by Gayle Greeno
“I’d rather go home.” Amazing that Khar could consider that empty house as home. “Build a fire, just us two sharing dinner.”
“Easy for you to say, you’ve never built a fire in your life,” Doyce scoffed.
“Please? All snuggly in the easy chair, feet toasting, just us two, just like before?” Khar wheedled. “Go to bed early?” She yawned ostentatiously, triggered a matching yawn from Doyce. “I’m so tired!”
And presently Doyce found herself back at the guest house, a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches on the arm of the chair, stocking feet propped on a hassock. One hand fumbled blindly for the sandwich while the other hand balanced the old book on the pinnacle of her stomach.
The Plum wuz scary. I didn’t noe water culd run the aposite way like that. Hope not miny people wer hurt. Gheorghe an Solange an i will wintur in Gilboa. I hope Kharm liks it and that i doent have two worry whut she tells me and i hope i make new frends. It wood bee nice to shair wit someone what its like to noe what Kharm tells me. Awfull nice.
Shaking her head to clear it, Doyce squinted at the scrawling lines. Lady bless, reach for a sandwich and lose her place! But it was so difficult to decipher that each time she picked it up her mind drifted toward other thoughts, an ongoing fantasy she’d been having about Matty and Kharm. Somehow she knew far more than her research had told her, conjuring up the textures and details, the emotions and times more deeply than her scant facts indicated, as if she’d taken a preliminary sketch and expanded it into a full-color panorama. Strange. Entirely too suggestible, just because she thought she’d made out the name Kharm in the diary.
Paw poised to snag the cheese overhanging the bread, Khar stiffened. Trouble! Best act quickly or she’d have some explaining in store for her, impossible since she couldn’t explain it herself. “It’s probably short for Carmen, especially given the way that person spells-you complain all the time. She sounds a. bossy sort.”
Doyce munched the sandwich, set the book aside and shared a bite of meat and cheese with Khar, compactly mounded on the other chair arm. “I give up. Just when I think I’m getting the hang of the spelling, I get distracted.”
“Bed now?” Innocently, Khar swallowed the treat, butted her head into Doyce’s arm in hopes of dislodging another bite. When it wasn’t forthcoming, she padded to the foot of the stairs.
“If I go to bed so soon after eating, I’ll have nightmares!” Doyce protested. “Better to stay upright and digest But the food, the warmth, made her logy, ready for sleep. Finishing the last of her milk, she convinced herself no great virtue accrued from washing dishes.
“You won’t dream, I promise. I’ll be there to guard your dreams.” And Khar would do everything in her power to ensure Doyce’s sleep flowed dreamlessly tonight, no monster ,sandwiches chasing her through the’burial grounds, or anything else, let alone another episode from Matthias Vandersma’s life. Not until she discovered how and why Doyce was able to override her control.
Hylan slung the dripping bucket onto the cart’s tailgate, began untying the tarp shielding its load. Pretending to concentrate on her task, she let her eyes dart guiltily, hoping against hope that Harrap remained where she’d left him, stirring the evening’s porridge. The dog, Barnaby, whined once, fretful at her worry, then splashed in the stream, muzzle darting as he snapped at a minnow. The slope sheltered her from prying eyes, no reason for Harrap to watch her. After all, her excuse rang genuine: wash the dust off the wagon, soak the wheels so the spokes would swell, tighten from the water. The old rackety goat cart had taken a pounding on the dirt roads, deep rutted from the harvest wagons.
Dragging off the dirt-encrusted tarp, she eased two burlap-wrapped bundles free and plunged them into the bucket. Could almost hear the hungry sucking sound as they absorbed the water. Most of the leaves had dropped, and she fingered one regretfully. After all, it was late autumn, that-not to mention the trauma of the move-explained it, but a few hung tenaciously to their spindly twiglets, still green but curling around the edges.
The best time of year to transplant; let them settle into their new homes, lie dormant through the winter, and burst forth with new foliage in the spring. Each a promise, a future hope, a way of culling Gleaners from normal, average folk. A salvation, a promise for the future, a future free of Gleaners, of Resonants, or whatever fancy name they might call themselves, and no chance, no hope they might someday contact the stars, call mind-to-mind to any Spacer ships that wandered into their purview. No, it was her sacred duty, her obligation to liberate Canderis and the whole of the planet Methuen from any taint from space. They’d survived this long without it after that first abandonment, nearly 250 years ago, and nothing, nothing was going to change it if she had her say. Her penance, her sacrifice to erase those last memories of the Fifty who had come so close to seducing her as a child. She was not a child any longer.
She gently grasped the two precious bundles by their thin trunks, much the size of a switch for whipping a recalcitrant child, let the excess water drain from the balled burlap and reverently returned them to the cart. Took two more bundles and repeated the process before scooping a fresh bucket of water. They thirsted, just as she thirsted for the assurance that everything would continue safe, well, unchanging. After a moment’s thought, she positioned herself between the shafts and backed the cart deeper into the water, let it soak hub-high. Harrap would notice if the wheels weren’t wet.
Were eight saplings enough? She hoped and prayed they were. Lucky to root eight, have them live through four years. Four years since that horrific yet miraculous night when the sky had plummeted at her feet, a relic of what existed out there to harm. Others had died, bark winter-stripped by hungry rolapin, or roots never setting deeply enough—these eight the strongest. Even some of the righteous always died. Well, eight it would have to be, a lucky number—put it on its side and it indicated infinity. Funny that eight meant so much to Harrap as a Shepherd, the Eight Mysteries, the eight Disciple moons of our Lady. Yes, eight could encircle, a protective litany-one each at Alkmaar, Ruysdael, Coventry, Gilboa, Waystown, Neu Bremen, Free Stead, and home again to Roermond. Insurance for the future.
Her pantaloons dragged wet and muddy at ankles and shins. A minor inconvenience, a very minor reminder of the trials and tribulations she faced, the discomfort, the pain. Pain that had been, pain that would be, but it was all worth it, would be worth it if she could save the world. She’d never asked for that role, oh, no, not in her wildest dreams, had been content with her solitude, eking out a meager living. Always someone in need of a dowser, able to search out water, precious lost objects, her pendulum of needle and thread swinging to determine the sex of a child in the womb. The vibrations always told her, minor skills, but skills all the same, something her family’d had down through the generations.
But she’d had been called, chosen, the night the sky had fallen, a star flaming across the heavens, burning bright, a lurid false dawn. Had she been the only one awake to see it, tremble with awe at its blazing, seductive majesty? Been the only one to rush out, quailing, eyes shielded from its dangerous, devouring glare, certain the world was ending, would explode in a mighty burst of flame? Oh, yes, sinners burned, burned forever. Harrap might not believe that, protest the Lady was kind, always ready with another chance, but she knew better.
Brighter, brighter, a soughing of wind that lifted the hair off her head, made it lash her face, stinging, a searing heat arcing downward in a flaming, rending sword stroke. Huddling on the ground, Barnaby crouched beneath her, she’d sheltered herself and him from the blinding vision. A crashing eruption, the scent of charring wood, and all was blessed darkness again. Except for the spangled lights that played before her eyes and made it hard to focus. Barnaby had quivered so hard beneath her she’d feared he’d shake himself out of his skin. Realized she was shaking as well. When she’d dared open her eyes, before she could even see properly, she’d followed her nose, followed the stink of burning. Had crossed the back pasturage t
o the stream and seen the old witch hazel tree quivering, leaves dropping, a black, scorched scar blasted down its middle. Embedded in its trunk, a piece of glowing metal, piercing to the heartwood. It looked like a tiny stabilizer fin, the outer edge of one, anyway, the same shape as the ones in the drawings of a spaceship. Warned, yes, she’d been warned that space was a garbage midden, could cast its debris their way. Her father had ranted how their ancestors had corrupted not just the land with their technology, but the very skies themselves. But who had ever believed before this heavenly sign? And the heavens, the starry firmament was hellish.
Why the tree hadn’t died from that trauma, she could never surmise, but the next spring it had bloomed a cascade of yellow, threadlike petals, thrived, grown fuller, faster, invigorated by the near calamity, the metal still embedded in its heartwood. She’d taken a forked cutting from it, was stripping the leaves, trimming it into a dowsing rod when the two had arrived. She didn’t know them, though she’d seen them before on the roadway beyond the house sometimes, the man with the ropy, twisted scars up the side of his face, often accompanied by the lovely, elegant young woman who wore a white coat, who worked as a eumedico in the Research Hospice farther on. As far as Hylan was concerned, good neighbors left each other alone, and she’d always scrupulously done that. Had no truck with eumedicos, their faltering skills, their lies brought sorrow. What right did they have to invade her property like this?
Gripping the forked stick in her hands, she’d willed them to be gone, leave her be. And to her surprise the stick had risen and dipped, vibrating up and down without her knowledge, without her help, as if seeking and scenting what it had before it. Her hands trembled as she tried to hold the rod still.
“Look, Evelien, I think she’s decided she’s found an underground stream in you,” the man had laughed.
“Well, it’s trembling, pulling more toward you, I’d say,” the woman called Evelien responded.
“Of course, still waters run deep.” The man bowed in Hylan’s direction. “I’m sorry if we’re trespassing, just out for a walk. Spring does that, makes you want to ramble sometimes.”
She hadn’t trusted herself enough to speak beyond a bare “Aye.” Something clawed at her brain, unloosening old memories, old fears ... a night, a night, a night of laughter, song, sharing ... and then sorrow. Torches, the deaths, her mind vibrating like a tuning fork. Ah, grant me the strength of the deaf adder who stoppeth her ears, who refuses to hear the voice of the charmer, charm he ever so wisely! In self-defense she raised her hands to her face, leaned her forehead into the fork of the rod, the branches shielding her temples. And glory to the Lady, the pain eased!
Head cocked to one side, mouth twisted quizzically, though she suspected it always did that, given the scarring, the man backed away, pulling the woman with him. “Think we should be going, Evelien, we’ve obviously frightened her.”
No, she reflected, she hadn’t known then to whom she had spoken, but she’d learned shortly after. Had not sensed power like that since ... dead, dead, gone ... had spawn survived? Vesey Bell, the notorious, twisted Gleaner, and Evelien Annendahl Wycherley, Gleaner and eumedico both. Hylan pulled the goat cart forward, turning the wheels to let the top halves soak. It paid to be patient, thorough. Blind before, but now she could see, just the barest premonition of a premonition. They’d come again, would win this time. But she could identify them. Else why had she stuck that freshly cut dowsing rod into the moist ground, cut other twigs and planted them round, hoping they would take root?
And now that premonition was coming to pass. But what to do about Harrap, not to mention that blasted ghatt with him? What did they represent? A part of her plan or an anathema ? She worried at the thought, set another two balled saplings to soak. She liked the man, and that was a danger. How long would he continue with her like her faithful shadow? He seemed content enough to follow along, keep her company. What had he said? That his soul was hungry, that he was on a pilgrimage to visit as many Bethels, large and small, as he could? But the few stops he’d made had been perfunctory at best, always rushing to catch up with her, breathless, face florid with fear that she’d disappeared.
But he wasn’t just a Shepherd, he was a Seeker as well, and Seekers bore a passing similarity to Gleaners. Still, perhaps their skills were natural, unperverted-the ghatti native to the planet, best not harm something that belonged here, at least until she could decide, be sure. She longed for the sting of the supple rod on her shoulders, her back, scourging the doubts from her mind, scourging the answers in. And that was denied her with Harrap along. Grunting, she towed the cart clear of the water, dropped the shafts, and rubbed her palms. How they itched for the scourge.
In a few days they’d reach Schuylkill, two more days and two nights to decide. To see if Harrap would persist in accompanying her, if she could convince him to travel on about his own business. Little enough time to do what she had to do, make the circuit, planting at the major stops. Eight weren’t enough, but it was the best she could manage to erect a barricade against the voices that might shout to the skies, and what would follow would be answering voices form the starships.
Barnaby whined, pawed at her sodden pantaloon leg. Returning to the present, she saw Parm watching from the rise, perky and curious and all-knowing, his motley markings a ludicrous blur of colors. He gave a chirp of greeting, rolled on his back, all four feet pointed skyward, opening himself to receive danger from above. Barnaby galloped to meet him, shook water all over, and terrier and ghatt began to wrestle, romping and rolling. No, the ghatt had no portent, was only a ghatt. Nothing dangerous about Parm, but about Harrap she’d have to reserve judgment. Not that he was intrinsically dangerous but that, despite his best intentions, he might present a danger to what she had to accomplish. Must accomplish.
Too often each day melded into the next, research and write, write and research, don’t think about the baby, don’t think about Jenret or Swan, don’t think about the future. At times the tidy progression of Seeker history could almost obscure her daily life, swamp her concerns about Swan each time she visited, mask the passage of her pregnancy. Except when the baby fluttered and shifted, swayed to its own inner music. Everything in neat, precise black-and-white-except for her gray thoughts. Being busy meant less time to worry, so she stockpiled them until later. She’d have whole winter’s worth to sustain her by the time she finished.
Rawn and Khar conversed through the ghatti mindnet, carried word to her from Jenret, circumspect, flavorless messages, filtered through too many minds concerned for her well-being. Several times Doyce had startled, strained, almost swearing she could hear Jenret faintly in her mind. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t relax enough to grasp the sense, the words of the message, each effort blocking her tighter and tighter. Unlikely, anyway, fool’s fancy. Why bother to listen, why should he send? How foolish to deny him, deny herself the comfort. Besides, what did she expect? She wasn’t a Resonant. Mayhap someday, mayhap never, and each possibility boasted its own inherent fears.
Repenting her vow not to listen, this night she tried again before bed, sitting by the open window, bundled in an old navy robe of Jenret’s to ward off the chill. With her eyes shut she could pretend he wrapped his arms around her, the closest she could come to him these days. For a moment her mind eased, and she almost believed it. Already curled at the foot of the bed, Khar squinted a sleepy eye at her, and she hoped when she finally gave up and went to bed the ghatta would cuddle close. Except then she’d be forced to leave her arm outside the covers, and goose-bumped at the thought.
“I’ll warm both of us.” Khar shifted, yawned pinkly, propped a paw over her nose.
Feeling her way to bed along a path of moonlight, she snuggled the covers close—her neck always got cold—wrestled an arm free as Khar slithered up. Soon, sooner than expected despite her aching loneliness, her breathing began to slow, to match Khar’s rhythm, and she drifted into sleep.
Her waking came like a
detonation, abrupt, shocking, her senses swimming. Bells pealed, not in measured tones to announce the passage of night, but in a frenzy of tolls, clanging across the city, outshouting each other. A strange brightness writhed, glowing against the far wall, not morning light but something almost alive, moving. Why was the light moving? Stock-still, hands clutching the sheets, she sought her bearings, concentrating on making sense of the clamor before venturing up. But Khar wedged through the window she’d left open a crack. Head through, Khar heaved the sash higher, the screech abrading Doyce’s senses, her nostrils dilating at the whiff of smoke. She hugged the sheet to her mouth, gagged.
“Fire! Maize! Hurry!” the ghatta balanced on the sill, face shadowed through the glass. “Arm yourself!”
Arm yourself to go fight a fire? Without elaborating, Khar dashed off, but her command jolted Doyce into action. She dredged up her pantaloons, boots, slung Jenret’s old robe around her as an overcoat. At least it covered her long bed shift, half stuffed into her waistband. Fire? Maize? The Elder Hostel on fire? Not fire, please! A harried poking around the darkened bedchamber finally unearthed her sword, its leather sheath dusty beneath her fingertips. The belt mocked her, unable to cinch around her waist when she attempted to buckle it on. Hissing with frustration, she slung it across her shoulder and pounded down the stairs and out the door.
Lights flashed in Headquarters windows, and in the distance she could make out other Seekers piling outside, running toward the brightening sky to the west. The acrid stench of smoke and burning taunted her lungs even at this distance. Praise the Lady, there was no smell of charring flesh as yet! Nothing to do but set her own pace, belly swaying rhythmically, and pray her jog trot would carry her there in time. The streets rapidly filled with clots of people, late-night revelers, half-awake, half-clothed citizens tumbling out of houses, wanting to know what was happening. Others joined her in running, passing her, colliding with her, and now the streets became further clogged, bottlenecked as people ran in the opposite direction, fleeing the fire. She slowed, a stitch crimping her side, was almost shouldered off her feet, slammed against the wall. Drawing shuddering gasps of air she calculated—a risk, yes, the streets less well-lit, more roughly cobbled and potential ankle-twisters, but if she cut through the old quarter she’d make better time by not having to fight the crowds.
