dropped voices, the nudges, the narrow glances. “Not sure what they say.”
Tam kicked at a grass tussock, frowning first at it and then toward the goats, which had browsed their way over the next rise, then answered carelessly. “Eh, not much. Only what they say about any young ’un different from their Raabs and Annies. They say you’re eldritch. They say you’re freaky-odd.” He turned back to her, smiling, and she waited. She’d heard that much from the Raabs and Annies themselves. “They say the same of me,” he finished blithely.
It was something too bad to tell her.
Eh, what do I care, they can say what they like, she told herself with the familiar mixture of anger and desolation. The chill mists were swirling around them suddenly, the next thing to rain. She pulled up her hood and rose. “I’ve all my tasks to do yet,” she said. “I’ll be going.”
“But maybe soon be climbing up again?”
“Maybe.” She smiled to show she bore him no ill will for a lie meant kindly, and started down the slope, avoiding the steep-sided hollow and the glimmering trail she could no longer see—that might not even be there. He fell in beside her.
“I’m hereabout most days, with the goats. I could play me pipes for you.” He produced from his ragged tunic a longish shepherd’s pipe made of a reed, and a shorter one whittled from a willow twig. “Or juggle!” He stuffed the pipes away, snatched up a handful of pebbles and set them flying up in front of him, changing their pattern from circle to up-and-down to an arc over his head, while Saaski watched, astonished. Whirling about, he caught the pebbles one-handed behind his back, then strolled toward her with a grin that showed the gap at one side.
“Eh, but that’s wizardly!” she exclaimed, the goodwives and their mutterings forgotten. “How can you do it?”
“My da’ taught me afore he died. And I’ve the long day with the goats to do nothing but practice. If you climb up again tomorrow or so, I’ll show you more.”
“I will.”
She looked back once to wave at him where he still stood outlined against the drifting mist, idly tossing the pebbles as he watched her, then she skipped and danced her way downfrom the high moor to the tilted wastelands where the bracken grew thickest. With the little wooden-handled knife Yanno had made for her she cut a pile of the fern fronds and tied them with bindweed into a bundle. Worrying it up somehow onto a boulder, she backed up to it and hitched it onto her shoulders, slanting it across her back and clinging with both hands to the bindings.
Today, with Tam and his goats and his pebbles to think about, she went through the familiar motions without once losing her temper, and with the frond tips jiggling against her ear went on downhill past the Lowfield where a few village men were weeding the long, greening strips of winter grain, and along the crooked trail around the apple orchard.
Just beyond Edildan’s ox stall she came in sight of the village street, with its score or so of stone cottages and sagging sheds scattered higgledy-piggledy along it. Several log ladders leaned against the house walls, for it was the season for pulling the moss off the roofs and repairing thatch. But the men or their sons who should have been on the ladders were instead clustered near the well, their mallets dangling from their hands. With them were a dozen goodwives, white-kerchiefed heads huddled together, forearms tucked under their aprons. A few of the younger children played tag around them, and old man Fiach was hobbling toward them with his dog. Something was up. Their murmuring buzzed like a threatened hive.
Saaski did not see Anwara’s sky-blue shawl among them. But she spotted Ebba and remembered with a disheartened rush the cow, the calf, the morning’s brangle. Now it would all turn out to be her fault—Ebba would make sure of it.
Then she saw that the center of the group was a stranger, a man with his
Tam kicked at a grass tussock, frowning first at it and then toward the goats, which had browsed their way over the next rise, then answered carelessly. “Eh, not much. Only what they say about any young ’un different from their Raabs and Annies. They say you’re eldritch. They say you’re freaky-odd.” He turned back to her, smiling, and she waited. She’d heard that much from the Raabs and Annies themselves. “They say the same of me,” he finished blithely.
It was something too bad to tell her.
Eh, what do I care, they can say what they like, she told herself with the familiar mixture of anger and desolation. The chill mists were swirling around them suddenly, the next thing to rain. She pulled up her hood and rose. “I’ve all my tasks to do yet,” she said. “I’ll be going.”
“But maybe soon be climbing up again?”
“Maybe.” She smiled to show she bore him no ill will for a lie meant kindly, and started down the slope, avoiding the steep-sided hollow and the glimmering trail she could no longer see—that might not even be there. He fell in beside her.
“I’m hereabout most days, with the goats. I could play me pipes for you.” He produced from his ragged tunic a longish shepherd’s pipe made of a reed, and a shorter one whittled from a willow twig. “Or juggle!” He stuffed the pipes away, snatched up a handful of pebbles and set them flying up in front of him, changing their pattern from circle to up-and-down to an arc over his head, while Saaski watched, astonished. Whirling about, he caught the pebbles one-handed behind his back, then strolled toward her with a grin that showed the gap at one side.
“Eh, but that’s wizardly!” she exclaimed, the goodwives and their mutterings forgotten. “How can you do it?”
“My da’ taught me afore he died. And I’ve the long day with the goats to do nothing but practice. If you climb up again tomorrow or so, I’ll show you more.”
“I will.”
She looked back once to wave at him where he still stood outlined against the drifting mist, idly tossing the pebbles as he watched her, then she skipped and danced her way downfrom the high moor to the tilted wastelands where the bracken grew thickest. With the little wooden-handled knife Yanno had made for her she cut a pile of the fern fronds and tied them with bindweed into a bundle. Worrying it up somehow onto a boulder, she backed up to it and hitched it onto her shoulders, slanting it across her back and clinging with both hands to the bindings.
Today, with Tam and his goats and his pebbles to think about, she went through the familiar motions without once losing her temper, and with the frond tips jiggling against her ear went on downhill past the Lowfield where a few village men were weeding the long, greening strips of winter grain, and along the crooked trail around the apple orchard.
Just beyond Edildan’s ox stall she came in sight of the village street, with its score or so of stone cottages and sagging sheds scattered higgledy-piggledy along it. Several log ladders leaned against the house walls, for it was the season for pulling the moss off the roofs and repairing thatch. But the men or their sons who should have been on the ladders were instead clustered near the well, their mallets dangling from their hands. With them were a dozen goodwives, white-kerchiefed heads huddled together, forearms tucked under their aprons. A few of the younger children played tag around them, and old man Fiach was hobbling toward them with his dog. Something was up. Their murmuring buzzed like a threatened hive.
Saaski did not see Anwara’s sky-blue shawl among them. But she spotted Ebba and remembered with a disheartened rush the cow, the calf, the morning’s brangle. Now it would all turn out to be her fault—Ebba would make sure of it.
Then she saw that the center of the group was a stranger, a man with his
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