The Twisting

by Laurel Wanrow

  A minute later they had one of the eight-legged machines out and traveling its fastest pace. “You see any?” Rivley called.

  He pointed. “Send it there. About twenty feet down.”

  Rivley turned the spider. The machine walked excruciatingly slowly toward the animal chewing at the base of a stalk. Fifteen feet, ten, then five. The gobbler didn’t even flinch. The spider passed it and kept going. The plant fell. The animal moved to the next.

  Daeryn yanked his arm and started trotting. “Send it by again, closer this time. Right over the damned pest.” He changed to guard Rivley while they ran an arc around the animal and re-aimed the machine. Eight feet, five. Surely the thing would spook. But no. The spider’s wide-legged stance straddled the row of potatoes and walked right over the gnawing animal.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Daeryn dropped to all fours, bounded forward and grabbed the gobbler as it turned tail.

  Rivley retrieved the machine and guided it back to the shed. Daeryn joined him, wiping his mouth on his forearm. “What next? Can you change this machine to harvest them?”

  “No, it’s too delicate to…to…that’s it!” He slapped his head, this time catching the goggles. “Why didn’t we think of it? The All-Sorts Harvester.” He righted his Luci-viewer.

  “It picks squash.” Daeryn glanced behind them and pulled Riv into a trot. “And cabbage, correct? I remember hearing they do something special to change it for different crops.”

  “It will harvest anything—” Rivley fairly shrieked. “Anything we put under its eyes.”

  “The machine’s got eyes?”

  “A type of them. The All-Sorts Harvester is the most sophisticated machine Master Brightwell has invented. His best.” They’d reached the edge of the field. Rivley whipped off the goggles and thrust them at Daeryn. “Can you grab me a couple of those dead beasts and bring them to the shop? I’ll need ones in good shape to reset the optics.”

  “Is that the only part you have to fix?”

  “The pincers. They’ll need a faster close on a moving target.” He nearly tripped in his excitement. “But will the spring hold a squirming animal?” Rivley ran off, so focused on his ideas that he forgot to say good-bye.

  Daeryn watched him for a moment. These machinery adjustments would take time. Time they didn’t have.

  chapter NINE

  Daeryn stumbled out of the changing hut the next morning and bumped into Jac.

  “Sorry,” both muttered, though Daeryn suspected Jac didn’t care who was at fault any more than he did. After a night of scores of pests and the constant click of Terrent’s trigger, he was tired and ready for bed. But he would say hello to Annmar.

  With the Luci-viewers and the eight stunners Master Brightwell and Rivley had built, their teams of ’cambires and two hardy growers had killed an average of two hundred pests each. The patrolling growers had gone in hours ago, but another shift came on before dawn. As the live vermin slunk off, the growers used Luci-viewers so they could see to collect the dead bodies. He’d passed a heaped cart while heading in.

  He followed the rest of the ’cambires into the main house and slumped into a chair one of the Pemberton girls pointed to. The spot was already set with a plate of food. He ate, gave Miz Gere his report and shook his head when one of Mary Clare’s sisters offered him seconds. He trudged down the back hall. The sickroom door was closed, but the library door stood ajar, causing him to hesitate. Were those voices inside? Nobody could possibly be sleeping with everyone tromping through the hall. He knocked.

  “Enter,” called a female voice.

  The redheaded woman, rising with her knitting from a wing chair, looked vaguely familiar.

  “Hello. I’m Mrs. Pemberton, Mary Beth and Mary Clare’s mother. I’m spelling Miriam so she can rest. Can I help you?”

  Right, red hair. “No. I mean, I’m not hurt.” He looked at the screened cots. His nose, tired as it was, told him Annmar was here. He dropped his voice to whisper, “I’m just here to say hello, but if Annmar is sleeping—”

  “I’m not.” Her stockinged feet swung off a cot, and a second later she peered around the screen. “Come in, Daeryn.”

  His heart leaped to catch in his throat, like it had every morning he’d seen her tousled curls on her sickbed pillow. Today, she wore her new bib-and-brace atop the yellow flannel shirt, the farm clothes she’d bought since arriving. Did wearing them mean she was thinking about staying?

  “Ah, so you’re Daeryn.” Mrs. Pemberton smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He shot a quick look to Annmar, and the woman laughed. “From my daughters. Why don’t I leave the two of you to talk while I get us breakfast?” She lifted a questioning brow to Annmar.

  “Breakfast would be nice,” she said demurely, her face as unreadable as a porcelain doll he’d once seen in a shop window.

  Mrs. Pemberton closed the door behind her, and Daeryn backed against it. If he stayed all the way across the room, he couldn’t touch her. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, so he lifted his fingers in a lame wave.

  Annmar smoothed her trousers with a jerky motion of one hand. “Oh, Daeryn, I’m so glad you’re not hurt. Miriam had so many scratched-up workers coming to the sickroom, I barely slept, even in here.” Her gaze ran over him and when he stood there stupidly not saying anything, a frown formed. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “No, no bites. I moved the entire night.” Should she be standing? He stepped from the door. He could just help her to the wing chair where her sketchbook lay on top of a folded blanket. He could manage that at least. Her scent wafted to fill his nostrils. His skin tingled that way it did before he changed. Creator help him, he could hardly think. He stopped in the middle of the room.

  “Good thing.” She took a step forward and drew a deep breath. “The ankle bites were terrible toward morning.”

  “Were they?” He couldn’t tell if she was intentionally sniffing him or just inhaling nervously. “Makes sense. When people get tired, they make mistakes.”

  “The shooters said the animals snuck up on them and attacked.” She pulled in another long breath and sighed.

  She was scenting him. He turned his head to rub his ear against his shoulder and sniffed. Damn, he smelled musky. He backed up. “Um, you must be tired.” He tensed his traitorous body, stopping the shift before he ended up scenting the entire room.

  “Miriam only came for me once, and she insisted I nap this morning.”

  Daeryn nodded. How could he ask what her plans beyond today were? He couldn’t. But he could tell her his suspicions about the hedge-rider. “So, I hope you don’t take this wrong, but during the time I spent in your room, I noticed you have a new doodem. It came from the old lady at Market Day, correct?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “Do you know Old Terry?”

  His hands clenched. It might be his undoing, but he couldn’t be less than honest. “No. I saw her give it to you. I was…sneaking about that day.”

  There, he’d said it. Her eyes widened a bit, but Annmar just nodded for him to continue. “I’d hoped to have a word with you about my healing and be able to reveal to Miz Gere that I could work, so I followed you. Then Paet didn’t seem inclined to leave you alone, so…” He waved a hand. “That lady is a…hedge-rider.” Although he suspected the woman had worked her Knack on Annmar, he couldn’t outright accuse Old Terry of being a Basin witch. “They mostly keep to themselves, just mixing with the rest of us enough to make their livings. I found it unusual she gave you a doodem. They tend to be rather tight-fisted. I think she had a reason to make the gift, like to encourage you to see her again.”

  Annmar looked at him uncertainly for a moment, then stepped to the wing chair and picked up her sketchbook. “I’m sure you’re right. My drawing doesn’t do justice to that underground tunnel she took me to, but between it and Old Terry’s mention of my parents, I do want to talk to her again.”

  Just as he’d feared. She thumbed through, found the sketch she wa
nted and scooted beside him to show the page.

  Daeryn closed his eyes. He hadn’t thought she’d ever let him look at her sketchbook again. Or stand within a hair’s breadth of her. He wrestled his body from those thoughts and studied the drawing. Rough walls arched over a surprisingly clear pathway twisting into the distance. Closer, roots and a couple of insects skittered over the dirt sides, but stones dotted the majority of the surface. Annmar had drawn radiating lines from each one, so varied and delicate that his mind instantly converted the lines to sparkles.

  He turned his face to hers. “You’re too humble. I run burrows. Fox, badger, hare. Lots of underground tunnels. Your sketch captures them perfectly, though I’ve never seen sparkling stones.” He tapped one of the rocks. “That is what you mean, isn’t it?” Annmar nodded. “I can see why you find it fascinating. I wonder what Old Terry wants.”

  Annmar sighed. “Do you think she’s dangerous?”

  “Never talked to her directly.” He shrugged. “Have you asked Riv?”

  With a shake of her head, Annmar closed the sketchbook and held it to her chest, the only outward sign of the nervousness he now detected in her scent. “It’s the strangest thing,” she said, “but I sense there is something about those tunnels I need to learn. Old Terry knows about them and doodems, which might help me understand my Knack.”

  His gut churned. She’d be going back to see the woman. “I saw another unusual thing happen that day: Your eyes turned blue when she touched you—I mean bluer than their usual color. Did Rivley tell you that?”

  “No, he didn’t say anything about it.”

  “He didn’t—” Damn that quiet avian. “Maybe he didn’t see it happen.”

  “I’ll find out. Um, what color of blue?”

  What an odd thing to be interested in. But she was an artist, so maybe it meant more to her. “Bright? Like the sky on the rare clear day.”

  She nodded. He expected some sort of explanation, or answer. Instead, the doll-like mask slipped back over Annmar’s features. Maybe Annmar didn’t understand the bewitchment. He’d talk to Riv before sharing his suspicions.

  “Have you blessed the doodem?” he asked.

  “It’s supposed to be blessed?”

  “It’s of no use to you unless you do. It’s simple, like all the Creator Path ways. Take it to a piece of ground—not a field, undisturbed ground—and dig a shallow hole. Place the doodem in the hole and say—here, can I write it for you?”

  Annmar handed over her sketchbook and a pencil. He wrote the short prayer. “Say this. Embellish the words, if you feel moved to. Lay your hands on it for the last lines. Then, pick it up and carry it for a day. After that, you don’t need to anymore. It’s set and will strengthen your life journey.” He closed the sketchbook and gave it to her.

  “You’ll be careful if you go to see her again?” he asked. “Maybe take some of us with you? I’d be happy to go, if you’d like the company, that is.” He didn’t sound too eager, did he?

  “I’d like the company. Thank you for your offer.”

  He grinned, feeling ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop himself. She grinned, too, but a sound in the hall—the back door opening—broke the moment. He retreated to the door again, and his hand found the knob. “Mrs. Pemberton will return soon,” he said. “I just wanted to say hello.”

  Annmar closed the space between them. “Wait, I…”

  He froze.

  Her eyes grew wide, then flitted off as she squeezed him around the waist for the briefest, heart-stopping moment. She stumbled back, and he caught her by the elbow, bringing them together again. Her disheveled curls hovered inches from his nose. He lifted his chin and rubbed. Fine strands caught on his stubble, and the warmth of her radiated to him. He lolled his head to rub his scent on her again.

  What was he doing? He dropped his hand and once more put his tail to the door, the sweet aroma of her almost forcing him to close his eyes.

  “Um, I’m glad you’re well,” she mumbled.

  “Me, too. I mean, that you’re well, too.” This wasn’t going well. Even holding her was too dangerous. He pivoted.

  “Daeryn?”

  With the knob half-turned, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

  “How do you have the same smell, with no fur?”

  Her blue eyes looked up at his so earnestly. Damn, he couldn’t ruin this. “It’s just, uh, part of me. The glands, teeth and so forth from the ’cambire form don’t disappear. Just…change. And that’s fluid. Changing.” He was talking too much. “I should go before Mrs. Pemberton kicks me out. I see where Mary Clare gets her assertive nature.”

  Annmar nodded at his non-answer, looking kind of flushed. “I suppose.”

  He opened the door before he gave in to that forlorn look. “Bye.”

  “Bye,” she whispered.

  He shut the door behind him and walked out of the main house. Great Creator, I’ve never had to work this hard at self-control around a girl.

  * * *

  Annmar whirled and darted to her cot. The farmhouse’s rear door closed as she perched on the edge, too full of nerves to sit. She popped up, but the nearing footsteps in the hall made her sit again.

  She snagged the quilt and wrapped it around herself. Daeryn had come at dawn, safe and whole. And she’d gotten up the courage to hug him. Mary Clare was wrong. Hugging the boy wasn’t like hugging the polecat.

  It was better.

  He smelled the same, but he’d hugged her back. Her nose tucked down and drew a long breath. Would they hug the next time they saw each other? She thought so. She hoped so. But not if anyone else was around. She couldn’t be that forward with others watching.

  Though, he’d watched her at Market Day—a flush traveled through her—and said her eyes had turned blue. The same blue as the luminated threads? What could it mean?

  Another breath of his scent carried her through the conversation again. Thank goodness she’d shown him the sketch. Now, going to see Old Terry should be safer. Did he mean she should bless the doodem before the visit? Annmar chewed her lip. Mary Clare had told her their Creator worship didn’t have a formal name, just the chapels and rules for living peacefully in this valley. The prayer Daeryn wrote talked about Mother Earth and the land. They made it seem simple, but doing a blessing sounded serious, like making an obligation to their religion.

  Rap, rap, rap. The door opened. “It’s me, dears,” said Mrs. Pemberton. “Time for—oh, Daeryn has gone already?”

  Annmar’s cheeks heated. “He’s tired.”

  Mrs. Pemberton set a breakfast tray on a table. “I could see that. But sometimes that doesn’t stop young people.”

  Her tone seemed to indicate more than just Daeryn leaving on time. Sure enough, instead of taking a seat in the wing chair, she pulled a ladder-back chair up to the cot and settled into it. “Mary Clare tells me your mother passed last year.”

  Annmar nodded.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you won’t take this in poor spirit, but will you accept advice from a woman who has borne seven daughters, all of them by choice?” She smiled and waited.

  Memories swept over Annmar, particularly of her conversation with Mother five years ago when her monthlies started. Mother had given her the city version. And the single mother version. Yet Mother couldn’t possibly have had as much experience with men as Mrs. Pemberton had, especially with the tales Mary Clare had already told about herself and her older sisters.

  Annmar pulled the quilt tighter around her shoulders and nodded again.

  Mrs. Pemberton said, “Thank you for indulging a mother’s worry.” She drew a linen napkin from her pocket and set it on her lap. “That’s a fine young man, hardworking, honest. I don’t know your intentions toward him, or his toward you, but I know this: It’s not uncommon for young people to feel their sex and want to do something with it.”

  Oh, my! Annmar’s cheeks blistered with heat, but Mrs. Pemberton took no notice.

  “My daughter
told me you aren’t familiar with our ways, so I wanted to make sure you knew about this.” She unwrapped the napkin. In the center lay a mound of dried herbs. “Regulatia controlius, it’s called in the scientific community. We mostly use that genus name, Regulatia, though some call it Mother’s Management, or better yet, Mother’s Cure. This herb, if eaten daily, will prevent a woman from conceiving a baby. It also works for men, but I wouldn’t trust a man with this, especially the younger ones. They aren’t ever going to view preventing a baby with as much personal interest as a woman.”

  This was a frank conversation. As much so as the one time Mother reviewed all the proper names for the male and female body parts. But that had been combined with a museum trip to view artwork depicting the human figure. Not quite so direct a lesson, Annmar had realized years later, but still a lesson all the same, one she’d discovered many city girls did not get.

  Mrs. Pemberton smiled and lifted the napkin slightly. “Have you taken it before? Or seen the plant?”

  Daeryn was right about the Pemberton family’s assertiveness. The question wasn’t meant to be forward, but Annmar barely managed to whisper, “No.”

  “I will send a cutting from my garden so you may know the species. It’s sold in all the local farm markets. Probably even turns up in the Outside markets, though you won’t be able to trust the merchants to know what it is. You have to learn that for yourself. It has a particular smell and taste, just as oregano differs from thyme.”

  She folded the napkin and handed it to Annmar. “Mistress Gere keeps it available to all her employees. The canister is on the sideboard with the condiments, though it looks like it should be over with the containers of loose teas.” Mrs. Pemberton stood, picked up the chair and walked it back to its place.

  Surely she hadn’t finished the talk. “Um, excuse me? How much do I—does one take?”

  “A teaspoon a day. You can drink it as a tea, but you have to swallow the leaves, too, to get the best benefit, which fertile and active young people need. I’ve recommended to my daughters that they eat it in something they know they are going to finish. Applesauce. Porridge. Soup. It’s best to adopt the habit of taking it at the same time every day, so you don’t forget. Does that help?”