by Andre Norton
Eirran's knees trembled a little and she realized that somewhere within her, she had feared he might find a way to force her to stay behind after all. “You forget we have Dorny. Give me a few minutes to get ready.”
He looked away. “I am wasting time, waiting on you.”
“An hour either way won't matter. You've just come back from a week up in the mountains. Surely there are a few things you must do before starting out again.”
“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “An hour, then.”
Eirran had long since packed her bedroll and what food remained to them, had laid out the shirt and trousers for the road, and the cloak to wear over them. She hastily washed the dirt off herself and changed clothes. Then she picked up Pounce and hurried next door.
“Will you look after him?” she asked Aidine. “We're going after Jenys and I don't know how long we'll be gone—”
“Of course,” Aidine said. She took the cat and he snuggled into her arms. “I'll get Hefin to finish planting your garden and I'll look after it until you get back. Don't worry about anything. Be careful. The roads aren't very safe these days.”
“I know, I know. But we'll be back.”
“Luck, then.”
“Thanks. I have a feeling we'll need it.”
She ran back to the little stable. Yareth had already fed Rangin and given him a hasty grooming. Newbold waited, perched on a rafter, and Yareth whistled. At the signal the falcon flew to the saddle fork just as Yareth mounted.
“Wait—” Eirran said.
“You'll have to hurry if you want to go with me.” He nudged Rangin and the Torgian trotted out of the stable. Once he would have danced out, tossing his head and nickering, as if to show that the prospect of a hard journey on the heels of a long hunting trip was nothing to him. But the years were beginning to show on the horse, as they were on Newbold. The falcon kept to his perch more these days rather than winging skyward at every opportunity.
Hurriedly, Eirran secured her carry-sack over her shoulder. She slipped a bridle on Dorny and scrambled onto his back, wishing they owned a second saddle. By the time she maneuvered the gentle, splay-footed old gelding out into the lane, Yareth was well ahead of her and she knew she would be looking at his back most of the way to Es City.
Two
I
Jenys had had a busy day. She had gotten up at dawn when Mama did, and the two of them had worked in the garden most of the morning, getting the ground ready for spring planting.
“Every year there are more weeds,” Mama said. “And nastier ones.” She tugged at a big, ugly growth that Jenys had tried to pull but couldn't so much as budge. Finally, with the two of them working at it, it came loose. Jenys was almost certain she heard it growl and snarl as they pulled it from the ground. Mama threw it onto the pile to be burned later. “We're going to expand the garden this year, and take in that section over there.” She pointed toward a spot where a dead tree-stump stuck jagged edges above the ground.
“But Mama,” Jenys said, “Papa said not to touch that until he came home to help.”
“Oh, you were listening to us, were you? Well, I'm not going to wait for Papa, what do you think of that? I think I know how to do it myself. We've got to harness Dorny anyway for the plowing. I'll dig around the stump and get it loosened. Then we can hitch him to the ugly thing and let him pull it out. Papa can chop it up later for firewood.”
“That sounds like a very good plan,” Jenys said seriously.
Mama laughed. “You are my little old woman,” she said, as she frequently did. “You're six going on forty if you're a day.” Jenys had never quite understood why Mama said that or why she thought she was a little old woman. She knew how old she was. Six, going on seven. And she only said what was sensible, after all.
They pulled weeds until the sun reached its zenith. Then they went inside to rest a while and eat a little cheese and bread. Mama made very good cheese; she traded her Wise Woman services for extra milk now and then, and Jenys enjoyed helping her with the straining-cloths and the press. And she loved taking the leftover whey out to Dorny and Rangin. They made such funny, snuffling noises as they drank it. Mama said it was good for them. And they did seem to like it very much, almost as much as the lumps of barley-sugar Mama sometimes took them, as a treat.
After lunch, Mama harnessed Dorny and started to plow. The soil was still muddy and wet from winter and Dorny's hooves made heavy, sucking noises as he plodded along the furrow. But the freshly-turned earth looked very black and rich and Jenys liked the smell of it.
“Do the herb garden next, Mama,” she said, “and I'll plant it for you.”
Mama smiled at her. “All right. Dorny needs a rest,” she said. “Get the shovel for me.” At the end of the furrow, she looped the reins over the plow handle. The gelding dropped his head with a grateful sigh and began to nibble at some early grass.
Jenys ran into the stable and returned at once with the shovel. She and Mama had three gardens, one for flowers at the front of their cottage and the ones for food and for herbs at the back. The herb garden was the smallest. But Mama didn't need a large one, not when she had Jenys to plant it for her. Ever since Jenys had been a little girl, she had been able to make Mama's herbs grow large and strong and healthy. She had no idea how she did it; she simply sang to the seeds as she put them in the soil, the way that seemed perfectly natural to her, and the herbs did the rest. Without anything being said between them, she and Mama kept this part of the gardening their own secret. Somehow, they both sensed that Papa wouldn't have approved.
Papa wouldn't have approved when Erman, from the other side of the village, came asking for Mama early that afternoon, either. Jenys didn't need any special knowledge to realize that. She didn't like Erman. He always smelled funny.
“Please,” the boy said, “it's Mama. She's bad.”
But Mama didn't even hesitate, regardless of what Papa would have said, and regardless of how bad Erman smelled. She just brushed herself off and unharnessed Dorny. She went inside the cottage and washed her face and hands. “I'll be back as soon as I can,” she told Jenys.
“I know,” Jenys said. “I'll have supper waiting for you when you come home.”
Mama smiled. “Yes, definitely six going on forty,” she said, and pinched Jenys's cheek affectionately. Then she picked up her carry-sack of medicines and left with Erman.
Without needing to be told, Jenys knew that Rofan had been beating Belda again. He always waited until Papa was gone and this was the third time Erman had come for Mama since Papa had left for the first big springtime hunt. Maybe Papa would beat Rofan again, the way he had done once before. It had been all the village talked about, behind closed doors, for weeks and Jenys had found it very exciting. Papa didn't approve of Rofan, and Jenys knew he would be very cross when he found out that he had been mistreating Belda again in his absence. The only thing she didn't like was the way Mama and Papa would be cross with each other for a while.
Still, she didn't mind being left in charge of the cottage and the garden. She felt very grown-up indeed as she finished singing Mama's herbs into the ground. Then she turned to the rest of the garden. Though it was only partly plowed, she could do the bean and turnip seeds, and maybe the carrots. She had never sung over vegetables before; it would be fun to see if they needed a different song from the herbs.
Interestingly, Jenys discovered that they did, a little, and each vegetable had slightly different requirements from the others. She grew absorbed in her task; before she realized it, she had finished one entire row and was ready to start on another. She wished she had been planting honeyberries instead of dull old vegetables. But Mama always said vegetables were better for her. They could always dry the surplus and put it away for later. Honeyberries were good only during their short season. What was worse, they didn't even make good jam. Mama had tried making jam often enough, but the results were always disappointing. Papa always laughed and said she just didn't have the knack for
jam-making but Jenys refused to believe it. Her Mama could do anything.
She finished the carrots. Then she found the flat stakes Mama used as markers and, as she hadn't yet learned to write anything but her name, she drew a picture of a bean, a turnip, and a carrot on three of the stakes and pushed them into the ground at the end of the furrows.
“There, now, that's that,” she said aloud. Imitating her mother's actions, the child brushed the dirt off her hands and clothing. Then she went inside and washed herself clean.
She looked in the larder and took down the sacks of dried vegetables. They would make a good stew if she seasoned it with enough wild garlic, and there was a patch of it growing out near the old tree-stump. She took three handfuls of different vegetables—Mama measured one handful for each of them but Jenys had to use three because her hands were so small—and set them soaking in fresh water while she went out to gather the garlic. She also picked an early crocus from the front garden. By the time she returned the vegetables were softened enough that she could chop them into smaller pieces. But first she found a cup to fill with water and put the crocus in. That done, she started on the dinner, humming to herself while she worked. A little meat would make the stew taste very good, but she knew better than to use the last of their dried venison. Not until Papa came home, even though Jenys knew the hunt would be a success. Her Papa was simply the most wonderful man in the world, and by far the greatest hunter who ever lived.
She put the vegetables into the pot, added more water, and set it over the fire, moving a sleepy Pounce so his fur and whiskers wouldn't get singed. He scarcely blinked when she moved him, the lazy old thing. Later, she knew, he would wake up and go sit on the stoop waiting for Mama, the way he always did when she was gone during the day. Then Jenys set out the wooden bowls and the spoons Papa had carved, and put the crocus on the table. She always liked to make the table look as pretty as possible.
Outside, Jenys heard the sound of horses’ hooves and mien's voices. She flew to the door and flung it open, heart thumping, sure that Papa had come home early. But a lady dressed all in gray stood at the threshold, her hand upraised, as if about to knock. Jenys and the lady just stood there staring at each other, and it was hard to tell which one of them was more surprised.
“You!” Jenys said.
“Yes,” the gray-clad lady said. “You've been expecting me.”
“I have?” Jenys said, blinking in surprise. She thought about it. There was something so very familiar about the lady, though she was certain she had never seen her or anyone like her before. But there had been that time a few weeks ago when she had wakened from a sound sleep, thinking her Mama had been speaking her name, only Mama had been asleep also. “I thought I heard something, once—”
“It was the Call. And now I've come. These other children with me, they heard the Call as well.”
Now Jenys looked past her and saw the other people with the lady. There were five little girls, about her own age. Some stood and stared at her boldly. Others hid behind the lady's skirts and peeped out at her, giggling. One of them had her thumb in her mouth and Jenys couldn't help thinking that she had given that up long ago. All of the little girls looked very much like the lady. Startled, Jenys realized they also looked like herself—sharp-featured, with great gray eyes dominating triangular little cat-faces. There was a kind of rightness about them, an air of self-possession, that was somehow not quite right at all, considering what very little girls they were, and suddenly Jenys understood what Mama said about her being six going on forty.
Waiting out in the lane, keeping themselves a little apart, were five men on horseback. They wore chain mail and tall helmets with chain scarfs at the throat. One of the men had a falcon, just like Papa's. Though there were only five little girls, there were six ponies idly nuzzling at the new grass.
Jenys looked back at the lady. She stroked a milky gray oval gem that hung from a silver chain around her neck. With a pang that brought a sharp taste into her mouth Jenys realized that she wanted one just like it, more than anything else in the entire world.
“We're ready to go now,” the lady said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Come along.”
“Yes, lady,” Jenys said. She thought it would be unmannerly to close the door in the lady's face, so she left it open while she took her small russet cloak from the peg and put it on. She wanted to say goodbye to Pounce, but he had disappeared. She tied the strings at the throat just as Mama had taught her, and went outside. Then, carefully, she closed the door behind her.
The lady laughed. “How neat and tidy you are!” she exclaimed. “Like a little mouse.”
Jenys couldn't keep from giggling. The very thought of a mouse with Pounce and Newbold ready to grab it if it stuck its head out of the corner made her forget all her manners.
“What is it?” the lady asked. “What's funny?” When Jenys told her, she laughed as well. “Nevertheless, that's what we'll call you from now on,” she said. “Mouse. Do you like that?”
“Oh, yes, lady, I do, very much!” Jenys—Mouse—stared at the lady in open admiration. “Where are we going, if you please?”
“We are going where you and others like you can go to a special kind of school.”
Mouse's brow wrinkled. “School?” she said doubtfully.
The lady laughed again. “Oh, it's that and more than that. It's where you are meant to be.” She turned to the other little girls. “Come, children. Bring Mouse's pony. She doesn't know which one is hers. Can you climb on it by yourself?”
“Yes, thank you, lady,” Mouse said. She had watched Papa mount Rangin many, many times, so she knew exactly how it was done. She was far too small to reach Rangin's stirrups and Papa had to lift her up when she rode in front of him. But the pony was just the right size for her and she scrambled into her saddle unaided.
Then without another thought, she and the lady, the other little girls and the five armed men rode out of Blagden, leaving everything and everyone behind.
II
The lady's name, Mouse quickly learned, was Bee. They took the road north, riding behind Bee two by two, trotting along at her horse's heels as if they had been doing so all their lives. The Guardsmen rode before and behind; Rhinfar, their leader, accompanied the lady, and the other four brought up the rear. Rhinfar carried a furled banner at his side.
The road they traveled was the one, Mouse learned, that would bring them to Lormt if they stayed on it and didn't turn west at the Great Fork. She had heard about Lormt before. Sometimes Mama talked about going there to study but she never had found the time. Lormt sounded like a very interesting place, with its scholars and scrolls and learning. Even the stones in the walls must be simply full of knowledge. And especially now, since two of the four towers had fallen, uncovering much new material the scholars could spend lifetimes cataloguing. Mouse and the other girls looked forward to seeing it. But Bee seemed completely indifferent to Lormt; she ignored any and all mention of the place. She chose to avoid it and the Great Fork as well by cutting across country to pick up the main road, and the men followed without comment.
The main road was a very good highway, excellently maintained. It was hard-packed and bordered on both sides with a wall, low enough for Mouse to step over, of gray-green stone the color of the river they traveled along. Mouse had never seen stones this wonderful color in all her life. Around Blagden the stones were red-brown and the ground itself had a reddish cast to it except when it was freshly-plowed or wet. Then it was a dark brown, almost black.
Mouse thought surely everyone would laugh at her, the way she couldn't stop looking this way and that as they rode. She had never been this far beyond the edges of Blagden in all her life, and the world outside was at once strange, exciting, and a little scary. But she soon discovered that the other girls were staring just the same way she was, except for Star who was the most self-possessed of them all. As they rode, the girls talked and Star seemed to have been everywhere and se
en everything. It was Star who told them most often where they were and what they could expect around the next turn in the highway, or over the next rise.
Mouse's first impression had been correct. They all looked very much alike indeed. Every one of them, even Bee, was slight of build. Besides the triangular little cat-faces, they all had dark hair and eyes, and pale skin. They might have been six cousins out traveling with their aunt. They all had new names now. Mouse never knew what they had been called before, and she found she did not particularly care. Nor did it seem possible to her that she had ever been anybody but Mouse. For the first time in her life she had friends, real friends, who were enough like her to understand the vague sense of otherness that had been with Mouse all her life. All of them had, she discovered, felt the same way while they were growing up. They were very much at home in each other's company and they realized that, before they had met, they had all been very lonely in a way only they could comprehend. Now, it was as if each had suddenly discovered five new sisters. Mouse's companions were Bird, and Flame, and Star, and Cricket, and Lisper who couldn't pronounce the letter “s” very well. She was the one who sucked her thumb when she felt unsure of herself. She called Mouse “Mouth,” which made everyone break into uncontrollable fits of the giggles. Before long, Mouse began to discover why the lady had decided to call them as she had.
Bird was bright and inquisitive, cocking her head to listen and then flying off in a different direction altogether the moment another thought struck her. Flame fairly glowed with the fires within, and whenever she spoke, she spoke with great conviction and earnestness. Cricket was unquenchably cheerful, while Star was probably the most knowledgeable person—besides her Mama and Papa, of course—that Mouse had ever met. And as for Lisper, well, her nickname was obvious.
Bee, Mouse learned, had started out from Es Castle and made an enormous circle through Estcarp, heading south and working her way eastward and then north again until she finished her questing at Blagden, and all six little girls were safely in her care.
