by B. K. Parent
“I think that can be covered for a few weeks. Nana can come into town, and if anyone asks, she can say you were just so upset about your Da’s disappearance that she sent you off to the high country to gather some special spring roots and herbs to keep your mind off your Da bein’ missin’. That should cover you for a little while. I had best be gettin’ back. Come after breakfast and hitch up your homewagon. I’ll have Mabel talk it up this night about how good it looks now that she has finished puttin’ her sewin’ touches to the inside. Folks hopefully won’t think twice about you movin’ it back to your place.”
“How are you going to sneak us out of town, Thomas? A homewagon is not a little hand cart you know. It is a home on wheels along with a small cart behind. It’s not like we can just take a small animal path through the forest with it like a lone walker could.”
“Give me a couple of days, lass, while I think on it,” Thomas said as he got up and headed down the hill.
We walked in silence and parted at the bottom of the hill, he back to the village and I to the cottage. I had a lot to think about. Nana was up by the time I walked back into the kitchen. Carz got up and stretched out, first his front legs and then his back legs, before walking over and demanding that I scratch him behind his ears. His deep purr was a welcome sound, and the smells coming from the griddle over the fire made my stomach growl, reminding me of how hungry I was.
After breakfast, I sat down with Nana and told her what Thomas had told me. She looked as surprised as I had felt upon hearing about the possibility that Da had somehow been working for this Lady Celik.
“’Twas a terrible time right before and after Queen Octavia died,” said Nana. “Her reign had been one of peace. It was when she became ill towards the end of her life that peace began to crumble. Some of the nobles who had been held in check became bolder, and bands of bullies began to terrorize the smaller outlying villages. I’ll always be grateful to your Da for showing up when he did and taking me from my village, but that’s another story for another time. Until it was settled who was to be regent, Sommerhjem was in turmoil. Once Lord Cedric Klingflug was named regent, he managed to bring some control back to the land. From what you tell me Thomas said, Regent Klingflug may have become too fond of ruling. What we need to do now is get busy. Not only will we need to change the appearance of the homewagon, but we’ll need to change your appearance too. You go head into the village and pick up the homewagon. Meanwhile, I need to get your mother’s trunk out of the attic.”
With a stomach full of griddle cakes topped with stewed apples, I took my dishes to the sink and headed to the stable to hitch up the two horses, Flick and Clover. Both horses were brown with little to distinguish one from the other. They still had their shaggy coats from the winter and would not have caught the eye of someone looking for grand horseflesh. I hoped two years of soft living would not be a problem when we took to the road. While they were big horses, they were mild-mannered and it did not take long to halter them, although Flick keep hitting me in the face with his tail as I checked his back hooves. I had to pull Clover’s face out of the hay bin in order to get her halter on. When I had their lead ropes attached, I led them from the stable and we walked into the village. Once there Thomas’ oldest son and I made quick work of hitching the team to the homewagon, and I headed back to our cottage. Before I left, Thomas pulled me aside and apologized for not being able to free himself up to help me with disguising the homewagon. He had a delivery arriving midmorning and needed to be at the inn.
“Put some paint I had left from paintin’ the inn in the homewagon. Should be enough to cover both the homewagon and the cart. After you finish with all the paintin’, you might want to scuff it up a bit so you don’t look too new, if’n you know what I mean,” suggested Thomas.
I thanked him and headed home. It seemed strange to be sitting up front, holding the reins, and not have Da beside me. It was then that the reality stuck. Da expected me to head off in the homewagon by myself, alone, on a journey that would take me who knew where. I almost turned the homewagon around to take it back to Thomas’. I knew Da was counting on me, but I was not sure I could count on myself. By the time I had the homewagon in the stable and had put the horses out to pasture, I was feeling calmer, but still I sent a fervent plea skyward that Da would come home soon.
It rained the next day, which is not a good climate for painting, but I was fairly sure no one would come visit us this day, so I spent the day in the stable covering the homewagon with a coat of brown paint with green trim. I added the traditional ivy and flower design to the sides along with a few designs of my own. The homewagon had never seemed very big when we were living in it, but by the time I had finished painting it, I was sure it had grown triple in size. I figured it would probably shrink when I began to pack it, and then it would seem too small for all I had to fit inside. There was very little light left by the time I had finished the last of the ivy leaves, and my back and arms ached from the unaccustomed labor. Tomorrow would be another long day.
When I walked into the cottage, I realized that Nana had been very busy also. There was not a place to sit in the parlor since clothing was draped on every chair, and the floor space was taken up with stacked wooden boxes and canvas bags.
“What’s all this, Nana?” I inquired.
“You’ll need appropriate clothing if you’re to go a-roving. Your clothing for living here in the village has suited who you were, but won’t suit who you are about to become.”
I looked down at myself and realized that I really paid very little attention to how I looked. I was of average height compared to the villagers, and just a little taller than Nana. No one would ever accuse me of being slender or willowy. I did not glide gracefully into a room on any occasion. I remember my mother always commented that I had the stride of a rover, long and ground-eating. I was of light complexion and Nana told me I was fair of face, but truthfully, I thought I was rather plain. My best feature I felt was my hair, long and a deep auburn with red highlights. I wore it in a thick braid down my back, not so much for fashion but to keep it out of the way. This day I was dressed in a loose-fitting broad weave shirt and paint-covered pants. I had worn my oldest pair of soft shoes because I knew that after this day they would be ready for the back of my wardrobe.
Nana was right of course. I had grown so much in the last few years that my old rover wardrobe would be much too small. If I were to travel as a rover, I needed traveling clothes, and clothes with Mother’s clan colors. I had not thought of that yet but Nana obviously had. There before me were shirts with beautiful embroidery, walking skirts plain and in Mother’s plaid, plain and fancy vests, sturdy pants, a warm travel cloak trimmed with a plaid edging, a waterproof cloak, and other garments.
“These were your mother’s. You’re about the same size and build so I think they’ll fit you. Your Da packed them up when your mother died and put them away for you, thinking you might want them some day. I don’t think he anticipated you needing them this way. You had best try them on. I may not be the best hand with a needle, but I can do a decent stitch if some of them need to be altered or repaired. They are in good shape considering they have been in a trunk for several years. Hurry up now, I want to get them on the line this night to air out. I don’t think it will rain anymore this day and the rain-washed air will be good for them. They may be a bit damp when we take them in in the morning, but a good shaking will set them to rights. Your Da’s note and Thomas’ caution suggests that we avoid putting them on the line in broad daylight for the entire village to walk up and see.”
Trying on my mother’s clothes was hard, for even though they had been in a trunk for several years, her scent still clung to many of them and memories of her washed over me in waves. Mother was always filled with laughter, her deep blue eyes full of love and mischief, and I realized that since her death, there had not been much laughter in this family. Certainly known by man
y for her fine weaving and embroidery, Mother had also been known for her kindness. No matter where we were, she somehow always attracted the children and was forever fixing a scraped knee or a bruised heart. Standing there clutching her cloak to my chest, I let the tears fall. I realized I had tucked my feelings for the loss of her so deep that it probably hurt twice as much now that the memories were flooding back. Nana gently removed the cloak from my hands and gathered me into her arms. We stood like that for a very long time.
Chapter Six
The rest of the week passed in a blur. Once the outside of the homewagon was finished, it was time to pack up not only my personal items but the trade goods that would be my outward reason for traveling. While I had helped, Mother had always packed the interior of the homewagon, and Da had always taken care of packing the equipment and the small covered cart we pulled behind. The cart served both as storage and as a booth in the market. Since the cart had always been plain, it had just taken a coat of paint to get it ready. I had made a sign to hang on the front announcing: Fine Woodworking, Wood Repairs, and Herbal Supplies. Rovers often had several services or crafts that they offered so the contents of the sign would not surprise anyone.
I was grateful that the strangers who had torn the cottage apart the day Da disappeared had not found their way into either of the attics, not the one in my room nor the one in Nana’s. Attics might not be the correct term for the storage spaces under the eaves, but they served that purpose. The attics were where Nana had kept Mother’s trunk and where I had kept my finished wood projects. Besides puzzle boxes, I made wooden bowls and cups, fancy turned wood goblets, and small inlaid boxes. The winters are long here, so over the last few years I had created a good amount of stock. Just as I had packed the last of my more fragile wooden bowls away in sturdy boxes and was about to put the boxes in the cart, Nana came into stable carrying a flat wooden box.
“Nana,” I exclaimed, “I said you should leave that for me. I can carry those for you.”
“Do I look like I am old and infirmed, gel?” Nana asked as she set the box in my hands, turned, and headed back out of the stable. “Humph, I could out carry you any day and don’t you forget it.”
I went back to my packing. Da had designed the cart to hold his smithing tools and Mother’s loom. I modified it to hold my turning lathe, spoke shave bench, tool sharpener, wood tools, and a selection of wood boards, many of which I had planed from driftwood washed up in the cove. Many of the small boards I slipped onto the shelves in the cart were woods I had no names for. They were certainly not from Sommerhjem. Sometimes late at night, when I could not sleep, I would dream of traveling to distant lands where the driftwood had come from. Nana returned several more times with bags and satchels filled with paper-wrapped packets of dried herbs, and boxes of carefully packed jars of liniments and ointments. When she returned one last time, she was carrying a large leather wallet and a stack of very small boxes.
“I have packed an emergency kit to handle cuts, scrapes, sore muscles, and other ailments facing you along the way and also, in the side pouch, those medicines that that scruffy cat of yours might need. I’ll set it on the back steps of the homewagon for you.”
“Thanks, Nana, I wouldn’t have thought to pack such a kit. I remembered to put together and pack an emergency kit for the horses, but not for Carz and me. Which reminds me, I’d best make sure I have all of the repair materials I’ll need packed away for both the homewagon and the horse’s harnesses.”
When I came out of the tack room, after checking it twice to make sure I had not forgotten anything, I saw Nana standing beside the homewagon still holding the small boxes.
“Do you need me to put those in the homewagon or in the cart Nana?” I asked.
“They’ll need to go in the homewagon, but first I want you to come and see what is in each box.”
Nana opened the first box and in it was what, at first glance, appeared to be bits of folded cloth. I was about to ask Nana why I needed to have a box of small cloth scraps when she took one out and shook it open. I could not hide my surprise when I saw she was holding a very small cloak between her thumb and forefinger.
“For the Neebings,” she said.
“But Nana,” I began, but she held up her hand to silence me.
In the second box were very tiny vials, labeled in a script almost too small to read, that held liniments and ointments, very much like those I had packed in the cart just moments ago. The third box contained very small cast iron pots and other useful household items.
“For the Neebings,” she repeated. “You know what to do, and you know what can happen if you don’t.”
With that said, she handed me the boxes and swiftly headed back towards the house. When Nana got that look on her face, and put that determined stride into her step, it brooked no argument even from Da, so I just stood there staring after her, holding the three boxes of small items and feeling somewhat confused.
My mind drifted back to when I was much younger, and Da had told me I was old enough to know something secret, but very important, that was known to rovers all over the land. We had been traveling about half a day when Da had spotted a really huge tree down a side lane, turned off the main road, and made his way to the base of the trunk, which was set about forty feet off the lane. It was obvious that this place was often used as a campsite for there was a semi-permanent fire ring, a stack of dry firewood left by some previous campers, and clear wagon ruts in the grass. Not far behind the tree, a small crystal-clear stream tripped merrily over rocks. Sunlight dappled the soft grass and I remember being amazed by the chorus of bird songs that filled the glen. It was such a peaceful place. When I asked Da about why we had stopped, he said we needed a day of rest, and besides, Neebings dwelled here.
“Come,” he had said. “I’ll show you what we must do, for we always need to honor the Neebings when we come into their places. We must select just the right gift, and perhaps a bit of Neebing luck will follow us. If we ignore the Neebings, you never know what will happen.”
And so he had grabbed my hand and taken me into the homewagon. From a top cupboard above their bed, he had drawn down a small box and opened it. Inside were very small homespun shirts in forest greens, wood-bark grays, and browns.
“Pick one out,” he had told me, and I had.
I remember picking one in that beautiful new bud spring green color. Then, looking at me with mischief in his eyes, Da led me to the front of the homewagon and opened a panel on the side of the steep stairs that led down into the homewagon from the front and provided easy access for the driver or whoever was sitting up front. That was the first surprise. I had always liked this panel because it looked like a little door, but it had never opened when I had tried it.
“Have to know the secret to the door before it opens,” Da had said.
I had looked inside the doorway only to see another door. Da opened that door inward to reveal what looked like a very tiny room and gently placed the little shirt inside the door onto the floor. He closed the doors, and then moved a panel next to the panel that looked like a door and revealed a small crank. Da turned the crank and I could hear something moving within the walls. He then told me to come with him to the outside. Once we got there, he crawled under the homewagon and told me to follow him. There, hanging down from the underside of the homewagon was a telescoping rectangular tube of wood that reached the ground. Da told me to come close and open the door. Inside was the very tiny room I had seen when I looked through the small door in the panel while inside the homewagon, and on the floor was the small shirt I picked out.
When I asked Da to explain, he had told me that the door on the outside was a way for the Neebings to enter our homewagon if they chose. He had me look closer and pointed out what I had not seen before, a ladder that headed upward. At that point Mother had come back from getting water from the stream and hunkered down to peer un
der the homewagon. I remember her laughing with delight when she found out Da was showing me the Neebing door. When I had asked them what a Neebing looked like, they had both admitted neither had ever seen one, but they were insistent that rover tradition taught them to always honor the Neebings with a gift, and I needed to remember that. Mother said she had heard that they were so very hard to see because, besides wearing clothing that blended in with their surroundings, they also had the ability to change colors by showing more or less of their dark brown under fur. She also told me Neebings were wily, elusive, and incredibly mischievous, but essentially good-hearted. The next morning after breakfast, Da had shown me how to crank the tube back up and secure the interior door. I looked inside, and the small shirt I had left was gone. In its place was a very polished stone.
I guess I had never really believed in Neebings. I just always thought of them as a grand joke that Mother and Da had played on me. I used to lie in my bed trying with all my might to stay awake so I could catch one of my parents slipping out to take the small item I had placed through that small door and replace it with some other small item, but I never did. I always fell asleep. Now Nana, who was not of the rovers and had only spent a very short time with us on the road before Mother died, had handed me three very small boxes of gifts for the Neebings. Odd. While I had always had my doubts, I was a little embarrassed when I went back to the cart, and after moving a few items, pulled out a small box of my own that held very small wooden bowls and cups. I took all four boxes, climbed into the homewagon, and put the boxes in the top cupboard above Da’s bed. I then went over to the little door in the panel below the front stairs and opened the small door. The little room was empty except for dust and a cobweb. I cleaned the room out, put a fresh wax polish to the little floor, and made sure the tube cranked up and down soundlessly just as it should. I was going to need all the luck I could find on this coming journey, and Neebing luck sounded just fine to me.
