She had him pour the sap into the double boiler that sat on her ancient stove, while she lit the burner with a practiced flick of the sparker, then adjusted the gas flame down to where its blue tongues barely licked at the blackened base of the double boiler. A quick poke of her index finger revealed that the water level was adequate, but she took an old, chipped china coffee cup down from the shelf over the sink and added another cup, just to top it off.
“Water still shut off at Arnie’s?” she asked.
He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “I guess so. I haven’t been there.”
She pointed toward the linen closet, and the bathroom down the hall. “There’s clean towels and an old robe of my husband’s that ought to fit you. There is a bathtub there in the bathroom, and a shower stall down in the basement, next to the washer and dryer. Take your pick.”
“I’m…”
“Yes, yes, young people are always in a rush. But you’ve got time enough for breakfast, and a shower and a quick clothes-washing won’t endanger you, unless you’re bleeding freely?”
His smile was hesitant, like a scared little boy’s. “A hot shower would be nice, and that’s a fact.”
“So go ahead. It’ll give me time to make some French toast and put together a proper breakfast for the two of us.”
By the time he staggered back up the stairs, his swordbelt slung over his shoulder so that he could use both hands to rub at his too-long hair with one of the old patterned towels that she really should have reclassified as rag stock, she had the French toast soaked and settled, the coffee ready, and the little Jones Farm sausages not only defrosted but also nicely browned as they hissed and spit on the old black cast-iron griddle.
“How do you like your eggs?” she asked.
“Cooked?” This time his smile was easier.
“Scrambled would be fine; over easy would be better.” He hung the sword on the back of his chair and sat down heavily.
It had been a long time since she had cooked for a youngster, but she was pleased to see that they were still made with real appetites: despite his skinny form, Ian managed to put away four sausages, three eggs, two pieces of toast, and a tall glass of orange juice before she set the French toast in front of him.
She scooped a teaspoonful of butter on top, then poured the birch syrup.
“Please, Mrs. Hansen, I’m full—”
“You asked about the syrup,” she said, gesturing toward the stack. “Taste.”
His face etched in skepticism, he cut a small piece and took a tentative bite. His eyebrows shot straight up. “That’s … nice. Different.”
“I do hope you mean that in a good way, young man,” she said.
“I do,” he said, taking another bite. “Remarkable. It’s sort of like what root beer syrup would be, except that wouldn’t taste good, and this does.”
He hadn’t noticed that she hadn’t made a plate for herself. She was hungry, but it would have been embarrassing to eat in front of him, to have him see how little she ate these days.
But she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across the table from him, and waited for him to speak.
“I’ve got something to ask you,” he said, finally.
She nodded, and raised an eyebrow.
“I’d like you to watch over something for me.”
“For a long time?” She shook her head at his nod. “I’m not sure you should count on me having a long time.”
His smile broadened. “I’ve worked that part of it out.”
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“Now, easy with her, easy I said,” Ian’s voice came from below, as Jeff Bjerke checked the improvised harness one last time before starting to lower her into the hole.
The rope grew tight under her arms, but she was able to support most of her own weight with her gloved hands wrapped around the rope, and it was only a matter of moments until she was at the bottom of the pit.
Ian Silverstein tugged for a moment at the knots and then, in the impatience of youth, produced a small, sharp knife and cut her free.
“This way,” he said, as he walked into the darkness of the tunnel, his swordbelt and rucksack strap slung over his left shoulder so that he could pick up the plain folding metal chair with his free arm.
She followed him into the darkness and into—
—the dull gray light and silence.
If she could have, she would have marvelled at the way that all of the body aches that she had grown used to were suddenly gone, leaving behind not a feeling of health and strength, but no feeling at all.
It was like being a visitor behind your own eyes.
Ian set up the chair as close as he could to the curving wall of the tunnel, and she set her knitting bag down next to it, and sat. It was a plain metal chair from the church basement, but it wasn’t uncomfortable to sit on. Discomfort just didn’t seem to belong in this place.
“I wait here how long?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “But you will, Mrs. Hansen.”
“Jeff Bjerke or somebody will come by, every few months, just to check on me,” she said. It had sounded strange when Ian had spoken of it, but now she understood how she could sit here, patiently, as long as it took. “I suppose I can ask him to bring me more yarn.”
“I suppose so,” Ian Silverstein said.
He took a leather pouch from his jacket, and placed it in her lap. “You’ll know,” he said, as he removed a thick ring from his finger and slipped it on her left thumb.
It fit perfectly. She hefted the leather pouch, and toyed with the thong that held it shut.
“You can open it, if you like,” he said. “Just don’t give it to anybody until you know that it’s right. And if somebody were to come by and want to take that away from you, you just tell him that he needs to move along, and he’ll believe you.” His smile was forced, as though he thought he should smile, but couldn’t feel it, not in the empty quiet of the Hidden Way. “With the ring that close to one of the gems, you can persuade anybody of anything.”
“You are sure of that?”
He nodded. “That’s how I got this one,” he said. He belted his sword about his waist, and then knelt to remove his cloak from where it was, rolled and tied, bound to a pair of D-rings on his rucksack. A quick tug at its thongs, and he shook it out, holding it first with one hand and then another while he donned his rucksack.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, as he slipped the cloak over his shoulders.
And then he was gone, only the sound of his footsteps echoing dully in the distance until they were gone.
She opened the pouch for just a moment, to look at the green fire inside, then tied the thong carefully and put the pouch back on her lap. She bent over and picked up her knitting.
However long it would take, Minnie Hansen could wait.
The Crimson Sky Page 34
