by Gayle Greeno
The larger of the two smiled, sweet and pure as a child, tugged his brother’s belt as he crept forward to examine Kharm. “I be Gilly, and this be m‘brother, Nils. I be older, ’sponsible for him.” How much could he pry out of them? And how much would be reliable? Only Kharm could judge and, so far, she continued to leave him on his own. Must mean she trusted his judgment.
“So you work at the sawmill with Flaven Pelsaert?” Take it step by step, see what transpired.
Gilly nodded with a grave enthusiasm. “Yup. Seven days each oct, one day off. Go in when the sun’s a hand-span off the ’rizon, quit when it’s a hand-span from setting. Flav taught us that so we’d know when to come.” He held his hand in front of his face to demonstrate.
“Can you remember two days ago? Not yesterday, but the day before?”
Gilly and Nils conferred, Nils whispering in his brother’s ear. “ ’Course we can!”
If either of the Twyser brothers had murdered Coornhert, it had to have been an accident, Matty was convinced. They wouldn’t hang a simpleminded man for an accident, would they? Dismayed when Matty didn’t continue, Nil rushed to share his information. “Remember ’cause it was different that afternoon. Flav left with us at quitting time. We like Flav, good man to work for.” He scanned the crowd, anxious, wanting them to know how much they liked Flaven Pelsaert.
He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to think what was coming, but he had to, no choice. And mayhap he was wrong, their information totally innocent, but knowledge was building inside him. “And Flaven usually didn’t leave with you?”
Gilly was jigging up and down, “No, we sweep up and leave’n he stays on, sharpens the saws. Leaving early, thought he meant to walk with us, pleasant. People are nice to us when Flav’s around.”
“Did Flaven walk home with you?”
Gilly’s mouth drooped. “No. Said he had to see a man about a horse.”
The crowd tittered and Nils rounded on his brother, shouting “Did not, Gilly! Said he hada see a man, Horst. You’re making ’em laugh at us!”
Kharm’s mindvoice came soft, almost remorseful. “Do you remember Flaven’s and Rema’s conversation last night?” He reached blindly, gripped the sword, knuckles whitening. Sawdust inside the house, Flaven saying at least he wasn’t late for dinner as he’d been last night. And mud, not sawdust tracked that night. No, please, no! “Ask her, you have to confirm it.”
Face averted, he struggled, a plea in his voice. “Was Flaven later than usual for dinner the night before last? Did he say where he’d been?”
An inarticulate groan of disbelief from behind him, he sensed Rema battling with herself. But before she could answer, Flaven stepped to her side, and Matty pivoted, though he couldn’t bear to look up at their faces. “I won’t have you lie for me, Rema, pervert what you hold dear, what you represent as Conciliator.” She sobbed now against Flaven’s chest. “Can’t live easy with myself either, though I thought I could. I was ready to go under one way or the other, either the mill’d fail or this.”
The crowd hung on his words and Flaven pressed on with his confession. “Aye, I killed Horst Coornhert. We’d agreed to meet at the stream, somehow didn’t want people to know I was groveling to Horst—don’t know why, we all have one time or another. Tried to convince Horst to partner me at my sawmill, expand what I already had. Why build a whole new mill except to run me into the ground? He handed me a rock, said that was as much as he’d invest in my rattle-trap old mill, and laughed at me. I ... I could have gone it alone, tried to compete with him, but that laughter drove me crazy. I hit him with the rock before I knew what I was doing. Heard Lorris coming and I ran.”
Kneeling alone, forgotten, Flaven the center of attention, bile burned Matty’s throat, tears stung his eyes. Not Flaven!
“Yes, Flaven. I’m sorry, beloved. I told you the truth would hurt.”
More words glossed over his fevered thoughts and he tried to listen, only to be sorry he had. From a depth of strength he hadn’t conceived possible, Rema stood, clutching her husband’s hand. “The penalty for manslaughter is death, those are our laws. You will hang by the neck until dead. So be it, Neu Bremeners?”
The crowd’s reaction was nothing like the other day’s when a mindless lust for justice had swept over them. Reluctant, eyes averted, faces grim at unexpected, suddenly unwanted justice, they brought the rope. The crowd parted to let Flaven and Rema Pelsaert and the rope bearers pass.
Stomach heaving, Matty staggered to his feet, barely missed throwing up on his too-tight boots. As if invisible, and he was, the crowd caring nothing for him now, he limped and ran to Rema’s house, hastily gathered his belongings. The only minor relief granted him was stripping off his boots, throwing them away, and shoving his feet into the clogs, and then he and Kharm were walking fast, faster, escaping before they were noticed. His shoulders ached, anticipating thrown stones. In the distance the crowd gave a collective gasp, and he froze, finally began walking again.
Almost to the last street, almost to the roadway, and a hand caught his shoulder, jerked him to a halt. He spun, afraid he’d be hit, ready to dodge. The blow he received wasn’t physical, but it struck with an equal force. Rema Pelsaert, eyes sunken, face a mask of pain, stood there, studying him as if he were an insect. “May I never see you again,” she whispered. “You did what you had to do, it’s not your fault, but I hate the very sight of you and that strange larchcat at your heels. Here!” And she thrust Flaven’s boots at him, still supple, still faintly warm with a life that was no more. A gift of hatred: to walk in a dead man’s boots. He clutched them, arms spasming so hard he couldn’t release them, and turned and ran, anywhere, anyplace to escape that face of sorrow, the vengeance he’d brought down on them all.
“Doyce, finished with the loom? Supper’s ’bout ready and the light must be near gone in there. Can’t see what you’re doing any longer.”
The voice, so familiar yet unfamiliar, fragmented her vision of despair, Matty’s anguished face crumpling in her mind. “Oh, Khar, ” Doyce’s voice shook at the enormity of the agony she’d participated in. “Poor Matty, poor, poor Rema! Such a harsh world he’s wandering in, no arms to welcome him. ”
“Remember, he has Kharm.” The ghatta’s ears had perked at the mention of supper. “You’re finished, aren’t you? And it’s time to eat.”
“Finished? No, I’m not finished—I have to find out what happened! I can’t leave Matty alone like that, inconsolable with grief. ”
“Doyce, I’m not calling again. Supper’s ready,” Inez warned.
Stretching one hind leg, then the other, Khar moseyed toward the kitchen. “The loom’s finished, beloved. And you need to eat, let Matty’s pain pass from you. You can’t bear it for him. He did as he was bidden—discovered the truth.”
Reluctance plain in every dragging step, Doyce crossed the room, lost somewhere between the here and now, the then and there. “I have to make sure he’s all right. Could I ... could we ...?”
“After supper.”
And wonder of wonders, Doyce found she was starving. But then, Matty’d had no lunch that day, after all.
Hylan tramped beside the goat cart, shimmering cloak of rich amber velvet flowing from her shoulders, gift from a believer in the last village. Lushly opulent, fit for a king, but damned impractical, especially when the fall rains came, and they would. Also too noticeable, and that she didn’t like. At least not yet. A glance over her shoulder revealed her admirers, the converted, still trailing in her wake, vying for the honor of drawing the goat cart if Harrap should falter or fail. The man possessed the strength and docility of an ox with the drug still coursing through his system. He seemed oblivious to their followers, adrift in his own private world, humming and smiling vaguely. Have to do something about his sandals, though, they’d nearly worn through. He was limping but completely insensible to the fact. Time enough to repair it tonight.
And at each village or hamlet more fervent believers joined the t
hrong, no matter how she begged them to stay at home and wait, wait for the summons, the burning satisfaction that she’d fought and conquered, overcome the enemy. This, this ... parade an unseemly- charade of thanksgiving, the frenzied clashing of bells, a drum heralding her arrival at the crossroad for Beechcroft. What next, psalms of celebration? A promising beginning, but too early, too soon for evil to be vanquished. They formed two neat lines behind her and marched, though some capered and danced, ecstatic with relief at what she offered—hope. Safety from Gleaners. Well, if one undertook a pilgrimage, one had to have pilgrims. At this rate she wouldn’t reach Ruysdael and the next witch hazel planting for five or six days. Worrisome, that, the crowd had lost its sense of urgency, become a stately procession.
The ghatt snored atop the cart, sprawled like a dead thing, its absurd black and orange and white splotchings dull and rumpled, although the ghatt’s stupor didn’t deter Harrap’s cheery chatter. His one-sided senseless conversation grated on her. Barnaby rode beside the ghatt, ears pricked, his stubby body blocking the ghatt if he started to slide. The dog acted despondent lately, cringing in her presence, whining, drawing away from her. That hurt. But hurt, betrayal was to be expected, welcomed. Perhaps tonight she’d be able to elude her stalwart followers, slip off and pray, do what must be done, regain the humility that slipped away when she was least looking for it to disappear. But it felt so good to be needed. Ah, to scourge herself in penance. Let this throng see her do that, and she’d invoke mass frenzy, communal whipping in blissful confidence that atonement united them, amplified their worthiness.
When would the Guardians, the Seekers, the Chief Conciliators in each town connect her visit with the disappearance of certain of its citizenry? In fact, when would they notice the puzzling absences? Time, at least, ran on her side: those she ferreted out, forked witch hazel wand unerring, were canny and reticent, difficult to trap, willing to risk much to maintain their mask.
She risked another glance at her followers, some marching with a military precision, expressions neutral, eyes watchful. As frightening in their own way as the other faces radiating a glowing, soul-deep intensity that increased her unease, fearful they mirrored her own expression. Touched her cheek warily to see if she could feel it bursting through. The marchers didn’t resemble the other followers, singing and dancing in innocent pleasure, as if her preachings, her very presence lofted them heavenward, brought them closer to the perfect, promised land secure from Resonant predations.
No, these others, the ones adorned with silver sickles pinned over a wheat shaft, Reapers, they named themselves, instilled order in the masses, did her bidding yet somehow distanced her from the believers. Still, they did whatever she asked with no demur, the instruments she’d been given, so they must serve a purpose she didn’t yet understand. Let them play their part, she wouldn’t deny them so long as their plans coincided. Yet they vanished at any sign of authority, lingered on the outskirts of towns until she’d passed through, caught up with her on the other side. Then she could shoo the dancers and musicians away, let them find food and drink, spread her word, a discreet hint here, an offhand question there. And so she subtly checked the pulse and temperature of each place, the villagers’ eyes, their walk, their whole demeanor as they passed by her, even their degree of silence, enabled her to test fertile ground, fertile minds. Her covert business came later, beyond township boundaries when they sought her out, hesitant, needy, and she the poltice to draw their pain, assuage it. For that she was always ready, she and the witch hazel rod.
When the sacrificial lambs would reveal themselves, she had no idea. Too soon to worry—all would come in good time. She rubbed at the knife sheathed at her hip, hidden by the cloak. That would be the sign that she’d attained goodness, truly favored. Perhaps they wouldn’t show themselves until the end, but to have two pure, unblemished souls to freely offer, that would be the final absolution. Perhaps they were Harrap and Parm, but she thought not, despite their goodness. They had a role in this, and might be sacrificed, but not the ultimate sacrifice. Best not to think about it, yearn for them, she herself wasn’t sanctified enough to deserve them yet. Perhaps by the last town, Roermond, the last tree planted, they would come. She’d know them, no doubt about that. If only it could be sooner.
Cape flowing about her, incongruously crowned by a dusty face, hair wiring in all directions, Hylan Crailford waved her arm in encouragement, prodded Harrap with her witch hazel wand to goad him along. He broke into a ragged trot, and she was transfixed by a trail of blood on the ground where his feet had trod. Yes, blood to drag them along, fertilize the earth, make it yield. And yes, she really had to patch that sandal for him. Or mayhap Tadj could do it tonight. How had she, when had she come to depend on him so much? Always there, hair sleeked back, neat, eager to please, he and his sickle friends, orderly, organized. A crutch, mayhap, but one she couldn’t always resist leaning upon.
He punched the awl through the tough leather, laid it aside, and worked the curved needle through. The heavy thread didn’t want to pull smoothly, so he stopped, hunted out a nubbin of beeswax, and ran it along the thread. All this for a drug-mazed Shepherd. Tadj examined his handiwork, less than satisfied. No matter where he shifted the candle stub, his hands still cast shadows over his work. He used his nail to pluck at the stitch, see if it were tight. He’d never played cobbler before, but his previous work for the tailor had taught him to appreciate good quality.
“I’ve been wondering ... you know so much more than I,” he looked through lowered lashes at Hylan, sitting across the fire from him, yet as distant as if she inhabited another world—or would like to. Rubbing his thumb over the mended leather, he decided to find a suede patch in his kit, use it as an overlay to smooth the repair. Whatever else might be said about Harrap, Tadj had to admit he had the loveliest feet he’d ever seen, the arches’ curves breathtaking. No sculptor had even carved better. “About the Spacers, I mean,” he clarified as Hylan finally looked up, rejoined their world. “Will they really return, do you think?”
She nodded magisterially. “They’ll be called back, oh, yes. They’re being called even now, so close. Just be thankful that our time isn’t theirs. I saw the evidence, you know.” Saw his puzzlement as he wrapped an overlay of suede around the sandal strap. Good, she didn’t want Harrap bleeding again, not yet. “The stabilizer fin—in the heartwood,” as if that explained everything.
It didn’t, but he decided not to press. “I’m worried.”
“Why?” That seemed to capture her attention. “Everyone sees the connection. Else they wouldn’t be here.” She flung an arm to indicate the surrounding camp fires.
“Between Gleaners and Spacers, you mean?” She d gone to check Harrap, tucked his hand under the blanket as if he were a child, drew it close.
“Yes, exactly. And, well, I’d hate for them to lose faith in you.” He jabbed the awl through the heavy sole, wriggling it until it popped through. Deceptive, the amount of force needed when it pierced so easily at first. “Most people aren’t good at leaps of faith.”
She studied him, covert and shy, taken by his blond good looks, the sharp, chiseled features so prominent in light and shadow. Reminded her of someone, but then everyone seemed to remind her of someone these days. He’d been so helpful, so solicitous. Was it wrong, sinful, to have someone to lean on? But oh, the loneliness of her burden despite her believers. “They follow me, they believe in me,” she said, suddenly sullen. “They have faith in me,” as if to imply And you don’t? Ah, she’d dealt with disappointment before.
His mouth was tight with effort, his hand clutching the awl’s knobbed end, bearing down with his full strength. “They have ... umph! ... faith that you can identify Gleaners, Resonants.”
“And if I do that, if they do their part in destroying them, there won’t be any contact with the Spacers.” Patience, like lecturing a child to learn his logic.
“I know.” He sounded peevish, put out. “I know and you know. But t
hey need something more immediate, can’t relate to a future threat that to their minds may never come.”
“If not in this life, perhaps another, as Harrap would say. Don’t fret, it will come sooner than that.” She was touched that Harrap had begun to envision her as the Lady, Her representative in the physical world. Mayhap it was sinful to style herself as such, but she relished the compliment.
He fiddled with the sandal, not entirely pleased with his handiwork. “I just don’t want to see your followers taking you and your mission for granted. Their immediate concern, their immediate panic involves Gleaners—”
“Scourge them from the land. I point my rod and divine who may pass and who may not! So sad that I must sacrifice them, but I must.” The gray eyes had come alive, lustrous, her body tense, shoulders hunched, and she gave a pleasurable shiver. Scourge, yes ... would Tadj share that with her, increase his own worthiness? She could feel the worthiness within him yearning to break free, its blinders removed. Ah, Barnaby ran now when he saw the switches. From a sound sleep the terrier’s head jerked up; he looked at her and subsided with a whimpering moan, laid his head on the ghatt.
“Will you listen, please?” He managed to turn it from a command into a plea. “I want to help so badly. Beliefs—and believers—can falter, fade away if they can’t truly envision the end goal. Without your believers to dispatch the Gleaners, what good will it do to identify them? What you need—what we need—is a middle, create true believers step by step. You have a beginning and an end, but the end’s too far distant for most to fear, perceive as clearly as you do.” A deep, earnest breath, “Most people are concerned with Now. Few are farsighted enough to think or care much beyond tomorrow, the end of an oct or octant at most. They lack the vision, the strength of purpose I’m beginning to have because of your tutelage.”
