by Sarah Zettel
“I am sorry this is all the welcome I can give you to my home,” said Avanasy.
Ingrid looked about her. Now at least somewhat sheltered from the driving wind, Ingrid felt the warm sun on her face and shoulders. Seabirds wheeled overhead, giving calls to each other that were as familiar to her as the feel of the sand under her boots and the bright summer blue of the sky overhead. Unaccountably, the feeling of being pulled apart vanished, and Ingrid found herself able to smile.
“I like the view,” she said. “But I believe you must speak to your carpenter about that draft.”
Solemnly, Avanasy bowed to her, stretching out one leg and folding his hands over his breast. “As my lady wishes.”
They laughed together then, and that laugh was as welcome as the warmth of the sun on her shoulders.
“Can you tell me what happened now?” she asked.
Avanasy sighed and rested his foot against a stone. “Yes, and no.”
Ingrid swallowed another burst of impatience. “How is that?”
He stared over the gray waters for a moment, ordering his thoughts. “One of the dangers of the passage through the Land of Death and Spirit is that the powers that live there may take … notice. They may have use for mortal life, or they may simply desire trouble or blessing. I had thought, asleep as you were, you were safe from interference. A sleeping mind moves more swiftly and more lightly than a waking one, and is far less likely to be noticed, or to be of interest if it is noticed.” He ran one hand through his dark gold hair. “But perhaps you did not sleep deeply enough, or, perhaps the Old Witch was looking for someone …” He shook his head, anger creasing his brow. “I cannot say more clearly, and I wish I could. Whatever the case, she was able to lure you from the safety of the boat.” His frown grew sharper. “What I do not understand is how she was able to make you walk as spirit. She should not have been able to separate soul from flesh.”
“I should hope not,” said Ingrid, growing chill despite the warm sun.
“There exists natural law, even in the Silent Lands. There are things which cannot be done.”
“And you know all those laws?”
“No, Ingrid. I don’t.”
“Ah.”
He knelt in front of her, taking her left hand in his. “Should I have turned you away, Ingrid? Left you on the shores of your own world?”
She touched his lovely cheek. “No. I would not have let you in any case.” She squared her shoulders. “Assuming there is no more immediate danger from that witch, what do we do now?”
“We secure the boat more firmly and walk to the nearest village. There I should be able to barter for news from the fortress. I may even still have friends there.”
“A sensible plan,” said Ingrid, getting to her feet. “Shall we begin?”
“You are not tired? Or hungry?”
“No. I feel remarkably well.”
Again, Avanasy frowned.
“I should not feel so well, should I?”
“In truth, Ingrid, I do not know.”
His words sent a thrill of fear through Ingrid, but she pushed it aside. What would come would come. She was past caution now. Her decision had been made back on Sand Island, a whole wide world away.
So, Ingrid knotted her skirts into her waistband and together they returned to the boat, unshipped the mast, gathered their belongings, such as they were, into bundles that could be slung over their shoulders. Finally, they drew a canvas over the hatch. As he tightened the lashings, Avanasy breathed out some words Ingrid could not understand and spat on the last knot. For a moment, he closed his eyes, and Ingrid saw a look of peace steal over him. When he opened his eyes and saw her staring, he actually blushed.
“It has been a long time since magic came easily to me,” he said by way of explanation. “There is … joy in it.”
“You did … you made a spell, just then?”
He nodded. “A small protection on the boat. Nothing complex or truly secure. We do not have the time. But if the boat is meddled with in any way, I will know.”
Remember the ghost, said Ingrid, as she felt her face wrinkle. Remember all you have seen.
“You want to know if there is truth in what I say. Despite all, you cannot quite believe that it is magic which you have seen.”
“I’m sorry, Avanasy.”
“There is no need. For all you know this is dreams and superstition, and the habits of a lifetime are hard to loosen. But I may give you proof yet, as soon as we are back on shore.”
Once more they clambered over the side and splashed through the chilly ocean waters to the shore. Ingrid put down her things so she could wring out her hems. She glanced up and saw the sun was high in the sky. She hoped it would give enough warmth to dry out her skirts, or she would be far too cold, far too quickly.
While Ingrid drew her shoes and stockings back on, Avanasy set his pack on a stone and from it brought out a strip of brightly braided cloth.
“I made this when I reached Sand Island, and kept it afterward, because the making was so hard.” He ran the braid through his fingers. “With it, I can grant you an understanding of the language of Isavalta.”
“What will you need to do?”
“Give me your hand, and I will show you.”
So, Ingrid held out her hand, and Avanasy began to speak. His words were rhythmic and rich, all clipped, hard consonants and round vowels. The sound of the chant made Ingrid feel absolutely still inside. Still chanting, Avanasy wrapped the end of the braid around her right wrist, once, twice, three times. Then, he wrapped the other around his own wrist. His voice reached into her, and through her, it pulled her close, even as his hand pulled her close, and yet at the same time left her feeling incredibly distant.
Then, he kissed her full and openly on the mouth. For a startling moment, she felt his warm breath filling her lungs. In the next moment, he released her and stepped back. Ingrid pressed her hand hard against her chest.
“How does my lady?”
“Well, I thank you.” Her hand flew to her mouth. Those syllables that had tumbled out of her bore no relation to English. They were, well, they were all hard consonants and round vowels.
She stared at him, both amazed and a little frightened.
“Can I still speak …”
“As surely as I can speak both languages,” he said, this time in English.
“That’s a mercy,” she said, and then hastened to reassure him. “Not that I thought you had taken anything from me …” She hesitated. “I am simply not used …”
But Avanasy only smiled and shook his head. “Give yourself time, Ingrid. I must ask for time as well. I have worked very hard to put my old life behind me.” He looked ruefully down at the embroidered cuff of his black coat. “I will need time to find my way again.”
Ingrid took his arm. “Then we will find it together.”
He smiled the bright smile that she had come to love, and arm in arm they began to pick their way up the rocky beach. Their wet boots skidded and tripped over the round stones, but they only laughed and clung more tightly to each other for balance. Ingrid felt an unfamiliar warmth creep over her. She had not realized it could be enough to just be with Avanasy; that love could, for a time, be satisfied by simply being in the presence of the one who was beloved. Every lover, she supposed, found out this truth, and every lover, she supposed, found it a great surprise.
Eventually, the cliffs broke, and Ingrid could see that someone had wedged stones and branches in the break to make a kind of rough trail leading upward. Despite this, it was still a scramble to reach the top. When they emerged again onto level ground, Ingrid was breathless, soaked with perspiration and salt spray, and her back had begun to ache.
Without the cliffs, the world opened around her, an undulating plain under the misty bowl of the sky. A single crabbed and crooked tree stood sentry on the cliffs’ edge. The land around them was covered with thin grasses and dotted here and there with bright red flowers. At their feet,
a faint track wound through the grass toward a series of shadowed mounds that Ingrid took to be some sort of village. Toward the right, she saw a dark rise that looked like a distant forest. To the left, she thought she could just barely make out the outlines of the fortress they had seen from the sea.
Avanasy inhaled the salt-scented air deeply. Then, he bent and plucked up one of the blossoms and presented it to Ingrid with a courtly bow.
“It is called heartsfoil,” he said as she took it. “It is said to awaken passion.” Now his smile reminded her of all that they had not yet done, and she felt a different warmth grow inside her.
Without a word, Ingrid tucked the blossom behind her ear and took his arm again. Together, they started down the track, their gaits easy and long, despite their recent climb. It felt good to be in the open air and on level ground again.
Might as well be on our way back from a picnic, thought Ingrid absurdly.
But the thought gave her a moment’s pause. “Isn’t it a risk to travel this openly? You said you were an exile.”
Avanasy scanned the land around them as well, picking out landmarks he recognized, Ingrid supposed, and regaining a feel for the place. The ceaseless breeze blew his hair back from his brow. “It is, but it is less of a risk than acting furtively, and I have the best disguise I might at this time.”
“What is that?”
“You, Ingrid.” He rubbed her hand where it lay in the crook of his arm. “If any are watching for my return, they will be watching for a single traveler.”
“Ah, so that’s why you brought me.” Ingrid pushed her lip out into a pout. “And here I’m thinking it’s my feminine wiles.”
“My grasp of your language is not complete,” Avanasy said with an air of complete sobriety. “I believe you will have to explain that phrase to me.”
Ingrid tossed her hair back. “Ha! You wish that I would.”
“I do.”
They laughed again. Ingrid felt light, and free, traveling a strange track in a strange country with a man she knew so little of, and yet it was a marvel, all of it. For the first time in her life, she was not watched. Neither Mama nor Papa could catch word of what she did. There would be no shouts, no tears, no dreaded guilt and threats of blows. There was only the wind and the cries of seabirds in the distance. Her family was, quite literally, a world away, and she was free to do exactly as she would. She did not even have to think of looking after Grace, although thoughts of Grace stirred some of the old guilt that lay slumbering in the back of her mind.
Still, something pricked at her.
“Avanasy? This village, will there … will there be someone, a minister, or a magistrate, or some such …”
“To marry us?” he finished for her.
Ingrid nodded, blushing furiously. “It’s a fool thing to bring up now, I know, but, I, you promised, and I trust you, of course, but I …”
He squeezed her arm gently. “The village will have a god house, and the house will have a keeper. The keeper will be able to see us married.”
“I know it must seem ludicrous to you, Avanasy. I’ve come this far, but …”
“It is my wish to take you to wife, Ingrid, before man and the gods, and the law as well. I wish there to be no bar between us. Not ever.”
“I don’t think there ever could be.”
Silence seemed enough after that.
The village that was their destination approached only slowly. By the time they reached it, Ingrid’s skirt had dried itself completely and fresh perspiration trickled down her back. She began to hope sincerely that a long, cool drink of fresh water would be available when they found human company again.
A wall of stone screened the settlement from the ceaseless winds that scoured the grasslands. No guard kept the gate, however, and they were able to pass through without impediment. Ingrid felt suddenly nervous, and she had to stop herself from pulling closer to Avanasy. This would be, after all, her first meeting with other people in this strange land, and she had no idea what would be considered polite. The fear of making herself or Avanasy ridiculous seemed to loom very large indeed.
Still, not everything was strange. The round, stone houses with their grass roofs were silent and empty. This was, after all, a fishing village and it was a fine day. Everyone who could walk would be at work in some fashion.
The smell of smoke drifted on the wind. In silent accord, they disengaged their arms from each other, and they followed the scent to the rear of the village. There, old women tended huge iron kettles full of something steaming that smelled of the sea. Brown-skinned, fair-haired children ran between the kettles. They were of various ages, although none older than eight at the most, Ingrid guessed. Some played, some attempted to sort heaps of drying seaweed into piles under the eyes of the stooped old grandmothers.
The first grandmother to see them approach hissed a warning to the others and all chatter, all motion stopped. Avanasy and Ingrid approached under the silent stare of a dozen strangers, and inside Ingrid felt her stomach tighten. The steam from the kettles seemed to flicker and shimmer in air gone suddenly still.
Avanasy gave them all his courtly bow. “A good greeting to you all on this good day,” he said.
One of the women put down the huge wooden paddle she had been using to stir the kettle. She had a face like a dried apple, but blue eyes that were bright and sharp. A worn scarf covered in faded embroidery hid her hair.
“A good greeting and a good welcome to you, stranger,” she replied, wiping her hand on an apron that had long ago been embroidered to match her scarf. “And to your lady.”
“Thank you,” said Ingrid, bobbing a curtsy. She hoped it would be appropriate. The steam flickered strangely before her eyes again. She blinked.
“We were hoping we might find a roof to shelter us for the night,” Avanasy went on. “We’ve come a long way, and have a long way to go yet.”
The wrinkled woman wiped her hands again. Her face had gone sour, but she glanced at her fellows, looking for what? Approval? Or the opposite? It was hard to tell with all the steam …
Something’s wrong. Ingrid wiped her eyes. Why can’t I see?
“We are a poor village,” the woman was saying. “We have little comfort to offer such folk as yourself.”
“We do not have any wish to impose,” Avanasy replied as Ingrid lifted her gaze again. “And will gladly lend our hands to what we can while we are here. I have some skills …”
Ingrid did not hear the end of Avanasy’s polite speech. A man had appeared behind the children who all clustered together to stare at the strangers. His tunic and pantaloons hung loosely on his bony frame, and he reached out to gently stroke the hair of the tallest of the boys.
He had no eyes. Like the ghost that had tried to drown Grace, his eyes were only empty sockets staring down at the young boy.
Ingrid’s hand went to her throat which had suddenly closed itself up tight.
“Ingrid?”
“Is something wrong, mistress?” inquired the leader of the women, in an icily polite voice.
The ghost laid its hand on the boy’s shoulder. The child, who was all of seven years old at the very most, didn’t seem to notice anything as he drew closer to the others, staring uneasily at Ingrid.
What do I do? What do I say? It’s a ghost. Oh, God, what does it want?
“Ingrid, tell me what is happening,” said Avanasy. In English. Oh, of course, of course. This way they could speak in private even in front of this whole assemblage.
“There’s a ghost,” she said quickly. “With the tall boy.”
“A ghost?” Avanasy repeated, stunned. “You see a ghost? You’re sure?”
“It’s got no eyes. It’s like the one who tried to take Grace.” She knuckled her eyes, uncertain if she wished she could see the thing more clearly, or if she could make it vanish. “It’s standing right behind him. It’s got both hands on his shoulders.”
“I think we’ve nothing for you here,” said the h
ead woman edgily. “You two had best be going.”
Avanasy swung around to face her. “Forgive me, Mother,” he said. “Has there been fever in your village? Any mortal illness?”
The headwoman frowned. “And what business is that of yours?”
“Because it has not left you yet.” Avanasy strode into the crowd of children, who scattered like a flock of sparrows. He dropped to one knee in front of the tall boy. One of the grandmothers came instantly to stand behind the boy, laying both hands on his shoulders, just as the ghost had. Ingrid could still see the ghost, its features superimposed over those of the ancient living woman, turning her eyes hollow and her skin deathly gray. Ingrid shuddered.
“There’s nothing to fear, lad,” Avanasy tried to reassure the boy, who just shrank backward against the grandmother’s apron. “I just wish to …”
“Leave him,” snapped the headwoman. She hefted the great wooden paddle in her hand, and Ingrid saw what an excellent club it would make. “You’ve no business …”
But Avanasy cocked his head up toward her. “His father died of fever recently, didn’t he?”
The headwoman opened her mouth and closed it again. “How did you know that?”
“His ghost is here,” said Avanasy simply, flatly. “It may mean the boy is to be dealt the same fate.”
The grandmother gave out a shriek and hugged the boy tightly to her. The ghost had moved to her right, and was now staring at Ingrid with its black and empty eyes. Pleading? Warning? Ingrid couldn’t tell.
The headwoman did not put her paddle down. “If you’re some mountebank …”
“I promise you, Mother, I am not. I am a sorcerer, and I can furnish proof of that, if you require. I also promise that if this boy is ill, I can help him.”
The headwoman set her jaw and laid aside the paddle, balancing it on the kettle’s rim. She marched forward and grabbed the boy by the shoulder. Startled, the boy squeaked but the grandmother — his grandmother? Probably — let him go. The headwoman turned the boy roughly to face her while she crouched down in front of him. She seized his pointed chin and turned his face sharply this way and that. She reached up under his hair and felt the back of his neck, and then she thrust her wrinkled, calloused hand down his shirt and felt about under his arms, ignoring the way he squirmed. Whatever she felt made her blanch, and she shoved the boy’s tunic up to expose his bony ribs and sunken stomach, and even at a distance, Ingrid could see splotches of red making a rough circle on his summer brown skin.
