by Gayle Greeno
“What could it have been?” Parse’s love of puzzles came to the fore. “Something about Crolius, or about Henryk, or,” he rushed ahead, “even about the sainted Matthias Vandersma and Kharm?”
“Ah, hit it right on the button, lad.” The old Seeker hunched forward in her chair, as if drawing them in closer to her. “What An’g and I always wondered, and I ponder it even more lately, is if ... if....” She shared a glance with Khar, her mouth grim, then sat back, sinking into herself like a snail retreating into its shell. “Doesn’t matter what I think, no good spreading slander, lies, after all this time if I’m wrong.”
Overtired? Or still afraid after all these years to utter whatever it was she’d deduced? What could she need protection from now? And Doyce found she hadn’t a clue. “So how did Headquarters finally get built?”
Relieved to be back on safer ground, Maize continued. “Magnus and Ru‘wah were marginalized, ostracized after what happened, because everyone knew what they’d done. Most of his supporters dropped away, and Crolius found it easier to institute his changes. But it wasn’t until Crolius was on his deathbed that the gold ‘magically’ appeared, shall we say? As if it were Magnus’s final peace offering to a long-term yet respected foe. Crolius never had the satisfaction of seeing the new buildings, but at least he died knowing they’d be built. And the building of them gave Magnus a place to die, a peripheral part of what he’d tried to spurn. Sad, isn’t it? Crolius at least got what he wanted, but I’m not sure Magnus ever did.”
Maize’s voice had run down, her story done, as much told as she’d dare tell. She shivered once as the sun began its final descent, the burial grounds already shrouded in early dark, marble tablets and pinnacles strangely luminescent, ghostly shapings against the tenebrous shadows of dense yews, twisted oaks. A corresponding shiver coursed through Doyce, as if she, too, bore the guilt of knowing more than she told, though she had no idea what. They’d dragged a 103-year-old woman from the safety and comfort of the Elder Hostel, prodded her to relive the past—and all without so much as a lap robe or a cup of cha to sustain her, keep her warm. Forced her to relive memories she might not have wanted to recapture. Didn’t she have enough of her own like that? “Time to get you back.” Hating the falsely brisk efficiency she projected, she clambered to her feet, back and arms strained and sore, legs rubbery. A groan at the thought of fighting the contrary wheeled chair back through the burial grounds. She kicked a crutch in Parse’s direction, futilely sought its mate’s hiding place.
“Aye, time.” Maize looked tiny, remote, against the cushions. “I’ll have enough time here soon enough.”
“Don’t worry. Per’ls and I took the liberty of calling for assistance,” Khar consoled. Both ghatti had piled into the old woman’s chair, warming her, comforting her with the sensuous touch of their fur.
“For Maize, or for Parse and me?” Doyce stretched and bent, tried to recollect when she’d had a waistline, gave it up as a lost cause. A more likely lost cause made itself apparent : the baby pressed on her bladder, hard. Either a rapid retreat was in order or a quick but embarrassing trip behind a grave marker.
“Well, we didn’t ask them to bring two more chairs,” Per’la sheltered her mouth with a paw, hiding a grin at Doyce’s predicament. “I bet Parse could figure out a better chair. I wonder ...”
The young Seeker-in-Training, Cady, and her ghatt F’een, herded Davvy ahead of them, shooing him along each time he veered off course, leapfrogging grave markers, dawdling to read inscriptions. Apparently Swan had insisted her “dragon nursemaid” get some exercise and fresh air, and appointed poor Cady as dragon-keeper. Finally focused on their task, Davvy fussily competent and concerned, they wrapped Maize in a woolly afghan, thrust a metal cha flask into her cold hands. The two manhandled the chair around, Parse hopping in and out of their path, shouting instructions and commands. Taking advantage of the distraction, Davvy jogged to Doyce’s side, held his hand palm-down over her stomach, waiting for permission to stroke the curve. A brusque nod and his hand touched, moth-light, the baby arching like a trout breaking water, then settling. Davvy fled behind the chair, grinning nervously.
“Don’t need you escorting me if I’ve these fine young ones to push me along,” Maize offered stoutheartedly. The barest wink in Doyce’s direction. “You’ve that look, you know. Can’t hold quite as much as you did, heh? Eyeballs about ready to float out of your head.”
“I’ll walk you back, Seeker Bartolotti,” Parse announced. “Someone’d better explain your absence to the Matron, or she’ll fear you’ve been abducted.”
“Eh! Long’s you don’t plan to hitch a ride, start spooning!” Black eyes snapped coquettishly.
Doyce waved them out of sight, tried to decide which route would return her to Headquarters quickest. Except she didn’t want to go back. Somehow staying here made the legends, the myths, the histories, more palpable, more intimate.
Khar had jumped from the jouncing chair, rejoined her. “A tale at only one remove. Ru’wah was long gone, remember, so Magnus could have reinvented the tale, emphasizing some parts, diminishing others. And since then Maize may have rearranged the story, emphasized the parts she remembered best. But,” the ghatta thought it through, “for the most part, I don’t think so. She has a memory almost as fine as one of the ghatti.”
“But what isn’t she telling us? She clammed up all of a sudden. Any ideas?”
Amber eyes shifted, then settled to meet her own. “Oh, nothing, nothing of importance, I’m sure. Are rumors anything but rumors, even after all this time? But truth is always truth.”
“Sleeked yourself out of that one, didn’t you? Or should I say ‘sneaked’? Fine, never mind, then.” It struck her now that the baby had shifted again, the pressure on her bladder less urgent. Mayhap if she walked slowly, thinking, things would fall into place, the said and the unsaid. A detour to Oriel’s grave would be nice, a tribute to things past, a way to honor his memory, not forget it. Perhaps even sit on the bench there for a bit and recall those days, what might have been. Oriel had been nothing like Jenret. Mayhap someday she’d be like Maize, reciting the past to an anxious scholar seeking truth.
“... take foot... out of ear!” “Ouch! Finger in eye!” She whirled, wondering at the echoes of childish voices. The way they carried on the early evening air, floating away in the distance. Well after dark, they should be inside, safe, loved. Distracted, she looked for Khar, found her perched on the bench she’d halted beside, pink nose planted on the curved swell of her belly, amber eyes almost crossed with concentration.
It suddenly struck her. “Khar, do you know where Matthias Vandersma and Kharm are buried? We’ve a memorial here, but I don’t think it’s the actual grave, is it?” She sat beside the ghatta, hoping for an answer. Always so many questions about Matthias Vandersma.
I m goin twonite no mater whut. I cannot stand there faces waching mine and there woneduring becuz i no whut thayre thinking. Thay jest doent no that Kharm nose two, tells me. Hope Granther an Ryk unnerstand an doent worry. Mi letter saze i m sorry. I shell miss my Nelle.
Diary entry completed, he’d debated scrawling his farewells on his slate but wanted it to be more lasting, as if by saving the letter Granther and Henryk could save a part of him. Much as it hurt, he opened the diary to its final blank page and tugged, praying he wouldn’t rip the delicate stitching. Finally, he tore the paper at the top, near the binding; it gave with a protesting RRIIP loud enough to wake the dead. Guiltily he swung around, but Granther was snoringly asleep, and Henryk’s bunk revealed its usual lump of limp boy, buried in blankets and pillows.
The pencil was short and stubby, lead worn to a bluntness that favored his broad strokes, his lack of control in making precise letters as his thoughts ran ahead of his spelling ability. Henryk spelled better than he already, but then Henryk had learned earlier. Besides, given Henryk’s poor eyesight, reading was a delight, the printed page in front of his nose clear to his vision.
&nbs
p; I m soary but Kharm an i r going. I doent feel rite heyer nee-more. Maybe its time i set out on my own. Maybe i will go louk four Da, spend time with him. Doent worry bout me. I louve yu’ bothe. Telle Nelle I louve her.
With care he stowed the diary in his sack, pocketing the pencil stub rather than letting it vanish in the sack’s vastness. The ghatta stretched at ease on the hearthstones, but her eyes had been following his slightest movement, ever alert, skin twitching with impatience. Or, mayhap fleas, Matty supposed. He scratched an ankle reflexively.
“Both,” Kharm admitted and nipped at her spine, burrowing through the fur to rout the small invader. “Are we going now? Are we ready?”
“Almost.” He stood, gathered his sack tight, though what could rattle, he wasn’t sure. One wool scarf, a pair of knit stockings without shaped heels, better he keep outgrowing the worn spots, Granther said. A clean shin. A cracked clay mug wrapped in the scarf, stuffed in the dented tin pot with its bale so it could be hung over a fire. Some old twine and leather laces for snares and, the thing he’d hesitated over taking-that made him cringe with guilt, almost like a thief-Granther’s second-best knife. An old jacknife, its pearl grip missing on one side. But a knife was a necessity. Considering, he opened the sack and fumbled through it, retrieved the knife and stuffed it into his pocket along with the pencil stub. If he lost the sack and its contents, at least he’d have the knife. Taking anything more would deprive Granther and Ryk of things they needed to survive, and Ryk would soon enough grow into the few clothes he’d left behind.
His feet had rooted in place, and he shuffled the overlarge boots. Feet shifted inside boots, but he couldn’t bring himself to lift one, take the first step. “Come on!” Kharm cajoled. When had she moved to the door, taken the first step? A shallow breath, and when he exhaled he felt an unexpected lightness, as if he could float out a window, or even up the chimney with the smoke. “Things to see, things to do!” So there were, so there were.
Hugging the sack close, he eased the door latch free, muf fled it with his hand until he found the thumb press outside and slipped round the door without fully opening it. Now, pull up on the door handle and gently close it, less chance for the hinges to creak. There, closed!
The cold air hit him. Killing frost tonight, he could smell it, taste it in the sharp air. Still, everything that could be harvested had been except for the more hardy cabbage and kale, turnips and carrots, earth banked around them. Stars spangled above him, his breath steaming whiteness into the night air as he set off down the dirt road leading away from the village center and the well. Only one true light burned that he could judge, the other minor glows revealed banked fires, a faint, bloody translucence shivering the thin, scraped hide windows. Soon winter shutters would block even that amount of light.
He’d passed the Killanins’ house, struggling with himself not to find a rock and heave it through their window. Tempting, more than tempting to strike a final blow, then run like the blazes. “But not very responsible. If you’re going to fight, let them know who they face.”
“Why? They’d ambush me if they had a chance, just as they do Henryk. And anyone else they can catch.” The ghatta’s rebuke left him sullen, upset because she’d caught his meanness of spirit. “Don’t you ambush creatures when you hunt?”
“Of course. But we aren’t enemies as you and the Killanins are. We’re all part of the chain of life. I need the lesser creatures to survive, and they need me to survive. Otherwise too many might breed, overrun what food they’ve stored for winter.” A ghatta chuckle. “Besides, I don’t think they’d willingly march up to me if I sat and waited.”
“True. Nor would I willingly march anywhere near the Killanins. However, I do think they’re one of the lesser links on the chain of life, despite their size. ” Everything he discussed with the ghatta forced him to think, reassess things, even when they bantered, and now their banter had carried him almost to Mad Marg’s house.
Something white and ghostly reared out of the tall grasses at road’s edge. Spaceship shit! A Killanin! Dropping his sack, Matty took to his heels in terror, hair hackling on the back of his neck until he recognized the pale, slight figure of his Uncle Henryk.
“What are you doing out so late? Granther’ll skin you alive,” he hissed, skidding to a halt.
Ryk screwed up his face, naked somehow without his tinted glasses, unneeded with the dark to shelter his sensitive pink eyes. “Are you finally going?” As usual, his hands nestled under his armpits, arms crossed protectively over his chest, shoulders hunched. A wail of reproach, muted not to carry in the night, but still clear, “And you didn’t even say good-bye!”
“How’d you know? Are you going to tell? I’ll tie you to a tree if you’re going to tell!” A useless threat, he knew, but irresistible to vent his anger, his needless shock at the apparition.
“No, you won’t.” Ryk thought hard, head bent, then gave a hopeful upward glance, mouth quirked with delight. “Though if you want to, I’ll let you. Tell’em the Killanins did it!” .
But after Kharm’s earlier lecture, Matty banished the thought, appealing as it might sound. “No. They can make trouble on their own, they don’t need our help.” He hefted the sack again, debated, then slung it over Ryk’s shoulder. “Come on, you can walk with me a ways. Know you like being out at night.” True, darkness provided Henryk with at least minimal safety, the freedom to enjoy the world without looking over his shoulder for danger, human danger. Whatever might stalk him, harm him in the night was natural, a risk, but a risk to be savored without fearing the superstitious malice of his fellow humans.
Ryk shrugged until the sack rested comfortably on his back before starting down the road, pausing for Matty and Kharm to catch up. “Saw you sneaking things, found where you’d hidden them. Could tell you weren’t real happy, worried about Kharm. If I was big enough, I’d run away, too.”
Lulled by the easy comfort yet implicit sadness of their conversation, Matty gave a start. Without noticing, they’d pulled almost level with Mad Marg’s house. What had Henryk been doing so close?
As if in answer to his unspoken question, Henryk shivered, peeked surreptitiously at the house. “I like to watch sometimes. Wonder what it’d be like if she loved me. I love Da, I love you,” and almost defiantly, “and I could love her if she let me.”
Matty trailed a consoling hand on the nape of Henryk’s neck. “I know, Ryk-Ryk. She does love you, but she can’t admit it to herself or to you. Think of it as a buried treasure and mayhap someday you’ll both discover it.”
With a gasp, Henryk threw himself into Matty’s arms, face plastered against his chest, arms wired around his waist, and Matty looked up to see Marg looming in front of them. Though not as ghostly pale as Henryk, her stealthy, silent movement was even more frightening, should have been impossible, given her bulk. “Why didn’t you warn me she was here?” he threw in Kharm’s direction as the ghatta closed the distance between the two boys and Marg. “Were you going to let her ambush me?”
Kharm gave an indignant squeak. “She wouldn’t ambush you, silly. She’s been standing there patient as can be while you two chattered like chipmunks, not noticing a thing in the world. If you can’t see a boulder in your path, it’s not my fault.”
“Here.” Marg thrust a cloth-wrapped bundle in his direction, rested it on Ryk’s head as if he served as a convenient shelf, nothing more. “Forgot food, didn’t you? It’s the obvious things in life that men and boys forget.” The smell of fresh baked bread reached his nose, plus the ripe scent of cheese, the sweetness of dried fruit. His mouth watered; he hadn’t eaten much dinner, throat constricted, stomach tight as he’d planned for the night.
A brusque nod of thanks, and he unwrapped a cautious hand from around Henryk to take the bundle, wondering how to slide it into his sack. But Henryk had scooted behind him, arms still locked around his waist, thrusting the sack in his hand and letting Matty stand as his bulwark in front of Marg. “You knew, too?” Incredu
lous, his voice slipped up a notch, turning question into accusation. He’d believed only he held the village’s secrets, but now someone knew his as well. It made sense that Ryk had found him out; those in constant danger always watch closely. But Marg? He saw her so seldom.
Marg swiped at her face with a handkerchief, and Matty’s nose wrinkled at the pungent smell, astringent, faintly alcoholic. Witch hazel, he guessed as she pressed the cloth against her temples, half-shrouding her face. “Of course. Breezes talk to me, whisper secrets. I’m trying not to listen now. Those as are different always have to seek their way.” Lowering the handkerchief, Marg nodded with utter seriousness, the moonlight highlighting her once fine features, forcing him to remember how beautiful she’d been.
“Everything talks to Marg.” She shifted conversational tracks again. “I put in a bit of dried fish for that larchcat of yours.” Her body seemed to deflate, spread as she stooped to stroke the ghatta. “Always hearing tiny, distant voices, but they never hear me. Funny, though, couldn’t hear the eumedico at all when she came, try as I might. Mayhap if I’d had a cat like this to share my thoughts, I wouldn’t be the way I am.”
“Mayhap you’re right, Mistress Margare, but it’s a burden all the same.” How could she know! Did she know? Breath shallow, he steadied himself. Poor Marg fantasized about anything and everything.
The ghatta cradled against her ample bosom, she looked up, almost shyly. “Don’t harbor any thoughts about going to Marchmont. Venable Constant and his ilk have no use for us-the likes of me with the little I glean, or the likes of you. You’re too different from what they know. Now, follow downstream far enough, you’ll hit the River Vaalck. Might still be a trade flatboat or two this time of year, but won’t be much longer. Where the river goes, I don’t know, but that’s up to you.”
