Ornery set down the pail of water and tucked his ears back under his cap. It was going to be one of those days where his body just didn’t cooperate. He got enough stares already being a stranger pulling into Charolett’s Berg on a gaily painted covered wagon. In the dead of winter, no less. He didn’t need to call unwanted attention to his mixed “heritage.”
Sighing, Ornery picked up the handle and trudged through the snowdrifts towards the common well, passing a gang of teenagers who thought they were well-hidden behind the smoking shack. His ears might be huge today, but at least they graced him with exquisite hearing. Keeping his head down as he walked, he quietly eavesdropped on the boys’ conversation.
“Give me some!” a boy whined. Ornery knew it was Denny, the sandy-haired baker’s son. Despite the fact that their cart had pulled into town only a week ago, Ornery could already spot the yellow-bellied boy in the crowd.
“No fair, I —” Denny’s deep baritone skidded to a halt as his voice cracked.
The other boys laughed heartily, then took turns imitating the adolescent. How Ornery wished he could laugh about his own metamorphosis to adulthood. How nice it would be to have little things like a voice change or new body hair be your greatest childhood challenge. But for Ornery, every day was a surprise. Each morning, he woke up with something new. Hooves for feet. He must wonder would his nose sprout out so far he’d have to stay inside the wagon that day? Those were his burdens to carry. At any moment, his body could convulse and transform before his very eyes.
“Hey, Jeremy got two!” Denny whined from the shed.
Obviously the boys had gone behind the shack to cover up their attempt to smoke some Hocho leaf. Ornery hated to tell them that by the smell, they had selected ones too green. The best they could hope for was sore tummies and raging headaches. At worst they would be sick in bed for a week with their mothers scolding them for their foolishness.
Resting the pail on the well’s edge, Ornery grinned slightly and chuckled at the thought. A real human chuckle. His smile deepened. At least he was past the point of uncontrollably whinnying. Ornery’s lips turned down as he realized the well’s surface was frozen over again. Hadn’t anyone else in this town gotten water yet today? Surveying the town with disgust, Ornery grabbed the ice pick and began chipping away. This wasn’t the first berg where the folk had decided to let the “freak boy” do their hard work for them.
“Good morning,” a sweet clear voice announced behind him.
Ornery nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been so obsessed with his own grumblings that he did not hear the girl approach. Before he turned and mumbled his hellos, Ornery knew it was Belle, the town’s beauty. The sun was barely over the Eastern Ridge, and the girl had already dabbed on perfume and donned a dress fit for torch-lit services.
For a moment, he panicked, thinking he might bray. Instead, Ornery just stuttered and nearly choked on his own tongue. He had never actually been this close to her before, and her beauty was nearly paralyzing. Black curls peeked out from under a red-velvet hair band. Her green eyes shone in the early morning light. Belle’s hands were so petite and delicate that Ornery found himself shooing her away from the second ice pick.
“I’ve got it,” Ornery managed to mumble.
A smile that eclipsed the new sun warmed him as he frantically hacked away at the thick ice layer.
“Thanks... Um, do those potions your mother sells —”
“She’s not my mother,” Ornery barked out and immediately regretted it.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I just assumed ...”
“I just work for Miss Emmert.”
“Sorry. Where’s your family?”
Ornery hit at the ice with renewed vigor. This is the last thing he wanted to talk about. What would say? That his mother died birthing him, and his father was too much of a coward to take him back to the herd? Ornery could not even tell her that he was half-centaur. She would never believe him and would just have one more thing to tease him about. No, as always, he stayed silent.
Belle lightly touched his shoulder, causing fire to shoot down to his hand. He was surprised the ice didn’t just melt away.
“Ornery? If it’s too personal...”
“It is.”
Covering up his agitation, he hacked hard at the ice, finally breaking through to the frigid water. Now if he could just make a hole large enough, and quickly fill their pails, he might get out of this without completely humiliating himself.
“I was... I was just asking because my grandpa has a bad leg, and I thought one of your medicines might help.”
“You’d have to talk to Miss Emmert about that.”
Cracking the ice off into huge chunks, Ornery put a few into his pail. The sooner he was done, the better. With quick peeks, he allowed himself to spy on the ruff of Belle’s frilly dress and her red boot. It was the most perfect foot he’d ever seen. The leather looked soft and supple, with tiny little sparkles in the pattern of a sunburst.
“I was wondering. Do you ever, you know... spend time with... go to church or the socials?”
Avoiding her gaze, he filled their buckets. “No, we’re heading out soon.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Belle’s voice took on a strange quality. Her tone was so sad and concerned Ornery looked up. But she wasn’t facing him, she was turned towards the smoking shack, waving her hands frantically. By the time he realized there was an ambush, it was too late. Slush balls pelted him from all sides.
“No!” Belle cried out, but the other teens ignored her plea and laughed.
“Not leaving soon enough, freak!” Denny yelled across the town square, chucking a wet snowball at him.
Grabbing his pail, Ornery meant to shuffle off and ignore the whole lot of them, but as he turned, Belle’s eyes met his. For a moment, the world collapsed until there was only the two of them. Belle’s eyes shown with unshed tears. Ornery could swear she said, “I’m sorry,” but no breath escaped her lips. Her emerald eyes said it all.
The moment was shattered as several projectiles pelted his back, throwing him off-balance, spilling half of the water in his pail. Righting himself, Ornery turned his back on Belle and headed to the barn. Sure she was sorry. Wasn’t everyone sorry? Miss Emmert was sorry. His father was probably sorry. Ornery was the most sorry of all. But being sorry didn’t change reality. No number of apologies could alter that fact he was a half-breed freak.
Ornery’s mood did not improve as he neared the stable. What had his parents been thinking? From the stories Miss Emmert told, they had not been thinking at all. Granted his mother was saved by the Centaurs, who had been long thought extinct, but did she have bed one of them? Anger flushed his already-red cheeks. Why did she have to die? Why didn’t his father take him back to the Herd and raise his son amongst his people?
It did not matter the number of questions he asked. The answers were always elusive. He had badgered Miss Emmert for years but her stories were as ever-flowing and changing as his body. He tried to give up caring, but his doubt nagged him every night.
When he could, Ornery snuck out of the wagon and secreted himself into the bars and taverns, listening to real bards tell their stories. Once in a fort moon, a traveling minstrel would tell a story about the People of the Horse and the Distant Steppes. He would soak up every word and memorize each line spoken. Someday he would find his father and tell him exactly how he felt. That is, once Ornery himself figured it out. Which might take some serious time.
How was he supposed to sort out his life, if they kept pulling up stakes and moving before the next moon rose? Miss Emmert was nice enough, not very bright, and certainly not a taskmaster, but he longed for a place of his own. Miss Emmert persistently reminded him that his father’s people were nomads. She was surprised that Ornery did not take to the constant travel. He would always counter that he took after his mother’s side.
Therefore their conversations never went very far. Since she was the only human being he ever talked to, that left him with few options.
Fantasies of running away, striking out on his own, played in his head daily. Why shouldn’t he dream of living his own life? He was young, but many of the country boys already had their own homesteads and were marrying. Perhaps he couldn’t have that type of life, but he could head out as a trapper or fisherman, somewhere alone and away from the constant flow of prying eyes.
Ornery did not need the money Miss Emmert made from the sale of their wares. Anyway, half the time Miss Emmert practically gave the money away. She was as easily swayed by other charlatans as the townspeople were by her. Not a single sniffling child could leave without a dose or two of castor oil, whether they could pay for it or not. Ornery was used to hunting or fishing for their food.
The only thought that gave him pause was leaving Miss Emmert alone. Not that he needed to worry about her. She had plied her trade long before Ornery came along. When he was but a babe, not only did Miss Emmert work the wagon, but she cared for him as well. Besides, she always had Mr. Skelt to turn to. They met up with the gaunt salesman twice a year to restock their supplies. Supposedly he was a friend of his deceased mother, but Ornery could not imagine that creepy man being a friend to anyone, except perhaps Miss Emmert. Twice a year, Mr. Skelt and she would send him away for the night and go into the wagon. Ugh, he couldn’t bring himself to think of what they did in there!
“Ornery! What’s taken you so long? And look at you. How many times do I have to tell you to be more careful?”
Miss Emmert burst out of the stable, then straighten Ornery’s clothes and using her pudgy fingers to tuck his ears deeper under his cap. He hurried past her and into the barn, pouring the water into the kettle.
“Where’s the rest? We need some for the basin.”
“I’ll go back later.” Ornery couldn’t keep his sullen mood out of his voice. Only their chestnut mare’s soft whinny calmed his nerves. Crossing the stable, he petted the horse’s velvety nose.
“We won’t have time.” Miss Emmert said. “We’re moving north.”
“What?” Ornery demanded, making Cinnamon jerk her head away and snort in alarm. Absently, he calmed the horse.
Miss Emmert acted as if she hadn’t heard the fury in his voice. “We’re done here. The butcher says the weather will hold until Sermon Day.”
Ornery tried to keep the anger out of his voice so as not to startle the horse, but his words came out louder than he intended. “But it’s the Dead of Winter! A storm could blow in tonight!”
Shrugging under her think coat, Miss Emmert kept a light tone. “We’ve made it through worse.”
“We just got here. Why are we leaving so soon?” Ornery demanded.
“You yourself said how bitter the weather is. Imagine how those folks up in Last Hitch must feel. They’ll be in need of our cold remedy.”
“We’ll be in need of a mortician if we try to journey north.” Ornery crossed to their wagon and fished out their map. “That’s a good two days’ ride, even under the best of circumstances. With the snow drifts this deep, it could take us a week.”
“We’ll be fine,” Miss Emmert said in the lightest of tones and patted his cheek.
Ornery reeled back from her well-meaning touch. Had she gone mad? Did she think he would follow her forever? Did she expect him to tuck his tail between his legs and cow to her every whim?
“I’m telling you that we can’t go, Miss Emmert.”
His caretaker just waved a hand and continued packing their supplies. Ornery took a deep breath. Perhaps she could be swayed by logic. She might risk him or herself, but never their livestock.
“Miss Emmert. We pushed the horses pretty badly just to get to this Berg. I don’t think they’re up for this sort of trip.”
“The horses will be fine, but I do admire your concern.”
Ornery bristled at her condescending tone. “They won’t be fine. One is sure to flounder, and then we’ll be done for. We can’t take that risk.”
“The horses are ready for the trip, and you’d better hurry if you’re to be prepared yourself.”
“Miss Emmert —”
Ornery stopped as Miss Emmert laughed with a deep smile on her face. “For a boy who thinks himself pretty smart and ready to take on the world, you’re not too quick, are you?”
Stammering, Ornery tried to figure out what she was saying. “But... but...”
“It’s not me who wishes to leave, silly. It’s the horses who insist on heading out today.”
“What? Miss Emmert, you’re not making any sense. The horses want to be in their stalls eating grain. They —”
“Young man, haven’t you figured it out yet?”
Ornery just stood there dumbfounded.
Miss Emmert smiled more deeply. “The horses. They are Centaurs. They’re your first cousins.”
*****
CHAPTER 5
“Those blasted fools,” Granny spat as she watched Traven’s father and his men burn the fall leaves. “They’re torching what they should be worshippin’.”
Traven nodded enthusiastically, not that he really agreed with the old woman. What was a bunch of rotting old leaves to him, anyway? No, he just wanted to keep his Granny talking. You never knew where her lectures would take you, maybe to a story or even a tall tale.
Skipping a bit, Traven had to catch up with his grandmother. For such an old woman, using a cane to steady herself, Granny could beat all of them out to the chicken coop.
“If Nature had wanted those leaves burnt, don’t you think she’d have come up with a way?” Granny couldn’t help herself. Scolding her son-in-law was a favorite past time.
“What do you think Nature intended, Granny?” Traven asked.
Granny snorted and spat one more time before they entered the chicken pen. “Why do you think Fall blankets the earth with her fallen treasures?”
Oh, Traven hated it when Granny turned her ire upon her students. Now he had to come up with a plausible answer — one that Granny would accept.
“To cover the ground? To protect it, like the blankets you crochet each autumn?”
Traven fell forward as Granny gave him a forceful pat on the back. “I knew you had more sense than your father. You’ll come to be somebody, Traven. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Wide-eyed, Traven stared back. Granny never talked to him like this. Usually she found him terribly wanting. But today, he basked in her broken-toothed smile. He was already honored just to have Granny all to himself. Traven never would have thought that accidentally burning himself on the stewing pot would end up such a good thing. Yesterday, his older brother had tackled him on the porch. The fight had carried into the kitchen until Traven’s arm had slammed against the red-hot metal.
Normally, on a bustling day after the Harvest, Traven would have been out in the fields, taking his place amongst the men. Instead, with his bandaged arm, Traven had been assigned to help Granny with her chickens. If every day was like today, Traven would have to burn himself a bit more often.
“Fall knows, child. She knows the harsh King will descend soon,” Granny said as she clucked to her chicken and sprinkled scratch from the bucket Traven carried. Her eyes became unfocused, and her voice took on a reverent tone.
“What would her sister, Spring, do if Winter killed all life in his path? No, child. Fall shakes the leaves from the branches and lays down a blanket of love and warmth, incubating the tender sprouts and seeds until Spring can kiss them with light and a bit of tender breeze.”
Traven stood enraptured. He loved it when Granny went into one of her trances. And to think he was all alone. There were no siblings to interrupt or break the spell. Traven could hold his breath for a decade, just to hear her talk.
“If it is Spring that gives birth, it is Fall that carries the babe in her belly until the time is ripe.”
Two chickens squabbled over some grit, breaking the mood. Traven could have wrung both the birds’ necks, right then and there, but Granny just clucked away at them. She talked to the chickens as if the
y could understand one another. Soon the ruffled feathers were soothed, and quiet descended on the pen again.
“Not everyone respects that, do they?” Traven knew he was chancing Granny’s wrath, but he so wanted her to keep talking that it would be worth the tongue lashing if he got a story for his efforts.
“Like your father? No, they certainly don’t.” Granny had to pet a few of her hens as they clucked in alarm at her harsh tone. “But that’s not what you want me to talk about, is it?”
Traven stood perfectly still, not allowing any emotion to cross his face. Inside, Traven was down on his knees, praying with all his might that Granny would read his mind and tell a tale.
“You want to hear about one man in particular, don’t you? And it’s not about burning no leaves, I bet.”
“It’s important to learn from you, Granny…”
“Don’t give me none of your fancy lip, boy. I’ve helped raise ya. You don’t care nothin’ for learnin’. You care for a grand adventure and a bit of bloodshed. Don’t ya?”
Traven nodded sheepishly. He was caught. To his surprise, Granny hugged him, then kissed the top of his head with her dry lips.
“That’s why I loves you best, boy. That’s why I loves you best.”
How could Traven had gotten so lucky? Granny never acted like this. Never. The moment ended as abruptly as it began.
“Now gets in that coop and collect the eggs before I tan your hide, you lazy good-for-nothing.”
Traven didn’t even hear Granny’s scolding. He could still feel her mouth upon his crown and the words she had said, all the way down to his heart. He was the luckiest boy in the whole world, even more so when Granny started telling one of his favorite legends.
“The Man Who Didn’t Know wandered the forest. The wind rustled in the dry leaves as he urged his horse forward. Winter was coming soon, and he was no more prepared than a new-borne babe. He’d tried his hand at farming and come up with dry dirt. He’d tried wood-cutting, but he couldn’t fell a tree for his life.
7 Folds of Winter Page 7
