We have a saying, an ancient one: “Don’t get mad; get even.” It stayed my hand when I was young enough to mind such nonsense, and now I would not stoop the distance necessary to get even. But it still rankles at times. As when a skinny guardmaid bellows out at me before all the world, “Well met. Responsible of Brightwater!”
“Well met yourself,” I said, “and why not good morrow while we’re at it?”
“Beg your pardon?” She had a slack jaw, too, and it dropped, doing nothing to improve the general effect.
“As should you,” I said crossly. “The year is 3012, and well met went out with the chastity belt and the spindle.”
“I have a spindle,” she said to me, all sauce, but she must not of cared for the expression on my face; she left it at that.
“What’s your name, guardmaid?” I asked her while I waited for the idea to reach her brain that someone should be notified of my arrival.
“Demarest, I’m called. Demarest of Wommack.”
Demarest ... it was a name that had no associations for me, and she was far from home.
“Would you tell the McDaniels I’m here, Demarest of Wommack?” I asked her, giving up. No doubt the McDaniels, like myself, were having trouble finding Castle staff that could even begin to meet the minimum needs of their jobs. It made me sorry, at times, that robots were forbidden to us. True, they were me first step toward a population that just lay around and got fat and then died of bone laziness; I understood and approved the prohibition. But they would of been so useful for some things. Pacing off the boundaries of a kingdom, for instance, which had to be done on foot, every inch of it ... and letting people into Castles.
She looked at me out of the corner of blue eyes under straight-cut coppery bangs, and she tugged at the bellpull hanging at her right hand, and in due course the Castle Housekeeper appeared and opened the front doors to me. She did not, I’m happy to say, tell me I was well met; but she called stablemaids to take away the Mule and unload my saddlebags. and she showed me into a small waiting room where a fire burned bright against the February chill. And she saw to it that someone brought me a glass of wine and a mug of hearty soup.
I settled my complicated skirts and maddening trousers, and drank my soup and wine, and soon enough the arched door opened and in came Anne of Brightwater, my kinswoman and a McDaniels by marriage, to greet me.
“Law!” she said from the doorway, looking me up and down. She was blessed with a plain name and plain speech both, and I envied her the first at least.
“Look like a spectacle, don’t I?” I acknowledged.
“My, yes,” said Anne.
“I’m supposed to,” I said. “You should see my underwear.”
She agreed to forego that experience, and came and sat down and stared at me, shaking her head and biting her lower lip so as not to laugh.
“Well, Anne?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve good reasons,” she said, “and I have sense enough not to want to know what they are. But I’ll wager not a single Granny saw you leave in that getup, or more than your boots and your gloves would be rosy red.”
I chuckled; I expected she was right.
“Welcome, Responsible of Brightwater,” said Anne then, “and how long are we to have the misery of your company?”
Plainer and plainer speech.
“Can you put me up for twenty-four hours, sweet cousin?”
“In the style you’re decked out for?”
“If you mean must there be dancing in the streets, Anne, no, I’ll spare you that.”
“What, then? You didn’t just ‘drop in’ on your way to buy a spool of thread somewhere.”
Anne pulled her chair near the fire, folded her arms across her chest, fixed her attention on me, and waited.
“I, Responsible of Brightwater,” I recited, “am touring the Twelve Castles of Ozark, Castle by Castle, in preparation for the Grand Jubilee of the Confederation. Which is—as you’ll remember—to be convened at Castle Brightwater on the eighth day of this May. And I begin here, dear cousin, to do you honor.”
“And because Castle McDaniels is closest.”
“And,” I capped it, “because a person has to begin somewhere. There is one advantage; if I start with you, then it follows that you’re first done with me.”
“Ah, yes,” she sighed, “there is that.”
She leaned back in her chair and sighed again, and I tried to keep my spurs from making holes in her upholstery.
“What’s required?” she asked me.
“One party,” I said. “A very small one. In honor of my tom; you know. In honor of my Quest.”
“In honor of the Pickles.”
“The Pickles? Anne!”
On Earth, we are told in the Teaching Stories, there was a food called pickles, made out of some other food called cucumbers. On this world, Pickles are small flat squishy round green things, and they bite. They certainly are not good to eat, even in brine, and we grant them a capital letter to keep the kids mindful not to step on them barefoot.
“Well,” said Anne of Brightwater, “it’s just as sensible.”
“It would be just as well,” I said, “not to mention the Pickles in your invitations.”
“Responsible, dear Cousin Responsible. I despise parties. I always have despised them, and you know it. Why don’t you be too tired, instead?”
The fire crackled in the fireplace, and a nasty wind howled round the Castle walls, and I knit my brows and glared at her until she sighed one more time and went away to give the necessary orders. My mention as she stepped into the hall that she’d best expect a comset film crew did nothing for her expression, but she went on; and I got myself out of my spurs and hung them over a comer of her mantel.
There could be no treason here—and that was what all this foolishness in fact amounted to, of course, plain treason—not in Castle McDaniels. The Brightwaters and the McDaniels had been closer than the sea and its shore ever since First Landing, and if there was anyone in this Castle who was not kin to me by birth or by marriage, or tied to me by favors given and received, it was some ninny such as stood guardmaid. Nevertheless, a Quest was a Quest, and it had to be done according to the rules. I had had a boring flight, tooling along through the air and waving to passing birds; and I would have a boring supper with Anne’s boring husband, and then we would all have a boring party and be boringly exhausted in the morning. And then before lunch I would be able to lake my leave for Castle Purdy.
At which point a thought struck me, and I pulled my map from my pocket and unfolded it. Upper right-hand comer of the pliofilm, the small continent Marktwain, with the Outward Deeps off its coasts to the east. To the south of Marktwain, Oklahomah, a tad bigger. To the west, and dwarfing both, the continent of Arkansaw, with little Mizzurah almost up against its western coast and sheltered some from the Ocean of Storms by its overhang to the north. Then across the Ocean of Storms, in the northwest corner of my map, was Kintucky, big as Oklahomah but with only the Wommacks to manage the whole of it. And last of all, filling the southwest corner; the huge bulk of Tinaseeh, the only one of our continents to have an inland sea, and its Wilderness Lands alone as big as either Kintucky or Oklahomah. And the empty Ocean of Remembrances, filling all the southeast comer.
True, the most obvious route, and the one I had described to me by arguesome Jubal, was straight over to Arkansaw. But Arkansaw was shared by Castles Purdy and Guthrie and Farson. And those were three of the most likely to have something to hide from me and require an investment of my time.
An alternative that might save me time in the long run would be to fly straight on south to Castle Clark on Oklahomah, and make a quick circuit of Castles Smith and Airy, both of which—along with Clark—were loyal to the Confederation. I could maybe do the entire continent in eight, nine days, counting one to a Castle for the required ceremonial stopover, before I moved on to Arkansaw and more reasonable sources of trouble.
The McDaniels children found me
poring over my map and gathered round to look over my shoulder, all nine of them. The room shrank around me; not a one of them that was not a typical McDaniels, big and stocky and broad-shouldered (and if female, broad-hipped as well). It got very crowded in that room.
“This is a nice map you’ve got,” said one of the younger of the herd, a boy called Nicholas Failtower McDaniels the somethingth—I could not remember the what-th there for a minute. The 55th? No; the 56th. I was embarrassed; if there is one thing expected of us it is knowing people’s names, and this boy was a second cousin of mine.
“What are you looking for, Responsible? It’s a nice map, like Nicholas says, but there’s a lot on it.”
“She’s looking for the kidnapper—” said the very littlest, and instantly clapped both hands over his mouth. “I forgot,” he said around his fingers.
Either Anne or their father then had threatened them with dire events if they mentioned that baby; still, it was a McDaniels baby, and it was not surprising that they’d be interested. Manners were hard to get the hang of.
“I am trying to decide,” I said, ruffling the boy’s hair to show I didn’t intend to take notice of his lapse, “which is the best way to go when I leave in the morning. Like you say, there’s a lot of choices.”
The children hadn’t any hesitation at all—zip due west to Arkansaw, as any fool could see. Except for one of them. Her name was Silverweb, and she was fifteen years old and not yet married; perhaps it was her intention to become a Granny without the bother of waiting around to become a widow. She was a handsome strapping young woman, with a pleasant face; she bound her hair back in an intricate figure-eight of yellow braids that I could never of managed, and she carried herself with dignity. I made a mental note to compliment Anne on this daughter—her only daughter—who seemed to me to show promise.
She laid a well-tanned finger that showed she wasn’t afraid of a little sun to my map, and traced a different route. Castle Clark, on Oklahomah’s northeast corner. Castle Airy, at the southern tip ... Oklahomah came very near being a triangle. Then to Castle Smith, in the northwest corner. My choice exactly.
“Do it that way,” she said. “Then over to Arkansaw; only an easy morning’s ride. And you’re at Castle Guthrie.”
“Faugh. Silverweb,” said one of her brothers, “she can’t do that at all. You heard Mother—Cousin Responsible is touring all twelve Castles on solemn Quest. The way to do it is go straight on to Arkansaw, then Mizzurah, then Kintucky, then Tinaseeh, then end up in Oklahomah, and back to Marktwain.”
“If she ever gets out of Tinaseeh,” said another “Horrible old place, Tinaseeh is, and full of things that would as soon eat you alive as look at you.”
“Not as horrible as your room!”
I moved out of the way so as not to get my costume spoiled, grateful that the map was indestructible, and let them shove and carry on for a bit to get it out of their systems. Silverweb, calm among the turmoil, held fast that it would be just as sensible, and twice as pleasant, and break no rules that she’d ever heard of, if I went the other way round.
“But then she’s got all that open ocean between Tinaseeh and Oklahomah to fly! Look at it, would you? A person could fly over that and never be heard of again—it must be ... three days across? Five? Six?”
“It’s got to be done at one end or the other,” scoffed his sister “Better to do it when the worst is over and she can take her time. She’ll be plain worn out, by then.”
“What makes you think so, Silverweb?” the boy taunted, for all he had to stand on his tiptoes to look her in the eye. “She’s Responsible of Brightwater, Silverweb, she’s not a tourist!”
Silverweb’s chin went up and the blue eyes almost closed.
She took one step forward and the boy fell back two. Second of nine she was; it couldn’t be easy. And the other eight all male ... it was enough to constitute a substantial burden.
Silverweb. I added it up in my head—she was a seven. Withdrawal from the world ... that went with not marrying ... secrets and mystery … that fit the hooded eyes and the intricate figure of her braids. From what I could see, this one was properly named, and living up to it.
As of course she would be. There were no incompetent Grannys on Marktwain to cause trouble with an Improper Naming, as had been known to happen elsewhere from time to time.
I let them squabble, Silverweb winning easily, and relaxed as best I could given the way I was dressed, enjoying the sight of them all if not the sound. I had my route chosen now—as Silverweb had had the wit to lay it out, and it was not designed solely in terms of distances and points of the compass. I would do quickly the friendly territory of Oklahomah; and in that way I’d have a bit extra where it was less than friendly.
The party was pleasant, more a dance than a party, and a credit to Anne. She’d invited people enough to fill the Castle’s smaller ballroom, and had managed to muster a respectable crowd, considering the short notice and a thunderstorm that had already been scheduled and could not of been postponed without distorting the weather for the next three weeks. Anne and I stood in a comer back of the bandstand where the Caller was hollering out the dances, both of us in slight danger from a flying fiddle bow but willing to risk it for the sake of the semi-privacy. I despised parties as much as Anne did, probably more. And I couldn’t dance even the simplest dances, much less the complex things they were weaving on the tiles that night in honor of my visit.
“Star in the shallows, flash and swim,
Lady to her gentleman and parry to him!”
“Wherever do they learn to do all that?” I marveled.
“Circle has a border to it, touch it and run.
Muffins in the oven till their middles are done!”
“You should of been taught,” said Anne. “They had no right to leave you ignorant just because you might of enjoyed yourself.”
“There wasn’t time,” I said, which was the plain truth. Plus, I was awkward, always had been.
“Braid a double rosebud, smother it in snow,
Swing your partner, and dosey-do!”
“Step on a Pickle in the dark of night,
Grab your cross lady, and allemande right!”
“It’s not fair,” she insisted. “I hear your brother’s the best dancer in three counties, and turning all the girls to cream and butter. And I’ll wager they saw to it that your sister learned every dance that was worth knowing.”
I snorted. “Nobody ever ‘saw to it’ that Troublesome did anything, Anne of Brightwater. What she wanted to do, she did. What she cared to know about, she learned. Anything else was just so much kiss-your-elbow.”
“Sashay down the center; rim around the wall,
Single-bind, double-bind, and promenade all!”
I couldn’t even understand these calls ... dosey-do and promenade-the-hall went by often enough to let me know it was dancing, but the intricacies of it were beyond me. I couldn’t decide whether I minded that, either, though on general principles I was not supposed to fall behind on anything that mattered to any sizable proportion of Ozarkers, “sizable” being defined as more than three. It looked to be hot work, and I fanned my face with my blank program in sympathy.
“Young people!” I said, ducking the bow. “They do amaze me.”
Anne gave me a sharp look, and I looked her right back and waited. Whatever she had to say, she’d say it; she’d said enough about my blue-and-silver party dress, which was even more preposterous in the way of gewgaws and lollydaddles than the one I’d arrived in. And my high-heeded silver slippers with the pointed toes.
“My daughter, Silverweb,” she said to me, and I noticed that she was talking with her teeth clenched, and spitting out the syllables like she couldn’t spare them, “Silverweb, my dear cousin, is a ‘young people.’”
“And a fine one,” I agreed. “That’s a likely young woman, and I plan to keep my eye on her in future. I wager she’ll go a considerable distance in this world.”
> “Silverweb,” Anne said again, “is fifteen years old. And you, Responsible of Brightwater, you remarking on the habits of these ‘young people’ like a blasted Granny, have had precisely fourteen birthdays, and the fourteenth not more than six weeks ago!”
It wasn’t often I stood rebuked lately, not since we’d finally managed to pack my sister off where she couldn’t do any harm to speak of or leave me holding the bag if she was bound and determined to live up to her name. But this was one of the times, and I had it coming. Not that we are given to considering only the calendar years on Ozark, we know many other things more worth considering. But my speech had not been genteel. It was the sort of thing my mother would of said, and I wished, not for me first time, that I had the skill of blushing. That, like the ability not to fall over my own big feet, had been left out of my equipment. And the more ashamed of myself I was, the more I looked like I didn’t care atall—I knew that. I only wished I knew what to do about it.
Anne of Brightwater was not as tall as I was, and she had a usual habit of gathering herself in that made her seem even smaller, but she was making me feel mighty puny now, there mid the music and the boom of thunder. A trick like a cat does, puffing herself up to be more impressive.
“It is hard for Silverweb,” said my kinswoman, spitting sparks now along with the syllables, “seeing you come here, dressed like a young queen and treated like one, off on a Quest before all the world and it taken seriously—oh, they are, don’t you worry, they are taking it very seriously! While she stands aside and must hear herself called ‘one of the McDaniels children.’ Had you thought of that?”
I had not thought of it, obvious though it surely should have been. I looked at the tall grave girl who was a year my senior, moving easily through the squares in a simple dress of gray silk sprigged with pale green rosebuds, and her only ornament a shawl of dark gray wool in a Love-in-the-Mist knotting, with a pearl fringe ... and perhaps the single wild rose in her yellow hair. I remembered the way I had sat that afternoon, “watching the children,” with a pretty fair estimate of the expression that must of been on my face at that time, and I felt a fool. Had I called her “one of the children” in her hearing? Surely not ... but supper had been boring, as expected, and I’d not paid a great deal of mind to curbing my tongue.
The Ozark trilogy Page 3
