When the badger had gone through a hole in the floor and there was nothing left of the baby but a few smears of blood, Liza sat and waited for her parents to come home. When they did, she told them about the little cat and the little dog and the horrible badger and now the baby was gone, and Liza's parents trapped the badger and even though it was horrible and big they cut it to pieces because they were bigger and the badger had eaten their baby, and not much else can be done when that happens.
Liza's parents had only Liza left to love and they tried to forgive her. But parents never forget anything, no matter how they might want to, and Liza could see them looking at her from the corners of their eyes, red-rimmed from sad thoughts and angry thoughts and all thoughts in between. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Liza would wake up and there were her parents, standing at the foot of her bed, looking down at her with all those thoughts in their eyes and all Liza could do was roll over and go back to sleep.
Then one night she woke up and she was alone in her room, and she climbed out of bed and she was alone in the house, and she went into the yard and she was alone out there, and the moon shone down blue and white and no one was there but Liza. And Liza knew that she'd be alone until she found a new baby for her parents to love, so she dressed herself and set out into the world.
The first house she came to, there was a baby, pink and new and all that, sitting right in the front yard, and no one there to keep it safe and sound. So Liza came sneaking into the yard, creeping under bushes and standing behind trees. But she stepped on a twig, snap, and the baby's mother came out of the house and picked the baby up, looking this way and that, but Liza hid beneath the rose bushes and the baby's mother saw no one, no one at all.
The next house she came to, there was a baby, pink and new and all that, playing with blocks on the front porch, and no one there to keep it safe and sound. So Liza snuck up to the porch, crawling through the tall grass, climbing slowly up the wooden steps. But one step gave out a squeak, and the baby's father came out of the house and picked the baby up, looking this way and that, but Liza had slunk beneath the porch itself and looked up at the man's boots through the cracks between the boards, and the baby's father saw no one, no one at all.
The next house she came to, there was a baby, pink and new and all that, sucking milk from a bottle on the living room floor, and Liza could see through the window there was no one there to keep it safe and sound. So Liza went creeping up the wall and squeezed between the window and the windowpane—because by now her fingers had grown strong and slender from all the creeping and crawling she'd had to do—and this time nothing made a sound at all, and Liza picked up the baby and ran out the front door, letting it slam with a bang behind her, because it was too late for any mother or father to do anything about it.
Well that was easy enough, thought Liza to herself, now that I know how to do it why shouldn't I bring two babies back to my parents, maybe two babies would make them twice as happy, maybe three babies would triple their joy, maybe four babies would make them happier than any mother and father should be and they'd have happiness to share with Liza as much as with the babies, maybe Liza could be happy too and wouldn't be so careless all the time.
You'd think so many babies all stuffed in a bag would wail and cry and drive anyone who wasn't their mother mad from the noise of it, but these were strangely cheerful babies, for Liza wouldn't steal a cranky baby. Cranky babies have a sour smell, it comes from the tears that get caught in the corners of their eyes. Even their parents can't smell it, but after she made one mistake Liza knew the difference. She made no more mistakes after that one. All her former carelessness had fallen away as she devoted herself to her chosen task. But one can only carry so many babies before they begin to feel heavy, so Liza finally stopped when she had eleven, eleven cheerful babies, pink and new and all that, and when she opened the bag eleven cheerful faces smiled up at her and she smiled back. But it wasn't a cheerful smile; it was a diligent smile, the smile of a girl who knows her day's work is done.
So she went back to her house and there was no one there, so she put one of the babies in this room, and one of the babies in that one, and one of the babies in another, and then two of the babies here and two more there and soon the whole house was scattered with babies, all of them cheerful and cooing like doves, cooing like her own little baby brother once had cooed. And maybe it was the cooing or maybe they had just come back from the market, but Liza's mother and father came in the front door and saw all the babies and they smiled. When she saw that smile, peeking out from under the chair where she'd hidden, Liza thought all would be well. Then her parents wished their own little Liza was there, and Liza slipped out from under the chair and showed herself to her parents. But Liza didn't know that her eyes had grown bulbous from looking in windows, and her nostrils had spread wide from smelling out cranky tears, and her skin had grown pale from creeping in the night air, so now she looked more like a bat or a monkey than the little girl she truly was. Her mother picked up a broom and her father pulled a poker from the fireplace. Liza opened her mouth, but she'd spent so much time being quiet, she could only whisper, “I'm here, I'm here, your own little Liza is right in front of you."
Well, who would listen to a monkey or a bat and they chased poor Liza out of the house and pelted her with rocks and bricks and old potatoes until Liza ran so far they couldn't see her any more. So Liza set off across the world, looking for more cheerful babies, hoping to find one baby who will coo soft like a dove and set the world back the way it was. But the world isn't made to go back, so Liza will look and look forever.
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The Enchanted Trousseau
Deborah Roggie
Mothers worry about their daughters. There are so many things that can go wrong before a young woman comes into her own. And you can't be there for everything, much as you'd like to. Still, when your daughter announces her intention to marry a powerful wizard—about whom you know next to nothing—what's a mother to do?
Get sewing.
After all, a girl needs a trousseau.
Our daughter Gerinet had grown up a little wild, a little spoiled. The only girl among three brothers (Dran and Jerret still lived at home; my eldest was married with a small farm of his own down the road), she loved the outdoors, looked after our horses, and helped on the farm. But Gerinet had no interest in the domestic arts, and in this her father backed her. Why make her learn to scrub and sew and cook when his pretty girl would make a fine marriage someday, and need never lift a finger? Didn't I already have a hired girl to help with the work? Many's the angry word Owit and I had on the subject. And Gerinet would take advantage of her father's weakness for her, peck him on the cheek, and skip off, laughing at having bested me again.
Just wait and she'll come around, I told myself. Mothers and daughters are often at odds during the growing-up years. Some day she'll have a household of her own and want to learn how to run it. There was time. So I never got a fair chance to teach her housekeeping, nor the secret art beneath—the spells and recipes that were her heritage.
On market days Owit took her with him, especially if I wasn't of a mind to endure six jouncing miles over rutted roads. Gerinet fair danced to go to town, as any girl would. Upper Tiswick was really just a little country village with a weekly market, an inn, and less than a dozen shops. There she could giggle and whisper with the other girls, and mock and moon over the boys, and sigh over pretty ribbons and bolts of cloth and bits of lace. I sympathized: I was the same at her age.
But it was there the wizard saw her, this Carac Frye, from somewhere up north in Mosria, Owit told me later. This wizard watched Gerinet, and liked what he saw (as who would not?): a round, fair face, a little brown from working in the sun, a graceful figure, sparkling green eyes. Once Carac Frye decided he wanted her, he cozied up to Owit over a mug of ale and flattered him this way and that, seasoning his words with a bit of magic, no doubt, until my poor husband came to fe
el like a brother to him.
This Carac had another advantage, good as a knife in one's boot: he was handsome. Oh, there's no denying he was fine to look at!—with thick, dark hair and soulful eyes, and a lopsided, boyish grin. He gazed at Gerinet with those dark eyes, and before long she felt him watching her.
Not a word did they tell me, Owit and Gerinet, about the tall young wizard coming to the market three weeks in a row. Not a word about Owit looking the other way while the two young ones courted among the market stalls. Not a word, until the young man offered, and Gerinet accepted, and Owit put his hand on the bargain, fool that he was.
"But, Alrea, he's a wealthy man, a wizard, with land up north,” pleaded Owit.
"And do you have more than his word on that?"
"They all know him at the market. He comes there regular. Cy Reskit will vouch for him."
"Cy Reskit would vouch for any man who buys his beer,” I said.
"Besides, it's obvious he loves our daughter."
I faced him, my hands on my hips. “You know nothing about this man,” I said. “Who are his kin? What kind of people are they?"
"Mother, I'm not marrying his kin,” Gerinet said.
"That shows how little you know about marriage."
"Mother!"
"Girl,” said Owit heavily, “let me talk to your mother alone."
We argued back and forth: I got nowhere with him. Finally, Owit pounded the wall with his fist and bellowed, “Woman, that's enough! I've given my word, and there will be no more argument!"
He left a hole in the plaster.
* * * *
I could see all my words and warnings were wasted on them both: especially on Gerinet, who was far gone with imagining herself a wizard's wife, with a house of her own and no mother's interfering ways. No one to tell her to mend her skirt, nor to make up the beds, nor when she could come or go. And Carac Frye's dark eyes and lopsided grin and boyish hair all her own.
It was bitter medicine to me, to see how little power I had in my own household. I wondered what hold this wizard had over my husband and daughter. It was time to meet him. I bit my tongue and cleaned my house.
So Carac Frye came to dinner, with his most charming manners reserved for me, the obstacle between him and his desire. “You have a lovely house, Mistress Alrea,” he said, glancing at the polished brass and pewter, the trim linens, the spotless floor. My two boys were as well-scrubbed as the hearthstone.
"You are kind to say so,” I replied. I could smell magic on him like bitter smoke clinging to clothing. Of course, you'd have to expect that of a wizard, it being his stock in trade. But he would not cloud my judgment so easily.
"Gerinet and I will try to make our home together as much like this as possible, won't we?” Gerinet nodded as if she had every domestic skill ready to put into service. The boys managed not to snort.
"I thought you already had a house in Mosria,” Jerret said.
"I do."
"A fine stone house,” said Gerinet, “with a tower for studying the stars, fit for a wizard."
"That is so,” said Carac Frye.
Dinner was more of the same. Compliments over the fish baked in a salt crust, over the bread, the sheep's milk cheese, the apple tarts. He wanted me to like him, and he wanted it too much. The more he tried, the less I liked him.
Owit drank it all in—the flattery, the admiration for his taste, the esteem for his foresight, the deference to his opinions. What trim sheepfold gates, what a wise choice of breeding stock, what well-thought out plans for rotating crops! This is what a son-in-law should be, my husband's expression told me.
My silence made him uncomfortable. With a nervous eye cast my way, Owit asked, “So, Carac, this wizardry. . . . Is it a solid profession?"
"Oh, yes, it can be. Some wizards never settle down, I'll grant you that. I'm not the wandering type, though—I'm happiest in my tower, pursuing my studies."
"What you do, then, is study the stars?"
"Yes."
"And what do they tell you?” demanded Jerret, his curiosity getting the better of his manners.
"Many things.” Frye leaned forward, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. “When to set a cornerstone, and how far the spring floods will spread. Where to find the hidden entrance to the Koraltar mines. Who will inherit the duchy of Turing, where the current duke is childless and civil war is brewing. The stars predict the rise and fall of kingdoms, if only one can understand their language. I've studied their movements for years. In fact,” he leaned back with a smile, “they told me where to look for Gerinet."
"They did?” she asked, simpering. Owit smiled broadly. I sighed.
My youngest, Dran, spoke up, less interested in romance than in magic. “Do you think you could show us a spell?” he asked. “I mean, is that something you could do here?"
"Dran!” Gerinet was appalled, but Carac Frye grinned.
"Of course.” He turned to my husband. “A small demonstration, sir, with your permission."
Owit beamed apprehensively. “Certainly, certainly, of course!"
"If Mistress Alrea does not object."
All eyes turned to me: Dran, pleading; Owit, embarrassed; Jerret, curious to see what I'd do; Gerinet, trembling on the brink of hostility. And as the young wizard looked at me, I had the odd sense that he was measuring me for a small box in his workroom, where he kept the dried and powdered remains of people who got in his way.
I smiled. “I think a small demonstration would be in order,” I said.
Carac Frye tilted his head, and suddenly Gerinet started, and exclaimed in a soft voice, “Now, where did you come from?"
She was addressing a spot on the table in front of her.
"What do you see?” said Dran.
"Don't you see it?” She pursed her lips and made a tck-tck-tck-tck sound. And it seemed as if a shadowy form did hop on the table—a small yellow bird, with black and white markings on the head, wings, and tail. Owit could see it, and the boys could, too. I found the more I believed in the bird, the brighter and more colorful it became. But when I reminded myself that it was an illusion, it faded until I could see the table through it.
Gerinet coaxed the bird to hop on her finger. It perched there prettily, tilting its head; then it suddenly bobbed forward and pecked her cheek. Gerinet recoiled with a shriek. Carac Frye snapped his fingers and the bird flew three times around the room, squawking, then crashed head-first into the mantelpiece. It disappeared with an explosion of feathers. Each feather that fell to the floor turned into a little yellow-and-gray striped snake that slithered across the hearth right into the hot ashes, with a blue sizzle and tiny cries of pain, followed by the smell of scorched flesh.
Gerinet sat there with her hand over her mouth, wide-eyed. “You must remember, my dear, it was only an illusion,” the wizard said. A small line of blood trickled down her cheek from where the bird had pecked her. Carac Frye dabbed at the blood with his napkin, then took her hand, smiling his boyish lopsided smile, and she nodded slowly, as if in a dream.
The boys looked sick; Owit was dazed. I found I was shaking. A wizard's illusion is like a signature: it tells you something about the basic nature of the illusionist. This Carac Frye was powerful, inventive, and cruel. I had more than met my match.
* * * *
That night, I planned Gerinet's trousseau.
There was not much time: the two were to be married in a scant five weeks. Carac Frye needed to travel home, make preparations for his bride, and return after the first hard frost. Then they would marry and make their bridal trip while the ground was hard and traveling easy, before the first snows.
I sewed, day and night, to be in time for the wedding. To everyone's dismay, I put Gerinet in charge of the kitchen. I only had time and energy for my needle.
I fashioned patterns and cut out the pieces for chemises, for aprons, dresses, capes, tablecloths, napkins, linens, petticoats, surcoats, bodices, collars, shawls, skirts, and sleeves. I pinned se
ams and sewed them, trimmed and tacked and fitted and stitched and hemmed, until I had a substantial pile of linens and clothing.
At the other end of the house, a string of disastrous meals tumbled out of the kitchen, one after the other. The boys complained. Owit looked grim. The bread was burnt, the eggs scorched, the milk gone sour, the roasts tough and stringy.
While I sewed, Gerinet confronted me with flour in her hair and grease on her apron.
"You don't like him."
"I barely know him."
"Mother, don't dodge my question."
"That was a question?"
Gerinet tossed her head. A cloud of flour exploded around her.
"Why don't you like him?"
The needle slipped and stabbed my finger. I grimaced and put it in my mouth and tasted blood. Gerinet waited.
"I don't know him. He shows up and suddenly he's taking my daughter away to who knows where—a house in Mosria somewhere, with a stone tower. Where's that? No one knows him, knows his family. What's his hurry?"
"We're in love!"
I shook my head in disgust. “Another illusion."
Gerinet exclaimed, “I don't believe you were ever in love!” and flounced out.
That hurt. I thought it would be obvious that, after twenty-two years of marriage, four children living and two buried, I still loved my husband. How could Gerinet not see it? Owit was stubborn and generous, tender, taciturn, passionate and teasing. He could be bitter about his failures. But he was my foundation. I saw him whole, and loved him whole.
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 14 Page 12
