he
could help you with?”
The woman nodded. “Me man won’t like
it, but I’ll handle him.”
“And feed him all the soup he can hold.
Use fowl, if you can, to make the broth. That’ll be better than red
meat. Bring him back to see me if he begins to have trouble
breathing or seems to be coughing more than you’d
expect.”
Again the woman nodded, gathered the
child up, and departed.
Aslyn stood in the doorway watching as
the woman scurried down the street. Seven years old and the woman
could carry him about as if he was no more than a toddler. With any
luck he’d make it through the cold, but she had her doubts the
child would see many more winters.
The thought brought the urge
to cry. She thrust it away angrily and closed the door. Pity would
not help the child, and she had nothing else to give him ...
nothing to give any of the hundreds of Johnnys she’d seen in her
travels. If she’d been the wealthiest person in the world, she
could not save them all, nor even a fraction of them. One person
could not. She’d done the best—the only thing she could for
him.
In any case, she had problems enough of
her own. Instead of eating, she paced the cottage, round and round,
but she could not outrun her anxieties and finally forced herself
to sit and eat. She wanted, desperately, to leave Krackensled, but,
from what she could see, that was no longer an option—if it had
ever been. The soldiers would be patrolling the area. She would
almost certainly be stopped and questioned if she tried to leave,
and, unfortunately, the lies she’d told to cover herself precluded
any that would allow her passage.
She deeply regretted, now, that she had
told them she was on pilgrimage. If only she’d thought of some
other tale, something that would have left relatives somewhere that
she could claim to be going to visit, or who needed her!
It was pointless to kick herself over
it now. She would know better another time … if there was another
time.
But, if what she suspected was
true…
She pushed the thought from her mind.
Perhaps, she thought hopefully, they would grow tired of waiting
long before the moon became full again and move on.
Or perhaps imaginations were
running wild because there had been such an unusual number of
attacks and it truly was nothing more than a roving pack of wolves? If that
were the case, then the soldiers were bound to trap and kill the
wolves before long.
Surely it could have nothing to do with
her … malady. Surely it could not!
But, in the end, did it matter? She was
trapped here. If she stayed, the soldiers might well be hunting her
when next the moon was full.
* * * *
It was nearing dusk almost a week after
her arrival in Krackensled when Aslyn left the cottage with her
cook pot, intent upon cleaning it and filling it at the well. The
perpetual rabbit stew had given out at long last. Aslyn could not
confess to being sorry to see the last of it. Toward the end it had
born little resemblance to that first pot of rabbit stew, for Aslyn
had tossed whatever she caught, or gathered, or was ‘paid’ into it
each day—another rabbit a farmer had brought, a few mushrooms, a
handful of withered greens—but she found she no longer had much
fondness for rabbit stew.
The thunder of hooves brought her out
of her abstraction. She looked up to see a group of soldiers
approaching from the opposite end of town and checked for a
fraction of a second before it occurred to her that whirling around
and returning to the house would be the best way to attract
attention to herself. She continued on her way after that brief
hesitation, her head down, as if she was carefully watching where
she set her feet, but she stole a quick glance or two in their
direction.
She didn’t know whether to be relieved
or sorry when they halted at the well and began dipping water for
their horses.
She slowed her steps, wondering if they
might finish up and leave before she reached them, casting quick,
surreptitious glances
could help you with?”
The woman nodded. “Me man won’t like
it, but I’ll handle him.”
“And feed him all the soup he can hold.
Use fowl, if you can, to make the broth. That’ll be better than red
meat. Bring him back to see me if he begins to have trouble
breathing or seems to be coughing more than you’d
expect.”
Again the woman nodded, gathered the
child up, and departed.
Aslyn stood in the doorway watching as
the woman scurried down the street. Seven years old and the woman
could carry him about as if he was no more than a toddler. With any
luck he’d make it through the cold, but she had her doubts the
child would see many more winters.
The thought brought the urge
to cry. She thrust it away angrily and closed the door. Pity would
not help the child, and she had nothing else to give him ...
nothing to give any of the hundreds of Johnnys she’d seen in her
travels. If she’d been the wealthiest person in the world, she
could not save them all, nor even a fraction of them. One person
could not. She’d done the best—the only thing she could for
him.
In any case, she had problems enough of
her own. Instead of eating, she paced the cottage, round and round,
but she could not outrun her anxieties and finally forced herself
to sit and eat. She wanted, desperately, to leave Krackensled, but,
from what she could see, that was no longer an option—if it had
ever been. The soldiers would be patrolling the area. She would
almost certainly be stopped and questioned if she tried to leave,
and, unfortunately, the lies she’d told to cover herself precluded
any that would allow her passage.
She deeply regretted, now, that she had
told them she was on pilgrimage. If only she’d thought of some
other tale, something that would have left relatives somewhere that
she could claim to be going to visit, or who needed her!
It was pointless to kick herself over
it now. She would know better another time … if there was another
time.
But, if what she suspected was
true…
She pushed the thought from her mind.
Perhaps, she thought hopefully, they would grow tired of waiting
long before the moon became full again and move on.
Or perhaps imaginations were
running wild because there had been such an unusual number of
attacks and it truly was nothing more than a roving pack of wolves? If that
were the case, then the soldiers were bound to trap and kill the
wolves before long.
Surely it could have nothing to do with
her … malady. Surely it could not!
But, in the end, did it matter? She was
trapped here. If she stayed, the soldiers might well be hunting her
when next the moon was full.
* * * *
It was nearing dusk almost a week after
her arrival in Krackensled when Aslyn left the cottage with her
cook pot, intent upon cleaning it and filling it at the well. The
perpetual rabbit stew had given out at long last. Aslyn could not
confess to being sorry to see the last of it. Toward the end it had
born little resemblance to that first pot of rabbit stew, for Aslyn
had tossed whatever she caught, or gathered, or was ‘paid’ into it
each day—another rabbit a farmer had brought, a few mushrooms, a
handful of withered greens—but she found she no longer had much
fondness for rabbit stew.
The thunder of hooves brought her out
of her abstraction. She looked up to see a group of soldiers
approaching from the opposite end of town and checked for a
fraction of a second before it occurred to her that whirling around
and returning to the house would be the best way to attract
attention to herself. She continued on her way after that brief
hesitation, her head down, as if she was carefully watching where
she set her feet, but she stole a quick glance or two in their
direction.
She didn’t know whether to be relieved
or sorry when they halted at the well and began dipping water for
their horses.
She slowed her steps, wondering if they
might finish up and leave before she reached them, casting quick,
surreptitious glances
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