a decision?” With a toss of her hands, she began walking again, tracing a finger along the spines of the books she passed. The muted sound made Parse think of a stick dragged against a picket fence, a child’s reproach to boredom.
“When isn’t as important as what decision is reached.” Per’la wriggled and stretched as Parse tracked an exploring finger down her cream-colored belly, then grabbed without warning with all four paws as he tickled too hard. He yelped and she tossed his hand away, continued as if she’d never been interrupted. “Andwers and Dovina are hidebound in their ways, but not nearly as hidebound as Rull and Nef’t. Two such stubbornly correct ghatti I’ve never met in all my born days.”
“Not that you aren’t stubborn?” T’ss chimed in. “Just sweeter about it, eh? Still, you’re right—let them argue another day and a night as long as they reach the right decision. Let’s just hope it doesn’t take that long.” He rested his chin along outstretched forelegs, gave a gloomy exhalation.
“But how much longer can Doyce and Jenret go without help? They have no idea what they’re facing, what we’ve discovered! They’re in more danger than they ever thought!” Despite himself, Parcellus rose and began to pace, almost bumping into Sarrett with his random, hurried movements. He mumbled an inarticulate apology, face flushed from the near-contact, though Sarrett paid him no heed. “I don’t think Rolf can stand it much longer either. He looked so gray and worn when he came to call us the last time. It’s preying on him; he’s a doer, not a speaker.”
Sarrett stopped short and Parcellus did bump into her, treading on her heels
. Panicked, he threw himself backward as she whirled. “Well, then, why can’t we be doers?”
“Do what?” He mopped at his face, trying to erase the worry creases.
“Ask the ghatti, my friend, see if they agree with me.” Quick and decisive, Sarrett began to bundle odd scraps of paper, flipped through a stack of notes for the map sketch that Parse had made several days earlier. Mouth ajar, Parse jiggled back and forth from one foot to the other.
The two ghatti craned their heads, inscrutably staring into space. T‘ss butted shoulders with Per’la, and she purred back. Parse essayed a complete circle around them, did another, waiting for enlightenment. Per‘la nonchalantly licked behind T’ss’s ear, and he closed his eyes in appreciation.
Parse halted, hands on hips, foot-tapping with impatience. “Well, lovely ghatti, what? I ask you, what am I supposed to ask you?” He cast a scowl in Sarrett’s direction, but she affected not to notice so he concentrated again on the ghatti. “What?”
“Be a doer,” Per‘la said and T’ss finished, “Not a speaker.” And both ghatti bounded toward the door without a backward look, tails high and crooked, heads tilted expectantly. “Be a Seeker!”
