Nature's Tribe

by Jacky Gray

  “Shayla and Quinn will be here tomorrow. I shall arrange for her to take you on as housekeeper for their stay and you will gain some respectability.”

  She glared at him, hands on hips.

  “Sorry. I mean regain your respectability. I do understand your current plight is not your fault.”

  She grunted. “As I said, you will need to take much more care. I felt your eyes on me many times tonight. People will notice. And talk. Neither of us will come off well.”

  “My apologies, dear lady. I was merely trying to understand why Tabern would treat you so ill.”

  “Because he would have me dress like a strumpet and allow his ale-soaked customers to fondle what they will. I prefer to decide who has access to my body for myself.”

  “As you should.” He had never heard any woman discuss such matters so openly and could not think of anything suitable to say. He contented himself with repeating Senna’s words – without the pursed lips. “It is your life. You must live it as you see fit.”

  Eanje’s meeting with Shayla went far better than he could have hoped as his cousin took the younger girl under her wing. They had a lot in common, as Eanje had spent some time in Oxford when her father had business there.

  Used to moving in higher social circles, Shayla had no concerns about putting Tabern in his place as she and Quinn met Jarl, Senna and Lyran at the Waggon and Horses, demanding his finest meal.

  One look at her clothes and bearing and he could not do enough to make them comfortable, sending out for a tablecloth and offering his best wine.

  “My nieces will be meeting us shortly. I trust you will afford them the same level of hospitality.”

  “Of course, of course.” He stopped short of tugging his forelock, but only just.

  Eanje had dressed in her remaining good gown at Shayla’s suggestion, covered by the woman’s fur-trimmed travelling cloak. With her hair properly dressed, Shayla’s pearls at her throat and a touch of enhancing balms on her cheeks and lips, she was virtually unrecognisable.

  When she walked in with Lyrelie, also in her Sunday best, the man did not recognise her at first. He fussed around them, taking cloaks and gloves, but nearly dropped the lot as Shayla called out with a smile.

  “Eanje, dear, you must sit next to me and tell me how you are getting on in this job of yours. Do they treat you well?”

  Jarl was still chuckling about the incident the next time he entered the tavern, two days after twelfth night. Fortune shone on him as he joined Brom at the bar.

  “Just the man. We hoped you’d come in tonight.”

  “So you could buy me an ale for a change? That’s uncommon decent of you.”

  “No, but I’ll get you one for your cheek.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “You know you was asking about the quarry the other day?”

  Jarl nodded as he supped the ale, using it as an excuse not to say more.

  “You weren’t perchance thinking of working there?”

  Something in the man’s eyes made him pause before speaking. “I was, but I had an offer of work up north.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment darkened Brom’s face.

  “Why? Is there a job going?”

  “Not at the face, no. But one of the stewards is not available for several weeks, so we need a replacement.”

  “Why is he not available?”

  “It’s not for me to say. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll not ask. Can you do the job?”

  “You know as well as I. Two decades in the militia should be guarantee enough.”

  “Do you have a sponsor?”

  “The crown is not in the habit of handing out vouchsafes. But I’m sure Farmon will do the honours.”

  Brom toasted him. “Pedigree indeed. If you turn up tomorrow, you may have a chance before word gets out.”

  “Thank you. I owe you. More than an ale.”

  “Thank me in a couple of weeks. If you’ve still a mind.”

  Jarl raised his beaker, but Brom caught his arm. “Not a word of this to anyone. You don’t know me and I don’t know you.”

  “You jest. Most of the lads in here …”

  “Will swear they’ve never set eyes on you either.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Better that you don’t. The less you say about anything, the better it will be for all concerned.” He tapped the side of his nose.

  ~*~

  Lyran had never regretted anything so much as involving his cousin in his concerns over the quarry. He’d inadvertently brought him to the attention of a dangerous and unscrupulous man. Although he had no doubt of Jarl’s ability to look after himself under normal circumstances, the magister’s power seemed to know no bounds. And the man had the ability to influence people Lyran thought would have had nothing to do with dishonest dealings and underhand activities.

  When Jarl first hinted at Brom’s reluctance to divulge information about the goings on at the quarry, Lyran should have recognised the warning. He’d known the outspoken, salt-of-the-earth man for several decades, and would never have believed he could be coerced or corrupted in any way.

  But his concern went much further than the dozen or so men working in the quarry. In Lyran’s opinion, this merely represented a small symptom of the nefarious schemes the magister was putting in place throughout the village. He could not tell if the man had a primary purpose in these seemingly unrelated edicts, but they all restricted people’s freedom and enjoyment of life.

  Their busy schedules kept them apart; Lyran caught up with him halfway through the week. Jarl’s duties as steward involved implementing Domenyk’s strictures; he was tasked with counting out the tools to the workforce and ensuring every single one was returned to its allotted hook at the end of the day.

  “I have never seen anything like it; the men hang around until I confirm every hook filled. Today I found out why. One of the hooks remained empty, and they all pitched in with surprising eagerness, searching the various workplaces in the gloom.”

  Lyran frowned. “That does not sound like the typical lax behaviour of the men I know.”

  “Exactly. But when Tasker returned the missing pick, he was cheered like a saviour. As we left, he told me if the tool had not been found they would all have been docked a day’s wages, including me.”

  “That seems unduly harsh.”

  “I thought so, too. Something in his expression suggested he might be willing to break this vow of silence they all seem to have taken. I will keep a close watch.”

  After so long spent keeping it “below the parapet,” as his cousin would say, Lyran decided it was time for action as he made an impromptu visit to the quarry.

  As steward, Jarl admitted him onto the site, showing him to the hut, where he searched for the accident register.

  “What’s going on here?” The quarry foreman burst into the tiny room with a burly deputy. “Why have you allowed an unauthorised visitor onto the site?”

  Jarl held his ground. “The healer is here in an official capacity.”

  Thankfully, they had invented a credible story for such a circumstance. Lyran pulled out a parchment with an impressive seal. “I have an edict from the medical council to examine all cases of bumped heads to ensure no unseen damage has been done.”

  The foreman gave a forced smile. “I’m afraid the accident register has been sent to the council for a detailed investigation, so if you would like to return in a week, we can deal with your request then.”

  “’Tis of no matter; I have my own records.” He consulted his notebook. “The man I seek is Tasker.”

  A nod sent the deputy to fetch the man. The foreman growled at Jarl to attend to his duties, and insisted on being present for the entire examination.

  Tasker gave one-word answers to all of Lyran’s questions, insisting all was well and there had been no consequences from the incident.

  The foreman showed Lyran off the site personally and, the next day, Jarl was informed his servi
ces were no longer required. No explanation, merely a purse with what he’d earnt to date and a dark look as the man suggested he not bother applying again in the future.

  Jarl returned early from the tavern that eve, saying his former friends had closed ranks, declaring there was no room at their table. “It was strange, Brom said I’d better find myself a different place to drink, but Tasker didn’t seem at all happy. Maybe I’ll catch him on his way home, later.”

  “No. I think it better you lay low for a few days. There’s obviously something strange going on.”

  “Hopefully Eanje will have something for me later. As I supped up, she promised to keep an ear out for any clues.”

  Lyran shook his head. “It seems to be coming to a head. Are you walking her home?”

  Jarl nodded.

  “I suggest you tell her to stay away from them. I’d hate to think anything might happen to her because of me.”

  20 – Deepest Winter

  Senna sat in her favourite rocking chair by the fire, a gift from her mother to celebrate Lyrelie’s birth. It had seen a lot of use, and had been lovingly patched and repaired over the years. Lyran had declared it fit only for the bonfire, promising to buy her a new one, but she’d protested; a new one would not bear the scuffs, scratches and blemishes, each of which had a corresponding memory.

  Like the dimples from embers which had scorched the rockers on the bitterest winter they’d ever known. Or the dark stain where Lyrelie poured half her beaker of blackberry juice because she thought the chair looked thirsty. Or the patches on the arm rests worn to a smooth gloss by hundreds of hours of Senna’s elbows rubbing against them as she knitted. A new chair wouldn’t have the smell of sixteen years’ worth of herbs, spices and pottage.

  Despite his better judgement – his words – Lyran engaged Taron, the local carpenter, to repair the dangerous spindles, or replace where they could not be salvaged.

  Such was Taron’s skill with wood, Senna did not notice as he replaced various parts over a few weeks, sneaking in while she was out. All this came to light last Sunday when Lyran invited him and his wife, Lareeta, round for dinner.

  The meal had been joyous as Lyran and Jarl entertained the rest with so many anecdotes from their youth, making Senna blush as they recalled how fiercely she’d proven her worth against them. As Lareeta laughed, Senna hoped the girl had recovered from her recent malaise. Even as Jarl teased Taron about the lack of swelling in his wife’s belly, Senna knew it was not for lack of trying. The illness had ravished her body, leaving it too weak to support a growing babe, and she had lost one two moons into the pregnancy.

  Lyran could almost have read her thoughts. “What you two need is some of my magical tonic; guaranteed to get your bodies perfectly set to make a baby.” He went off to the sideboard, placing a covered dish on the table.

  “Although my lovely wife has tried faithfully to create this dish, she has never yet got it perfectly right. I give you, Lyran’s Frumenty Pudding Pie.” He lifted the lid with a flourish, and they all gasped at the contents. A large stone, an apple core and a piece of very hard cheese were arranged as the winking eyes and nose on a face, with a half-circle of dried fruit forming the grinning mouth.

  “What on earth?”

  When the laughter died down, Jarl fetched the actual pie from its hiding place, and Senna had shared a look with her husband that spoke of their shared delight in the jest.

  The subsequent weekdays had been unusually busy and this was her first opportunity to test her rocking chair properly. Lyrelie was out with Freya and Lyran had spent the afternoon with a friend in a nearby village. Jarl had accompanied Shayla to inspect three proposed premises for Quinn’s new venture. With the house to herself, she decided an infusion, a slice of frumenty pudding pie, and a nap would see off the fatigue threatening to sap her energy.

  Letting the gentle rocking – without the annoying squeak – lull her into relaxation, she freed her mind to focus on whatever problems needed resolution. Surprisingly few now Jarl was no longer fighting at the borders nor concerned about his parents’ health. In addition, all three of Lyrelie’s grandparents were well and thriving.

  The girl herself had few cares, surrounded by good friends, and showing a real talent for the healing skills, particularly making lotions and potions. This freed up Lyran to concentrate on their patients, which meant shorter days and more time spent together sharing things which brought them joy. She sighed. Life was good.

  Some small matter ailed her husband, but he was not yet ready to share it with her, and she knew better than to nag. He would tell her when it was the right time for her to hear. In the meantime, Jarl seemed to be his confidant, and she was sure no one would do it better. Apart from his distraction in female form. Although even that state of affairs had improved since Shayla’s arrival.

  Her head dropped forward and the dreams began.

  ~*~

  Lyran felt pleasantly relaxed and mellow as he pointed his horse down the ancient road which would take him home. His friend, Merek was staying in the area for a moon and they arranged to catch up. Because it took over a week to travel to his house, they had not met for many years.

  Senna had been invited, too, but she did not know the man. Also, she seemed tired, and a rest would do her good. As they swapped tales, he realised exactly how lucky he had been in every aspect of his life. Merek’s solitary life as a professor would not have suited Lyran in any way. And he got the impression his life, with its daily challenges and rewards, would not have suited Merek.

  Humming to himself, he began a litany of all the things in life he should be grateful for. Adding a simple tune, he sang each item aloud, relishing the powerful feeling building up inside him as he repeated the list, finding new things to add.

  “Thank you for my beautiful wife, Senna. Thank you for my lovely daughter, Lyrelie. Thank you for my cousin-brother, Jarl. Thank you for the love we share, the life we live and the many blessings we receive each day.”

  A distant sound, like a rumble of thunder, quieted his singing and he tried to remember which saddlebag held his oiled-skin surcoat. Then he registered the discrepancy. No rainclouds in the sky, but the ground had vibrated.

  The sound of a hand bell stirred him into action. An accident. At the quarry. Giving thanks Jarl was no longer there, he spurred his horse into action. Turning off the ridgeway, he met a horse dashing out and recognised the rider despite the blood on his face.

  “Brom. What happened?”

  “A landfall. There are still people trapped.” As they cantered back, he filled in some details. “The foreman and me were flung away. We got two of them, but there must be another two under there. I was coming to get some help.”

  Dismounting, he grabbed his emergency pack and sent Brom for the battle-bundles in the hut. The foreman was obviously in shock, barely able to answer Lyran’s questions about how many people were working and where.

  When Brom returned with a basket full of bandages, Lyran tried to treat him first, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

  “We need to get them poor beggars out first.”

  “Listen to me. If we don’t mend this cut, you could faint from blood loss and then you would be neither use nor ornament. I may need you to ride to the village – the foreman seems incapable.”

  He reluctantly agreed and, as Lyran applied the clotting powder, answered questions about how many people and where they were working.

  “Six of us. And the foreman. The other six went home at midday, but he asked us to do one more quenching before we left. You was right; they are cutting corners and overworking, but if we complain, we lose our jobs.”

  Lyran assessed what they’d managed to do so far in uncovering casualties, carefully examining each man and moistening dried lips. The two they’d partially uncovered had been sheltered by an overhanging ledge, and he spotted another pair of legs.

  All three were alive, but weak, with probable broken bones. Their priority was to get them shifted c
lear of the debris. By showing the foreman exactly what to do, they managed to get him to move the remaining rubble from the other two while they dug out the owner of the legs.

  He realised that every minute they spent on these men increased the chance of suffocation of the two buried deeper. But their real problem was the sun dropping toward the horizon. His options were narrowing. To save the three men, they needed warmth and better facilities. He made the decision and they loaded them on the cart.

  “Brom. I need you to drive the cart to the village with these three while we try to locate the other two. Any idea who’s still missing?”

  “Rulf. The deputy.” Brom’s eyes watered. “And Tasker’s down there. I cannot leave him.”

  “He’ll have a much better chance if you can grab some strong men to give us a hand. But you must go now, it’ll be dark soon. Will there be torches in the hut?”

  “Aye, and a storm lantern.” He shrugged. “We often work past sundown.”

  “Safe journey. Get Senna to look at you – and don’t come back. You’ve done your bit, let someone else take over.”

  “You take care, Lyran. You are a hero.”

  The foreman seemed to be getting duller and Lyran worried about the possibility of concussion, but he could see no evidence of bruising. Leaving the man propped against the rock face furthest away from the unstable area, he ran to fetch the torches. When he got back, the man had fallen asleep, and Lyran reasoned it was probably for the best.

  The light from the huge storm lamp did not make much impression before the sun set, but he knew it would be invaluable in another half an hour. He wanted to throw as much light as he could on the entrance to the fissure where Tasker and Rulf had been last seen.

  He called their names, but only his voice echoed back. His instinct was to claw at the rocks filling the gap, but he knew this could set off further vibrations resulting in another slide, so he set to work lifting them off one by one and placing them a few feet away.

  Lyran’s energy waned with the repetitive task, and to cheer himself up, he began singing his gratitude song, although with nothing like the gusto of before.