A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  The tinkers would arrive the day after tomorrow. A roasting pit was being prepared for a side of Bannan’s ox; the meat, wrapped in moist sacking, would be left to cook till the welcome feast. In other preparation, Aunt Sybb’s elegant bays, bored and sensing their journey home, were now stabled in the Emms’ barn; come the harvest, they’d settle as willingly in harness to pull hoists as her coach. Brawl and Battle, who’d pull Davi’s cart, dozed in the Treffs’. Tomorrow, the cows and calves and Good’n’Nuf the bull would be moved from the commons to graze the orchard. Wainn’s pony always trotted eagerly in the lead, ever hopeful the villagers might have forgotten to pick the apples first. The sows and Himself would stay where they were, being gracious about sharing their space with the tinkers’ wagons and beasts, and much less so about being ousted from their wallow.

  Once the tinkers were here, clearing the fields and milling would take a hectic four days, all to be completed on the Golden Day, all including her birthday, their weddings, and, presumably, the Great Turn.

  As if this wasn’t enough to make her head spin, the very next unimaginable day, Aunt Sybb would leave for the winter, with Uncle Horst as escort. Kydd and Peggs would move into the Nalynn loft, it had been decided, and Jenn would live in . . . what? Whatever Wyll was building for them, not that anyone had seen it. Her father tried to hide his doubt, but he’d never been good at concealing his feelings, not the important ones. Aunt Sybb wasn’t much better. She threw herself into wedding preparations with alarming fervor, and conversed, when she did pause for tea, about the preparations she would have done, had they been in Avyo and had another year.

  “So you see,” Jenn finished firmly, “that was my thinking face, not a face for anyone in particular.”

  “Hmm.” Peggs said in a carefully noncommittal tone. Suddenly, she tugged the embroidery hoop from Jenn’s unresisting hands and held it to the light. “Oh no. Dearest Heart—is it that time already?”

  Jenn took the hoop back. She’d been preoccupied while she stitched, which wasn’t unusual, and couldn’t recall if she’d been doing a rose or a leaf.

  She’d sewn a pebble. A white pebble.

  Her sister was right. It was time. The sun was setting.

  The hoop fell from Jenn’s hands, to roll away on the weathered planks. A sudden cramp flamed across her middle and she doubled over with a groan she couldn’t help.

  Peggs’ arms came around her, held tight. “Heart’s Blood. Not again.”

  Again and harder to bear. “It’ll pass,” Jenn gasped, though she wasn’t sure at all. The once-vague emptiness had grown to fierce hunger pangs and now? Now her stomach might be filled with burning coals.

  “It’s getting worse. I know it is. We must tell Poppa. Aunt Sybb.”

  “No. Please. There’s nothing they can do but worry.” More than they already did.

  “Ancestors Distressed and Despairing. I’m worried enough for all of us.” Peggs got that look, the one that said she’d made up her mind. Sure enough, “You promised me, Dearest Heart, if things got worse you’d talk to Kydd. Well, they’re worse. We’ll go tonight, after supper.”

  Unable to argue, Jenn clung to her sister and nodded. The pain faded, if not the emptiness. “At least it’s not long now,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice. “Till the Great Turn.”

  “Six days,” Peggs agreed, with no more certainty than she. They trusted a voice from a dream. “Will you—can you—”

  Easier to breathe, with the pain ended. “The question is,” Jenn replied, retrieving her hoop and pulling out the offending thread, “will we finish our stitching by then?”

  She knew what Peggs had meant. Could she last?

  She must. That was all there was to it.

  Jenn gazed up the road. Tir would be coming soon. With her next letter.

  Maybe she shouldn’t think of Bannan each night, or read his letter—and reread the rest—before bed.

  But it kept that hunger at bay when nothing else could.

  “Another letter, sir?” Tir gave a doleful shake of his head. “Seems to me you wrote one yesterday.”

  “Indeed I did.” Clapping his friend on one shoulder, Bannan flourished the well-traveled envelope. “But Jenn wrote to me and I owe her an equally prompt reply.” He offered, as he had each of the previous afternoons, “I could deliver it.”

  “I’ll manage, sir.” Tir took the letter. “No reason for you to leave this grand place.”

  A breeze nipped Bannan’s ear. “This becomes tiresome.”

  “Who asked you?” Tir scowled. “Bloody beast.”

  Scourge rolled a dark eye to show red.

  “Peace, the pair of you.” As far as the truthseer was concerned, the situation had passed tiresome a week ago and was well on its way to driving him mad. But it was a delicious madness, hope-filled and inspiring, and wasn’t it almost over? “Tir’s right.” At their looks, he added innocently, “Isn’t harvest to start tomorrow?”

  “The day after, sir. If these tinkers show up. I’ve seen no sign.”

  What he’d meant was no reply from Vorkoun, which was, Bannan thought cheerfully, Tir’s problem and not his. He’d done as promised, and done it, thank you, long enough. “They’ll be here. Then I must go to the village, mustn’t I?” he asked, trying hard not to grin. “To earn my share of flour.”

  First letters, now this. Tir wasn’t one to admit defeat, but Bannan could tell from his exasperated, “Yes, sir,” that he’d won. “I’ll let you know.” Then his eyes gleamed. “Best I be going. I wouldn’t want to be late to supper at the Nalynns.”

  The truthseer bowed. “Give them my regards.” Tir might share Jenn’s table, but it was his letter she’d read tonight.

  Scourge snorted his impatience and headed off, though at a pace matched to the man’s shorter steps. Bannan stepped out on the road to watch until they passed safely beyond the path to the Spine, smiling at the sight of Tir’s hands gesturing, the kruar’s head bobbing. A pair and conversation as unlikely as Marrowdell itself.

  The day after tomorrow he’d take the same road at last, and see her dear face, instead of imagining it.

  Have her smile at him.

  She would, he thought. Smile. He felt sometimes she did, as she wrote him. Especially when she wrote what gave him hope.

  I might forgive a kiss. Or I might not. I assuredly can’t say ahead of time, since any kissing or forgiving would depend entirely on the circumstances, and such circumstances are highly unlikely to begin with . . .

  Though I do love to dance. I would dance with you, Bannan. To see how well your sister taught you, of course . . .

  I read your letters before I sleep. Within your words, I feel safe and happy, as though time isn’t rushing by and taking me with it, as though anything might truly be possible. For that, I thank you.

  He’d had his share of infatuations; Vorkoun abounded with soft skin and luscious lips, and he’d fallen in and out of love like clockwork. How could mere words on a page make his heart pound?

  Because Jenn Nalynn wasn’t to be found anywhere else. He’d looked for her all his life, without knowing what he sought.

  Not long now.

  After supper, Jenn and Peggs found Kydd Uhthoff up to his elbows in honeycomb and unsettled bees.

  Which was, Jenn thought, slowing in case the bees blamed her for their imminent losses, to be expected. It was harvest time after all; honey and wax had their season, too. Wainn stood nearby, the hive’s woven lid in his hands. Bees climbed across his eyebrows and ears and he smiled with closed lips, as though otherwise they’d be tempted to walk across his teeth.

  Not a moment to interrupt.

  Peggs, however, was undaunted. Hair bouncing on her shoulders, she marched straight to the open hive, with a brief nod to Wainn, and demanded of her future husband, “What do you know of magic?”

  Kydd, who’d been gently sweeping bees from a comb with a wide brush, looked at his future wife with a strange little smile. “I wondered when you’
d ask, Dearest Heart.”

  “You did?” Though taken aback, Peggs lost none of her momentum. “Well. I’m asking now. We need your help.”

  “I know a great deal about what purports to be magic, but isn’t,” the beekeeper answered enigmatically, and bent to coax more bees to leave. Then his eyes, keen and bright, lifted to Jenn. “Much less about what is.”

  Blood rushed to Jenn’s cheeks. Bees droned by, more busy than annoyed. A few bumped into her; most stayed on their doorstep or hovered around the beekeeper as he removed the next comb. These were cleverly suspended from bars laid across the top of the hive and, if she hadn’t been thoroughly flustered, she’d have peeked inside to look for Kydd’s books.

  A page of which she’d used. “I did some,” she confessed. “I used a wishing from one of your books.”

  Wainn glanced up and smiled. “I wrote it down and Aunt Sybb knew the words. They rhymed.”

  “I was there,” Peggs jumped in bravely. “I helped.”

  Jenn shook her head. “I did it. I threw the ash over Wisp and—and said the words.” Her lower lip trembled; she closed her teeth over it.

  “So now we have Wyll.” To Jenn’s relief, Kydd didn’t appear upset. Or surprised. “You think it was the wishing.”

  “What else could it be?” Peggs asked before Jenn could.

  “Indeed.” The beekeeper slipped the honeycomb back in the hive and pulled off his sticky gloves. “There are wishings for any hope or desperation, our Ancestors being nothing if not inventive. I recall one for abundance in a marriage,” he told them, solemn but for the twinkle in his eye, “that requires, among other things, a shellfish from the deep ocean beyond Eldad and a vial of powdered thighbone from one’s most fertile ancestor. Even today, when civilized folk proclaim they no longer believe in magic, you can buy both in the markets of Vorkoun.”

  “If you buy powdered bone,” Jenn objected, carefully not looking at her alarmed sister, “how can you be sure it’s really the thigh? Or your ancestor’s?”

  “How—you—I—” Peggs sputtered.

  “And not a cow’s?” Wainn added cheerfully.

  “Just so,” the beekeeper approved. “Such are the arguments when a wishing fails. It wasn’t the right bone. The words weren’t said properly.”

  Her sister looked about to explode. “There’ll be no magic or wishing about our wedding!”

  Kydd chuckled. “Of course not, Dearest Heart. I wouldn’t,” he assured her, with a bow, “even if I could.”

  Mollified, Peggs gave a brisk nod. “Good.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if you could?’” Jenn asked.

  “Wishings aren’t magic,” Kydd said calmly. “At best, they’re childish folly; at worst, elaborate hoaxes to take advantage of the gullible.” He gave Jenn another too bright, too interested look. “Magic’s what I found here.”

  “But—” A bee landed on Jenn’s nose and she froze midprotest.

  Other bees found Peggs more interesting, landing on her hair and arms. She held quite still, barely moving her lips to ask, “Might we continue this elsewhere?”

  “At once. My apologies,” the beekeeper said, easing a bee from Peggs’ cheek with a finger and plucking another from her hair. “See how sweet you are?” he added softly, then louder, “Give us a moment to tidy up. We are almost out of light anyway, aren’t we, Wainn?”

  Wainn replaced the lid, making the bees happier and less interested in people, sweet or otherwise. The sisters helped gather the brushes and other beekeeping supplies while the Uhthoffs locked the buckets of comb in their larder, that sweetness being too tempting to leave in the open.

  Kydd went into the home he shared with his brother and nephew, returning with a blanket, pitcher, and mugs. The blanket he and Wainn spread on a grassy spot beneath the nearest apple tree. The pitcher turned out to be filled with cooled tea, sweetened with honey, and Kydd poured as the sisters made themselves comfortable. Wainn stretched out on the grass, chin on his crossed arms, eyes closed. A moth lit on his shoulder. Jenn squinted, but saw neither satchel nor boots.

  Kydd gave a cup to Peggs, fingers lingering, then passed one to Jenn. He settled, eyes lively with curiosity. “So you did magic.”

  She tried not to wince.

  “Jenn Nalynn doesn’t do magic,” Wainn disagreed, which made her feel better. Then he added, “She is.” Which didn’t, especially when Kydd pursed his lips thoughtfully and raised his eyebrows.

  “I am not,” Jenn protested. She didn’t want to be magic. Well, it might be fine and wonderful if she could see marvels like Bannan, or do the sort of miraculous things that filled stories, but not this. Not curses and horrid dreams and feeling ill for no reason every day. “I’m ordinary,” she said desperately. “The most ordinary person in Marrowdell.” She rubbed her arms, finding the air grown chill though the day had been summer-warm. Tonight they’d need an extra blanket. Which was ordinary. She would, she decided, pay greater attention to what was.

  “Wainn meant no harm. Please don’t be upset, Jenn,” urged Kydd, sounding a bit upset himself.

  “Too late for that,” Peggs disagreed. She took Jenn’s hand and squeezed it gently. “My dear brave sister. She’s already suffering, Kydd. We must help her.”

  Jenn felt warmer at once. Who wouldn’t, with such a champion?

  “It’s more than the wishing,” Peggs explained, eyes flashing with determination. “Something’s happening. Go on, Jenn. Tell them.”

  Where to even start? Wainn kept his eyes closed, appearing almost asleep. The moth tidied its wings while bees, not the least sleepy, droned by their heads.

  The beekeeper gave an encouraging nod.

  Once you dip your toe, take the plunge, Aunt Sybb would say, no matter how chill the water. Jenn gulped tea and began, “It started when I went up on the Spine . . .”

  No one interrupted, not even a bee, though Kydd started a little when she spoke of dragons, and Wainn smiled when she spoke of Wen and the toads.

  “. . . the Great Turn, if it is the eclipse, is almost here. When anything is possible, whatever that may mean,” she finished.

  “The end of the curse,” her sister stated firmly. “And whatever’s making you sick. That, too.” As if she’d settle for nothing less.

  Kydd, perhaps well aware of his future bride’s indomitable nature, went a little pale. “I see.” His forehead furrowed. “Perhaps we should go to my brother. He knows more about eclipses and the stars than—”

  “Master Dusom?” Peggs said faintly.

  “Just Dusom, Dearest Heart. He’s to be your brother soon,” the beekeeper reminded her.

  He wasn’t yet, that look on Peggs’ face meant, but all she said was, “We came to you.”

  “And I want to help.” Kydd frowned in thought. “Jenn. This voice you heard. What can you tell me about who spoke?”

  Terrifying might be true, but not, she understood, what he was after. “Old,” she ventured. “Very old. And not—” she stopped.

  “Not what?”

  “Not like us,” Jenn said faintly. “Not—a person.”

  Wainn opened his eyes and offered a finger to the moth. It stepped confidently atop a knuckle, wings fluttering. “I hear too,” said the younger Uhthoff, eye-to-eye with the tiny creature. “Wen hears the best.”

  “Hears what?” asked Peggs. “Who?”

  He gazed at them in mild surprise. “Marrowdell.” The moth opened its wings and flew up and away. They all watched it disappear among the leaves.

  Jenn sighed to herself. No doubt Wainn had a unique view of the world, as did Wen. If only it was easier to understand.

  “I don’t understand,” Peggs echoed unwittingly. “How can a place speak?”

  “Nothing would surprise me here,” Kydd assured her, giving his nephew a fond look. Then he took a deep breath and leaned forward, an unfamiliar grimness to his face. “It’s my turn to share a secret, dear ladies. One I meant to tell you long before now,” this to Peggs.

 
; “You left a wife in Avyo?” she teased, though Jenn noticed her sister’s fingers had tightened around her cup. “Two?”

  “No.” He actually blushed. “Nothing like that. I—”

  Peggs lifted one shapely eyebrow. “You don’t like pie.”

  “I love pie,” the hapless beekeeper protested. “I—”

  “You—”

  Jenn poked her sister’s leg with a toe. Peggs feared what Kydd might say, for good reason. Marrowdell’s secrets hadn’t proved comfortable to learn, or safe. “Whatever it is,” she promised gently, “we’ll understand. Won’t we, Peggs?”

  Her sister gave the tiniest nod, her eyes troubled.

  Kydd, to his credit, looked relieved. “I’ve not lied to you, ever,” he said firmly. “You’ve already guessed I was a student, in part, of magic and wishings. Oh, I knew they weren’t real. I knew so much on the road north.” A rueful shrug. “And so very little, as it turned out.

  “Imagine my feelings when we arrived in Marrowdell. I knew there was no such thing as magic and here was an endless fountain, waiting to be needed. Homes ready to live in. Grain that planted and tended itself. Magic, real magic, springing up everywhere I looked. Magic that had nothing to do with my books or understanding. Ancestors Witness, there were even magical toads!”

  Wainn smiled.

  “Because the Ancestors provided for us,” Peggs countered, an unfamiliar edge to her voice. “That’s what your brother teaches. That’s why we gather to give the Midwinter Beholding. No one’s ever called it magic.”

  “Not even Aunt Sybb,” Jenn added, their aunt’s distrust of Marrowdell’s eccentricities being well known.

  “No,” Kydd agreed heavily. “And that’s what you need to know about me, Dearest Heart.” He shook his head. “I came here, my family shattered, Wainn injured and unconscious, and didn’t see the lovely haven everyone else did. How could I? I knew better,” this with a pained twist to his lips. “If magic was real, then so were the old stories about it. Stories that told me Marrowdell was a baited trap, that such gifts must have a terrible price.