He looked about for Taya, but didn’t see her. Then the crowd parted slightly and she stood alone for a brief moment. Fire bathed her in yellow and orange, and to Jareth, she looked like the sun come to life. Perhaps feeling his gaze, Taya turned slowly. Their eyes met and her lips curved in a slight smile. Summoning his courage, Jareth stepped forward and—
A small hand curled trustingly around his. He looked down to see little Altan beaming up at him.
“Guess what, Jareth? The huskaa of Two Lakes heard me singing and playing this afternoon and he has agreed to take me on as a huskaa-lal!”
This was a high honor and at any other time, Jareth would have been thrilled for Altan. But tonight…He glanced up.
Taya was gone. The stab of disappointment was surprising in its keenness.
“Jareth?” Altan tugged on his hand. Jareth forced a smile.
“That’s wonderful, Altan. I’m very proud of you. You have a lot of talent and you’ve worked very hard. You’re going to make a fine huskaa.” The words were true and he tried to sound like he meant them. He must have succeeded, for Altan’s brow unfurrowed and he beamed up at his friend.
“Come and sit!” Altan urged. “He’s starting to play. I want to be just like him when I grow up. And just like you, too.”
Jareth’s heart melted. It was always hard to resist Altan. Somehow, he always felt he owed the Lukkari family a debt for their lost daughter, although Paiva had assured him that his presence at Altan’s birth had not been responsible for Ilta Lukkari’s death. Indeed, Altan’s mother claimed loudly and repeatedly that it was “the Spring-Bringer’s presence” that had graced Altan with life and talent.
What did it matter if he sat and listened to songs all evening? Taya was nowhere to be seen. Jareth sighed, found a spot on one of the logs provided as seats, pulled Altan into his lap, and decided to make the best of it.
The huskaa was worth listening to. He went through a repertoire of standard songs, some merry, some sad. Jareth thought he had never heard the Ice Maiden song cycle, “Circle of Ice,” performed so powerfully. As the evening wore down, Altan did too. He was asleep in Jareth’s arms by the time the performer turned to more adult themes. As he listened to one of the singer’s original compositions, written specifically for this night, Jareth grew wistful.
The golden turns to purple;
The purple fades to gray.
Come leave the darkling fields behind
To the dying of the day.
Come rest thy weary body
Beside the fire’s light,
For the harvest has been gathered in
And we celebrate tonight.
Behold our table laden
With fruit of tree and vine.
Partake of golden wheaten bread
And taste the sweet red wine.
Our larder’s filled with winter stores,
A fair and welcome sight,
For the harvest has been gathered in
And we celebrate tonight.
I’ll rub thy weary shoulders,
And lie with thee till dawn.
Perhaps tonight we’ll sow the seed
For a harvest later on;
A child born in nine month’s time
To be raised in love and light—
For the harvest has been gathered in
And we celebrate tonight.
Jareth’s thoughts turned to Taya. Others were pairing off, leaving the ring of firelight or sitting holding hands. The harvest was about bounty and family, about facing the coming darkness and deprivation of winter together. And once again, he would be alone.
The winds blow crisp and cold now,
The mighty trees are bare.
Aye, Summer sweet has breathed her last,
But we shall not despair.
Though winter looms before us,
Our love burns ever bright,
For the harvest has been gathered in
And we celebrate tonight.
For the harvest has been gathered in,
And we celebrate tonight.
There was a soft smattering of applause. The huskaa nodded his thanks and went into another equally soft, sweet song. Jareth rose, carrying Altan. The little boy shifted and his arms went around Jareth’s neck.
Jareth went to Altan’s house and lay the boy down on his pallet. Altan woke up briefly. Sleepily he said, “I love you, Jareth.”
“I love you too,” Jareth said, stroking the child’s soft golden hair and pulling the blanket around him. “Now sleep, little one.”
The cool, crisp air tingled through his body when he stepped outside. Jareth gazed up at the stars, tiny dots in the enormous black sky, and when his feet took him down the path toward the recently harvested fields, he was not surprised. If he could not be with Taya, he wanted to be with the land, to sit on the cold soil, and help it prepare for winter. And, he had to admit, to glean what comfort he could from it.
His sure strides faltered. Someone was here before him, sitting quietly on a blanket, a cloak wrapped around her. The moon was bright, and he recognized the face that turned toward him.
“I thought you’d eventually come here tonight,” Taya said.
Jareth opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Taya patted the space beside her on the blanket and Jareth sat. He felt the warmth of her body where his knee touched hers. His mind raced, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.
“How is Vikka doing?” he finally managed.
“She’s fine,” Taya replied, chuckling a little. “Brags to all her little friends about how the Spring-Bringer rescued her.”
“I’m just glad I could help. The woods can be dangerous after nightfall.” He mentally kicked himself. What a foolish thing to say. Everyone knew that.
An awkward silence fell. He wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, breathe in her scent of flowers and sunlight, see what her body looked like when it was clad only in the moon’s pale glow. But he couldn’t move.
Finally, she said, “I had hoped you would have occasion to return to Two Lakes before now.”
He turned to look at her, his heart beating even faster. “I had hoped so too,” he said. “Or that you might have cause to come to the valley.”
She turned toward him. Her face was a white oval in the moonlight. “I’m here now.”
Jareth was having trouble breathing. “Taya…”
“Do you like the blanket?”
He blinked. “What?”
“The blanket. I made it myself.” She hesitated, then said, “I made it for you. If you will accept it.”
She was offering a bride price. He suddenly recalled standing in front of the blazing bonfire a few hours ago, and tossing in his sheaf with the silent prayer of being free from doubt. Like a weight physically lifted from his shoulders, he felt all uncertainty vanish. He knew what he wanted…who he wanted.
“It’s lovely,” he said, with the words accepting her offer of marriage. “You honor me. Thank you.”
He reached for her hand and closed his fingers over it. Impulsively, he pressed it gently down into the earth, over the cool soil, the bits and pieces of harvested wheat.
“Do you feel anything?” he asked. He hoped…
She smiled. “Only your hand on mine,” she said. Then, intensely, she asked, “Jareth…what do you feel when you do this?”
Haltingly, he said, “I feel the earth. The living things it sustains. All of it, all at once. Like some great giant heartbeat.” The words sounded foolish in his ears, and yet at the same time they failed to capture even the smallest fragment of the sensations that coursed through him when he permitted himself to open to them.
Her hand was still beneath his, on the ground. Slowly, she lifted it and curled her fingers around his. She raised their entwined hands and placed them between her breasts.
“Now what do you feel?” she whispered.
“A heartbeat,” he said, his voice also dropping into a hushed tone. His lips were dry and he spre
ad his fingers, trying to press his palm to her heart, feeling it fluttering in her tiny rib cage like a small bird. As he did so, he suddenly became aware of how dirty his hand was. Ashamed, he tried to pull back.
“I’m sorry, my hands—”
“No,” she whispered. “Your hands are beautiful. And mine are dirty, too.”
He wanted to look into her amazing eyes again, but the moon’s light only seemed to cast shadows on her face.
“I can’t feel what you feel,” she said, “but I know your ability means more to you than just controlling when the spring and autumn come. More than providing good crops. Do you know what’s in this pouch around my neck, Jareth?”
Blood hammered in his ears, raced through his body, made him ache for her. He shook his head.
“The flower you gave me this summer,” Taya said. “I saw you wince when you plucked it. I know you felt it die, yet you were willing to do that in order to give it to me. Of course I cherished it.”
She knew. She understood. She couldn’t share it with him—he now reluctantly realized that no one could—but she understood what this power meant to him.
“I fell in love with you at that moment,” she whispered, leaning in to him. Slowly, as if drawn, he bent forward. His hand still on her heart, their lips met.
He kissed her gently, tenderly, exploring, savoring. Her lips were as soft as the petals of the flower that had given up its life for her, as sweet as honey from the comb. He moved his hand from her heart to run his fingers through her hair, trail them along the back of her neck. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her into his lap.
“You’re so little,” he whispered, marveling. “I can hold all of you just like this.”
“Keep holding me,” Taya whispered, and reached up to touch his face. He pressed a kiss against her questing hand, then tangled his fingers in her long, soft blond hair and pulled her mouth to his. How long they stayed together, locked in that kiss, Jareth neither knew nor cared. When they broke apart, he was trembling and breathing heavily.
He could see her eyes now; they caught and held the moonlight, like twin lakes. She gazed up at him rapturously, one little hand reaching to stroke his cheek, his lips.
“You’re so beautiful,” Taya said, amazement in her voice.
Jareth chuckled. “I’m supposed to say that.”
“Then say it.”
Her finger ran across his lower lip. He opened his mouth and caught the finger, biting very gently. She gasped softly. He let it go.
“You are beautiful, Taya. Since the day we met, I’ve done nothing but think about you. Dream about you. I don’t want to be without you ever again.”
“You don’t have to.”
He reached for her and she closed her eyes, anticipating another kiss, but instead he removed the little pouch from around her neck. She had spoken truly; the flower, carefully preserved, was contained within. With gentle fingers he withdrew it. As he touched it, the brown, dried leaves uncurled and became green again, the petals swelling with new life.
“What are you—”
“Shhh,” he said, easing her down onto the blanket she had woven for him. Gently, he began to stroke her with the blossom, following each delicate brush of petal or leaf with a soft kiss. Taya closed her eyes and whimpered softly.
Taking his time, Jareth stroked and kissed her face, her ears, the hollow of her throat; her hands, the sensitive insides of her wrists and elbows; trailed flower and lips along ankle, calf and thigh, over covered belly and breasts. Gods, how he wanted this woman. Wanted her here, under the moon, on the good earth covered with the last of the wheat’s harvest. Wanted her in his bed, wrapped in the blanket she had made, their bodies warm and supple and heedless of the winter’s chill. Wanted her in the shadowed, scented forest, in the sunlit meadows.
Wanted her forever.
Abruptly she sat up, shocking him by removing her over-tunic, leaving only the soft, translucent underdress between them. He could see the dark circles of her nipples beneath the white fabric as she moved.
Before he could react, Taya surprised him again by leaning forward to tug off his shirt. Delighted by her boldness, Jareth assisted her. The autumnal night air ought to have been chill on his naked torso, but he burned with a heat that banished any cold. He gasped as she explored him. He let her take the lead, though his hands and lips ached to caress her. She put both hands on his chest and pushed lightly.
“Move off the blanket. Lie on the earth,” she said, her voice a husky growl. “Feel it. Take it into you, my love.”
The request moved him deeply. But before he obeyed, he leaned forward and pulled off Taya’s underdress. She sat proudly in front of him, her skin gleaming like a swan in the moonlight. She made no attempt to cover herself and his hands moved as if of their own will to cup her breasts, white and soft as down, the tips hard as pebbles against the palms of his hands. Her head fell back and she moaned, softly, sweetly, the sound inflaming him further.
Slowly, he lay on the cool soil, pulling her with him, crushing her small, perfect breasts to his chest and forcing her mouth open with his tongue. He felt the cold earth, the sharp pricks of dried and broken stalks stabbing into his back, the hardness of small stones, and the discomfort was exquisite pleasure. He let the essence of the earth fill him. His skin tingled and he felt more open, more exposed, more receptive and aroused than he had ever felt before.
Taya undulated against him, her movement delightful torment. Unable to wait any longer, Jareth slid a hand between their bodies and freed himself from the confinement of his breeches. Taya gasped as she felt him press against her and she pulled back for a brief moment. Cool air rushed to fill the space between them.
Jareth gritted his teeth. He had never wanted a woman as badly as he wanted this tiny slip of a girl, never felt as dizzy with desire as he did now, with the deep, endless support of the earth at his back and this woman in his arms. He forced himself to stay still, wanting Taya to make the ever so slight movement that would bring him fully inside her, fighting the urge to thrust upward into her wet warmth. She leaned down and her hair fell in a soft curtain on his chest. Shaking, he brushed it back with hands that seemed huge against her tiny face.
“Don’t leave me!” The words were raw, almost physically ripped from him, and he knew he was speaking to both Taya and the earth upon which he lay.
“Never,” Taya whispered against his mouth, and the earth echoed: Never. And Jareth believed them both.
“Do you feel it?”
Struck dumb again at her insight, he nodded. The power of his profound union with the earth was coursing through him and the sensations were almost overwhelming.
“Good,” Taya whispered. “Now,” she said, lifting her hips slightly and then slowly, sweetly, taking his hardness into her, “make love to me.”
They were married before the first snowfall.
4
Taya held her newborn son to her breast while Annu spun in the corner. The fire crackled, Altan sat beside it strumming his kyndela and humming, and Jareth stood looking out the window at the cool blue and white hues of snow. He didn’t think he had ever been quite so content.
Twenty springs had passed since he had felt the call that lured him down from his favorite tree to dig his fingers into icy soil and call forth the rebirth of life. And thirteen summers had blossomed and faded since he and his wife had first coupled passionately in the autumn field, the harvest moon shining upon them and the good earth blessing them. She had conceived, either that night or shortly thereafter, and had been with child by the time Paiva had formally wed them. Nine months later, as the song performed by the huskaa of Two Lakes had suggested might happen, lovely Annu had come into the world.
No father could have doted on a daughter more, and it was entirely due to her own innate good sense that Annu was not thoroughly spoiled. She had her mother’s beauty, level head, and sense of humor, and her father’s height and love for the natural world. Another blessing had com
e their way a few weeks ago, when Parvan had been born. Paiva was no longer with them to bring the little boy into the world; she had passed five years ago and now her former apprentice had that solemn yet joyful duty.
When Altan’s parents, too, had passed, he had all but become a part of Jareth’s family, coming for visits as short as half a day and sometimes as long as two or three days. Jareth already looked upon the huskaa as a baby brother. And who would not wish to have a huskaa on hand, willing and able to provide music soothing or merry as the occasion demanded? Besides, Annu was a young woman now, having celebrated her first blood moon. Taya thought that the two youngsters would be a natural and wonderful match, and encouraged the eighteen-year-old Altan to spend time with the girl. And most of the time Jareth agreed, although Altan was subject to occasional dark moods that rendered the normally pleasant youth sullen and brooding.
“He’s eighteen and he’s blessed with talent,” Taya said once. “Of course he’s moody.”
Jareth had burst into startled laughter, and even now the memory of the exchange made him smile. Jareth thought about his good life as the snow continued to fall. It’s almost time.
“I will tell Ivo that it will be soon,” he said, turning to look over his shoulder at his family. “Five, perhaps six days. The land is ready to be awakened from its slumber.”
In truth the land was more than ready, but the headman always wanted a few days’ notice so he could send messengers to nearby villages. Jareth had long since resigned himself to the fact that when the Kevat-aanta brought spring, it was an occasion. Ivo noticed that when people came for the event, they tended to bring items to trade and make a celebration out of it, and who was Jareth to begrudge his fellow villagers some laughter and a chance to trade for baubles or foodstuffs?
He turned his attention back to the snow as it fell, and suddenly, for no reason he could discern, felt a shiver run down his spine. For the first time since the feel of Taya’s warm body pressing against his had banished his fear, he tasted the old, bitter tang of worry.
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