by Lana Nielsen
“I haven’t had company in two years. My grandchildren never visit. What a delight to have a strapping young lad to cook for again,” the old woman cooed, wobbling towards Darren once more. She pinched his cheeks.
“Oww!” Darren cried.
“Sorry, lad, I haven’t trimmed my nails in a while,” she croaked. Arithel observed that Elspeth’s nails were long and talon-like in appearance. They were not yellow but clear and came to a fine, tapered point. Darren’s cheek bled a little where he had been scratched. Elspeth gently dabbed it away with her hands. She wiped the blood on her apron.
“All right, you all ready? We’ll have a good night, I promise. We can play cards after dinner,” she announced sweetly, coughing on the last word. Arithel wondered how old Elspeth was. Eighty? Ninety? No telling. Elinmoorians’ hard lives seemed to age them quickly; she might not be a day over seventy.
She led them through the forest, her pathetic cow mooing all the way. It looked hungry, with its ribs visible on either side of its flanks. Madroste refused to walk anywhere near it.
“She’s a sweet old biddy, isn’t she?” Fallon remarked. Darren touched the scratch on his cheek.
“Yes, hospitable too,” Arithel replied. “Must be difficult for her to live in the middle of nowhere like this.”
They soon reached Elspeth’s home, a dilapidated yet surprisingly large wooden building sitting on sinking piles of bricks. It had a wide porch, a slanted chimney, and the yard was encircled by a rotting split-level fence. A sign dangled from beneath the gabled roof of the porch; the word “Wearywindle” was carved onto it.
“My husband used to run a trading post years ago. Back when more travelers took to these parts,” Elspeth said as they approached the door. She tapped her cane against the sign.
“I thought you lived on the edge of the wood. The yard is still surrounded by all the blasted trees,” Fallon complained as he stepped over the porch stoop. Elspeth stopped, turned around, and rubbed Fallon’s upper arm. She was so little and deformed that her head stopped a few inches below his chest. Surprisingly, Fallon didn’t look too unsettled by her touch.
“Look there, at the dirt path that leads away from the henhouse. About a hundred paces down there the forest ends and the moors begin.”
Fallon nodded, satisfied with her explanation. Arithel was not.
Elspeth tied her cow to one of the porch columns and opened the door for them. The interior of her house was dusty and cluttered with piles of books. Ugly, overgrown spiders roosted amidst the ceiling beams, staring down with their myriad glittering eyes. Arithel instinctively kept her arms close to her chest as she walked beneath their webs. Elspeth flittered about the room, lighting all candles in sight with the one that she kept perpetually burning in the windowsill. She then closed the shutters.
“Who’s ready for a good meal?” she asked, producing a ladle from her apron pocket.
“All of us!” Darren answered.
“Good.” She grinned, revealing an impressive number of pearly teeth for someone of her age.
Arithel noted that Elspeth’s silver hair was thick and lustrous for an old woman’s.
“Feel free to lie down and rest until I finish preparing dinner. I know it’s been a long and trying day.” The old woman motioned towards four couches in the living room. Two had heaps of old clothes atop them, one had a missing leg, and all had moth holes in the fabric.
Elspeth disappeared into the kitchen, offering only the briefest of glances inside as she craned her neck around the corner of the door. “Any of you care for tea while you wait?”
“We’ll take it with dinner, thank you,” Fallon said.
“What is for dinner, by the way?” Arithel asked as she observed their dingy surroundings. She didn’t want to eat moldy bread and tainted meat; she had already been sick once that day. Her head still ached and her pulse was weak and rapid.
“It’s a surprise! You’ll love it, lass,” Elspeth winked with her one eye—a sight that was profoundly disturbing for some reason Arithel didn’t quite understand. The old woman quickly vanished into the kitchen again.
Arithel picked up a book from a stack on the floor. The cover was dyed red and the pages inside were handwritten. It was clearly old, since the printing press had been in use in both Neldor and Elinmoor for fifty years. Arithel turned the delicate, yellowing pages, coughing as she stirred up a cloud of dust. To her amusement, the book was nothing more than a dull farmer’s almanac.
“I don’t see how anyone can live in this filth,” Fallon remarked.
“We can be grateful that someone is,” Darren said.
“Don’t be so loud. She’ll hear you,” Arithel whispered as she set the book back in its place. The pile collapsed and the books scattered across the floor. The commotion caused a rat to scurry out from underneath the couch she was sitting on. She swore as she moved her feet up to the couch.
“She’s old. There’s nothing to worry about. I could shout and she wouldn’t notice,” Fallon said.
“She doesn’t seem hard of hearing. She caught her calf just listening to bells,” Darren said. “I hope she isn’t killing herself in that kitchen. Maybe one of us should help.” His eyes rested directly on Arithel.
“You can,” she answered.
“Eh, she’ll probably whip up something fast. Old people aren’t complicated. They don’t keep all that much around other than staples… butter, bacon, eggs, milk…” Darren rambled.
“Thought so. You’re frightened of her,” Arithel observed.
“Says who? I’m not frightened, I pity her. The poor old widow having to live alone in the middle of a swamp with no one to talk to. It’s a wonder she’s not mad.”
“Sure.” Arithel smirked. She once again glanced nervously at the spiders crawling all over the ceiling. A few were creeping down the walls.
Fallon was concentrating on a book.
“I can’t believe we’re going to have to clean this place in the morn. What kind of deal was that, Fallon?” Arithel complained.
“I didn’t know it’d be this bad. I was desperate to find someplace to stay the night.”
“I know,” Arithel said. “But we’d be better off outside. It’s stuffy in here.”
“It might not be as bad in the bedrooms. A lot of this clutter is probably just left over from the trading post days,” Darren offered.
“An odd place to trade books and stationery…” Arithel murmured.
“Maybe she just likes to read,” Fallon stared up at Arithel from the pages of his book. Arithel shrugged.
“Can you even read with one eye?” Darren asked incredulously.
“Of course you can! What kind of ridiculous question is that?” Fallon snapped.
Even in the dim candlelight it was apparent Darren was flushed with embarrassment. He wrung his hands. Of course, Arithel realized, he couldn’t read. She would have to tell Fallon later so that he wouldn’t inadvertently humiliate the boy again. Darren seemed quite conscious of it, as most illiterate people were. When Sir Karidan sent her on collection duty, she noticed even the lowliest of serfs looked ashamed when they couldn’t sign their name.
“About this chore thing tomorrow morning. I’m going to go ahead and volunteer to clean out the chicken coop and cattle pen,” Arithel said.
“I didn’t see any animals out there.” Fallon furrowed his brow.
Arithel laughed. “Precisely. The two of you can make do sweeping up all these damned bugs.” She kicked a centipede across the floor. It slipped between the cracks of the floor boards.
***
Elspeth called for supper. As they walked through the kitchen door, a set of clamshell chimes rattled overhead.
The kitchen was just as chaotic as the living room—a plethora of dirty bowls, spoons, and pots were strewn across the counters. Jars of jelly were arranged in rows along the perimeter of the room. The oven was still smoking and stank of yeast and burnt meat.
“This is lovely!” Darren said as h
e pulled his stool from beneath the table. He feigned admiration of the stained placemats that had been set under the clay plates. “You really did not have to go through all the trouble, ma’am.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, I love young people. They brighten my day. Or I suppose I should say night, now,” she murmured, a distant twinkle in her singular black eye. She smiled and pinched Darren’s cheek just as forcefully as before. His cheery demeanor faded, and he once again scratched himself in the spot her bony fingers had marred.
“I’m not a boy,” Darren mouthed to himself as Elspeth turned away to retrieve a pitcher of milk.
“You’re sixteen. Soon to be seventeen, yes?” Elspeth remarked casually as she placed wooden cups beside their plates. She filled each cup halfway with thick, fresh milk. It smelled heavenly compared to the rest of her grimy, rotten abode. Arithel noted that there was no tea as promised.
Darren looked dumbfounded and nodded. “Yes ma’am, that’s right.”
“I don’t mean to spook you. I’m just very talented at guessing ages. You could call it the result of having been on this earth too long and having seen too many faces.”
She ladled generous spoonfuls of some goopy stuff onto their plates and handed them pieces of charred bread. A pungent aroma arose from the sticky, yellow gruel—chopped garlic and scallions were mixed into it. When Arithel cautiously examined the slop with her spoon, she encountered chunks of diced ham, red in color and springy in texture. A film of butter slowly spread from beneath the lump of hardening porridge.
She was starved, but there was no way she could eat this. It would make her sicker than the bogwater. Just looking at it had that effect already.
“Can you guess my age, Elspeth?” Fallon asked as he poked at his food.
“You turned twenty-two near midsummer,” she told him as she took her place at the table.
“You’re good.” Fallon laughed.
Elspeth nodded and greedily gobbled her food. It was strange to see a stooped old woman eat so enthusiastically. Usually the elderly lost their taste for things and picked at their meals like dying birds. Even more confounding was the fact that Elspeth had prepared such a disagreeable combination of flavors. Arithel watched Darren shovel the porridge down his throat with the same gusto as Elspeth. Even Fallon was a good sport, taking in many small bites at a steady pace. Arithel sighed. Perhaps she was being difficult. She grimaced, and took a few mouthfuls, shoving it towards the back of her tongue so she wouldn’t have to taste it much. She washed out the aftertaste with the surprisingly good milk.
“Is it difficult to get around by yourself out here?” Fallon half-shouted at Elspeth.
Elspeth chuckled. “I’m not deaf, lairdling. I could even hear yer stomach growl when we first crossed paths in the forest.”
“Sorry…”
“Tis fine,” Elspeth said through an open mouth full of slop. The residue of the porridge had formed a white coating around her lips and teeth. “But as for yer question, I get used to it. I rather like the quiet, and Betty out there is good company when I need it.”
“Betty is the name of the cow?” Darren asked. Arithel rolled her eyes at the question.
“Betty can be a nickname for Elspeth, too.” The crone winked.
“I didn’t know that,” Darren pondered. “Only knew one other lady with your name.”
“It’s old-fashioned. Not like this lass’s name. Arithel,” Elspeth slowly rolled the syllables on her tongue. “That is a fancy name, too fancy for a common girl.”
“I’m not some peasant!” Arithel spat quickly. “My father is a bailiff and owns land and an orchard, too. We’re of the yeoman class. I can trace my family name back two hundred years.”
“Yeoman,” Elspeth snorted and took a swig of milk. “Things were simpler in my youth. You had lairds, peasants, and slaves. Everyone knew their place, and the descendants of servants and peddlers didn’t go parading about with fine clothes and books and pedigrees actin’ as if they were somehow above Agron himself. Unless the natural order is restored, the world will continue to break. All this business with the weather and the sun not shining—tis a sign.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Arithel remarked, her cheeks hot. “Like the Nureenians say, we’re all the same in the grave. And they own almost all the continent. Tiresias may be cruel, but he is doing something right, in making rank and title irrelevant.”
Fallon scowled at these words.
“Relax,” Elspeth laughed. “Don’t be so touchy, lass.” Elspeth reached out to pat her.
“Mother Inara, everywhere I go, it’s like this,” Arithel yanked her arm away from the old woman. “I didn’t ask to be criticized, now did I?”
“It’s not criticism, lass, it’s an old woman offering you sage advice. I have advice for your friends too, but you seem the most troubled,” Elspeth told her.
Arithel scraped her spoon against her plate.
“Thank you for dinner,” she said, and walked out of the room to allow her thoughts to cool.
“Is there anything for dessert? Or should we start playing games already?” Darren laughed nervously.
“I have some pound cake leftover from last week,” Elspeth told him and hobbled towards her pantry to retrieve the pan. She set it upon the table with quivering hands. There was only one slice left, along with some crumbs. Darren tried to pick up the cake with a fork, but its rock-hard exterior could not be penetrated by the tines. He laughed apprehensively and grabbed it with his hands. He was unable to break it into smaller morsels so he slowly gnawed at the whole thing, softening it with saliva. After a delayed realization, he dipped it into his milk. After that it tasted fine and was easy to chew.
“I’ve forgotten where I put the dice. It’s been so long since I had visitors.” The old woman muttered as she paced about the room, sifting through shelves and cabinets.
“It’s probably not in the kitchen, correct?” Fallon said.
“I always entertained in the kitchen. The living room is for rest.”
Fallon exhaled.
“I could tell your fortunes!” she suggested happily. “All I need are the lines on your palms. I used to do it for many wayfarers; they always enjoyed it.”
She re-adjusted her eye-patch.
“Er…” Darren mumbled through a mouthful of cake.
“It’ll be free,” she grinned and nodded.
Fallon chuckled.
“All right, I suppose…” Darren said. His priest had always warned that fortune-telling was a tool of Tifalla and her devils. But he was curious, and Elspeth did have icons of Agron and Inara and St. Clarence hanging above the mantelpiece back in the living room; it was probably not so wicked.
“Excellent. Let me do the lairdling’s first,” Elspeth looked at Fallon.
“I’m going outside for a smoke,” Fallon told them, his tone somewhere between condescension and courtesy.
***
Arithel was sitting on the edge of the porch when Fallon arrived. She gazed into the forest, listening to the wind rustle the tops of the trees. He sat next to her and pulled out his pipe. After he drew in the first hit, his posture relaxed. He crossed his legs and leaned back on his hands.
“You know,” he told her. “You shouldn’t have argued with the old woman. There was no point.”
Arithel glared at him. “She was disrespectful when I had shown her no ill will.”
She fumed, thinking about the old woman’s comments. She had endured similar derision her whole life–know your place, show humility, cool your spirit. Elspeth sounded oddly like Mother Cecilia or Effie, the most irksome and meddlesome of all the scolds in Portreath.
“Elspeth is old; old folk always think they know everything. You should have just nodded and tuned her out. After all, we’re not in much of a position to argue, are we?”
He puffed on his pipe and coughed a bit. Arithel nodded in acknowledgement.
“I must ask you though, out of curiosity. Did you truly mean what you said, ab
out rank being irrelevant, or was that just your temper talking?”
She shrugged.
Fallon was visibly disconcerted. He set his pipe down on the porch, the simmering poppy paste slowly going to waste in the bowl. “Did your father teach you that? You know he could get dismissed for that sort of insubordination.”
Why was Fallon even bringing it up? Did he feel disrespected? She cast him an irritated look.
“I don’t understand. I always thought you were an honorable girl—that you were on our side. I thought you loved all that was good, beautiful, and true in this world,” he said, rather melodramatically.
“Don’t take everything personally.” She sighed. “You said yourself that a great change is coming to Linnea. I’m fine with anything that benefits me.”
“Great change would mean good rulers, not mimicking the policies of despots like Tiresias. The success of the empire has nothing to do with him or his awful revolution. What would benefit you and everyone else would be an absolute ruler who inspires absolute loyalty and absolute devotion, a ruler so wise and powerful he can conquer the stars and heavens themselves. Don’t you understand?” he scoffed. “What people crave isn’t comfort, accommodation, or fair consultation. What people crave is duty and submission—to that which is just.”
Arithel laughed gently. “Speak for yourself.”
“I wasn’t joking,” he told her, apparently stung. “Not everything is a joke.”
“Fine. On a serious note, I suppose Morden is responsible for filling your head with these grandiose ideas.”
“I have my own opinions,” he said, and his gaze drifted down to the shape of her breasts. Arithel pulled her cloak closer about her, something she might not have bothered with if it had been Darren gawking. Though Fallon put her on edge, she found herself drawn further towards him, leaning closer when he spoke.
“I’m going back inside,” Arithel said, “It’s cold. I suppose I might even apologize to the old bitch. I must stop making mountains out of molehills.”
