by Sandra Waugh
And three years later came ridiculously fateful words: “Cath! Stop giggling!”
Voices—filtering from the orchard where I’d gone to welcome Raif home. He’d been away in Crene for eighteen months apprenticing with the treekeepers, and I’d waited impatiently for his return—both wanting to prove myself his superior with my own Healer knowledge and to have our teases again. But there was the flirting, silly Cath arriving first, eager to claim the so very handsome and newly grown-up Raif. And he was happily obliging: “If you want a kiss, then let me do it properly….”
I caught their kiss, gawking like a fool. And what was familiar was suddenly lost in queasy strangeness—of heart, stomach, and limb—a sickness I could not cure. Seeing Raif in the orchard, at Gatherings, or by any accident became both brilliant and awkward. He stood out, suddenly, not as my friend but like some beacon too bright to look upon, yet impossible to avoid. And then it was even more strange and awkward when at sixteen he stopped at our booth one market day to smell Grandmama’s lavender soaps and lemon balm possets—
Raif said my hair smelled of those things. He said it shone as silver as the full moon. And then all the feelings were no longer strange, but delicious and thrilling, and as necessary as breathing.
Tall, dark-haired, and pale-skinned, even in midsummer. Quiet, patient, more serious, with a wit too subtle to be much recognized in our guileless village. I knew Raif’s face better than my own, for I could not help but watch him—learning to observe in secret from the corner of my eye. I observed as Cath lost his fancy. I observed as he contrived reasons to visit our booth or arrive to draw water from the common well at the same times I did. I observed him observing me, sometimes, and was secretly glad. I lay in bed at night picturing his smile, wanting that kiss he’d given Cath. I’d construct the moment when he might profess, and shape our future into pretty pictures—husband, wife, and babies gathered around a hearth. And I kept it—all of it—secret.
My stupidity, such secrets. My loss. I was blunt and forthright about most things, but I never spoke of love. ’Twas a choice I made when very young. I liked being a Healer; I wanted to be best at it, maybe even to earn the status of White Healer, so I’d decided never to betray my feelings—that I might always appear impartial, look fairly to all. If Raif asked for my hand, that was a fine thing, but I’d not choose him first. I thought I was being brave and selfless. I thought it didn’t matter.
Grandmama would say, “Loving freely will not weaken one’s gifts,” as if she suspected my desire. But I stayed rigidly quiet. And Raif was patient.
It was not until that last day, when the threat of Troths weighed heavy in anticipation. It was after market; I’d repacked the basket, said my daily—and more earnest—farewells, and was just past Dame Keren’s cottage when Raif met me and pulled my elbow so that I swung around the side of her chimney and into his arms.
He kissed me. It was not my first kiss, but I thought it the best. And he kissed my cheeks and my hair and held my face between his hands to look me straight in the eye, to memorize me. Then he left quickly without demanding my response.
Soon after, the village bell was clanging in warning, the Troths were howling, Raif was lying heart open in the village square, and my moon-colored hair was red with his blood. And then I hung, half surprised, half eager as a Troth sprang for my throat, undone when that Troth was stabbed dead by a Rider charging past.
Words of affection, of pledge, were never shared. ’Twas Lark who told Raif I loved him, as she told me the same. Love cannot die, Raif bade her tell me in return. And even that Lark intervened for our sakes was a lost effort, for it was too late for anything but words. All of it was too late, too secret, wasted and unfinished.
Love cannot die. But it did die. And I was left with these fierce memories and a ring.
—
My arms were clasped so hard around my legs that my limbs were white. I slowly let go, slowly tied my satchel closed over the unused herbs. But I smiled a little, for I was not yet defeated. I had an alternate plan for death: Rood Marsh. I’d heard it talked of at market—’twas a place so wide and so empty, a person would lose her way in the reeds with little there to sustain her. It gave purpose—like a little glow beyond all the numbness—for if I could not struggle free of Healer instinct on my own, this marsh would do it for me.
West, I was told. I was getting closer. And my clothes were dry.
—
Moonlight made for easy travel. I walked through the night and the next one, slept some, and continued west. I was far enough from Merith that I could no longer guess at which village I passed or recognize the ribbons of their market tents. I aimed away from the sunrise, keeping a little to the south. If I strayed north I might reach the city of Tyre. That was a vile place, I’d heard; I had no wish to lose myself there.
Once, I happened upon a troupe of mummers who were camped on the banks of a shrinking pond. Their bells jingled faintly merry in the breeze, a reminiscence of festivals, of acrobats and pantomimes. “What news?” they asked me of the towns to the east. My answer was the same as theirs was from the west: too meager a harvest to celebrate, farmers too poor to pay for treats.
We shook hands all around in place of food to share, as none of us had any to spare. I started off, but a little farther on one of the children waved at me, pointing to the water. She wanted me to fetch some little waterfowl she’d spied drifting in the middle, struggling to stay upright. The pond was not deep, but none of them could swim. I kicked off my sandals, bunched up my skirts, and waded in. Black and white, the thing was like a large duck, but not one I’d ever seen. I slid my hand under his firm belly and towed him slowly back to shore. He waddled up the bank a ways and crouched silent, so we kneeled by him. “Is it dead?” the girl asked, frowning.
I shook my head. “Nay, look.” I brushed the edge of one wing so it stretched out long in reflex. But then I too frowned. Something else I’d never seen: the bird’s feathers were singed as if by a hot blade—a dark straight line sheared the tips, a harsh scent of metal still potent.
We banked the little fowl with handfuls of grass and moss for cover and left him there. “There’s no medicine for this,” I told her. “A burned wing will refeather. But he is far from his home, and that is something we must let the bird find on his own.” She skipped off, pleased enough to have saved him. I walked on, wondering.
A waterbird that drowned; wings clipped by strange fire. This was way beyond the violent reach of Troths.
Something dark was coming to our little world.
—
A day and night and day again, a plain landscape with food scarcer to forage. The last green tints dissolved into brown, and I was left with a few lone skyhawks. Then the skyhawks dropped away, and out of the dullness appeared something else altogether:
Rood Marsh.
I had to stop first and simply stare at the dense stand of reeds that confronted me, jutting up from the mud, twice a man’s height. They spread far to the north and west, breaking the landscape. I scouted along its border. Trails were cut into the marsh; most were abandoned after a few paces. One opening, though, pushed farther, cutting a narrow trough that disappeared into a wet dimness. It seemed a better start than simply plunging in. The marsh seemed to think so too. There was a shuffling of canes in the faint breeze, their humid breath on my cheeks. An applause of sorts, a welcome.
I opened my satchel, took out the water flask and the last bits of dried meat and carrots I’d saved, and placed them on the edge of the grass as a gift for whatever creature might pass by. Nothing left for me except the keepsakes, the minion, and the poisons. I closed my eyes, lifted my face for a last drenching of sun, and smiled.
Then I shifted my pack and walked in.
The path followed the only solid ground. Other trails were cut here and there, and at first I paused to peer into each dark winding, to finger the pale brown wands. But then the trails fell away, leaving only one narrow gap between towering walls. I
trekked on. It turned silent, save for the whispers. There were no shadows, just gray light. Minutes passed, perhaps hours. Eagerness dwindled against monotony. I imagined Raif with me; I imagined Lark. I imagined journeys I’d not have to make alone.
Somewhere I remembered I was thirsty. By habit I broke off a stem to suck out the moisture—a worthless puddle-taste of rotting leaves. Without thinking, I turned and began walking back the way I came, then stopped, snorting. How foolish—I’d been too safe by staying on the path; Healer instinct would march me straight out of the marsh. I could feel it even then: the tug for water, for the little necessities I’d left behind on the grass. I’d have to fight myself to stay.
And so I did it fast, the only thing I could think to make myself hopelessly lost, before I could reason my way into returning: I shut my eyes and spun in circles until I was wildly dizzy…and then crashed into the reeds. Hands out, pushing at the forest of stems, I slogged ten steps, twenty, as many as I could before my eyes sprang open.
I was shin-deep in mud. There was another trail in front of me, so I took it and ran a little ways, then broke through the walls again. No paths! I had to go deeper.
Reeds caught and tore, feathering down their fluffy crowns like snow. I stumbled upon a third path, crossed it, and farther on crossed another. “Stop!” I hissed fiercely. “Stop finding me!” Who had been through here? There was nary a reason to come this far—no one would willingly choose this way to travel. And yet ahead was a rudely made footbridge laid over a deep puddle. I swore at it, turned, and went knee-deep into green-slick muck. I stumbled up, slashing at the canes. I crossed more paths and more until I raged at this invisible crowd of explorers, feet stamping, splattering mud into mud.
“Claim me!” I shouted to the marsh. “Go on. Claim me!”
I waited. There was the faint brush of applause.
I turned and ran again. Broken stems, shards of reeds flaking and sticking. Deeper, Evie. Deeper. And then I tripped flat onto the stinking ground. Panting and spitting, I raised my head, wiped the slime to look at what had sent me sprawling.
There was the footbridge again, and the path. The only path. All the others I’d made myself, circling and recircling. Healer instinct—I kept coming back.
A bitter, ugly little noise curled from my throat. I was not lost but found; I could not shake any trail, any opportunity to return. I pushed myself up, not bothering anymore to smear the mess away, and sat down on the bridge. I pulled the satchel around front, untied it, and took out the yew, determined. There was no more applause from the crowd of reeds, but whispers of disappointment. I growled at them, and they sighed back, hollow and forlorn. I yelled out, “You don’t understand: I want this! Raif is gone!” My voice was as forlorn as the reeds: “You like this solitude. But it is not for me, this being alone.”
But then I was no longer alone.
It made no secret of its approach. It was simply coming, an uneven tread of foot on mud and straw, limping, gaining. Intruding. Annoyed, I slammed the yew back in my bag and stood up to confront.
Not more than a minute and then the louder whisper of reeds rustled in passing—
An old man stepped into view.
NOT JUST AN old man. A terribly old man. Stooped and scrawny and ugly. He wore a robe wrapped nearly twice around and tied with a bit of leather. Whether he wore leggings underneath, I could not tell. And, as if that were not enough, he was made more absurd by the sky-blue dunce cap stuck on his greasy head.
The old man had stopped short, a little surprised by me—black with filth, arms akimbo, blocking the path. But then he limped forward, pulled off his cap, and held it out all meek and cringing.
“A penny a fortune, mud poppet.”
I stared for a moment in disbelief. Then I burst out laughing.
“One penny,” he wheedled. “You will know your future.”
“Here, in the midst of nothing you want to barter! What are you? A seer?”
He smiled, a mouth of darkly yellowed teeth. “Some call me so. I am named Harker.”
“Well, then, Master Harker—”
“Not Master,” he said sharply.
“Harker, then. If you are a true seer you would know I have no future.”
He peered at me. “And if you were a seer you might know differently.”
“You are not here for fortunes. I can divine that much.” Humor was gone. “Why do you follow me?”
“Follow! ’Tis a path,” he said with that hideous grin, evading. “Why are you the only one to walk it?”
“There is no reason for you to come this way.”
“And you have reason where I have none?”
“More reason than you.”
The old man inched closer. “ ’Tis not reason that brings you here. You push reason away.”
“You cannot say that. You do not know me.” We were speaking coyly, both of us, like a little game. I did not like it. And I was sorely disappointed—I’d been so close to an ending.
“Ah, but I do know you,” he said solemnly. “You are the Healer.”
I sniffed. “There are many Healers about. That was but a guess.”
“No. You are the Healer. The one of ones.”
“And you are the riddle maker.” I turned and pointed at the bridge. “Go on. I will wait until you are past. Go on your way.”
He did not move. “You dictate? You make a choice for me?”
“I only let you go first.”
“Nay, you pointed with your finger. You choose my direction. If I step past you it is because you directed.”
“You make your own fate, Harker. You are the seer.”
That made him suddenly sad. “True.” He nodded slowly, no grin now. “If I follow your pointing finger it is because I choose to follow. But…what if you pushed me forward? Then is it my choice? Or is this where one’s fate takes a turn by another’s choosing?”
That he was more than a little mad was clear. I sat back down on the footbridge, leaving him room. “You do what you wish. But I hope you will go.”
Harker shuffled very close. I watched his feet in their broken leather sandals—all trussed with cords of hide and plant. “Your cousin will make a choice for you,” he announced.
“Cousin!” I looked up. “You know my cousin? How?”
He only eyed me slyly and held out his cap.
“That is no fortune.” I pushed his hat from me, looked away again. Better to wait for him to tire of this play.
“I hope,” he said very slowly, “that she chooses well.”
I laid my chin in my hands and studiously ignored him. But it shook me that he used those words. She did choose well, Seer, but for naught.
“Nay.” Harker answered my thought as if he’d heard me. He leaned close. I could smell on him the filth and disease gathered from a long time of wandering, but I also smelled a wiry, tenacious strength. The opposites battled one another—he would live out countless years but be riddled with pain. A sad existence.
He hissed in my ear: “Nay, Evie Carew, the one Healer. I do not speak of your dead man. I speak of what’s yet to come.”
I jerked my head up, mouth open. “How do you know my thought? My name?”
“For one who wanted no fortune you have now asked for three!” He grinned. “Three questions and not one penny? There.” He stuck his cap almost under my nose. “Spare my fee.”
“I have no penny,” I said.
“Thief!” Harker shouted. I jumped a little, but he jumped farther. “You’ll beg me. You’ll all beg me!” He started off up the bridge where I’d pointed. It wasn’t really a walk, but more like a puppet’s dance with that limp—his feet on tiptoe, barely touching down, making the stands of rushes whisper as he passed.
I sat hunched for a while longer, upset that he’d interrupted my efforts but more disturbed that he knew me, that he knew Lark. And he’d said Lark would choose for me—something yet to come.
“She chose Raif,” I whispered after him. “Lark
already chose Raif for me. What more can she do than that?”
Oh, that I was like my cousin! Lark would have waited long for the seer to disappear and be soothed once more by the quiet and solitude. But I was left with my intentions in ruins, curiosity running like tendrils of ghisane, reaching to clutch at the speculations of this old man. Thorny, dark, incessant. What he meant I had to learn.
It was not long, then, before I picked myself up and started after him.
—
There is a secret in the middle of Rood Marsh.
It was an island in the sea of mud and towering reed: a broad scape, unaffected by drought, of bright green grass and clover, with a stream of clear water bubbling from a spurt in a choke of rock, and three trees: apple, beech, and willow. A border of brambleberries and cattails and woodbine defined one edge; borage and thyme grew wild at another. A tiny hut was built from timber and thatched with the reeds. And two goats and their kid roamed freely, grazing under a sky that was clear of the marsh gray.
The old man, Harker, sat by the stream on a large flat stone and watched the water.
I walked straight to him, surprised. “Is this your home?”
“I have no home,” he said without moving.
“Others must come, then. The wilderness is well tended. There is all one needs to thrive here.”
“Few bother the marsh. A herder from Bullbarr left the goats, and returns to cull the flock. Mostly it sits unknown. But those who find it can find peace.” He turned his head to look at me. “You will not find peace.”
I frowned. He’d been speaking lucidly. Now he was back to coy innuendos, and I was too easy a target.
“Why do you know my name? Why do you say I will not find peace?”
“Because you run from one reason and not the other.”
