Season of Wonder

by Paula Guran

  I started writing again though I’d long ago outgrown the adventure stories I used to tell. Instead, I wrote about my father and about my memories of him. I tended the garden and stretched the savings as far as I could. And in the weeks before Dragon’s Mass Eve, as the news turned somber in the north, I didn’t even try to find the canned fruits and vegetables and meat. But I did slip into his office to fill out the civil service exam application. I put it into an envelope and took it into the house.

  I still wasn’t certain if I would mail it.

  When Dragon’s Mass Eve arrived, I rode into town again and like the year before, I slipped onto the back pew. The church was less crowded this year, and when Parson Brown’s invocation included a blessing upon the men and women serving in the local militia, I made the connection with why.

  The singing was more subdued, and when Brother Simon took the pulpit, there was something quiet about him that felt disconnected from the young man I’d seen prowling the platform a year before. “Tonight’s message,” he said, “is taken from the Last of the Literocrats, verses one through five.”

  We made eye contact as he read and the light I’d seen before was dark now. There was something of sorrow or anger in them now that resonated with me and I couldn’t look away.

  “Take up your tools and lift your song,” he said. “That is what I want to talk about with you tonight.”

  What followed were brief but heartfelt comments but nothing like the lively performance I knew he was capable of. When we shook hands later, in the fellowship hall, I could even feel the difference in his grip. And the hands were less rough here in the second year of his apprenticeship.

  “I enjoyed your message,” I told him, even more uncomfortable with his eyes in such close proximity. “My mother used to believe that the Santaman wouldn’t return until we’d done our very best with our own hands.”

  He nodded and smiled, but I saw the falseness in it. “Yes,” he said. There were clouds behind those eyes now, too.

  I leaned close to him and lowered my voice. “Are you okay, Brother Simon?”

  He looked at me and I think he was surprised that I noticed though it was as obvious as his nose to me. His cheeks grew red and he looked around, panic on his face.

  Finally, he pulled me aside and his words were fast and jumbled together. “We lost Fallowston and Reinburg this morning,” he said. “The diocese sent a rider. The crier will be announcing it tomorrow. Parson Brown didn’t want to dampen spirits tonight with the news.”

  I knew the towns though I’d never visited them. “Did you have people there?”

  He shook his head. “No. But our militia is engaged at Candletoss.” I imagined the points on the map, saw how close it all was.

  Simon looked out the window and I saw the firmness in his jawline and the anger in his eyes. Outside, it was a clear night and I understood his anger better.

  “Something,” he said, “has to happen soon.”

  I nodded but didn’t know what to say. Finally, I found my voice. “Maybe,” I said, “it’s like you said earlier—maybe we’re called upon to take up our tools and lift our song. Especially when we’re faced with the end of our world . . . just like the Last of the Literocrats.”

  “Yes. Maybe.”

  Then he was moving off into the crowd, shaking hands and patting shoulders. I slipped out beneath a star-scattered sky and rode home in the light of the moons.

  When I reached the homestead, I stabled my horse and slipped into the house. I found the envelope first, and then I went to the box beneath my bed and pulled out the wadded-up requisition slip. Taking both, I let myself back out into the night and climbed the hill behind the house.

  I sat quietly for a while, prayerless and facing north. “I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do,” I told my father, “but I’m going to do it. I know you were right about most things—all the important things, really—and I think you were right about this. But I’m still afraid.”

  I paused in that moment and knew I would have given everything I owned to have this one final conversation with him, to hear his words and see his eyes as he formed them. But in thirty-five years with the old troll, I knew what he would ask next and I blushed.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know who yet.” Still, I knew who I’d thought about the few times I’d let myself imagine it. “Regardless of who, I’m going to do it and I wanted you to know. But I’m going to have to leave you to make it happen. Because I’m also going to take the test.”

  I reached out then to touch the gravestone. The granite felt wrong to my fingertips and I rubbed them into the stone, feeling something powdery flaking off as I did.

  My first thought was that it was ash or dust. But my second thought was the one that brought my fingers tentatively to my mouth. I’d never tasted hope before but my father had described it many times before.

  Bitter and sweet at the same time.

  I looked above me at the clear night and stood on shaking legs. I went into the house and lit the lantern, grabbed my knife, and lifted the keys to the mine off the hook where my father had last hung them.

  I walked down into the mine and I hadn’t gone very far when the dark walls started to glisten white. I paused along the way to scrape here or there, each time coming away with a handful of white flaky residue.

  I went all the way to the bottom and when I reached it, I sat down and laughed until my sides hurt and then I cried until my eyes had no more tears in them.

  Two days later, I phoned in my requisition at the town’s single phone, dialing the number my father gave me. And when I finished with central stores, I had the operator transfer me to the contracts division.

  “North of the faraway beyond the ether at the Edge of the World” the head sang and died. The Santaman cast it aside.

  “The way is too hard,” we told the Santaman. “And we are afraid.”

  He sheathed his sword and climbed down among us. He cast open his arms, his red robes hung like bleeding meat. “Do not be afraid. I walk with you.”

  North, he walked his wolf-stallion and we followed after. In twilight, we walked and as the ruined cities fell behind us, others joined our ragged band.

  Lost also behind us, the last of the literocrats sang sunrise and sunset, sang muscles and sinew, sang bones and teeth.

  Death crabs scuttled and scavenged. Snick-snack went the sword.

  Black Drawlers shrieked and savaged. Snick-snack went the sword.

  Some of us fell. Some of us faltered. All of us hoped.

  The faraway wrapped us and the ash snows fell away.

  Sunlight bathed us and we swam out into the ether at the Edge of the World.

  Swam towards our new-carved home.

  The Ether at the Edge of the World

  The Santaman Cycle,

  Authorized Standard Version

  Verity Press, 2453 YD

  The Bureaucracy was faster this time. Within two weeks, the suits were back. They offered twenty years but I declined, much to their surprise. “One year is about as far ahead as I can see for now,” I said.

  They looked nervous when I said that. “Do you have other plans for the mine?”

  I shrugged. “I might sell it. And I would certainly want to entertain a bid from the Bureaucracy if it comes to that.”

  My reassurance helped and when they left, I went to my father’s savings ledger and readjusted the figures to account for the contract income. Tomorrow, I’d ride into town and hire a small crew.

  A knock at the office door brought my head up. Brother Simon stood framed in the late morning light. “Miss Farrelly,” he said with a nod.

  “Ms. Sheffleton-Farrelly,” I corrected him. “Call me Mel.”

  “Mel,” he said. “May I come in?”

  I nodded. “Please,” I said pointing to a chair. “Sit. I didn’t know parsons still made house calls.”

  He blushed. “I’m not a parson.”

  “You will be soon enough.”
/>   Simon shook his head. “No, I’ve stepped down. I don’t think I’m made for the priesthood.”

  I’d seen him just two weeks before and even in that short time, whatever crisis he’d been working through seemed more settled and calm. I knew it was none of my business, and it was a question that I hated but I asked it anyway. “Then what will you do now?”

  He looked around the room and then our eyes met. “What I used to do. I was apprenticed to a blacksmith before.”

  I nodded and looked at his hands. “So you’re traveling the parish and letting everyone know?”

  He shook his head. “No. Just you for now.”

  My breath caught and for a moment, I wondered if he somehow knew about some of the thoughts I’d thought about him on cold nights beneath my quilt. But I quickly kicked my imagination back to quiet; it was an awkward quiet.

  Simon filled it. “I heard you struck hope.”

  I laughed. “I didn’t strike it; it struck me. My father seeded this place for three seasons and got nothing. Then, decades later . . . ” I snapped my fingers in the air. “Hope.”

  “Hope,” he said. “I need some, actually.”

  I studied him. “I have some. How much do you need?”

  “A pound,” he said. “I . . . I don’t have any money.”

  A pound was a lot. Not for me at the moment, but a pound of hope in a world that had for too long gone without . . . its value was staggering. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m borrowing Jansen’s shop at night,” he said. His face went red again and he looked around the empty room as if to make sure no one could hear him. “I’m re-forging the Santaman’s sword.”

  I sat back, surprised. “You’re what?”

  He nodded. “I’m re-forging the sword based on its description in the Doctrines and Affirmations. I’m going to take it north.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because maybe if he sees we’ve tried . . . really tried . . . maybe then he’ll hear.”

  I shook my head. “Simon,” I said, “I don’t think the Santaman’s listening.”

  But when our eyes met this time, I knew it didn’t matter. His conviction was back and now it bent him away from words and motions, moved him toward deeds and demonstrations now, but it was still the same drive for miracles and wonders to flow into and out of his life. “Please,” he said. “I can’t do it without hope.”

  I sighed and measured him. “Okay. But I want something for it.”

  “Anything I have that I can give you,” he said.

  I smiled. “Come back tonight for dinner, Simon, and we’ll talk about it. I’ll have the hope ready for you.”

  After he left, I weighed out two pounds from the hope I’d scraped these past two weeks. I filled a small sack with it and locked up. Then, I went inside to get ready.

  I put a chicken on to roast and took a long bath. I brushed out my hair and when none of my dresses fit right, I put on trousers and a cotton button-up shirt. I smiled at myself in the tiny mirror, grateful that I couldn’t see my entire body in its reflection. I’d gotten many of my mother’s features but I had my father’s broad shoulders and thickness along with his towering height.

  When Simon knocked at the door, the house smelled of chicken and fresh baked bread. Clouds had wandered in and blotted out the starlight but the temperature was still down and he was shivering. I let him in and took his coat. “Did you walk?”

  He nodded. “I don’t have a horse.”

  I hefted the bag of hope. “I’ll just put this with your coat.”

  “Thank you.”

  Nothing I did felt right and my father’s words—right was not required—

  brought little comfort. I wasn’t sure what to say or what to do and it was obvious to me that I was the only one who comprehended the potential of this night. I set the table while we made small talk and then I opened the bottle of bumbleberry wine I’d kept for such a night as this. I poured out small glassfuls and dished up our plates.

  We ate quickly and I watched him. He talked throughout and I finished easily ahead of him because of it. I think somewhere in the midst of it he must’ve noticed how I looked at him and it made him talk all the more, his nervous words bumping into each other in their rush to get out.

  Finally, I took his plate to the sink along with my own. We moved to the battered old sofa in the living room and sat before the fire. I refilled our wine glasses.

  “So you wanted to talk about price,” he said.

  I sipped the wine, set it down and nodded. “I do. And it’s okay to say no. You can have the hope either way.”

  His brow furrowed. “Say no to what?”

  I held my breath and leaned my face toward him. “This.”

  Then, I kissed him.

  At first, he did nothing. Then, he kissed me back. And after a moment, he broke away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know . . . I can’t—”

  I withdrew and felt the sting of the panic on his face. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I stood, feeling small for the first time in my life. “Like I said—it’s okay to say no.”

  He stood, too, his face and ears bright red. “No, that’s not what I mean.” He swallowed, stepped closer to me and stretched up on tippy-toes to kiss my mouth. “It’s just that I’ve never done this before.”

  Relief flooded me. “Oh,” I said. Now it was my turn to blush. “I haven’t either.”

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “Really.” Then, I bent down and kissed him back.

  Taking his hand, I led him to my fresh-made bed and we spent the night teaching each other how.

  I never told him why. I couldn’t see how it would help him at all and I could count a dozen ways that it might hurt him. Instead, I just enjoyed him and helped him to enjoy me.

  In the morning, after breakfast, he walked back into town with a smile on his face and a bag of hope slung over his shoulder.

  And in the north, he’ll hear our cry

  Ride forth in wrath, his sword raised high

  To carve our home in violent grace

  And lead us to that promised place

  Hymn #316, “The Santaman Shall Rise Again”

  Hymns of the Dragon and his Avenger,

  Contemporary Edition

  Verity Music, 2623 YD

  It was only after that night with Simon that I allowed myself to think about my last conversation with Father. I’m not sure why but I don’t need the whys nearly as much as I used to when I was younger.

  It was morning when he called me to his room. He’d soiled himself again and after nearly a month in bed, I was just beginning to realize that I might not have even another year with him.

  I pretended I wasn’t angry and tried to find my patience but it waned. He knew me well enough to know I was frustrated and I suspected he even knew why—it wasn’t the mess in his bed. It was the mess my life would become when he left it and I couldn’t bear to face that.

  I spent the morning cleaning him up and then cleaning his sheets. When I went into the kitchen and saw the cans and jars laid out, preparing for Dragon’s Mass Eve was the last thing I wanted to be doing.

  “Come in here, Mel,” my father rumbled from his bedroom.

  I sighed and felt my pulse rising. “What do you need, Dad?”

  His laugh was more of a bark. “I need you.”

  I wanted to snap at him but I didn’t. Instead, I closed my eyes, counted to five and then went to his doorway. “Yes?”

  He sat up in bed, his lap covered with open books—not real books but bits of cardboard bound together with yarn. “You should write more of these someday,” he said. “They’re good.”

  I shrugged. “Is that what you needed?”

  He shook his head. “No. Come here.” He patted the bed beside him.

  I went to the side of the bed but didn’t sit. “I have a meal to cook,” I said.

  Our eyes met. “Sit,” he said. “I
’m not hungry.”

  “It’s Dragon’s Mass Eve and—”

  “Sit down, Mel.” He looked old then but truth be told, I couldn’t remember a time when my father didn’t. He was in his sixties when I was born.

  I sat and felt the bed creak beneath our combined weight. “What?”

  He smiled. “I wanted to give you your Dragon’s Mass Eve present.”

  “Let’s wait until tonight,” I said. “I don’t have yours ready yet.”

  Father shook his head and a fit of coughing took his words for a minute. “I don’t want to wait,” he said. “As tired as I’ve been, I’m likely to sleep through Dragon’s Mass Eve anyway.”

  I forced a smile. “Okay. But you get yours tomorrow if you fall asleep.”

  He shrugged, then leaned over to dig around within the deep drawer in the nightstand. He pulled out a form—in triplicate—and handed it to me. “This,” he said, “is for you.”

  I looked at it. I rubbed my eyes and looked at it again. “What’s this?”

  He cleared his voice. “It’s . . . um . . . a requisition slip. I’ve been saving it for you. Your mother and I brought two with us when we rode west.”

  I read it, my eyes naturally drawn to the places where he’d taken the liberty of filling it out. As I realized what it was, I felt the anger burning hot in me and by instinct, I crumpled the requisition into as tight a ball as my white knuckled fist could make it. “I don’t want a child,” I said. “I don’t ever want a child.”

  I tried to stand but his gnarled hand caught my arm and I turned on him. I nearly said something, nearly let the feelings that savaged me slip past my careful control. But I kept quiet. Still, he saw everything in my eyes and his own filled up with tears at the sight of my anger.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  He blinked. “Why am I sorry?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Why do you think I should have a child?” Seeing his tears made my own fight harder to get out.

  He patted my arm. “I thought when I met your mother that I knew what love was. But meeting you opened up a vast continent of love I never imagined could exist. How could I not want that for you?” His voice lowered and then my father said the last words that he would ever say to me. “Melody Constance Sheffleton-Farrelly, don’t you know that you are the best gift anyone ever gave to me, Dragon’s Mass Eve or not?”