The Moorchild by Eloise McGraw

bossily between the others to lead the way back out of sight. The boy reached his stick down. “Grab hold, I’ll give you a pull!”
    Saaski grabbed, all but flew up the slope with the vigor of his pull, and stumbled forward until he caught her.
    “Sorry! Y’don’t weigh much, do you? Here, sit down and puff a bit,” he invited.
    She had no need to puff, but she dropped down on one of the low boulders scattered about the moor, and he straddled another, tossing aside his stick. They examined each other, he with a curiosity as open and friendly as his face, she without once feeling she must make her hands chubbier and her feet shorter. They exchanged names. His was Tam.
    “What are the goats’ names?” she asked him. The big black and his attendant nannies were browsing on some thornbushes a little distance away.
    “Divil’s the black one. The little white is Angel, and the gray’s just Sister.”
    “Are they yours?”
    “They’re Bruman’s. But it’s me as looks after ’em. While Warrior looks after Bruman.”
    “A warrior? ”
    “Not a real one—just Bruman’s old dog.”
    “Is Bruman your da’?” asked Saaski.
    “Nay, me da’s dead. Mumma, too. Bruman’s the tinker. We pass this way every year or so—camp on the moor awhile—move on. Maybe you saw us come through your village about a se’nnight ago? Old two-wheel cart with a raggedyhood, pony and Warrior in front, me and the goats behind.” The boy grinned again—at himself, it seemed to Saaski. He had good white teeth, with a space between a couple of side ones that lent him a rakish air.
    She said, “We need no tinker in Torskaal. My da’ does all the smithing hereabouts.”
    “I know that; so does Bruman. No matter. He can make boots, and shoes, and saddles, and harness, and gloves and dagger sheaths and locks and leathern boxes—”
    “But who’d hire such skills?” said Saaski, round eyed. The only horse in the village was Guin the miller’s and it already had a saddle. The oxen worked under wooden yokes. Nobody locked anything. And who wore shoes or boots until snow flew? As for gloves and dagger sheaths and leathern boxes, she’d never heard of such fineries. “I doubt he’ll find work in Torskaal,” she warned.
    “ ’Twon’t matter to Bruman. He’ll find some way to earn a flagon of muxta or strong cider, then he’ll worry about nothing till it’s empty and he’s full.”
    “He’ll be drunken?” said Saaski, eyes rounder than ever.
    “Whenever he can be.” Tam shrugged. “Got a lame leg, Bruman has. It pains ’im bad. He won’t talk of it. Mostly just takes it out on me and the pony,” Tam added cheerfully. “Truth to tell, I’d ruther he stayed drunk.”
    “But d’you have nothing to eat, when he is?”
    “Oh, me and Warrior see to ourselves. The dog’s a good ratter, cotches most of his own meals. In the towns, well, I’m a fair hand at tinkerin’ meself, by now. Had to pick it up, didn’t I, to finish his jobs when he’s boozin’! On the road Ican always find a day’s work, and there’s the goats’ milk and hearth bread. Bruman fills a hoggin with barley flour afore we leave each spring, or I don’t budge.”
    “Where d’you live in wintertime?”
    “The King’s Town. Away by the big river, in the low country.”
    Saaaski looked at him with awe, trying to imagine the King’s Town, and the big river—thrice as wide as the creek, no doubt—and country even lower than the village. She had never traveled farther than the other side of Moor Water.
    Musing back over their talk, she found a puzzle. “How did you know my da’s the smith?” she demanded.
    “Well, they said you was the . . . the”—Tam floundered a moment, went red under his tan—“the young one at the smith’s house. I saw you t’other day, in the village—I was filling my waterbag at the well. They talk about you—the goodwives. Didn’t you know it?”
    She shrugged but braced herself, knowing well the